Household (19 page)

“Don’t you ‘grandfather’ me.” Mrs. Crowell crossed to the child and struck her across the face, a stinging slap that brought tears to the huge blue eyes, even though Lucy never uttered a word. “You’re a whore’s leavings and a blot on my good name. You should’ve died with Mary. And...” She suddenly screamed as a large book was hurled through the air striking her on the chest and felling her. She was up immediately, her expression wrathful. Pulling Lucy from the chair, she shook her roughly. “You little devil, throwing that book at me!”

“Stop it,” Mark caught her arm. “She didn’t. You know she didn’t.”

“Don’t you come between me and what is mine,” yelled the housekeeper. “This is the last straw. Today she goes forth from this house and into service. We’ll see how her airs ’n graces will serve her there.”

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Crowell,” a cold voice said from the doorway. “Lucy will remain at the Hold and you will cease to torment her.”

For all that she was facing her employer, the housekeeper’s anger gave no sign of abating. “She is my daughter’s child, my Lord. I’ll deal with her as I see fit.”

“She is my son’s daughter,” he returned coolly. “Mary Crowell died before he could give her his name.”

Mrs. Crowell sniffed. “He could’ve given her his name any time during the nine months her belly was blowing up like a hot-air balloon! But he was in London with his other doxies, not that I blame him. Mary was a light woman. She went against the teachings of God and was punished for her sins, and no good will come to this brat, either. She was born of sin and...”

“You’ll leave this house today.” Tony’s blue eyes were stern and his lined face grim. “I kept you here because I felt I owed it to you. I wanted to atone for my son’s behavior. However, I have long wanted to rid the Hold of your presence. You are unkind to the maids and delinquent in your duties. I should not have tolerated that, and I will not tolerate your cruelty to this innocent.”

“Innocent! Give her another ten years and you’ll see her whoring in the stable loft like her mother before her.”

“Lucy.” Tony turned to the child. “I do not want you to believe ill of your poor mother. She was a sweet, gentle girl and my son was a heartless rapscallion, who eventually died of his dissipations.” He turned back to the housekeeper. “Yet he would have married your daughter had she survived. I’d have seen to that—or else I’d have married her myself. I will arrange for my steward to pay you, and you will go as soon as you are packed. I do not think it can take you longer than two hours.”

“I will not go without Lucy, who is my daughter’s child,” the housekeeper retorted. “You have no hold over her, my Lord.”

“Nor have you, Mrs. Crowell,” Tony said. “This child is the image of my late wife, and as for being nameless, I will adopt her and then she’ll have the name my son could not provide.”

“Could not, would not,” snarled Mrs. Crowell. “I’ll not consent to this adoption. I know my rights and...” She suddenly screamed loudly as the inkwell flew from the desk and sprayed her with its contents.

“Oh, Great-grandfather, that was wonderful!” Mark clapped his hands loudly.

“Yes, it was,” Tony agreed. He turned to the housekeeper. “I suggest that you leave before my father inflicts greater harm upon you. He’s quite capable of throwing you out of the window, and I do not know what he’d do if you were to punish this poor baby any more than you have already.”

Mrs. Crowell, her hair, face and gown splattered with black ink, stared at them, her mouth opening and closing. Then, with a harsh scream, she ran out of the room.

“Here now, Lucy, don’t cry,” Mark suddenly said.

Turning, Tony saw tears running down the child’s sensitive little face. “Come, Lucy, the worst is over and she’ll soon be gone.”

“She’ll make me go with her,” sobbed the child. “She will!”

“She will not, for we will keep you here with us until the carriage I am about to order has taken her across the bridge that spans the moat. And then we shall lock the gates behind her and give the keepers orders not to let her near the Hold.” Tony patted Lucy’s head and looking down saw a dark red mark on her wrist. “Here, what’s this? You’ve hurt yourself.”

“It’s nothing.” Lucy put her hand in her lap quickly.

“Let me see this nothing.” Tony retrieved her hand and examined it closely. “It’s a burn. How did you get such a burn?”

“She... I was careless,” Lucy murmured. “With the ironing.”

“What ironing?”

Lucy kept her eyes on the tree painting. “The... ironing,” she said as if that were all the explanation they needed.

“I say, she never made you do part of the ironing, did she?” Mark demanded angrily.

“Some of it,” she said diffidently, not wanting to think of the huge cold laundry room and the hours she spent there, laboriously ironing aprons and caps with the maids sneaking in to help her when her grandmother wasn’t looking. The discovery that Annie was helping her had resulted in the girl being sacked and in the burn that marked her wrist. There were other burns, and she was glad her sleeves covered them as well as the black and blue spots from her grandmother’s pinches. She did not crave pity. She might be nameless, but Veringer blood ran in her veins and the Veringers were brave!

“Oh, Lucy,” Tony said, stroking her wrist, “you do not need to be loyal to that termagant.” His faded eyes flashed. “She’s been hurting you all along, has she not? And you’ve said nothing.”

“She never would.” Mark actually growled. “I wish she’d have come to the cellar, that woman.”

Tony shook his head. He had a serious look for Mark. “You do not wish anything of the sort, my boy.”

“No, I do not, sir.” The boy flushed. “But she shouldn’t go unpunished. I wish
they
were here—except that her blood would taste very sour, I’m sure.”

“Juliet says that it all tastes the same,” Lucy reminded him.

“I shouldn’t be surprised if it did.” Tony moved toward the door. “I’ll go and speed the parting... guest.” He went out, closing the door softly behind him, only to have it fly open again and shut with a tremendous crash.

“They’re alike in that, my uncle and great-grandfather,” Mark observed to Lucy. “I shouldn’t have mentioned Colin and Juliet.”

“No more should I.” Lucy looked at him regretfully. “It does upset them both so much.”

“But never you,” Mark said amazedly. “You are a marvel, Lucy. And just think, you can stay at the Hold with us—forever and ever!”

“Do you suppose I can?” she asked dubiously, her thoughts taking her back to the drab rooms she shared with her grandmother, to the eternal exhortations on the subject of her inherited sin, to the threats of service or worse, yet, apprenticeship in a factory. The times when she was able to escape to the library and cheer herself up by dwelling on the glorious past of her ancestors were few and far between. She knew her grandfather was fond of her but he was much preoccupied with the affairs of the estate. She also knew that he spent long hours in the chapel praying for the souls of his mother, his father and above all for that of poor Lady Felicity, dead in childbed with Felix, who had been her father. Lucy, herself, had occasionally gone to the chapel to pray for her grandfather, Mark, Colin and Juliet—though Molly had told her prayers were of little help to this family.

“It’s the curse, d’you see?” The banshee had loosed a gusty sigh. “And it’s doubly cursed I am. Ach, I miss the auld sod, but there’s no goin’ back until it’s at an end, and Himself knows when that will be.”

“Will the curse really end?” Lucy had asked, feeling sorry for the banshee. She did look so wrung out and the cat’s whiskers were drooping.

“Aye, it’ll end.” Molly nodded. “When they find a place to receive them. That nasty piece o’goods Erlina Bell’ll do her best to see they do not. A murrain on her, I say, no proper witch she wi’ her indecent goin’s on. Scandalous, I call it. I never did more’n make a few cows run dry ’n raise a storm or two... an’ for that I was toasted to a fare-thee-well’n Grimalkin wi’ me.”

“A place to receive them? What about the Hold?”

Molly had shaken her head until her white locks had fluttered about her thin old face. “’Twill not be here. ’Tis not given to me to know where, but ’tis out on the road the lot o’ us will be. Mark my words’n be off with you. I should not be speaking to you as ’tis but there’s so few can see me an’ ’tis lonely bein’ here wi’ poor little Juliet away so much...” Molly had faded then and the cat with her.

❖

Sitting in her chamber, braiding her hair, Lucy was thinking about her long-ago conversation with Mark. She looked out of her window at the span of the drawbridge and envisioned Mr. Matthais Veringer riding across it, unless he came by carriage. His visit, ostensibly to pay his respects to the elderly or rather ancient Earl of More, Tony having just celebrated his eighty-ninth birthday, was actually to view the estate he would soon inherit. Her gorge rose. It wasn’t fair. Mark ought to inherit or Colin. They both loved the place so much but Mark was illegitimate and a werewolf while Colin was a vampire and, for all intents and purposes, dead. There was only one slim hope that the family could remain in the Hold, and it rested on her shoulders. If Mr. Veringer were to take a liking to her or, in fact, love her... Lucy frowned. She had doubts about Mr. Matthais Veringer. Four years ago, on her sixteenth birthday, she had discovered that she had the gift of prescience. No one had expected Juliet and Colin would be there to help her celebrate that event, but she knew they would come and knew when. She had been right. She was dolefully sure that she was right about Matthais Veringer, and wistfully wishful that she was wrong. Matthais Veringer, a coming event, was casting his shadow before him, and she didn’t like the looks of it.

She finished braiding her hair. Staring into the mirror, she did think he might approve her. Lucy wasn’t vain but she couldn’t help knowing that she was beautiful. As so often happens with girls, she took after her father’s side of the family and, as Tony had averred, she was the image of her grandmother. She had Felicity Campbell’s wide blue eyes and her pale golden hair. The slight tilt of those same eyes might be attributed to Juliet. Her nose was straight and beautifully shaped. Her mouth was full but not too full, and the lips were a lovely pink. Her high cheekbones were about all she had inherited from poor Mary Crowell. She was very slim with a waist that Mark could span with his two hands quite easily.

Poor Mark. She was quite aware that he loved her, and she loved him but only as a brother. That, of course, was fortunate. Actually, he should never marry. The population of werewolves ought not to be increased. She sighed. Mark’s plight always brought tears to her eyes. He was so gentle and kind in his normal state, but tonight the moon would be full and already he was in the cellar. If he howled too loudly, they would have to concoct some story about a rabid dog. It was fortunate that the cadet branch of the Veringers dwelt in Oxford. There had been little communication between the two families, but of late there had been correspondence and an engraving of Colin’s painting of the family tree had been forwarded to Matthais. Lucy grimaced. Though her grandfather assured her it was necessary to provide the heir apparent with this information, she regretted the necessity. It meant that she and Tony must needs entertain him alone. They might, with the excuse of special diets, have been able to get about the fact that Colin and Juliet could not join them at dinner but unfortunately, their portraits hung in the gallery and naturally Matthais Veringer would expect to be shown through it. Colin had painted his sister’s picture which was a marvelous likeness while his own portrait, done when he was 19, was a faithful but not particularly inspired rendering. Of course Colin could have grown a moustache for the occasion, but she could understand his reasons for refusing. It was difficult to get the caked blood out of the small hairs.

Lucy rose and cast another glance into the mirror. Her grandfather had insisted that she have a new gown for the occasion. It was a blue shot silk over an immense crinoline. It was extremely difficult to manage, but it did give shape to her voluminous skirts. Juliet had marveled over its panniers, saying they reminded her of the gown she had worn on her birthday ball in June of 1786. Immediately upon uttering these words she had frowned and exchanged a speaking look with her brother, who had turned briefly morose. Later, Lucy remembered that Juliet had suffered her transition in July of that same year. It was really amazing! Though the ball had taken place 66 years previously, Juliet still looked 17 while Colin could never be taken for much past 22!

It was a pity they could not entertain Matthais Veringer. In the past half-century they had traveled over most of Europe and had had some very amusing experiences or, at least, they seemed amusing in the telling. Of course, some of the anecdotes, concerning the near loss of their coffins during a rough channel crossing and the time those same boxes had fallen off the cart bearing them to Prague and they had waked at night without a notion where they were, could hardly be shared with their guest. Nor could they relate Colin’s encounter with a scrawny little Corsican Corporal who spoke a villanious French and took umbrage at what he termed Colin’s outrageous flirting with a slim Creole wench from Martinique, obviously no better than she should be. That visit to France had certainly been eventful, for Juliet, clapped into prison as an aristocrat, had shared a cell with a Marquis. Upon refreshing herself with a few small sips of his blood, he had amazingly begged her to drink more. He had proved to be a writer and subsequently had named one of the books after her. While these tales could not be aired, there were others equally fascinating. She had said as much to Juliet.

“You will be fascinating, too, my love,” Juliet had comforted her.

As usual, Juliet was being kind. No one knew better than Lucy how terrified she was when forced to meet anyone outside of the household. She was painfully aware that everyone in the village and on the neighboring estates knew of her heritage. Her grandmother, leaving in the highest dudgeon, had not been silent on the subject of her daughter’s betrayal at the hands of Lord Felix Veringer. She had added injury to insult with dark tales of the Old Lord and, of course, everyone was aware of the fate that had befallen Sir Mark Driscoll, avoiding his son on the rare occasions he was seen in the village. No tradesmen would come to the Hold and few servants remained there. Only Tony’s doddering old butler and his equally ancient cook were still in residence, and that was because both were approaching 80 and could not hope for another position. There were also two brave maids, who stayed because of the high wages, but they talked, too.