Household

by Stevenson, Florence

  “We can count on your presence then, Miss Blake?” Mr. Grenfall asked eagerly.

  “Yes, I will be there.”

  “I am delighted. We do want to attract new members, you know.”

  “I can understand that. However, I must warn you that you have a great deal of competition. There’s Thoreau Society, a Johnson Circle and a Chronicle Group, the last being devoted to collecting items about Marblehead’s Revolutionary past.”

  “I can imagine that the particular society must be flourishing in this year of 1881.”

  “It is, sir. We will commemorate the British surrender with a parade later in the summer.”

  “I hope I will be present to see it. Now, as to my advertisement...”

  “Oh, yes, the copy.” Livia felt her cheeks grow warm. She had almost forgotten his main purpose in coming to see her, and that was unusual. It was also confusing and annoying as well. Her manner was deliberately distant, even brusque when she finally showed him out of her office.

  ❖

  Though the rest of Wednesday was hectic and though Livia was certainly weary by the time she closed the door of what had once been her father’s law offices until his retirement two years back, she was more restless than was her wont. She found herself thinking about Mr. Grenfall. She actually looked forward to covering the meeting on Friday, even though she wondered who had been unkind enough to suggest that he and his Seventh Circle take over the Pendergrass mansion, a place that had the reputation of being haunted, which of course was ridiculous.

  However some very unsavory events had taken place there. It had been built by Nathaniel Pendergrass, a self-made millionaire, grown rich on munitions during the Civil War. Some 11 years ago, he had inexplicably killed his wife, his daughter, his son-in-law and himself. The rumors surrounding the murders and suicide had been ugly, suggesting that the old man had reason to suspect his wife and son-in-law were attracted to each other. It was also said that he, himself, had a most unfatherly feeling for his daughter.

  Livia’s lip curled. Even if the rumors had some basis in fact, she loathed the idea of the gossip. She had suffered enough from that herself. She had never forgotten the time when at the behest of Eliza Hawley, who was like an aunt to her, she had been bidden to stay with her and her large family in Boston.

  Her father had been reluctant to let her go. Passing the library where they were arguing, Livia had found the door ajar. She remained to listen and had heard her father saying something about Lucy, the mother she had never known.

  Aunt Eliza had replied soothingly, “That’s an old story now, Swithin, and Livia doesn’t resemble dearest Lucy in the slightest. I never saw two human beings less alike. Gracious, she’s nearly as tall as you. She’s dark and her eyes... Lucy’s eyes were deeply blue and she had blonde hair and she was such a tiny little thing. Besides, you’ve been away from Boston long enough for people’s memories to dim. After all, no one, outside the immediate group, actually knows anything. It’s all conjecture and rumor.”

  “But...”

  “Furthermore, I am of the opinion that you should have told Livia about Lucy.”

  “I have told her all she needs to know,” he had responded firmly.

  Though she had been intensely curious, Livia had managed to keep from questioning her father, mainly because mentions of her late mother depressed him and she hated to see him so unhappy.

  Consequently she had gone to Boston to stay in her aunt Eliza’s noisy household, where her nine children were always at loggerheads and where their parents also spent a great deal of their time arguing.

  She smiled and then frowned at an old, odd recollection. Orin Hawley, Aunt Eliza’s oldest son, who was only three months younger than Livia, had heard his parents quarreling and told her about it. “Papa didn’t like your mother, but Mama does. She defended her when Papa said she was a fake who probably used some form of hypnosis on everyone who was there that afternoon when everything happened.”

  “What happened?” Livia had demanded.

  “I don’t know, but Mama got awfully cross and said that your mother was an angel in heaven, and then she said something about considering everything that took place, she wished she had been hypnotized and what’s more she wished she might have remained in a trance all these years rather than experience the sort of life she was leading now! And then Papa hit her and she hit him back and they had a big fight. And then Papa had a black eye and Mama had a swollen cheek and then they both cried and kissed each other a lot and Mama became fat.”

  “She became fat?” Livia had been unable to understand that aspect of the matter.

  “She always becomes fat after a big quarrel. I mean not right away but a few months later—and that time Eva was born. The next time they fought Jimmy was born.”

  Livia always remembered that conversation with Orin because in those days she believed that Eliza’s children had been produced because she and her husband quarreled so much. Orin believed it, too.

  Livia chuckled. Orin knew differently now that he had wife and two children of his own. She also knew why his parents had quarreled over her mother. She had been a famous medium and Aunt Eliza believed in her so-called powers while Uncle Stephen did not.

  She had become aware of Lucy Blake’s reputation during that visit to Boston in her eighteenth year. They had gone to the theater and someone had said quite loudly. “That girl with Eliza Hawley, she’s Lucy Blake’s daughter.”

  “The medium, you mean?” had been the equally loud and surprised response.

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, I never. She doesn’t look anything like her. Are you sure?”

  “As I’m standing here. They live in Marblehead now, she and her father.”

  Aunt Eliza had been very aware of this far-from-quiet exchange. Afterwards, she had told a curious Livia a little about Lucy’s remarkable séances.

  Livia bit her lip. Despite the great furor over Spiritualism in Boston with such well-known men as the psychologist William James in the forefront of the investigation, Livia was secretly and deeply embarrassed over her mother’s connection with the movement. In her opinion, it was composed of wishful thinkers on the one hand, magicians and confidence men on the other. The fact that her father so rarely mentioned his brief marriage was evidence to Livia that he shared her opinion.

  She often wondered why he had never married again or, as far as she could tell, ever become interested in another woman. Not that she minded that. She adored her father and would have hated a stepmother coming to possibly destroy their relationship as had happened when Thomas Saunders, her best friend’s father, had married again. Livia frowned. Her father was ill and spent a great deal of time in his room these days, explaining that Dr. Parsons thought he needed rest, something corroborated by the physician.

  She sometimes wondered if the doctor were telling her the whole truth about his state of health. She did not want to dwell on that. It was better to think of something more pleasant such as Mr. Septimus Grenfall, newly arrived in Marblehead, who was going to advertise in the Mercury and who had asked her to cover his meeting on Friday, two days away, rather two nights, when she wished...

  She brought herself up short, amazed at the direction in which her thoughts were speeding. She had met the man for the first time that afternoon. They had spent less than half an hour together, and she was building upon this brief episode like... like Marian Sedley. Marian was inclined to picture every young man with whom she came in contact, standing up before the minister, exchanging binding vows with her.

  Mr. Grenfall had been attractive and was older than she. Livia judged him to be about 29 or possibly 30. Mr. Cox was six months younger than she—not that that would have made any difference had she been attracted to him, which she was not. Maggie Iler, another good friend, had married a man three years her junior—but why was the thought of marriage flitting through her mind? Livia’s cheeks burned as she hurried up the stairs to dress for dinner.

  �
�

  Shortly before she was to meet Mr. Grenfall, Swithin Blake asked Livia what she was covering that night.

  “A literary society, a new one called The Seventh Circle,” she replied.

  “The Seventh Circle?” he asked. “That’s a rather odd name for such an endeavor. A circle, did you say?” He frowned and ran a nervous hand through his white hair.

  She nodded. “I do not know what it signifies.”

  “And you’re going alone with the young man?”

  “Yes, neither Emily nor Marian could come. Emily’s in a dither over her wedding.”

  “Shouldn’t you have another friend with you?”

  “Oh, Papa, you are sounding just like Jack. This is an assignment, and Mr. Grenfall is most eager to be mentioned in our Social Notes—and, as I told you, he is an advertiser. I do not think he’ll attempt to drive me to some lonely spot and have his way with me.”

  “You are a very beautiful young woman,” he said dubiously.

  “I am complimented, Papa, but Mr. Grenfall is more eager for pupils than conquests, I am sure.”

  He fastened an anxious look on her face. “Mr. Cox was most attracted to you, Livia. He was truly disappointed that you could not return his affection.”

  “I know that you’re disappointed, too, Papa, but I believe you should accustom yourself to the possibility that your daughter may be an old maid or, in words I prefer, a single woman.”

  His frown spread from his faded blue eyes to his heavily lined forehead. “I do not like to contemplate such a possibility, my dear. Before I go, I hope to see you happily married. Aside from the loneliness you are bound to experience as you grow older, you would be missing out on one of the most gratifying, most beautiful relationships life has to offer.”

  “Oh, Papa.” Livia hugged him. “I am so sorry that mother did not live longer.”

  It was a moment before he replied. “I wish you might have known Lucy. She was one of the sweetest women alive, self-sacrificing, noble...” He paused. “I have been thinking about her a great deal of late. I wish she’d been here to watch over you.”

  “You’ve been here, Papa.” Livia blinked away tears she did not want him to see. “That is quite enough for me.”

  “You’ve been a great joy to me, my Livia, but I won’t always be here. We must be realistic. I do not imagine my heart will last much longer. And I have not been...”

  “Oh, please,” she protested, putting her hand over his mouth. “Let’s not talk about these things.”

  “Dearest, we must call a spade a spade. Before I go, I should like to feel that you are creditably established. Young Cox...”

  “Will have to be creditably established with some other girl, Papa.”

  “You’ve had so many offers, my dear.”

  “I know. Would you want me to marry just to be married, Papa?”

  “No, of course not, but...”

  Reading concern in his eyes, she felt it necessary to reassure him. “If the right man were to come into my life, I would most certainly accept his offer, but I would need to respect as well as love him.”

  “You told me that you respected young Cox.”

  “But I did not love him,” she said patiently.

  “If you knew him better, allowed yourself to know him better...”

  “If I knew him forever, it would make no difference in my feelings about him. You yourself have always stressed the fact that one must be honest with oneself.”

  “And now I am hoist on my own petard,” he said with a whimsical smile. He added, “Please come home early. I still do not like the idea of you going off with someone you do not know.”

  “Papa, I am sure your fears will be laid to rest when you meet him. He is well-spoken and,” her eyes lighted, “don’t forget he has advertised with us. I am in hopes that these inserts will encourage other gentlemen to place ads. If we had enough advertising, the paper could become self-supporting. What do you say to that?”

  “I say don’t count your chickens.”

  “Just like a canny New Englander,” she teased, hugging him again.

  ❖

  Twenty minutes later, seated in Mr. Grenfall’s trap, Livia was pleased. She had been pretty sure that her father’s objections would be put aside once he met Mr. Grenfall. He had seemed to like him on sight. He had also been intrigued by his name. “Septimus?” he had inquired. “Are you a seventh child, then?”

  “The seventh son of a seventh son,” Mr. Grenfall had replied.

  “Ah, your family runs to boys, then?”

  “It does, sir. Girls, too. I have six brothers and four sisters.”

  “That must have made for a lively home atmosphere.”

  “Indeed it did, sir.”

  “I was an only child and my wife, too, but I must not detain you.”

  “I hope we’ll soon meet again, sir.”

  “You must come to dinner one night.”

  Thinking of that conversation, Livia was surprised. Generally her father was much more reserved, but it was easy to see that he had formed an instant liking to Mr. Grenfall. She was glad of that, for now he would not worry any more. Though he had long been accustomed to her habit of striding around town without even a girl friend to accompany her, the distance between their house and the Pendergrass mansion was considerable.

  “Miss Blake,” Mr. Grenfall said, breaking the small silence that had fallen between them, “I am really delighted that you will be with us this evening.”

  “I have been looking forward to it,” she said, adding quickly, “I am always interested in new literary societies.”

  “But we are not new—except to Marblehead.”

  “I understand, but it is new to me. What is the significance of its name, The Seventh Circle?”

  “Circle is another name for our group and seven refers to our original membership. Of course we have expanded, but the name stuck.”

  “That’s understandable. How many are in your group now?”

  “Twelve. We are about to initiate a thirteenth. I hope you aren’t superstitious.”

  “Heavens, no,” Livia assured him. “I pride myself on being a realist.”

  “You should be proud of that.”

  ❖

  Livia was surprised to find that the Pendergrass mansion looked almost as dark and deserted from the outside as it had in the intervening years since the deaths of its last occupants. It was a large square house with a mansard roof set with dormer windows. There was a pillared veranda on one side and a small porch to the other. As he drove up under a porte-cochère, a young man came out to hold the horse. Helping Livia out of the trap, Mr. Grenfall escorted her up three steps onto the veranda.

  Halting near the wide front door, he pushed it open, disclosing a hall lighted by a dim gas globe swinging from a chain. An odd smell filled her nostrils as she entered. “You burn incense at your meetings?” she inquired in some surprise.

  “Not at our meetings,” he stressed. “This house had a very moldy smell when we took it over. We’ve succeeded in getting rid of most of it, but there is a residue and to combat it we use incense. It is a pervasive odor, I grant you, but the mold is worse.”

  “I am sure it must be,” she agreed, thinking that the house could have done with a little more heat. There was a definite chill in the air. In fact it seemed colder inside than out. She could not restrain a slight shiver.

  “Are you cold, Miss Blake?” he asked solicitously.

  “A bit,” she admitted, “though I do not know why I should be. I’m dressed quite warmly.” She indicated her brown silk gown with its quantities of ruffles and its modified bustle.

  “Quite warmly and most becomingly,” he said. “Though I have never admired the bustle, it looks very well on those who are tall enough to carry it. On some young ladies, it appears to be carrying them.”

  His observation surprised her. The men she knew did not usually comment so frankly on fashions. They limited their remarks to compliments,
and while in a sense he had complimented her, he also had been making fun of a style that she herself despised. She was not sure that this was proper, but to her surprise she found herself saying, “I’m inclined to agree with you.”

  “I’m glad you do. If I had my way, wc should follow the lead of the ancient Greeks with their loose and comfortable tunics which did not impede, overburden or constrict.”

  She was definitely shocked by this statement but she merely said, “I am sure they were proper in their time and placc. Greece is known to be a warm country.”

  “Very warm,” he agreed. “Come, Miss Blake.” Turning left in the hall, Mr. Grenfall led her down a passageway into a large room, not much brighter than the hall, the light issuing from several lamps set on tables and a piano. There were a number of young women sitting on couches and chairs as well as several young men. She had the impression that there were more than twelve people present, but on counting them she found that there were seven women and five men. The women, she noted with some surprise, greeted Mr. Grenfall with warm embraces. She was taken aback by these actions. At the meetings she had attended, members merely shook hands. She wished that Mr. Grenfall had not been so hasty in his introductions. She was having difficulty affixing the name to the individual, which embarrassed her, for not only would she have to converse with them but she needed them for her article. She would, she decided resignedly, have to ask for them again.

  “Would you care to sit here?” Mr. Grenfall indicated a large comfortable armchair. “We will serve tea, and then Vivienne, Charles and Herbert will enact our little drama.”

  “I am looking forward to that,” Livia said politely as she took the proffered chair. Scanning the people around her, she wished that the room was not so dark. She wondered which of the young women was Vivienne. None of them looked right for the role of Usher’s desiccated sister. They were all attractive and some were beautiful. They dressed well though one or two were wearing very low cut gowns, hardly suitable for the occasion—or for any occasion. Livia had never approved of such displays. As Miss Falkner, one of her governesses, had said, “Provocative costumes are designed to appeal to man’s lower nature. The intelligent woman uses her mind rather than her body to attract gentlemen.”