House of Masques

by Fortune Kent

  It was not the maid, but a short, middle-aged woman instead, plump and smiling. “I’m Alice Lewis,” she said. “Mrs. Lewis,” she added as she inspected the room, shaking her head in disapproval. “The help you get nowadays. Some of them, like old Mrs. Ehrman, are nothing but drones. I don’t know how we’ll ever be ready for the ball on Saturday night. Times have certainly changed. Why, when I first came to work for the Worthingtons we had nowhere near as much help, and still we got as much work done. You wouldn’t believe me,” she said coyly, “if I ever told you how many years ago that was.”

  Mrs. Lewis sat by the bed. “Mr. Charles asked me to see how you were feeling this morning,” she told Kathleen. Mr. Charles. Of course, she must mean Captain Worthington.

  Clarissa held the window curtains aside and then let them fall into place. She walked to the door and glanced at Kathleen and began to speak, hesitated, finally made up her mind. “Captain Worthington offered to show me the Estate,” she said. “Will you be all right if I leave you for a while?”

  Kathleen sat up in surprise. Her first impulse was to say, “No, don’t go!” She bit her lip, confused. “Yes, I’ll be all right,” she whispered at last. Clarissa closed the door softly behind her.

  “La,” Mrs. Lewis said, “your aunt’s a very handsome woman.” Kathleen did not comment. “You poor dear,” the older woman went on, “kidnapped and manhandled by those horrible men, and as if that weren’t enough, to come here and find the casket on the porch.” She lowered her voice. “With Mr. Charles’s name and the dates, as though he’s to die this very year. ‘Traitor.’ What could that mean? Such troubled times we’ve had, ever since the gypsies.”

  “The gypsies?”

  “Yes, they came this April as they do every year in their long wagons with black canvas tops. Came to the Estate and asked to camp like they always do and Mr. Blasingame, him what’s in charge of the Estate, says no, not this year with the Captain home and feeling poorly. I was there in the driveway when they argued, the dark men and the women with hoops of gold in their ears and chains and bangles and short, looped-up skirts.”

  Kathleen started to speak and Mrs. Lewis held out her hand.

  “Wait, I know what you’re going to say. Yes, they do steal, a few eggs maybe, or some milk, but, oh, the bad fortune if you turn them away like Mr. B. did. Their chief stood on the seat of his wagon, I can see him now with his arms spread wide, and he cursed us in his heathen tongue, cursed this place and everyone living here, and not a week later the troubles began. Now, not two days ago, they came back, not to the Estate, but they’re camped less than a mile away.”

  “We had gypsies in Ohio,” Kathleen said, “and they never harmed anyone.”

  “Well, of course there are gypsies and gypsies. I’ve nothing against them or their fortune telling and I don’t believe all the things I hear. I just know what I know: children have disappeared after the gypsies were in the neighborhood never to be seen again. Like little Chancy Ross in the song. It’s just lucky we have no children living on the Estate, that’s all I have to say, or else there might have been worse trouble than we’ve already had.”

  “What kind of trouble? Do you mean like the coffin on the porch last night?”

  “Yes, for one thing. Nothing you can really put your finger on and explain, and that’s what frightens me. Mr. Charles, he shrugs and says it doesn’t bother him, but I know he’s worried, poor man, and he’s got enough on his mind without this, too. What he really needs is someone to look after him. You asked me what troubles we’ve had. Threats Mr. Charles has gotten, and last week the fire on the lawn at the back of the house.” She motioned toward the windows.

  “Did you see the fire?” Kathleen asked.

  “The flames and the shouting woke me in the night and I thought the house must be burning. I’m always afraid of fire in these great old houses, and especially now with the woods so dry. Not the house, though, it wasn’t. Boards piled on the lawn, stacked upright, like one of those Indian houses, what do you call them?”

  “Tepees.”

  “Yes, like a tepee on the lawn, with the flames shooting toward the sky and the men running to the well for water and throwing bucketfuls on the flames, afraid they were the fire would spread.”

  A tepee, Kathleen thought. Indians. She shuddered as she remembered her dream and the near-naked Indian standing over her. What had happened on the Kansas plains that the evil had spread like a malignancy through all their lives? Michael could never tell her. Would Captain Worthington?

  “…never had a bad fire here, thank the Lord,” Mrs. Lewis was saying. “Luckily, when old Jared Worthington built the house, the one we’re in now, not the first house which was built by his father, he used stone from the quarry as well as wood. Jared was Mr. Charles’s grandfather, you know, and invented the Worthington Stove. Before my time, he was, but they say—”

  A knock at the door. This time it was the maid, accompanied by a man of medium height, clean-shaven, with gray-black hair. The black bag in his hand told Kathleen he was the doctor.

  “Dr. Samuel Gunn, delighted to make your acquaintance.” He walked to the bedside. “Your man, Edgar something-or-other, found me in the village. He was journeying to Newburgh to seek a physician when he chanced to stop in the taproom of the local inn and through a chance remark discovered I was visiting in the vicinity. Well, how’s my patient this morning?”

  “I don’t really believe there’s much wrong with her,” Mrs. Lewis said. “She seems to be completely recovered.”

  “Hrrrp,” the doctor cleared his throat. “We’ll see, we’ll see. An experienced practitioner often discovers symptoms overlooked by the layman, no matter how discerning she may be. After four years at the Philadelphia School of Medicine, and having written several modest essays for the Medical-Surgical Journal, and lately having devoted myself to research for a medical volume for home use, I consider myself well-qualified in the science of diagnosis.”

  He sat beside the bed and felt Kathleen’s pulse, and his hazel eyes peered with interest into her mouth, eyes, and ears. “I had a patient only last year,” he said with a sideways glance at Mrs. Lewis, “a young bride who, not wanting to forego her wedding entertainments, ignored an inflammation of the throat, and three weeks later passed to the great beyond. Most unfortunate. The bridegroom was quite overcome with grief, as you can well imagine. He’s since remarried, however, and this time he chose a home-loving, though plain, girl.”

  “I knew a similar circumstance some years ago at the Krom Place,” Mrs. Lewis began. “One of the young Krom sisters—”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” the doctor said. “Quite common these days.” He removed a stethoscope from his bag and inserted the earpieces. “Remove the robe, please,” he told her. Kathleen sat up and Mrs. Lewis took the garment from her and laid it across a chair. “Lay on your back,” he instructed Kathleen.

  “Hmmmm,” the doctor said. The instrument was cold on her chest, and she flinched away. “Breathe deeply. Again. Yes, I was afraid so.”

  “What is it?” Mrs. Lewis asked. Kathleen began to feel the gnaw of worry. Was something really the matter? Had she inhaled too much smoke after all?

  “Genteel,” the doctor said. “That’s the problem. Too genteel to perform physical exercise to ward off the onset of disease. Girls and women who should know better, beautiful girls like this young lady, from vanity go thinly dressed, coming out of warm rooms into inclement weather, neck and arms bare, clothed in thin muslin or fancy dresses. Who can expect anything else from such a course of conduct but sore throats, pleurisy, rheumatism, and a variety of other diseases which may suddenly destroy life or injure the general health?”

  Mrs. Lewis began to answer, but the doctor did not pause. “Take the daily life of the wives and daughters of our men of wealth. From morning to night the same listless, sluggish, stagnating existence, with no physical exercise more
invigorating than a walk up and down the street. With no mental employment more inspiring than the reading of a few indifferent novels, or the making of idle morning calls, or spending evenings at balls where late hours, thin dresses, excessive dancing, and improper food do more injury than you can imagine.”

  The doctor nodded his head as he spoke, and by the time he finished Mrs. Lewis was also nodding vigorously. So much talk, Kathleen thought. Dr. Thompson, back in Ohio, had been terse and to the point. But what had the doctor found, she wondered. “Wh-what’s the matter with me?” she asked.

  “Inflammation of the lungs. A relatively mild case. You were very fortunate to seek out a physician before the disease could establish a foothold and make dangerous headway.”

  “My father once had inflammation of the lungs,” Mrs. Lewis said. “We sliced an onion in two and let sugar seep in, and then squeezed the juice for him to drink.”

  “An old-fashioned remedy,” the doctor said, “which will make the patient no worse. I advise letting Miss Stuart sit for a half hour with her feet and legs in warm water, and have her drink some warm sweating teas with bloodroot or sage added. Then, place a blanket about her shoulders, after removing her clothes, and boil a quantity of bitter herbs in a large pot or kettle. The blanket confines the steam rising from the herbs and hot water and allows it to come in contact with the body as high as the neck. Continue this treatment for another half hour, occasionally throwing into the vessel a hot brick or rock to raise the steam.”

  “Should we use a mustard plaster?” Mrs. Lewis wanted to know.

  “Only if she shows no improvement. If you do, place the compress on her chest for as long as the young lady can bear it. And keep her warm with hot bricks about the body while she’s in bed, or put boiled corn in her ears.”

  The doctor snapped his bag shut. “This is a mild case,” he said. “Miss Stuart, if she feels well enough, can get out of bed tomorrow. But in no case is she to travel during the next week.”

  Kathleen sighed with relief. The doctor was prescribing exactly what Clarissa had hoped. Could Edward Allen have persuaded him? If so, how had he accomplished it?

  “Quite an inconvenience to me, my coming here,” the doctor said to Mrs. Lewis. “In these cases I charge double my usual fee. That will be one dollar,” he added in a low, apologetic voice. Mrs. Lewis brought forth a purse and handed him a bill.

  “And,” the doctor said from the doorway, “if either of you charming ladies should chance upon the March 1869 issue of the Medical-Surgical Journal, pages thirty-eight through forty-five, you might be interested in perusing my article on the salubrious effects of railroad travel.”

  “Railroad travel?” they asked almost in unison.

  “Yes. I point out that the velocity with which a train moves through the air is very refreshing where the run is for some miles. The vibratory, or rather oscillatory motion communicated to the human frame is very different from the swinging and jolting motions of the stagecoach, and is productive of more salutary effects. It equalizes the circulation, promotes digestion, tranquilizes the nerves, and often causes sound sleep during the succeeding night. In my humble opinion, the railroad bids fair to be a powerful remedial agent for many ailments to which metropolitan inhabitants are subject.”

  Doctor Gunn was standing by the door with the open-mouthed Mrs. Lewis to one side. Did Kathleen see him wink at her? No, she must be mistaken. He held his hat aloft and bowed and was gone.

  “My,” Mrs. Lewis said, “he seems a very learned gentleman. I’ll make sure his advice is followed.”

  “He reminds me of someone,” Kathleen said. “A picture in a book I once read, I think. An author, not a doctor, though. Someone else. I can’t remember.”

  Mrs. Lewis held the curtain aside and again Kathleen could see the giant elm. “Ah, poor Mr. Charles,” Mrs. Lewis said, shaking her head. “Walking across the lawn, with your aunt, hands behind his back, head down, like a great sadness is upon him. If only I could help. If only he’d let me.”

  Mrs. Lewis’s curls were like those of a young girl, Kathleen thought, yet when she turned from the window the harsh light of midday exposed the folds and wrinkles in her neck and the web of lines around her eyes. The contrast between the hair and the face made her seem even older than she was.

  “I’m sorry,” Kathleen said, not sure whether she referred to the Captain or to Mrs. Lewis herself.

  “Sorry? Being sorry does no good. There is evil in this house where evil never existed before. Nothing goes as it should anymore. Is there a gypsy curse on all of us?” She shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  Mrs. Lewis walked to the door and looked back at Kathleen who drew the covers higher about her neck. Did she see distress in Mrs. Lewis’s face? Or was hatred there as well?

  “Yes, a curse is on this house,” Mrs. Lewis said. She opened the door, and as she left she muttered as though to herself, but loud enough for Kathleen to hear. “And that curse,” she added, “was what brought you among us.”

  Chapter Seven

  Kathleen survived Dr. Gunn’s treatment for inflammation of the lungs.

  After inhaling the steaming vapor and drinking hot tea, she returned to bed to lie between two rows of hot bricks wrapped in cloth. She perspired. She gasped for air. She wished she had never seen the doctor nor listened to his advice. But then, after a supper of chicken broth, crackers, and warm milk, Clarissa removed the bricks and Kathleen felt a warm glow envelop her.

  She had been purged. Physically the alien substances had drained from her body. Emotionally she found herself ready to begin anew. Her fears and uncertainties of the last few days seemed to have washed away. As she waited for sleep to come she no longer feared, as she had for the last three nights, a recurrence of her dream of death.

  “I’m all right today,” she announced to Clarissa on Friday morning. Her confidence of the night before remained; she was eager to discover what the day would offer. She had not dreamed, the air was still cool, and she had a strange new world to explore. I must wear exactly the right dress, she thought, without knowing why the selection was so important.

  She examined her new dresses hanging in the wardrobe, the muslin, the dimity, the silk, considered and rejected each in turn before she chose the India lawn, a soft gray with yellow lace edging the square neckline and the long sleeves. Standing before the mirror, she ran her hands down her sides and adjusted the narrow black sash. She smiled at the reflection of her dark hair and pale complexion.

  “Captain Worthington asked after you,” Clarissa said as they left the bedroom. Going down the stairs, Kathleen hummed a gay tune. The plight of the unfortunate Charley Ross, supposed victim of wandering gypsies, was forgotten.

  “Delightful,” the Captain said when he found them on the side porch after breakfast. “You both look delightful.” His face was somber and his brown eyes seemed tired. “Come with me, Miss Stuart, let me show you the Estate.” Kathleen nodded while admiring the Captain’s town clothes—the gray jacket, matching trousers, and black boots.

  He paused beside Clarissa. “Won’t you come, too?” he asked.

  “Thank you, no,” Clarissa said without looking up from the knitting in her lap. “I must go on with my work.”

  Kathleen thought she saw the Captain’s mouth tighten as he looked down at Clarissa, but he offered Kathleen his arm without comment. They crossed the lawn and followed a path through the trees. “Your aunt suggested I show you the grounds first, then the house,” he said.

  She stopped. Clarissa again. The Captain looked at her with surprise. “Is something the matter?” he asked. “Are you all right?”

  She felt as she had long before when she waited with high expectations for her father to take her on a promised picnic to the walnut grove, only to find him unable to go because of his condition. His condition? Am I still a child, she asked herself, to need these
evasions? He had had too much to drink. Face the fact. My father was drunk. At least I can be truthful with myself.

  “I’m sorry,” she said to Captain Worthington as she walked on. “I’m fine just daydreaming.” The Captain led the way now, for shrubs crowded in on the path from both sides. When he turned to make sure she followed, he seemed preoccupied and only perfunctorily polite.

  Am I being honest about my feelings toward the Captain? she wondered. Am I deceiving myself in this, too?

  They climbed the steps of the gazebo to an upper deck where Kathleen placed both hands on the railing and looked over the valley. Below her the river narrowed as it curled northward, reminding her of a jester’s cap. At the spot where the cap’s bell would have been the river disappeared in the haze. To her right Storm King Mountain rose in terrace-like formations, heavily wooded except for the outcropping of rock at the summit. The trees near the crest were scraggly and wind-bent.

  As they stood side by side without speaking, Kathleen found her thoughts coming back time and again to the Captain. I know I am jealous of Clarissa, she told herself. I detest this man for what he did, while I resent the attentions he pays another woman. Am I warped in some way? How can I have both feelings at the same time?

  On the way back to the house the Captain took her along a different trail which twisted and turned down a short, steep hill. Halfway to the bottom an unshaven man with a rifle under his arm stepped aside to let them pass. One of the guards, she supposed. She saw Charles nod and look quickly away.

  The path crossed a gully to a field in which countless stumps were all that remained of what must have been a thick woods. Two men walked among the stumps, carrying water buckets suspended from yokes over their shoulders.

  “I’ve ended lumbering on our land,” the Captain said. “We’re replanting with seedlings from the woods.” He kicked a severed root buried in the earth and she watched dust puff into the air. “We have to bring water in or they’ll die. I’ve had enough of death.”