by David Liss
“As for that, people can be made to forget whom they know and whom they don’t. You should know of such things by now, I think. And you must believe that I regret that what happened caused you so much pain,” he said, “but those days are past, and I must speak to you about what is happening now.”
“And that is why you come here?”
“That and the food, yes.”
Lucy did not want to hear any of his flippant remarks. “You told me I must not involve myself in what did not concern me, and now you tell me it does concern me.”
“I have learned things since then. Please, Miss Derrick. Dance with me. People are beginning to stare at us.”
It was true. Their conversation was evidently heated, and eyes were upon them. With the rosebud now pressed between her fingers, for she had nowhere else to put it, they stepped out onto the area reserved for dancing. Soon they settled into the rhythm of the dance.
“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.
While the spectacle of Mrs. Quince occupied the guests, Mr. Morrison did not allow his attentions to be divided. He stared down Mr. Olson. “Miss Derrick is not your property. Take your business elsewhere while you better recollect how to speak to a lady.”
The argument between these two men, Mrs. Quince’s scene, and the revelation that she had been dancing with Jonas Morrison—it was all too much for Lucy. She could remain there no longer, and made her way to the front door, ignoring the open stares that followed her. She thought she heard Mr. Morrison call after her. Lucy went out into the dark street and did not run, but walked quickly, thinking only of how much she wished to return to her uncle’s house. She would think of nothing else, for then she would have to consider how this dispute must be discussed even now, what would be said of her as a result of Mr. Olson’s rudeness and Mr. Morrison’s clumsy efforts at chivalry.
Snow was falling lightly, and the cold was bitter, the streets slippery with ice, making it difficult to walk as quickly as she wanted. Lucy had gone only to the corner of Grey Friar Gate when she observed a group of men heading toward her. There were some seven or eight of them, rugged-looking men of the laboring order, the sort she did not wish to encounter by herself under any circumstances, and least of all at night. They spoke and laughed loudly, radiating drunken pride and bravado. They were precisely the sort of men, in precisely the sort of state, to do what they must later regret. Lucy was suddenly afraid, but she believed if she turned to run, they would notice and follow—even if she could run upon such slippery streets.
Lucy turned away from them, toward the church and Pepper Street. She felt like a wounded bird attempting not to attract the notice of a cat, and thus far they’d shown no sign of concerning themselves with her. These were men in rough homespun clothes, and they all carried bulky objects upon their shoulders—tools and equipment and materials of some sort. Perhaps they were just workingmen, happy to have employment, done with their day’s labors, and wanting nothing so much as to see their wives and children and hearths. Perhaps her fear was without meaning or substance. Lucy turned her head for a better look and saw, in the dim streetlights, that what they carried with them were poles, pikes, hammers, and mallets, and all at once she understood. They were Luddites.
Lucy turned to run, but it seemed as though time changed and distorted around her. They were half a block away, and then they were encircling her, obstructing her—tall and menacing, smelling of earth and old sweat.
“Here she is then,” said one of them. “Miss Lucy Derrick.”
“What do you want from me?” Her voice was high and cracking. Lucy could feel her heart in her throat, hammering loud and hard, as though it might break free of her body. It seemed to her that something had shifted in the world. The rules she had always known, with the quickness of snuffing a candle, no longer applied.
“Oh, we don’t want to hurt you, girl,” one said. “You ain’t an enemy of the workingman, now are you?”
“I—I have no reason to be,” Lucy stammered. “You have not given me a reason.”
“But which side are you on?” asked the same man. “Do you favor the man who wants only to work for his bread, or do you favor the men who would build machines that crush us—men like that man you was to marry?”
“She ain’t marrying him,” said another. “She’s made her choice, so don’t frighten her.”
“I don’t want to scare her,” said the first man, “but I won’t have her quieting up on me, will I? Now, lass, do you mean to walk away from this Olson for good? Tell me now.”
“You’re the ones who broke his stocking frames,” she said.
He laughed. “Course we are. Who but us? Did it pierce your heart to see him suffer?”
“Enough!” The voice came from the back of the group. It wasn’t loud, but it was commanding, and every man in the group stopped. None looked, but they all ceased their motions and waited. Lucy felt herself freeze too. His voice made her uneasy. It had an unnatural sound that seemed almost to disrupt the workings of her body. It was foreign and somehow impossible.
It was the man she had seen outside Mr. Olson’s mill, and yet now he appeared somehow greater than what he had been then. There was something in him that terrified her, like a thing that she was not meant to look upon. He was the tallest man she had ever seen, and the broadest, and yet he did not look like a giant in a roadside show. His proportions were right and true. He appeared veiled in darkness, as though the shadow sought his face or was part of his face. For an instant she saw him in bits and pieces—his eyes, his mouth, his brow—and then he moved and the shadows rested upon him again, drawn like metal filings to a magnet.
“We are not here to frighten you,” he said in a voice deep and rumbling. “We know of you, and now you know of us. You understand what we stand for, do you not?”
“To whom do I speak?” cried out Lucy in a voice she hoped made her sound bold.
“You speak to our king and our general,” answered the first machine breaker. “He who shall tear down the rotten planks of this country and build it up afresh. You speak to Ned Ludd.”
Whatever this being was, Lucy understood he was not a man. He was something different, something terrifying. “Sir, I know of your cause, and I sympathize with your suffering, but I cannot join a revolution against my king.”
The strange shadowy man stepped forward, but then stopped and seemed to shake his head like a dog who has received a blow. His eyes were wide and bright, not glowing, but something near it. In a flash too quick for Lucy’s eyes to follow, he lashed out and grabbed her wrist, and with his other hand, pried open her fingers. It was the second time this had happened that evening, and the second time Mr. Morrison’s flower revealed itself.
Lucy had forgotten about it, but it was clearly no trivial thing. Ludd took it from her, pinching one petal with his thumb and index finger as though it were too dangerous to grip as she had gripped it. He whispered something at the flower, and then dropped it into his other palm. He closed his fist and opened it again an instant later, revealing a handful of dust. It reminded Lucy of one of Mr. Morrison’s little tricks, but this was no trick. It was magic, ancient and unfathomable.
“This is Rosicrucian work,” said Ludd.
“Then she sides with the enemy,” said one of his men.
“She cannot choose a side,” said Ludd, “when she does not yet know. We don’t ask for you to join us, Miss Derrick. We only want that you will not stand against us, and that you do your part. Can we ask that of you?”
“I do not know,” she said, “but I will do what I think is right.”
“See that you do,” said one of the others.
“Remember that pledge when you gather the leaves,” said another Luddite.
There it was again. “What does that mean?” asked Lucy. “Why do you tell me that, and tell me nothing of what it means?”
“You will know,” answered Ludd. “When you are ready, you will go to Newstead. But do not enter the abbey until you are prepared to fight for what you love.”
He and his followers now walked on, stepping into the darkness without further word, leaving her alone upon the
street to wonder and doubt and marvel in her confusion.
17
WORD OF THE INCIDENT AT THE GILLEY HOUSE SPREAD WITH ASTONISHING rapidity, but Lucy was preoccupied with the knowledge that she had actually met the supposedly mythical General Ludd, and that he had a particular interest in her life. To her, this revelation was far more important than an embarrassment with a man she did not wish to marry. Nevertheless, she was soon enough made to confront issues that preoccupied others. At the breakfast table, her uncle could not bother to swallow his dried prune before confronting her directly.
“What do I hear of a row between you and Olson and some rogue?” he demanded.
It appeared that Mrs. Quince had revealed what her uncle was likely to hear on his own, but no more than that. If she’d told Uncle Lowell about Jonas Morrison, he would certainly be ranting about it already. Lucy could not understand why she would keep her knowledge of Mr. Morrison a secret.
Before Lucy could answer her uncle, Mrs. Quince entered the room and leaned against the doorjamb, crossing her arms. “Once again, Miss Derrick humiliated Mr. Olson by dancing with another man. The same man as at the assembly, if I am not mistaken.”
Again, she did not speak the name. Mrs. Quince now showed all the glee and triumph she did not display last night, as if to fool Lucy into forgetting her unguarded response. But Lucy could not forget the sight of Mrs. Quince, staggering backwards, staring, as though she gazed upon a ghost, oblivious to the punch trickling down her frock.
“I did not humiliate Mr. Olson,” said Lucy, playing along for now, if only for her uncle’s benefit. “I did not know he would be there. He arrived after that man asked me to dance, and I had no good reason to deny him.”
“All very good for you, but how do you explain the row?” asked her uncle.
“It was none of my doing,” said Lucy. “Mr. Olson was very rude to the stranger.”