Cursed Once More: The Sequel to With This Curse

by Amanda DeWees

  He did not trouble with pleasantries. “What have you told the constables about me?” were his first words, blurted out in an anxious rush. “Am I to be jailed, as you promised?”

  “I told the police what Victor and Grigore had done,” I said, “and about Mrs. Furness’s confession. I have not disclosed the part you played in the whole terrible business—not yet,” I added repressively, as his face lit up. “Accessory to an attempt to kidnap is a serious business.”

  “I am sorry for that, niece.” The words emerged stiffly, as though the act of apologizing was new to him. “I—I was not myself.”

  “You were very much yourself,” I said dryly. “Circumstances and liquor notwithstanding, you maintained the self-interest you have shown throughout our acquaintance. What do you have to say for yourself? Why should I not tell the police everything that you did?”

  “But what did I do, really?” he pleaded. “Apart from tampering with your letters and sending telegrams in your name, I can’t actually be said to have done anything. I stayed out of Victor’s way, that is all, as anyone would have.”

  “You did more than that. You lied for him when you thought he had committed murder. You actively thwarted my attempts to summon help. When Atticus vanished, you may not have known with complete certainty that Victor had abducted him, but you knew he was the most likely suspect—and yet you did nothing.” The thought of Atticus shackled and beaten made my voice sharpen. “Then, for all the days of my imprisonment, you seem to have made no attempt to stop your son or to alert the authorities. What you call staying out of his way was abetting him. And then, when he decided to remove me to captivity somewhere else, you actually laid hands on me to try to force me into the carriage.” My heart was beating more rapidly as the sickening feeling of horror and helplessness came back to me, and I fell silent, trying to calm myself.

  He moistened his lips. “I don’t know if I can make you understand,” he said with unusual hesitancy, “for you aren’t a parent—not yet. Even though Victor and I gave each other nothing but unhappiness, and even though there were times when I genuinely feared him, he was my son, and I could not see him treated as a criminal. It strained my loyalty almost past enduring to protect him when I believed he had killed my mother, but there was never a moment when another course seemed conceivable.” His eyes were dull and defeated as he contemplated the past. “And yet he felt no such loyalty to me. It is a terrible thing to be frightened of one’s own child, niece. Pray that you never know what that is like.”

  To fear the very person one loved best—that must be a terrible burden. At the same time, I wondered how much he recognized his own culpability in his son’s actions. Bloodlines alone did not make monsters, I knew. It was not the circumstances of Victor’s birth but everything that followed thereafter that had made him into the twisted, desperate creature he was. Had my uncle been a better parent, perhaps Victor would have been a better man.

  “If you hadn’t been so quick to protect him, perhaps you would have learned sooner that the real culprit was Mrs. Furness,” I said, realizing that I had never learned her first name. “Did you ask the doctor to fill out my grandmother’s death certificate in such a way as to protect Victor from suspicion?”

  Some ruddy color crept into his cheeks. “I knew that he would be willing to stretch a point as a favor to me.”

  “So we can add conspiring on a fraudulent death certificate to the list of your crimes.”

  “I suppose so.” After a moment, he added in a low voice, “He’s been found, did you know? Both of them were retrieved from the river early this morning.”

  Despite all he had done—and, equally bad, all that he had permitted to be done through his passivity—I felt a flicker of compassion for him. “Identifying them must have been dreadful.”

  He shrugged and walked over to the fire, probably as much to escape the necessity of meeting my eyes as to enjoy its warmth. “At least I can bury my boy,” he said without looking at me. “And mourn him.”

  “And Mrs. Furness? Does she have family to claim her, or shall you at last do right by her?”

  “She’ll have a plot near the boy’s,” he said grudgingly. “Perhaps an unmarked one, but devil take it, the woman wasn’t a Burleigh and can’t expect to be treated like one.”

  He found her an inconvenience, and yet her role in this sorry business was his fault alone. My voice was distinctly colder when I said, “Perhaps if you had not forced yourself upon her and then barred her from all but the briefest contact with her son, she would not have become unbalanced. The least you can do now is put her name on her gravestone.”

  After a hesitation, he shrugged and said gruffly, “I suppose so. Very well.”

  Silence fell. I was curious to see how he would end it, so I did not speak. For a time he stared down at the cuff of his coat and picked at a stain on it. Presently, without looking at me, he mumbled, “I suppose that when we next meet it will be in a court of law, with you bearing witness against me.”

  I had discussed it with Atticus, and even before I had left the breakfast table I had decided that there was little point in turning my uncle over to the law. Now that I saw how diminished he was, I knew that I had made the correct decision. Many of his actions had been motivated by love for Victor, who was now dead, and still more by fear—fear for his own skin, for his son, and even of his son. Without that goad, he seemed to lack the motivation to do further harm. Certainly, this broken husk of a man showed no sign of having the wherewithal to pit himself against anyone.

  “When I speak to the constables today I shall confine my testimony to what I know about Victor’s actions, and Grigore’s,” I said. “I’ll not implicate you.”

  His body drooped as he gave a mighty sigh of relief.

  “Of course, I have certain conditions—”

  “I accept them all,” he exclaimed before I could finish. Closing the distance between us in three strides, he seemed on the point of embracing me, but a look at my face stopped him. Instead he seized my right hand and shook it so vigorously that my earrings danced. “I am forever grateful, my girl—that is to say, my lady. Thank you one thousand times. You’ll not regret your compassion.”

  I doubted he would be as cheerful once he heard the conditions. I had worried that they were too strict, but Atticus had told me that, if anything, they erred on the side of leniency.

  “The first and most important condition,” I said, “is that you sell your property, including Thurnley Hall.”

  He dropped my hand as if it had turned into red-hot iron and gaped at me. Before he could respond, I continued, “The second is that you leave England and never return.”

  “Leave England?” His voice was strangled. “And sell Thurnley! Do you mean to ruin me?”

  “I mean for you to no longer exercise any power over others by virtue of being one of the landed gentry… and to go far away from those whom you have harmed, either directly or indirectly.” As he struggled to come to grips with this vision of his future, I added sternly, “Be advised that Atticus and I shall set a watch on you to make certain that you abide by my terms. Don’t think that it will escape our notice if you try to renege—or if anyone else ever comes to harm because of you, whether through action or inaction. And if that should happen, you may rest assured that before the next day dawns I shall be giving the authorities a detailed account of your doings during my stay at Thurnley Hall. Interfering with the mail, concealing a murder, assisting in the attempt to abduct me—all of it.”

  He had recovered from his initial shock, and although his expression was woebegone, he must have realized that it was futile to protest. His voice was almost meek when he said, “I shall do as you say. From now on I will be above reproach, niece. I swear it.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” I replied, not troubling to hide my skepticism. “I don’t know much about court procedure, but you may be asked to testify against Grigore. But I expect you to leave England as soon as your presence is no
longer required.”

  “Haven’t you heard, then?” he asked in surprise. When I stared at him in perplexity, he said, “Late last night when the constables looked in on him in the room where they had him confined, they found him dead. The doctor says that he must have had a weak heart, as do so many men of his size. He believes the physical and emotional strain of yesterday’s events, followed by his arrest, must have been too much for him.”

  As shocking as the news was, I could not help but reflect that it might be for the best. Had Grigore lived, he would very likely have been sent to prison or an asylum, either of which would probably have been a kind of living death.

  “Then you won’t even be called upon to testify against him,” I said. “You may begin preparing for your departure almost at once.” Some stubborn remnant of pity forced me to ask, “Will you miss Yorkshire very dreadfully?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve never been liked hereabouts,” he admitted, “and the ill feeling only grew during Victor’s lifetime. Whenever he stayed at Thurnley he tended to… well, his pursuits were not such as would win the family any love from our tenants or in the village. I tried to hush things up, but sometimes it was difficult.” His gaze had turned inward, and now he winced at whatever memory he had called up.

  With a shudder I wondered if Victor had abducted others before Atticus and performed experiments on them, or if he had perpetrated other horrors. Looking back, I realized that the strange behavior I had seen in some of the townspeople had been catalyzed by the presence of Victor Lynch or the carriage in which he traveled, not by Atticus. They had not been superstitious people, just wary, and that gave me an idea of just how unpleasant Victor must have made himself outside the walls of Thurnley Hall.

  “Perhaps I’ll settle in Germany,” my uncle continued, with the ghost of his old heartiness. “Find some quiet place with good hunting. Or possibly Styria; it is said to be beautiful.”

  It wasn’t my concern that he find a place to his liking. “When you do relocate,” I told him, “I want you to settle generous sums on Thomas, Ann, and Mrs. Antonescu. That is my final stipulation. They must be handsomely provided for when they leave your employ.”

  “Mrs.—? Oh, the cook. Yes, whatever you think best. You say that is the last of your conditions? Our business is at an end?”

  Never had I imagined that my uncle, once so arrogant and bombastic, would speak to me in so plaintive and humble a tone. “Almost,” I said, and handed him my grandmother’s letter. “This is for you.”

  He drew it from the envelope and unfolded it, and his brow constricted in pain as he read the words. At length he said, “This is just what I feared Mother would tell you—what I tried so hard to prevent her from confiding.”

  “I can well understand why you tried to keep the story from me,” I said. “But as she and your father are both gone now, there seems no need to disclose it to those outside the family. I shall keep her secret.” In fact, I had decided not to share the letter with Atticus. It would serve little purpose that I could see to divulge my grandmother’s tragedy.

  “I thank you,” my uncle said. “Where did you find it? I thought I had searched most carefully.”

  “She had sewn it into the lining of my mother’s dress.”

  He nodded heavily. “Clever,” he said. “She always was too smart for me.”

  I realized I did not know what else to say. I could hardly thank him for hosting Atticus and me. “Well, I suppose it’s time we said goodbye, uncle.”

  “I suppose it is.” Since I did not offer my hand, he bobbed his head in farewell and cast a look at my abdomen. “Er… good luck, niece. With the child.”

  I placed my hand over my womb, protecting it from his gaze. “I shan’t need it,” I said calmly. “Not in the way you mean.”

  When he opened the door, Atticus was poised at the threshold, and for a moment the two men eyed one another warily. Then Atticus stepped aside, allowing my uncle to shuffle past him. As he passed down the hall I noticed how bowed his shoulders were, how shambling his walk. He had aged greatly over the time I had known him.

  Atticus and I watched from a front window as my uncle made his way to his carriage, which had clearly been retrieved. Thomas sat in the driver’s seat as before. When he caught sight of us in the window, he touched his cap. Then my uncle closed the carriage door, Thomas chirruped at the horses, and the carriage started down the street. Soon it turned a corner and was lost to view.

  “He took my terms fairly well,” I said. “I think he’ll keep his word.”

  “He is a fortunate man indeed to be answerable to you,” said Atticus, putting his left arm around me. In his right hand he held a borrowed walking stick. “I doubt anyone else would have been as generous to him.”

  “Let’s not talk of him anymore,” I said, resting my head against his shoulder. “There are so many things that are much pleasanter to contemplate.”

  “So there are,” he said. “Like our daughter, for a start.”

  I gazed up at the handsome, beloved face I had believed such a short time ago I would never see again. “Oh, you wish me to have a girl?” I teased.

  His smile brought crinkles to the corners of his eyes. “I shall be overjoyed with our child whether we have a girl or a boy… but I can’t help thinking how charming it would be to have a miniature Clara about the house.”

  I laughed and slipped my arms around him. “What if I should be the only Clara? Am I not enough for you?”

  “Never think it, my love,” he said, drawing me closer. “I am still astonished that we are to be so fortunate as to have a child at all. It’s as if a new life is beginning for us.”

  “So it is,” I said. “A new life… and a new adventure.”

  EPILOGUE

  Some months later, I was brought to bed of a fine boy child. Little Robert Atticus was blessed with a strong, healthy body, free of any obvious impairment that might cause him pain or draw unkind comment. Atticus could not make up his mind whether he was more delighted with me or with his infant son. Fortunately, as I pointed out, he did not need to choose between us.

  Vivi, who was now thoroughly recovered from having borne her baby girl, Régine, bustled about Gravesend Lodge in the following days making certain that I was well looked after, although Atticus was even quicker to see to my comfort and grant my every wish. I believe that if I had expressed a desire for a banyan tree from India, he would have contrived to obtain one for me.

  Seeing him hold our son in his arms was the pinnacle of happiness to me. The only thing approaching a flaw in my joy was that my mother was not present to see her grandson. But her photograph gazed at me from the bureau across the room, and I could almost believe that she observed and shared in my happiness.

  “My love,” said Atticus, sitting down beside me on the bed and carefully passing Rob to me, “I believe his hair is every bit as dark and curly as yours.”

  The satisfaction in his voice made me smile. “But he has your eyes,” I pointed out, “and that is the important thing—to me, at least.”

  “What a heartbreaker the little fellow shall be!” Vivi said with a laugh as George and Sterry entered, carrying a crate.

  “Another gift!” George announced. “If they don’t stop soon, you’ll be crowded out of the lodge and have to return to the Hall.” He handed Atticus the accompanying envelope, which was addressed to us both in a hand that awakened a sense of foreboding in me. Atticus read the letter aloud.

  Dear niece and nephew,

  I understand that congratulations are due to you. Please accept this small token of my regret for what you suffered under my roof.

  This gift shall soon be all that remains of the home of the Burleighs, for I understand that the new owner of Thurnley Hall has decided to have it torn down and replaced with a new edifice. Perhaps it is just as well, considering its unfortunate history.

  I write to you from Styria, although I am considering spending the winter in Italy. My health is n
ot as strong as before, and I believe the climate would do me good.

  I pray that the Burleigh curse will spare your child, and I wish your family all the good fortune that was denied me.

  Your uncle

  Horace Burleigh

  “It seems that he has kept his word to you, Clara,” Atticus observed after he had finished reading. “I almost regret that he gives me no excuse to administer a drubbing.”

  “He isn’t worth the trouble,” I said. “But I have a terrible suspicion as to the gift he has sent us. George, would you mind opening the crate?”

  When he had pried off the lid and lifted the contents out, my apprehension was confirmed: It was the antique cradle from Thurnley Hall. In our airy bedroom in the lodge the dark, bulky thing squatted like a malignant toad.

  Vivi wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Well,” she said doubtfully, “perhaps it is of great sentimental value.”

  “We can find room for it in the attic,” Atticus said. “One question, though, my love. What is this Burleigh curse your uncle speaks of?”

  I looked down at the adorable face of our son, who was waving his tiny fists as he lay in my arms, and felt a rush of thankfulness that I could put superstitious worries behind me. The Burleigh curse belonged to the past, not to our child’s future.

  “Nothing, dearest,” I told Atticus, and kissed his cheek. “Nothing at all.”

  The End

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