Household

by Stevenson, Florence

  Clasping her hands, Lucy raised speaking blue eyes to Mr. Soames’ unhappy face. “It’s lovely. It might have been made for him!” she exclaimed and immediately blushed, feeling rather than seeing his astonishment. “My cousin enjoys carpentry,” she improvised hastily. “He’ll find these rooms a real challenge.” She added, “I must tell you that I love the house!”

  “You do!” he exclaimed, adding dubiously, “Do you think your cousin will agree?”

  “Oh, I am sure he will. It’s just right for the...” She paused, feeling another blush heating her cheeks. She had been about to say “the household” but that would have sounded a bit ridiculous considering that she was supposedly talking only about herself and Mark. “Two of us,” she finished.

  “Well,” the agent said, as they ascended the stairs, “I expect we can talk terms.”

  “Please.” Lucy smiled, and her smile broadened as they returned to the drawing room. Until this moment, she had not noticed that its side windows faced the graveyard, just across a narrow street and behind a wrought iron fence. In her immediate vision were tombstones, variously surmounted by angels with widespread wings, by baskets of stone flowers and by admirably carved wreathes topped by mourning doves. She could also see a spread of clipped green lawns between them and graveled paths flanked by ornate iron benches with floral carved backs and legs in the shape of twining leaves.

  “I wonder,” she said. “Do they have crypts in that cemetery?”

  “They do,” he said, “but they’re not selling so well. Most folks prefer a single gravestone.”

  “Oh, lovely!” Lucy cried, excited by this double-barreled response. Meeting his curious stare, she knew she was blushing again. Since there was no way she could explain her enthusiasm, she said merely, “I am completely satisfied with the house, sir. Do let’s talk terms. The sooner my cousin and I can take possession of these premises, the better it will be.” Scanning his face, she realized that in his estimation, this latter statement needed even more explanation. That didn’t trouble her. Nothing could trouble her now that the Household had found a home which, she was sure, must be the refuge they all desired.

  She wondered if the Old Lord agreed but received no corroboration. Evidently, he must still be mourning their expulsion from the Hold. As for herself, she felt singularly light-hearted. She was sure that by now the curse had been lifted. After all, its terms had been met—and fully. They had been expelled from the castle and even had seen it destroyed exactly as Erlina Bell’s cottage had fallen. They had taken to the road and to the sea as well. Surely the witch must be satisfied!

  ❖

  On hearing her hypothesis, Mark disagreed. “If the curse were lifted, I’d be cured,” he said morosely.

  “Maybe you will be.”

  “Not with the way I feel.”

  “Oh, my dear, if there were only some way I could help you,” Lucy cried.

  “You’ve helped me more than anyone in my entire life—your sweetness, your kindness to me, to all of us. Oh, Lucy,” his voice broke, “I do love you so much!”

  Tears filled her eyes. “I love you, Mark, but...”

  “I know, my dear,” he said with a gentle resignation that wrung her heart. “I wish I could love you in that same calm way, my dearest. Oh God, I am accursed.”

  “So are we all, Mark,” she reminded him with a slight sigh, realizing in that moment that of course Erlina Bell’s vengeful spirit was not yet appeased. More had been destroyed than her cottage. There had been that mysterious elixir, the properties of which remained unknown.

  “You aren’t cursed, Lucy,” Mark said positively. “Your sorrows are behind you.”

  Also behind her was Swithin Blake, who still walked through her dreams, but Lucy chose not to mention him to Mark. It would only increase the pain. Instead she said, “I can hardly wait until you see the house. I know you’ll find it to your liking.”

  ❖

  They all found it to their liking. They were particularly pleased because it appeared older than its years. Juliet and Colin immediately appropriated the rooms overlooking the graveyard. Their coffins would be placed in them, but only temporarily because they agreed with Lucy that a crypt would be infinitely more satisfactory. As Juliet remarked to Lucy, “There must be some of our own kind around, and besides we’ll need to know more about Boston.”

  “Of course,” Lucy agreed, glad that Juliet had not amplified her comment.

  Mark and Lucy would have the other two bedrooms. However, on the night they moved in, the cellar received all their attention. Equipped with hammers, brooms, mops and buckets of plaster, Lucy, Mark, Colin and Juliet swept, scrubbed, mended and pounded. The Old Lord watched, while higher up Molly and the cat tried to accustom themselves to a house without ramparts and with numerous chimneys rising in inconvenient places on the roof. Their combined wailing sounded more fretful than ominous.

  Three

  As they worked in the cellar, Lucy, remembering Mr. Soames’ vague references to suspicious fires and superstitious people, had hoped that for her great-grandfather’s sake some manner of specter might emerge to mitigate his loneliness. However, by the time the first rays of sun were coloring the eastern horizon, she decided that the manse’s questionable reputation was based on appearance alone. Old, vacant, vine-shrouded, tree-shadowed dwellings always looked as if they were inhabited by disembodied spirits. This house was, as she regretfully observed to Mark, singularly free of phantoms.

  His smile was wry. “It’s well that it’s also some distance away from traveled paths, else I’d be lending plenty of corroboration to the gossip. As it is, my love, we’ll need to depend on you for that.”

  She laughed. If the truth were to be told, she was not really amused. Mark had belatedly reminded her of the reason for their presence in Boston. They were there because Juliet had overheard Bob Smith discussing spiritualistic phenomena with his fiancée, and she, Lucy Veringer, was going to add to the household resources by becoming a medium! But how?

  There was a possibility that Bob had attended some of the mediumistic circles in the city. Unfortunately she could not apply to him for information. That meant that she and Mark, when he recuperated, would need to attend some spiritualistic meetings so she would be able to inquire into the practices of the mediums. And where might these be found? She doubted that they advertised in the newspapers. Once they had furnished the house, she would have to make discreet inquiries. No, she reasoned regretfully, she would have to delve into the subject before the house was completely finished. Their money was dwindling, and more would go in furnishing eight large rooms and the kitchen. She would do nothing to the top floor; they could not hire servants. She and Mark would divide the household duties and, as they had that night, Juliet and Colin would help out when they could. That was a real sacrifice on their part, Lucy thought gratefully. Generally, they did not like to remain in the vicinity of their home. Not only did their continued presence give rise to some awkward questions regarding their habit of turning night into day, but they dearly loved to travel and, in Colin’s case, paint. In addition to his portraits, he had done some admirable landscapes. Three of these—Moonlight on the Thames, Night Scene in the Ruins of Athens and Midnight in the Colosseum—were hanging in the Royal Academy.

  She hoped he would be similarly successful here. Judging from what she had seen of the city, night would be kinder to Boston than daylight. Lucy released a small sigh. She was feeling homesick and she must not give into that. She must not let her thoughts be diverted from her duties. She went on up the stairs to the trunk in which she had packed Mark’s collar and chains. As she went, she wished that the full moon would arrive later, but despite what she had heard about American enterprise, she doubted that even the Yankees had any control over the movements of heavenly bodies.

  ❖

  During Mark’s confinement in the cellar Lucy did not leave the house. His howling and growling were louder and much more violent than usual. These were acc
ompanied by rattling of his chains and by loud thumps as he threw himself against the doors in a frenzied attempt to escape. Fortunately they had reinforced the doors, and of course the windows were far too small to allow either egress or access. It was bad during the day—and it was terrible at night.

  In the back parlor, sitting on three rickety chairs found in the attic, Colin, Juliet and Lucy regarded each other unhappily.

  “It’s probably the new location,” Colin remarked after one particularly long and fearsome howl.

  “Doesn’t he know we’ve emigrated?” Lucy asked.

  “He knows, but the beast in him does not,” Juliet sighed. “It must be quite disoriented.”

  “Poor, poor Mark.” Lucy wrung her hands.

  “Poor on many counts,” Juliet agreed soberly, her eyes on Lucy’s face.

  “I wish I could love him in the way he wants,” Lucy whispered.

  “You mustn’t even consider it!” Colin warned.

  “One werewolf’s enough for Boston,” Juliet agreed.

  “Have you found any... friends?” Lucy asked delicately.

  Juliet and Colin looked at each other and laughed soundlessly. “More than you’d believe,” Colin commented.

  “Some you wouldn’t believe.”

  “I am never surprised by the number of politicians that swell our ranks,” Colin observed.

  The air became noticeably colder, and the windows rattled.

  “Good evening, Father.” Juliet rose and curtseyed.

  “Good evening, sir,” Colin echoed. He added interestedly, “Were you able to find out anything?”

  Lucy raised her head and looked about her hopefully. The Old Lord had been scouting séances for her.

  “Amateurs, scalawags, magicians, scoundrels. Only one with any pretension to psychic power.”

  “One’s all that’s needed!” Lucy exclaimed excitedly.

  “Do you have her name?” Juliet cried.

  “Who is she?” Colin asked.

  “Her name is Sophronia Sloane.”

  ❖

  They had found the name amusing, but when Lucy, armed with the Old Lord’s succinct description of the lady’s direction—street, house and number—found herself outside the cottage in question, she felt unaccountably nervous. She should have been reassured by the very ordinariness of the place, she told herself. Mrs. Sloane’s one-story cottage reminded her of the tenant’s dwellings near the Hold. It stood on a small plot of ground, slightly removed from a row of similar houses, distinguished from each other mainly by color and by elaborate jigsaw trimmings on the porches. Sophronia Sloane’s house was constructed of grey clapboard. It had small, shutter-framed windows and a shingled roof. A neat lawn was divided by the flagstone path that led to a pair of steps going up to a porch just large enough to allow for a small hammock and a white wicker chair. An oak tree grew hard by one window, while masses of white and lavender sweetpeas and two pink hydrangea bushes grew on either side of the steps. In front of the house gold letters on a black signboard announced that Mrs. Sloane gave “readings” by appointment only. On Tuesdays, she conducted a “circle,” for which one also needed an appointment.

  Hesitating at the far end of the path, Lucy looked dubiously at the square, brown, uncompromising bulwark of the front door. She wondered if her nervousness could be ascribed to the fact that she had seldom gone anywhere alone. At home Mark had nearly always accompanied her to the village, but though he was recovered, the members of the Household decided he must remain behind. The Old Lord insisted that Mrs. Sloane was a real sensitive with a canny spirit guide named Wind-Flower of Nipmuck extraction. One or the other might ferret out Mark’s problem—more likely it would be Wind-Flower, whom the Old Lord had described as being uncommonly prescient.

  Summoning her courage, Lucy walked up the path and, reaching the door, lifted a knocker in the shape of a ship and let it fall against the plate. She waited a short while hoping that Mrs. Sloane would be absent, but as she was about to turn away, the door opened on silent hinges and a tall, gaunt woman with iron grey hair twisted back in a tight knot stood in the aperture. Meeting wide grey-blue eyes that seemed to peer beyond bone and flesh, into the mind itself, Lucy felt even more intimidated.

  “Yes?” the woman said in a deep mellow voice.

  “Please, I... I would like to come to the... circle,” Lucy said, falteringly. “My brother...” She bowed her head as much to escape that penetrating stare as to simulate grief.

  “You may come,” Mrs. Sloane said, “if you are sincerely interested.”

  “Oh, I am.” Lucy clasped her hands and raised her eyes, immediately wishing that she hadn’t, for the stare was even harder.

  “You are very sensitive yourself,” observed Mrs. Sloane. “Have you been unable to contact him?”

  Lucy dropped her gaze again. “I do not know how. That’s why I have come to you,” she whispered.

  There was a pause. Then Mrs. Sloane said, “Very well, we’ll make the effort. The price of admission to the circle is two dollars, payable upon arrival.”

  “Thank you,” Lucy said softly. As she turned away from the house, she was both relieved and disappointed. She had expected—she was not sure what—but absolutely nothing had happened. That was unusual. Generally, when she became aware of something indefinable, it was subsequently defined. Mrs. Sloane had been strange looking, and her glance was certainly compelling. Yet her vision was not as broad as Lucy had expected. She had believed in the brother invented on the spur of the moment. In discussing the project, no one in the Household had suggested she lie. No one knowing her would ever suggest such a thing, since she did it very badly.

  The more Lucy thought about it, the greater grew her confusion. The Old Lord had said Mrs. Sloane was very sensitive. If she were very sensitive, why hadn’t she guessed that she, Lucy, was telling a falsehood? Probably she needed the two dollars. That suggested that the medium business wasn’t as lucrative as Bob Smith had insisted. And if it wasn’t lucrative, what would they do? Lucy sighed and then looked over her shoulder. In that moment, she had become aware that someone was following her—but she was mistaken. No one was behind her.

  That the sensation persisted depressed her, suggesting that something was happening to her own powers of perception. Possibly it was the Boston air. She wondered if air changed from continent to continent. Perhaps Mr. Blake could have told her, having been in both.

  Lucy grimaced. She had promised herself faithfully to blot him from her mind. Unfortunately, he would not blot. He returned to her thoughts at odd times, times when he had no right to be there, such as now. She wondered where he lived. Boston was such a big city, not by European standards, of course, but large enough so that two people who had met on the relatively small area of a steamship could easily not ever meet each other again. It had been depressingly simple to avoid him on shipboard—how much easier in this bleak sprawl of a town, where she seemed to have lost her vaunted sensitivity. Tears blurred her vision. She wiped them away with a sweep of her hand and hurried in the direction of the graveyard, not a very comfortable landmark to be sure, but one which would always point the way. A long sigh escaped her. Much as she adored her family, she wished that three of its most important members were not ostensibly deceased.

  Lucy let herself into the house. As she shut the front door, she had a vague impression that something had entered the house in her wake. That was really very odd!

  “What is that creature doing here? And what does she mean by ‘how?’”

  Lucy, peeling off her gloves, looked up startled. “What’s the matter, Great-grandfather?” she inquired.

  “What ever induced you to bring that... that savage into this house?” he blustered.

  Hard on his question, Lucy’s small knitted purse, which she had just deposited on the hall table, suddenly went flying through the air and fell to the floor just inside of the living room. It was followed by the hall table which rose about three feet in the air before falli
ng on its side.

  There was a clatter on the stairs as Mark hurried down. “What’s all the racket?” he asked testily.

  “I... I don’t know.” Lucy hurried into the living room to retrieve her purse. Before she could pick it up, the new and heavy oak table near the window began to rock back and forth, slowly at first, but gathering momentum. Books, a small vase and a lace doily slipped to the floor.

  “It’s an earthquake!” Mark exclaimed, as a new gas fixture began to sway.

  “The floor’s not moving,” Lucy said doubtfully.

  “Earthquake be damned. It’s that overgrown papoose! Back to own wigman, Wind-Flower!”

  “Wind... Flower?” Lucy questioned in amazement.

  “Wind-Flower!” corroborated the Old Lord. “Why did you bring her here?”

  “I didn’t,” Lucy said thankfully. “She must have followed me. I knew I felt something.”

  “An arrow in your back?” Mark laughed.

  “Keep her away from me! I am not an exhibit in some bloody museum!”

  “I have heard of poltergeists,” Lucy said tentatively, “but grandfather seems to believe...”

  “Polgergeists be damned. It’s that blasted squaw who’s making all the commotion here.”

  As if to corroborate his words, a book sailed across the room and crashed against the opposite wall. It was followed by a pitcher which shattered into bits.

  “Good Lord!” Mark exclaimed. “What are we to do?”

  “Sendher away!”

  “Be kind to her, Great-grandfather,” Lucy pleaded.

  “I like heap brave man, Wind-Flower wants.”

  “You said you liked her, Great-grandfather.” Lucy pointed out.

  “In her place, which is not here. Go away, Wind-Flower.”

  “I go, you come, I show you many things.”