Household

by Stevenson, Florence

  “What am I to do with the woman?”

  “As she asks.” Lucy felt a smile twitching her lips and quickly quelled it. The situation was not really amusing. “You might profit from the experience, Great-grandfather.”

  “You wise. I like you better than Mrs. Sloane. She ugly. You pretty. He handsome... like man-wolf too,” commented Wind-Flower.

  “Listen to that!”

  Lucy could hear yet not hear Wind-Flower’s voice. As with the Old Lord, her words were an impression rather than a sound. Cast into the darkness behind her eyes was a face, dusky and framed in long black braids. The eyes, tilted at the corners, were dark brown and deeply sad. Their sadness reached Lucy. The woman, she understood, was weighted with loneliness. She had followed because of her loneliness, because she had recognized the Old Lord as another like herself, caught there in the middle of emptiness.

  “Don’t be angry with her.” Lucy wafted the words at him. “Wind-Flower is desperately lonely.”

  “Yes, lonely... many times search for Red Eagle... not find. Gone long time... all gone long, long time.”

  “Catlin!” the Old Lord suddenly cried. “I cannot find her.” The anger had gone from his voice, and Lucy felt that he suddenly sympathized with Wind-Flower.

  A wave of sorrow swept over her. They were, all of them, lonely and forsaken, they more than herself. Juliet and Colin were more than herself, too. She was alive, breathing and here for a purpose. A medium could help to alleviate the loneliness of others. She had not thought of that before. In fact, she realized, she had been well on the way to believing she was as cursed as the rest of the Household, doomed to be forever alone and unhappy. That was not true. She had a mission. Her unique talents could be put to good use, bringing comfort and love to other sorrowing souls. She must learn how to be a medium.

  “Go back, Wind-Flower,” she silently beamed the words. “I must learn how it is done—to be a medium, I mean. Mrs. Sloane could instruct me, but only with your assistance.”

  “You no learn. You be you. I show.”

  There was a sudden pressure in the middle of Lucy’s forehead. Accompanying it was a dull ache, and then she experienced a sudden lightness and a letting go.

  “Lucy... Lucy...”

  She heard Mark call out but could not see him or answer, even though she knew there was panic in his voice. Her next feeling was that her head had increased in size and that something was beating inside of it, not beating but throbbing, a throbbing like drums. She was a drum, and something or someone was pounding on the thin wall that protected her brain. Then there was darkness, a spreading darkness like dark waters lapping at her feet, rising to engulf her. Fear coursed through her and was blotted out. Everything was blotted out.

  She woke to a long tearing scream. Her throat ached with it, and her tongue was moving. She heard words in her voice, but she did not remember speaking; she remembered nothing. Then, it was no longer her voice.

  “Aeeeee! The cat! I will not stay. The cat is heap bad spirit! Spirit cat! I go.”

  “An’ good riddance to you, ye wicked scamp!”

  With Molly’s howl fading from her ears, Lucy awakened fully to find Mark kneeling beside her, cradling her in his arms. “What happened?” she whispered.

  Surprisingly, Mark was shaking with laughter which he was trying vainly to quell. “Wind-Flower blew away. Evidently she does not like cats in general and Grimalkin in particular. If I could see him, I’d pet him.” His laughter ceased abruptly. “And you, my dearest, are you all right?”

  “I expect so,” she said vaguely. “My throat aches as if...”

  “You’d screamed.” Mark finished. “You did, and it wasn’t your voice.” The golden eyes were full of concern. “I cannot say that I like this, my Lucy, this invasion.”

  “Was I invaded?” she demanded wide-eyed.

  “You don’t remember anything?”

  “Only darkness and... and sleep. But she did speak through me?”

  “She did,” Mark corroborated.

  “I wish I’d been there.”

  “But you weren’t. Where were you?”

  “Nowhere.” She shivered.

  “I won’t let you do this, Lucy.”

  “But I must.” She regarded him earnestly. “I feel it, Mirk. I feel it is almost a vocation.”

  “A vocation!” he exploded. “To make yourself some sort of...”

  “Medium,” she finished. “I can help people that way—lonely people, who are not as we...”

  “Not cursed, you mean?” he inquired bitterly.

  “There are other ways of being cursed,” she said feelingly. “Not being able to reach the ones you love.” Her huge blue eyes glowed softly. “I want to help them, Mark.”

  “Oh, Lucy, Lucy...” He rocked her in his arms. “None of us deserve you.”

  “Dearest Mark.” She smiled at him. “But,” she said more energetically now, “I will still need to attend a séance.”

  “No, I think I may be of use to you there,” the old Lord said positively and purposefully. “I will be your guide and for purposes of identification, you may call me ‘Beowulf’.”

  “Beowulf!” Lucy exclaimed.

  “Beowulf?” Mark echoed.

  ❖

  “BEOWULF IN BOSTON,” Juliet read and tossed down the paper. “And where is the ‘sensational Saxon’ now?” She inquired with a touch of sarcasm.

  “On a scouting trip, no doubt.” Colin said, looking at Lucy, who lay prone on the new sofa they had bought with the proceeds from four months of meetings. “You are looking unhappy, my dear.”

  “I think she’s tired,” Juliet observed. “And no wonder, with the parade that has been marching through here of late, not to mention all the letters she feels she must answer.”

  “I wish,” Lucy said wearily, “that you would not speak as if I were not among you. I am here and awake.”

  “Poor love.” Juliet’s lips brushed Lucy’s forehead. “I keep forgetting how frustrating it must be for you to be Boston’s most famous medium and never to have met—even Napoleon. But it’s just as well. He never should have been elevated from Corporal to Emperor, do you not agree, Colin?”

  “My agreement or the lack of it will not change the circumstances.” Her brother laughed.

  “He is such a cantankerous little man,” Juliet said, also laughing. “Isn’t it amazing how many of the world’s great leaders are so tiny? Alexander the Great, Attila—small and ill-tempered to boot.”

  “He keeps bringing them,” Lucy whispered regretfully. “I know he enjoys their company, but the truly bereaved... Great-grandfather grows so testy when I so much as mention their needs.”

  “It’s to be expected.” Juliet shrugged. “Naturally father’s excited by these associations.” Impulsively, she turned to Colin. “Will you ever forget the time when we met Lucretia Borgia coming from an appointment in the Pitti Palace with the blood still pouring from her lips? Or when the Empress Catherine of Russia...”

  “I am sure that poor Lucy does not want to share such recollections,” Colin said. “And father’s promised that tonight he’ll not play to the galleries.” He gave Lucy a commiserating look. “You’ll have your say, my love—and no learned professors to goad you nor psychologists to test you.”

  “Is that true?” Lucy sat up.

  “Mark insisted,” Colin affirmed. “That is what I meant by a ‘scouting trip.’ He has scanned the letters of those who have applied for tonight’s session.”

  “Oh,” Lucy said, clasping her hands, “I am so pleased. The letters from those who have lost a loved one truly pain me.”

  “You take them too much to heart,” Mark said from the doorway. He moved into the room, his eyes on Lucy. “You’re looking very wan, my love. It’s too much of a strain on you; your energy’s being drained away.”

  “Oh no,” she contradicted, “I really do not feel that. It is only that I want to help. I cannot believe it helps anyone to discuss gravity wit
h Mr. Newton or battle strategies with William the Conqueror, especially when some poor woman longs to have a comforting word from a husband or a son who has passed over.” She looked hopefully at Mark. “Will my powers really be put to that use tonight?”

  “They will, my dear.” Concern was still large in his eyes. “But I hope that the time will come when you’ll have ceased to be a nine-day wonder.”

  “One-hundred-and-twenty day wonder,” Juliet corrected lightly, casting a pleased eye around a room that was much better furnished than when they had moved in.

  Watching her, Lucy could guess what she was thinking. While the small area of the back parlor could not compare to the mighty rooms of the Hold, it was certainly more homelike and redolent of the luxury in which Juliet had grown up. Due to the connections of the Old Lord, and to the business acumen of Mark, the attention that “Beowulf” had attracted had brought them money, practically from the moment they began the sittings. They were able to buy new furniture and, to Juliet’s delight, new garments. She glanced at Colin’s latest portrait of his sister.

  She was wearing a blue moire gown of expanding flounces edged with black velvet ribbons and extended by a wide crinoline. Her golden hair was drawn back into a snood with a few small curls escaping to flutter by her ears. As usual, she looked incredibly young and beautiful. Yet, the infectious gaiety of that pictured countenance depressed Lucy. In spite of the drawbacks to her situation, Juliet seemed not to have a care in the world and, as usual, Colin reflected her mood.

  The talk of both was spiced with reports of the prestigious individuals they had encountered at various gala soirees, many of which they attended without benefit of invitation. Yet such was their charm and address that no one ever questioned their right to be among those present. Unwillingly, Lucy’s thoughts sped to an article in the Daily Evening Transcript concerning a recent and unexplained outbreak of anemia among young men and women in the better areas of the city.

  No one had succumbed to the malady, but its prevalence was puzzling the physicians, especially since each of the victims had complained that their weakness had been preceded by peculiar nightmares. Many theories had been advanced, but no one had deduced the cause. And no one ever would, Lucy knew. The learned doctors, the scientists, pyschologists, lawyers and judges who frequented her séances might believe in communication with the dead but never, by any stretch of their combined imaginations, would they believe that the source of this recent epidemic could be traced to this house or, more specifically, to the elaborate crypt Colin and Juliet had purchased a scant fortnight after their arrival.

  Her thoughts skittered away from them. Lately, she had been asked to increase her sittings from two to three a week, mainly to accomodate the learned men who were coming from all over the eastern seaboard to attend them. Only Mark seemed to understand that she was tired, becoming more so after each succeeding session. Even though she depended on the combined energy of the sitters she was, as Mark theorized, being drained. She wished she could find a way to stop but that would mean resisting the rambunctious entity of her great-grandfather. She doubted she could, and besides, he was enjoying himself so thoroughly.

  “’Tis a marvelous feeling, Lucy,” he had said on more than one occasion, “to feel the blood rushing through your veins and to breathe the good air again.”

  That he was making use of her blood and her nostrils had never occurred to him. She would not remind him, nor would she complain about his exuberance to the rest of the Household. They were all so pleased at her success and its profits.

  ❖

  Last week they had actually been able to purchase the charming little pianoforte that Juliet played so beautifully. It also seemed to her that during the last three full moons, Mark’s howls had been infinitely less frequent and his periods of recuperation shorter. Was the curse winding down? Mark enjoyed his walks around the city and more than once had expressed admiration for the American female. He had not mentioned anyone specifically nor would he, she was sure of that. She stifled a sigh. It was really no good to think of the curse’s cessation until they—Mark, Colin and Juliet—were able to...

  “’Tis time, my dear.”

  Lacy rose hastily. For once, she had not noticed the arrival of her great-grandfather. She prayed he had not been a party to tier thoughts, but divining the fact that he was in good humor, she guessed that he had not.

  She went down the hall and into the living room, furnished now with a center table flanked by ten straight-backed chairs and the cushioned Queen Anne chair reserved for her. It was a pity, she thought, that the table could accomodate only ten people; for the sake of those who hoped for words from the beyond, she wished it could be twice as many. As she approached her chair, she heard gasps of surprise and knew that each of those present was having second thoughts about her vaunted abilities. There was a paucity of light in the chamber, but most of it came from the dim gaslit globe directly over her chair. It cast a pale green light upon her face and diminutive body and, as had happened before, those present probably looked upon her as little more than a child.

  She stood at the table, wishing she could make use of the candelabrum placed in its center. She gladly would have conducted her sittings by sunlight. She enjoyed awakening to brightness and, at first, she had used several branches of candles. However, the protests of those who believed, erroneously, that spirits would only emerge in darkness, caused her to abandon the practice and adhere to custom. It was, she guessed, a custom promulgated by those spurious mediums whose manifestations owed more to stage-magic than to the spirit entities they professed to summon and which were composed of cheesecloth rather than ectoplasm.

  As she sank down in her chair, Lucy thought she heard a startled gasp. She looked around the table but could not distinguish the features of anyone present. She could tell from their shapes that there were more women than men—seven to three, in fact. That, she reasoned thankfully, would make matters much easier. Men were ever more skeptical than women, and the negative energy produced by a circle of psychologists, lawyers and judges made her very weary indeed.

  “Miss Veringer?”

  Lucy stiffened. Someone present knew her by the name she no longer used, having, for convention’s sake, called herself Driscoll and setting about the fiction that Mark was her brother. She gazed around the table vainly trying to pierce the gloom, but to her regret the Old Lord, vigilant as ever, descended upon her. She felt the familiar pounding in her forehead and then nothing more.

  At length, the entity known as “Beowulf” departed, and Lucy, opening her eyes, gazed tiredly around a table where everybody was excitedly talking or, as was the case with several women, weeping. She smiled, realizing that the Old Lord had made good his promise and brought back a group of what he would call “innocuous phantoms.” She slumped gratefully among the cushions in her chair. Soon they would go and she could sleep.

  “Oh, Swithin, he was your father. You can no longer doubt it!”

  Lucy tensed, wondering which of the ladies had spoken.

  “Wasn’t it a miracle? Surely you must agree now?”

  “It was remarkable, Mother,” came the answer couched in terms she remembered so very well, even though she had met the speaker only twice. She felt rather than saw his gaze upon her as he continued. “I believe I have met the medium.”

  “Met her? But you never told me...” his mother began.

  It was not Lucy’s custom to speak to any of the people that came to her sittings. As the Old Lord had warned, “Address a word to any one of them and the whole lot of them will be upon you like a swarm of locusts!” However, upon this occasion she said, almost without conscious volition, “Yes, we have met, Mr. Blake. It is so very nice to see you again.” She got to her feet.

  “Miss Veringer!” Amidst a growing babble of exclamations and questions, Swithin Blake arose and strode to her side, grasping her hands warmly. “I knew I could not be mistaken,” he said raising his voice above the clamor. “But wh
y are you here?”

  “I...” Lucy began and then, much to her consternation and subsequent regret, fainted dead away.

  ❖

  A month after her third and all-important meeting with Swithin Blake, Lucy, curled on the sofa in the library, watched him striding up and down with an ecstasy mitigated by pain. Since the moment when she had fainted at his feet, she had seen him two and three times a week during the first fortnight. In these last two weeks, he had been there nearly every day. Seven days, three hours and an untold number of minutes ago he had told her he loved her, and since then he had proposed at least 20 times, refusing to be discouraged by her gentle procrastinations. He had just proposed to her again, interspersing his pleas with concerned comments on her state of health.

  She knew she looked peaked and could not tell him that much of her weakness was due to lack of sleep, as she tried to find a solution to what seemed an insolvable problem—her duty to the Household. If only she could have told him the truth—but that was impossible. Given his unexpressed but obvious doubts concerning the validity of her occult powers, he would scarcely give credence to anything she told him about her great grandfather, her great-aunt and uncle and her cousin Mark, whom he now believed to be her brother.

  “But it is ridiculous. You tell me you are merely resting. How many times in this last month have you been ‘resting’ when I have come to see you? It would not surprise me to learn that you’ve contracted the anemia so prevalent in the city.”

  “Oh, I could not have that!” Lucy cried, with a haste she immediately regretted.

  Swithin came to stand by her sofa. “Why could you not?” he demanded angrily. “These damned sittings are a drain on your energy, and you know it!”

  Lucy’s gaze shifted from his accusing stare to the folds of her new dimity gown with its pattern of blue and pink roses. She replied diffidently, “I do not have anemia. The doctor will attest to that.”

  “Ah, so you have been to see a doctor,” he said accusingly. “And what did he say was the matter with you?”

  “Nothing.” She raised her eyes that she hoped were candid. She did hate lying to Swithin, but there was no help for it.