Household (50 page)

There as a little tap at his door.

“Yes,” he called. “Who is it?”

“Kathie... may I come in?”

“Kathie, yes!”

She stood in the doorway, wondering suddenly what had prompted her to come to him. She was really so tired. It must be very late or extremely early; she wasn’t sure which. She said crossly, “I’m so sleepy.”

“Do you want to... crawl in with me?”

“No, what an idea! I think I must have been walking in my sleep or something. I’m sorry I woke you up.”

“That’s all right.”

“I did have a funny dream, but I can’t remember it now.”

“So did I,” he said, feeling much the same way she obviously did. “This house is conducive to dreams.”

“I agree. We’ll have to move once we get enough money salted away.”

“Right.” he said enthusiastically. “I’d like to be in Hollywood proper, maybe near Gower.”

“I’d rather be farther out by the beach.” She yawned. “But I don’t really see us leaving town, do you?”

“No, I like the idea of being an agent, or rather an ‘artist’s representative.’ Honesty doesn’t seem to be the best policy among most of them out here. I’d like to change all that.”

“I’m sure you will,” she assured him. She yawned a second time. “I think I’d better go back to bed. Good night, darling. Sorry I disturbed you.”

“That’s okay, babe. Anytime.”

After his sister left, Richard was annoyed, wondering what had brought her out of bed at this hour. A dream? He, too, had dreamed, something about her, but he couldn’t remember what it was. He lay down and was asleep at the same time he put his head on the pillow.

❖

Erlina Bell seethed in the hallway and fled back to her one hope in the cellar. She had been more successful with Colin and Juliet, but unfortunately they were no longer of any use to her.

❖

Kathie awoke to the sound of her alarm clock which she had set the previous evening for seven. She must have automatically reset it for five last night and was glad she had. She felt much better today, better about the part and better about Richard, who would certainly be a more successful agent than actor. To be absolutely honest, he had given her nothing in the way of a response. She might have been acting opposite a wooden pole. The difference between them was that she enjoyed acting and he did not. She much preferred it to being sawed in half, being made to disappear, and generally assisting her father and brother with the illusions, which included feeding the rabbits and tending the baby chicks and the goldfish. Furthermore, all that had been required of her on stage was her capacity to look well in a series of low-cut skintight blouses or close-fitting leotards. Of course there had been her smile and sustaining that
had
required considerable acting ability. She had smiled while the saw seemed to grind across her middle, and she had smiled while disappearing and reappearing. She had smiled when Richard’s daggers skimmed over her head, her shoulders, her arms, her hips, her legs and ankles. She had smiled even when one of them had gashed her side and another had clipped her on the ankle—on two separate occasions three years apart. Richard was usually very accurate.

As Lorenza de Cagliostro, she did not have to smile quite so often, and she could speak with Matthew Vernon, who did seem to like her. She really felt much, much better about everything. And she would go to the studio after all with her father. They had to be there at seven, so she had better get up.

Coming down the stairs a half hour later, Kathie looked up at the new chandelier which Mr. Goldbaum had insisted on installing. She half-expected to see Letitia Lawrence dangling from it looking horridly blue as she did at unexpected moments. Fortunately these were few and farther between, since the actress seemed to have found a kindred soul in Molly. She suddenly remembered her conversation with Richard in the night. Why had she gone to his room? She hadn’t done that since they were children and living in all those miserable old boarding houses. That life was at an end; she was sure of it. Their combined salaries could get them a comfortable house. Maybe they even could afford separate houses, and the Old Lord hopefully might prefer to stay with her parents.

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 heard 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.”