Accursed (2 page)

Her belly split with a sickeningly wet tearing noise and a splash of blood and viscera, and then they came flooding out of her. The girl’s wide brown eyes stared glassily at the night sky. By this time she was beyond pain. She twitched once, but she was already dead as the small creatures, their bodies covered in a sickly greenish slime, hopped away to disappear into the maze of alleys and crumbling buildings, into the deeper shadows.

The old man wept for her, his heart heavier than all creation.

I
t was a rare day in Highgate. The sky above was a brilliant blue, and the sun lured from the landscape vivid colors that were seen so infrequently as to achieve near-mythic status.

Ordinarily Ludlow House seemed to loom upon the hill, gazing balefully across the lawns that surrounded it. The gardens were vibrant and beautiful, but the façade of the house was almost monastic in its plainness, a grim visage of window and stone with a thorny crown of gables and chimneys. Yet on this day, the Swift family home managed an elegant nobility. Though the sprawling manse cast long shadows eastward, they did not engender the sense of foreboding that had so often been their companion.

There was a southwesterly view from the rear of Ludlow House. The elevation of the hill was such that High Street was visible in the distance, and on a day as clear as this, those of keen eyesight or imagination might see the spire of the chapel at Highgate Cemetery. Yet it was neither the view nor the rare brilliance of the spring day that had prompted Tamara Swift to host afternoon tea in the observatory, rather than within the house proper.

Inside the house, even in the front parlor, her guests might have heard the mad howling that came from the second floor, the screams of her father. Or, more accurately, of the thing that lived within him.

Much had changed in the months subsequent to the death of her grandfather, Sir Ludlow Swift. Tamara and her brother, William, had inherited a host of responsibilities they could never have imagined, and the loss of her beloved grandfather, combined with her father’s affliction, had cast the bleakest of shadows across her heart.

Yet she felt a sense of purpose now that she never had before. No matter how frightful her current circumstances, she knew she would not have willingly erased the events of the past several months. Once her greatest concerns had been the attentions of young men and the scribblings she authored under the pseudonym T. L. Fleet, stories published in pamphlets they called penny dreadfuls on the street. Once upon a time, her taste for the macabre had been mere musing. Now her writings leaned toward those of reporter, rather than tale-weaver.

But the darkness could be suffocating. For too long in recent months, she had chosen to ignore invitations and gentle inquiries from friends. Now she had at last determined that it would be prudent to escape into the trivial from time to time.

This afternoon’s tea was attended by four young ladies of North London whom she counted as her friends and, unfortunately, Miss Sophia Winchell, whom William was courting. Absent from the gathering was Marjorie Winterton, who was attending to the needs of an ailing dowager aunt. Marjorie had sent her regrets, and Tamara shared the sentiment. Sophia was a poor substitute.

This tea was meant to signify Tamara’s return to society, and the throwing aside of the shroud that had cloaked her spirit so much of late. And she found now that the gathering was indeed fulfilling its purpose. The sunshine and the flowers that were blossoming so fully, ripe with color, out across the grounds, had lifted her spirits. But nothing healed her so much as the company of her friends.

A titter of naughty laughter rippled through the observatory. One of the girls had no doubt said something scandalous—no surprise in this group—but Tamara had been lost in thought, and she had missed it. She feigned amusement politely, but she couldn’t entirely escape the weight of the dark truths she had learned in the wake of Sir Ludlow’s savage murder.

At times she wondered if she should share her burden with one or more of her closest friends, yet she knew there was no way she would dare to do so. Ignorance of the evil that hid in England’s shadows was indeed a gift, and it was one she would give them freely. No, she would keep her own counsel. In those moments when she could not bear the weight of the dreadful truth, she would seek solace in her brother’s calming voice. In his reason.

Or she would rely upon the kindness of ghosts.

But she would not place the burden of knowledge upon her friends. That would be too cruel.

And the truth of it was that part of her conviction sprang from selfishness. Simply being in their presence eased her mind, let her become once again, albeit briefly, a part of the mundane world. She hadn’t realized it until today, but in their ordinary concerns and their gossip and their laughter she found respite. For the first time in months she wasn’t dwelling upon the certainty that night would fall once more; that they would depart and the light of whimsy would be extinguished.

No, while they were here, she would be as she had been. Just another girl—no, just another high-born
lady
of London town.

She took a sip of lukewarm tea—she didn’t dare try to use magic to warm it in the presence of her friends—and turned her gaze toward the windows. Tamara had always found it peaceful here in the observatory, if a trifle chilly. The gardens of Ludlow House were renowned, arranged as they were with an almost architectural precision. Tamara’s grandfather had entertained many a guest here, to exploit the glorious view of the prize tea rose garden.

Tamara still missed the grizzled old man terribly, but time had begun to scar over her tender wounds. They would never heal altogether; the thought that they would was a myth. Yet, brushing away the momentary pain, she turned her attention back to the conversation in progress.

“—I truly believe that if I were ever to find myself in the company of our Mr. T. L. Fleet, I would just expire,” said Victoria Markham, her face so flushed as to make her cheeks nearly as red as her hair. “I would be just that—for lack of a better word—
stimulated.
”

Tamara almost laughed, but managed to hold herself in check by pretending to cough into her silk handkerchief. She perched on the edge of the soft red velveteen settee, blue eyes wide with curiosity. Somehow, while she was lost in reverie, the topic of conversation had come around to her own writings. How odd it was to be privy to gossip that was, however indirectly, about her.

Victoria dramatically raised a hand to cover her mouth, as though she had been scandalized by her own ribald insinuation, her mischievous, pixielike features doing little to make her pretense convincing.

Tamara so treasured the girl. In the aftermath of Sir Ludlow’s death, Victoria had continued to make overtures of friendship, long after everyone else had ceased trying. She had stubbornly refused to let Tamara surrender completely to grief, and had finally called at Ludlow House—uninvited—the week before, hoping to coax Tamara back into society.

It was entirely due to her urging that Tamara had promised to sponsor a tea for their friends this afternoon.

Victoria lowered her hand and continued. “My cousin Roderick swears that T. L. spends his evenings with that bawdy actress Lucille Hammond. Can you believe that an author of his accomplishments would even
call
on someone so base?”

There was a pause and then Helena Martin looked up from her sketchpad, a dusty piece of charcoal clutched between her thumb and forefinger. “Well, I must confess that
Stained Scarlet
gave me goose bumps.”

Tamara smiled, the compliment giving
her
goose bumps.

“I couldn’t put it down, not until the very last word,” Helena continued, a small, self-conscious smile blossoming upon her face. “I was so terrified.” At that, she quickly returned to her sketching, a rather faithful rendering of a nearby vase of roses.

Helena wiped a strand of chestnut hair out of her eyes, leaving a dark smudge across her high cheekbone. Tamara had known her since they were toddlers, and didn’t think she had ever seen the young woman without her sketchbook in hand.

“It was suspenseful,” Victoria agreed. “He raises the penny dreadful to high art. And I’ll wager he’s even more handsome than his characters.”

“Honestly, is there no other more suitable subject for conversation, or are you all so obsessed with this bawdy fantasy?” Suzanne Hastings muttered.

Once she had been Tamara’s dearest friend, but they had found little opportunity to enjoy each other’s company in recent years. The dark-eyed, Rubenesque girl had married two summers before, and spent much of her time at her husband’s estate in Cornwall.

“How
absolutely
dull of you,” Victoria said with a sigh. “Now that you’re a married woman, I think you’re simply coveting the freedom the rest of us have. You’d be thrusting out your bosom and batting your eyelashes with abandon at our T. L. if you weren’t saddled with that old nanny goat of a husband.”

Tamara was surprised at the intensity of Victoria’s fascination with the mysterious author, though she supposed that if she were unaware of the author’s true identity she, too, might find herself enamored of the “adventurous scribe.” Then it struck her that the very thought was laden with devastating hubris, and she brushed it away.

The barb hit home, and Suzanne’s face flushed scarlet with suppressed rage. But she took a deep breath and shot her friend a sly smile.

“Victoria, my darling, perhaps one day you will learn that simply because a thought pops into your pretty head, that doesn’t mean you ought to put voice to it. For example, just because we all know that you couldn’t snare a husband even with that embarrassingly large Markham fortune of yours, that doesn’t mean we need to comment on the fact.”

Victoria stiffened, and Tamara thought for a moment that she might throw her tea in Suzanne’s face. But instead she began to laugh.

“Touché, Suzanne. You always did have a way with words. I cannot even
begin
to compete.”

Suzanne took her win graciously. “My dear Vic, were I this gruesome scribbler you so fancy, I have no doubt I would find you irresistible.”

The irony of it all was as frustrating as it was delicious. It was all Tamara could do not to reveal herself.
And I don’t spend my time loitering outside music halls, lusting after round-heeled actresses!
she would have declared.

As much as she wanted to tell her friends the truth, her brother, William, had made her swear upon pain of death never to reveal her literary identity. He was worried that public knowledge of her
career
might do irreparable harm to their good name, which she found amusing in light of what outcry might arise were the public to become aware of the
other
avocation that was increasingly drawing their attention and time.

Once again she glanced around at the friends she had gathered in the observatory and felt perfectly at ease, allowing a smile to play at the corners of her mouth.

Her pleasant musing was shattered by a tight, supercilious voice that came from outside their circle. “I cannot believe that any young lady from a proper family would dare read such trash.”

Sophia Winchell stood by the windows, mouth twisted up in disapproval that tainted her otherwise beautiful face. She was one of the most stunning women Tamara had ever known. Suzanne and Victoria looked like charwomen in comparison. Tamara could see why her brother was taken with Miss Winchell, despite her personality.

Victoria rolled her eyes. She had been upset at first when she had learned that Tamara had invited Sophia to come to tea. It seemed that no one, aside from her brother, was fond of the girl. Tamara had made an earnest effort to like the young lady who was the object of William’s fancy, but subsequently she had found that she would rather eat soap than spend an afternoon alone with her.

When Tamara had invited Sophia, she had felt certain the girl would find some excuse to decline, but to her surprise William announced that she was thrilled to be included. Tamara was sure that the word
thrilled
had been an embellishment on his part, as Sophia had barely spoken since her arrival.

Now she gazed at Tamara, a challenge filling her eyes. If Tamara hadn’t known better, she would have thought the girl knew something.

“I’m sure a little harmless amusement won’t be the death of anyone,” Tamara said, forcing a pleasant smile.

Sophia pursed her lips, but did not reply.

Tamara continued, “Don’t you agree, Sophia?”

Sophia shook her head. “I do not, Miss Swift. Nor do I think the author of such drivel should be complimented or admired for such hideous imagery as he foists upon the public. It is the lowest form of entertainment, not art but filth, and a base appeal to the ugliest facets of human nature.”

Victoria seemed even more startled and offended than Tamara. “Miss Winchell, one should never condemn what one has not read—”

Sophia raised an eyebrow and interrupted. “Oh, but I have,” she began, the sarcasm palpable in her voice. “I have had the
pleasure
of reading this trash, this
Stained Scarlet,
and find it not only offensive, but very poorly written, at that.”