“You’d better leave that to me,” Lucy said firmly. “You’d send him off into another fit.”
“I know,” Juliet replied.
It was unfortunate that Matthais, coming out of a long swoon, should hear the protracted howl that arose from the depths of the castle. It was a melancholy sound, particularly horrifying because it combined the wolfish with the human cry and, to the uninitiated, it brought with it a primeval terror especially when, as on this occasion, it was accompanied by low, ferocious snarls.
Listening to poor Mark, Lucy felt only pity for him, trapped in his lupine shape and locked in the cellar. At the same time, she wondered what had set him off. It was seldom that he sounded so loud or, she suddenly realized, so near. Had he managed to break his bonds or had someone freed him? Even as that queasy conjecture crossed her mind, she heard a snuffling at the door while beside her, a voice filled with terror gasped, “In the name of Jesus, what is that?” Unfortunately, Matthais’ ill-advised exhortation brought another louder howl. Coupled with it was a determined scratching on the door.
“There... there’s a dog out there,” Matthais quavered. “A f-ferocious d-dog... from the sound of it.”
“Not a dog, Cousin Matthais.” Juliet suddenly appeared at his bedside. “Just our Cousin Mark. He has spells. However, my father will subdue him.” She paused and directed an impish look toward Lucy. “Gracious, I do believe he’s fainted again.”
❖
Matthais Veringer left the Hold at the same time that the sun cast its first rays through the window. To Lucy, standing beside an embarrassed Tony in the great hall, he seemed entirely different from the smug, self-satisfied young man who had arrived yesterday. He appeared to have aged at least ten years and despite her distress over the events of the previous evening, Lucy could only be interested in the fact that something she had believed to be entirely apochryphal had proved accurate. A narrow white streak like the stripe in a skunk’s back ran down the center of Matthais’ Veringer’s glossy locks. He was also pale and haggard. The description so beloved of contemporary novelists, “trembling in every limb,” could be applied to him. Indeed, as he reached the door, he was obliged to steady himself against it.
From his tone of voice, however, it was obvious that his anger equaled his terror. “I’ll not thank you for your hospitality, my Lord,” he said, his eyes avoiding Lucy. Evidently he was all too aware of the spectacle he had made of himself. “I will tell you, however, that... that when this moldering pile becomes my property, I shall have it razed to the ground and a proper dwelling built. As for some of its inmates...” He shrieked as the door suddenly swung back, throwing him to the floor. A chill wind went through the hall causing the chandelier to swing back and forth, and then the door slammed.
Matthais clambered to his feet. Clutching the doorknob with trembling hands, he wrenched the door open and dashed out, his loud screams resounding in their ears. Caught between regret and laughter, Lucy turned to Tony only to find that he had quietly slipped to the floor in a faint.
“Grandfather!” She bent over him, a hand to his heart. It was still beating, but in that same moment, a great howl rang through the hall. Mingled with it was the screeching of a cat. Molly and her pet were outdoing themselves this time.
❖
“I just swept out another huge load o’ ’em, Miss Lucy,” Betsy, one of the maids, said. She looked at her with wide eyes. “Must’ve been fifty o’ the pesky things, toes turned up’n dead as doornails, they was, with nobody settin’ out traps or poison, not that I know of.”
Standing just beyond the door to her grandfather’s chamber, Lucy said, “It does seem strange.” She hoped that she had injected enough surprise into her response.
“Very strange, Miss Lucy.” Betsy shivered. “Must’ve been ‘bout a hundred mice in two days. Somethin’s doin’ for ’em,” she said darkly. Bobbing a curtsy, she went in to relieve Lucy at Tony’s bedside.
Hurrying down the stairs, Lucy winced as she heard Molly on the battlements and Grimalkin chasing up and down the hall in full screech. This was one of the times when she really regretted her psychic sensitivity. She had never known Molly to utter such loud, sustained wails and, of course, it was Grimalkin’s howling that accounted for the heart failure that had felled so many of the castle’s rodent population. It was proving to be a truly vicious circle, for their deaths served to accentuate that fiery feline’s frustration at seeing so many savory mouthfuls going to waste—with the result that he howled the louder and slew more.
She had no doubt as to the reasons behind the banshee’s increased efforts. Tony was dying, and added to that tragedy was the plight of the remaining household. She was quite sure that the news of his impending demise had spread through the village and equally sure that Matthais was coiled like a serpent, awaiting the moment when he could slither back to the Hold and strike at its inmates. She doubted that any of them would be allowed to remain an instant after the burial of her grandfather. And where on earth could they go? They needed an estate comparable to the Hold and preferably with its own burial ground. Unfortunately, there was no money to purchase such a property. Due to the strain her father had put on the Hold, all the land that could be legally sold had gone. The rest was entailed. It was a problem that, as yet, had no solution.
She came outside. It was a lovely night. The sky was encrusted with stars and the waning moon was reflected in the still waters of the moat. The great old trees were illumined by that chill radiance, and her ears were filled with the sounds of the night. Dolefully she wondered how many more nights she would be able to stand here; not many, she was sure of that. The Old Lord, who often accompanied her on these strolls, was in his son’s room. She had felt his grief. Mark was still recovering from the strain of the last two days.
Had it only been two days since Matthais Veringer had gone screaming forth from the Hold? Picturing his ignominious departure in her mind’s eye, she wished that Juliet and Colin had not seen fit to take up their figurative cudgels in her behalf, wishing even more that one of those cudgels had not been poor Mark, dragged out of the cellar in his lupine shape. Futile as they had seemed at the time, she found herself dwelling more and more on Matthais’ threats. She had a distinct feeling that he was planning something, and she trusted her feelings.
“Lucy...” Juliet called.
Lucy started. Turning, she saw her great-aunt gracefully gliding across the grass. She was clad in a long dark cloak and was smiling happily. Juliet was usually smiling, Lucy mused. In the years since her transition, she seemed to grow more and more light-hearted, she and Colin, too. Sometimes Lucy was depressed by their gaiety. There was, she thought, something soulless in it.
Judging from her grandfather’s recollections, they had been very different in the old days. He had told her about Colin’s pathetic letter and last request as well as his own inability to honor it.
“I had every intention of obeying but once I saw them lying in their coffins, both looking so beautiful and so alive, as if, indeed they had only just gone to sleep, I could not pound the stakes into their hearts,” he had told her with that old agony coloring his tone. He had added firmly and not regretfully, “In any form, they are still my kin—and I love them.”
Yet, in not complying, he had condemned them to the dark realms of the undead. There had been a bitter confrontation between Colin and his brother, after Colin had awakened in his tomb. However that anger had been long forgotten. Lucy was quite sure that he enjoyed his unnatural existence, and though neither had ever discussed it with her, she was equally sure that Colin and Juliet were no longer repelled by the means that must be employed were they to sustain themselves. Still, to give credit where credit was certainly due, they did not seek their prey in the immediate vicinity—only occasionally. They were away for months and even years. Through the help of various individuals hypnotically pressed into their service as well as through their own heightened ingenuity and the shape-shifting that came natural
ly to vampires, they had gotten their traveling arrangements down to a fine art.
“Lucy.” Juliet stepped purposefully to her side. She appeared to be both pleased and excited. “I have had a revelation!”
“A revelation?” Lucy echoed.
“Yes!” Juliet’s moon-illumined eyes gleamed. “I think we must all go to Boston. I am sure Colin will agree, once he returns.”
“Boston?” Lucy stared at her in some consternation. “I didn’t know we had connections in Lincolnshire!”
“Not Boston here. I am speaking about Boston in Massachusetts, which is in America. Judging from what Bob Smith told Jane Warren, while they were making love in the cemetery tonight, it’s just the place for us!”
“Boston? America? Why?” Lucy stared at Juliet, wondering if she were hearing right.
“Of course, you are, silly.” Juliet answered that unspoken thought. “It’s just the place for all of us. Now listen and don’t interrupt. I haven’t been out yet, and I must go very soon.”
“Out” being a euphemism for activities neither Juliet nor Colin ever described in detail, Lucy said quickly, “Tell me.”
As Juliet launched into one of the lively accounts that had kept her entertained all her life, Lucy marveled at the vivid word pictures she painted. Words came as easily to her lips as colors to her brother’s brush. She would have been a marvelous actress.
Lucy could almost see her, waking in the crypt and hearing Bob Smith’s young, eager voice. “I’m sorry I must meet you ’ere, love, but given your family...”
“I’m not afraid of ghosts, Bob,” Jane said staunchly. “Better than my sisters, who’d be rushin’ to Pa, tellin’ on me. They just live to do that.” She paused, adding, “They do say this place is haunted.”
He laughed merrily. “So’s the whole o’ Boston for that matter ’n you’ll find a lot o’ the people that live there mucking about in graveyards just to practice.”
“Practicc what?”
“Conjurin’ up the dead. Mediums, you know.”
“No, I don’t know. What’s a medium?”
“They communicate with the dear departed. That’s what they call ’em—the spirits, I mean. They have circles ’n they make lots of money. Seems everybody in Boston’s out to talk to their dead grandfather—college professors, newspapermen. ’Tisn’t a day don’t pass that there’s not somethin’ in the newspapers about it.”
“Wot’s a circle,” Jane had wanted to know.
“That’s what they call the group—sittin’ an’ ’oldin’ ’ands in a circle while the medium supposedly picks up on their energy ’n brings ’em messages from them wot ’as passed over. They don’t never say ‘died’ no more. They’ve gone ’n passed over, see.”
“I don’t see an’ I don’t want to see,” Jane said firmly. “Wouldn’t get me tryin’ to talk to anyone wot’s dead.”
“Me neither.”
The conversation had shifted to topics more felicitous to both parties, but Juliet had heard enough. “Lucy,” she said eagerly now, “you could do it—communicate, I mean.”
“I couldn’t,” Lucy contradicted. “I mean I...”
“Of course, you could,” Juliet said bracingly. “And father would help, I know it.”
“Help?” Lucy asked dubiously.
“He must have a wide acquaintance among the dear departed.” Juliet giggled, then sobered. “I hope I have given you something to consider, Lucy. After all we must go somewhere... and meanwhile, I will leave you.”
❖
The thought of going to Boston had seemed totally mad at first but the more Lucy pondered Juliet’s suggestion, the more it appealed to her. A city where the supernatural was not only tolerated but actually esteemed offered limitless possibilities, especially for the five remaining members of the family. They only needed a house ancient enough to please the Old Lord and big enough to suit the special needs of her other relatives. A subsequent conversation with Juliet had elicited the information that she and Colin would be perfectly satisfied with a large cellar, one that could be divided between them and Mark. Of course, they would also need additional chambers on a higher floor, to accomodate Colin’s painting equipment and Juliet’s mammoth wardrobe.
Though she knew little about America, the idea of Boston, first settled in the seventeenth century, appealed to Lucy. It remained for her to seek out Bob Smith, the butcher’s son, whom she knew. As a boy, he had been briefly employed as a groom at the Hold. Lucy had gone riding with him on several occasions, but she had not seen him in three years.
Three days after her conversation with Juliet and on her way to the butcher’s shop, Lucy was fortunate enough to meet Bob coming out. She experienced a shock on seeing him. Time had certainly wrought changes in the rather shy lad of 19 she remembered. At 22, he was self-confident to the point of brashness. He was also very nattily dressed, but seeing her he flushed as easily as he had when saddling her horse for her.
“Well, Miss Lucy,” he said, his admiring gaze on her face, “I’d ’ardley ’ave known ye. ’Aven’t you grown up, though!”
“Not high enough,” she said wryly. Her height, which was only two inches above five feet, was a sore point with her.
“’Igh enough for anyone wi’ eyes in ’is ’ead,” he responded and flushed. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Miss Lucy.”
“Please,” she said, “I am complimented. But you’ve been in America, have you not?”
“Yes, Miss Lucy, I ’ave. Boston. It’s a fine place, I tell you.”
“And will you return?”
“Yes, ma’am, we’ll be goin’ back.” A proud smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Me ’n Jane Gordon, we’re goin’ to get married an’ leave on the Eastern Queen come month’s end.”
After she had congratulated him, Lucy said, “You will be settling in Boston?”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s a great little city. I’ve got me a job there, workin’ in the livery stables. I’m doin’ well. One o’ these days—but I shouldn’t be talkin’ ’bout that—but, well, America’s a place where a man don’t need to stay in a rut. ’E can move a’ead without folks puttin’ ’im in ’is place.”
“So I’ve heard. Though I expect you’d get ahead anywhere, Bob.”
“It’s good o’ you to say so, Miss Lucy. But America, it’s different. It’s for me.”
“I suppose everything’s new in Boston. Houses and...”
“Oh, no, ma’am,” he interrupted. “There’s old and there’s new, plenty o’ both when it comes to ’ouses.”
“And the people, are they congenial?”
“They are that, ma’am.”
“I understand that there’s some interest in the... spiritualist movement?”
Bob’s eyes, which were big and round, grew bigger and rounder. “D’you mean to say you’ve ’eard about that all the way over ’ere?”
Lucy blushed. “I’ve heard something of the sort.”
“Well, you’re right, ma’am. ’Tisn’t only Boston. It’s all over the bloomin’ country but it’s Boston where I live and they’re set on it there. Professors, doctors, scientists even.” By the time Lucy returned to the Hold, she was just as excited as Juliet had been. Judging from what Bob had told her, Boston did seem like the ideal place for them. It lay across the seas in America. Erlina Bell had predicted a long, hard way before they reached their final resting place... and did not Boston fill those requirements? The fact that they would be traveling upon the ocean rather than the roads of the world did not weigh with her; it was distance that mattered. And the distance between Northumberland and Liverpool was also considerable. Furthermore, no one would know about them in America, no one except Bob Smith and his bride and they were friends.
Her enthusiasm was a trifle dimmed by the time she presented the idea to Mark and the Old Lord. It was a radical change, and she expected an argument, but amazingly Mark agreed that it was a good idea, and after a few door slammings and window rattlings, so did the Old Lord. Hi
s situation had not robbed him of a sense of adventure. As he confided to Lucy, the idea of visiting the colonies had always appealed to him, and not even her reminder that the colonies had been a country for the last 75 years dimmed his anticipation.
Lucy, resuming her vigil by Tony’s bed on the evening after the vote had been taken, looked regretfully at her grandfather. It would be better not to tell him of their plans. He loved the Hold.
“Lucy...”
She tensed, looking at him anxiously. He had been sleeping, she thought, but now his eyes were open and fixed on her. “Lucy, my child...” He spoke with difficulty.
“Grandfather, dearest.” She moved nearer the bed, bending over him. “What may I fetch for you?”
“Nothing... but my father’s not with us now and I... wish to... to tell you. Do not persist in your... scheme. Leave the household. Go far away and make your own life. You should not be accursed, you who have done nothing but good. ’Twas wrong of me to let you remain. I should have sent you to... another place... another country.”
“I could never have left you, Grandfather.” She took his hand, holding it tightly, her distress increasing because his flesh was so cold even though the room was passing warm.
“Child, you must. I... I fear for you and I... beg you to leave while you may.” He eased his hand from her grasp and pointed a shaking finger. “See... the bedpost.”
“The bedpost,” she repeated, thinking he must be wandering in his mind. “What of the bedpost, Grandfather?”
“The one on the left... the knob unscrews. Open it now and take what you find inside.”
“But...”
“Do as I say,” he said in a stronger voice. “Use both hands.”
Since it was better to humor him, Lucy rose and put both her little hands around the left knob. To her amazement, it moved under her fingers. Beneath it was a hollow space filled with old gold coins. There seemed to be quite a few of them. She looked at her grandfather in amazement.
“I collected them as a lad... there are angels and sovereigns. They are worth quite a lot by now. I want you to take them for yourself, my Lucy, and go far, far away. Do not let them use you. It’s not fair.”
Household Page 17
