“Besides, think how people would talk,” Carlyle said, and her mouth quirked. “That you accepted the first man who presented himself—as though afraid no other would. How dreadful for a girl’s reputation. And how very dull!” They both laughed, and Carlyle left with the rest.
The hall was very quiet, and a servant was lighting lamps; despite the early hour, it was nearly dark outside from all the smoke. Lucinda heard her aunt and her mother on the landing above; she gathered up her skirts and followed.
They were in her parents’ apartment; the door was not quite closed. Lucinda would have passed by had she not heard her own name. She paused, then stopped altogether. Wrong to eavesdrop, of course. All the same . . .
Arabella was speaking in that flat, emotionless tone that meant her mind was set. “I cannot put a name to my dislike for the lad, mistress Bettany. If I could—but it’s my daughter he’s made a set at.”
“So he has,” Aunt Bet replied coolly. She was clearly affronted. “Richard Coucey is an excellent catch, and he’s made no such set at any gel this season. Your Lucinda took his eye. He’s of good family and well-to-do—”
“So why has he made this set at my Lucy? I know my daughter is worthy of the finest gentleman, but I find your Richard Coucey’s sudden attachment unsettling. But in any event, Lucy is too young to wed,” Arabella said flatly.
“No gel is too young, and I was wed at seventeen. Though I agree, there is no reason to settle on one man at the beginning of the London season. I have known Richard since his poor mama, rest her soul, bore him. There’s no temper in him, no mean spirit; he has funds of his own and his father owns considerable property in the north. Oh, he drinks and gambles in the company of his friends—what young man doesn’t?”
“Ask that of a Massachusetts colonist raised around Puritans,” Arabella said dryly.
“Oh, well. If they’re all like your Increase Mather, who once came here to impress society with his wit and talent, and proved himself merely dull, narrow, and unappetizing—! Richard has a club, but all young men do. They drink and talk of business and other things most women find boring. Like all gentlemen, Richard keeps his club life separate from his dealings with young ladies, and those are impeccable, or I should have heard, believe me!”
“I don’t doubt you. It’s just—” Arabella’s voice trailed off. Lucinda pressed against the wall, anxiety tightening her stomach. If her mother forbade her this lovely young man—!
“It’s not that—Andrew called it a talent—of yours, is it?” Bettany demanded sharply. “Some family sorcery? I did warn you, Arabella, I’m an open-minded woman, but I’ll have none of that in my house!”
“You wrote to say so, and I agreed, if you recall,” Lucinda’s mother replied coolly. “If Andrew told you about my family, he’ll have told you I’m no witch; I’ve made no pact with the Devil. I seldom use magic, anyway, but I haven’t been able to since we left Boston.” She sighed. “I do not know, and so I see I must give over to you, Bettany. He is a rarely handsome and well-mannered lad. No mother could fault him.”
“Perhaps it’s knowing the gel’s moving into another part of her life, where a mother becomes less important than a husband,” Bettany said. Arabella snorted.
“I knew that day would come. John, my son, is already on his own.”
“A son at Harvard College is not the same as a daughter taking her season in London. Consider this, then: Richard will prove a good escort until she is introduced to other young men. With Richard dancing attendance on her, believe me, she won’t lack for such young men.”
Lucinda, her ears extremely warm, moved on down the hall to her own room and shut the door behind her. “But I don’t want other young men,” she whispered. She could feel her heart thumping against the nutmeg bodice—an extremely unfamiliar sensation in one ordinarily so cool and collected where young men were concerned. “I want none but Richard Coucey.” Lucinda sat on one of the small satin-cushioned chairs to think. She would see to it that Richard did dance attendance on her; and then, whoever else might choose to seek her attentions, he’d not get them.
The weeks flew, and she found it difficult to separate events one from another. There were fittings, new gowns and two pairs of square-heeled dancing shoes, soft slippers. Her aunt arranged to have her hair cut and curled in the new style, and got her more lace caps and two of the wide, pleated sack gowns. There were teas, an endless number of mothers and chaperones to meet and try to keep straight, and more girls, though she found herself settled into friendship with the ones she’d first met at tea in her aunt’s parlor. There were dinners, and dances she attended with her mother or her aunt, or in the company of the girls and their chaperones.
And there was Richard Coucey, everywhere she went.
Somehow she never seemed able to wield the tricks she knew to capture his attention and bind him strictly to her, but it hadn’t proved necessary. Richard took her about London, showed her the sights, the gardens; he escorted her to a water carnival, with ships and boats plying the Thames and Master Handel himself conducting his Water Music; he took her to plays and concerts, he danced as many dances with her as the girls and their chaperones would permit.
She no longer even tried to pretend to herself or to him that she so much as looked at other young men. “My darling Cinda,” he said, “you cannot think how pleased I am to hear that.”
Her father spent little time in London, and now he was in Holland, bargaining with the Dutch East India Company, seeing about certain products he wanted to ship into Boston. Arabella visited members of her own family—distant connections of Lucinda’s grandfather Amer—and through them had managed an introduction to a private scientific association attached to the Royal Society, one of the rare ones that accepted women. She was frequently away from home, and though she attended dances and teas with her daughter, she seemed willing to leave society and its finer points to Bettany. “You won’t mind, Lucy darling?” she asked rather anxiously at one point. “A girl should be permitted such frothy activity and conversation, but it bores me dreadfully, and there is so much I can learn here! Besides” —Arabella smiled—”I doubt you see much but Richard, do you?”
Well, that much was true: Lucinda often found the conversations boring, but Richard made up for all.
Her father returned from Holland and almost at once went away again, this time to Italy, where he would remain for most of the fall.
The weather had stayed warm, unusually so they told her. Lucinda was dressed for an open carriage ride, Richard was to escort her to a party where it was rumored Royalty might actually make a brief appearance. She’d spent hours readying herself, and now waited anxiously in the lower hall, unable to stand her room any longer. Richard had said that when Andrew came home he would seek her hand, but he’d asked that meanwhile she say nothing to Arabella. “Your mother does not quite like me, sweet Cinda, and I cannot think why.” The clock in the hallway struck the hour; he was late, adding to her anxiety. Lucinda walked down to the door, back up toward the parlor, and stopped abruptly. Her mother had apparently come home early from her scientific-society meeting; she and Aunt Bet were in there arguing furiously.
“I discovered only today that someone has been giving me a dose to dull my power! I am amazed, Bettany, that you should stoop to such a thing!”
“I’ve done nothing of the sort!” the older woman replied shrilly, but Arabella overrode her.
“Not only that, but I’ve learned a thing or two of your precious Richard Coucey! Have you heard of the Hellfire Club?”
“Bah!” Bettany replied angrily. “That was twenty years ago; it’s long disbanded.”
“Is it? There are such clubs all about London, young men drinking and pursuing loose women, pretending to conduct Black Masses—”
“How dare you suggest that Richard—!”
“It is worse than that, Bettany. There is a club cal
led the Devil’s Advocates—you’ll have heard of it.”
“Aye, a gambling club; they say it was involved in scandal in Cambridge.”
“A girl, an innkeeper’s daughter, fell from a window and died. During a Black Mass that was no pretense.”
“Oho!” Bettany crowed. “And you will connect Richard Coucey with such an unsavory thing?”
“I need not; he has done it himself. Bettany, there is no question now of his having any association with my daughter. I will not allow Lucinda to see him again.”
They continued to go at it; Bettany now shouting an angry defense of her young protégé. Lucinda heard nothing else, however; she gathered her skirts close and hurried to the front door, worked the heavy bolt, and ran down the steps to the street. Her heart was laboring, her breath coming short; fortunately for her peace of mind, a familiar carriage was just coming down the street. She drew her hem up and ran to meet it.
* * *
At her urgent request, Richard drove as rapidly away from the house as traffic would permit. He listened gravely to her story, patted her hand, and shook his head when she’d done. “Poor dearest Cinda, I see old malicious gossip has surfaced and must be dealt with.” He held her fingers to his lips. “Sit back, close your eyes a moment. You’re distraught, and it will do no good for you to arrive so upset. I shall drive along the Strand, shall I? And permit you to relax. No, just sit quietly. Allow me to think how best to retrieve the situation with your poor mama.”
She did as he suggested. Now that she was with him, what she had done worried her: the servant would find the door unlocked and her mother would realize where she had gone, and why. It was the kind of thing that could cause a girl to be locked in her room for the remainder of the season, and if Arabella was as angry as she’d sounded . . .
If any of what she’d said was true! But surely—! Lucinda stirred, opened her eyes. It was dark here, and only one other carriage was about. “Richard? This is not the Strand.”
“No. It’s quieter here.”
“But—” She swallowed. “Until we are betrothed, it’s not permitted for me to be in such seclusion with you.”
“Worried for your repute?” He laughed quietly. The horse had slowed; the other carriage was out of sight. There were lights, city lamps, but they seemed a great distance away.
She managed a smile. “But since it is the only one I have, of course I am.” He was quiet; so quiet her heart began pounding again, as it had outside the closed parlor door. “Richard? What Mother heard—”
“Oh, that,” he replied carelessly, and cast her a smile that was a gleam of teeth in the darkness. “I could say it is all slander, but that would not be fair to you, dearest Cinda.” He waited; she opened her mouth but couldn’t make words come. “I founded the Advocates, you see. We are quite exclusive, just thirteen. Fourteen, if you count the Master, but he comes only at certain times. For the Mass, you know.”
“Dearest God,” she whispered, and he laughed.
“Oh, not God, my sweet! We’ve all made a pact; it has a certain cost—”
“Just your immortal soul!”
“Exactly so. I see you’re not entirely innocent! But the cost is more than balanced by the knowledge and the power one gains in return. I had heard from Mistress Bet, you know, about your mother; there are members of her family in London and others in Cambridge, and I’ve often wondered how well a blending of the two might work.” Lucinda shook her head numbly. “I can easily sway mistress Bet—she adores me—and your father is such a babe in these matters, he’ll accept me for my connections and my wealth—and of course, because you adore me, dearest Cinda.” She shook her head again. “Well, but, you did, and you will again. After tonight, your mother will be no obstacle to my quest for your hand.”
“You will not harm her—!” She caught at his arm with both hands; he shook her off easily.
“I will harm no one. But thirteen of us are to gather tonight, just north of London. A celebration, you see. You must meet my friends, and our Master. And it is said such ceremonies are best when the altar is graced with a naked virgin.” He paused; Lucinda stared at him, stunned into a horrified silence. Outwardly, nothing had changed: his profile was still a work of art, his mouth still sweet; his voice held the same warmth that had won her. How shall I ever trust any man again, after this? “No one will touch you, sweet, if you feared it. True virgins are much too rare to waste. But you will surely not refuse me, knowing that I hold such a secret, will you? And your mother—”
Dear God, Mother. She felt ill. The carriage slowed again; for one mad moment, she considered leaping to the ground and running, but he would catch her in no time. Indeed, he had a hand on her arm already. “You’ll not leave me, will you?” He drew the carriage to a halt and brought out a silver flask. “Here. You will drink this.” She shook her head. “I’d not use force against you.” She took it, sniffed gingerly. It smelled rather like fresh-cut trees but not as clean. “It’s merely gin. You’re overly excited, dear girl. This will relax you.” When she would have merely touched it to her lips, he pressed it against her teeth and she swallowed deeply. The night swam with flecks of colored light and her ears rang. He poured another long drink down her throat, took back the flask, and edged the horse back onto the road. Lucinda watched the black shadows of trees go by, faster and faster, until everything blurred.
Later, she could not have said what was real and what was not: Richard swore a dreadful oath and the carriage swerved. There was a great, spinning light suddenly before them, and then overhead; the carriage tilted and she seemed to fall forever before hard ground shook her bones and drove the air from her. Richard was shouting again, this time surely in fear. The horse screamed and bolted. Lucinda fell back and let her eyes close; the rattle of wheels grew fainter; she heard what might have been a man’s terrified shout and a splash.
* * *
She woke in her room two days later, aching, lethargic; for days after, she ate when fed, otherwise slept. Her mother sat by her bed; surely she must have slept, but whenever Lucinda woke, she was there.
Richard Coucey was dead, drowned, and she was too ill and exhausted to weep for him—or for the man she had thought he was. She was too ill to recall much of what he’d said, much of what had happened at the last, or to be grateful that somehow she had been spirited back to her Aunt Bettany’s house without anyone knowing she had been in Richard’s carriage that evening.
She managed to stay on her feet for his funeral; his sister Elizabeth, pale-faced and as beautifully golden as her brother had been, took his body home to Cambridge. There was considerable sympathy for Lucinda, but the season of course went on. It went on without her; Richard’s loss had left a great void in her heart. And not long after his death, Arabella herself took ill. Even with her daughter’s best efforts and the finest physicians Bettany could find, even with Elizabeth Coucey’s attendance, and her own physician, a member of the Academy and a professor at Cambridge, Arabella grew daily thinner and paler. She finally refused any further medical attentions. “Lucy darling, it’s not anything medicine could cure; even my own skills are useless against it. It’s—vengeance, I think.” She refused to be more specific. Elizabeth Coucey, who had taken to Arabella as if she were an older sister, was greatly distressed by this, but Arabella—who had become at least as fond of Bess would not confide in her either. “You must take care of my poor daughter when I am gone,” was all she would say.
She died not quite a month later; Andrew came home from Italy barely in time to bid her farewell.
She stood against the ship’s rail, eyes fastened on the gray distance the sailors assured her was land. Difficult to tell, with so much fog, overcast, gray water, gray and drizzly sky. She shivered down into the bright blue wool cloak and pulled the hood close over her dark hair: they must be near, though, for the weather was Boston as she remembered it.
Water sl
oshed halfheartedly against the planking bow; they must be near the Bay, perhaps within it. The Atlantic had been rough all the way from Plymouth. Fortunately, she still had her father’s strong stomach, and a roiling sea had not bothered her at all. Lucinda bit her lower lip, remembering the crossing to London, three years earlier. Poor Arabella had been so ill, and all her magic hadn’t been able to cure it. Lucinda set her lips together in a thin, hard line; dark brows drew down to form a single line across her forehead.
The family curse, her elder brother John called it. Perhaps John was right. Of course, he had disliked magic because it made their family somehow different. His protests that a lawyer could not practice sorcery were merely one way to avoid magic, because Arabella’s brother, the lawyer Who had sent John down to Harvard, certainly had no such qualms.
Lucinda leaned out over the rail to let her eyes follow the white spray coming off the bow of the ship, and sighed deeply. Poor Mother. Perhaps she had been unwell even before they left for England. It would have been very like her to hide it even from her husband and daughter. Lucinda frowned again. It was worrying, how she had shut those months away. She seldom thought of Richard, and just now could not even recall the last thing her mother had said to her. There seemed to be a haze between her and the real world, a haze that had grown up after Richard’s death and continued to swathe her.
“Foolishness, it must be simple exhaustion from the journey home,” she assured herself. But it had been only twenty months since Arabella’s death. Still, that was long enough for her father to observe a decent year of mourning before he began to pay court to Elizabeth Coucey. Perhaps she should feel distress that her father should marry again. But she and Bess were like sisters, rather than stepmother and stepdaughter.
Lucinda bent her head and blotted a wayward tear against the dark, practical travelling glove, and forced her thoughts away from the past. She must not weep. She and Elizabeth had done all they could. And she did not wish to return home with her face swollen and blotchy.
The Crafters Book One Page 19