The Three Rites of Eugenie Hastings

Special thanks to Ken Nitsua for editing this story!

***

You'll want to know about the night of August seventh. It's all that anybody ever wants to know about.

I always thought that people would forget, it was years ago, another life, another time. I always thought the world would simply move on.

But the world doesn't move on at all. The world devours that which provokes its interest and it does not stop until it is satisfied. I know that now. And I know too that I have done myself no favors in keeping certain details from the public, in attempting to keep some semblance of my good name and my reputation. Somehow the world has always known that I was holding back, and that there was more to that night than ever I have admitted.

So I suppose now I shall simply tell it all, in the hopes that at last it might all be finished and I will find myself free from that night and those events that transpired. I see finally that there is nothing left to protect, no hope of moving on until the story is told.

But I will warn you at the outset: If I am to speak then I will hold nothing back, not for your comfort and for your sensibilities, and not for mine. If I am going to speak the truth now, then I will speak it plain, and I will say every word that I have so long hidden. I only hope that it shall be enough.

As you know, it was the first blush of autumn 1926. It was the season of lights and of galas, of the last hurrah before the light of summer fled and the long cold of a New England winter set upon us again. It was my debutante season, albeit late. I was twenty years old and fresh from the Academy in Vermont, at last free to make my rounds of the high society of Providence. I had always resented my father for keeping me so long at the girls' school, for delaying my entry into the light of the real world. Across that glorious summer I believed I had at last forgiven him.

I was a long-whispered secret, some cloistered beauty long absent from the social set. I see now that my absence from Providence and its social life only served to enhance the desire for my return. Perhaps that had been my father's plan all along, to keep me locked away until the proper moment, until all the best families were begging for my presence, until I was the most sought after prize in all New England. That summer it certainly seemed as if I was.

I had been courted, it seemed, by every swain of good family in Providence and Boston, and received no less than three proposals, which was enough of course to make my head spin and provoke the jealousy of all of my friends. It was not enough, however, for my father. He turned down each applicant with nary a thought. At first I imagined he was simply being cold, but by that August he had made it known that there was only one match he would consider for me, and that was to Timothy Hansen, son of Walter Hansen and the heir to the Hansen steel empire. It was a lofty ambition, even I recognized that, but my father was single-minded. He had designed the whole of my life for the single moment when Timothy Hansen might see me across some gilded room and feel at once a stirring in his heart.

Whatever my father's failings might have been, he knew what he was about. At the Richardson Ball in Boston in the early days of July Timothy Hansen laid eyes on me for the first time. Though he did not approach me that evening, within two days he had presented himself at my father's house to ask if I could be permitted to accompany him sailing on his family's yacht. It was a proposition to which my father at once consented. Two weeks later he gave his blessing for Timothy and I to be wed.

What should I say of poor Tim? He has faded from the memory of the world now. His family fortune did not survive the crash of '29. But once his family name was mentioned in the same breath as that of Rockefeller, Morgan and Rothschild. Of course, Tim was not there to see the fall of his family fortune. His own luck turned that night in August, at the party at Richmond Court.

I will say that my engagement to Timothy was the happiest day of my life. It was not for his wealth that I loved him, not for the fine value of his name, but for the man he was. So brave, so young and handsome, he was to me like a prince from the storybooks of my girlhood. I was young and inexperienced, but when he spoke to me it sounded as though he were speaking poetry, and the way that he smiled, the feel of his fingers when they brushed my skin... I knew from the first that I loved him, and that there was nowhere I would not follow him upon this earth. There was nothing he might ask that I would not be glad to give.

I believe that the whole world saw Tim that way. He was so fine and witty, with such abounding intelligence. He was everything a well-brought up young man aspired to be. I imagine that the announcement of our engagement broke many hearts that summer, and dashed the hopes of many great and famous families. During those first heady weeks I saw Timothy very much as I saw the sun, just as bright, and just as beautiful.

As I look back now, I know that there were parts of Tim that did not show through at the outset, sides of his nature that most never had an opportunity to see. He was rich, witty, intelligent and handsome, but I can say now that there was darkness too. There was in Timothy Hansen a desire that was not easily understood, and even now I struggle to place my feelings into words. He was a man who had the whole world at his fingertips, but the world was somehow not enough.

Many men of our class desire money, and can never have enough of it. Certainly that was true of my father, and also of his. But money meant little to Tim. Through the days of our whirlwind courtship and engagement I never knew what it was that really drove my intended. I did not know just what it was that he was hungry for. But even through the haze of my giddy adoration I retained enough of my faculties to sense he was driven by a desire for something other than money.

Had things gone as they were intended, I do not know if my life with Tim would truly have been a happy one. All things fade in time, and though in those days I was young and beautiful, time soon fades all that is lovely. I will never know if Tim's desire for me would have outlasted the bloom of our youth. I have often thought that perhaps in a strange way I was spared by that night at Richmond Court.

...which I will get to now, as that is what you long to hear, what all the world has hungered after ever since that night in August when Timothy Hansen escorted me to the party there.

It was not a party like those to which I was accustomed. I knew that from the moment that Tim invited me. It was not some end-of-summer gala thrown by one of the great old families, not a festival of light and finery with the owners of banking houses and railways. No, the party at Richmond Court was a different sort of affair altogether.

"A lark," Tim described it to me.

I was aware by that time that Tim had many friends that would hardly have been welcomed at the society dinners and dances I frequented. They were men from the working class, and scholars from universities--a ragged set of eccentrics, men whose interests and passions somehow led them far from the world of convention, who dressed rattily, who spoke roughly and who never had more than a dime in their pocket.

"Visionaries," Tim had described them to me. "Pioneers. They are the future. We are the future. Someday it will be us who make the world turn."

The party at Richmond Court was one thrown by the visionaries. I hardly knew how to dress for something like that, but Tim had invited me and of course I did not dream of turning down the chance to appear somewhere, anywhere, upon his arm. Even though it was not the sort of function I was accustomed to, I had no reservations at all that evening when Tim picked me up in his Rolls-Royce. It was just another party, another adventure in what I was sure would be a long life full of such things.

Even the sight of Richmond Court itself did not shake me, though even at that time it was quite old and much faded from its glory days. A sad story, the Richmond family. Their roots in Providence dated back before the Revolution. They had amassed a fortune based on molasses and the cotton trade. For five generations they had dwelt in the massive grandeur of Richmond Court.

Then, in 1880 the whole family had died within its walls. There had always been ghost tales in my childhood, rumors that the Richmonds had met their fate at the hands of an axe-wielding criminal, but at the ripe age of twenty I knew that it had been a pandemic that took them. The family had passed slowly and in misery, confined to their beds until one by one they faded and were gone. An awful thing of course, and a sad one, but nothing that could frighten me.

The house had languished in the decades that had followed, as no one wished to install themselves in a home touched by plague and ill fortune, no matter how long past. That August it had been purchased by one P. Arshinov, one of Tim's eccentric set. Some said that Timothy himself had actually put up the money for the purchase.

That night the house was lit up with candles and oil lamps, a dull orange haze that spread weakly into the darkness around it, and it struck me as odd that there should be no electric lights in the place, that surely it would not be so difficult to run wires through the old walls. However, Tim assured me that the lighting was by design. It was for atmosphere, he told me, and as he led me towards the waiting door I did wonder just what sort of atmosphere was intended, just what I could expect within.

My first impression of the party was that it was quite a low and sorry affair. Tim did not knock upon the door. We just walked into the drafty old house, no butler or servant to greet us or to take our coats, no host to hail our arrival. We simply followed the sound of music scratching from a phonograph down the halls until we reached the large parlor where the other guests had congregated.

There were ten or fifteen of them I believe, all lounging around on old and much worn sofas and chairs, sipping drinks from thick glasses and speaking in low voices to one another as a record turned on the phonograph in the corner. Most of the guests, I saw at once, were men. They were of various ages, but united by a downtrodden and shabby appearance: longish hair and unkempt beards, dirty nails and clothing stained by labor.

I noted only two other women in that room, both of them some years older than myself and dressed in a manner akin to the menfolk around them. Nobody seemed to notice our arrival, or pay any attention to us at all. Tim led me across the room towards the lit fireplace and an old green chair, upon which sat in silence a wizened, middle-aged man, staring thoughtfully into the flames.

When I was introduced to Mr. Arshinov he offered me a smile, though he did not rise from his seat or reach up to take my hand. When he spoke it was to Tim and not to me, and though his name was clearly of the old world I could detect only the barest trace of an accent in his words.

"Quite lovely, young man, you have done well for yourself."

This was a compliment that carried no real meaning, considering the disparity between the man's station and that of a Hansen, but my dear Tim beamed all the same. He asked Mr. Arshinov if all was in readiness, and when the man told him that it was indeed Tim once more seemed as giddy as a child.

"Shall we begin?" Mr. Arshinov asked. "I suppose there is no need to wait."

And he clapped his hands to gather the attention of the group and announced that all were now arrived, and that it was time to prepare.

I hardly knew what was to be prepared for—dinner, I supposed. Mr. Arshinov fixed his eyes upon me, and in a kind voice suggested that I might like to freshen up with the other ladies as the menfolk attended to some business matters at hand.

I was not eager to leave Tim's side in such unknown and rough company, but within a moment the two other women in the room were at my side and gesturing that I should join them. It seemed rude to refuse, so I followed them across the parlor and beyond, only pausing for an instant in the doorway to look back at Tim. He was smiling sweetly, obviously very pleased.

I followed the women down another long hall, imagining of course that we were heading to a powder room to freshen our faces, and to entertain ourselves while the men smoked and did whatever business men do when not in the company of women. I was a bit surprised when I was led instead into a small, empty kitchen. No food at all had been prepared, and it appeared as if not a thing had been changed or added since the house had belonged to the Richmond family.

My companions, who had not yet offered me a single word, leaned against one wall. Both produced cigarettes from the pockets of the coats they wore and began to smoke. Through the smoke, it seemed to me, they studied me as I stood awkwardly in the doorway. I was quite unsure of what to say, still less of what to do.

"You don't have to be nervous," one of the women said to me at last, and offered me a cigarette which I quickly refused.

The woman who had spoken only shrugged and puffed away.

"I'm Leah," she said after another moment had passed. She nodded towards her companion. "Sophie. Sophie doesn't speak."

That was a statement that I felt compelled to apologize for, as though the woman's silence were somehow tied to me. Both of the women shrugged and said nothing more. Feeling completely unsure of myself I offered them my own name, which caused Leah to nod.

"Arshinov told us," Leah said. "Eugenie Hastings. You're rich and famous, right? Your father owns a transport company."

"Yes, that's right," I nodded. "And you, Miss? What does your family do?"

It was a question which provoked a snort from the silent Sophie, and a chuckle from Leah herself, who answered they did nothing worth speaking of.

Once more there was a prolonged silence between us. My discomfort grew, until I felt compelled to say anything that would keep that empty hanging silence at bay. I asked them if they knew Mr. Arshinov well. Leah smiled when she told me that they did not know him nearly as well as I would.

"You don't know why you're here, do you, honey? That fiancé of yours, he didn't tell you a thing. You ought to have a cigarette. It will calm you down."

Once more I declined her offer, and though her words struck me as strange and even somewhat threatening, I had no earthly idea of what they might portend.

I was relieved when Leah dropped her cigarette upon the floor and crushed it out beneath her toe. She announced that we should all head back to the party, that it would not have taken the men long at all to ready themselves for the night's entertainment. Happily I followed the two women back down the hall towards the parlor, towards Tim and towards a presence that I understood.

If anything had occurred in our brief absence there was no sign. The men stood or sat as they had before, quietly speaking among themselves and sipping drinks while the record played and the fire crackled.

I went at once to Tim who was standing near the phonograph, took his arm and asked him how long we were expected to stay here. When he gave me a questioning look I explained that I was a bit uncomfortable, that this was not the sort of place to which I was accustomed.

Seeing my unease he tenderly patted my arm, and assured me that we need not stay long, that we would have a drink and then soon after we would make our excuses and depart. I was quite relieved by his words. A single drink was something I could bear. Seeing the comfort that must have spread across my face Tim at once declared that he would fetch us a drink immediately.

I watched him as he strode across the room towards a small table on the far wall, poured two glasses of brandy and returned once more to my side. I did not notice until he was beside me once again and the glass was in my hands that all the others in the room had begun to rise. They looked towards the seat by the fire where Mr. Arshinov was pulling himself to his feet.

"A toast, I think, as we begin." Mr. Arshinov called. He held up a glass in his hand, his action mirrored by all those in attendance, myself included.

"Tonight we drink to a glorious past," said Arshinov. "And to the coming future. When the time has come to write the history of our brave new world, the historians will say that it began tonight. That it began right here, and with this bold company. And they shall relate that it began with a simple drink and with a pledge of eternal devotion."

I saw Mr. Arshinov's eyes fall upon me as he lowered his glass to his lips. As I brought the brandy to my own I saw that all present were looking my way. I glanced at Tim and saw that he was smiling broadly as he tipped the glass back and drank.

As far as I know, all those present drank after Mr. Arshinov's toast. I know for a certainty that I did.

With the toast completed the gathering resumed its course once more. The low conversations struck up again, Mr. Arshinov returned to stand by the fire. If those present that night were going to change the world then they certainly seemed in no hurry to get on with it. For my part, I downed my brandy in a few quick gulps, eager to leave that strange company as swiftly as possible.

Yet, in spite of his promise, Tim seemed in no hurry to go. He sipped at his drink, he scanned the group around us, making no effort to join in conversation but not seeking an exit either. I was on the verge of voicing my desire to depart once again, when I saw Mr. Arshinov looking upon me in a way that made my knees shake ever so slightly.

He clapped his hands for quiet as he had done before, but when the room was silent and all eyes were upon him, he simply clapped his hands a second time.

I saw Leah and Sophie rise from their places and cross the room to stand before him. He spoke to them in a low voice. I could not hear their words but the result was clear enough. I watched as both women lowered their eyes to the floor and turned to face each other. Leah raised her arms and held them up as Sophie stepped close and began to undo the buttons on her companion's coat.

When Sophie's long fingers had undone the last button, Leah lowered her arms, shrugged her shoulders and let the garment fall to the floor. I gasped as she was revealed naked. Before the crowd of silent men Leah stood with lowered eyes, letting all take in her form and flesh, the generous curve of her hips, the shadows falling on her heavy breasts, and the gentle blush that passed across her skin.

Arshinov stood behind her. He placed a hand upon her bare shoulder, leaned close and whispered something into Leah's ear. The woman nodded, and in one graceful motion she lowered herself down upon her knees, her eyes still cast to the floor. She placed her arms behind her back and held herself still as Arshinov turned his gaze upon Sophie.

He had no need for words. Sophie began to undo the buttons of her own coat. When she let the coat fall away and stood revealed in full I saw the marks upon her skin, upon her breast and her belly, and I saw the mark between her thighs, just above the glistening redness of her sex.

And then I fell to the floor and saw nothing more.

I have often asked myself if I was drugged.

For a long time I resisted the idea, for it would mean that Tim had been complicit, that he had known in full what would befall us within that place. I resisted because to admit it would have been to admit that the man I had loved had planned that night. For the longest time that was more than I could bear.

Now much time has passed. I have had a lifetime to ponder on those events, and to accept what must have been. The drink I was offered was drugged, and the whole purpose of going off with the women to the kitchen had been to allow the men to drug the brandy. The whole purpose of the toast was simply to ensure that I would drink it.