David Liss - The Twelfth Enchantment - A Novel

“You know of these Luddites, and the one they call General Ludd?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Lucy. “Everyone does.”

“Yes, well they have heard of you. Apparently they speak of you a great deal.”

“What does that mean?” Lucy demanded, suddenly quite terrified. What did the Luddites know of her? Why did she matter to them?

“Oh, well, that’s rather difficult to say. Could mean anything, I suppose, but I’d like to know myself. I am here in pursuit of their leader, so what interests him interests me.”

“You mean to hunt Ned Ludd?” asked Lucy, intending to mock him.

Mr. Morrison, however, showed no signs of understanding the humor. “Yes, that is precisely correct. I am here to hunt Ludd.”

Lucy was sure he must be teasing her, and yet there was nothing but seriousness upon his face. “There is no Ludd. He is but a story. Everyone says so.”

“I’ve discovered that it may not always be sound to accept what everyone says as the truth. You may depend upon it—Ludd is all too real, and my order has sent me to stop him.”

Lucy could not restrain her curiosity. Had Mr. Morrison become a monk? “Your order?”

“You must understand that I am not the man you once knew. I was never that man, really, but I’m even less he than I once was.”

“Yes,” said Lucy, turning to hide her disgust. “I heard you married, and married well.”

“That is true.” He looked away. “I convinced a young lady, beautiful and rich, that she ought to marry me.”

“And yet you are dancing now with me and not your wife.”

“My wife is dead,” Mr. Morrison said.

Lucy swallowed hard. “I did not mean to be cruel. I am sorry.”

“She was murdered.”

Lucy gasped and stepped away from him. He pulled her back toward him, and when he spoke his voice was low and intense, but somehow gentle. “You cannot know. You cannot understand what this did to me. She was my wife, and I loved her, and someone took her from me. I do not dare think what I would have done or become—I might have become the greatest of villains, I might have destroyed myself—were it not for my order.”

“Have you become some sort of devotee of religion?”

“Not religion, no. I am an acolyte of knowledge, a brother of the Rose-Cross.”

“I’ve not heard of it,” Lucy said.

“We are also called Rosicrucians,” Mr. Morrison explained. “We are a society of men who persue ancient knowledge and wisdom. The head of my order has sent me to destroy Ludd. After that, I may persue my own goals.”

“And what are they?”

“To take my revenge upon my wife’s murderer. If nothing else, I am a man who believes in revenge.”

Lucy hardly knew how to respond. She did not feel comfortable speaking to him of his wife, particularly when his grief was still so evident, so she chose to speak of other matters. “What danger do the Luddites pose? Perhaps the Luddites attempt to save England from the destruction of nature and of the souls of its workingmen.”

“Is that how the cunning women see it? Well, I suppose there is some sense to that, even if it is a bit muddled. Your kind have always tended to the individual, and so the worker who must labor for more hours than he chooses or earn a few shillings less than he would like—that must cause you grief. My kind looks upon nations, not men. If these Luddites are unanswered, they will bring about a revolution in England such as there has been in France, and I promise you the streets of London will run just as red with blood as did those of Paris. Is that not harm enough? If not, let me paint you the picture of another future, one in which every nation on earth advances its technology. Every nation but ours. There are new ways of manufacturing, new goods we have not yet conceived, but the Luddites will keep England from participating, and so we will fall behind. Then we will have no trading partners, and the nation will fall into poverty. That means suffering, starvation, want, and misery. This is the future the Luddites offer.”

The music now ended, and Mr. Morrison led Lucy to the punch table for refreshment. Lucy was about to ask more questions, particularly why he believed she had some involvement with these Luddites, but their conversation ended abruptly. A hand grabbed Lucy by the shoulder and spun her around roughly. It was Mr. Olson, and hurrying close behind him, Mrs. Quince, who appeared to be doing her best to keep him away.

“I feel certain this is but a misunderstanding, Mr. Olson,” said Mrs. Quince. “A young lady may dance when asked.”

Olson turned to her, his expression dark and hard and unforgiving. Lucy had not seen him since the destruction of his mill, and whatever he had endured since that night was inscribed upon his countenance. He looked older, and there were heavy bags under his red-rimmed eyes. His hair was unkempt, his neck cloth stained and frayed. His fingernails were caked with dirt, and his face was unshaven.

“I thought I might find you here,” he said, his voice loud, almost shrill. “But I did not think to find you had taken up already with another man.”

“It is but dancing,” said Lucy. Then, because she did not like the frightened waver in her voice, added, “It is no concern of yours.”

“It is my concern,” said Mr. Olson, making no effort to keep his voice low. “You are to be my wife.”

“You see,” said Mrs. Quince. “All is as it should be. Lucy, you must thank Mr. Olson for his goodness.”

“Mr. Olson is mistaken,” Lucy answered in a quiet voice. “I do not wish to marry.”

Mr. Olson took an unsteady step toward her and gripped her arm tight. “I do not care what you wish. Your uncle promised you to me and I will have you. And what is that? A rose? This man gives you flowers?”

Lucy attempted to pull free, but could not. Mrs. Quince hissed something at her, but she was not listening, because now Mr. Morrison was advancing, attempting to wedge himself between Lucy and Mr. Olson.

“Sir, you ought to reconsider your approach,” he said. “Certainly you ought to remove your hand from the lady. That would be an excellent first step. And a fine second step, if I may be so bold, would be to cease behaving like an ass. If there is any more conversation to be had upon the subject, I think it best we conduct it in private. That way, if events should turn badly, no one need see you beaten like a dog. So what say you? A little private chat?”

Mr. Olson gave a hard tug on Lucy’s arm, forcing her out of the way, but Mr. Morrison moved to block Olson’s path. The two men were of about the same height, but Mr. Morrison was the leaner of the two, and Mr. Olson showed every sign of interpreting his slighter build as weakness. “I’ll not be intimidated by a dandy who would take what is mine. Who are you, sir?”

Mr. Morrison gave the briefest of bows and opened his mouth to speak.

To Lucy, it felt as though time had slowed down to an agonizing crawl. She looked about the room, at the food and drink and guests, who were now gathered around, watching the row with scandalized delight. What could she do to prevent him from speaking? If Mrs. Quince were to learn that this man before her was Jonas Morrison, the Jonas Morrison, then she might be cast from her uncle’s house at once. No mere charm could protect her from that. Had she a glass of punch in her hand, she would have thrown it in his face. Had she a plate, she would have struck him in the head. She had nothing, she could do nothing but watch with horror as Mr. Morrison spoke his name.

She fully anticipated that Mrs. Quince’s jaw would drop, that she might squeal in delight, or grin malevolently. What she did not anticipate is that Mrs. Quince would take a step back, as if in fear, crashing into the punch table, and upsetting the bowl so its contents ran down the back of her gown. She righted herself, and Lucy saw her face had gone pale, her eyes wide. She stood for a moment, punch running off her gown as though she had passed water on the floor, and then fled in what Lucy could only imagine was confusion.