With This Curse: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense (15 page)

Instead I was out of sorts, and disgusted with myself for being so, which merely worsened the feeling. It was absurd for me to feel displaced, for my place was entirely ornamental. It was fruitless to feel overshadowed, for I had no delusions of beauty or social brilliance to be set into stark contrast by this youngling’s charm and loveliness. On the contrary, I should have welcomed the relief her presence would bring from the guests’ scrutiny of me. The more absorbed they were in Genevieve, the less notice they would take of my mistakes and awkward moments. I ought to have been grateful to her, and to Atticus for introducing her into the household.

That
was the sticking point, I decided. We had been well on our way to establishing a kind of family, settling into a comfortable habit with regard to each other as I began to feel that I had a role to play at Gravesend, and the girl’s arrival had upset the tentative harmony of that arrangement. I no longer knew where I stood in Atticus’s plan. Was I to be a kind of stepmother? Or if the girl truly was his mistress, was I to stand to one side because my own place gave me no right to object? The uncertainty made me snappish, and I pleaded my supposed headache at noontime so that I would not inflict my mood on my guests at the midday meal… although I was certain that my pretext deceived none of them. They would no doubt have a satisfying gossip while I temporarily abandoned my duties as hostess.

But I was not the only one to resist the new domestic arrangement, as I learned later. Having returned from their walk, Atticus and his ward had discovered that Lord Telford refused to meet Genevieve.

“He says he’s not equal to the strain of visitors at the moment,” Atticus told me crisply as we made our way to the drawing room to await the dinner gong that evening. “It’s ridiculous. Vivi isn’t a visitor—she’s family.”

“They have not met before, then?” I asked, to hide my shock at hearing the girl thus described.

“No, Father always refused to join me when I went to visit her at school.” Atticus’s expressive eyes were troubled, and I wondered with a pang whether he would have worried thus if I had been the one his father refused to welcome. “I don’t know how to break this to her,” he said. “I won’t have her feelings hurt.”

“Your father’s fragile state of health is not in doubt,” I observed. “
You
may see his refusal to meet her as a deliberate snub, but on the surface it’s perfectly plausible. Are you so certain he’s avoiding her?”

His lips tightened, and he gave a single sharp nod. “He’s never approved of my taking her into my care, even though she is so… closely connected to the household.”

“Connected in what way?” is what I wanted to ask, but I wasn’t certain I would like the answer. If the girl was indeed Atticus’s illegitimate daughter, his father might well be angry at the idea of accepting her into the household. As would I, for that matter. To have my husband’s child by another woman so close at hand would be a constant reminder that I was not the only woman in his life—indeed, it would be as good as an announcement to those around us.

The girl herself appeared then, darting out of the drawing room in a robin’s-egg blue dinner gown whose tulle overskirt was caught up with garlands of pink silk roses. It was an absurdly extravagant dress for a girl who was not yet out. In contrast, I felt very elderly indeed in my midnight blue cashmere trimmed in cerise passementerie, which just minutes before had made me feel quite elegant and grand.

“I thought I heard your voices!” she exclaimed, and danced up to link her arm through her guardian’s free one. “Now you have a belle on each arm,” she informed him, and instantly began chattering to him in French. I realized to my discomfiture that Atticus must understand her. Of course he would speak French; he probably spoke several languages. They could converse on any number of subjects and I would be none the wiser.

Atticus’s appreciative chuckle caught my attention. He was watching the girl with an indulgent smile. I could not recall whether he had ever looked at me with such an expression.

But why should he? I was no soul mate to him, nor had he ever promised that I would be. Somehow it had not stung as much before, though. It seemed to me now as if his primary object had been to bring Genevieve to Gravesend and I was merely a necessary part of that plan, even though I didn’t wholly understand what part that was.

I was absorbed in these and similarly cheering thoughts. Atticus and Genevieve were absorbed in what, to judge by their faces, was the most fascinating conversation since Dr. Johnson’s day. And so the three of us proceeded into the drawing room: the handsome heir, the beautiful young ward, and the convenient fiction.

“How long will Genevieve be with us?” I asked Atticus that night when we met for our nightly council meeting. “You mentioned bringing her out this Season.”

A questioning lift of one eyebrow accompanied his response. “Genevieve’s home is with us,” he said, “until she marries.”

I stared into my teacup, hoping my face didn’t reveal my dismay. “If this was your plan from the beginning, I wish you’d told me of it when you made your proposal to me.”

“I didn’t think it would be such an upheaval for you,” he said, and though I did not look at him, I could picture his serious expression, the penetrating look in his vivid eyes, perhaps even a look of concern—for he was, after all, a considerate man. “Genevieve has never known her mother, and I knew that your own natural impulse to nurture would find an outlet where—if you’ll pardon my mentioning it—it had none before.”

I stirred my tea and tried to frame my response. “It isn’t as if she were my own child. And Genevieve is practically grown; I don’t think she needs a mother.” Even if I had known how to be one, which I did not.

He did not answer at once. When I finally looked up, I met his eyes and wondered why there should be a kind of perplexed sadness there. Slowly he said, “I ought to have discussed it with you before she arrived, I see that now. But since she
is
here, and is out of her element, it would be a kindness in you to befriend her.” He seemed to be choosing his words with care when he said, “And even if the two of you don’t share a family name, I think you’ll find that you are related in a sense.”

I smiled, a little wryly. We were only related in the sense that this surprising man had taken an interest in us, out of whatever motive or motives, and had chosen to offer his protection. Beyond that, I suspected his ward and I had precious little in common.

“As to not needing a mother,” he was saying, “I must disagree. Especially when the Season begins, she’ll need someone she can look to for feminine wisdom and guidance.”

Which I was scarcely in a position to provide. Navigating the complexities of life in society would be every bit as new to me as it would to her. “I’m not certain I have much to offer her,” I said.

“Of course you do. You only feel this way because she took you by surprise. When you come to know Vivi better I know you’ll adore her. I’m happy to say she is kind, intelligent, charming—in many ways she reminds me of you, in fact.”

I could not repress a laugh that was as much startled as it was amused. “Of me!” Kindness and charm were not prominent in my makeup, I knew. Intelligence, too, I sometimes doubted.

“Very much so,” he said, still regarding me with that peculiarly intense gaze. “I see the two of you as kindred spirits. I’m certain that when you’ve spent more time with her you’ll come to see it yourself. Why, she could even teach you French, so that you may converse more freely with your maid.”

“No doubt,” I said, my pride struggling with the realization that it would be a great relief to be able to carry on a conversation with Henriette that did not leave us both frustrated at the gulf of understanding between us. I risked another glance at Atticus. His enthusiasm was touching. If he saw kindness in me, I thought, it was because he himself possessed it in such abundance. I owed it to him to make an effort, at least. Whatever his reasons for attaching her to the household, Genevieve herself had shown no signs of wishing to usurp me. I ought to give her the benefit of the doubt for as long as I could.

I rose to signal the end of our meeting. “I shall endeavor to make Genevieve welcome,” I said. That was as far as I would commit myself tonight.

It seemed to be enough for Atticus, at least. He started to reach for my hand, then checked himself, no doubt remembering my fiat against contact. But such a prohibition seemed foolish now that I myself had broken it, and when I put my hand out he took it at once.

“Thank you, Clara,” he said softly. “It means more than I can say that you and Genevieve become friends.”

I had no answer for that. Questions I did have, but not the courage to ask them—not yet.

The next day I was still so troubled in mind that I finally made a pilgrimage I had been putting off for too long: a visit to the folly. It was, I felt, the one place where I might find a haven from the strain of the present, but I was almost afraid to put it to the test.

The wood at its back had grown up much closer to it in the time since I had last been here with Richard, but from the direction of the gardens the path was easy. When I gained the little hillock where the ruin was situated, I looked back the way I had come. From here Gravesend Hall looked so much smaller and less imposing—almost like a doll’s house, and I smiled at the fancy; if only the house and its residents were as easily managed as a child’s toys, and then when Lord Telford’s innuendos and Mrs. Threll’s watchfulness grew too much for me I could simply toss them into a box and put them away.

I was dwelling on the view because I was reluctant to let my mind dwell here, within the two fragmentary walls of the folly. Today there were no violets, and the grass was dead and leached of color; the stones of the broken walls and tower were stained with moss and lichen. The top of the tower looked uneven, as if some of the stones that made it up had loosened and fallen. The passage of time was lending the folly verisimilitude, taking it closer to the ruin it had been designed to mimic.

I could scarcely picture Richard and my younger self there. In my memory the folly had been a treasured secret haven, a little corner of paradise; now it was nothing more than a picturesque assemblage of stone and mortar. Nothing of Richard remained here. If his ghost did walk, I reflected, perhaps after all it would not be here, where he and I had been happy together; it would be on that far-away battlefield, more likely, where his life had been cut short… and in what circumstances of pain and anguish I could only guess. There was nothing for me here except my memories.

I looked once more across the grounds to Gravesend, the white stone walls gleaming like snow under the rare sunshine. If I was to find even a temporary place there, it behooved me to stop dwelling on the past. Atticus deserved a convincing bride, and I owed it to him to put my best effort into my masquerade. Indeed, the thought of being exposed as a fraud still held great dread for me, so for my own sake as well I ought to live in the present entirely.

What, though, was I to think when the very house itself, or some remnant of the past that had been imprinted upon it, spoke my name in Richard’s voice? It had not happened since that first night, but each night after I parted from Atticus I found myself lingering on the threshold of my sitting room, half longing, half fearing to hear it again. If only I had been able to tell what it meant—whether it had spoken in yearning, or pleasure, or warning—

Enough. I could not continue thus, hoping for a sign that a dead love lived on in some fashion. I would drive myself mad that way. Much later, perhaps, when this charade was over and I was comfortably settled in my new life as an independent woman—then I could indulge in memories of Richard and dwell in them to my heart’s content. But not until then.

It might not have been Richard’s voice I had heard, at that. If a ghost from my past were here, might it not be my mother’s? Perhaps she had spoken from beyond to remind me to be strong.
A curse is no match for women of independent spirit,
she had told me on that long-ago day. Now, with her words lending determination to my steps, I left the folly behind and strode back across the grounds toward the house where I was now mistress.

Over the next week or so I strove to keep my word to Atticus. I found that his assessment of Genevieve’s character seemed to hold true: she did seem to be kind, without malice or calculation, and was charming in her enthusiasm for other people—which, strangely, extended to me. If her piquant beauty and youth and power to attract made me painfully aware of my own shortcomings, it was not her fault. When male eyes followed the girl with admiration and eagerness, she was stealing nothing from me, I reminded myself. But something—whether insecurity or consciousness of my own shortcomings, or perhaps simple envy—prevented me from opening my heart to her in any real sense.

In return for my somewhat guarded overtures, Genevieve attached herself to me as if we were already sworn friends. She seemed eager for my approval and my liking, even seemed, bafflingly, to admire me—although it did occur to me that Atticus, for what purpose I did not know, might have told her to use her charm on me. Perhaps he wished her to have another defender besides himself, for Lord Telford continued to keep to himself in his rooms and did not send to meet her.

Genevieve and I took to meeting each afternoon for a French lesson, and I had to admit that she was a patient instructor. My tardy beginning she herself explained away. “You had more important things to do than to learn another tongue,” she said generously, although I did not inquire what she thought these things might have been. I had no idea what she knew of my background and did not invite discussion of it. But even though she was tactful about my ignorance, my pride smarted that I had to be taught that
“la robe”
meant “the dress” and
“le visage”
meant “the face.” I think I might have warmed to Genevieve more quickly if this, too, had not been a sphere in which she was demonstrably my superior.

One afternoon when I arrived at her room for our lesson I found her quite downcast. “I am very much afraid my favorite dinner dress is ruined,” she lamented. “Uncle Atticus says that you have a gentlewoman’s skill with a needle, though—perhaps you can tell me if it can be rescued?”

I said I would give her my expert opinion, and she produced the sumptuous light blue dress with silk roses, which I had not seen since her first night at Gravesend. The skirt had a long tear near one seam and had been clumsily sewn together, with dark thread bunching the fabric.

“It is a nasty tear,” I said. “It would have been better to have given it to your maid to mend.”

“Oh, I did! This is Letty’s handiwork, not mine.”

That startled me, for I had never seen such poor stitching. Any of the Gravesend maids ought to have been capable of better work. “How did it come to tear?”

She puffed out a sigh. “Letty again,
hélas
. She had just finished helping me dress, and I was leaving the room when she trod upon the train. I declare she must have put her full weight upon it!”

The rip was more than a foot long. It was astonishing that such damage could have been done accidentally, particularly since Letty was a slight creature. “Is she satisfactory in other respects?”

“Oh, quite well.”

Her voice left room for doubt. “What else has she done?”

“Nothing at all, truly. Only…”

“What is it?”

“I was not going to say anything, but the other maid, the girl who lays the fire every morning… I have asked her if she could possibly come earlier, for often Letty has finished dressing me before the fire has been lit.”

That meant Genevieve was waking and dressing in a frigid room, when the fire ought to have been laid before she rose. “Has she begun coming earlier since you spoke to her about it?”

“No, but it is my fault. She cannot understand my accent, I think.”

That was preposterous. “I’ll speak to Mrs. Threll,” I said. “If nothing else, she can have your dress mended more ably.”

The blue eyes brightened. “Oh, that is so kind of you, Aunt Clara! I did not think of asking Mrs. Threll—I confess she frightens me a little.”

I just managed to refrain from confessing that I, too, was not entirely comfortable with the housekeeper. But I held my tongue.

The damage to the dress might have been an accident, made worse by a maid who was clumsy at sewing and hesitant to reveal that shortcoming by asking for help. The fire was another matter and suggested poor scheduling on Mrs. Threll’s part. But it was strange all the same. Now that I took a closer look at Genevieve’s room, I could see signs of neglect. The flowers in the vase on the bureau were not fresh, and there was a faint film of dust visible on some of the elaborate picture frames.

That night at dinner, I observed other ways in which the staff seemed to be singling out Genevieve for poor treatment. At table, the footmen offering her dishes gave her insufficient time to serve herself before moving to the next person, so that her plate was sparsely filled, and one footman even managed to spill gravy on her.