David Liss - The Twelfth Enchantment - A Novel

“Sit down,” Mrs. Quince ordered.

Lucy sat. She longed to be defiant, but she wanted something substantial to defy, and sitting was probably the best course of action.

“It is rather a long ride from Kent,” said Lady Harriett, “but I have come here to speak with you, and I will not brook any rudeness on your part. My late Sir Reginald knew how to manage a girl like you, and so do I. Do you understand me?”

“I understand your words,” said Lucy, “but not the cause for speaking them.”

“Already she is saucy,” observed Mrs. Quince.

Lady Harriett paused a moment and said, “It is my understanding that you have defied your uncle’s wishes regarding your impending marriage to Mr. Olson. Not only have you dared to refuse this marriage, but now you throw yourself at a profligate baron. Miss Derrick, the world well remembers precisely what sort of a girl you are. The sooner you are bound in matrimony, the sooner you will be safe—or at least safer—from your weaknesses.”

Lucy seethed, furious and stunned by this intrusion. “I beg your pardon, Lady Harriett. You and I have been introduced, but we little know one another. I am not certain by what authority you direct me, or what has prompted you to make the long drive to do so.”

“She is very rude,” said Lady Harriett to Mr. Buckles.

“I did not expect this rudeness,” agreed Mr. Buckles. “I am ashamed for her.”

Lady Harriett folded her hands into an attitude of prayer and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Mr. Buckles is married to your sister, which makes his larger family my concern. I would not have you bring scandal upon Mr. Buckles through your improprieties. I believe that is how Sir Reginald would have ordered things were he alive, and it is how I shall do so.”

A vein throbbed distractingly in Lady Harriett’s temple. It hardly seemed likely that she came all this way out of concern for Mr. Buckles’s reputation, which would be but little touched by Lucy’s actions. But for some reason she did care. That much was evident. And Byron, under the influence of his curse, had also cared whom Lucy married. Lucy could not fathom of what possible concern this match might be to the world.

“Your interest in my future is most unexpected,” said Lucy after a brief pause. “If I may speak bluntly, you are not my relation, and you have neither power nor authority over me. I beg you indulge me when I ask what shall happen if I choose not to marry Mr. Olson.”

“You shall find I have power and authority over more than you suppose,” said Lady Harriett. “If you refuse to marry Mr. Olson, then I will instruct Mr. Buckles to bar you from having any contact with his wife and daughter, whom you shall never see again.”

Lucy stared in amazement, unable to believe what she heard. Martha and little Emily were her only family—for she hardly counted her uncle—left in the world, and she could not imagine Mr. Buckles could be so monstrous as to prevent his own wife from having contact with her sister. Martha would have no choice but to obey her husband’s demands, but such an order would only fill their marriage with resentment and bitterness. “You cannot mean it,” she said.

“Lady Harriett is, ah, very serious,” said Mr. Buckles. “It would distress me to no small extent to give pain to my wife, but I will not … will not, shall we say, hesitate to do so for the good of my family. If you do not marry this Olson, you shall be cut off entire.” He paused to wipe his brow in a dramatic and determined manner, as though the rest of the company must now pause to admire his brow-wiping prowess.

“I beg you recall the annuity which Mr. Buckles has been generous enough to provide,” added Lady Harriett. She rose from her chair with the gravity of a queen vacating her throne and stepped across the room to stand directly before Lucy. “Your obstinacy is an insult to my late husband’s memory, and I shan’t tolerate it. If you continue on this course, you may remain in your uncle’s house no longer. Consider your situation, young lady. Either you marry Mr. Olson, or you will be cast adrift, utterly alone and friendless.”

Mrs. Quince nodded at Lucy, as though she herself had arranged everything that had happened and now gazed upon her own handiwork with pride and satisfaction.

11

L UCY COMFORTED HERSELF THAT MR. BUCKLES AND LADY HARRIETT chose not to stay. After their brief conversation, they set out at once to return to Kent. One good result of the visit, however, was that it effectively reintroduced Lucy to the routine of the house. Neither her uncle nor Mrs. Quince said anything of her walking with Byron or her brief confinement to her room.

Nevertheless, Lucy remained trapped. She had to marry Mr. Olson. She did not see how she could avoid it, not unless the new will proved valid and she came into her inheritance. Otherwise, she would be cast adrift with no money or refuge.

Oddly enough, in the face of these devastating consequences, Lucy found a new calm. Events were now out of her hands. She could hope the world might rescue her, and if it did not, she would float along on the tides of fate, much the way everyone else did. Who was she to think she deserved better? She would marry Mr. Olson, so dull and cold, but capable of providing her with a decent life. Women prayed daily for such a husband.

Lucy’s efforts to resign herself to her fate were interrupted when Mrs. Quince pushed open her door to tell her that she had a visitor. “It is that Crawford woman. I did not know you continued to carry on with her. I believe I shall have to speak to your uncle.”

Lucy would not have yet another connection taken away from her, but protesting would not serve her ends. Instead, she silently followed Mrs. Quince to the sitting room, where the ethereal Miss Mary Crawford stood looking out the window to the street beyond. She wore no green today, but a frock of white trimmed with light pink, and a broad-brimmed white hat with a matching pink band. With her fair hair and fairer skin, she glowed, almost like an angel.

“What is your business with Miss Derrick?” asked Mrs. Quince.

“She is my friend,” said Miss Crawford. “Is she not permitted friends?”

“Of the proper sort,” said Mrs. Quince with the sort of sniff she believed must make her appear more formidable.

Miss Crawford took a step forward. “Do you suggest something, Mrs. Quince? I beg you speak plainly.”

Much to Lucy’s surprise, Mrs. Quince retreated. Lucy had never seen her do so except in the presence of someone she wished to flatter. “I know of nothing objectionable,” she said, and then walked toward the door, where she hovered for a moment, one last attempt to intimidate. Miss Crawford turned her back to her, however, and so Mrs. Quince departed.

When they were left alone, Lucy permitted herself to look at Miss Crawford, studied her face for signs of good news or bad. Miss Crawford met her eye, and her thin, vaguely sad smile suggested nothing good.

“The will is not real,” Lucy said, holding on to the wall for balance. “It is false, and I have no cause for hope.”

“It is real,” said Miss Crawford, stepping forward to take her hand, “but the situation is complicated.”

Lucy felt the most unexpected sensation, the warmth of pure affection that seemed to course from this woman’s gloved hand. “You’ve already been so kind to me. I must thank you for making the effort, for attempting—”

“You need not thank me. Though we have met but recently, we are friends, and I will always do what I can for you. There is so much more to say, about this and about other things. Will you come with me, Miss Derrick?”

“Go with you where?”

Miss Crawford’s countenance appeared suddenly so serious that Lucy could never have predicted what she said next.