Household

by Stevenson, Florence

  At 17 Livia had taken this bit of wisdom to heart, and ten years of being a member of Marblehead society had done nothing to change her mind.

  “Would you have tea, Miss Blake?”

  Livia turned to find one of the pretty young women proferring a silver tray on which was a cup and saucer of fine bone china, a silver creamer and sugar bowl. “Thank you,” she said.

  “This is a special brew,” the girl said. “You would be advised to try it without cream and sugar.”

  “As it happens, I do not use either,” Livia said, as she took the cup. She refrained from adding that she was not very fond of tea, especially the kind served on such occasions. Generally it was a cheap brand rather than the China tea she occasionally drank. However, upon sipping this brew, she found it had a strange but definitely pleasant flavor. She drank every drop and did not protest when another woman stepped to her side to fill it again. She drank that, too, looking around the room as she did. Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the dim light. The floor, she observed, was bare of carpets, and there were a great many pictures on the walls. While some were landscapes and others portraits, she noticed two which struck her as being very old.

  One was a painting of a large star, covered with scrawls, as if someone armed with a red paintbrush had deliberately defaced it. Another depicted a cross, but rather than being right side up, it was turned around—or perhaps the picture had been turned around? She glanced away and started as on a table she saw a polished human skull with a candle burning inside. She wondered if it were a prop for the playlet she was soon to witness. Another table caught her eye. There were two swords lying on it. Beside them were a number of dishes and a large bowl. Would they also be serving food? She hoped not. She did not feel hungry. She yawned and put her head back against the soft cushions of her chair. She was feeling rather sleepy which was not unusual; she had put in a hectic day at the paper. She had rested before dressing, but that was hardly enough to make up for the aggravations of the day—some copy coming in late and Emily wanting to leave early and Marian crying that she had only two hands. Livia closed her eyes, wishing devoutly that the playlet would get underway.

  ❖

  Towards morning, Livia, waking out of a deep sleep, sat bolt upright in bed, running her hands over her cotton nightgown just to make sure that she was wearing it. Once she was positive it was in place—buttoned up to her neck, sleeves fastened at the wrist, the rest of it tangled about her hips but there, where it should be—she pressed her hands against her burning face and unwillingly thought of the horrid dream that had seemed so realistic and which she could remember down to every last detail.

  She had had some strange dreams in her life. In them she had visited places she had never seen. A moldering old castle with a drawbridge and moat figured in some of them. In another recurring dream she saw an angry dark little woman who jeered at her. As a child, the sight of her had sent her screaming out of her sleep. On those occasions her father had come in to comfort her. She was glad she had not screamed tonight since she would not have wanted him with her. She might have blurted out what she had experienced. It was all so very real. Why should she have dreamed of Mr. Grenfall and all the nice young people she had met there at the Pendergrass mansion? Supposing that dream had happened when she was still there, sleeping in her chair and not waking until Mr. Grenfall tapped her gently on the shoulder and asked if he could take her home.

  She had been so embarrassed and confounded to learn that she had slept through the entire playlet and through the subsequent discussion. Though she was not a woman who cried easily, she had been quite unable to keep from weeping. She had been terribly ashamed over her most unprofessional lapse, and Mr. Grenfall had been so kind, so understanding. Everyone there had sympathized with her and talked about the exigencies attendant on editing a newspaper. Mr. Grenfall had said they could restage the piece the following Friday and asked tentatively if she might come again. She promised she would. Mr. Grenfall had been so understanding on the way home. Mr. Grenfall! She shuddered. He had figured prominently in her dreadful, shocking, indecent dream!

  Lying back against her rumpled sheets, she closed her eyes and tried to sleep but could not do so. She could only think about that dream, which was unfolding before her inner vision like the panorama picture of the Civil War she had seen at a county fair two summers ago.

  In her dream it seemed to her she had heard humming sounds, as if the group around her were humming an odd sort of a melody, one she had never heard. That surprised her because she had expected the play must be starting immediately. Then two of the women came to stand by her chair. One of them was the blonde girl who had served her tea, and the other a beautiful girl of 19 or 20, a redhead with long green eyes. She had a lovely figure, but Livia could not approve her deeply plunged gown.

  “Come, my dear,” the blonde girl urged. “We must go now.”

  Livia had felt disinclined to stir. “Where are we going? Isn’t the play about to begin?”

  Instead of answering, the blonde girl had said something that startled her. “Has she taken all her tea, Vivienne?”

  The girl named Vivienne stared into her cup. “Every drop, Charlotte. And it was her second cup.”

  That conversation had not made any sense at all, but of course dreams seldom made sense and this one, despite its startling continuity, made even less sense than most.

  The two girls had urged her to rise, and once she was on her feet, her head had seemed heavy with the room whirling around her. “I am so dizzy,” she had complained.

  “You will feel better soon, my dear,” Vivienne assured her.

  They all led her out of the room and into a smaller chamber just across the hall, a cloakroom with many hooks along the wall. On each hook hung a long black cloak.

  She found that several other women had followed them into the cloakroom. They were busily removing their shoes and stockings. Charlotte and Vivienne were also taking off their shoes.

  “You must remove your shoes and stockings, my dear Livia,” Vivienne had instructed.

  “Very well.” Livia had not even protested, she recalled. Nor had she been surprised when she found the other women removing their gowns.

  “You must undress, Livia.”

  Under the covers, Livia clutched her nightgown. Had she obeyed? She had! Obediently, she had stripped off all her clothes, not as quickly as the others had, but without any protest. She had received in their place a long black cloak. All the women were wearing those cloaks.

  Then they filed out of the cloakroom and into the large chamber where she found that all the men were in red cloaks, including Mr. Grenfall. A man had been seated at the pianoforte. She remembered hoping that he would play because she loved music. She did not remember being in the least surprised or self-conscious at what was happening even though under her cloak she was as bare as the day she was born.

  Her face burned. That had been bad enough, but there was worse to come!

  She had looked toward Mr. Grenfall and saw that he was speaking to one of the men. She had wanted to speak to him, but she had not wanted to interrupt them.

  “Very polite,” Livia muttered and cringed as she recalled moving near to him, noting as she did that there was a fire blazing on the hearth. It took the chill off the room and even made her too warm. She had wanted to discard the cloak. Had she really wanted that? She could not imagine that even in a dream she would have contemplated anything so immodest, but she had, she had, in that terrible, confusing vision.

  “Livia, my dear.” Mr. Grenfall had stepped to her side.

  Had he addressed her in that familiar way? Yes—and she had not even been surprised. She had smiled up at him, saying brazenly, “I was hoping you’d see me.”

  “How might I not see you, my sweet?”

  “There are so many women about,” she had pouted. Pouted? She never pouted.

  In her dream, his obvious interest had actually thrilled her, and she had said, “Why do w
e need to wear these heavy cloaks. I am so warm.”

  Livia turned over in bed, pressing herself against her pillows and pulling the covers over her head, but one could not hide from a dream.

  He had said, “It’s cold in the cloakroom and the hall. You will not need to wear it here.” He had gently untied the strings of her cape and slipped it from her shoulders. Subsequently he had removed his own cloak, and turning back to her, he had stared at her, his eyes roving over her body. “You are very beautiful,” he had commented.

  “Ohhhhhh,” she moaned, squeezing her eyelids together, but not managing to shut out the vision of his body, which was also completely naked.

  And what had she said? What had she done? Had she screamed and run? No. She had said, “Do you think I’m beautiful?”

  And he had said, “Incredibly beautiful from head to toe.” And she had said, “Is there any reason why we should be naked?”

  “Oh, yes, because of the energy.”

  “The energy?” In spite of her condition, she had been only mildly curious, standing there, naked beside a naked man and saying, “I don’t understand about the energy.”

  “You will,” he had replied, and reaching out, he had cupped her breasts in his hands, repeating, “Beautiful, beautiful. I had never expected that your body would be as beautiful as your face.”

  And what had she said? “I find you very handsome.” Livia burned with embarrassment as she remembered how she had gazed on his body. She had not been shocked but only interested to discover an essential difference between them. And that difference? In all the statues she had seen at the museum, it had been disguised by a fig leaf. In her dream she had seen that portion of his body without the fig leaf, a tubular shape half-masked by hair which was slightly darker than that which grew on his head and was very curly, almost kinky. She had also noticed a strange little birthmark that was shaped like a hoofprint and located just above the curly hair. She had wanted to ask him about that, but he had moved away and she had heard music coming from the pianoforte.

  It was a catchy tune, and its rhythms invaded her. She began to move in time to them. Then Vivienne and Charlotte came to stand on either side of her. The whole group seized hands and formed a circle, beginning to move in time to the music. One woman however stood apart from them. She was older, perhaps 35. She stood at the table holding up the swords Livia had seen when she first entered the room. The older woman drank from a silver goblet. There was chanting, and though Livia did not know the words, she found she could follow it, which was always the way it was in dreams. There was more to the dream but she could not remember it, did not want to remember it, and she lay in her bed, feeling fearful and wondering if she were not going mad.

  She shuddered, running her hands through her hair again. Something odd was certainly happening to her. She had never fallen asleep on an assignment. If Emily or Marian ever found out, she shuddered to think what they would say to her, she who was always upbraiding them for their lack of efficiency. As for her dream—her disgusting, dreadful, immodest vision—she could never tell anyone about that. And how was she ever to face Mr. Grenfall again? She had to face him! She had to repeat the assignment on the following Friday. She had promised. She could send Emily, but she really couldn’t. Emily did not have the capacity to gather news at this time, and besides, she had promised to see that playlet. Six days intervened between now and next Friday. She was a mature woman, and by then she would have regained her equilibrium.

  ❖

  “You’re very quiet this evening, Miss Blake.” Mr. Grenfall slowed his horse to a walk. He looked down at her with one of his charming smiles. “It was very kind of you to agree to come again.”

  “I could hardly not come, Mr. Grenfall, after falling asleep at your meeting. I am really chagrined over that. I assure you it will not happen tonight.”

  “If it does, I’ll not blame you. I know how very hard you work.”

  “You are most kind and understanding, sir. However this week was not as difficult as last. Once we meet our Tuesday deadline, we can relax a bit.”

  “I see. I’m glad. I think you’ll enjoy yourself.”

  “I am sure I will.”

  Though she had been dreading this evening, dreading to see him again, Livia did not experience the embarrassment she had expected upon greeting him. In fact, before the reality of his presence, the dream faded away, and any qualms she had entertained were based on her foolishness in allowing what was no more than a nightmare to distract her as much as it had. Certainly she could not dread Mr. Grenfall. She truthfully could no longer deny that she was attracted to him, and she felt unhappy about that. There were so many lovely young women in the group. She could not imagine that he would single her out. He had given her a most admiring glance tonight. Probably he approved her new gown, bought, if truth must be told, because of what he had said about the ancient Greek costumes. It resembled a Grecian tunic and its yellow hue was flattering to her dark complexion, also bringing out the lights in her eyes. She had often wondered how she happened to have what Orin Hawley had called “yellow eyes.” She much preferred the adjective “golden” used by her father. He did not have much of an explanation for her unique coloring, save to say that she took after one of her mother’s relatives. Livia had learned long ago that he did not like to discuss his wife’s family.

  “Here we are, Miss Blake.” Mr. Grenfall brought his horse to a stop at the porte-cochere of the old house.

  “Oh, so soon,” she said. “I was not sleeping,” she added quickly. “I was thinking.”

  “May I offer a penny for them?”

  “What?”

  “Your thoughts.”

  “They weren’t very interesting, I fear.”

  “Anything that you would think must be interesting, I am sure.” The groom had come forward to hold his horse, and climbing nimbly out of the trap, Mr. Grenfall came around to lift her down.

  He was very strong, and for a moment she felt quite hepless in his grasp, a most unusual sensation. Even more unusual was the fact that she enjoyed it. And that, Mr. Grenfall, is one thought I would never share with you, she silently assured him.

  A short time later Livia, setting down her third cup of aromatic tea, actually scanned the bottom of the cup in search of another sip. She wondered whether it was China or Indian but that did not matter. She would have to ask Vivienne or Charlotte where she might buy it. Looking around, she saw Vivienne coming toward her. She was wearing a blue gown that night, not as complimentary to her vivid coloring as the green she had worn at the previous meeting. It, too, was plunging, showing a great deal of her bosom. Her arms were bare, and Livia envied her. She felt uncommonly warm in her tunic.

  “Good evening, my dear,” Vivienne said cordially. “Are you ready to join in the dancing?”

  “Quite ready,” Livia assented eagerly.

  “Come, then.” Vivienne beckoned, and Livia hurried after her into the cloakroom, stripping off her garments gladly. She felt so much freer without them. The cloak was not heavy, but she would be pleased when she could discard it. She slipped it off and threw it over a chair a second after returning to the meeting room. It was easier going through the motions of the dancing, and this time there was a different chant—a name was spoken, one she knew. It was that of Judge Elias P. Martin, a wealthy man and head of several philanthropic organizations. He was also running for congress on a reform ticket.

  “Elias, Elias, Elias P. Martin,” Livia chanted with the rest of them and knew that she hated him, had always hated him and wanted him dead.

  “Die, die, die, Elias,” she chanted. And there were other words she did not recognize but knew they would spell the end of this holier-than-thou-do-gooder, who had sworn to abolish corruption in Boston’s police force, something none of them wanted, least of all herself.

  “Die, die, die Elias!” she screamed, leaping and whirling until her body was slippery with sweat and she was weak with the effort. Finally the older woman ap
peared and lifted her swords. The air was heavy with incense and with it was mingled another odor which, Charlotte explained, was burning salt.

  They drank from various vessels. Livia remembered that from the previous week, and she also recalled the names of her companions: Charles, Mabel, Robert, Joyce, George, Myrna, Christopher, Anna, Eliza, Vivenne and Charlotte—and, of course, their leader, their High Priest, Septimus, Septimus, Septimus, so beautiful in his nakedness. With the exception of Eliza, the older woman, they were all such attractive people. She wondered why she had never met any of them in Marblehead, but of course they hailed from Salem.

  She remembered something Septimus had told her. He had mentioned that a thirteenth member of the group was going to be initiated. Later, when she lay beside Vivienne catching her breath from the rigorous dancing, she mentioned that initiation, wondering when it would take place and whom they had chosen.

  “You will be our thirteenth member, my dear,” Vivienne said.

  Livia regarded her in startled surprise. “I thought I was only here to observe.”

  “Oh, no, we need you. You will observe and then you will be initiated.”

  “I am really to be a member!” Livia exclaimed.

  “Our thirteenth member, yes. We have tested you and found that you will be a most welcome addition to our group,” Charles, a handsome young man who lay beside her, corroborated.

  “Oh, I am delighted!” she exclaimed happily.

  “So are we all.” Charles ran his finger down her back.

  Livia giggled. “That tickles.”

  “Sorry,” he apologized. “I wish someone would scratch my back.”

  “Turn over and I will,” Livia said readily. He had a beautiful back, she thought, as she began to run her nails across it very lightly. His skin was smooth and there was no hair on it. Some of the men were very hairy, front and back. She had noticed that when they danced. However Septimus was also free of hair save between his legs. “There,” she said lifting her hands from Charles’ back. “Is that enough?”