Olivia
“That’s a very beautiful necklace, Miss Stanmore.”
Olivia Stanmore raised a slender hand to toy with the large red jewel that hung on heavy silver chain from her neck.
“Thank you. It was given to me by my… by Tristian.”
The man sitting opposite her paused slightly, embarrassed.
“Yes… I’m sorry,” he said awkwardly, staring intently at his wine glass. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Do not worry, Mr Kingstone – you meant no harm. And please… call me Olivia.”
Kingstone cursed himself for the awkward situation. There was no denying that his dinner companion, Olivia Stanmore, was one of the most beautiful – and desirable – women in London Africa with her father, it was said, when she was ill as a child, and come back as a changed, radiant young woman.
The light within the plush room flickered and dimmed as candle flames ate away at their wax housings. It was late, and both of them knew it, but neither moved to leave.
Olivia took a slow sip of rich, scarlet Tokay, the glass hovering by her lips far longer than necessary. Her face was a mask of careful consideration. Then, with swift purpose, she set down the glass and faced Kingstone directly.
“I imagine you’re wondering why I asked you here tonight, Mr Kingstone.”
“The question had crossed my mind, Miss… Olivia.”
“I wish for you to know a little more about me before our marriage. You know, of course, of Tristian,” and again, her fingers reached for the red jewel, “but I fear there is much more to my character which you should know before committing yourself fully to the engagement.”
Ah. The engagement. Kingstone had thought it might be about that.
“Olivia, if it is too soon, simply say so and I will delay our marriage or even end the engagement. Just know that I will always be willing to –“
She held up a single finger to silence him, then smiled slightly. “No, it is not that. While I still grieve for Tristian each day, no amount of grief or self denial shall return him to me. And I am sure that, were he able to speak to me, he would encourage both of us with happiness. No, what I wish to speak to you of is something which has burdened me for quite some time – my whole life, one may even say.”
“If there is a burden to your soul, then it is my duty to bear it for you, Olivia. Tell me.”
Instead of speaking immediately, she took a moment to stand and step carefully over to the fireplace, examining the swords over the mantle, even though they’d been there her entire life. Then, her skin dancing with scraps of coloured light, she spoke.
“You must know that, before Tristian, I was engaged more than once. After all, a woman hardly reaches the age of twenty one without a suitor, and I had many. Do not look so worried – none of my engagements led to marriage or consummation. But only for a single reason – I have been cursed since my birth.”
“Cursed?” Kingstone could hardly hold the incredulity from his voice. She turned to face him, her expression one of grave seriousness.
“Yes, Mr Kingstone – cursed. You know my father had spent considerable time in Africa ?”
Kingstone nodded – it was common knowledge that the Stanmore fortune had been built on African diamond mines.
“Many years ago, while he was there, he had something of an affair with one of the locals – quite a
tempestuous affair too, by all accounts. She was the daughter of the village shaman, who already disapproved of my father – he said Father was ‘robbing the earth’. So, when the shaman learnt of my father’s… actions, he demanded that Father marry the woman and become part of the tribe, lest his family line be cursed forever.”
Kingstone shifted in his seat slightly – he felt uncomfortable and just a little bit sympathetic for the girl, who so clearly believed in this story.
“Of course, my father refused – he soon returned to London Dublin
“Didn’t your father ever marry again? Why, I met your step mother two years ago, just before her death!”
“Yes, I have had step mothers – she was my third. My first one died, again, in childbirth, giving life to a still born boy. The second drowned near our house in the Lakes District. The third was, as it turned out, infertile – she never had any children. And thus, the family line is only to be continued by me, leaving me with this wretched curse when my father has left this earth for peace!”
Kingstone stood and walked over to her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. She was becoming distressed.
“But surely, Olivia, this ‘curse’ shall die with your father. Once we are married you shall take my name, and leave this cursed linage.”
“If only it were that simple. The Africans recognised blood, not name, as family. I am still my father’s daughter, the victim and carrier of this curse.”
“Olivia,” he said gently, careful not to startle her, “if you wish not to have children, you can say it plainly. I already have a nephew I would gladly name as my heir –“
“NO! You do not understand! I said Tristian was not my first betrothal – I must tell you of the others!”
Her direct, almost violent speech shocked him. He kept his hand on her shoulder, should she faint or leap into a rage, and listened.
“The first one was my father’s choice – almost three times my own age, not just old enough to be my father but older than Father himself! Frail, white haired and scholarly. I was seventeen. We’d been engaged for three months when he was robbed on the streets – the shock was so immense that his heart stopped beating. The second one was much the same. Chosen by Father, too old and boring. He died too – in his sleep he simply stopped breathing. Once again, my engagement was parted by death. And then -”
“Tristian.”
Kingstone knew the next part. Tristian had spoken of it almost every day at the offices since the day he’d first been reunited with Olivia, running into her (literally) at the post office. Childhood friends quickly became social acquaintances. They began to appear together at parties, dances, dinners. She the radiant, mysterious beauty, he the smiling, grateful fiancé, unable to believe his luck.
“My father did not approve at first,” she said, hand once again on the jewel, “but I’d earned something of a reputation as a ‘cursed bride’. He bought home countless men, each once wishing to court me. I paid them no attention – why should I? I had Tristian. At last Father relented and allowed the marriage. But then, of course…”
She trailed off, grasping the pendant tight. The unspoken words hung heavy in the air.
There had been rumours, of course, that she had been there. And in that moment, Kingstone had to know.
“Were you there? Did you see him?”
She looked up at him, the burgundy firelight from the embers glistening on silent tears and transforming them into rubies. Her grip on the pendant only grew tighter.
“I went to see him – at night, while my father slept. I was at the foot of the stairs – he was at the top. He was almost halfway when I stepped up to meet him, then –“
She looked directly at him, a confused yet furious countenance playing for dominance in her gaze. She stepped back slowly, forcing him to release his grip on her shoulder.
“I told you there was something about me that you had to know. I am not merely the cursed bride – I am the curse!”
With lightening speed she drew a sword from it’s housing above the mantle and thrust it forwards, aimed at Kingstone’s heart. He twisted aside, shocked and confused, an inch from the blade, and threw himself at Olivia, grabbing her wrist and squeezing. Forced to drop the blade into his waiting hand, Olivia jumped back and out of his reach, pulling the other sword from its scabbard above the mantle with a fluid, practised motion.
With an animalistic snarl, she faced him – just out of reach, each with a sword in hand – the beautiful Olivia Stanmore, in all her fury.
“What happened to Tristian?”
Again, the free hand flew to the necklace.
“I demand to know!”
She snarled once again, sword extended, eyes dancing demonic hues in the firelight. “What will happen to you soon enough!” The voice came from Olivia’s body but was not of her soul – deep and demonic with anger and hate.
“Did you kill him?” Kingstone kept his balance perfect, trying to distract her.
“He sealed his own fate.” With that, she made another attempt at a wild stab – Kingstone barely parried and
maintained his distance.
“You threw him down the stairs, didn’t you?”
Olivia cocked her head, like a jackal, and answered. “Threw him, yes. And made sure he was dead. Yes, I bashed his head against the corner of those stairs until my hands were red with the blood. I keep the memory close to me heart.”
She had killed all three of them. The realisation came to him in a moment of horrific clarity. She had killed all of her fiancés and she was going to kill him!
“Why?” Stall her, distract her, anything to stop this thing which had taken over Olivia. “You loved him – why did you kill him?”
The creature in Olivia’s form narrowed its eyes. “I had to kill him. I have to kill all of them. You have no concept or even measurement, for the amount of torture I undergo each day as I wear this ring. This line cannot continue. It was cursed for this generation and the curse cannot go on. The curse cannot go on-"
With speed of light and surprise on his side, Kingstone suddenly leapt forward, grabbed the necklace, pulled it so hard the clasp snapped and jumped out of her range once again.
Now the creature was angry – it hissed and scowled at him, then pointed an accusing finger.
“Do you have any idea what that is?”
“No,” he answered honestly, “but I know what to do with it.”
And with than, he dropped the jewel to the ground and stamped on it with all his strength.
The glass casing of t he pendant shattered, leaving only the red within to ooze, slowly, from the dead casing. Kingstone suddenly had a graphic thought that this must have been what Tristian looked like when Olivia was finished with him.
But suddenly, Olivia calmed. The red flicking left her eyes as they focused on the glass ‘jewel’, staring intently, fearfully and almost reverently.
“Tristian.”
Her voice was just a whisper, barely audible, but more powerful than a shriek.
“Tristian. Oh, Tristian…”
Her voice, once again the soft spoken voice of Olivia, choked with a sob, staring at the crushed pendant, at the red liquid oozing into the plush carpet –
The red liquid.
Tristian’s blood.
Then, fearfully but with entire conviction, Kingstone leapt forward, sword before him, and plunged it through her body.
They were as close as they had ever been. Breathing in choked sobs edged with finality, she slowly raised her beautiful face to look up at him.
“Thank you,” she sobbed.
Her grip on his arm slacked. Her body became limp.
Olivia Stanmore, and her beautiful necklace, were dead.
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