Household

by Stevenson, Florence

  “Use me, Grandfather? I don’t understand.”

  “You are too sensitive... and it will be dangerous, more dangerous than you know, this plan...”

  “Plan?” she repeated, wondering angrily who had told him what they had in mind.

  “None told me...” he whispered. “It was given me to know... a warning from Molly, who loves you, Lucy.”

  His wits were wandering, she decided. Tony had never been able to interpret the words of the banshee. Only she and Juliet could.

  “Please,” he whispered. “You must promise. There’s very little time.”

  “Grandfather...” Tears started to Lucy’s eyes as she fell on her knees beside the bed.

  “The gold,” he urged. “Let me see you take the gold and put it in your pocket. Take it, now.”

  To humor him, she obeyed.

  “Put the knob back in place... else he will know.”

  “He?”

  “Matthais...” Tony whispered. “He waits, and you must promise...” He broke off, staring past her. “Ah, my love, my Felicity, is it you then?”

  “Tony, my dearest, dearest, come.”

  Lucy felt rather than heard the words, but on glancing over her shoulder, she saw the girl, slender like herself, and knew that she resembled her grandmother even more closely than the portrait revealed.

  She shifted her gaze to her grandfather and saw that his eyes were as ardent as those of the young man he had been so many years ago. He held out his arms, and with her heightened vision, Lucy rejoiced at their passionate embrace.

  A second later, Tony lay very still but his lips were yet curved in that tender and welcoming smile.

  ❖

  The Seventh Earl of More had been interred in the crypt for a day and the half of another one when Bob Smith came riding toward the Hold, choosing the same way, had he but known it, that Richard Veringer had come close to a century ago. Passing the battered remains of an ancient gibbet, Bob’s horse reared and snorted, snuffling as his rider soothed and gentled him. Crossing the sagging drawbridge, he urged his stallion into a gallop and a few minutes later dismounted and tied the animal to a nearby post.

  Running up to the front door, he raised the rusty old knocker and let it fall again and again, slamming it against the plate as hard as he could, until the butler, muttering to himself, pulled open the assaulted portal. He started back with a cry which mingled anger and alarm as Bob rushed into the hall.

  “Here, you,” the butler proclaimed, drawing himself up to his full height which unfortunately did not exceed that of Mr. Smith’s five and sixty inches. “Ye can’t come in here as if you was Lord’n Master!”

  “I’ve got to see Miss Lucy,” Bob cried.

  “Miss Lucy’s not receiving.”

  “I tell you, I’ve got to see her!” Bob yelled.

  “And I tell you, you’ll go around to the back door...”

  “What is it, Angus?” Lucy asked from the first landing. The ancient butler gazed up at her apologetically. “This person...” he began loftily.

  “Miss Lucy.” Bob Smith hurried toward the steps as she came down them, looking pale and drained in her black gown. On the landing above her, Mark stood watching, his golden eyes somber.

  Bob said, “They be acomin’ up ’ere, Miss Lucy an’ uh... Mr. Mark.” His glance slid between the two of them. “That Mr. Veringer, ’im wot says ’e’s now the earl an’ owner o’ the castle. ’E’s got ’em, them wot ’angs around the tavern an’ a few o’ the lads wot’s always spoilin’ for a bit o’ mischief. ’E’s got ’em all riled up. ’E says ’e’s goin’ to burn the castle an’ them as lies in the graveyard, miss, as well. ’E says e’s goin’ to put stakes through their ’earts. ’E’s got the carpenter sawin’ up wood for ’em now... an’ the blacksmith’s ’eatin’ up ’is forge to make a silver bullet, same as wot done for your pa, Mr. Mark, only this time it’ll be for you.”

  “But... but that’s madness!” Lucy burst out.

  “An’ so me ’n Jane told ’em, Miss Lucy, but they be all riled up on account of Mr. Veringer ’n wot ’e’s sayin’. Cor, but ’e be a poor lookin’ sort, all bent over’n shakin’ in every limb like ’e ’as the palsy—only ’e says as ’ow ’e were done in by them wot lives in the castle.”

  “It was his own cowardice that did for him,” Mark said contemptuously. “God, I wish they’d let me at him that night.”

  “Shhhh.” Lucy shot a warning glance at him. “You know you don’t mean that.” She turned back to Bob. “When will they be here?” she demanded.

  “Just after the sun goes down. They’ll be goin’ to the crypt first wi’ their stakes. They’re makin’ three o’ ’em. One for the old Lord wot just died.”

  “Damn them!” Mark exploded. “Tony’s no...”

  “Will you help us, Bob?” Lucy demanded briskly.

  “I will that, miss. Wouldn’t be ’ere if I didn’t mean to ’elp ye.”

  “You’d help us even if there were things we had to... remove from the crypt?”

  “I’ll help you, too, Miss Lucy,” quavered the old butler. “I’m not afraid o’ Lord and Lady Veringer, an’ cook’ll lend a hand, too.”

  “Me, too,” Bob said staunchly.

  Lucy regarded them through eyes brightened by her tears. “You know,” she said.

  “Of course they know, Lucy,” Mark said. “And since that information’s shared by most the village, we’d best get to work.”

  ❖

  They stood on a distant tree-covered hill but one that commanded an excellent view of the castle, watching the small torch lit procession cross the bridge that spanned the moat. Lucy leaned against Mark, who had slipped an arm around her waist. Juliet and Colin were also side by side and, above them, a tree shook violently, even though there was very little wind. A short distance away from them, Bob Smith and Jane Warren sat, arms clasping their knees. Stacked beside them were a pile of canvases taken from the portrait gallery. Those and whatever garments could be piled into three large stout trunks were all that had been removed from the castle. Also with them were two coffins from the crypt and a bag of stones dug from the graveyard.

  The small procession went into the castle, and in what seemed a very few minutes, the windows of the great edifice gleamed as red as if they were mirroring the rays of the dying sun.

  Above the watchers on the hill a high wind seemed to hurl itself toward the Hold, its shriek even louder than that of Molly and her cat. To Lucy, it sounded like a dirge, but to the Old Lord, who had once been called Richard Veringer, its strident cadences issued from the throat of Erlina Bell.

  Two

  The complications attendant on traveling to Liverpool and boarding the steamship Eastern Queen were augmented by the fact that Bob Smith and his Jane could not leave on the same ship after all. Due to the illness of Jane’s mother, they had to postpone their wedding to a later date. Consequently most of the arrangements for train and ship were handled by Mark and Lucy. Fortunately, this kept them from grieving too deeply over the demise of Tony and the razing of their ancestral castle.

  Since it was not possible to take all the portraits, Lucy left a number of them in storage against the day when they might return, or so she told herself. Though they had booked a oneway passage, it was necessary to think of returning, otherwise the idea of leaving the Hold and England, too, would be overwhelming. Such thoughts had to be given short shrift as they prepared to embark.

  The disposal of the two coffins presented a real problem. The man who booked the passage was definitely reluctant to take them aboard.

  “I don’t know what the passengers’d say, Miss Veringer, if they was to know there was two bodies goin’ wi’ ’em.” He shook his head. “There’s enough o’ ’em as is queasy to begin with.”

  Fortunately, he was not proof against Lucy’s sorrowful countenance and the sparkle of tears in her gentian blue eyes, as she feelingly spoke of her dearest aunt and uncle’s final wish to be buried in the New Wo
rld they had left only to be felled in England by a virulent attack of the grippe.

  Much to the relief of herself and especially Mark, the steamer would sail with the new moon, docking in Boston a scant ten days later, well in advance of the full moon. Still, when she finally stood with Mark on deck watching the shores of England recede, she was much less easy in her mind than she had hoped. Much as she did not want to anticipate trouble, she was thinking of her pending debut as a medium, and she was definitely nervous.

  “No need to be.”

  Lucy tensed and then smiled. Implicit in her great-grandfather’s reasoning was his promise that he would aid her. He had spoken vaguely about sources, but he had suggested that his acquaintance with the departed was wide, at least in England. He saw no reason why that should not hold true in America as well. Though comforted, she still wished that Tony might have added his own reassurances.

  “Gone.”

  She nodded sympathetically, knowing that the Old Lord mourned his son and had wistfully hoped he might remain earthbound, too. But Tony suffered enough in life, Lucy thought suddenly, remembering the look of happiness on his face when the wraith which had been Felicity Veringer entered his room. She had looked so young, no more than a girl. She had been young when she died bearing Felix. It was sad to die without ever knowing your child, sad to die leaving behind you another loved one and sad, too, for the bereaved husband. Tony had never wanted to marry again or even contemplated such a step, she knew. Felicity had been the love of his life—but Felix, the son he had also loved deeply, had been the bane of his existence.

  “You made up for everything, Lucy,” he had often said. And he had made up to her for the lack of father and mother, too. The only real sorrow she had ever known was his passing. She almost, wished... no, she did not want him to return! He was freed from the curse at last and gone with Felicity, who had not escaped it either. And what of herself? Save for Tony’s passing, she had been very happy, at least since the departure of her grandmother. But what of the future?

  She stared at the receding shore still glowing brightly in the summer sunshine, the days lasting long at this time of year. The port was not a particularly lovely sight, but if she had been looking at the Hold... She bit her lip. To think of that, as she had last seen it, a twisted mass of burnt wood and fallen stones with not a single tower remaining, was appalling. She brushed a hand across her eyes.

  “Homesick already, miss?”

  Lucy, looked up, saw that Mark was no longer beside her. In his place was a tall fair young man with dark blue eyes and a sweep of dark wavy hair. He had a long face, clean shaven, which she liked. His cheekbones were high and a jutting nose had a bump in the middle, as if it might have been broken. She also liked his mouth which was neither thin nor full but suggested strength as did his square, cleft chin. If his features were not classic, they were still handsome. Strangely enough, Lucy felt as if she had known him for a long time, as if she was meeting an old friend.

  She smiled up at him, saying, “I’m not really homesick, sir. I...” She paused in consternation. She had been about to tell him that she really never had a home, which was ridiculous since she had been born in the Hold and had lived there all her life—but by the bounty of others, she realized. Though her grandfather might have disputed that strongly as well as her great-grandfather, had he been there, which fortunately he was not, she had been an unexpected visitor. She had been dropped from the loins of betrayed Mary Crowell as Matthais Veringer had been only too eager to point out.

  The man at her side said, “But you are British, are you not?”

  “Indeed, yes,” she assented, and hearing a certain something in his tone, she added, “But you’re not.”

  “No, ma’am, I’m American, born and bred. Boston’s my home port. Are you bound for Boston?”

  “Most assuredly, sir.”

  “I like the way you said that, as if you had more than a mere visit in mind.”

  “Yes, it will be more than a visit, sir.”

  “Lucy!” Mark had stepped to her side again. He put a possessive hand on her arm, his golden gaze cool as he looked quizzically at the stranger, whom she realized all at once was a stranger. She had not felt that way when they were talking. She had actually regarded him as a friend. Meeting Mark’s disapproving stare, she said, “This gentleman’s from Boston, Cousin Mark.”

  Mark looked startled, as well he might since she had never before addressed him in so formal a manner. “Oh? And whom might I have the pleasure of addressing?” he demanded, his tone as chill as his glance.

  “Swithin Blake,” the American replied in tones quite as cold as those of Mark. “And you, sir?”

  “Marcus Driscoll.”

  “And you?” Mr. Blake’s blue eyes rested appreciatively upon Lucy’s face.

  “I am Lucy Veringer,” she said quickly.

  “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Veringer.” Mr. Blake smiled and bowed. “And yours, too, Mr. Driscoll,” he said in less enthusiastic tones.

  “Your servant, sir.” Mark inclined his head, adding peremptorily, “Lucy, you are needed below.”

  “Am I?” Distress filled her. Had something gone amiss wit the coffins? Had they opened when they were put into the hold? A glance at Mark’s face told her nothing. “Oh, I must go,” she said nervously.

  “I do hope we will meet again, Miss Veringer.” Swithin Blake’s eyes were eager.

  “I hope so, too.” She spoke without thinking and felt Mark’s hand tighten on her arm. “I meant...” She blushed.

  “I am in hopes that you meant exactly what you said, Miss Veringer,” Mr. Blake replied and bowed.

  ❖

  In the confines of her cabin, Lucy listened to a stern lecture on the inadvisability of conversing with strangers, particularly of the masculine persuasion. She had never seen Mark’s golden eyes so angry. There was almost a snarl in his voice as he described and denounced her lack of decorum in addressing someone to whom she had never been properly introduced.

  She listened abashedly, her eyes downcast, well-aware that she deserved her scolding, yet resenting it, too. However, by the time he had stalked out of the cabin, she had come to her senses. She never should have spoken so readily to Mr. Swithin Blake. She had quite forgotten her situation and her responsibilities. It behooved her to remember that she was not like other young women. She was a member of a household that contained among its immediate members, a werewolf, two vampires, a ghost, a banshee and a phantom cat. Much as she adored them all, she was quite sure that a stranger, even a handsome young man with the most beautiful dark blue eyes, who had looked at her in a way that had loosed flocks of butterflies in her chest and other areas, would not welcome so unusual a set of in-laws. She blushed rosily, wondering why she should think of marriage in connection with someone she had just met and whom unfortunately she must make every effort to avoid during the days it took the Eastern Queen to steam across the Atlantic.

  Hard on that decision, she heard a most melancholy wail and accompanying it an affronted screech. Obviously, Molly and Grimalkin were in agreement with her, she thought dolefully, but on listening more closely, she was puzzled. Molly sounded very strange, as did Grimalkin. Rather than issuing warnings, they both seemed to be complaining. In another moment, she was sure she knew why. Not only had they never been so far from the “auld sod” but they were on shipboard and the motion of the boat was not agreeing with them.

  ❖

  “Oh, dear, it is so boring,” Juliet muttered to Colin as they stood at the railing looking up at a midnight sky etched with stars seen through a gossamer veiling of mist.

  “Boring,” he repeated automatically. In his mind, he was garnering the imagery of the night for the canvas he was contemplating.

  “Do you not find it so?” she asked. “Visiting them in their cabins while they sleep and never having so much as a proper conversation?”

  He fixed a stern eye on his sister. “You are developing in
to an incorrigible flirt,” he chided. “I thought we’d agreed...”

  “I agree with our agreement,” she assured him, “but I cannot help it if I prefer the preliminaries.” She tossed her head. “And most of them snore. They also have bad breath. I never notice that when they’re awake.”

  “I never look a gift horse in the mouth,” Colin said pointedly. He smiled and his fangs gleamed white in the uncertain moonlight.

  “Oh, dear, are you going?” Juliet inquired disappointedly.

  “I fear I must, my darling.”

  “I shouldn’t have talked about it, then you wouldn’t have become thirsty.” She spoke to the empty air. Her brother had gone.

  Juliet pouted and stared down at the waves. They were touched with phosphoresence and very beautiful, but though she might have admired the sight at another time, talking about it had also made her thirsty. She touched her jutting fangs with the tip of her tongue and wondered if the Captain had retired yet. He was a big man, and the veins in his neck were large and inviting. She would not take much from him though. It would not do to have the man at the helm incapacitated.

  “Might I ask who you are?” inquired a stern voice to her left.

  Juliet turned quickly and saw a tall young officer frowning at her. Mindful of her teeth, she gave him a small closed smile. “Good evening, sir,” she said lightly.

  His eyes widened as she knew they would once he glimpsed her moonlight-tinted face. Though she had not seen her own features since her transition, Colin had often sketched them for her, and she was well-aware of their effect upon men. He, she noted, was extremely good-looking. His hair was a dark auburn and his eyes an entrancing green. Even his uniform was most becoming. He had, she recalled, asked her a question. “It’s a lovely night, isn’t it?” she inquired softly.

  “That is no answer!” His stern, searching glance did not waver.

  “My name is Juliet,” she murmured.

  “Juliet what?” he snapped.

  She gazed at him delightedly. He was going to prove difficult. In spite of the fact that she and Colin had agreed, in fact sworn, not to arouse suspicions by any overt advances, it was quite impossible for her to resist a challenge. And he, the darling boy, was making such a determined effort to resist her.