David Liss - The Twelfth Enchantment - A Novel

Mr. Gilley looked at her and pressed his lips together in a tight approximation of a smile. “That shall not be necessary. My servants will be more tolerant. You must never fear that I will fail to look after you, Miss Derrick.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Lucy, curtsying. It was the most formal, distancing thing she could think to do, but it was too late to correct her error. She had put herself in the power of a man who was determined to extract from her what he could, and Lucy did not know that she could ever again let down her guard while under his roof.

While the crisis with Mrs. Emmett had been building and resolving, the rest of the household had been attentive to but one thing: the assembly at Almack’s, to which Mr. Gilley, with some pains, had secured tickets. The Wednesday assembly was the most fashionable event in all of London, and only the grandest people went. If it were known that Lucy had never formally been presented at court, she would have been barred entry, but Lucy chose not to raise the point, and Norah conveniently forgot to tell her parents—likely less out of concern for Lucy than for the difficulty such a revelation might present.

Lucy’s joy at the prospect of attending was incomplete. Shortly after arriving at the Gilley house, she’d received a letter from Martha in which she made every effort to put a happy face upon her suffering, but Lucy had no doubt that Martha was worried to distraction about what she believed to be her baby. Even Martha’s handwriting appeared unsteady and distraught.

Lucy had to find a way to get to Kent and to the next pages of the Mutus Liber , even if it meant exposing herself to horrible rumor and speculation. The day after the assembly, she told herself, she would go. She would find some way, no matter the cost. She would be under too much scrutiny before then, but after, when everyone was exhausted and self-satisfied, she would find the opportunity to escape.

Norah insisted upon new gowns for the both of them, and when Lucy announced she did not have the money, Mr. Gilley offered to pay for hers, explaining that he should love to see her in a new gown above everything. She hated to put herself in his debt, but it was too awkward to refuse, and so she accepted with many thanks. Lucy walked away from the experience with a trainless, stomacher-front gown of a beautiful coral color, flattering to her shape, perfectly matched to her complexion. Accompanied by a shawl of a charming ivory shade, and with her hair dressed up and curled, precisely to the fashion, and then covered with a prim little hat with a saucily small brim, Lucy felt very pleased with herself indeed. When Norah, who looked fine in her somewhat less-flattering tunic of too bright a red—a color she had loved in the milliner’s shop, but now required constant reassurance that it had not been a mistake—told Lucy she looked “well enough,” that was sufficient to feel like a triumph.

Lucy had to feign enthusiasm for the assembly, but her apathy vanished when they walked into Almack’s ballroom—beautifully lit, as bright as day, full of the most fashionable ladies and the most handsomely appointed men that either she or Norah had ever witnessed. The room was perhaps four times the size of that any dance the Nottingham, and it was peopled with likely ten times the number of occupants. Unlike the Nottingham assembly, where one conversed with farmers and small landholders and petty merchants, here were lords and ladies, men and women whose every act was written up in the newspapers, the stupendously wealthy by birth, nabobs freshly returned from India, actors and actresses who graced the London stage, poets and novel writers and painters and celebrated musicians.

“It is safe to say,” Norah told her, “that if a person is fashionable, and if he is in London tonight, then he is here in this room.”

The ladies had no choice but to remain in tow behind Mr. Gilley, but if Norah yearned to be asked to dance by some fashionable gentleman, Lucy was content to witness and observe and be unobserved, for she feared any conversation must expose her country ignorance. After introductions to a near endless procession of peers and foreigners of significance and a sprinkling of navy men, Mr. Gilley fell into close conversation with a handsome man in his sixties. He was dressed quite beautifully, Lucy thought, in a plain dark suit that both bowed to and defied the current London fashions. The man’s hair receded, his face was wrinkled, and he was short, thin, and quite pale, and yet there was something appealing in his face that was hard to deny. Lucy had little doubt that, in his youth, he had been striking. In his old age, he remained charming.

After exchanging jovial words with Mr. and Mrs. Gilley, he demanded to be introduced to the ladies.

Mr. Gilley cleared his throat and turned to Norah. “My dear daughter, Miss Norah Gilley, allow me to present to you Mr. Spencer Perceval.”

Norah conducted herself with excellent grace, and curtsied low. Lucy, for her part, was taken by surprise, and gasped quite openly. She did not follow politics closely, but there was no avoiding the knowledge that she was about to be introduced to the prime minister.

When Mr. Gilley turned to Lucy, the prime minister, perhaps ready to be finished with these introductions, about which he cared so little, was already shaking Lucy’s hand.

“And this,” said Mr. Gilley, “is my daughter’s particular friend, Miss Lucy Derrick.”

Mr. Perceval squeezed Lucy’s hand hard enough that she let out a little gasp. Then he let go at once. “Forgive me,” he said. “Only, miss, I know your uncle. May I have a private word?”

Lucy felt oddly out of place in her own life. “Of course,” she said.

Mr. Perceval took her arm and led her away from the Gilleys. “I don’t truly know your uncle,” he said amiably enough. “I do, however, know of you from the reports of my agent, Mr. Morrison.”

“Do you mean to say that Mr. Morrison is a Tory?” Lucy said with surprise.

The prime minister let out a boisterous laugh. “My party is not so fortunate. Mr. Morrison is a brother of the Rosy Cross, and I am the leader of more than this government.”

And now Lucy understood. Spencer Perceval, Prime Minister of England, was also the head of Mr. Morrison’s band of Rosicrucians. It was from him that the orders came.

“Mr. Morrison is bound to report everything to me, you know, and so he has been made to tell me about you. I hope you do not find this too shocking. You are lucky to have had the experience of serving with him.”

Lucy did not consider herself lucky. “And why is that?”

“Because,” said the prime minister, “Mr. Morrison is a great hero to this country. He has, quite literally, done more for England than any man alive.”

Lucy snorted, thinking of his silly tricks, his easy charm, and how he had deceived her four years earlier. “I find that difficult to credit.”

“Most young ladies are rather taken with him. In any event, he wrote of how you have found yourself in the thick of things, and even how you aided him in his efforts to retrieve the pages to a book we seek. Perhaps he had no choice but to impress your services, but you must know that your part is over.”

“I did not know that I had a part circumscribed to me.”

“You do,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “We all do, my dear. And please do not think I mean that we are an august group of savants and you are some meddling child, for that is not it at all. What I mean is that you have served your country and done far more than any of us would have dared to ask, and now we wish you to step aside. The earth itself is moving, Miss Derrick, and it would grieve me to see you crushed beneath it.”