Household

by Stevenson, Florence

  Thinking of him, Kathie became aware of the fact that he was not far away from her. She quickly banished the thought of living in a house free of his presence. She did not want to hurt his feelings. She cast a side glance at the chandelicr—no, Letitia Lawrence was not there. That was odd. Often she followed him, but if they moved, she would not be with him. She could have this house to herself again.

  “Good morning, grandfather,” she whispered.

  She received no response and had an impression that he was deeply troubled. She did not want to know what it was, not on this fine morning when her mood was so good.

  She continued on down the stairs and had just reached the hall when the doorbell rang. She stopped short in surprise. It was early for visitors. Who could have come calling at such an hour? The postman? Probably. She opened the door and found a harried-looking Matthew Vernon outside. He was inside in a trice. Upon closer examination, she found he was not only harried but looked weary, distraught, rumpled and unshaven, as if he had been up most the night. If he had slept, he had done so in his clothes.

  “You must...” he began and broke off in consternation, staring over her shoulder. “My God, who’s that? You have another actor in the family? But where does he get off raiding wardrobe?”

  Kathie, already shaken by his presence and his appearance, was further shaken. “What are you talking about?” she demanded incredulously. “Have you gone mad?”

  He regarded her as if she were the one who had gone mad. “All right, maybe he didn’t raid it, but why the Eighteenth Century getup? We don’t usually audition actors in costume, complete with powdered wig, though I must admit his fits better than most. Who is he?”

  Kathie reached for something to steady her. It turned out to be Matthew’s arm. “You saw him!” she gasped. “How is it possible? No one outside of the family has ever seen grandfather, and none of us have ever seen him that clearly!”

  “Your grandfather, whom... none of you has ever seen... clearly?” He backed away from her. “You’re not suggesting that he’s a ghost!?”

  “He is my great-great-great-grandfather,” she whispered because her voice had suddenly failed her. “Richard Veringer, Earl of More.”

  “Earl of... of More!” Matthew repeated incredulously. “You are descended from the Earl of More?”

  She did not appreciate the note of disbelief she heard in his voice. “As it happens, yes. Not all actors come from the slums of New York.”

  “But... but this is incredible,” he shouted. “We’re related!”

  “We are?” she demanded. “How?”

  “My dear, this might come as a shock to you, but my real name, my family name is Veringer. I am the present Earl of More!”

  “The... present Earl of... of More,” she repeated faintly.

  “Yes!” he shouted. “But we can’t call it consanguinity!”

  “Consanguinity?” Septimus repeated from the hall doorway.

  “Consanguinity!” Matthew actually shouted. “Kathie, my dearest, I have been up all night. I have been in agony. I don’t care if you come back to work or not, or I do, of course, I do, but mainly I care for you. I have been in love with you ever since I saw you four years ago and you looked at me as if I were a stray cockroach!”

  “I did not!” she cried. “You didn’t remind me of... of a cockroach at all. In fact...”

  “In fact, will you marry me?”

  “Marry you?”

  “Yes, will you?”

  “Yes,” she cried and then stared at him. “I mean...”

  “You said yes. You must mean yes.”

  “But I hardly know you.”

  “We’ve known each other at least four years, and why do you think I asked old Goldbaum to hire you?”

  “You asked him?”

  “I did. I fell in love with you at first sight, Miss Frosty.”

  “Why didn’t you wait for me?” she demanded unreasonably.

  “Wait for you?”

  “You weren’t there when I came back from being sawed in half,” she said, luxuriously allowing herself a touch of the old anger and pain, now that it could be so easily alleviated.

  “I couldn’t. I had to catch a train for the West Coast.” The full import of her words dawned on him. “You missed me!”

  “Terribly,” she admitted. She sighed happily, even though half-stifled by his embrace.

  Several delicious moments later, Kathie looked at him in sudden trepidation. “But...” she began tentatively, “there’s a great deal more to this household than... grandfather. There’s a...”

  “Do you think anything matters when there’s you?” he asked tenderly.

  She was afraid that it did and knew she ought to mention the curse, but curses were such dark things and she felt so happy on this bright morning.

  “Will you stay for breakfast?” Septimus had returned to the doorway.

  Matthew looked at him out of glowing eyes. “Oh, yes sir, please. But we’d better hurry. It’s almost time for rehearsal.”

  ❖

  Dreams had failed her but Erlina Bell, perched on the spare tire of Matthew Vernon’s elderly flivver, remained undaunted. Something else had occurred to her, and that, she thought gleefully, would get the whole passel of them on the road again—those who were in shape to travel!

  ❖

  Kathie sat in Matthew Vernon’s tiny office on the lot at Goldbaum-Magnum, staring at the construction that was Paris in front and papier-mâché, timber, plaster and chicken-wire in back. Her exultation of the morning had passed and in its place was a pervasive melancholy. It seemed to her that the vast set could be a simile for her situation—happiness in the front and the curse behind. She had read that same fear in her mother’s face when she and Matthew broke the news, with Matthew telling them all about his ancestor’s long-ago razing of the Hold. He had described the handsome Manor House built in its place and now given over to the National Trust because of death duties. He had laughed at his empty title and talked about their future in Hollywood. But could they have a future here?

  Kathie doubted it. Something would happen and they would be packing bags and trunks. There would be the endless treks from railroad station to theater and from theater to railroad station or pier. How could she bring such unhappiness to the man she loved? He was doubly vulnerable to the curse, married to her and related as well, even if that relationship were extremely distant.

  She looked out of the window. Above the set rose the tall palm trees, like feather dusters perched on long thin handles, silhouetted against the darkening sky. She would have this one night with him, she decided defiantly, and tomorrow... She would not think of tomorrow yet. She wished he would hurry. It had been a day of delays. The master script had disappeared from Matthew’s office and had been found in Cagliostro’s “bedroom.” One of the men working on the set had fallen from a tall ladder and an ambulance had been called. The actress playing Marie Antoinette called in sick. The rehearsal schedule had been rearranged only to have the lady appear saying that she had never called. She had wondered loudly and profanely who had been playing practical jokes. They had not started rehearsals until two in the afternoon, and at four-thirty Mr. Goldbaum had called an unexpected script conference, explaining in vehement terms that he was at odds with his three nephews as to the authenticity of what they were presenting. Matthew had tried to argue with him, saying tha_t he had pointed this out a long time ago and couldn’t they discuss it in the morning, but Mr. Goldbaum had been adamant. Matthew had told her ruefully that it might take a while and would she mind waiting. When she had agreed, she had not expected that it would take over two hours. Yet, in a sense, she was glad that it was going on so long. It had given her time to think, but that time was past and she was getting nervous. She was not sure why. She just wished he would hurry.

  ❖

  The night watchman, starting on his rounds at seven, limped across the “bombed-out French village” at Goldbaum-Magnum. He had thought he hea
rd a noise behind one of the mock-ups of the huts, but he could see nothing. He went on toward Paris, 1785; nearing it, he had a sour grin for a vista he remembered reasonably well, even though there were few links to join it to Paris, 1917, to which he had come amidst fanfares and shouting. Some of the guys were even singing the Marseillaise, and of course a lot of sentimental dopes were humming “Over There.” He had hummed along, not that he had felt particularly sentimental. Actually he had been scared at the thought of getting in the thick of things. Reminiscently, he rubbed his arm—stiff it was, just like his gimpy leg. Right leg. Left arm. It could have been worse was what his mother had said. Sure, he could’ve come home in a wooden box with the stars and stripes covering it. But here at Goldy-Mag, short for Goldbaum-Magnum, they hadn’t been able to give him his old job of studio carpenter back. At first they had a hell of a time thinking of anything he could do. Then some bright joker came up with the idea about him being a watchman. That was a hell of a note, going to bed when everybody else was up basking in the sunshine. However, as his mom said, it was a hell of a lot better than selling pencils on some street corner in downtown L.A. or being stashed out in one of those rest homes they had in Mar Vista.

  He saw a light in Matt Vernon’s office. Must be working late as he sometimes did. Maybe he could drop in and pass the time of day with him—or night. Vernon was a nice guy for a limey. He limped over to the door and peered inside. His eyes narrowed. There was a girl sitting by old Matt’s desk and him nowhere about. She was some looker. She must be the filly they’d brought in from New York. He’d heard she wouldn’t break any mirrors. They were sure as hell right. She had it all over Mary Miles Minter and La Pickford to boot. He hoped the door wasn’t locked. He would sure like to exchange a few words with this little flapper. He scratched on the door. She glanced up all smiles and then disappointment set in. Probably she was waiting for Matt. He wouldn’t keep a girl like her waiting. He tried the door and found it was unlocked. Usually he wouldn’t have come in, but hell, there she was, all alone and him with nobody to talk to. All he really wanted to do was pass the Goddamned time, and she was sure pretty, prettier than all those blasted Frog dames who never gave him the time of day. She wouldn’t be able to turn him off so quick; there was only him and her for a bit. He opened the door and ambled in. Closing it behind him, he leaned against the door saying, “Hiya, honey.”

  ❖

  The banshee was wailing, the cat was screeching, Miss Lawrence was gurgling.

  Livia paced the floor in her bedroom, her hands to her ears. What was afflicting Molly? What did she foresee? If only she could reach her on her perch, but that was impossible. She wondered where the Old Lord could be? He would be able to interpret and confide—and why was Kathie so late? It was already 7:30! And where was Septimus? He had gone out to get the evening paper an hour earlier and wasn’t back yet. She was nervous and unaccountably worried over him. And why hadn’t Richard come home? She felt so dreadfully alone. She couldn’t even hear Mark’s howls from the cellar and the moon was rising. That ought to have comforted her, but it didn’t. He always howled when the moon rose. Was she getting deaf? It wouldn’t be surprising, She was at that age.

  She hurried downstairs and stopped short in horror near the cellar door. It was hanging on one hinge. Something had battered it down from inside! How had that happened? Then she saw the crumpled newspaper on the floor.

  “Septimus!” she shrieked, staring into the blackness behind the broken door.

  A cold wind blew through the hall. The front door swung open and then banged shut.

  Livia fainted.

  ❖

  It had been a desperate day, a last chance day. Her energy was leaving her quickly, and she didn’t know why. Still the stage was set and ready for action. The beast was on the loose; guided by her, he loped through the dark streets toward their goal. He was her puppet. They were all her puppets; she had a handful of strings and all she had to do was jerk them. After that she would not care what happened to the poor few remnants who were left to plod their weary way toward oblivion. She would be vindicated at last.

  ❖

  Why hadn’t Matthew returned?

  The watchman was talking and talking. He stood between her and the door, a medium-sized but hulking figure of a man, most unprepossessing in appearance. He talked to her in a low voice, grinning at her with an appreciation she was beginning to loathe and even fear. He had been smoking the whole time, without asking so much as a by-your-leave! He had lit one cigarette from the next, and the air was heavy with the smell of cheap tobacco.

  Kathie’s nails were digging into her hands. She longed to tell him to go, but there was something in his eyes that gave her pause. Then she heard a sound outside—a footstep? With exaggerated relief, she said, “I think Matthew’s coming.”

  “Yeah? I don’t hear anything.” He opened the door and glanced out. “Nope, baby, false alarm.”

  His use of the term ‘baby,’ both grated on her ears and frightened her. He had no right to talk to her like that, to compare her to all the other ‘dames’ who had sat in Matthew’s office, making him sound like a combination of Casanova and Don Juan. The watchman must be a little crazy. He had been hurt in the war, he’d told her, playing on her sympathy in the beginning. Now he had taken a match from his pocket and struck it. He was holding the flame toward yet another cigarette. He paused.

  “Hey, there is something out there. Sounds like a dog’s sniffin’ around. Who’d be walkin’ his damned dog on a set? Dogs ain’t allowed!” He pushed open the door, and Kathie came out after him, unwilling to stay inside and have him return to taunt her. As she closed the door firmly behind her, she heard a deep growl followed by a prolonged howl. She felt as if each separate pore in her skin had become an icy pricking needle! She recognized the howl, had heard it all the years of her life on nights when the moon was full. There was a loud yell from the night watchman. He tried to run and stumbled, falling on a heap of gunny sacks.

  Looking around her, Kathie saw a huge greyish shape in the darkness. There was laughter, a woman’s laughter, high and eerie, fading and swelling. It was all about her, that shrieking, terrible laughter. Then it changed in timbre and became low and gloating. It seemed to Kathie that her bones were turning cold inside her flesh. She shrank back against the door, one hand searching out the knob and finding that it would not turn. A wind was rising; it blew against her, tearing at her garments, almost as if it had developed fingers. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the watchman, still screaming, run awkwardly away. Meanwhile there was smoke in her nostrils. A fire was rising from the pile of gunny sacks where he had cowered. The flames were leaping high, fanned by that infernal wind, and they seemed to be coming in her direction. She tried to run but she could not move.

  Across the clearing came the beast. She could see him now in the lurid light of the flames—the fearsome head with the bestial features, retaining human characteristics but stretched and elongated, half-covered with bristling red hair and made even more horrible by the madness she read in its fiery, golden eyes. Mark’s eyes! Its body was that of an animal, covered with grey-red hair. It was coming closer and closer to her. It rose on its hind legs, its muzzle wrinkled in a snarl and deep, low growls issuing from its throat. It arched its long back. It was about to leap at her.

  “Mark, Mark, Mark, down boy!” she screamed senselessly, foolishly to the unhappy creature.

  Incredibly, it stopped in mid-leap and, staring at her, uttered a long sorrowful howl and fled from her, its tail between its legs.

  “Back, come backkkkkkk...” The scream resounded in her ears as the fire drew nearer, the smoke choking her. Suddenly another wind blew from behind. She felt battered between the two of them. And in that wind, which seemed to be fanning the flames away from her and driving them back, she heard a voice she seemed to know from half-forgotten dreams. “Go back... go forth, woman. The price has been paid and our sanctuary found!”

  “Kath
ie! Kathie!” Matthew called frantically.

  She wanted to go to him but the fingers of the opposing wind still pressed fiercely against her. Then, with a despairing shriek, the pressure was relaxed, and Kathie heard the Old Lord cry, “Go, child, and let me guide you...” At that same moment, she was blown into Matthew’s arms.

  Moments later, standing with him across the street, she watched the huge bonfire that had been the set of Paris, 1786, turn the sky a flaming orange. Looking at it, she wondered dolefully if Matthew would be able to fit into her father’s magic act.

  Four

  Kitty’s place was bright with lights. In the large parking lot Mercedes limousines rubbed fenders with svelte Pierce-Arrows and custom-made Packards, as well as a dozen other makes of auto not excluding the ubiquitous tin lizzie. All of these had disgorged brightly clad, incongruous occupants who seemingly hailed from Spanish haciendas, medieval monasteries, fairy tale palaces and every period in history from a fig-leafed Adam and Eve to Edward VII’s court. Sheiks, gypsies, Robin Hoods, pirates, nuns, bears and gorillas, crowded into the establishment. In spite of the pick of studio wardrobes and elegant made-to-order costumes no one took the eye more than Juliet in a replica of the white gown she had worn for her birthday ball and Colin in a copy of the suit he donned that same night.

  Juliet’s golden curls, heavily powdered, looked like spun glass above her delicate, beautiful little face. The excitement in her eyes recalled those moments when life had seemed a glorious adventure to her. Her expression held no trace of the wry sophistication which had been so evident in the years that followed. She seemed incredibly young and glowing, a beacon light among the weary pleasure seekers that thronged about her on that glistening floor. In his powdered wig and white brocade suit with the diamond sprinkled lace at his throat and a court sword at his side, Colin resembled a prince from a fairy tale. They arrived late and did not stay long, just long enough for Juliet to dance with an eager and adoring Gareth, but for once they did not tango. Instead they whirled around the room to the strains of a Viennese waltz.