Now Comes the Mist

CHAPTER TEN

A few days later, Mamma holds another dinner party. Jack Seward is invited, this time without Dr. Van Helsing, who has returned to Amsterdam. The guest list holds other familiar names. One of them is Quincey Morris, to my satisfaction … and another is the Honorable Arthur Holmwood, to my chagrin. My mother has ignored my pleas to exclude him.

“It would be unconscionably rude to leave him out,” she protests whenever I bring it up. “I am sorry he has displeased you, but at least give him a chance to redeem himself.”

She believes that Arthur and I have had a lovers’ quarrel, and I do not disabuse her of this notion, not when half a dozen bouquets from London’s finest florists arrive every morning. From a bed of greenery spill red camellias, fragrant forget-me-nots, and last night, even a desperate two dozen roses. I tell the maids to throw them away, but I can still smell them in the hall; no doubt Mamma has hidden them away in her own room, unable to get rid of such lovely gifts.

That evening, as our guests begin to arrive, emotion rages inside me. It took three hours to decide what to wear as I tossed aside dress after dress for looking too desperate, too hopeful, or too aloof. But my goodness, what frock would properly assert “I am a beautiful, brilliant woman whose heart has been broken by the only suitor she ever truly loved, but must try to look unbothered to all the other men who desire her”?

And Mina is not even here to calm and advise me. She is in Exeter with her aunt and only knows of the latest developments through my tear-stained letters. Her responses are loving, sisterly, and full of encouragement that I will make the right choice and do the right thing.

But I do not deserve her confidence. I attempted to force Arthur’s hand, and now I have lost him forever. When I think of how abruptly he had ended our embrace, I am filled with a shame so sour I can taste it. “This doesn’t feel right,” he had said, his back turned to me, and his fists clenched. I had been so conceited, so overconfident. I had never imagined such a rejection from anyone, least of all the one person I felt certain would accept me no matter what I did.

I do not know how I can face him tonight—how I can look at him and speak to him as though we were mere acquaintances mingling at a party.

And so I do neither.

When the sound of laughter and the clinking of glasses fills our home, I do not look at or speak to Arthur after a brief greeting, as is expected of the hostess’s daughter. I devote myself to Jack and Quincey, who have singled me out, a pair of hungry wolves seeking out a willing lamb.

Tonight, I have chosen a demure gown of watered silk that covers my shoulders and décolletage, the blue-grey shade resembling mist over the sea. The front may be modest, but the neckline dips courageously in the back, revealing several surprising inches of skin above a row of gleaming pearl buttons. I have swept my hair into a knot with a pearl comb to display my back to best effect, and I feel many eyes on me as I chat to Jack and Quincey. Arthur’s, in particular, are like a warm and lingering touch, but he does not make the slightest attempt to win me back.

He truly does not care , I think, throwing my head back to laugh too hard at something Dr. Seward has just said. The heartache is so powerful, it threatens to dissolve my fa?ade. My breath catches in my tight throat and Dr. Seward notices at once.

“You look faint. Is it too warm for you?” he asks. There is professional concern on his face, but his brown eyes are full of yearning for any excuse to touch me. I hold out my hand to him, but to my never-ending amusement, Quincey Morris swoops in like a great thundercloud and takes it before the young doctor even has time to blink.

“Let me take you outside for some air, Miss Lucy,” the cowboy says in his butter-smooth drawl. “It isn’t dark yet, and dinner won’t be for a while longer.”

I look up at his strong and handsome face, his eyes crinkling as he smiles at me, and force Arthur from my mind with all the willpower I possess. Here is a kind, amusing, intelligent man who has made no secret of his affection for me. “I would like that very much, Mr. Morris,” I say, and he leads me out of the room. I catch a glimpse of Dr. Seward’s crestfallen expression and Mamma’s sharp gaze before the American and I are alone in the garden under the darkening sky.

“I’m glad to have a moment alone with you,” Quincey says. He glances over his shoulder at the curious faces watching us from the windows, one of them doubtlessly Mamma’s. I try not to think about the others, and to whom they might belong. “I’ve been wanting to speak to you privately since our dance at Miss Murray’s engagement party.”

“Goodness. That long?” I ask, looking down at our joined hands. I like the sight of my delicate fingers in his big, weathered hand. “You could have written to me.”

“There are some things you shouldn’t rely on paper to say to a lady. Or … or to ask a lady,” he adds, gazing at me with such significance that I begin to suspect what is coming.

A giggle threatens to burst from my chest, but I restrain it and look up at him demurely. “What is this all-important question, then, Mr. Morris?”

He takes my other hand, too, so that we are standing face-to-face, and shuts his eyes. His chest rises and falls with his deep slow breaths, and he rolls his head on his big shoulders as though stretching after a long ride. He swings my hands lightly like we are two children playing in the garden, and the desire to laugh overtakes me once more as I realize that this large, strong, effusive man who is full of courage and cheer, who carries deadly weapons everywhere he goes and looks ready to fight at a moment’s notice … is nervous .

I press my lips together to suppress my merriment. “Mr. Morris?” I prompt him.

Quincey’s eyes fly open. “America is a beautiful country,” he blurts out. “And it’s completely unlike anything you see here.”

“I … I’m sure you’re right,” I say, surprised.

“I know you love London. But I think you would love Texas, too. It’s a sight to behold, especially on horseback. Golden fields under a hot sun, a rolling green country with grass rippling like waves, the sky in summer endless and bluer even than the sea. I don’t leave home often, but whenever I do, the sight of it coming back is like cool water to a thirsty man.”

I ache with envy at the warmth in his voice and the way his gaze grows distant, picturing that far-off land he loves. He can come and go from home whenever he wishes, take ships and trains and carriages and explore the entire world until his feet grow weary and carry him back across oceans to the place where he is happiest.

“My family never had a true home, you see,” he says quietly. “My ancestors were taken to America by force to work a land they couldn’t even own. But by the grace of God, the laws changed when I was a boy. The man my parents worked for was fairer than most and gave them land in exchange for all their years of labor, free and clear. They built a homestead, hired hands, and expanded their livestock. Everything I am, I learned from them. How to stand on my own two feet, how to surge on in a world that tells me I don’t belong …”

A lump forms in my throat as his gaze returns to me.

“And how to love. I was raised in the light, taught hope and faith. My mother told me to keep my heart open because there is always a chance for love even in this unkind world.” He lets go of one of my hands to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “I can see us riding together across those plains, Miss Lucy. You laughing, with your hair flying out behind you. I’m happy to be going home soon … but I don’t want to go alone.”

Now that the moment has come, now that I have received my first proposal, I no longer feel the need to laugh nor the thrill I had imagined. Instead, I want to weep as dread rises in me, not from the terror of belonging to this good man, but from the guilt of knowing that I will refuse him. The realization that I have always known I would reject Quincey is sudden and sharp. As attracted as I am to him, as easily as I can imagine riding across the plains with him and waking up in his bed, I have never seriously considered saying “yes” when he asked me to be his.

I look up at his affectionate face and I know that I have been too free with him. I have encouraged him only to cruelly stamp out his hope, and that knowledge finally does bring tears to my eyes. I look away quickly to hide them, but it is too late.

“Miss Lucy, don’t cry,” Quincey says, shocked. “Have I upset you?”

I shake my head. “No. No . I am simply overwhelmed by your—” I pause, realizing he never actually asked the question. “You were going to propose marriage to me, weren’t you?”

Quincey laughs his booming laugh. “You surprise me every time. Yes, little lady, I was.”

“Well, then, I am overwhelmed by your proposal.” I see his dawning realization that I will refuse him. “You are a kind and lovely man. Your smile, your laugh … Every time you’re happy, it’s like the sun is shining on me. I’ve enjoyed our talks and our letters—”

“But you don’t wish to marry me,” he finishes, his face solemn.

“I am so sorry to hurt you, Quincey, after I encouraged your attentions,” I whisper, aching with guilt and grief. “I have done you wrong, and I understand if it makes you think less of me.”

There is nothing but kindness in his eyes. “You could never do anything that would make me think less of you. I understand. Of course I do. I was feeling pretty guilty myself about taking you so far away from your home and your mother. I guess it was silly of me, thinking I could plant an English rose in Texas soil.” He winks and squeezes my hands, and I have the overpowering urge to throw my arms around him—not out of desire, but true affection and feeling for him. But I hold myself back, knowing that we are being watched.

“Mr. Morris, I believe that you are the true diamond in the rough and I am glad to know you.” Tears slip down my cheeks, for it is clear that as gracious and gentlemanly as he is being, my refusal has pained him. “Please forgive me. I want us to be lifelong friends, and I do want to see those plains someday … just not as your wife.”

He lifts my hands to his lips and kisses them. “I know we will always be friends, Miss Lucy. And there is nothing to forgive.” He clears his throat. “Now, I think I ought to go back inside. I reckon dinner should be ready soon. Will you join me?”

“In a minute,” I say, and he nods, as understanding as ever, before leaving me.

I shiver despite the warmth of the evening, appalled by my own reckless manners and unguardedness over the past few months. In hoping to win Arthur’s interest—and, if I must be honest, to satisfy my own pride and vanity—I tricked someone into proposing without any real intention of accepting him. I bite my lip, thinking of the bitter disappointment Quincey tried so gallantly to hide. I feel the urgent need to sob and sob, to give in to my hysteria and heartache.

“Miss Westenra, are you unwell?” Dr. Seward appears, his expression still an odd mix of professional scrutiny and desire. He glances from me to the house, where Quincey has retreated.

“I need to sit down,” I say, and he places my hand on his arm and leads me to a bench by the garden wall. I sigh when I feel the coolness of the stone through my skirts. It reminds me of being in the still and quiet of the churchyard, and the memory calms me.

“Did Mr. Morris upset you?” Dr. Seward leans against a tree with his hands in his pockets. His posture is casual, but his tone is anything but. “Shall I reprimand him for you?”

“If you consider too much sweetness and lovely manners an offense, then by all means, please scold him thoroughly for me,” I say shakily.

Jack goes rigid and his hands slip out of his pockets. “He has spoken, then? He has asked you to marry him?” When I do not answer, he sits close beside me, facing the other direction so that he can look directly into my face. His eyes flicker to my left hand, which is still bare. “Lucy, tell me how you answered him. Tell me what you said.”

“Mr. Morris is a gentleman, and I will not betray his confidence.”

“Lucy, I beg you. I need to know if he asked you what I … what I wish to ask myself.” And before I even have time to process the knowledge that I will be getting a second proposal of marriage within minutes of the first, Dr. Seward pulls me close to him. “I will speak now because I am afraid I will not get another chance tonight. Lucy, I’ve loved you for years. I always hoped to have your father’s permission, because he was such a kind friend to me, but there was no time.” His gaze darts between my eyes as though hoping to find an answer in one of them.

I bow my head and see the glimmer of my locket against my dress.

“I’m sorry to bring up a painful subject. But I know your father would have approved of this.” Dr. Seward’s voice rings with such genuine affection for Papa that it makes my heart clench. But of course, it says less about the doctor than it does about my father, who was loved by everyone who knew him. “Your mamma likes me, too. She has hinted to me before that she would not be averse to our union. Both your parents approve of this, my darling.”

The raw hunger in his voice catches me unawares. My mind reels as I try to imagine what Papa would advise me to do. But all I can think of is my father teasing me about Arthur.

Arthur, again.

I close my eyes, frustrated that I cannot stop thinking about a man who does not want me. Dr. Seward’s arms tighten around me as he waits for my reply, and that, too, reminds me of Arthur and the night he had held me like this, as though afraid I would disappear if he let go.

But he let go , I think furiously. He let go.

“I have my own property,” Dr. Seward goes on. “We wouldn’t live in the asylum where I work. I have a lovely house with a garden and a piano for you and a parlor where you and I can sit in the evenings. Can’t you see us there? Me reading aloud to you, and you laughing as we sip our tea?” I shiver as one of his clever hands toys with the pearl buttons on my dress. “And then I would carry you upstairs, my love, and I would make you a very, very happy woman.”

It is not difficult in the least to imagine being swept up in his arms. Pressing my smile into his neck as he runs up the stairs with me held tight against his heart, and then falling into a feather bed in the shadows. His lips on my ear, my neck, and my shoulders, trailing kisses all down my skin as his skilled and capable hands drive my rising need for him.

Yes, I believe him. He would make me very happy indeed.

But I feel rising dread and the hot, panicked threat of tears once more. Because though I have enjoyed his attentions, his flirting, his flowers, and his eyes on me like melting caramel, and as many times as I have imagined him knowing me in all the ways a husband would, the truth is that I have never been serious about Jack Seward, either.

“Dr. Seward,” I choke out.

“Jack,” he whispers, his fingers still on the buttons of my dress. “Call me Jack.”

His gaze is ravenous, and I know he wants to kiss me more than anything. Just as Arthur had been in my power that evening, Jack Seward is in a similar position here and now. He wants to claim me as his own, but he will not move until he is sure of me. He waits with bated breath, his eyes roaming my face, desperate for my agreement.

I consider that this is a good offer. Dr. Seward is a wealthy and respected man, barely thirty and yet already established enough to give me a comfortable position in society. He would be a passionate, adoring husband. Mamma would like him, and I think it is true that Papa would approve as well. If I said yes, it would be suitable and appropriate and smart. I would be safe and well cared for and ease Mamma’s constant worry.

Jack Seward watches me with hope and terror, as though I hold his very life in my hands.

“Dr. Seward,” I say again, my voice trembling.

Something in my face makes him stand up and stare down at me in silence. The shock and pain in his expression are indescribable. His hands shake at his sides.

I cannot bear it. I cannot withstand facing the consequences of my thoughtless behavior again and hurting yet another man. “I’m so sorry, Jack,” I say, and then I burst into tears. It is a testament to my grief over the pain I have caused him and Quincey, for I know full well how blotchy and red crying will make my face. The thought of going into the house afterward to face everyone like this makes me sob even harder, and I bury my face in my skirts.

After a long moment, I feel Jack kneel in the grass before me. He places one gentle hand on my shoulder and, with the other, strokes my hair with the utmost tenderness.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” I repeat as a handkerchief is pressed into my hands. I wipe my eyes, and it is then that I smell the scent of a deep pine forest with an underlying aroma of cigars.

I know that scent.

I look up, and it is not the doctor kneeling before me.

It is Arthur.