Now Comes the Mist

CHAPTER TWELVE

A re you going out, dear?” Mamma asks, glancing up from the rosewood desk in the parlor. “Could you send this letter for me if the post office is on your way?”

I take the envelope. “I am going in the opposite direction, to the cliffs, but I would be happy to take a detour through town.”

Sunlight streams through the window beside the desk, making my mother’s fair hair glow. Her eyes are clear in the light, and she looks so sweet and pretty in her lavender gown that I bend down and kiss her cheek impulsively. She laughs and takes my hand, gazing up at me as though trying to untangle the thoughts in my head. It is a skill at which she has never been adept in all the years of being my mother. “Are you happy, my Lucy?” she asks gently. “ Truly happy?”

I squeeze her hand. “Of course I’m happy. It is June, and it is a beautiful day, and I am in Whitby with you. Why shouldn’t I be happy?” My tone is light, but her question sends a thrill of recognition through me. Perhaps Mamma sees more than I think.

She looks down at the gold ring on my hand. The small perfect gems—a diamond with an emerald on either side—were a family heirloom given to Arthur’s mother, Lady Godalming, for her engagement, and had been taken out of the vault for me. “I worry that in my hope to see you settled and cared for, I’ve pushed you out of the nest too soon.”

I wrap my arms around her, and she leans her greying head against me. “I turn twenty in September, which is too old to be in a nest anyway. But I love you more than anything, and I want you to come and live with us. I can’t stand the thought of you all alone, and our house will have ever so much space. The servants will prepare a suite of rooms for you.”

Mamma looks up at me, amused. “Live with a pair of newlyweds? Your husband-to-be may not be happy with that arrangement. And shouldn’t you ask for his permission first?”

“Arthur adores me. He will do whatever I want.” I brush a tendril of hair off her forehead, thinking of the letters he and I have exchanged since I left for Whitby.

It has been two weeks to the day since our engagement. That night, he and I had returned to the house to great cheer, and Jack and Quincey had toasted us with all the generosity of spirit I knew they would have. Later, when the guests had departed, Mamma had knowingly left Arthur and me alone in the parlor to say goodbye. He had written me the first letter and had posted it before I had even left. He insists that he is awkward when it comes to romance, but I find his love letters winsome and appealing in their simplicity. Nothing would mar my happiness but for the guilt and dread that fill me whenever I read his words. He is so earnest, so devoted, so innocent of anything that could stain me or our marriage.

“Mamma, there is something I would speak to you about.” I sit on a chair upholstered in sky-blue silk. We have taken the same lodgings every summer since I was born, and over time, the rooms have become as much a reflection of Mamma’s delicate tastes as our London home. “I don’t know if you will understand, but I am nervous about Arthur knowing everything about me once we marry. He will see it all, won’t he? Not just the good.”

Mamma chuckles and holds up the hand that still bears her wedding ring. “Let me remind you that I, too, have been married. It’s natural to worry about your husband finding out your faults.” Her eyes twinkle. “My mother called me wild . She believed no man could tame me and I would join the circus, riding horses for a cheering crowd and bringing shame upon our name. But then I met your dear papa, and he loved me … all of me, as Arthur will love all of you .”

“I have no aspirations for the circus,” I say, and she smiles. “But I find it difficult to have to give up so much. Dancing at parties, for instance. You know a ballroom is my favorite battleground. But now it will not be appropriate to dance or even speak with another man for long.”

“But you wouldn’t wish the ballroom to be a battleground forever, would you? Now that the war has been won, and Arthur is yours?”

“I suppose not.” I sigh. “And I will not have time for books or walks or daydreaming anymore, as mistress of the Holmwood estate. Not with a household to maintain, servants to instruct, and guests to entertain. And I will have to give up Papa’s jasmine tea and incense entirely, as Arthur cannot abide strong smells.”

“Neither can I, though I endured them when Papa was alive,” Mamma admits. “I know you want to honor your father and ancestors, my love. But Arthur will be a lord with a proper English household. Surely it will not be such a sacrifice to please him, will it?”

I shake my head slowly and turn to gaze out of the window. Unlike our bedchambers, the parlor does not overlook the sea but the garden instead, where climbing honeysuckle vines perfume the air with their fragrance. Still, I can sense the presence of the ocean beyond: the tang of its salt, the waves crashing onto the shore, and the yearning emptiness beneath all that water. Arthur is the garden and I am the sea. They can exist together in harmony, but the sea will always have depths that the flowers cannot begin to fathom.

“Well, thank you for the advice, Mamma.” I rise with all the gaiety I do not feel. “I will be back in time for tea. Tell Agatha to serve those cakes I love with the sugar rosebuds.”

“I told her to buy them for you as soon as I woke this morning,” Mamma says fondly.

I blow her a kiss and slip on my pale flowered hat as I walk into town, the image of a carefree young woman of leisure taking in the picturesque sights of Whitby, with its winding cobblestone streets and the North Sea glittering beyond. Carriages clatter up and down, and ladies in summer frocks walk arm in arm, looking in shop windows and blushing at passing gentlemen.

I post Mamma’s letter, enjoying the admiring glances from passersby. Even outside of a London ballroom, and with the expectations of what it means to be a woman of my family ever so slightly relaxed, I will still welcome smiles and compliments and gallantries. I stroll out of town exactly as people see me: a happy-hearted, light-footed girl relishing summertime.

But all of it slips from me, bit by bit, as I climb the one hundred and ninety-nine steps to the cliffs and the old ruined abbey atop them. I am grateful for my light lawn dress, for the air is heavy with heat even at this early hour. On such a sunny June morning, there are fewer people up here—most of them preferring to walk by the water, where the breeze brings the strongest relief—and I feel free to dream and wander without scrutiny. The sea sparkles with such manic light that it is almost painful to look at, and the deep blue of the water blends into the paler azure of the sky, unmarred by clouds. The air smells of salt and beach grass, tinged with the fragrance of the roses that grow just out of reach of the sand. I fill my lungs with the breath of Whitby as I take the path fringed with thick yellowy grass and blue and white flowers.

I study the crumbling grey stone skeleton of the abbey, surrounded by willows bending their heavy heads over shady benches. In the shadow of the ruins is a graveyard overlooking the cliffs that plunge down to the ocean. My nursemaid often took me here as a child to run off my energy and give my parents a rest, and I have come back every summer since, sometimes with Mina when she was my governess. But today, I am deliciously alone, free to stare out to sea for hours, wander among the graves and read the names that have become familiar to me, or stroll around the towering hollows of the abbey without anyone to interrupt.

Here, I can be completely myself.

I settle myself in my favorite spot, a stone bench beneath an ancient willow, and forget the oppressive heat as I lose myself in the view: glittering water as far as the eye can see, dotted here and there with white sails or grey boulders, all hugged by a strip of gold sand. The grass beneath my feet ends a short distance away, where a low wooden fence has been installed to keep people from tumbling to their deaths. Just on the other side is a steep drop hundreds of feet high, where the cliffs pour their stone tears down to the water’s edge. My bench is set at an uphill angle from this drop, and it is exhilarating to imagine it lifting and tipping me over the side.

A childhood memory stirs in my mind of running down a hill behind my grandfather’s estate in the country. I remember the breathless anticipation of scurrying up the slope, ignoring my mother calling me to come back at once, and then that moment—like a pause between heartbeats—of standing atop the hill before spreading my arms wide and letting the earth propel me downward, my pulse pounding and my mouth agape in an exclamation of shrill delight.

I have often imagined that plunging over those cliffs and rushing down to meet those foamy waves would be much the same. The thought is gripping in its terror and ecstasy as I picture townspeople finding my body crumpled in the sand or floating on the waves, my delicate pale dress contrasting with the dark water. I imagine men pulling me from the sea, Mamma hurrying to the beach, and Arthur prostrate with grief when the telegram reaches him in London.

I sigh.

This is where the fantasy always ends, whether I am dreaming or awake. The loss of Papa, my grandparents, and Van have scarred me so deeply that I would rather lose them all over again than force Mamma or Mina or Arthur to feel even a fraction of what I have.

Last night, I had sleepwalked again, but only to the parlor in our lodgings. Very often, in the light of morning, I forget what I have dreamed—aside from a vague feeling of pleasure or fear or worry. But this latest episode insists upon lingering. In the dream, I was in the churchyard, watching grave robbers defile my family’s mausoleum. I screamed and shouted, but they could not hear me as they dug pickaxes and shovels into the coffins where my loved ones lay, taking what jewelry they could find. I had expected Papa to sit up and protest, but all that had lain in his tomb—and in those of every other family member—had been nothing but bones and dust. And when the grave robbers had finished their grisly task, they had locked me in with the skeletons and silence and death, pounding my fists on the door with no one to hear.

This is what dying would truly be like , I imagine my mind telling me.

Not a joyous scene in which I would reunite with Papa and be free of a life I never chose, but the stark reality of dust and darkness and bones, while in the world outside Mamma grieved, Arthur mourned, and Mina wept as she married without me there to fix her veil.

My morbid pleasure dissolves, and I am brought back to reality as I look down at my feet, firmly and securely planted on the ground.

I will be Arthur’s wife, and no matter what he claims, he will neither like nor understand these fantasies of death that seduce me. This is what I had tried to convey to loving Mamma, who believes that I am anxious about Arthur discovering the untidy way I discard my dresses in my room or my fits of temper whenever I am hungry. She thinks I fear what any other young lady would, when the truth is that I am not like any other young lady. I am not like anyone at all.

I think of how much it had hurt when Arthur had pulled away from our kiss in the churchyard. To imagine his true rejection after our marriage, when he learns about the peculiar workings of my mind, is even more excruciating, for he would not be able to put me aside. He would be trapped as my husband, and I cannot do that to him. Not to Arthur.

“I must truly love him,” I whisper with a rueful laugh.

My only solution is to be completely truthful. If I had pen and paper with me, I would confess everything in a letter to him this very moment. “This is me,” I would write. “This is all of me, and I want you to see it before it is too late.”

The urge is so powerful that I walk back to our lodgings a full few hours sooner than I had intended, but when I walk through the door, I have no opportunity to run to my room and my pen. For on the hall table is a gentleman’s hat, and drifting out of the parlor is a man’s voice.

Arthur is here, I realize. Arthur is here, and I could tell him everything I meant to write.

I find him sitting with Mamma. He rises at once when he sees me, his face so open and bright that I am seized by a pang of indecision. If I tell him the truth and he turns away …

Do not be cowardly, Lucy , I think, trying to appear light and easy. “Why, Arthur,” I say, holding my hands out to him. It is one of the advantages of being engaged, for I can touch him now in the presence of my mother, who beams upon seeing our joined hands. “What a wonderful surprise. You didn’t say you were coming in your last letter.”

“It was a spur-of-the-moment decision,” Arthur says sheepishly. He releases one of my hands to turn toward my mother, politely including her, though he keeps a firm hold on my other one, my fingers warm and secure in his. “I’m afraid I didn’t think much before I purchased a train ticket this morning. I just wondered how you were faring at Whitby.”

“Well, you’re just in time for tea,” Mamma says with an affectionate smile, getting up from the sofa. “Let me see how Agatha is getting on with the preparations. Excuse me.”

And then Arthur and I are alone. We look at each other shyly, as though we are fifteen and he is the first boy brave enough to declare himself my suitor.

“I couldn’t stay away,” he says softly. “I missed you too much.”

“I’m glad you’re here.” I reach up to fix his cravat, even though it is already impeccably straight. I can’t help thinking that it might be my last chance to do so, now that I will tell him the truth about me. We sit side by side on the sofa, still holding hands. He angles his long legs to the side so as not to bump into the glass table, and his knees press into mine comfortingly. “I was sitting up on the cliffs just now, near the abbey and the graveyard.”

“A graveyard doesn’t seem the right place for you, darling.” He reaches out to smooth my hair right above my ear, the gesture tentative and sweet, sending tingles down my neck.

I take a deep breath. “Arthur, I want to tell you something that’s been on my mind.”

His gaze, which has been fondly roving over my hair and my ear and my chin, focuses on my eyes. “What is it? Is something troubling you?”

I nod and lower my eyes, for his trusting gaze is almost too much to bear. “You know how I am still in mourning for Papa. We have talked of it many times. But what you don’t know is that death fascinates me. It always has and it always will, and if you are to be my husband, I want you to know everything before you are tied to me.”

“Do you mean that it frightens you?” he asks.

“No. And yes at the same time,” I say, struggling to explain. “Who among us is not afraid of dying? But there has always been a part of me that longs for it as well.”

“Longs for it?” Arthur echoes, alarmed.

“When I was on the cliffs, I imagined tumbling over the fence. I thought about how it might feel to plunge into the waves and what would happen afterward, when I was found. I don’t mean that I want this to happen, exactly,” I add, seeing his concern growing with every word. “I only mean that I often envision my own death. There is something almost … pleasurable in it.”

He looks at me in silence, trying to understand.

“I did this even as a child. A doctor explained that it was my way of coping with grief. It began after my great-grandmother and my grandparents died, and it continues on even after the loss of Papa.” I take Arthur’s hand in both of mine, holding it tightly. “Mamma told you that I often sleepwalk to the churchyard where they lie. Even in the depths of sleep am I drawn to death. It is something that attracts me, a moth to a flame.”

“I see,” Arthur says quietly.

“I can’t stop,” I say. “And I am not certain I want to. It is a part of me and how my mind works. I want you to know so that you have a chance to take back your proposal of marriage.” My throat chokes on the words, but I look into his eyes with all the resolve I possess.

“You think that this makes me want to marry you less?” he asks, startled.

“Well, yes. What man wants a wife who thinks of death constantly?”

Arthur gives a low, gentle laugh and moves closer to me on the sofa. “I have no intention of taking back my proposal. I love you and I want you to be my wife.”

I search his eyes. “None of this disturbs you, then?”

“You are a woman who loves very deeply, and so death leaves a stronger impression upon you. I have said this before. Of course it occupies your mind, after the losses you have suffered.”

He is saying the right words. He is being kind and accepting … and yet I am unsatisfied. My wayward heart wanted him to know the truth and still love me. So why, then, this emptiness?

Arthur kisses my hand. “Have no fear. When you are busy with the wedding, running our household, and planning our first party in our home … and later, when you have your hands full with our children,” he adds, blushing, “you will forget all of that, I know.”

“I will forget all of that?” I repeat, dazed.

“Like a bad dream,” he reassures me. “You won’t ever think about death again with so much happiness ahead of us, Lucy. And I swear to you, I will make you happy.”

He does not understand me. I have told him what death means to me—something I long for, something that means freedom. And yet he thinks I can easily let go of my longing and melancholy in favor of inviting dinner guests, ordering cuts of meat, and wiping the noses of our beastly children. He does not see me as I am, but then no one has, not even those who love me.

And he is looking at me with such devotion that I cannot find it in me to be angry with him. I have bared all. I have told him the truth and he still wishes to marry me, and I will delight Mamma and Mina when I become the wife of this gentle, trusting man. The thought does not bring much relief, the way a sip of water cannot satisfy a person dying of thirst.

But it is enough , I tell myself. This is enough.

Arthur kisses my hand again, the touch of his lips sending heat rippling down my arm. My frustration is already a kindling flame, desperate for escape, for some sort of release, and now it is a bonfire in my very bones. Without a second thought, I lean forward and kiss him.

“Lucy,” he mumbles against my lips. “Your mother … the servants—”

“Let them see,” I say fiercely, throwing my arms around his neck and drinking from his lips with greed. He tastes like both sugar and salt, heady and intoxicating. Vaguely, I realize that I have somehow maneuvered myself into his lap, draped across his legs like a woman of ill repute, but I hardly care. I am afire with want as I shift my weight on his lap, delighting in his low moan.

“Lucy, stop,” he whispers, though his arms are fastened tight around me.

“Come to me tonight,” I murmur, my lips still on his. A shiver of pleasure runs down my spine at the friction of our mouths and the contrast between his silken kiss and the rough scratch of his chin. I shift in his lap again and feel something rigid press into my thigh as he groans again. “Come to my room. I want you and I know you want me, too.”

“I can’t,” he groans, sounding pained, even as he goes on kissing me.

“I do not just imagine death, you know,” I say, moving my mouth to his ear and licking it like a greedy child sampling dessert. “I imagine what it will be like with you.”

His hand trails down my back tentatively. Ever impatient, I seize it and place it on the curve of my bottom, and he gasps even though several layers of clothing separate his skin from mine. I am drenched between my legs. I think of the forbidden books I found in Papa’s library, the ones I giggled and gasped over with Mina, and of a particular illustration of a woman in a man’s lap, facing him, both of them naked. I am ravenous to know how it will feel with Arthur.

“Come to me tonight,” I whisper again, moving myself against what has grown between us. It is granite hard, but it yields to me eagerly. I reach for it, needing to touch, but that is too much for Arthur. In one quick and powerful move, he lifts me off him and onto the sofa and flies clean across the room. But this time, I know that he wants me. I have felt it.

I press my legs together, panting as I watch his shoulders rise and fall with his ragged breaths. I can’t help laughing at what we have begun … and what we will soon finish.

“Arthur?” I ask playfully. “When will you come to me, then?”

“I cannot,” he says, his voice strangled. “I will not.”

I rise to my feet. “Yes, you can. And you will.”

At the sound of my skirts rustling, he startles like a skittish horse and almost runs for the door. “I will not. Not until we are married.” He is still turned away from me, but from his profile, I see that his face is as red as that of a man who has been under intense labor.

I laugh in disbelief. “You cannot be serious. You want this as much as I do.”

But Arthur shakes his head. “I am going back to London. There is a train leaving in half an hour. I will not stay tonight. Please make my apologies to your mother for missing tea.”

My pleasure dissolves into shock and disappointment. “Arthur!” I exclaim. “What is wrong? What has happened? Are you angry?”

He looks at me quickly. “Not at all. But I must go to avoid temptation … for you and for me. When I come to you, Lucy, it will be as a husband to his wife.”

“But we will be married no matter what,” I say, fighting the urge to scream, so frustrated as I am. “I will be your wife and you will be my husband. What difference can it make if you spend a night with me before our wedding? You want this, too.”

“Yes!” he cries, his eyes wild. He glances at the door and lowers his voice. “I want you more than I have ever wanted anything. I forget myself near you. But I will not … intrude upon your privacy until we are man and wife. It is important to me to keep my honor and your virtue.”

“Damn them!” I proclaim, and he stares, appalled by my language. “What should we care of honor or virtue when we have each other? Arthur, I am dying for you.”

“I am going,” he says calmly. “I will write to you when I return to London.”

I clench my skirts in my fists, too furious to speak.

Quickly, he closes the distance between us and kisses my forehead, as chaste as if we were in full company. “I love you,” he says, tilting my chin to look deep into my eyes. “And I promise you that our wedding night will be everything you desire. I will make you happy then.”

And then he strides away, leaving me hungry and full of desperate, unsatisfied desire.