Household (24 page)

“Speaking of unfortunate entanglements, I must compliment you on the adroit way you’ve avoided Mr. Blake,” Mark praised.

Lucy said resignedly, “What else could I do?” Looking up at him, she added quickly with what she hoped was a realistic yawn, “I really am tired, dear Mark. I simply must retire for what little remains of this night. Tomorrow will be such a complicated day.”

“Very well, Lucy,” he agreed reluctantly. “I expect you do need your sleep.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek, and a second later the cabin door closed softly behind him.

Lucy directed a regretful look at the door. Mark’s feelings for her were becoming more and more obvious. Fortunately, he was also aware that it was futile to hope that anything could ever come to fruition between them. He had condemned himself to perpetual bachelorhood, and she, herself, dared not think of an alternate alliance.

She had avoided Swithin Blake by having all her meals sent to her cabin, thus preventing a chance meeting in the dining salon. In taking the air, she seldom strayed far from her door. Once she had seen him at a distance, but he had been walking with an attractive young woman, who had been visiting languishing glances on his handsome profile. Watching them, Lucy had experienced a sensation closely allied with pain. Yet conversely, she had been pleased that he was enjoying himself—or rather she had told herself that she ought to be pleased, which was practically the same thing, though a smidgin less noble.

She was glad that they were docking on the morrow. Undoubtedly, she would never see him again. Then, it would be easy to forget him. After all, she had only spoken to him once, and no one could fall in love so quickly—or if they could, they shouldn’t. Only poets and romantic novelists believed in love at first sight. Lucy, feeling moisture in her eyes, angrily brushed it away.

“I
shall
forget him,” she vowed. She meant what she said but much to her chagrin, she found upon waking the following morning that she had no control whatever over her dreams.

She saw him once more, when they were disembarking. She had been confused and daunted by the sight of the bustling port of Boston and by the knowledge that they were an ocean away from England. For the first time she also feared that she would never be able to return to her country again. No use to tell herself that it was far too early to be homesick. How could she be otherwise, faced with this unknown land and hearing such a cacophony of voices, all of which seemed louder than any she had ever heard before? Then, just ahead of her, she saw the tall, slender figure of a young man and did not even need a glimpse of his face to tell her that he was Swithin Blake.

His name sprang to her tongue, but of course she dared not utter it with Mark’s hand so firmly on her arm. She could only wish that he might turn around and see her which, of course, he would not do. In common with all other returning travelers, he would be scanning the upturned faces of the crowds below for whoever had come to meet him. He would not be walking friendless into Boston. And nor was she, she recalled. Mark was by her side, the Old Lord was hovering somewhere about, probably doing a bit of a sightseeing, while Molly and the cat, quite recovered from their ordeals on shipboard, were softly keening. In a short while, she and Mark would have reclaimed their luggage and the coffins, and by the time they arrived at their hotel, the family would be reunited!

Lucy sighed for no reason and stepping forward suddenly caught her toe in a plank and stumbled. Despite Mark’s sustaining arm, she was catapulted against Swithin Blake’s back.

He turned instantly and steadied her, while she blushed and murmured apologies rendered half-inarticulate by her confusion. She became even more confused on meeting his eyes which, for an instant, reflected a happy surprise. However that faded, almost immediately to be replaced by a chill that also coated his tones as he said, “Miss Veringer, is it not?”

“Yes, Mr. Blake, it is,” she acknowledged softly. And then, before she could call them back, the words slipped out. “So good to see you again.”

The chill vanished. “My pleasure, ma’am,” he replied. “Welcome to Boston—both of you.”

He looked as if he might have said more but at that moment someone called in a high, sweet feminine voice, “Swithin, my dear!”

He tipped his hat, waved at the caller, blew her a kiss, gave them another smile and hurried down the gangplank as quickly as he could. Soon, all too soon, he was lost amongst the crowds.

Mark said unnecessarily, “Come Lucy, we must hurry.”

Lucy was sorrowfully pleased—or was she pleasantly sorrowful? The way of it didn’t matter. She had seen him again and had spoken with him, however briefly and obviously he had been hurt by her deliberate avoidance of himself. If he had been hurt, that meant he cared enough to be hurt. The implications of that were scarcely comforting, but they were something to remember—even if that memory proved regretful. And despite the fact that he had only heard it once and then ten whole days previously, he had not forgotten her name.

“
Balderdash
!”

The Old Lord was back from his sightseeing tour. “It’s not,” she mouthed defiantly.

“
Who could forget your name once having met you?
” Lucy blushed and softly apologized for having misunderstood him. She was also glad he had joined them. His presence brought her out of her futile daydreams. It was time to get on with the business of the day, the night, Boston and a dwelling place. Though that was the last thing that had occurred to her, it was the first they must seek. The moon was increasing, and they could hardly put Mark in the cellar of some hotel! It would be equally difficult to leave the coffins in their room since most hotel maids came in without knocking.

Much as she missed him, Lucy was doubly glad her grandfather had not joined what she and Mark were, for sentimental reasons, formally calling the Household. He had been so adamant concerning her disposal of those coins he had given her on the night of his death.

On arriving in Liverpool, she had taken them to a numismatist, who gazed at them in wonder and then offered her a very small price for them. Even without the Old Lord nattering in her ear, she would have refused him. She had gone to several shops where she had received much the same treatment with each dealer trembling with rage as she refused and left. She had been about to give up when she had spied a little hole in the wall with a dirty glass window on which was inscribed in curly gold letters,
Isaacson, Coins
. She had hesitated at the entrance and then something, she was not sure what, had urged her inside. The dealer, a small, bent man with shaggy hair and equally shaggy eyebrows had peered up at her suspiciously, as if he were expecting to be gulled. However, when she produced her bag and showed him the coins, he had emitted a long quavering breath and stared at them in wonder, handling them with a tenderness and a respect that had made her want to cry.

“A bit o’ history, my dear,” he had murmured. “Drake was alive when this was coined... and maybe this was paid to a lad named Will, who’d once held horses outside the theaters, but of course it wouldn’t have been a tip, it would’ve been payment for his scribbling. And this... look how its singed. Maybe it survived the Great Fire...” He had gone on giving her bits and pieces of England’s past while she hoped against hope he would offer her the fair price none of the others had so much as mentioned. He had given her more than she expected. He had emptied an old battered box he had taken from beneath a plank in the floor, shoveling the money into her hands, muttering, “Just to have them, my dear; just to touch them.”

Somehow she was quite sure her grandfather would not have protested that exchange, just as she was equally sure none of those gold pieces would ever be sold on the market. They would be kept in another secret place. Meanwhile she had the price of a house. It only remained to find it.

❖

The moon was beginning to bulge dangerously, and Mark was so edgy that he could not accompany Lucy on a search which was becoming very discouraging. The sum she received from the dealer had seemed princely, but while she could have purchased a house, none that Mr. Soames, an enterprising young real estate agent, showed her were adequate. Either they were too new or too old, and all were far too small; she was close to despair.

Meeting her in the lobby of her hotel on the third day since they disembarked, the agent said hesitantly, “There is a house that does fit your specifications, but... there is a drawback.”

“Drawback?” Lucy repeated, finding that for no particular reason she felt excited rather than dispirited. “What manner of drawback?”

“It’s quite old,” he said deprecatingly. “It does have a lot of room, but there is it’s location. It’s very near the cemetery.”

She wanted to clap her hands. She wanted to waltz around the lobby. It was with considerable difficulty she retained a grave demeanor. “My situation is quite desperate. My cousin’s not well. Hotel food does not seem to agree with him, so if you would be so good as to show me the house, possibly I can bear with its situation.”

He looked crestfallen. “It would hardly seem to me that a lady like yourself would be happy in such surroundings. Though it is large, it has been vacant for quite some time. There are rats. You’d need a cat or two.”

“That would present no difficulties.” Lucy’s excitement was increasing. She wanted to be polite but she did wish this young man were not so reluctant to show her the only house that might have real possibilities. “Might we go, please?” she prompted.

He nodded, still not stirring. “It was originally built as a manse, but the church to which it was attached burnt down a decade ago under very suspicious circumstances.”

“Really?” Lucy managed not to appear pleased. Was he suggesting that it was haunted? She hoped so. The Old Lord was lonely and disappointed that none of his immediate family had joined him. He did converse with Molly, but he often had complained that not only was her Irish dialect a barrier but that intellectually she left much to be desired. Furthermore, his encounter with Erlina Bell had given him a definite prejudice regarding witches. Trying not to sound too hopeful, Lucy asked, “Is the house reputed to be haunted?” He stared down at the carpet, saying equivocally, “There are a great many superstitious people in the city, especially since the influx of Irish in the last twenty-odd years. Not that they aren’t a most delightful group of people,” he added hastily. “There are a number living a short distance away from that house.”

It sounded so absolutely ideal that Lucy could contain her impatience no longer. “Oh, do let’s see it,” she urged.

“Very well,” he responded. Evidently, he felt it incumbent to add, “It was a very nice house when it was first built.”

“When was it built?”

“At least a half century ago.”

“That’s not very old, not by our standards.”

“Well, perhaps it will appeal to you,” he said doubtfully, his admiring gaze on her face.

❖

The house not only appealed to Lucy, it delighted her! He had not mentioned the trees, the elderly oaks, the tall elms and the red beeches. They stood close to its walls, their spreading branches with their summer coating of leaves obscuring some of the side windows. The building itself was four square, and there was a tangled growth of vines clinging to its brick façade. A massive front door was framed by two pillars, and there was a matching side door. The fact that the pillars were wooden and splintered and that the shutters that framed the eight windows facing front were askew meant nothing to Lucy. They could easily be mended and righted. Her main interest lay in the interior—with emphasis upon the cellar Mark would soon require.

She did like the way the rooms were situated. Rather than interlocking as they had in the castle and many older houses at home, with one room leading into the next, these had adjoining doors but also opened on a wide hall. On the lower floor there was a drawing room, a dining room, a library and a parlor. A kitchen and laundry room were in the rear. A wooden staircase in the hall led to four bedrooms on the second floor and to three smaller chambers and an attic under the mansard roof.

Happily, the rooms were commodious. True, it would take a lot of work to get the place in order. It was badly in need of repair. Plaster was peeling from the walls, and some of the bricks in the six fireplaces were dislodged. There was also a smell of mold, and though there was a large bathroom upstairs, evidently added by later tenants, its plumbing needed to be replaced. However, that could easily be done and would be—if only the cellar proved adequate!

Since the gas lighting in the nether regions of the house was very uncertain, Mr. Soames had recourse to a candle to light Lucy down the rickety stairs. He made excuses all the way, but on reaching the bottom she was delighted to find two more rooms, each with stout doors and small narrow windows. Evidently no one had ventured into them for a good many years. In the uncertain light from the candle, she could see cobwebs hanging from the ceiling. Generations of spiders had spun their webs across the windows and a dead bat lay on the floor. There were also rat droppings and a definite odor of mice and mold, but none of these obscured the fact that it was all quite, quite perfect.

Clasping her hands, Lucy raised speaking blue eyes to Mr. Soames’ unhappy face. “It’s lovely. It might have been made for him!” she exclaimed and immediately blushed, feeling rather than seeing his astonishment. “My cousin enjoys carpentry,” she improvised hastily. “He’ll find these rooms a real challenge.” She added, “I must tell you that I love the house!”

“You do!” he exclaimed, adding dubiously, “Do you think your cousin will agree?”

“Oh, I am sure he will. It’s just right for the...” She paused, feeling another blush heating her cheeks. She had been about to say “the household” but that would have sounded a bit ridiculous considering that she was supposedly talking only about herself and Mark. “Two of us,” she finished.

“Well,” the agent said, as they ascended the stairs, “I expect we can talk terms.”