Household (37 page)

Then there was the matter of Elias P. Martin, the famous philanthropist, who had been running for congress until a heart attack had sent him to the hospital. According to Emily, who had hastened to the hospital to see if she could get some information on his condition for an item in the
Marblehead Mercury
, he was near death.

On receiving this news, Livia had had difficulty concealing a smile of pure pleasure. There even had been an incredible moment when she had been actually glad the man was dying. Why? He was the soul of integrity, at least according to her father, who was seldom wrong about politicians. His opponent in the race was totally corrupt, and yet she had felt not only pleased at the idea of Martin’s possible passing, she had muttered under her breath, “Die, Elias, die!” Then, immediately afterwards, she had turned cold with terror, remembering that in her dreams, she had singularly wished him ill, she and all the other people at Mr. Grenfall’s literary society. And no one could understand why he had had a heart attack. He had been in singularly good health, his doctor had declared to the assembled reporters.

It was such a strange coincidence—her dream and his attack!

Her father, who seemed to be growing weaker by the day to the point where he rarely left his bedroom, had noticed her distraction. “Dearest,” he had said only last night, “you seem very preoccupied of late.”

“Not really, Papa,” she had assured him hastily. “It’s just that so much of the work at the paper is falling on my shoulders. I will be glad when we shut down.”

“Yes, you do need a rest, and perhaps you should not rise so early. You do need more sleep.”

Sleep!

Livia was beginning to dread the thought of sleeping. She wished she could tell her father exactly what was troubling her, but of course that was out of the question. She could never let anyone know about the dreams, or rather visions—vile visions that tormented her and at the same time were beginning to fill her mind with impure thoughts and desires to match them!

It was terrible to remember those dreams so clearly and how Mr. Grenfall had appeared to her, his beautiful body naked. She shuddered. They were nearing her house and her horrid thoughts had distracted her attention from the man himself. And this was to be the last time they would see each other. The idea filled her with a new agony, one that was physical as well as mental. She wished... but she could not consciously entertain the wish that had just flashed into her mind, bringing with it embarrassing bodily reactions.

If only she could get away. Unfortunately her father’s worsening health precluded that. She dared not leave him, but at any rate she soon might be taken away to a madhouse!

Mr. Grenfall had halted the trap, and now she would have to bid him a long goodbye. As he helped her down, a gust of wind caught her hat and she clutched the brim. It was a stormy night with a hint of rain in the air, more than a hint, she reaped, as a drop splattered against her cheek.

“Come.” Mr. Grenfall hurried her up on the porch. “Will we see you next Friday?”

“Np!” she cried. “I... I cannot come. I do not see why you would want me to catch up on my sleep as I have been doing,” she said, managing a light laugh.

“Sleeping or waking, I want you there,” he said insistently.

“Come, Mr. Grenfall, that does not make sense,” she reproved, glad that she could sound so calm. What she had told him was no more than the truth. Why would he want her there? She had yet to see his playlet, and she had not give his society so much as a mention in the paper.

“Perhaps next week you’ll not feel like sleeping.”

“I never feel like sleeping but I do. I do not understand myself.” Inadvertently she added, “I do not understand anything of what is happening to me. My dreams...” She paused, staring at him in consternation, wondering what had made her blurt out her fears.

“Your dreams,” he asked. “What sort of dreams?”

“They... they’re rather disturbing,” she said, striving to remain calm.

“Would it help you to tell me what they are about?”

She blanched, wondering what he would say if she were to reveal their content. She said hesitantly, “There’s this old woman with tangled white hair. She screams very loudly. She has a cat that seems to be on fire and it also screams.”

“For a very good reason if he is on fire,” he commented with a half-smile which vanished quickly. “The old woman sounds as if she might be a witch. Perhaps there’s the ghost of a witch in your house. Several were hanged for witchcraft in Marblehead, you know.”

“Mr, Grenfall, I hope that an intelligent man like yourself does not believe in witches,” Livia said tartly.

“But I do,” he replied, “having met you, my dear Livia.” She regarded him with an astonishment mingled with shock. “You are becoming extremely familiar on very short acquaintance, sir.”

“I do apologize,” he said hastily. “Please forgive me, Miss Blake.”

“Very well,” she replied, well-aware that she should never have countenanced his surprising employment of her Christian name, but on this, their last meeting, she did not want to order him to leave, as she should have done. She did not want him to leave it all. Tears she could not blink away filled her eyes. Fortunately, the porch light was too dim for him to see them.

“Miss Blake,” he said solicitously, “I feel that you are deeply troubled over something. Can you not tell me what is worrying you?”

His perspicacity startled her. “It is nothing,” she said with a brusqueness she had not intended. “I... my dreams...” She clicked her teeth together in a palpable effort to keep any further confidences from escaping. What was the matter with her?

“More dreams,” he said. “I know a little something about dreams. Maybe I could help you.”

“I doubt that anyone could help me,” she said, immediately regretting this second confidence.

“I could help,” he insisted, “and...” He paused as a wind-borne gust of rain splattered them.

“Oh!” Livia exclaimed. “You’d best come inside.” She opened the door and motioned him to follow her into the hall. “Do be quiet,” she whispered. “My father sleeps downstairs in the room across from the library.”

“I will be very quiet,” he murmured.

“We can sit here,” she said, pointing to a settee. Her nervousness increased. She should not have brought him inside. What could he tell her about her dreams? What could she tell him? She ought to ask him to go, but the rain was becoming heavier. He would be drenched. Probably it was a cloudburst and would be over shortly. Then, she could ask him to... She stiffened. There were footsteps coming across the floor.

“Livia, dear,” her father called from somewhere down the passageway.

She cast a nervous glance at Mr. Grenfall. “Best go up to the first landing,” she instructed. “Yes, Papa,” she added in a louder tone of voice. Her tension increased as she watched Mr. Grenfall start up the stairs, but he moved very quietly.

“Did you just get in, dear?” Swithin, clad in a long brocade dressing robe, came into the hall. “You are rather late, are you not?”

“The weather...” she explained.

“Yes, it’s bad, isn’t it? I am glad you’re home, my love.”

“So am I, Papa, inn why are you out of bed?”

“I’ve had trouble sleeping. I’ve been in the library reading.”

“The library’s damp.”

“I have a fire going. Should you like to join me?”

“I am very tired, Papa. I must go to bed, and so should you.”

“I will presently.” He kissed her. “Good night, my dear.”

“Good night, Papa. Please don’t stay up too long.”

“You mustn’t worry about me so much, my dear.” He moved back toward the passageway.

Livia stood on the stairs waiting until she heard the library door open and close. She joined Mr. Grenfall on the first landing and started as she heard a violent clap of thunder. “Oh, dear, it is coming down,” she whispered. “We’d best talk in my room. Papa would hear us if we remained in the hall.” Immediately after this statement, she wondered if she
had
gone mad, inviting a veritable stranger into her bedroom. Yet it would give her a little more time with Mr. Grenfall before they parted for good. “Follow me,” she muttered.

“Very well. I have something I must tell you, too.” he whispered.

Her shutters were banging back and forth as she ushered Mr. Grenfall into her bedroom. As always, she had left the oil lamp on the nightstand burning. Its soft glow afforded a dim view of her fourposter canopied bed with its red and white cretonne hangings matching the curtains at the window, her dresser, the highboy and the two cosy armchairs facing each other on either side of the fireplace. The light was further reflected in the mirrors over the mantel and the dressing table. Also reflected in the mirror was the door to her bathroom, an innovation added by her father several years ago. It had delighted Anna, her maid, she remembered inconsequentially, and she was glad that her views on the working woman had caused her to insist that Anna go home after she helped her dress. Neither their cook nor maid lived in their house.

She looked about her nervously, wondering why a room that she had always believed to be quite large had seemingly shrunk to half its size. She preferred not to dwell on this anomaly.

Trying to subdue a combination of nervousness and regret for having invited him into her bedroom, Livia indicated one of the armchairs and said with a creditable insouciance, “Will you sit here, sir? I must secure the shutters.” She hurried across the room to the east window and, pulling the shutters closed, wished she could remain there, speaking to him over her shoulder. Then telling herself sharply that her mental processes were beginning to resemble those of a girl of eighteen rather than a woman well into her twenty-eighth year and a newspaper editor to boot, she came back to the fireplace. Seeing that he was still standing, she slipped into one of the armchairs. “Please sit down, sir,” she invited.

He cleared his throat. “I prefer to stand,” he said heavily. Though the light in the room was too dim to illuminate his features, Livia felt that he was disturbed. In fact, she had the strange impression that their moods had been exchanged and that it was he who needed soothing rather than herself, which had to be ridiculous and only emphasized the disordered state of her mind. She had seldom met anyone more self-possessed than Mr. Grenfall.

“As you choose,” she said.

After an awkward little silence, he said, “You have been worried about your dreams?”

She nodded. “I have sometimes felt as if I might be going mad!” she exclaimed, again regretting another foolish outburst.

“No,” he said positively yet gently. “You’re in no danger of that.”

Though he could have no comprehension of what she meant, she felt oddly reassured. “I... I suppose I am being silly.”

“No,” he said. He added, “Miss Blake, have you any knowledge of an... Erlina Bell?”

“Erlina Bell?” she repeated, wondering at his question. “I’ve never heard the name.”

“That’s just as well. Still, she knows you and...” He paused, drawing a long breath and releasing it in a sigh. “But first things first. I can see you are deeply troubled and confused, but I can see more than that, Miss Blake.”

“More...” she repeated. “I do not understand.”

He sighed again. “I hold myself responsible for the anguish you have suffered—are suffering. I never imagined that I could feel this way or that I could so bitterly regret all that has happened in the last three weeks. Before I tell you anything more, let me assure you that I am truly ashamed of myself.”

Listening to this amazing declaration, her own confusion increased. “All that has happened in... in the last three weeks? I am not sure I understand you, Mr. Grenfall.”

“You have been frightened and bewildered by your dreams. I...”

“Please,” she interrupted. “I should not have mentioned them to you. You are a stranger...”

“We are not strangers.” He stepped closer to her. “I know what has been tormenting you.”

“You couldn’t! You couldn’t begin to understand the pain, the degradation, the...”

“Degradation? No, that’s not true. You’ve not been degraded. You’ve been embarrassed, but only in retrospect. I am deeply sorry over that. I did not anticipate your dreams. There was a great deal I did not anticipate.”

She regarded him incredulously. “You speak about anticipating my dreams. How might you have anticipated them?”

“Because I am to blame for all that has disturbed you. Erlina Bell led us to you. It is only in the last week that I have begun to understand her real motivation. Her vengeance has long tentacles.”

She had wondered about her own reason, but now she feared for his. He seemed to be speaking in mad riddles. “I do not understand you. Who is this Erlina Bell?”

“The spirit of a witch, whose thirst for revenge has yet to be slaked. She first came to us during our Candlemas celebration.”

“Candlemas?” she questioned.

“For Christians it is a church feast but its rites are older than your church and we name it as one of our four great Sabbats.”

“What is a Sabbat?” she asked, trying vainly to understand what he was telling her and at the same time becoming more and more perplexed by his evident depression and regret.

“A Sabbat is a meeting of the witches. The four great Sabbats take place in summer, winter, spring and fall. During the rest of the year our covens, which number thirteen, meet on Friday or Saturday evenings for rituals and—relaxation. These weekly meetings are called Sabbats. There is a monthly gathering known as an Esbat.”

“Witches...” She faltered. “There are no such things.” He looked away from her, saying gratingly, “I find myself actually wishing that were true. Yet more than that I wish your father had not raised you in such ignorance. I cannot blame him from wanting to protect you from the horrors of your heritage, but it would have been easier for you if you’d known, easier and safer so you might have protected yourself.”

“I do not understand you.”

“Your mother...” he began.

“I know that my mother was a well-known medium. My father did not tell me but someone else did.”