David Liss - The Twelfth Enchantment

Uncle Lowell began to redden. His fists clenched and unclenched as he spoke. “That’s a damned pretty thing to say. Do you think he’s not heard of your whoring about with that scoundrel Morrison before you came here? Unless you wish him to believe the worst, you must convince Olson you are not engaged upon some adventure with that baron.”

He now saw the document in Lucy’s hand, and she observed that he saw it. She began to set it aside, though she realized too late that doing so was a mistake.

“What is that?”

Panic had her in its grips, and for a moment, Lucy could not think what to say. If she was made to hand over the will, everything could end at that moment. Maybe her uncle had stolen the money, and maybe he would simply not want the family name to become involved in a scandal over a few thousand pounds that were not even his. She could not allow him to make that decision, so Lucy forced herself to clear her mind and master her feelings. She held on to the will and met her uncle’s eye. “It is a letter from my sister.”

Uncle Lowell studied her carefully, perhaps sensing something amiss, but being a man too blunt for duplicity, he did not easily recognize it in others. After a moment he said, “I’ll hear no more arguments. You will write to Mr. Olson.”

Lucy felt strangely liberated. She very much liked the idea of playing a deep game, of keeping her options open, of possessing more information than anyone suspected.

“Certainly,” she told her uncle. Relieved that she had preserved her secret, she was prepared to offer a concession. “I shall write him at once.”

HER BUSINESS WOULD NOT WAIT. LUCY WENT OUT AND WALKED to High Pavement in the hopes of finding Miss Crawford home. She told neither her uncle or Mrs. Quince that she was leaving, an omission that might come back to haunt her, but she could not trouble herself about that presently.

She found Miss Crawford at home, and her serving woman, the peculiar Mrs. Emmett, answered the door, beaming at her in her ebullient manner. Again, she wore her bonnet in a curiously low fashion, and Lucy wondered if she had some sort of scar or rash or disfiguration upon her forehead that she wished to conceal.

“My dear Miss Derrick!” cried Mrs. Emmett. “Miss Crawford will be so pleased you are here. And I am pleased too. Not that it can matter to you, but I am and I shan’t hide it.”

Lucy followed the cheerful woman into the sitting room and waited only a moment before Miss Crawford entered. She appeared, if anything, more beautiful in the full light of day than she had at night—pale and radiant, her hair almost unnatural in its whiteness. She again wore green, today a frock of verdant filigree upon an ivory background, and this too made her green eyes appear unnaturally intense.

“Miss Derrick, I am so glad to see you,” she said. “I had thought to call upon you this morning and inquire after our stranger, but I did not perceive your uncle would welcome me.”

“He does not welcome anyone,” said Lucy. Her voice wavered as she spoke. She had not realized how truly apprehensive she was until this moment. She took a deep breath and steadied herself. She tried to slow her pounding heart. She did something that felt a great deal like… like quieting herself, she realized. She was here to find her own way, she told herself. This was her life, and if she had not the power to shape it as she wished, then she had at least the will to try.

Standing near her, Miss Crawford took Lucy’s hand. “Are you unwell? Come and sit.” She led Lucy to a chair near the fire, and she sat next to her and took her hand once more. “We have met but recently, but I hope we can be friends.”

“I hope so too,” Lucy said. “But I do not wish to abuse your kindness.”

“Fear nothing of the sort. You must tell me all.”

Lucy did. She took another deep breath and proceeded to tell her about Lord Byron’s awakening, and his discovery of the will. “I very much hate to impose upon our acquaintance, no less because it is so new, but I have no one else I might turn to or trust.”

Miss Crawford hardly took a moment to consider what she heard. “I shall be blunt and hope my bluntness does not offend you. I am a lady of independent means, but I have not always been so. I recall what it is to be dependent, so if it is within my power to aid you in anything, it will be my pleasure to do so. So you must tell me if you believe this will genuine.”

Lucy nodded, nearly light-headed with gratitude.

“Would you entrust the document to me?”

Lucy did not want to let go of the will, but holding it in secret would accomplish nothing. If she did not entrust it to a stranger, what could she hope to do with it? “Of course,” she answered after a long moment.

“Then I shall do what I can for you. I shall have my own solicitor make inquiries, and do so in a quiet manner. We do not want those who would cheat you to discover that you are aware of what they have done. You must know that forgery is a capital crime, and those who have deceived you must be willing to go to great lengths to protect themselves. You cannot risk anyone learning that you have discovered these irregularities.”

Lucy nodded, feeling relief flood through her. She had someone to trust, someone who could help her. It had been so long since she had felt this. Not since her father was alive had she felt as protected as she did at that moment. “You are so fortunate to be your own mistress,” she said, but she saw something dark in Miss Crawford’s face, and she understood she had said the wrong thing. “I am sorry. Have I offended you?”

“No,” said Miss Crawford, forcing a smile. “It is only that I should much prefer not to be my own mistress. I was married once. I have reverted back to my family name because I am not known here, and I do not wish to play the part of the rich widow.”

“I am sorry,” said Lucy. “I did not know.”

Miss Crawford rose and adjusted a gilt-framed mirror above the fireplace. It was something to do, something to occupy her hands while she said something she thought she ought to say and did not wish to. “I shall tell you something, because I think it may help you someday. My husband and I were very happy together. I loved him beyond reason, though when he married me, he loved me only a little. He yet longed for another woman, and this longing was a barrier between us, but I married him because I told myself I would make him forget her. Some would call me foolish, but I had faith in my love for him. In the end, he came to love me as much as I could have wished, and our days together were wonderful before death separated us. I tell you this not to be maudlin, but so you will know that love is a strange thing.”

Lucy said nothing. There was nothing to say, and she could not imagine why Miss Crawford had told her these things. Did she somehow know about Lord Byron and wish for her to accept him on his own terms? Did she urge Lucy to marry Mr. Olson and learn to love him?

Miss Crawford walked back over to her chair and sat, making a great show of smiling and smoothing her skirts. “But enough of that. There is something else I would discuss with you. It is regarding what transpired last night with this baron.”

Lucy did not want to discuss curses and magic and beings made of darkness as though they were real things. As long as she did not discuss these subjects with Miss Crawford, as long as they were but her memories alone, then she might convince herself that what she had experienced had been but mistake and illusion and the self-deception of the moment. “I do not wish to be rude, but I have not the time,” said Lucy. “I must return, for I am not trusted to be gone long.”

Miss Crawford scowled. “Why ever not?”