Household

by Stevenson, Florence

  “Will it fall upon my child?” Lucy demanded.

  “Perhaps not,” Colin said soothingly. “She’s not a Veringer.”

  “The blood of the Old Lord runs in her veins,” Lucy moaned. “Poor child, poor child, and poor Swithin, my love.”

  “You may see him, dearest,” Juliet said.

  “No, I will go away. You must take me far, far away. I may go, may I not?”

  “All that’s needed is a stone and Mark to help us when we need his help,” Colin said.

  “Mark! Does he know?” Lucy asked.

  “Mark is here,” he said, coming to stand beside Colin. There was a compassionate and sorrowing look in his golden eyes. “Lucy, my dear, none of this was my doing, but I am glad to see you and I am here to help you. I knew, knowing you, that you’d not want to stay.”

  “And I knew, too, my poor child.”

  Lucy looked around and saw Richard Veringer as he had been in life, clad in dark knee breeches and a black satin coat, lace sparkling with diamonds at his throat, his hair lavishly powdered and clubbed at the back with a dark grosgrain ribbon. He did not look old. He seemed in the prime of life, but his eyes were aged and agonized.

  “Great-grandfather,” Lucy moaned. “Why did you let them do this to me?”

  “I was not consulted, dear child,” he said ponderously.

  “Oh, Mark.” Lucy raised her eyes to his face. “Could you not out of your love for me pound a stake through my heart when morning comes?”

  “Lucy, no.” There was terror in his voice. “You’d not want that!”

  “No, child, you would not,” The Old Lord whispered.

  “You could not,” Juliet said, exchanging an agonized look with Colin.

  Staring at them, Lucy found to her own confusion and utter shame that, on thinking of it, she did not want it either. “I must go away then,” she said.

  “We will all go away, my child. The world is wide,” the Old Lord said.

  “And we must never come back,” Lucy told him solemnly.

  “We never will.” Juliet and Colin spoke almost in unison and with equal solemnity.

  “You know I am with you, Lucy,” Mark said.

  Lucy found that she could smile. “My child will be safe,” she murmured. With a little moan of fear, she stared at the Old Lord. “Erlina Bell must be satisfied by now.”

  “I am sure she is,” he agreed gruffly.

  “The sky is paling,” Mark reminded them.

  “Come, love.” Juliet put an arm around Lucy’s shoulders and led her back to her tomb.

  Part Four

  One

  Livia Blake lifted a closely written page and waved it at the girl who stood before her desk. “Look at the number of misspellings in this story!” She shook her head, saying even more caustically than usual, “Had I not spoken with Mrs. Howard we would have come out with errors that would have made it totally useless as a news item. If the preparations for your forthcoming nuptials are going to interfere with your efficiency...”

  “I am sorry,” Miss Emily Harte began, “but...”

  “You’re being sorry is no excuse.”

  “But...”

  “Do you wish to continue working at the Marblehead Mercury or would you prefer to resign?” Livia’s eyes, a clear gold, seemed to flash fire.

  “I want to continue,” Emily said. “I do enjoy writing for...”

  “Enjoy?” echoed Livia. “Enjoy suggests that you would be as happy cycling or dancing or swimming or camping. Writing for the Mercury is a vocation and an occupation. Have you any notion how very few women are engaged in the business of turning out a newspaper?” Without waiting for the response that was obviously trembling on Emily’s lips, she continued sharply. “Very few is the answer. Women are not expected to be editors or reporters. They are expected to marry, as you will soon do, breed brats and turn their underdeveloped intelligences to cookery. You came to me because you said you wished to write. I have given you that opportunity, and the minute a gentleman looks sideways at you, you are ready to swoon into his arms and forget everything you told me when you applied... when you begged for this position.”

  There was a knock on the door. “Well?” Livia called impatiently.

  The door was opened by Marian Sedley, the clerical typist who also served as receptionist for the Marblehead Mercury. She was a small, slender woman who was, at this moment, looking harried and extremely confused. “Miss Blake...” she said tentatively.

  “Well,” Livia snapped, “what is it, Marian?”

  Miss Sedley pushed a straying brown curl out of her eyes, leaving a smear of black on her forehead. “There... there’s a gentleman here.”

  “Indeed? And is he so frightening?”

  “Frightening?”

  “Judging from your expression, this gentleman wants to eat you for dinner and toss your bones over his shoulder when he is done.”

  “Oh, Miss Blake,” Marian said, giggling nervously, “it’s not that. It’s that he wishes to place an advertisement.”

  “An advertisement?” Livia’s eyes widened.

  “Gracious!” Emily interjected. “A gentleman?”

  “And very well-spoken, too.” Miss Sedley turned a little pink.

  Spotting this telltale hue, Livia said coldly, “Does the gentleman have horns and a tail or possibly purple feathers sprouting from his head?”

  Emily giggled nervously, and Marian blushed an even deeper pink. “He is most personable,” she murmured.

  “I am glad of that,” Livia said sarcastically. “I should be intimidated myself, if I thought our offices had been invaded by some monster rather than one who has merely come to place an advertisement. We have had advertisements before, not many, I’ll grant you...”

  “And never from a man,” Emily broke in.

  Livia opened her mouth for another withering retort and thought better of it. It was unwise to keep one of her few advertisers waiting. “Since you feel incapable of dealing with this crisis, Marian, I suggest you show the gentleman in here.”

  “I did not say I was incapable,” Marian began, with a rare display of spirit, “but I just thought you’d like to know.” Some of Livia’s hauteur vanished. “And so I would, Marian dear, though I could wish it were not such a nine-day wonder. Show him in, please, and Emily, you may go.”

  “Am I fired?” Emily asked timidly.

  “No, not fired, just be more careful in the future. You do have the makings of a good reporter, should you care to continue in that position once you are wed.”

  “Oh, I will!” Emily promised. “Thank you, Miss Blake.” she hurried out.

  Livia Blake expelled a breath bordering on a snort. Since her recent engagement, all of Emily’s vaunted arguments on the independence of women had gone by the boards. Let a man put his foot into the small offices adjoining her house and the two members comprising the staff of the Marblehead Mercury fluttered like hens before a rooster!

  Of course Marian and Emily were both young or, at least, younger than herself, and Marian entertained the hopes that in Emily’s case had been fulfilled when the minister’s son proposed to her, turning her attention from her Social Notes column to fittings, bridesmaid selection, invitations and a honeymoon in Saratoga, New York.

  Marian, who took the few ads that came into the Mercury and helped with the layout, was not bespoken but, at 22, she still had hopes. Livia, who had turned down more proposals than she could count in the nine years following her eighteenth birthday, had almost abandoned the hope that she would ever meet a man who pleased her to the point that she would be willing to place herself in the matrimonial harness. Invariably the young men who were attracted to her either turned a deaf ear to her outspoken views on the place of women in society or, if their hearts were set as much on her inheritance as on her considerable beauty, they listened attentively and then by some remark revealed their intrinsic insincerity.

  “Fortune hunters,” she muttered to herself and frowned, rem
embering that one Orville Cox was expected for dinner that night. He was the son of one of her father’s Harvard classmates. He lived in Lynn, but when he had come to see Swithin Blake on business, she had met and liked him. He had looked upon her with the usual awestruck admiration, seemingly not caring that at five-feet-nine, she was a good two inches taller than himself. He was charming and had taken her driving after church on two successive Sundays. He had also been her escort at a local dance, and they had gone cycling together several times. These activities had led her father to cherish hopes he had not scrupled to hide from her.

  “It would please me greatly if you and young Cox...” He had begun several sentences only to be discouraged from continuing in that vein.

  “I like Mr. Cox, Papa, but I feel I must know him better,” had been her response. It was no use telling him that though she liked Mr. Cox more than some of her previous suitors, she found his attitude regarding the Mercury very distasteful. It was plain to her that he thought it merely a plaything to occupy her before she married and turned her mind to the serious business of raising a family.

  The Mercury was well-written, well-printed, and even if it was not a money-making endeavor, it was read. In fact, in the three years since she, with her father’s backing, had launched it, the Mercury had picked up a circulation of something over a thousand. Its Social Notes were very popular, prized, it was true, mainly by matrons who were pleased to see the names of themselves and their guests in black and white. Still she also had been congratulated on her editorials and denigrated as well, when she plunged into the deep waters already stirred by Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton.

  “Mr. Grenfall,” Marian announced, cutting short Livia’s ruminations.

  “Please come in,” she said, not glancing directly at her visitor and only getting an impression of considerable height and dark wavy hair. She indicated a chair facing her desk. “Will you sit down, please?”

  “Thank you, Miss Blake,” her visitor said in a mellifluous voice.

  Really looking at him for the first time, his appearance came as a shock, and if she were the type to flutter, it was very possible that he might have had such an effect on her. He was well and conservatively dressed in dark garments. To her relief, he had eschewed such facial adornments as side whiskers, a beard or moustache thus allowing her to see that his features were regular and his chin cleft. In addition to his height, which she placed at some three inches over six feet, he was well-built. His shoulders were wide, his waist slender and most of his inches appeared to be in his long legs. His eyes, she noted, were so brown as to seem black, and his glance was almost mesmerising, a notion she quickly rejected. She was further annoyed by a reaction that could almost be translated as attraction. His main attraction, she reminded herself crossly, was his willingness to advertise in her newspaper. However she could not help but be pleased that he regarded her without the initial surprise evinced by the bookkeeper, the printer and the several other men who had found that the O. Blake written in gold letters on her office door stood for Olivia rather than Osbert or Oscar. She would have used L for Livia but her father would not hear of it, even though he had always called her by that diminutive. “It was your mother’s wish that you be christened Olivia,” he had once explained.

  She thrust these digressions to the back of her mind and said briskly, “My assistant informs me that you wish to run an advertisement in our paper.”

  “I do, Miss Blake,” he looked at her earnestly. “I understand the Mercury appears twice a month?”

  “Yes. We publish every other Tuesday from September through June.”

  “This is Wednesday. Judging from the copy I read, next Tuesday will be a publication date?”

  “Yes.” She was agreeably surprised that he had actually read the paper. She could not help inquiring, “What decided you to advertise with us, sir?”

  “I based my opinion on the editorial content. Whoever wrote the article on street traffic has some excellent ideas about its regulation. I also enjoyed the piece on Mrs. Stanton. I heard her lecture in Minneapolis, and I agree with the writer.”

  Livia buttoned down a smile. It would not do to appear too gratified by one of the first favorable comments she had received on her editorials from a man other than her father. “I am glad that you agree with our writers, sir.”

  “I do. I have always been of the opinion that women must play a greater role in the affairs of the nation. I also like the other articles, and if I am allowed to choose a position for my advertisement, I would like to place it near the Social Notes which, I understand, are also widely read.”

  Livia repressed another smile, appreciating his tact in inserting the word ‘also’ and thus suggesting that the editorials were as popular as the notes which of course they were not, as he must know.

  “I could arrange that, sir,” she agreed. “Of course it would depend upon the content of your copy.”

  “That is certainly understandable. I hope that you will agree with me that my choice is logical. You see, Miss Blake, I am a teacher of elocution, and since I am in Marblehead for an indefinite period, I should like the public at large to know that I give private lessons.”

  “I see. I presume you come to the house?”

  “Of course, Miss Blake. I could hardly receive my pupils in my lodgings.”

  “Naturally not,” Livia agreed quickly. She had heard a touch of hauteur in his tone and respected him for it. Her question had been foolish, she realized with some annoyance. Obviously he could not expect his pupils, female or male, to come to his lodgings, and if she had been thinking clearly, she never would have suggested such a thing.

  “I will be glad to run your advertisement in the suggested space. Our rates are fifty cents a column inch.”

  “I would like the first advertisement to be four inches long and two columns wide. Let’s see. You publish Tuesday, which is May 4th, yes?”

  “That is correct,” Livia said, surprised and pleased by the amount of space he wanted. Four inches would be two dollars plus the extra width would bring it to six dollars. And he had specified that it would be for the first advertisement, suggesting that he would run the ad again.

  “May 18th is the day you’ll publish again, and accordingly I would like the advertisement to run again. Is it possible to reserve the same space?”

  “I believe it’s available, sir,” she replied, making a determined effort not to sound either excited or pleased. Her attitude must be casual as if, she received such placements every day.

  “Good. We are agreed, then. I will pay in advance, and I will give you the copy which I trust you to print in letters that catch the eye.”

  “Most assuredly, we will do that, sir.”

  “Now I understand that your Social Notes are widely read.”

  “They are—in town,” Livia felt it incumbent to stress.

  “The Marblehead public is the one I wish to reach. I would appreciate it if one of your reporters might cover the meeting of our literary society. It will be convening this Friday at eight in the evening.”

  “Your literary society, sir? Which one might that be?”

  “It is called The Seventh Circle, and until a month ago we were located in Salem. Unfortunately our building burned down, and we were unable to find a satisfactory replacement. We were extremely concerned, as you might guess. Then one of our members mentioned that she knew of a place in Marblehead which we might lease at a price commensurate with our combined purse. We wrote to the owners and were able to secure the Pendergrass mansion. I suppose that you, as a native of this delightful town, are familiar with it?”

  Livia had barely managed to stifle an exclamation of dismay. In a carefully neutral tone she replied, “Yes, I certainly am familiar with it. I had heard that it was going to be torn down.”

  “No, we saved it—at least until our lease runs out. A charming location, do you not agree?”

  “It overlooks the sea,” Livia said carefully, “but i
t is some distance from the center of town. Most of our literary groups are located there.”

  “So I understand. That is why I would be most grateful if one of your staff might attend our first meeting in our new home. We would appreciate a note.”

  “You might give me the information, sir. There is no actual reason for any of us to go there.”

  “Oh, but there is, if you will permit me to differ with you, Miss Blake,” he said earnestly. “You see several of our members are putting on a small entertainment, an adaptation of an Edgar Allan Poe story, The Fall of the House of Usher. It is an excellent dramatization, and I feel they should have some encouragement and recognition for a thoroughly professional effort.”

  “It does sound interesting,” Livia mused. “Unfortunately, our one reporter, Miss Harte, is soon to be married and is in the midst of rehearsals for her wedding. Marian... that is, Miss Sedley does not write.”

  “Which leaves you,” he said hopefully. “I cannot believe that a young woman who edits a bimonthly newspaper does not do some of the writing herself.”

  “I do,” she admitted diffidently. Meeting his dark and eager gaze, she found it very difficult to explain that she was expected to cover the Thoreau Society meeting on Friday night. She also remembered that Marian had suggested more than once that she would like to be a contributor. Marian could not write very well, but she could and did gather facts. These could easily be rewritten and her new advertiser placated. It was good business, too. Not only did they rarely get advertisements, they had never had anyone suggest that such an insert, however small, must run twice. She said, “I expect I could come on Friday night. Of course, I could not stay long.”

  “We would only want you to see our playlet, and I, myself, would take you there and bring you back.”

  “That would be very helpful, sir,” Livia said gratefully, for concurrent with her acquiescence had been her concern about transportation. Jack, their elderly coachman, did not like to drive at night, and she preferred not to press the matter. Furthermore, the old man would expect her to bring one of her friends with her, being quite unable to distinguish between assignment and a social visit. He would certainly not approve of her going as far afield as the Pendergrass mansion, especially in view of its unfortunate reputation. He would grumble all the way there and all the way back.