With This Curse: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense by Amanda DeWees Page B

confirmed most disturbingly when I reached the mask labeled “Lady Telford, née Elizabeth Malvern, d. 1856.” My father-in-law had a death mask of his own wife.
    People mourn in different ways, I told myself. It was his way of remembering her, of keeping her present in his life. Still, my impression of my father-in-law took on a darker and more repellent quality.
    The next item shook me even more. The label read, “Mr. Richard Blackwood, d. 1855.” Somehow he had acquired a death mask of Richard, even though his death had taken place far away. A cold pit seemed to open in my stomach as I looked at the mask of the man I had loved. The high, broad brow; the strong, straight nose… all his features were as I remembered, and I had to squeeze my eyes shut against sudden tears. I forced myself to look away before I lost what remained of my composure.
    The remainder of the shelf was empty except for two more labels: “Mr. Atticus Blackwood, d. ____,” read one, and a chill crept up the back of my neck when on the other I saw my own name written.
    “You see that I’ve already made a place for you, my dear,” called the cracked voice.
    “Indeed,” I said, attempting to speak lightly. “I’d scarcely feel like one of the family had I been omitted.”
    That won an appreciative glance from the old gent, but I thought I saw a flash of anger cross Atticus’s face. “It’s a gruesome welcome,” he said briefly. “Clara, I apologize for us. I ought to have made certain before our arrival that you hadn’t been incorporated into my father’s curio collection.”
    “Don’t apologize for me, boy.” There was venom in the old man’s voice, and the jesting tone had vanished. “I’m still master here, and I’ll greet my daughter-in-law in any fashion I wish.”
    “So long as it’s within the bounds of decency,” said Atticus in a voice I had not yet heard him use: clipped and icy cold. He rose from his seat and bowed stiffly. “We’ll leave you now, as it’s nearly time to dress for dinner. If you would like to join us for the meal, you’d be welcome.”
    “And be wheeled about by my valet like some great baby in a perambulator? I should say not.” Now the old man sounded sulky, and his eyes glittered with something like malice as I made my farewell curtsey. “I shall expect you to visit me often and brighten my sickroom, daughter-in-law,” he told me. “I crave amusement.”
    “I suspect he doesn’t much lack for it,” I told Atticus in a low voice when the door had closed behind us. “Your father strikes me as a gentleman who derives much entertainment from the discomfiture of others.”
    The look in my husband’s startling eyes was enigmatic. “My father is not the easiest of men to live with,” he said. “But he finds you amusing, which for him is close to affection. I’m glad you didn’t let him upset you.”
    The label reading “Mrs. Atticus Blackwood, d. ____” had upset me, though. Perhaps I had been in the company of actors too long and had taken on some of their superstitious nature, but it gave me a sense of foreboding. And I had to force myself not to think of Richard’s mask at all.

Chapter Seven
    When I returned to the Swan Room to dress for dinner, I found my amethyst satin dinner dress laid out for me. With its black Mechlin lace trim and sweeping train it was probably too formal for a quiet dinner with my husband, but I could not fault the maid, since I had been unable to instruct her.
    Atticus had hired for me a French lady’s maid.
    “She has scarcely any English at all,” he had told me on the train, enthusiasm warming his eyes. “Isn’t it ideal? She’ll not be able to spread gossip among the other servants.”
    I had stared at him in consternation. “She’ll not be able to understand a word I’m saying, either,” I said. “How are we to communicate?”
    “I’m sure you’ll work something out. I have faith in your intelligence—and your powers of