The Twelfth Enchantment: A Novel

by David Liss

  There was a protracted moment of silence, and then it was Mrs. Quince who spoke. “The girl apparently believes she has some choice in this matter.”

  Uncle Lowell nodded and looked at Lucy. “You are mistaken to believe you may refuse to marry as we say.”

  Lucy was so astonished by this answer that she could hardly breathe. “I am of age,” she said so quietly she wondered if they heard her.

  They did hear. “And what shall that get you?” asked her uncle. “Have you money upon which to live? Have you the means to defend your position?”

  Lucy said nothing. There was nothing to say. She had nowhere to go, no one to help her, not unless her father’s estate came to her.

  “The marriage shall proceed as planned,” said her uncle. “You may go now.”

  Lucy affected anger and left in a sulky march, for if she did not pretend to defiance, she would certainly have succumbed to despair. As she crossed the threshold, she thought to turn back to glare at Mr. Olson, but then checked herself, and in that instant, she thought she saw something in the corner of the ceiling, concealed in the moldings, flickering in the firelight. It was but a hint of shadow, but it moved. It flexed. Then it was gone.

  9

  TRUE TO HIS WORD, BYRON CALLED UPON LUCY THE NEXT MORNING. In the hopes of seeing him, she’d worn her best day frock, white with purple flowers, fitted perfectly to her form, with a plain low front. Seeing his coach arrive, Mrs. Quince stood near the door with her arms crossed so as to block Lucy’s way. “You’ll not go anywhere.”

  A week ago, Lucy would have retreated, but things were now different, and she would not obey. She could not even conceive how she might step into her previous timidity, and because retreating would do her no good, there was no direction but forward Lucy moved to push past Mrs. Quince.

  Astonished, the serving woman lashed out and grabbed Lucy’s wrist, digging in with her fingernails and drawing blood. Mrs. Quince yanked hard at Lucy’s arm, attempting to knock her off balance, possibly to make her stumble. It was not a new maneuver, however, and Lucy was prepared for it. She stepped into the momentum, and then, stopping suddenly, she took hold of Mrs. Quince’s arm, pulled hard, and then suddenly let go. Mrs. Quince fell upon her back, striking her head against the hard floor. And she lay there motionless, her face puckered with anger.

  “I think,” said Lucy, “that I shall go out.”

  By the time Lucy reached the door, Mrs. Quince was already upon her feet, but she did not approach. “What do you think you shall be when you are alone and without money or home?”

  “I cannot know,” said Lucy. “Could it be worse than what I am now?”

  She stepped out into the street and met Byron at the door. Again, his appearance, his mere physical presence, astonished her. She had thought of him over and over during the night, she had dwelt upon how handsome he was, and yet, now that she gazed upon him, his beauty staggered her, as if she’d had no idea of it before. His dress was remarkably like that of the previous day, but the familiarity made him no less magnetic. He led her down the stairs, holding out his arm for her to take. “I fear I must leave in the morning, and I wished to call to see if you had survived the meeting of the Star Chamber.”

  “There is no longer any doubt,” said Lucy, forcing herself to sound at her ease. She felt a trickle of blood on her wrist, but she did not inspect it, lest Byron see it. It would heal soon enough. Instead, she concentrated on the feel of his arm under her touch—warm and muscular and confident. “Mr. Olson has made his intentions clear. We are to marry in six weeks.”

  Byron sharply turned his face toward hers. “You must not do it.”

  “What choice have I?” asked Lucy, offering Byron the opportunity to provide her with an alternative. “I haven’t the means to assert a preference. At least as Mrs. Olson I have some chance of a measure of independence.”

  “But no chance of happiness.”

  Lucy let go of his arm, for she found she was quite angry. “You go where you like,” she said. “You visit with whom you like. You may marry whom you like or marry no one at all. I have none of those choices, so what right have you to tell me what I must or mustn’t do?”

  “It is the right of justice, Lucy,” he said, unconcerned with her tone, and using her Christian name for the first time. “I have nothing but contempt for Olson now that I have seen him. I think anything must be preferable than a life shackled to that dullard.”

  “If you see an option that I do not, I pray you will tell me. Otherwise, I must ask you not to speak of what is not your concern.” Lucy kept her voice even, her tone sharp, with no hint of the coquette, and yet, there could be no doubt that she now challenged him.

  At that moment they passed by an alley, narrow and empty and so protected from the sun that it was gloomy. Without signaling his intentions, Byron turned in, taking Lucy’s hand and pulling her along with him. She staggered slightly, and he righted her by taking hold of her shoulders, and then her waist. A sensation of the most pleasant confusion came over her, as if she did not know which way was up, as if she were tumbling gently through space. She felt the heat of his nearness, the masculine scent of his body, the sweetness of his breath, and that warmth that grew within her, within her very core, and spread out like a fanned flame. And then, he was kissing her. His lips were on hers, and his hands moved down to her hips, and she tasted coffee and licorice on his breath.

  It took Lucy a moment to notice that she was kissing him back. Her hands were around his neck, and her tongue was in his mouth, and she was trying to taste every bit of him. She felt sure of herself, as though this were not something entirely new and utterly unexpected. She felt in control. She felt vibrant and alive. She had not kissed anyone since Jonas Morrison, who had claimed to love her but had only sought her ruin. His kisses has been tentative, gentle, even timid. Byron’s were greedy and urgent. He radiated raw desire. It coursed through his body, and through hers.

  This kiss was a kind of madness, but Lucy was not mad. It had to end before they were seen, before he pressed for more, right there in the alley, because she did not know that she could refuse him. It had to end, but not yet, not for another moment, because Lucy could not know that she would ever kiss him again, and she wanted to feel it, to burn the sensation into her mind that she might always cling to the memory.

  It was Byron who broke off the kiss. He gently pushed her away and looked at her, his expression full of both tenderness and mischief. He touched her face with the back of his fingers. “You must come with me to London.”

  Lucy felt light-headed. It was all happening as she had imagined, and the collision of reality with fantasy overwhelmed her. It was what she had dared to hope for, but only in the foolish way girls hope for what cannot be, and now it had come to pass. She felt surprise and terror and delight, all in equal measure. “You must speak plainly. Do you ask for my hand?”

  Byron met her eye and grinned with pleasure. “I am asking you to come be with me in London. We do not need to live by their rules, Lucy. We can live by our own and in glorious defiance. There is no limit to what we together can accomplish.”

  She could still feel the warmth of him on her lips, but now suddenly she was ashamed. She was a fool. She hardly knew this man, and she imagined he was the prince and she the princess in a child’s fairy tale. Of course he would not marry her. She could bring him nothing. He was beautiful and he had a title. He would hold out for a young lady with a fortune to trade. And yet, for all that, she could not condemn herself entirely. He had misled her. He had made her believe he had a different kind of offer for her.

  “You ask me to be your whore,” Lucy said, her voice calm but dangerously brittle.

  “Do not style it so,” he answered. “That is the world’s judgment, not our own. I can see you are no ordinary woman. Can you not see that I am no ordinary man? I cannot—we cannot—live the way the world demands. We must live according to our own law, or we shall be suffocated by their damned rules.”


  The selfish stupidity of his proposal infuriated her so that it was difficult for her to form words. She stepped out of the alley without troubling herself to see if he followed, hoping he wouldn’t and hoping he would. When she heard him directly behind her, she stopped and spun around to face him. “You know nothing of me if you think I would stoop to such a thing. I am vulnerable enough living with my uncle. If I were to do what you propose, setting aside the propriety of the situation, for I know you hold that in contempt, I should be even more defenseless than I am now. What happens when you tire of me?”

  “I will be your protector. While I live, you will want for nothing and fear nothing.”

  “While you live. And if you are taken ill or trampled by a horse? Your proposal insults me, sir, and I wish you had not made it. I wish—I wish I had not seen you more.”

  He reached out and took her gloved hand in his. “I want only that you rise above what these little fools demand of you. If I were as rich as your uncle, I would give you money to live independently. I would do this gladly because the world would be better for you living in it free and unfettered. I do not have such money, but I offer you what I can. I offer you a life with me.”

  “I must go,” said Lucy, pulling her hand away.

  She turned and walked hurriedly. Byron called out her name two times. He did not call out a third. She hardly had time to feel the pain of another avenue of escape closing itself to her, to make sense of her sadness and disappointment and disillusionment, when Lucy felt a hand fall hard on her shoulder. She turned to face Mrs. Quince who grimaced at her in mad delight.

  “Now comes the reckoning,” she said, and led Lucy back to her uncle’s house.

  10

  LUCY REMAINED IN HER ROOM, NOT COMING OUT FOR DINNER, and not for breakfast the next morning, though by then she was famished. She did not want to face her uncle or Mrs. Quince. She felt ashamed for having kissed Byron, and yet she could not regret it. He was a wretched man, selfish and destructive, she understood that now, but she had kissed him before she knew that, and it had been wonderful. She could not, therefore, be sorry. Not entirely.

  She remained hidden because she did not want to hear herself upbraided. She did not want to be called a slut. She did not want to listen to the story of her near elopement with Jonas Morrison recounted once more, revealed as the foreshadowing of all of Lucy’s mistakes yet to come. Most of all, she did not want to be made to feel the full extent of her powerlessness.

  An hour or two after she awoke, she heard Mrs. Quince’s footsteps outside her door, and then the scrape of something being set down. Once she was sure no one awaited her in the hallway, Lucy peered out to discover a tray with some bread and old butter and dried prunes, along with a cup of cold chocolate. Lucy brought the tray into her room and stared at it for a long time, deciding if eating what Mrs. Quince had brought would amount to a capitulation. Eventually hunger won out, though resentment and helplessness dulled all pleasure the food might have otherwise provided.

  Lucy set the tray out when she was done, and lay on her bed all day, staring at the cracks in the plaster and wishing Miss Crawford would arrive with news of her impending independence. Nothing of that sort happened. At dinnertime, Mrs. Quince left another tray, which Lucy retrieved, ate from, and then set out again. The same transpired in the morning, and Lucy began to realize that she was not so much avoiding an upbraiding as making herself a willing participant in her own imprisonment. Her uncle and Mrs. Quince now had from her precisely what they most wanted—to keep her locked away, passive and helpless, until the time of the wedding was upon her.

  Knowing that she was complicit in her uncle’s plans was not the same as knowing what to do about it, and Lucy attempted to devise some strategy that did not involve her sitting in her room waiting to be dragged to the altar or rescued deus ex machina by a timely message from Miss Crawford—or perhaps heroic intervention by a contrite Byron, ready now with an offer of marriage. These fantasies did not alleviate her suffering, but only rubbed salt in her wounds.

  There was nothing to do but wait and hope for the best. It had not been so very long ago that she had been resigned to marry Mr. Olson. Would doing so now really be so terrible? If she did not account for the will, the inexplicable warnings, and the interest, however inappropriate, of Byron, then perhaps hers was not the worst imaginable lot. Maybe Lucy simply had to learn to look at things as she had been used to doing before. Certainly, if she remained in her room for the next six weeks she would go mad. She was therefore resolved to go downstairs and face her uncle and Mrs. Quince. She would endure the awkwardness of the first conversation, and then she could return to her old life—at least until she devised an alternative.

  Much of the morning and early afternoon passed in efforts to screw up her courage, and then she heard a carriage rolling to a stop before her uncle’s house, and then there were the sounds of voices below—distant and muffled.

  Her uncle had so few visitors, and Lucy understood that a rare opportunity presented itself. If she were to face him and Mrs. Quince before callers, then surely their ire would be hidden, or at least dampened. And then, once these visitors left, the first encounter would already be over. Wanting to take advantage of this opportunity, Lucy dressed herself, tended to her hair, and made herself look as well as she could without aid, and went downstairs, a smile plastered to her face and feeling like an idiot.

  When she walked into the parlor, a spike of dread pierced her. Sitting with her uncle and Mrs. Quince, both of whom appeared to be exceedingly uncomfortable, was Mr. William Buckles, her sister’s husband, as well as that man’s patroness, the widow Lady Harriett Dyer.

  “Ah, yes, Miss Derrick,” said Mr. Buckles, rising to his feet. He bowed deeply and awkwardly, for he was a towering, pear-shaped sort of man. He was dressed, as she had always seen him, in his clerical black and a white cravat, which always appeared out of sorts somehow with his perpetually red complexion. This, combined with his breathless way of speaking, gave the impression that Mr. Buckles had just come from running up several flights of stairs.

  “Yes,” he said, gasping for breath as he returned to his seat. “Yes, it is Miss Derrick. The young lady we’ve come to see.” He took out a handkerchief and ran it along his high forehead—for his browning-apple-colored hair was receding like an army in full flight.

  “Has Martha come?” Lucy asked, forgetting all manners, and not caring that she did so. “Have you brought the baby?”

  “No,” answered Lady Harriet, in her clipped voice. “We have business with you. Not your sister, and so she has been left at home to tend to the child.” She did not rise when she spoke to Lucy.

  Lucy did not trouble herself to hide her disappointment. She could not imagine why Mr. Buckles would come without Martha, and nothing could have cheered Lucy so much as a visit from her sister. But here, instead, was Lady Harriett, who owned an estate not ten miles from the home in which Lucy had grown up. Mr. Buckles had been Lady Harriett’s curate before he had inherited Lucy’s father’s house, and in exchange for these attentions, he was slavishly devoted to her.

  Lady Harriett looked well enough for a woman of her age, which Lucy supposed to be fifty or thereabouts. She was trim and fine-boned, with a sharp nose and tiny eyes that were penetrating for all their smallness. Her skin was white and vaguely waxy, and her lips extraordinarily red. Lucy always supposed she must have been pretty as a young woman, though she also supposed her unkind spirit must have dampened her attractiveness considerably. Adding to her sour demeanor was a black gown and headdress, full widow’s attire that might have been in the mode some time before the final quarter of the previous century. Lady Harriett had worn widow’s black since her husband, Sir Reginald, had died a few years earlier. The precise details of his demise were unknown to Lucy, as it had happened when she was in mourning for her sister Emily.

  Now here was Lady Harriett, glaring at Lucy with inexplicable contempt. Contrary to all logic, Lucy look
ed to her uncle for guidance, but he appeared nothing but uneasy, like a man who had released his dogs and now feared they would devour him. Mrs. Quince, for her part, sat with a look of smug satisfaction.

  “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.”