The Twelfth Enchantment: A Novel (18 page)

It was easier than she could have supposed. A talisman found in the first book Mary had given Lucy resolved the issue:
To make others comply with your wishes
. Lucy copied it out with great care, feeling the supple lines come alive as she drew them, feeling the strokes of the pen meld and link themselves to one another. She then allowed some sugar, melted
in a spoon, to fall upon the talisman. When it hardened, she rolled up the paper and sealed it with a thread from one of Uncle Lowell’s coats. She then approached him, and slipped it into his pocket.

“Uncle,” she said, “regardless of Mr. Olson’s plans, you will not cast me out.”

“Of course not,” he said. “Quite right. It would be unseemly for you to make your way in the world when you have an uncle who can look after you.”

The next day she heard her uncle and Mrs. Quince arguing loudly, and Lucy heard her own name mentioned several times. Whatever else her uncle discussed, it was clear that he did not know why he had said what he had to Lucy earlier, and he did not know how he might take it all back.

A
FEW DAYS LATER, LUCY AWOKE TO THE SOUND OF UNCLE LOWELL
shouting quite angrily. She had been up late at night, attempting to read and understand Agrippa, which was challenging indeed, but the knowledge that it was
real
, that she had real power of the secrets of the universe, provided a compelling motivation. Sometimes her concentration would slip not because of this difficulty of the material, but because she would think about her father. She recalled sitting and reading with him in his library, and after hours upon hours of struggling, she would lose herself in understanding, only to emerge from her trance and see her father, across the room, looking at her over his little spectacles. How his face had glowed with pleasure, and how her heart had been heavy with happiness to be the daughter who made him so pleased. What, she had wondered, would her father think of her studies now?

Attempting to hold on to all the theorems and speculations and arguments,
she dressed hurriedly and descended the stairs to find Uncle Lowell still in full pique shouting at Mrs. Quince.

“It is more than I can endure,” he pronounced with a gravity designed to end the conversation. It did not.

“
She
approves of the visit,” said Mrs. Quince. “Sir, if you think your quiet is threatened by a little disruption of your home, think what would happen should you earn her enmity.”

“What is happening?” asked Lucy, who stood at the entrance to the dining room.

“You—all of you!—have conspired against me to rob me of the one thing I love best, my quiet,” answered Uncle Lowell. “I will not have it.”

Mrs. Quince turned to Lucy, and flared her nostrils like a horse scenting the wind. “Your sister, Martha, is coming, and she is bringing her infant.”

“And her husband and no doubt a nurse and a maid and jugglers too,” said Uncle Lowell.

Lucy could not have been happier. Martha had emerged from her confinement a few months earlier, and Lucy had gone to visit her shortly after, but she had not seen her sister or the baby—called Emily—since.

A dark thought occurred to Lucy. “Lady Harriett is not coming, is she?”

“I hardly think so,” said Mrs. Quince, “after the insults you’ve offered her.”

In her exuberance, Lucy turned to her uncle. “Oh, I’m so happy. Little Emily will be near six months now. It is a charming age for a baby.”

“These infants scream and cry and they make a great deal of mess,” said Uncle Lowell. “I hope the wet nurse will tend to everything.” He had evidently reconciled himself to the visit.

“Martha nurses Emily herself,” said Lucy. “It is the new fashion.”

“How dare you speak to me of such things?” demanded Uncle Lowell.

Martha, Mr. Buckles, and little Emily were to arrive in less than a week, though the day was not set, for Lady Harriett had not yet announced when it would be convenient for her to release Mr. Buckles from his many duties as her curate. Lucy’s life was now filled with all
manner of expectations—some things wonderful, and others dreadful. She would soon see her niece. She would also be forced to face Mr. Buckles for the first time since learning of Mary’s suspicions. And as for the matter with Mr. Olson, they had heard nothing, but it was known throughout the county that his prospects were ruined, and so Uncle Lowell presumed the marriage was off. Though he still openly blamed Lucy, his wrath simmered rather than raged. Lucy had been used to living upon thin ice, and she understood that she could not depend upon the calm lasting, but for the time being, she chose to enjoy it.

Meanwhile it seemed as though the world was changing all around them. Throughout Nottinghamshire, the machine breakers continued to strike, destroying stocking frames, burning houses down, and in one case firing upon a mill owner while he sat at the supper table with his wife and children. In each case, they left notes proclaiming themselves to be followers of Ned Ludd, their general and king. It was violence and chaos and upheaval, but many feared it was more than that. The revolution in France had begun, after all, with violent outbursts among the lower classes, and some sensed a similar uprising could be brewing in England. Only recently had England’s mad king been pronounced too deluded to remain on the throne, and now the profligate Prince Regent ruled the land.

The war with France had taxed the nation for too long and showed no signs of abating. Because many markets in Europe, the colonies, and the former colonies in America were now closed off, the home trade suffered horribly. The country endured its second disastrous harvest in as many years. Everywhere there was suffering and deprivation as even the oldest could not recall having seen in their lifetimes. In contrast to this misery was the extravagance of George, Prince of Wales, the so-called prince of pleasure, known for his gambling, his immoderate drinking, his excessive eating, and his association with scandalous women and outrageous men. He ruled with an oblivious indifference to the suffering of ordinary men. Though she did not wish to think of such things, Lucy understood that conditions were ripe for upheaval and revolt.

Jonas Morrison had said he had business in Nottingham, and that business had something to do with Mr. Olson, so Lucy feared she must encounter him again, but after so many days, she began to feel more at ease. He’d made an impression upon others at the dance, and so she’d heard rumors among her friends about which inn he’d chosen for his lodgings, and Lucy was careful to avoid passing too close to any suspect establishment. Not seeing him, she soon discovered, made it much easier to pretend she had never seen him at all.

Lucy spent as many hours as she could manage with the books Mary had lent her. Sometimes she studied until her eyes stung, but she read, and she reread, and she took notes, and she paced and reread again until passages once as dense as oat porridge began to make sense to her. Never had she worked so hard to understand what at first appeared impenetrable, but never before had she possessed such motivation. Power and independence, and all she needed to achieve these things, resided in the knowledge the books contained. She could endure, she discovered, because she had reason to endure.

One night during this period there was a gathering at Norah Gilley’s home on Castle Gate. It was a large affair with several dozen people in attendance, all meant to display before the neighborhood Mr. Gilley’s glorified status before he decamped for London. There would be food and punch, some dancing, and, no doubt, much preening of the Gilley clan. Lucy had no desire to attend, but Mrs. Quince insisted she go. “You cannot hide in the house forever,” she said. “It will make you look pitiable. And we do not know for certain if Mr. Olson has thrown you over. Best to be out and show no shame, no matter how shamefully you’ve behaved.”

The Gilleys lived but a ten-minute walk from Uncle Lowell’s house, so no coach would be called, despite the inevitable late return. She had Mrs. Quince to look after her, and that would have to be enough.

The gathering was the usual assortment of Nottingham men and young ladies of marriageable age, and a few married couples for variety. A card room was set up for the older ladies, and after inspecting the
room to make certain that there was no one of concern about, and warning Lucy not to turn slut once again, Mrs. Quince withdrew to play at cards with her friends.

Norah, in an elegant blue and yellow silk tunic, greeted Lucy with a brittle hug and expressed how much she must miss the pleasure of her company once she was removed to London, how all the balls and fashionable friends and marvelous diversions could not make up for what she must leave behind. It was horrible, unthinkable really, that she should go off to such delights while Lucy was left in dreary Nottingham, but what was to be done? Norah then let Lucy go so she could embrace another newly arrived girl, and deliver much the same speech. Lucy chose to put her freedom to good use and fixed herself a plate of food from the table, ladled herself some punch, and quickly sat with her friends that she might better engage in the ritual of looking at the men, pretending not to look at the men, and giggling.

Lucy’s heart was not in it, distracted as she was by her recent conversation with Mary, but she kept up her end for form’s sake, and when a game of lotteries was announced, she rose to join in so she would have an excuse not to dance should someone ask her. As she walked to the table, however, she observed a young man amusing a crowd of young ladies with a series of tricks involving brightly colored balls, which he was in the process of making vanish and reappear in a variety of unlikely places—in inverted teacups, under hats, bundled into scarves. It was Jonas Morrison.

Mr. Morrison appeared to notice Lucy out of the corner of his eyes, and he hurriedly announced the end of his performance, to the complaints of the young ladies, whom he tried to comfort with promises to show them more anon.

It all struck her anew. The anger she felt toward him, the blame she set upon him, and the helpless embarrassment she had felt upon their last meeting. She had loved this man once, or believed she had, and he had destroyed her life for his own amusement. She could condemn Byron for so much, but not duplicity. He said what he believed and lived by his own law, selfish and wicked though it might be. Jonas Morrison,
however, was a thousand times worse for pretending to feelings that were not his so that he might prey upon an innocent young girl.