David Liss - The Twelfth Enchantment - A Novel

There was no help for it now, and so she spoke words she would never have believed she could utter. “Will you take me with you?”

Finally he found the courage to take her hand. Mr. Morrison smiled at her, and his eyes moistened. “I should like nothing better than to have you with me, but it is far too dangerous.”

Lucy swallowed, preparing her to say the words she had to say. “If you love me, you will take me with you.”

He looked down at the table for a long time. Finally, he met her eyes. “My search for the book will take me far away, to many different places, and I cannot harm your reputation by asking you to go with me unmarried. And I cannot now marry you. I should like nothing better, Lucy, but until this matter is resolved, my superior would not give me permission.”

No one is asking you to marry me, thought Lucy bitterly, and yet, she could not help but consider this offer as though it were serious, as though it were brought on by something other than her magic and her will. Mr. Morrison was a gentleman, he had money and certainly influence of some kind. He was charming and clever and handsome. Ought she not to set aside her past antipathy and encourage this line of conversation?

“However,” he said, snapping her out of her thoughts, “before I travel, I must look for some of the missing pages close to hand. It will be dangerous, but you are a woman of some skill, so if you do precisely what I say, I will venture to bring you with me.”

It was better than nothing. It was a start. “Where do we go?”

He made a face of disgust. “To a vile place, Lucy. One as full of demons and ghosts as anywhere on earth. We go to an estate whose every stone is permeated with evil and dissipation. It is the ruined home of a corrupted baron who is more devil than man. The place I speak of is called Newstead Abbey.”

22

T HEY WOULD GO AT NIGHT, MR. MORRISON SAID, AS THE SERVANTS of Newstead would not remain the night in the absence of their master. Slipping in at night increased their chances of finding the book and remaining undiscovered. Lucy knew she would need to bring whatever talismans and protections she could muster against fairies and other dark things. Newstead, as she already knew, was supposed to be haunted by several ghosts. The entire neighborhood spoke of Byron’s deceased dog, whom Mr. Morrison said was called Boatswain, and according to local gossip there were earthly creatures to fear as well. Byron was known to keep a menagerie of wild animals upon the grounds, including a bear, a wolf, and, perhaps less menacing, a tortoise. Lucy was determined to prepare for all of these, and for dangers yet unimagined.

Yet, if danger could be avoided, why should they risk breaking open the abbey? “Can we not ask the master of Newstead to give you or sell you what you seek?” Lucy asked.

“The master of Newstead, as you style him, will not behave like a gentleman. If he knows we desire the pages, he will withhold them for as much money as he can demand.”

“And why not pay him then? Surely your order has resources.”

“We do,” said Mr. Morrison, “and I believe if we could depend upon him to conduct himself according to the dictates of reason, we would buy the pages, but this man is half mad, a capricious and dangerous fiend who will ally himself against his nation for the simple pleasure of rebellion. We dare not risk letting him know that we are aware of the pages and desire them.”

Byron had shown her every sign of being a kind, generous, and open gentleman, but he had shown her another side as well, and Lucy too would hesitate to depend upon his goodness. Still, she found herself irritated that Mr. Morrison would speak so ill of him. Who was he to judge anyone else’s actions after his crimes and after he and his kind had sided with revenants and mill operators? Lucy thought it entirely possible she could persuade Byron to give her the pages. He lived by his own law, and it was a dangerous law for her, but perhaps with the aid of the right talisman, Lucy could get him to surrender whatever she wished.

That was all speculation, however, for Byron was in London. If the pages were here in Nottinghamshire, it was better to take them with Mr. Morrison’s aid. She hated that it was he with whom she would share this adventure. It would be far more delightful to sneak into Mr. Morrison’s estate with Byron as her coconspirator. Byron had insulted her, that was true, but in his mind he had not meant his proposal as an insult, and his regard for her appeared genuine, not brought about by magic and charms. This was, however, all building castles in the air. There were to be no adventures with Byron, and Lucy would have to order things as best she could to protect her niece. Later she would worry about who was right in this conflict between Mary Crawford’s ideas and Mr. Morrison’s.

Byron would surely have had no difficulty in asking Lucy to slip from her home in the dark of night, but the idea did not sit well with the far more prim Mr. Morrison. He wrestled with the impropriety of it, torturing himself over his near elopement with her four years before. In the end, he was forced to make do with many assurances of his good intentions. “You may depend upon my behaving honorably,” he told her. “Do not think I will confuse love with license.”

Lucy absently thanked him and at once began to consider which among her gowns would be best suited for a midnight adventure to a gothic castle.

Lucy contrived to slip into everyone’s supper a combination of herbs to induce a heavy sleep. She also placed little bundles under the pillows in each bed, bits of lavender entwined with each person’s hair, and a drop of wine. They would wake under natural circumstances, but they would be disinclined to hear her slip down the stairs and opening the front door. Upon the clock striking one in the morning, Lucy, as Mr. Morrison had directed her, removed herself from the house and he met her upon the street. There was to be no carriage, only a single horse, onto which Mr. Morrison helped her. Then, without ceremony, they began the slow and steady ride into the night.

They spoke little, but Lucy felt the awkward weight of his body against hers as they rode. He did not press up against her on purpose—nothing so vulgar as that. If anything, he shifted away from her, avoiding contact, but only because he so much desired it. Lucy hated him still—of course she did—but she also felt a strange kind of pity for Mr. Morrison. He was a melancholy creature, and showed every sign of being genuinely affected by the death of his wife. Lucy, with her spell, would only make him more melancholy still.

At last they turned off the main road and continued the next mile or so until the looming shape of Newstead Abbey began to appear in the shadow of the near-full moon. Mr. Morrison’s pace did not slow, but she sensed a tension in him as he approached.

“Have you before been to the abbey?” she asked him.

“Once.” His voice was cold and clipped. Lucy understood that there was something between the two men, something Mr. Morrison chose not to speak of.

They followed the road past the great lake and around the southern wing of the castle to approach by the western front. Lucy thought of what Mr. Blake had said about ghosts, and though she had taken precautions, she could not help but feel the thrill of fear. Yet, for all her anxiety, it was a pleasant night with a bright moon and a soothing quiet. The horse trotted along the road until they reached its broadening, right before the door. There, they dismounted and Mr. Morrison tied his horse. He took from his saddlebag a lantern and a tinderbox and struck a light.