Cursed Once More: The Sequel to With This Curse

by Amanda DeWees

  A curious feeling came over me as I knelt before the empty trunk surrounded by these oddments from a life abandoned nearly forty years before. It was as if these objects belonged to a phantom. Not the ghost of my late mother, but a creature of pure fancy who had never lived. These were the things that a mother might assemble from wishful thinking of what her daughter might become. A hope chest for a child, not a bride-to-be.

  Altogether I was not surprised that my mother had left this trunk behind. The only part of it that spoke at all to the life she ended up living was the book of household management, but even that must have felt at the time like a yoke she was throwing off as she left Thurnley Hall. That would explain, too, why there were no mementos of my father and their courtship here. If they had been precious to her, they would not have been left with these castoffs.

  A knock at the open door made me look up. Mr. Lynch stood in the doorway gazing at me. “I apologize for disturbing you, Lady Telford,” he said. “You seem so absorbed that I hesitated to knock.”

  “It’s quite all right,” I said, gathering my skirts to rise, and when he stepped forward and extended his hand to help me to my feet, I accepted it readily. Too readily, perhaps, for once I was on my feet he did not release me at once but continued to hold my hand with an expression so intent that my husband’s caution came rushing to mind.

  “Do you have news of Grigore?” I asked, withdrawing my hand and moving toward the door in what I hoped was an inconspicuous fashion. I didn’t want to insult him by being pointed about his presence in my room, especially since he had not behaved inappropriately since the fitting, but it was probably best to abbreviate this tête-à-tête.

  “Yes, I spoke to him. Rather, Cook and I did. He took it very well, considering, and agreed quite calmly to let Thomas stand watch over him until I return with a constable from the village.”

  “Well, I am glad to hear that he was so cooperative.”

  “Glad but not entirely convinced, I take it?” Amusement warmed the low, melodious voice. “Perhaps it will ease your mind to know that in addition to offering the fellow an attractive financial settlement I told him that I would spread salt across the threshold of his room so that the baron would not be able to enter and attack him.” He gave me a conspiratorial smile. “That means that Grigore must stay in his room in order to be protected.”

  “That was clever of you. Thank you.”

  He must have seen my eyes flick back to the trunk and its contents, for he said in a different tone of voice, “Forgive me, but you seem troubled. Is it something besides this unhappy business with Grigore?”

  I hesitated, but his voice was so warmly sympathetic, his eyes so touchingly concerned, that I found myself confiding in him. “I had hoped to learn more about my parents here at Thurnley Hall,” I said. “Especially my mother. But my uncle had little to tell me, and Thomas is too confused to be relied upon. My last hope was this trunk that belonged to her. But nothing in it carries a sense of her spirit—nothing at all.”

  His brow furrowed. “You’ve found no letters or journals?”

  “No. I think they were all burnt by her father. Still, I had hoped that something might remain. Even something as small as a painting or a sketch.”

  “That’s right. I had forgotten that my guardian said she had an artistic bent.” He mulled this, rubbing his chin with a studious air that he might have borrowed from an elder. “Have you looked through the portfolios in the library?” When I stared at him in confusion, he explained, “There are a great many stored away beneath one of the window seats, full of unframed pieces. From what I’ve seen, they are a jumble of different periods and different artists, so it’s just possible that something of your mother’s may have escaped notice there.”

  “How wonderful! I must go look at once.”

  “Of course you must.” Despite his words, his hand fell on my arm to detain me. “Only wouldn’t it be better to take your time? If you and Lord Telford would postpone your departure for just one day, you would be able to have a thorough look at everything. You wouldn’t risk missing something because you were in a hurry to catch your train.”

  I looked away to hide a smile at the eagerness in his voice. He was so boyish in his transparency that it was touching. I could hardly blame him for wanting to detain Atticus and me as long as he could, since his guardian was his only other company… and hardly a kindred spirit. After our departure, the days might be lonely for him.

  For a moment I felt protective of him, an impulse that might, I realized, be prompted as much by my approaching motherhood as by my friendship with the young man. Or perhaps it was because he reminded me of a youthful Atticus, who had known loneliness too.

  In any case, the decision was easy. Now that Grigore was not a threat, I could afford to be generous—and indeed, I would relish an unhurried examination of the artworks that might contain something of my mother’s.

  “I shall ask Atticus,” I said, “but I expect he won’t mind if we stay the night and leave tomorrow. Thank you for telling me about the portfolios.”

  A flush of pleasure warmed the ivory of his complexion. “I’m delighted to be of help,” he said eagerly. “I’ll show you where they are now, if you like, and help you go through them.”

  After he led me to the cache of unframed art, Atticus and I spent several hours sifting through all that the portfolios held. Although we could not be entirely certain, there were two watercolor moorland scenes initialed MB that might have been my mother’s work. They were painted with a dash and energy that suggested a spirit too restless to be contained in a prison of domestic duties. Even if they had been painted by another artist, they evoked for me something of my mother, and I was pleased that my uncle was gracious enough to make me a gift of them.

  Our last meal together at Thurnley Hall was a bittersweet one. Mr. Lynch was animated with, I believe, excitement that he had been able to do me a good turn, and my uncle exerted himself to be charming. While I could not summon up much familial warmth for him, I enjoyed listening to his anecdotes of Yorkshire history… all the more so, I admit, since we would be parting so soon.

  Sleep came swiftly that night. I think the knowledge that this would be our last night in Thurnley Hall gave me sufficient peace of mind to drop off easily. I did wake later in the night, but for a mercy it was not because of the nightmare.

  At first I did not know what had disturbed my sleep. Perhaps I had sensed my husband’s absence, for even before my eyes opened I was reaching out for him. My searching fingers encountered only the bedclothes.

  “Atticus?” I mumbled when I could detect no presence of him beside me.

  The curtain rings clattered as the drapery of the bed was drawn back, and in the soft light of a lamp I saw him standing there. He was dressed but for his coat, and he was knotting his cravat even as he said, “I’m here, my love.”

  “Why are you dressing at this hour?”

  “There’s something I need to see to.” His voice was calm, unhurried, as if setting out on an expedition in the middle of the night were a perfectly reasonable thing for him to do.

  My sleep-shrouded mind could not quite comprehend this. “It can’t wait until morning?”

  “I shouldn’t be long—and it’s nearly dawn, anyway.”

  “Wait. Let me straighten your cravat.” I sat up, fighting back a yawn, and he seated himself on the edge of the bed obligingly. He watched with a smile as I tucked the ends of his cravat into his waistcoat, the one I had given him on his birthday, and smoothed it down. “There,” I said. “Now you may go.” But I slipped my arms around his neck, willing him to stay.

  “You don’t make it easy to leave you.” He took my face in his hands and kissed me softly, lingeringly. All of my senses were filled with him, with the honeyed taste of his lips, the caressing touch of his hands, the scent of cedar and sandalwood that clung to his skin. When he raised his head, his blue eyes were luminous with love and wonder as he took me in.

&nb
sp; “My God, but you’re beautiful,” he said half to himself. “With your hair all tumbled like that and your eyes soft with sleep… I doubt Venus herself was more alluring.”

  “Come back to bed, then.” I made the invitation as tempting as I could, and he took another long kiss from my lips before reluctantly shaking his head.

  “I won’t be easy in my mind until I resolve this. And when I return to bed I want my thoughts to contain nothing but my bewitching wife.” He stroked my cheek before standing to leave.

  “Won’t you tell me what is so important that I cannot compete with it?” I asked.

  Laugh lines peeked out from the corners of his eyes when he smiled. “What a coquette you are, Clara. It’s nothing I want to trouble you with. Go back to sleep, dearest, and I’ll be with you again before you know it.”

  Nothing I said was going to shake him. Despite his relaxed demeanor, he was set on carrying out this mysterious mission, and I knew just how determined he could be when he set his mind on something. It occurred to me that his leg might be troubling him again and preventing him from sleeping, and perhaps he simply wanted a pretext to exercise it but was reluctant to say so.

  Though I would curse myself for it later, I chose not to inquire further. I was drowsy, the bed was soft, and if I could not sink back into my husband’s arms, then the arms of Morpheus were very nearly as inviting.

  I believe I told him as he put on his coat and took up his walking stick that I loved him. Much later, when I thought back on this last conversation, I hoped that the knowledge of my love went with him as he stepped out the door… and out of all knowing.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  When I next opened my eyes it was to a knock on the door. “My lady?” came the soft voice of Ann. “May I come in?”

  The bed was still empty apart from myself. Sitting up, I pushed back the bed curtain and saw that the room was likewise empty. So Atticus had not yet returned.

  “Come in, Ann,” I called, and the little maid entered, walking carefully so as not to spill the jug of hot water she carried for my husband to shave with.

  “Did my husband ring for you?” I asked her, but she shook her head as she carefully placed the jug on the washstand.

  “No, my lady. I’ve not seen him this morning.”

  I told her that she could bring breakfast, and rather than put the hot water to waste I washed my face and hands. Atticus could always ring for more when he returned.

  I dawdled over my breakfast porridge and ham, expecting that at any moment I would hear the tap of his stick in the hall and that the door would open on the sight of him, handsome and genial, ready to explain the perplexing errand that had summoned him away from me in the night. But the minutes ticked past on the mantel clock without any sign of him. Finally I rang for Ann to help me dress. Waiting here in our bedroom was accomplishing nothing.

  The first place I looked was the library, and it was not until my heart sank at the sight of the empty room that I realized how completely I had assumed him to be here. There was no sign that anyone had entered since I had vacated it the day before, triumphantly bearing the two watercolors.

  No doubt he was conferring with my uncle and the lawyer. But when I knocked at the door of my uncle’s study, no answer came. Listening closely, I heard no voices from within, so I turned the handle and pushed the door open. Like the library, the room was empty.

  It is early yet, I told myself. Doubtless my uncle is still breakfasting, and Atticus went to seek him. Swiftly I went to the dining room, in case my husband had taken it into his head to break his fast there instead of in the privacy of our room, but this room, like the others before it, had no occupant. I supposed the next step was to seek out my uncle, but I was not certain I knew exactly where his room was, so I tugged the bell pull to summon one of the servants to the dining room.

  Mrs. Furness was the one who answered, considerably puzzled to be called to that room at this early hour of the day. “You’ve not seen my husband, have you?” I asked her before she could inquire as to my wishes.

  “No, my lady. The last time I saw his lordship was yesterday evening, when I brought in the hock after dinner.”

  I bit my lip. “Will you show me to my uncle’s room, then? Perhaps he’ll know.”

  Taken aback, she said, “Mr. Burleigh has not yet risen, my lady.”

  “Take me to him anyway.”

  She looked as if she wanted to object, but something in my expression silenced her. I set a brisk pace in my impatience, and her chatelaine of keys clinked faintly as she lengthened her stride to match mine.

  “Would any of the other servants have seen him?” I asked.

  “I shall inquire and let you know, my lady,” she said, stopping before a door that had to be my uncle’s. She rapped smartly and withdrew with a curtsey as my uncle’s voice boomed out a command to enter.

  Despite the housekeeper’s claim, he had in fact risen, and he even seemed to have finished his breakfast. Now he was sitting by his fire behind a table that bore the remnants of the meal and holding a newspaper before him. Without looking out from behind the paper, he said, “You may clear, Thomas.”

  “It isn’t Thomas,” I said, which made him lower the paper and regard me in surprise. He was wearing a dressing gown in a rather loud heliotrope.

  “I did not expect to see you at this hour, niece,” he said. “Does this mean that you and the baron are departing now?”

  “I am trying to find him,” I said. “You’ve not seen him this morning, have you?”

  His surprise seemed genuine. “Neither hide nor hair, not since last night. Why, have you lost him?”

  “I am beginning to think so,” I said, and to my irritation this made him give one of his barking laughs.

  “A baron is a substantial thing to lose! Well, I’m sure you’ll find him again. Unless you quarreled. Is that it? Eh, niece? Perhaps you gave him the rough side of your tongue and he decided an airing-out would be welcome. Well, don’t fret. No doubt he’ll return in his own time, and next time you won’t be so quick to play the virago.”

  His words had set my teeth on edge. I said shortly, “We did not quarrel. Is there any chance that he might be in conference with Mr. Durrington?”

  This cut his mirth short. Evidently my urgency was beginning to communicate itself to him. “I’ll ring for Thomas to ask him. You’d best not interview him in person, for he’s likely to be in a state of undress.”

  “Of course,” I said, embarrassed that I had been about to charge off to the lawyer’s room without pausing to consider this. “I’ll check our room again in case he returned during my absence.”

  “Yes, do so. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he is waiting there and getting out of temper that you are gone!”

  I hoped fervently that he was right, but in the Cradle Room all was as I had left it. The water remaining in the jug had cooled on the washstand. I took a deep breath and told myself there was no reason to worry yet. Atticus might have been detained for a thousand harmless reasons. What had he said when he left me? That he needed to “see to” something. That made it difficult to narrow down his probable destination. Crossing to the window, I gazed through the leaded panes at the broad swathe of lawn below. There was no sign of him. The sky dripped with rain, so it was unlikely that he would be walking for the pleasure of the thing—or, after so long, to exercise his bad leg.

  Despite my attempt to remain calm, my mind was beginning to dart about in anxiety. What if he had met with an accident or become trapped somewhere? I knew it was premature to picture such calamities, but they would not be vanquished. I almost ran back down the hall to the library, and the glimpse of a man standing before the shelves with his back to me made my heart take a joyful bound before I recognized him as Mr. Lynch. I stared, stricken, and sensing my presence he turned and saw me.

  “A good morning to you, my lady,” he said with a smile. Then his expression sobered as he observed me more closely. “Is something distre
ssing you?”

  “It’s Atticus,” I blurted. “Have you seen him? I can’t find him anywhere.”

  Concern softened his dark eyes. “No, I’ve not seen him this morning. Is there something particular about his absence that worries you so?” And then, as I hesitated, he took my arm. “Come, sit down. You look quite faint. Tell me why you are so distraught and how I may help.”

  But I resisted the gentle pressure on my arm. “I can’t stop looking until I find him,” I said. “You’re very kind, but the best way you can help is to search for him.”

  He would not be so easily diverted, though. He maintained the gentle but firm grip on my arm. “Tell me why his absence is so frightening to you. Did he go in search of something in particular? That may help us locate him.”

  Shutting my eyes, I took a deep breath and tried to bring order to my thoughts. Flying off in every direction was not an efficient or effective way to search. “I think we should summon my uncle,” I said. “It makes more sense to inform you both at once.”

  “I shall fetch him,” he said at once. “And I’ll have Mrs. Furness send up some tea. I think a restorative would be beneficial to you.”

  I nodded, since it seemed the quickest way to send him on his errand. In truth, the idea of sitting down to tea while Atticus was missing was abhorrent, although I knew the young man was just trying to help. His imagination was probably constrained by his limited experience of women.

  But here I did him an injustice. It was, in fact, my uncle who showed the greater ignorance. As he returned with his ward to the library, he announced, “This is simply hysteria, niece. There is no reason your husband is not simply taking a morning constitutional. What you need is some sal volatile and a nice long rest.”