Now Comes the Mist

CHAPTER SIX

B y afternoon, my dream has vanished into the sunny reality of the sitting room, where Mamma and I sip tea and wait to be fitted for our new dresses. The dressmaker arrived today with a coterie of apprentices, each carrying an armful of colorful garments. They divide them neatly onto two racks, one for Mamma and one for me, busily smoothing fabrics of lilac, rose, and pearl—all the cheerful hues we plan to wear on our holiday in Whitby this summer.

I struggle to hide a yawn as the dressmaker orders her workers about. Fortunately, I had woken no one else with this latest bout of sleepwalking and had crept home to wash my cold, dirty feet just as the first light of dawn had appeared in the sky.

“You look exhausted, Lucy,” Mamma remarks. “Did you have trouble sleeping after all that dancing? At least the party was a triumph.”

“It was. Mina enjoyed herself a great deal, even if Jonathan did not.” I pour myself another cup of fragrant jasmine tea. It had been Papa’s favorite and had reminded him of his grandmother, and he had never cared about the cost of having it shipped from overseas.

Mamma laughs. “Poor Jonathan. He dislikes being the center of attention, and an engagement ball was not something he ever wanted.”

“Well, Mina likes parties and dancing, and someone has to give her what she likes.”

My mother raises an eyebrow at my tone. “You don’t like Jonathan, then? I’ve never gotten a sense of what you think of your Mina’s husband-to-be.”

“It’s not that I don’t like him,” I say slowly. “I just always imagined that when I ended up losing Mina, it would be to a far more superior man than he.”

“You’re not losing her. You may not see her as often, once she sets up house in Exeter, but I’m certain you will write many letters and visit.” Mamma sips her own tea—chamomile, her tastes ever sensible in contrast to Papa’s and my more adventurous preferences. “And I disagree. Jonathan may be of humble origin, but then so is Mina. He is hardworking, honest, and educated. He adores her. And they’ve known each other for years, like you and Arthur.” She glances at me. “Everyone talked of how beautifully the two of you danced last night. My friends were jealous that you secured him for two waltzes when their daughters couldn’t manage one.”

I look down into my tea, remembering the jolt of fear I had felt before parting from him. “He is so shy,” I say softly. “I thought he wasn’t interested, but he was only shy all along.”

“I never doubted that he had feelings for you. What man could resist you?” Mamma asks, with a proud sniff that makes me chuckle. “And Lucy, I hope you aren’t angry with me.”

“Angry? Whatever for?”

“For scolding you after that incident with the American. You have a great deal of spirit, and I hate reprimanding you about something you can’t help.”

“Oh, Mamma, it’s all right. I shouldn’t have sent Mr. Hurst away.” I shake my head ruefully. “Mr. Morris clearly didn’t appreciate my defending him. He seemed almost affronted. As much as I hate to admit it, you were right that men don’t like an outspoken woman.”

“I wish I could give you a different world, my love, one in which women are respected for speaking out. But I cannot change the rules of society.” She laughs. “I was much like you when I was young. You would be surprised. I threw champagne in a suitor’s face once.”

I gasp, delighted. “Mamma!”

“I don’t recall what he had said to deserve that. Only how ridiculous he looked with his hair and shirt soaked. And it did the trick, for he never proposed marriage again.”

“My prim and ladylike mother! I wish I had known you then.”

“So do I. You would have approved of that wayward girl who longed to run off with the circus. What a life of adventure I dreamed for myself once.” Mamma laughs again, her eyes wistful. “So you see, we are not so different.”

“How could we be? Any woman, in any time and place.” I twist the jade ring on my right hand. Tiny letters are etched into the band: Van, the name my great-grandmother had forsaken when she had married Lord Alexander Westenra and become a respectable English lady. “Do you think that Vanessa … Van will be the only woman in our family to ever have a real adventure?”

“That depends on how you define adventure. She had to endure a difficult voyage and many trials in an unfamiliar land. But you don’t need that to have joy and love, as I did with your father.” Mamma takes my hand. “I must apologize for something else, Lucy. I worry that I have never been there for you the way Papa was. I know you felt you could tell him anything and I’m glad you were close, especially because my own father cared nothing for my troubles. When we lost Papa, I vowed to be everything that he had been. But I feel as though I’ve failed you.”

My free hand flies to the gold locket around my neck. If Arthur were standing across the room, he would know exactly what my mother and I were discussing. “Mamma, why are you saying this? You have only ever been kind and loving, and I have nothing to reproach you with.”

“I suppose I saw you dancing with Arthur, and it made me realize how grown up you are.” Her smile is heartbreaking in its regret. “You’ve become a woman almost overnight, and soon you will no longer confide in me. You will be a wife … and perhaps a mother as well.”

I smile back to hide my consternation as I imagine a screaming bundle in my arms, wet and smelly and writhing, with dirty sticky doll hands reaching for my hair. Me, a mother? I push away the horrid thought. My mind returns to the memory of Arthur’s gaze on me last night, as though I already belonged to him. “Why look so far into the future?” I ask. “We are here now, together. Let us enjoy the present and speak no more of this.”

“Bear with me. I don’t know if we will have many chances to talk like this.”

“What do you mean?” I demand. “We have many more years together yet.”

“I only meant that you may be living in your own household soon. Away from me. And I have not properly prepared you for the … requirements of being a wife,” my mother says with the caution of someone stepping barefoot around broken glass.

I laugh. “Are we truly about to have this conversation with all of these people around?” I gesture to the dressmaker and her apprentices putting the finishing touches on our garments. “Mamma, I may be innocent, but I know. I know .”

Relief flatters my mother’s elegant features. “Mina told you?”

I nod, though that isn’t completely truthful. It was I who had found the book in Papa’s library and shared it with Mina, the two of us giggling like naughty schoolchildren as we read the more lurid passages. The diagrams had been informative, somewhat terrifying, and—if I am to be honest—titillating as well. Mina had been aghast at the content, but I had argued that we needed this information so as not to be overly shocked by our wedding nights.

“One last thing,” Mamma says. “I told you how much I used to be like you. But I am glad I gave all of it up when I married your father. It is the honor of a woman’s life to be chosen by a good man as his wife and the mother of his children. It is a duty, but it can also be a joy.”

I stiffen. “Gave all of what up? Your cleverness? Your high spirits and liveliness?”

She looks at me with knowing sympathy. “I thought I was getting the worse end of the bargain, too. But Lucy, this is what is asked of us. I am not saying you must change who you are. Just … suppress it. You will understand when you are a wife, too.”

Thankfully, the dressmaker comes over to us at that moment. I watch Mamma touch and exclaim over each dress, feeling suffocated by our conversation and the expectation that society will dictate what I choose and what I give up. I am no more than a farm animal with a yoke to its neck, propelled to do what I am bid instead of living like a free being.

My lungs tighten and spots dance before my eyes. I take a deep breath, recognizing the signs of an attack. I cannot let it overtake me as it almost did last night, with Arthur watching. I must keep my mind from flying back to the churchyard where Papa waits, the mausoleum inviting against the dark. Something drifts across my memory like snow in the wind: a cold marble hand in mine, a kiss of ice pressed to my burning lips, and a man murmuring my name. The strange, half-forgotten images vanish when I try too hard to remember them.

Lost in my reverie, I scarcely hear our housekeeper answer a knock at the door and am only roused by the sound of footsteps approaching the sitting room. A hearty voice says in a flat American accent, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Westenra. Miss Lucy.”

Quincey Morris beams, his eyes as bright on me as when we first met last night. He is wearing his long coat again, but today it is buttoned against the chilly weather and there is no sign of the weaponry I know is hidden beneath it. A hat is pulled low and rakishly tilted over his forehead, making him look every inch the gallant cowboy.

With him is Arthur, who bows in greeting. “Mrs. Westenra, I beg your pardon. And yours, Miss Westenra,” he adds, looking directly at me. I stifle my laughter. In just one evening, I have trained the bashful Arthur to ignore me at his own peril. “Quincey and I wished to call and thank you for a wonderful evening, but I see we have interrupted an appointment.”

“Nonsense. You are both most welcome,” Mamma says warmly. She signals for the men to take the sofa across from ours and for the housekeeper to bring them tea. “My daughter and I are only preparing for our holiday in Whitby. A seaside town in Yorkshire, Mr. Morris, where we go each summer,” she adds politely, looking at the American.

“It sounds delightful, and no doubt it will be even more so when you are both there,” Quincey Morris says with the coy charm I am beginning to recognize as his signature. His eyes shine at me. “I have half a mind to see it and prove myself correct.”

The housekeeper appears with tea and cake, and as Mamma serves and chats with Arthur, I smile at the cowboy. “I’m glad to see you today, Mr. Morris. I did not expect to, for I was worried that you were more like Dr. Seward than I thought,” I say in the teasing voice that is my signature. “Shocked by my bold ways. You did not like my dismissal of Miss Worthing’s fiancé.”

Mr. Morris blinks, seemingly at a loss for words.

“I thought perhaps I had disturbed you with my frank and forward manners,” I continue, enjoying his consternation. “I have the habit of being overly direct, I’m afraid.”

“It is an admirable habit,” the American says quickly. He sits up straight, looking eager to show me that he is not as old-fashioned as the doctor. “Miss Lucy, thank you for your kindness in speaking up for me. Any displeasure I showed was for the rude gentleman and not you.”

I laugh. “You speak so warmly that I almost believe you.”

He gives me a good-natured grin. “Well, I hope I find a way back into your good graces, ma’am, and can show my gratitude properly.”

As Mamma begins serving Mr. Morris, Arthur takes a sip of his tea and coughs. Embarrassed, he dabs at his mouth with a napkin and puts the cup down in a hurry.

“Too hot for you, dear?” Mamma asks, concerned.

“Forgive me,” Arthur says. “I have never tasted such a variety of tea before.”

Frowning, Mamma lifts the teapot to inspect it. “Oh, dear. Agatha has mistakenly prepared Lucy’s tea for both of you instead of my chamomile.”

Quincey sips his tea, pauses and then takes a second sip. “I think it’s delicious. I’ve never tasted anything like it before, either. Fragrant, very floral.”

“Yes, but also quite bitter?” Arthur suggests.

“No. Not to me,” the cowboy says, shrugging. “Why do you call it Lucy’s tea, ma’am? Do the young lady’s considerable gifts extend to growing tea as well?”

I answer for my mother. “Not quite, Mr. Morris. You are drinking a jasmine tea that my father loved, though I find I am the only one left to enjoy it now.” My last words come out so quietly that they are almost a whisper. Arthur picks up his cup, looking stricken as I run my fingers over my locket.

“I won’t let you enjoy it alone anymore, Miss Lucy,” Quincey says, and I give him a look of gratitude. “May I have another cup, please, Mrs. Westenra?”

Mamma obliges him. Her eyes dart between us, displeased that the dashing cowboy is gaining so quickly in my favor. “Lucy loves this tea so much that we will have to bring it with us to Whitby,” she says gaily, turning the subject. “It is truly the loveliest place in the summertime. Lucy loves the cliffs and walks there often, don’t you, my love?”

Perhaps it is the melancholy of remembering Papa, but all it takes is the word cliffs and I can feel the briny sea wind whipping my hair as I stare down, down, down to the water’s edge, where the hungry white foam would rise to meet me if ever I fell. I have often imagined how it would feel to fling myself into the air, to suddenly lose the ground beneath my feet and feel my stomach drop as I plummet. Imagining the freedom of it, the choice , is almost ecstasy.

I look up, realizing they are all waiting for my answer. Quincey is smiling, eager to approve of whatever I say, but Arthur’s face is solemn and watchful. He has seen again what he does not understand in me, and I push away the awful feeling that perhaps this is what attracts him—that if I married him and unveiled the mystery, he would no longer find me compelling.

“It is a beautiful place,” I say.

“You look peaked, dear. We have been sitting here a long time,” Mamma says, and I hear in her voice that a plot is afoot. Subtlety is an art that my beloved mother never quite learned. “On the subject of walks, I believe a stroll outdoors might revive you. Arthur, would you take her? I’m a bit busy here.” She gestures to the women sewing across the room. “And I was hoping that you in particular, Mr. Morris, would stay and give me your advice.”

“Me, Mrs. Westenra?” Quincey’s expression while regarding our colorful summer frocks is so nearly frightened that I laugh, and Arthur does as well. “I wonder if an American cowboy might not have the elegant and sophisticated taste you would wish for in dresses …”

“Nonsense!” Mamma guides me to my feet so that Quincey can take my place beside her. “You are exactly the person I need. You can tell me what colors the ladies in America prefer.”

“Shall we, Miss Westenra?” Arthur asks quietly.

“We shall, Mr. Holmwood,” I say, matching his formality.

I slip on a coat and gloves, and we step out into the chilly February day. Another man might have given me his arm or I would have taken it, offered or not. But Arthur is not like the others, nor would I have him be. He folds his hands behind his back, I keep mine at my sides, and we walk with a respectable distance between us. No one watching us would suspect that we were anything more than friendly acquaintances taking a polite stroll.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“Yes, thank you. Now that my mother has prescribed this medicinal walk with you.”

“You were sad just now, when she mentioned Whitby. But you weren’t thinking of your father. You didn’t touch your locket.” As though embarrassed by his own observation, Arthur looks away, pretending to study the passing carriages. “Were you thinking of Miss Murray’s wedding later this year, perhaps? And her having to move away to Exeter with Mr. Harker?”

I sigh. “No, but well guessed. Jonathan will leave in the spring and may not return until full summer. I am trying to persuade Mina to put the wedding off until autumn, so that she may join us at Whitby. It would be nice to have someone to walk with.” And to keep me away from the cliff’s edge , I think as a little thrill rises up in me, all the sweeter for having to be kept secret.

Arthur glances shyly at me. “I have not been to Whitby myself for years. The doctor thinks the sea air would do my father good, but Papa is so reluctant to leave the house these days.” It is his turn to sigh. He has never been one to show much emotion in public, and I take this as a sign of very serious worry indeed.

“Is his health worsening?” I ask, touched that he would show me this private grief.

“I’m afraid so. I’m not sure what I would do if he—” He breaks off abruptly.

“I’m sorry, Arthur.” I am surprised to find how unbearable his pain is to me. I touch his arm and he looks down at my gloved fingers. I half expect him to pull away and take me back to Mamma at once, as Dr. Seward might. But instead, he applies the gentlest pressure to my fingers.

“Thank you,” he says, very low.

“Death is cruel and cold and steals loved ones away too soon. I worry what you will think of me, Arthur, when I tell you how often I dwell upon it. I … I think about death all the time.” The words slip out before I can stop them. But perhaps it is my conscience revealing this small glimpse into my mind, in hopes that it will save him from me. Run, Arthur, while you can.

But Arthur does not run. He turns toward me, his face open and expectant. He hears in my voice that this is important to me, and so he will make it important to himself.

“There is so little choice for a woman in life. A man can go anywhere and be anything, but a woman has not that freedom. She can select which dress to wear and what meals to serve her guests, but these are decisions without meaning, because they are already expected of her. Do you see?” I ask as a furrow forms between Arthur’s brows.

“I … I believe so.”

“Even in the matter of marriage,” I go on, pretending not to see the flush that creeps onto his cheeks. “A man can choose who he likes, but a woman can only decide whether or not to accept a proposal. She must receive one first, and she cannot select from whom it comes.”

Arthur blinks down at his shoes. He is trying so hard to understand. “But she can choose who she encourages, and that is something, is it not?”

I look away to hide my frustration. I cannot seem to put into words what sours and festers inside of me: the knowledge that everything in life has already been decided for me by men, by society, by my family name and position, and that the only meaningful choice I might ever have is to relinquish that life. To give it up on my own terms, in a manner of my choosing. To leave the neat, precise path and plunge into the brambles, to fall into the sea and be with Papa and be understood again. But I have never been able to explain this even to Mina or Mamma, and I cannot expect Arthur to comprehend it. I am alone, hopelessly alone, and I always have been.

My hand finds my locket once more. “I think about death all the time,” I say again.

“Lucy, you are grieving,” Arthur says, his voice full of emotion. “That is all. You have lost your beloved father and miss him dearly. I know … I can imagine …”

I turn back to him and see the shine of tears in his eyes.

“I would not have you be otherwise. To be unable to forget the ones you have lost is the mark of a very warm heart, and no one could ever question the propriety of that.”

My own eyes sting from the grief and the empty certainty of knowing that I will never be understood, not even by poor, sincere Arthur, who only wants to think the best of me. He offers me a handkerchief of pristine white linen, embroidered with his initials, ALH, and I dab at my eyes. “How well the letters of your name look,” I say with a shaky laugh. “I’ve always thought that A and L were so pretty side by side. The second letter like an extension of the first.”

“Perhaps they were meant to be together,” Arthur says, and the light of hope in his eyes makes my stomach clench. “Not just on handkerchiefs.”

“Yes, they would look well on napkins and tablecloths and—” I stop myself from adding the word that would likely appall Mamma even from this distance: bedsheets . But Arthur seems to hear it just the same, and as I return his handkerchief, his fingers find the inch of skin between my glove and my sleeve. The heat of his touch makes my stomach clench in a delightful way.

“Are you in earnest, Lucy?” he asks, low and urgent. People stroll past us—couples, servants bearing packages, governesses herding children—and I know we are feeding gossip with our intense gazes on each other. But I hardly care as I look into Arthur’s face taut with longing, feeling the intoxication of knowing that as powerful as he is in this world, a man with a title, estate, and old family name, I have the upper hand here. And he is mine for the taking.

And then the moment has to be ruined by, of all things, a child.

A little boy has fallen near us and scraped his knees upon the ground, and he is screaming as though he has been run through with a hot fire poker. The sound sets my teeth on edge and my blood rising, and I move away from Arthur in a half-dazed rage. The child’s nurse runs over from wherever she has been socializing and hovers over him, fussing.

“Master Graham, you have torn your breeches! How careless you are,” she croons with that peculiar mix of scolding and praising I have never been able to understand in other women.

The boy continues squalling, no doubt enjoying the attention from sympathetic onlookers. Other passersby are smiling, pursing their lips, or gazing indulgently at him.

Even Arthur’s attention has been monopolized by the diminutive monster. “Poor little chap,” he murmurs, his eyes soft. “That was a bit of a fall.”

“Hush, now,” the nurse says, holding the child close. “Quiet.”

The boy’s wails soften into sniffles as he tucks his head against her shoulder. And what should happen next, but for his attention to turn to me. His eyes are round and dark and shining, ringed with lashes like writhing spider legs as they squeeze out fat tears. Slimy white matter crawls from his nose and directly into his open mouth as he stares at me, unblinking, his dirty and smudged doll-like hands gripping the nurse’s arm.

She notices his interest in me and offers an apologetic smile to Arthur and me. “Master Graham, don’t stare,” she chides the boy. “It isn’t polite.”

The child mumbles something in reply, his words indecipherable as more mucus enters his mouth. I swallow hard, trying not to gag as I stare at his repulsive little face. I am reminded of an image I saw once in one of Papa’s books, a lurid illustration accompanying one of the many tales of horror I loved to read. It was of a dead child with an uncanny resemblance to this boy, down to the slimy lash-ringed eyes and gaping mouth … a child that had crawled out of its grave to terrify and punish an uncaring mother. I have never been able to look at a child since without revulsion and distaste and, at best, utter apathy.

The nurse gives us another apologetic smile. “What did you say, my pet?” she asks him gently. “Did you say that something is blue?”

“Bloofer,” he mumbles, pointing his dirty chubby finger right at me. “Bloofer lady.”

Even though pointing is much ruder than staring, both Arthur and the nurse start laughing, as though the boy is the cheekiest, cleverest little thing.

“What on earth is he saying?” I ask, trying to speak in a light tone. But my words are tinged with the rage and disgust I am trying to hide, and Arthur and the nurse look at me quickly.

“He’s paying you a compliment, Lucy,” Arthur says. “He’s saying you are beautiful.”

“I beg your pardon, miss.” The nurse scoops up the boy and rises, her friendly face now apprehensive as she looks at me. I wonder what she sees in my eyes. “Master Graham means no harm. He’s always liked pretty faces and yours is lovely, that’s all.” She bobs a curtsy to us and hurries off with the little boy, who is still looking back at me.

“Lucy?” Arthur asks, studying me carefully.

Somehow, I feel that this has become a test for me. I rearrange my features and laugh up at him. “What an adorable child,” I say brightly. “Where would we be without these little angels? His compliment has improved my entire day. Did you hear him? He called me a beautiful lady!”

Arthur’s face relaxes and his gaze grows warm on me. “He is not wrong, you know.”

But as we walk back home, all I can think is Yes, he is. The very existence of that child, of any child, is wrong.