Accursed (5 page)

“I have never seen the like of this hideous plague before,” he continued. “The women become bloated. There are boils and sores, odd chafing to the skin. And when the sickness subsides they are filled inside with foul creatures that burst forth and escape into the night. It’s nothing natural, I am certain of that. This is not so much plague as curse. Many men are stricken, too, but their illness does not subside. They are either killed by it or they become . . .”

The old man frowned at this last part.

“Become?”
he said.

“Let me show you,” the doctor whispered as he led the old man past a curtained partition and into a tent.

Within the tent were many young men, all of them suffering. The old man laid a hand here and there as he walked, and gradually the din of agonized murmurings subsided. The doctor stopped at a random cot and drew back the sheet that was covering the body that rested there.

The young patient had hard features, the hands of a worker, and the scars of a fighter. These were human qualities, and yet his basic humanity was surrendering to something else. Calluses had given way to an almost reptilian skin. Sleek scales ran down the sides of his face in diamond cascade patterns that continued onto his throat and chest. His dark hair had begun to fall away, revealing a smooth, gleaming head. And all of his flesh was tinged with a dark, sickly green.

“They
become.
I cannot explain it any further than that,” the doctor said sadly. “I saw the first of them two weeks past. Two more last week. Yesterday there were four. Today, seven more.”

The old man looked at the patient, who began to shake.

His eyes—strange, yellow, reptile eyes—went wide, and he opened his mouth in a cry that began as a low hiss and grew in volume as he shook his head from side to side. The cry became a scream and the patient arched his back, straining at his bonds, madness in his eyes.

Then he went still, breathing raggedly. His flesh seemed darker, and the rough area of scales had spread farther across his chest and abdomen. For a moment the old man thought that he had fallen asleep, but then the patient lolled his head to one side and gazed at him. His eyes were no longer mad. Instead his gaze was full of fear, and it seemed as though he looked out from within some cage of horrid flesh.

The afflicted man wept silently.

“This is powerful
tantrika.
Your medicine is no match,” said the old man.

The doctor shivered, then tore his gaze away from his patient. He scowled. “We have no medicine here. There is no money. We can only give comfort to the suffering. We have asked the Crown for help, but to no avail. We are just the poor bastard children of England’s empire.”

“The governor general, Eden, he is not a bad man—”

A look of hatred crossed the young doctor’s face. “They are all bad, old man. The English have stolen our country. They steal our people and send them far away to help them steal other people’s lands.”

But the old man was not swayed.

“It is not our place to judge.”

The doctor snorted derisively. “Why do you think this plague has come? It is to punish us for being cowards. It may have started with us, but it will continue until even the ignorant English themselves feel the gods’ wrath.”

This time the old man did not reply. He knew that no matter what he said to the young physician, it would fall on deaf ears.

T
he lovely spring day had given way to a cool, dark evening. Each gust of wind carried a reminder that the year was still young and that winter had departed reluctantly. The warmer weather had arrived, to be certain, but hints of its less appealing past lingered, reminding Tamara of many of the more interesting men she had met.

The curtains in her bedroom danced languorously with the breeze, and the imperfections in the glass that covered her lamps warped the light that came from the flames within. Lights and shadows danced around the walls. Alone in her room, trying to decide what to wear to the Wintertons’ dinner party, it all felt like a strange bit of theater to her. The setting, at least, was dramatic, even if her own activities were rather mundane.

With the gentle breeze caressing her, she stood naked before the chest in which she kept her undergarments. She was holding a beige silk chemise in her left hand, but it took her a moment to find the drawers to match. Martha had put her things away, of course, but Tamara had dismissed the aging maid for the evening. The encounter with Sophia had left her in a foul mood, and she hadn’t wanted Martha to have to suffer her presence. The idea that she would have to endure the presence of Sophia Winchell at the Wintertons’ this evening kept her outlook bleak.

No, she did not have the heart to summon Martha after having already left her at liberty for the night. Thus she determined to dress herself. In truth, this was the best choice. Once upon a time, Tamara had not liked to be alone, but as she grew older and found that she and William had different interests, she had come to appreciate her privacy. There was an intimacy in loneliness that was fantastically bittersweet. And a sense of discovery, as well.

She found the drawers she was looking for, and, with her undergarments in her hands, Tamara crossed the chamber to the mirror. She stood before it and regarded herself. Her auburn hair was loose and hung wild around her shoulders. In the flickering lamplight, the shadows fell across her body in a way that caused her breath to catch in her throat. The curtains rustled once more, fluttering, and the cold touch of the night wind hardened the dark nubs that tipped her pale breasts.

Tamara felt her cheeks flush with warmth and she shifted her weight deliciously from one foot to the other, slowly, relishing the feeling of her legs sliding together.

“Silly girl,” she whispered. “Better get dressed, or you’ll never make it to the party.”

She slipped the chemise on, the silk whispering over her skin. With her drawers still clutched in one hand, she turned away from the mirror and went to the bed. Though Martha had gratefully accepted release from her duties for the evening, she had still set out a dress for Tamara to wear, along with a corset and petticoats. Putting on the corset would prove to be problematic without help, but Tamara could enlist her brother to tighten the thing. William would blush, no doubt, just as he had been doing ever since she had begun to blossom into a fitting shape for a young woman. But he would assist her.

Even before their father had become incapacitated, she had enlisted him for such tasks from time to time. That was the result of living without their mother to look after them.

Tamara shifted the petticoat and corset aside to look at the dress Martha had chosen for her. The bodice had a basque, giving it the appearance of a jacket, and was open over a chemisette of white muslin with a lace frill of
broderie anglaise.
It had a pointed waist that she liked, but it was the color that appealed to her the most, an emerald green that would set off her hair nicely. Though Tamara had shown no eye for suitors in the nearly half a year since her grandfather’s death, it was always possible that there were some fit young men who would have an eye for her.

She raised the dress off the bed and returned to the mirror, still wearing only her chemise. The chill breeze felt wonderful. She draped the dress across her body and studied the effect.

The green was sumptuous, really, and though the dome of the skirt was a bit wider than she liked—the styles were beginning to change—she thought Martha had made a wise choice. Tamara turned slightly, first to the left, and then to the right, the mirror image shifting with her.

“Oh, no. Please,
anything
but that. You might as well join the convent.”

It was a man’s voice. Tamara spun, holding the dress in front of her in a hopeless attempt at modesty. Her first instinct was to flee from the bedchamber into her sitting room and out into the corridors of Ludlow House. But even as she turned, her heart quickening, she recognized the voice.

The room, of course, was empty.

Tamara planted her feet, the dress still pressed against her, and raised an eyebrow. Shadows danced in lamplight, but none was deep enough to hide an intruder.

“How long have you been here?” she demanded, glancing about the room.

The voice returned. “Long enough to sample the delights of your garden, my dear. Spring brings the loveliest flowers, and the breeze carries only their sweetest scents.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why spy on me? It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

“I honestly hadn’t intended to spy. I arrived to find you flushed with self-regard, and was so lost in my admiration that it never occurred to me to make my presence known until it became clear you intended to wear that awful, stuffy, old woman’s gown to your soirée this evening.”

Tamara frowned. “It’s a lovely dress, and perfectly proper.”

The lamplight seemed to freeze in place, the flames pausing in unnatural hesitation. Between her bed and the door that led out of her chamber there appeared suddenly the spectral form of a man, a roguish phantom with dark, curly hair and a boyish charm to his features. His eyes danced with playfulness, though he crossed his arms and gazed at her with affected disapproval. His sudden materialization was accompanied by a crackling noise, as of damp wood blazing in the hearth.

“Proper?” the specter cried in alarm. He shook his head disapprovingly. “My dear Tamara, how is it we have been acquainted so long, had so many late-night conversations in this very room, and you are still capable of uttering the word
proper
as though it were a quality to be admired? I accept that you are not yet prepared to indulge in full-fledged decadence, but surely there is
something
in your wardrobe that would be more appropriate for an evening out. Something that accentuates your loveliness, rather than hiding it away.”

Tamara could not prevent the smirk that lifted one corner of her mouth. “By
loveliness,
you mean, of course, my breasts.”

“Every inch of you is lovely, dear Tamara, but I hardly think I might convince you to attend the party in a state that would reveal your perfection in its entirety.”

“Oh, yes, wouldn’t that be a sight?”

“It is,” the ghost replied. “Trust me.”

“Nothing like scandal to destroy the family name completely. It isn’t as if William and I aren’t having trouble enough deflecting the less savory suggestions about the nature of our father’s illness.”

The translucence of the ghost flickered, and for a moment there was only a suggestion of a form, shimmering in the lamplight. Then the spirit solidified further, so that if she hadn’t been peering directly at him, it might have seemed as if he were a being of flesh and blood. Standing there in his wide white collar and the red velvet Italian coat he always wore, the only thing about him that would have drawn undue attention was the anachronism of his fashion.

“I don’t know,” he said, mischief still twinkling in his eyes. “William could use a bit of scandal. And it’s true, you know, that modesty retires after six o’clock.”

For a long moment she gazed at the specter, at the ghost of the poet. Then she smiled. “Now that you mention it, I
do
have something new. Something with a bodice that . . . plunges a bit more.”

The ghost uttered a high, childish giggle. “There’s my girl. Oh, yes, we’ll make a bohemian of you yet.”

Tamara smiled even more broadly. Brazen, she crossed to the bed and laid the dress out neatly. “I can’t wear this chemise, however,” she said, fingering the neckline on the undergarment. It was too high for the bodice she had in mind.

Without bothering to acknowledge that she wasn’t alone in the room, she drew the chemise over her head and tossed it on the bed beside the matching drawers. Entirely nude, she paraded back to the chest on the far side of the room and withdrew a fresh white chemise and the drawers to match it. The specter watched her all the while. He had been a scoundrel in life, she knew, his appetites as decadent as one could imagine. Yet in death he had become her friend and confidant, and though he had neither flesh nor blood, he was the only man to have seen her unclothed since her childhood.

A sad state of affairs, that.

Tamara pulled on the white chemise.

“Oh, that’s
much
better,” he said. “It’s practically indecent.”

She smiled, basking in his approval.

As she stepped into her drawers, there came a soft knock on the bedroom door. Tamara frowned and glanced at the ghost. She had dismissed Martha for the evening and the butler, Farris, would not have entered her sitting room without first knocking on that outer door.

It could only be William.

“Yes?” she called.

“Tamara? It’s me. Can I come in?”

“You’ll have to come back later!” the ghost replied. “She’s not entirely dressed. Wouldn’t want to offend your tender sensibilities.”

Tamara held a hand to her mouth and laughed softly.

“Is that Byron in there?” William barked from the sitting room. “Tamara, really!”

“Oh, just a moment, William! I swear, you have the patience of a princess.”