With This Curse: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense (25 page)

After a moment he seemed to come to himself. “I’m sorry, Clara, my mind was somewhere else. What were you saying? No, of course you should not regret having been forthright. Whatever comes, we shall weather it.”

We
would weather it. In spite of all of the tension and worry casting a cloud over us, I felt my heart lift at the implied promise that he and I would face the future together.

Because of the excitement of the day, Genevieve was in a talkative mood and did not want to let either of us sleep. When she climbed into bed beside me, looking in her nightdress like the princess before encountering the pea, she was chattering away and showed no signs of stopping until Atticus’s voice, muffled but plaintive, came from behind the dressing-room door: “Vivi. Have some mercy, for God’s sake.”

That quieted but did not silence her. “He is probably cross at giving up his place to me tonight,” she told me in a whisper, and smothered a giggle behind her hand.

“Genevieve! You should not be thinking about such things.”

“You need not sound so shocked, Aunt Clara. But if it embarrasses you I shall not speak of it further.”

“Good.”

“Though why you should be embarrassed I cannot imagine. You are married, after all, with a baby coming! And what a beautiful baby it shall be, with the two of you as parents. I shall love to have a little cousin to play with.”

“I’m far too old to be thinking about having a child,” I objected.

She waved that away with a grand unconcern. “I have known ladies older than you who had babies.
Plenty
of babies.”

The discussion was threatening to get out of hand, and in any case a question had been nagging at me ever since our session with the inspector. “Genevieve,” I whispered, “when you brought Henriette to see Inspector Strack, did you already know that the man she’d seen walked without a limp?”

She was silent for a moment, then: “I did not
know.
But I was nearly certain. Henriette is sharp eyed; she would have told me of such a thing at once if it had been so. Just as she would have said if he had carried a walking stick.”

“So you brought her in while I was with the inspector so that I might raise the possibility.”

“
Exactement!
It was more convincing coming from you.”

Good heavens. Such a gift for strategy seemed wasted on a debutante; Genevieve should have been ruling nations alongside Queen Victoria herself.

I was still not entirely convinced, though, that it was suggestibility that had led Henriette to believe she had seen Atticus, and that troubled me. There had been that time when I, too, had thought I had glimpsed him where he was not… “Genevieve,” I said softly, “do you believe in ghosts?”

At any other time I might not have asked the question. But huddled together like children in the darkness, which woke strange fears and invited the sharing of secrets, it did not seem so foolish to ask.

Genevieve, too, seemed to be more susceptible to talk of spirits in this setting. “I do not know,” she answered, and her whisper was very thoughtful. “I do not
think
I do… but I should die if I ever met one. I do hope that, if there are any about, they leave us be tonight.” She surprised me by kissing my cheek and then sank her head deep into the pillow beside mine. “Good night, Aunt Clara.”

“Good night, Vivi,” I said, touched. Was this what it was like really to have a niece—or a daughter? I had never thought to find myself in that position, but I had grown quite fond of Genevieve now that I was no longer—I forced myself to admit it—jealous of the place she held in Atticus’s heart. He had a big heart, after all, quite large enough to hold the both of us in it.

A sigh escaped me as I gazed across the darkened room toward the dressing-room door. There had been no sign of life from that quarter after his plea to Genevieve for quiet. Was he sleeping? I hoped so, for his own sake. The thought crossed my mind that, no matter how companionable it was to share my bed with Genevieve, how much more secure and protected I would have felt nestled up against my husband with his arms around me.

The idea was impractical, but when I tried to chase it away, the thoughts that took its place were far more unsettling. A murderer was still on the loose, after all, and the inspector still harbored suspicions about Atticus. When at last I fell into a troubled sleep, I dreamed that the ghost of old Lord Telford was leering out from behind every death mask on his sitting-room walls, laughing silently at me and Atticus.

The next day Inspector Strack resumed his questioning, having departed no farther the night before than to a nearby inn. When I passed the library door, I could hear his level voice alternating with the higher, nervous tones of one of the maids.

I was at a bit of a loose end unless he decided to question me again. Atticus had been gone when I had rather hesitantly knocked at the dressing-room door that morning, and I had not seen him at breakfast or about the house. As I passed the drawing room a big, familiar laugh rang out, and I found Mr. Bertram and Genevieve within, sitting close together on a settee with a large volume of watercolors spread over their laps. Both looked up quickly when I entered, and I thought there was a little dimming of the smiles on their faces when they saw me. I was intruding on their wooing, evidently.

“Mr. Bertram,” I said calmly, crossing toward him, and he hastily set the book aside and rose to clasp my outstretched hand. “I’m glad to see you, and I know Vivi must be as well.”

“My dear Mrs.—I mean, my dear Lady Telford,” he said contritely, “I am so sorry that you find me in such unbecoming mirth. I came to express my condolences to you and your husband, but I was waylaid by this impertinent miss as soon as I had said hello and goodbye to Blackwood. Please accept my sympathies for the loss of your father-in-law.”

“It was most kind of you to come, and I’m grateful to you for bringing a smile to Genevieve’s face. I’m afraid we have been keeping company with no little anxiety and horror here, and a friendly face is most welcome. But you say my husband has gone?”

“To the building site, yes. I had planned to ride out with him, but he begged me to excuse him so that he might have some time in solitude.” He rubbed the back of his neck in a boyish gesture of unease. “I hope I did right, Lady Telford. I didn’t feel I ought to insist upon accompanying him.”

“You did quite right,” Genevieve announced before I could reply. “My uncle no doubt needed some time alone after all of the commotion. I was telling Mr. Bertram about it all—the doctor’s findings, the investigation, Uncle Atlas being treated like a suspect! It is little wonder if he wishes to escape it all for a time and have some peace and quiet.”

“
Atlas,
is it?” Bertram inquired. “Has Blackwood set himself up as a god, now? I shall have to chaff him about that.”

Genevieve gave an indignant squeal. “You shall do no such thing! Uncle Atlas is a lamb, and he must not be teased, unless it is by me or Aunt Clara.”

“Did my husband indicate when he might return?” I asked, cutting across the badinage, and Bertram’s face sobered once more.

“I’m afraid not, Lady Telford, but I do know that he decided to go on foot instead of riding. So he’ll be a few hours at least—more, if the weather turns bad.”

Something about this abrupt absence disquieted me. It might well have been the truth that Atticus desired time alone to sort through the recent events and regain a measure of calm. But I wished he had taken Bertram with him. “He didn’t go to speak to the foreman, I take it?” I asked, and the young man shook his head.

“He sent word yesterday to call off all work on the building until the investigation into his father’s death is closed. I’m not certain whether it’s a financial difficulty that won’t be resolved until the estate is—but here, I’m speaking coldly of money when you are mourning a member of your family. I heartily beg your pardon.”

I reassured him that we had not taken offense, and then sat back in a wing chair and left him and Genevieve to their conversation. It was cheering to listen to their exchange and to see how taken they were with each other; with the resilience of the young, they had pushed the sobering matter of the old baron’s death to the back of their minds and were happily absorbed in other, gayer concerns. It was fortunate that I had happened by, for Genevieve clearly had not concerned herself with the need for a chaperone, and even though I had a high opinion of Mr. Bertram I would not have wanted Atticus to have felt me remiss in my duties as de facto aunt.

Atticus himself did not return until shortly before the evening meal, which was to be taken in the breakfast room now that our guests had departed. I scarcely had time for any words with him before we joined Genevieve and Mr. Bertram, who had easily been persuaded to stay until Atticus’s return. “I cannot be at ease until that madman is caught,” Vivi had said plaintively, and although I suspected that her liking for the young man’s presence had more to do with him than with the killer, I myself was just as pleased to have him near. There was something comforting about his cheerful, straightforward manner.

Atticus, in contrast, still looked drawn and weary, with his ice-blue eyes sunken deep and his gaze far away. When I asked how he was, he said briefly, “Well enough,” and changed the subject. This was far from reassuring. At table, Genevieve and Bertram conversed valiantly to fill the silence, and I contributed what I could, but Atticus’s silence was conspicuous and cast a damper on a meal that was already lacking in vivacity.

It was during one of the uncomfortable silences that the sound of footsteps came to us from the hallway, and Birch’s voice saying, “If you would be so good as to wait while I announce you—”

“Never mind announcing me. They’ll be pleased enough to see me when they hear my news.” With a fretful Birch at his heels, Strack appeared on the threshold, but a Strack I had not seen before: jubilant, satisfied, brimming with barely suppressed excitement. “Lord Telford,” he said before any of us could speak. “I bring news.”

“Pray join us and refresh yourself while you tell us.” Atticus gave Birch a nod, and he sent one of the footmen away, presumably to procure a new place setting. Another footman silently retrieved another chair and held it for Strack, who flipped the skirt of his frock coat out of his way almost cheerfully as he took a seat. “Do you have news of my father’s killer?” Atticus asked.

“I do indeed, my lord. I do indeed.” He sat back while footmen placed plate, goblet, silver, and so on before him, but the instant that they had withdrawn, he leaned forward avidly. “I went to see this man Collier who had been acting so strangely. Took a constable out to his home—run-down kind of place, I must say. Evidently he’d let it rather go to seed since his wife’s death.”

Atticus sat listening intently, his hands steepled before him, dinner forgotten. Genevieve, Bertram, and I were no less absorbed.

“When we approached we weren’t truly expecting to learn anything vital, you understand. It was more in the nature of being thorough and not leaving any leads unexplored. So when we found the front door open a crack and saw through it that Collier was hanging from the ceiling with a noose around his neck—”

Genevieve gasped, and I think I may have as well. Bertram choked on his food and reached for his wine glass. And Atticus’s eyes shut briefly, as if in pain.

“I do beg your pardon for being so blunt,” said Strack, who did not look at all repentant. He was almost grinning, so satisfied was he that he had sprung this explosive information on us all unexpected.

“I say, you might have a care for the ladies,” Bertram said rebukingly. “And at the dinner table, yet. You may skip over the details. This Collier, he’d done away with himself?”

Slightly deflated, Strack gave a grudging jerk of his head in confirmation. “He had indeed, sir. Guilty conscience always gets them. He even left a note. It seems he had never brought himself to believe that he wasn’t the father of Miss Rowe here…”

“Oh,
le pauvre
,” whispered Genevieve. Her eyes had filled with tears. “That poor, unhappy man.”

“That poor man, as you call him, murdered the baron,” Strack returned. “It must have been him that your maid saw, Lady Telford. In a low light, they were of similar enough build and coloring.”

“So when Henriette thought she saw my uncle, it was really Collier stealing out of Lord Telford’s rooms after…” Genevieve shuddered.

“Exactly. He must have acquainted himself with the geography of the house when he was hired on as an extra footman during your house party.”

“But why?” asked Atticus, and his voice, quiet and calm, was like a current of cool water in the emotional exchange. “What did he have to gain?”

Strack speared a piece of roast beef on his fork and permitted himself a slight smirk. “You’re assuming Collier was in his right mind, Lord Telford. Apparently seeing Miss Rowe return after all these years upset the balance of his mind. He clung to two beliefs, contradictory though they seem: that she was his daughter, and that she was the rightful heir after your lordship. When your lordship brought Lady Telford to Gravesend as your bride, with Miss Rowe a mere ward, Collier appears to have become unhinged and taken out his fury on the head of the family that, as he saw it, had cheated his daughter of her rightful place.”

“Convoluted thinking indeed,” said Atticus quietly. “How do we know that Collier believed these things?”

“The note he left was quite clear.” Strack chewed a morsel of food as we watched in anticipation, then swallowed and added, “It’s of little comfort, I’m sure, but he did express remorse for having killed the late Lord Telford. It was that belated flash of conscience that must have driven him to put the rope about his own neck.”

Atticus leaned toward him. “Might one be granted a look at this note?”

“I’m afraid not, my lord. It’s been taken into evidence.”

“All for me.” Genevieve shook her head in stunned disbelief, and the tears in her eyes overflowed onto her cheeks. “I never asked for what he wanted for me, but I feel partly responsible nonetheless.”

Bertram took her hand in his. “Nonsense, Vivi,” he said, using her pet name for the first time in my hearing. “Collier was a dangerous lunatic, and his obsession with you doesn’t mean that any of the blame is yours.”

“Bertram is quite right,” Atticus told her. “Don’t distress yourself for a moment, my dear.” More quietly he added, “I bear the blame here. I ought to have taken his measure when I removed you from his and his wife’s care and sent you so far away. And when he began acting in such a peculiar manner I should have insisted on more stringent security measures. I was thoughtless—and lax. Damnably lax.” He crumpled his napkin and flung it on the table as he rose, pushing his chair back so suddenly that he lost his balance briefly and clutched at the table to keep from falling. I rose as well, in concern, but he gave me a shake of the head. “Excuse me, won’t you all? I need a bit of air.”

Reluctantly I resumed my seat as he caught up his walking stick and left the room. I felt sick at the thought of him being consumed with guilt over this crime. Perhaps a brief time alone would help him think through all that had passed and realize that the blame was not his, but all Collier’s. If not, perhaps he would listen to me. I could not bear it if he were to let his conscience torment him for something that was not of his doing and that he could not have prevented. A madman would not be daunted by measures that would deter a sane man, I knew. Once Collier had formed his deadly intent, the old baron would never have been safe.

Strack continued to regale us with information about the crime and its aftermath, but I scarcely attended him. “I’m sure you and your husband must be greatly relieved, Lady Telford,” he said at one point.

I spread my hands. “Relief is not my primary emotion after the death of two men, Inspector Strack.”

“I commend the tenderness of your woman’s heart, my lady. But Collier’s death, along with the note he left, removes all suspicion from your husband. What a weight off your mind, eh?”

“Oh. I see. Yes, I’m quite glad of that—and that there shall be no more deaths.”

“You could never have thought for an instant that my uncle was a killer,” Genevieve told Strack hotly.

“Oh no, mademoiselle? He had the strongest motive of all: money. But making such a case against a baron would have been difficult to say the least, so as far as I’m concerned this whole business has concluded in a most satisfactory way.” Dabbing at his moustache with his napkin, he rose. “I’ll be on my way, then, Lady Telford. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Not at all,” I said automatically. “Thank you for putting us out of our suspense. I know my husband would wish for me to thank you on his behalf as well.”

Now the household would have a chance to recover and proceed with the usual comforting rituals of mourning. Lord Telford could be laid to rest, neighbors could leave their cards—secure now in the knowledge that they would not be condoling with a murderer—and Atticus could proceed with the building of the refuges for the fallen women. And, in due time, Genevieve and Mr. Bertram would no doubt be married.

As for me, in my relatively short time at Gravesend I had come to feel that I had a place here—that is, not in the house itself, but with Atticus. I was no longer making my way in the world alone. I even felt that I could make a good wife to Atticus… if he wanted me to. But what if he didn’t wish me to stay? On the night of the ball I had convinced myself that he had wanted me to stay with him for more than just that one night, but could I be certain that he truly wanted me for longer than that?

It would not be an easy question to bring myself to ask him, and Atticus did not make it any easier; he made himself so scarce that a suspicious woman might have thought he was avoiding her. He neglected to come to my sitting room for our usual discussion of the day’s events, and when I gathered the courage to knock at his door, it was his valet, Sterry, who opened it. Atticus had not yet returned from wherever he had disappeared to after the evening meal. I retired without having seen any sign of him since then.