by David Liss
“Not an hour and a half,” he answered.
She would be at Mr. Gilley’s house by five o’clock. The sun would set likely about an hour after that, so she would have half an hour or so to spare—closer than she would have liked, but that did not matter. She would be there.
They crossed into London and Lucy found that a reckless man on a horse could move about the city far more readily than could a carriage. Soon they arrived at Mr. Gilley’s street. Byron dismounted and helped Lucy to the ground.
“I cannot thank you enough,” she said to him.
He was bruised and beaten and disordered from the road. His teeth were still stained with his own blood. Nevertheless, when he bowed he looked as regal as any king could wish. “The tables turned soon enough, and you did save me as well,” he allowed. “Yet, I think we can agree that mine was the more impressive rescue.”
“There is much I would know,” she said. “Mary would not explain her disposition toward you, and I feel you conceal things about Lady Harriett and her kind as well. We saw things today—impossible things—and yet I do not think you were as surprised as you should have been. I know you have secrets, Lord Byron, and yet I owe you more than I have ever owed any man save my father.”
He bowed again. “The secrets I keep are not my own. That is all I may say as a gentleman. As for the other matter, I have tried to impress upon you that there is nothing I would not do for you, Lucy. Perhaps now you believe me.”
“I do indeed.” Lucy laughed. She was perhaps vaguely giddy from the thrill of having survived what she had, of having escaped Lady Harriett and Mr. Whitestone and ridden all this way. Only a few weeks before, she had felt herself helpless in her life, and now look what she had accomplished! She had seen and done and learned so much, and she now possessed three more pages of the missing book. Along with the original two from the false Mutus Liber, that meant she had five of the twelve. Perhaps she truly was mighty.
Byron, however, turned quite serious. “I will not speak ill of Mary Crawford, Lucy. I can only say that lady’s heart can lead her to make judgments neither wise nor warranted. She may be a good friend to you, but in this matter, I would ask you not to heed her overmuch. And then there is the business of her abducting you.”
“She claims that something terrible is going to happen in London, that I am not safe.”
“I have not observed you to be safe anywhere but with me.”
Lucy felt herself blush. “Good afternoon, Lord Byron, and I thank you once more.”
He bowed. “I hope you will someday value me as you value my services.”
Lucy’s face felt hot, but she yet spoke what she felt. “Our disagreement is not regarding your worth.”
Byron stepped forward and reached out to touch her, but then withdrew. They were upon a public street. “Then come to me,” he said in an urgent whisper. “Come to me soon, or I shall die from this torment. I know what is in your heart, and you know what is in mine. What else matters? I beg you to come to me.” With this, he turned, mounted his horse, and rode off.
Lucy remained still for a moment, thinking of Byron, his beauty and valor and all he had done for her. Could she love a man such as he? She did not know, but she knew she wanted to be with him, and she did not know that she could risk being alone with him.
This was hardly the time to dwell on such things, however. Lucy turned and entered the house. She knew she looked terrible, and wished she had yet upon her tools that she might craft one last charm, something to help her get to her room unnoticed that she might wash and change and appear before all as clean and poised as they must expect. If they saw her now, she must tell some story of being knocked down in the street, and it would engender a great deal of fuss, and perhaps even make it more difficult to move freely, but she would meet that challenge when she came to it.
When she walked through the door, however, she understood something was wrong. Mr. Gilley, Mrs. Gilley, and Norah all stared at her as she entered the house. Only Mrs. Emmett appeared happy. Beneath her low bonnet and curling hair, her obscured eyes were wide with pleasure. “Welcome back, my dear,” she said. “Oh, there has been a fuss.”
“Miss Derrick,” boomed Mr. Gilley. “Where have you been?”
“I was knocked down in the street,” she said. “It is not so bad as it appears.”
“Where have you been these two days?” demanded Mr. Gilley.
Lucy could think of nothing to say. She looked at the tall case clock in the corner, and it confirmed her suspicions. It was not yet four. So how could it be that they had discovered her absence? Lucy thought over the charm she had constructed, racking her brain to recall some misstep or error. Understanding her mistake would not help her now, but she was numb with surprise and fear, and it was all she could think to do.
Then she heard a familiar, high-pitched voice speak her name. Lucy turned to see Mrs. Quince walk into the parlor. She held in her hand a piece of paper, torn in two, and from across the room, Lucy had no trouble recognizing it. It was her talisman.
“Miss Derrick, our mutual friend Lady Harriett asked me to look in upon you and make certain all was well. She will be quite disappointed to discover you have shamed yourself and your family.” She walked over to Lucy and handed her the ripped talisman. “Some trash of yours, I believe. I found it upon the floor.”
“I am sorry your visit could not have been more pleasant,” said Mr.
Gilley.
“No fault of yours, I am sure,” answered Mrs. Quince. She folded her arms across her breasts and smiled.
Lucy locked eyes with Mrs. Quince, making an effort to keep her own expression cold and dangerous. “There will come a reckoning,” she said.
“No doubt,” answered Mrs. Quince. She curtsied and moved toward the door. “As I said, I cannot stay, Mr. Gilley, but I thank you for listening to me.”
“I am grateful for your intelligence,” he answered, and then turned to Lucy. “An excellent woman.”
Lucy said nothing, though Mr. Gilley’s expression suggested he anticipated she would have much to say, perhaps on the topic of Mrs. Quince’s excellence. When she did not speak, he coughed theatrically and straightened his posture.
“This is very serious, Miss Derrick,” he said. “I cannot expose myself to this sort of chaos. It shall render me vulnerable to a cold, and I do not wish a cold. I hate a cold above everything. For that reason, I shall write to your uncle at once. You have three days to vacate my house.”
29
LUCY WAS AWAKE HALF THE NIGHT CONTEMPLATING HER NEW state. There were spells of control, spells of forgetting. There were options, but thinking of these only led to more crying. She could not hope to control the minds and memories of so many people, and even if she could do it successfully, there was a time when the influencing of people and their minds became more than a strategy, it became evil. This moral position was a luxury she could afford only because she knew that the secret was surely out already. No doubt the servants had told their friends, and the news had spread by now to dozens of houses in London. By this time tomorrow, that number would be tenfold.
“It doesn’t matter,” she told herself. Over and over again she said it. It did not matter, because an advantageous match and balls and operas and tea gardens—these were not for her. Her task was to rescue her niece, and now she understood she could do so only by destroying an immortal, evil being, though destroying this being meant obliterating its soul, perhaps the most terrible thing she could imagine. That was not hers to consider, however. Hers was to retrieve the pages, and she had begun that endeavor, and she had kept her success hidden from everyone. That was some consolation for her disgrace.
Her disgrace. Best not to dwell on it, she decided. Best not to dwell on her shame or her challenge or any of the difficulties that lay ahead of her. There was but one thing that mattered, and that was the next piece of the Mutus Liber. She would have to attempt to discover how to find the next piece, and for that she would have to sp
eak to Mary. She’d said she was returning to Nottinghamshire, and now, apparently, so was Lucy.
In the meantime, she examined the pages she had already. Upon them were chaotic images—bearded men in flowing robes who stood upon cliffs or raised books to the moon. A naked woman lay upon a bed of branches, holding a chalice to her breast. A child flew in the air, soon to land in the arms of a strange creature—part woman, part spider.
It looked like nonsense, and yet, she knew it was not. The pages felt alive to her, vibrant and warm in her hands. If she held one between her thumb and finger, she could feel the thrum of a pulse, and she heard something, a faint whisper of distant words. She thought of how the pages had called to her in Lady Harriett’s library in a way the pages had not when Mary had shown her the book with so many false pages. Did the possession of some pages make the discovering and understanding of the rest easier? Would she know how to interpret the pages when she had them all? Would the possession of the entire book give her the terrible knowledge of how to bestow and destroy eternal life?
She had rushed through these pages before, but she knew there was more to be gleaned, more to learn about the mechanisms of persuasion, and given the difficulties in which she now found herself, she would need what advantages she might find. And she found much. When she quieted herself, when she allowed herself to follow the patterns and folds and flow of the images, she saw things in her mind, made connections with the world, opened doors locked within her. She felt as though the pages were hers, that they told her secrets once known but long forgotten, and the secrets were wonderful indeed. What she had, what she believed she could do, would give her new strength, new advantages. Whatever happened, she would be equal to it. She felt near certain.
In the morning she found Mrs. Emmett busy making preparations for their departure. She smiled as she packed, as though she understood nothing of her mistress’s disgrace. Lucy said nothing, asked her nothing. Instead, she went down to breakfast, going late that she might avoid the discomfort of sitting with Mr. and Mrs. Gilley. Norah, however, came in to sit with her, and her long, thin mouth was twisted into the most ironic of smiles.
“What a disaster,” she said excitedly. “But it is a delicious disaster, you must acknowledge. People are talking everywhere, Lucy. I have taken a stroll about the park this morning, and you would not credit how many inquiries I’ve received. They say it is Lord Byron. Did you know he has a new book of poetry out this week? It is said to be the most charmingly scandalous thing in the world, and everyone talks of it. They say you ran off with Lord Byron and secretly married him.” She leaned in closer. “Or not.”
The first volume of his new poem, the book of which he was so proud, was to be put out that week, and yet he had made the time to take Lucy upon her mission. Despite her humiliation, and her fury with Norah, Lucy felt the warm tug of something deeper, something warmer. Byron had done those things for her, placed her quest above his vanity, rescued her from ruin. Oh, he was a terrible man, it was true, but such a good one at the same time. He lived by his own law, and it made her blush to think of it, but in matters other than love, it was clear there was no doubting his honor.
“The rumors could not be more mistaken,” Lucy told Norah.
“Then where were you?” Norah demanded. “You must tell me. I shall keep it to myself, I swear it. Only please tell me.”
Lucy swallowed. “If you must know, I was held captive by a fairy.”
Norah turned around in stage disgust.
* * *
Lucy left the house as little as she could in the next two days. She did not want to endure the looks, the whispers, the cruelty. Let them think what they wished, she decided, though there was no choice, really. Soon she would return to Nottinghamshire, and she would be marked there as a whore as well. Her uncle would refuse to give her shelter, and then what? She would have to find the means to live on her own. That ought not to be too difficult, she decided. A cunning woman could always find the means to live, surely. It was not the life she would have chosen for herself, but it was the life she had, and it would surely prove better than most. But these were all worries to trouble her mind after she had defeated Lady Harriett.
When Friday came, and it was time for her to depart, Lucy sought out Norah to say her good-byes. Norah, for her part, was cold. Once it became clear that Lucy would not reveal any secrets, Lucy’s worth as a friend had expired. It was one thing if she could provide salacious gossip, but quite another if she was only an outcast slut with nothing to offer the very friend who had brought her the opportunity of becoming an outcast slut.
“I hope,” said Norah by way of farewell, “that you acquit yourself with more dignity in Nottingham than you have done here as my guest.”
“It is my greatest wish to do so,” Lucy said.
She turned and went down the stairs, where she informed the coachman that she was ready to be taken to the inn where she would depart London. The chests had already been loaded, so the serving man gave her a saucy look—one that said he anticipated he knew not what might happen with a young woman of her nature once they were together—and opened the door. Inside, Mrs. Emmett already sat, knitting in her lap. She patted the seat next to her. “This has been quite an adventure,” she said absently.
Then Lucy heard someone call her name.
She turned around, and saw Jonas Morrison walking toward her. His cheeks were flushed, and he was out of breath. “Thank God you are well,” he said in a panting voice. “Of course, I knew you would be. How could you not be? You are Lucy Derrick, and you can do anything. I know that, and yet I worry.”
His manic mode of talking meant nothing. Lucy felt her old anger toward him kindle anew, but even so she was also curious, and she was searching for some respite from her difficulties. Could this man, tricked into believing he loved her, offer what she needed? “Mr. Morrison,” she said in a convincingly cheerful voice, “what has happened?”
“The revolution has begun,” he said. “I bring terrible news of the prime minister, the leader of my order, Spencer Perceval. He has been murdered.”
* * *
Lucy was welcomed back into the house only because she was acquainted with a gentleman who brought such shocking news. It was not to be wondered at that a woman such as Miss Derrick would know all sorts of gentlemen, Mr. Gilley observed to his daughter, who returned a smile for his wit. They were now very happy with each other.
“The prime minister has been shot, and he is dead. We know little more than that, but it is suspected that this is the work of the Luddites. Already there is unrest spreading across the city. Anyone of any standing in government is going into hiding now. No one knows who could be next. We fear that this could be the first step toward a bloodbath, much like the revolution in Paris. My people”—and here he looked meaningfully at Lucy, so she would understand he meant the Rosicrucians—“even now do much to calm the people’s mood. I pray it will be enough.”
“Surely there is something to be done,” said Mr. Gilley. “Cannot the Prince Regent or the army beat back the ruffians?”
“Soldiers now patrol the streets, looking to suppress unrest. The murderer himself is in custody, and I am assured that no means will be spared to discover his name and motivation, but until we learn more, I can only advise that you all keep yourselves safe. I presume you have your own conveyance, sir.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Gilley.
“Then you must depart at once and bring your daughter and Miss Derrick back to Nottinghamshire.”
“I shall take my daughter of course. That young woman shall have to find her own way.”
Mr. Morrison stared at him. “I beg your pardon, sir. You would abandon a guest, a helpless young lady, in a time of crisis? Did I mistake you for a gentleman?”
Mr. Gilley rose now. “I beg your pardon, sir, but who are you precisely that I must obey your commands or listen to your insults?”
“My name is Jonas Morrison,” he said with a bow.
> Mr. Gilley’s eyes went wide. “Jonas Morrison! Surely not the hero of—”
Mr. Morrison held up his hand. “Sir, your position with the Navy Office may make you privy to certain state secrets, but they are not to be repeated.”
Lucy watched this exchange in wonder. First Mrs. Quince had fled in panic at the mention of Mr. Morrison’s name, and now Mr. Gilley could not conceal his astonishment. Who exactly was this man, and what had he done to evoke these responses? Clearly he was more than a cad who liked to toy with the affections of young ladies, though he was certainly that.
“You are quite right,” conceded Mr. Gilley. “It is… it is just such an honor to meet you. But as you are a man of some import, it behooves me to be direct with you. May I speak to you for a moment in private?”
The two gentlemen went off to a corner for a moment and spoke in quiet tones. They then returned, and Mr. Morrison turned to Lucy. “Miss Derrick, I am sorry to inform you that your host is not nearly the gentleman you thought, and he presumes to judge that which he cannot understand. If your duty required you to travel unexpectedly, even in the company of a scoundrel such as Byron, I applaud your sacrifice. I would never suspect, even for a moment, any improper behavior on your part.” He bowed to her.
Though this expression of confidence was no doubt motivated by the spell she had cast upon him, Lucy could not help but be touched by so unexpected a kindness. “Thank you, sir.”
“Men will excuse anything in a woman if there is the hope of a sufficient reward,” said Mr. Gilley to his daughter.
Norah took her father by his arm. “Let us give them a moment to talk, Papa,” she said, and led her father out of the room.
When they were alone, Lucy turned to Mr. Morrison. “Where have you been? While you were off doing I know not what, I was taken prisoner by Lady Harriett and then Mr. Olson, and I had to fire a pistol upon one of the revenants. That is where I was.” That she had broken into Lady Harriett’s estate and stolen three pages of the Mutus Liber was beside the point; Lucy was angry now, though some part of her knew she had no business being angry with Mr. Morrison. Nevertheless, she wished to be angry with him. He was supposed to love her (again, her role in this was not relevant at the moment), and he had abandoned her to such misery. She was being irrational, but she wished to take shelter in her own irrationality