Cursed Once More: The Sequel to With This Curse

by Amanda DeWees

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “My husband is not a vampire,” I said. “Let us be clear on this.”

  My uncle’s already red face flushed even deeper at my tone. “Naturally that goes without saying.”

  “Does it? Your manservant certainly seems to need clarification on that point.”

  Atticus and I, along with Mr. Lynch, had confronted my uncle the next morning in his study. At the time he had been conferring with the lawyer, but as soon as we had entered carrying the items Grigore had left behind at the burial grounds, my uncle had asked Durrington to leave. Now these objects were arrayed on the desk, sinister reminders that a subject that might otherwise have seemed silly in the light of day was all too real to at least one member of the household.

  My uncle leaned across the desk toward us to emphasize his words, bracing himself on his hands. “And I say again that I am shocked and horrified that Grigore would act as he has. Please accept my apology, my lord.”

  “That isn’t necessary, sir. Grigore did me no harm.” Atticus was the only one of us to appear at ease. He stood by the fire with one elbow propped on the mantel, thoughtfully tapping his stick against the toe of his boot while I paced across the threadbare rug.

  “But he might easily have done,” Mr. Lynch pointed out. He stood by the desk, arms folded, his dark eyes grave. “It is terrifying to think how differently things might have happened if Grigore had chosen to attack instead of fleeing.”

  “I agree entirely,” my uncle said. He stood behind his desk with his hands still braced on the blotter. Why did none of the men take a seat? Their restlessness was making mine worse.

  Belatedly I realized that none of them would sit unless I did so. How ridiculous to conform to etiquette at a time like this! But I dropped into an armchair with a frustrated huff, and the men finally seated themselves as well.

  My uncle settled into his chair with an expression of relief. “I will dismiss Grigore at once,” he said.

  Astonishingly, he and I were in agreement for once. “He may try to take revenge if he believes that Atticus caused him to lose his position,” I warned. “How will you prevent that?”

  He drummed his fingers on the cracked leather arm of his chair. The skin around his eyes was puffy, and I wondered if it was from lack of sleep. “The sooner he goes, the better,” he said. “I’ll have him put on the train to some destination far away. If necessary I’ll set a watch on him until he leaves. I’ll make certain he doesn’t have the opportunity to take revenge, if that should be his aim.”

  “But how shall he live if he is stripped of his position?” Atticus asked.

  “He might easily hire himself out for physical labor,” Mr. Lynch said. “With his size and strength, he should have no difficulty finding work of that sort.”

  No one could have been more unwilling than I to argue against sending Grigore away, but I heard myself saying, “He may not find it as easy as that, since his English is far from fluent. And you said yourself that he is a little bit simple. He will need help to find an occupation.”

  “I agree,” Atticus said. “I don’t want any rash action on our part to cause the man’s ruination and land him in the workhouse. We bear a responsibility to him.”

  Strictly speaking, it was my uncle who bore this responsibility, but it was like Atticus to share it—even when his own welfare was most at risk here.

  “What happens if we find him a new position and he attacks someone else?” my uncle demanded. “Are we to take the risk that his mania may drive him to further violence? An asylum may be the best place for him.”

  Mr. Lynch’s jaw tightened. “As much as I agree that we cannot allow him to continue to put Lord Telford in danger, I must protest against that. The only actual violence he has committed was against the chain that secures the mausoleum gates. Haven’t you some acquaintance who needs a man of all work?”

  He and his guardian continued to wrangle, but a startling idea had just occurred to me that made the discussion suddenly recede from my attention. What if Grigore had killed my grandmother? If Mr. Lynch was correct and the manservant had thought my grandmother might rise from her grave, perhaps he was the one who had put her there. If he feared she was a vampire, he might have believed he was protecting himself and the household by killing her. His appearance at the tomb the night before might have been an attempt to finish the job.

  Why, then, had my uncle behaved so strangely upon her death? Had he suspected foul play but had no proof? In that case, though, he would have had every reason to insist upon the doctor’s examining the body, which had not been the case. Had he feared that exposing the murderer would put himself at risk?

  It was all quite troubling. And I did not even feel that I could ask him, because if my suspicions were unfounded, the suggestion that his mother had not died naturally might cause him great pain… and might cause an innocent man much trouble, if Grigore was in fact innocent.

  “I shall speak to him,” Mr. Lynch said now. “I’ve picked up a fair bit of Romanian, and Mrs. Antonescu and I between us should be able to convey the meaning.”

  “Why Cook?” I inquired.

  “She is half Romanian. I’ll do my best to convince him that his superstitions about the baron are misplaced, but if he proves obdurate, I’ll lock him in his room until we can summon the constabulary to take him to the village jail and put him under guard.”

  “The constabulary?” my uncle interjected. “Do you really think that’s necessary?”

  “It does seem excessive,” Atticus began, but I leaned over to take his hand.

  “I don’t want this man to have another chance to hurt you, Atticus. Please let Mr. Lynch and my uncle take whatever precautions are necessary.”

  “We must insist, my lord,” said Mr. Lynch. “My guardian would never forgive himself if you fell to harm when he could have prevented it. Would you, sir?”

  My uncle cleared his throat. “As you say, we must take all necessary precautions. Victor, I would be grateful if you would speak to Grigore as you’ve suggested. Make certain he understands that if he cooperates no harm shall come to him, so there is no need for him to distress himself—and no need for us to involve the police.”

  His ward left a slight pause before replying. “As you think best, sir,” he said politely.

  As soon as he had left the room and the door had shut behind him, I said, “Atticus and I will be leaving today.” Last night after returning to our room we had come to this decision.

  My uncle gave me a swift, startled glance. “Today! That is very sudden.”

  He did not, I observed, ask us to delay our departure. “We only stayed for Grandmama’s funeral,” I said. “It is high time we returned home. We’ll be able to catch an afternoon train if we don’t tarry.”

  “Please don’t concern yourself that this business with Grigore is hastening us away,” Atticus added. “There are business matters that require our attention, and we’ve trespassed on your hospitality longer than any of us had expected.”

  Only my kindhearted husband would try to reassure this relative of mine that he should not take our abrupt departure personally. “If you’ll just send Ann to help us pack,” I said, rising.

  “Of course, of course.” My uncle rose, his expression carefully grave, but I suspected he was relieved that we were departing. “If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to ask Mrs. Furness. My household is at your disposal.”

  “That reminds me,” I said. “If you would be so good as to have Thomas bring me the trunk that was promised to me with my mother’s belongings, I’d be obliged.”

  A change came over my uncle’s face then, a flicker of evasion in his eyes. “Of course,” he repeated. “You may find the contents a bit—ah—tumbled about. Durrington insisted upon going through it in case anything inside had been disposed otherwise by my mother’s will.”

  “Naturally,” I said. And in case anything was incriminating for my uncle, I thought.

  Atticus
rose and reached out to shake my uncle’s hand. “In case we don’t have a chance for a proper goodbye later,” he said genially. “Thank you for having us to stay, sir. You must think about visiting Cornwall one of these days.”

  Bless him for those noncommittal words. If he had actually invited my uncle to Gravesend, I probably would have shot up to the ceiling like a rocket.

  Following his gracious example, I stepped forward and extended my hand as well. I said, “I’m glad we were in time to meet my grandmother. Thank you for making us welcome.”

  But as I made to withdraw my hand and follow my husband to the door, my uncle gripped my hand all the tighter. He said quickly, “A word with you, niece?”

  Atticus raised his eyebrows at me, wondering if I needed extricating, but I shook my head slightly and smiled to let him know that he could leave without me. When he had left us alone, my uncle released my hand. “It isn’t my place to inquire into your private conversations with your grandmother,” he said, to which I thought, it certainly isn’t. “I shan’t ask you what she told you in secrecy. But in case she said anything that—er—may have shocked you, or even frightened you, I beg you to remember that her life was much constrained by age and circumstances, and she sometimes took great pleasure in, well, drawing extreme responses out of visitors.”

  “I don’t understand. Do you mean that she told deliberate falsehoods to distress or anger me?”

  “I didn’t say that.” He scratched at his sparse gray fringe. “I’m expressing myself badly, and it is difficult when one doesn’t wish to speak ill of the dead, especially one’s own mother. But she might have led you to believe that she—that our family—devil take it!” He turned and paced away from me down the length of the room. Without turning his head, and in so low a voice that I could scarcely catch the words, he said, “She enjoyed creating a sensation. Best of all when it meant setting her family at loggerheads. She relished any opportunity where a slight exaggeration or a—a false implication might create excitement, even a quarrel.”

  All at once I thought of my late father-in-law, who had taken such delight in baiting me. “His chief delight nowadays is in sticking pins in people to see what makes them flinch,” Atticus had told Vivi on the occasion of their first meeting. Certainly the late Lord Telford had enjoyed stirring up visitors and picking at them until their composure was in tatters. I could see a certain resemblance to my grandmother, now that I reflected on it.

  “I’ve known one or two people like that,” I admitted. “But if you mean that she deliberately misled me about anything, I should like very much to have you set the record straight.”

  The face he turned toward me was strained. “Please feel free to ask me anything about which you have doubts, niece.”

  But of course the one question I wanted to ask—Did you murder my grandmother?—was something I could not utter. If he was innocent, I would insult him past forgiveness, perhaps even to the point of violence; if he was guilty, my suspicions would put me in danger of being permanently silenced.

  “Thank you,” I said at last. “There is something I’ve wondered about. Why were you and my mother both forbidden to marry?”

  It should not have been a difficult question, but his eyes widened, and he ran one finger around the inside of his high collar as he had done once before when uneasy. He cleared his throat. “We weren’t forbidden, precisely. Is that what she told you? Mother did tend toward the melodramatic!”

  “Oh? Then what is the truth?”

  “Well, ah. We were expected to—ah—make very elevated marriages. Not to, as it were, throw ourselves away on lesser matches.” He coughed into his hand and, avoiding my eyes, rummaged in his breast pocket for a handkerchief. “Our parents had very high expectations for us, and they were well aware that we might not find worthy partners for a very long time. Perhaps never.”

  I folded my arms and gave him a level look. “That is not at all what my grandmother told me.”

  Holding his handkerchief to his mouth, he coughed again and gestured vigorously with his free hand. “Terribly sorry,” he gasped. “I have these spells. Must excuse me…”

  It was so transparent that I could have laughed at him. “Very well,” I said. “I’ll not trouble you further.” I withdrew from the room, closing the door behind me on the sound of my uncle’s counterfeit coughing fit.

  Suddenly he struck me as pathetic instead of sinister. Was this more manipulation, or was it the man himself? If he was truly so clumsy at subterfuge, perhaps I had been wrong in thinking him a murderer. He certainly was maladroit at hiding emotion. But if his own actions had not been haunting him since my grandmother’s death, what had been?

  I had not made much headway in packing my trunks when Thomas arrived with the box that had been my mother’s. In my excitement I grew clumsy and dropped a pair of earrings, and Ann had to scurry after them as they rolled away.

  Atticus observed me with an indulgent smile. “Would you like some time alone?” he asked, and when I beamed at him gratefully he chuckled, kissed my cheek, and slipped his coat back on. “I shall be in the library,” he said, making for the door. “Take all the time you need.”

  How fortunate I was that he was sensitive to the fact that I wanted privacy in which to make this first exploration of my mother’s belongings. I told Ann I would ring for her when I needed her, but I stopped Thomas before he could follow her. I had meant for some time to question him, but the housekeeper had always made some excuse whenever I asked her to send him to me. It was as if my uncle had given orders that I should not have the opportunity to speak to him.

  “Thomas, won’t you have a seat?” I asked. “I’d like to talk to you for a moment.”

  He drew himself up to full height—or what would have been, had his shoulders not been stooped from age. “Now, miss,” he said reproachfully, “as if I did not know my own place better than that! I can stand, thank thee, for all I’m no young man.”

  In truth, I cared little whether he stood or sat, so long as he could answer my questions. The miss worried me, though. Had he forgotten who I was? “You must have been at Thurnley Hall longer than anyone else,” I said. “When did you first come here?”

  If he had been attached to some other household forty years ago, he would be no help. But I was lucky, in this respect at least. He answered promptly, “Why, man an’ boy, full sixty year. I still mind when Percival Burleigh brought home a bride from foreign parts.”

  “My grandmother?” This distracted me from my main interest. “How did old Mr. Burleigh’s household and tenants feel about his foreign bride?”

  He shook his head in disgust, and I had a feeling that if we had been outdoors he would have spat. “That foreign woman! It were she who turned everything awry.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I remember my father talkin’ of it. The sheep began foamin’ at the mouth and dyin’, he said, an’ the milk curdled overnight. It were a dark day when she became mistress of Thurnley Hall.”

  I restrained a sigh. Superstitious nonsense, and secondhand at that. Better to stick to my real interest. “You must have been here when my mother was growing up,” I said.

  His rheumy eyes were confused. “Tha’ mother?”

  “Miss Miriam, she would have been then.”

  He brightened. “Aye, she were a pretty thing. Such a pity she went away. The house were the gloomier for it, that’s certain.”

  “Did you know my father as well? Robert Crofton. He was a farmer.”

  To my surprise, he gave me a reproachful look, and his voice grew stern. “Robbie Crofton again, is it? Tha’ knows thy father and mother will have none o’ those goin’s-on. Be a good lass, an’ let’s have no more talk o’ my carryin’ messages from thee to the young farmer.”

  Could I possibly learn anything useful from him when his memory was so uncertain that he was confusing me with my mother? This was not encouraging. “Do you remember any of his messages to her—I mean, to me?” I aske
d.

  But he actually wagged his finger at me. “I’ll lose my place for certain sure, Miss Miriam. Does tha’ want to break thy mother’s heart? Best mind thy father, now, an’ leave off this foolishness.”

  Before I could form a response he had begun to shuffle toward the door, and I could not think of a strong enough reason to detain him. All I had learned was that his mind was vague and that my mother had asked him to bear messages between her and my father.

  Turning to the trunk, I hoped that my mother’s actual belongings would be more enlightening, but it seemed there was little they could tell me. On top was the daguerreotype portrait, and I felt an unexpected rush of gratitude toward whoever had placed it there for me. The blue dress that I had seen before took up most of the space. It was a fine, heavy satin, so stiff that it could stand by itself, and it was not even faded from its years in storage. The lace at the wide neckline and along the hem was crumpled but not yellowed. I felt a pang for the young woman who had worn this extravagant dress. She had not expected the sorrow that was to come to her. This was a dress for dancing and flirting, for attracting the eyes of dashing young men across the length of a waxed ballroom floor. I could understand why my mother had left it behind; a farmer’s wife would have no use for such a dress. Or had she left this and her other belongings because she thought that her parents would relent and welcome her back, along with her new husband?

  Beneath the dress and matching pale blue slippers were other fripperies: a beaded reticule, embroidered handkerchiefs, stockings, lace mitts. None of them accorded with the mother I had known; I could hardly imagine her wearing such girlish things. She must have changed greatly after leaving her old life. Of more interest to me were the books. Each bore her name on the flyleaf in a precise hand, but that was the only evidence of her that I could see at first. She had not written anything else in them, and there were no letters or papers tucked between the pages. The books themselves told me little about her inner life: as well as the volumes of verse, I found a prayer book inscribed to her on a long-ago Christmas by her mother; a book on household management, evidently a precursor to Mrs. Beeton’s guide; and volumes of popular poetry and essays.