The Twelfth Enchantment: A Novel (46 page)

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Emmett. “Can you not hear him say so? They were fond of each other. Your father regarded Mr. Morrison as though he were his son.”

Lucy sat down heavily in her chair. After all that had happened, after all she had seen, this revelation astonished her more than any of the rest. Everything Lucy knew about her own life, it seemed, was a lie.

Mr. Blake agreed to escort Lucy to Mr. Morrison’s house, but he sensed Lucy’s somber mood, and rode over in complete silence, his hands in his lap, a sympathetic smile on his lips. Lucy did not wish for him to be there, and she regretted the necessity of an escort. She did not want anyone to witness the confusion and abasement she would be certain to undergo. But there was no helping it. She could not sacrifice her duty for her pride.

Lucy had never before been to Mr. Morrison’s town house, had never
even seen it, but he was a man of means, and it was never difficult to learn where a rich man lives. She and Mr. Blake called at his house at two in the afternoon and could only hope that he would be home. Whatever Lucy must face, it would be less horrible than her treatment at the hands of Byron. To some degree she knew that Byron had been lashing out, feeling nothing more complicated than frustration. If she had learned anything about him it was that he was childlike in his belief both that his desires ought to be satisfied the moment he felt them, and that he was justified expressing himself in any way he chose. Whatever she had imagined to be her feelings for him now seemed empty and foolish. She had been a fool. She knew that now. Perhaps she had known it all along, and she condemned herself for it.

Lucy was nervous to the point of shaking as she and Mr. Blake were shown into the sitting room. A middle-aged woman of no discernible expression informed them that Mr. Morrison was engaged, but he would be with them when he became available. No doubt he would make Lucy wait longer than necessary. He would wish to punish her, to show that he was not at her disposal, and perhaps even to postpone the unpleasantness of their conversation.

The woman showed them to a pleasant room to endure this waiting. It caught much of the afternoon light, and there were two bookcases filled with innocuous novels, volumes of poetry—mostly of the last century—and some popular history. Upon the walls were paintings of nondescript gentlemen, a landscape of a boy leading a horse across a river, and a ship sailing toward a Mediterranean-looking port. The furnishings were comfortable but unadorned. It was, in short, a room designed to give the impression that Mr. Morrison was a man of mundane taste and an utter lack of imagination.

Mr. Blake took a few moments to examine the contents of one of the bookshelves, and finally settled upon a volume of Milton, which he brought to a chair by the window. He gave every impression of wishing to make himself invisible.

Lucy paced. She attempted to find a book to look at, but as the titles could not hold her attention, she very much doubted an open book
would serve as a better distraction. After waiting for half an hour, Lucy heard footsteps outside the door, and when they passed without entering, she breathed a sigh of relief. She would have preferred to wait in that room indefinitely than to start the conversation she came to have. When Mr. Morrison did, after perhaps an hour, enter the room, he appeared flustered and hurried. His hair was messy, as though windblown, and his cravat was soiled, suggesting he had not found time to refresh himself since returning from a journey. Perhaps it was her feelings of guilt for how she had used him, and perhaps it was Mrs. Emmett’s revelation that he and her father had been Rosicrucians together, but for the first time since he had appeared at the Nottingham assembly, Lucy did not feel revulsion when she looked at him.

Mr. Blake rose, and Lucy made the necessary introductions between the two men.

“Mr. Blake,” said Mr. Morrison. “You are very good to look after Miss Derrick.”

“And you, sir,” replied Mr. Blake. “Though it is not well known, your service to this country in the matter of—”

Mr. Morrison clapped the old engraver upon his back. “Those sorts of things are not meant to be generally known. Just as the world does not generally know of your particular talents, though they have come to the attention of my order. I hope you will not object if we call upon you from time to time for some small service.”

“So long as the service is just,” said Mr. Blake.

“Of course. I would not ask otherwise.” He now turned to Lucy. “You must tell me what you want,” he intoned. His face was stony, his eyes distant.

Lucy had not precisely rehearsed what she was going to say, but she knew what points she wished to make. Now that he was here, she could not think of any of them. She could not remember the logic of her arguments or the turns of phrase that, when uttered in her mind, sounded eloquent and masterful, certainly convincing. She rose, clasped her hands together, and forced herself to speak while trying very hard not to weep.

“Mr. Morrison, I cannot blame you for hating me. I cannot, but I beg
you to listen to me, to attempt to hear my words without color or prejudice of the wrong I have done you.”

He shook his head. “No, Miss Derrick. You misunderstand me. I mean to say that you must tell me what you want, and I shall do my best for you.”

Lucy was too stunned to answer.

“You are a young lady with no money and no influence,” Mr. Morrison continued. “You have been drawn into events of national and historical significance against your will, and your sister and her child have been made to suffer. I do not like being used as you used me, and my anger when I first discovered it stemmed in no small part from simple humiliation. Nevertheless, I cannot blame you for using what tools you had at your disposal. This is your war as well as mine, and I admire you for your boldness, though I fell victim to it.”

Lucy could have endured his harsh words and held her tears in check, but this was more than she could withstand. The tears fell now freely, and though she removed a handkerchief to wipe them away, she made no other effort to stop them.

Mr. Blake, meanwhile, retreated back to his chair and his volume of Milton. Lucy and Mr. Morrison moved to the far corner of the room. This would have to do for privacy.

“I had not expected such kindness,” she said in a very quiet voice.

“I gave you no reason to expect it,” he said. “For that I am sorry. Now I shall offer you what assistance I can.”

“But why?” Lucy asked. Her tears began to abate, though the effect of his words still reverberated through her. The sense of palpable, overwhelming gratitude was dizzying. “Why would you help me? You must know that we are on different sides of this conflict. I must side with—with Ludd—if I am to save my sister’s child.”

“No,” he said. “Mr. Perceval was a good man, and he led the order as he thought best, but he was wrong in his truce with Lady Harriett. We were prepared to sacrifice too much for expedience, but no longer. The new head of the order believes that there is another way, a compromise position.”

“Who is this man?”

“I am he,” said Mr. Morrison. “The matter has just now been put to a vote, and I have been elected to this position, for which I am unworthy. It is unusual that one as young as myself would be offered this post, but I have an advantage none of the others could claim.”

“And what is that?”

“My friendship with you.”

Lucy could not imagine why that should prove an advantage, but even more shocking was his characterization of what stood between them as friendship.

“What do I …?” Lucy did not know how to finish the question.

“You have the pages,” he said with a half smile. “You had me turn my own pages over to you. Surely you did not think I would not discover your little mesmeric trick, deft though it was. And, again, I do not blame you. You did what you believed right, and now we believe it right as well.”

“I cannot think that your order cares only to save my niece,” said Lucy.

“We care whenever there is an innocent in harm’s way and we are in a position to save him. But our interests are now aligned, I believe. Ludd and Lady Harriett are poised each to destroy the other, but we believe that an absolute victory of the old way or the new need not happen. We believe that a compromise position that will place a check on the new mechanical developments and allow magic to survive is our best option. And we believe you are the key to that approach.”

“In what way?” Lucy asked, not much liking this new burden.

He shook his head. “That is the central mystery, isn’t it? I can tell you that since all of this has begun, Lady Harriett, my order, and”—here he paused—“and Mary Crawford have all understood your centrality. Accordingly, I place myself at your disposal.”

“At my disposal how?” asked Lucy, staring at Mr. Morrison as though he were a stranger she had never seen before, dressed in some curious foreign costume.

“At your disposal to go where you wish and do what you say. I am here to obey your commands, Miss Derrick.”

Lucy continued to stare at him for some minutes, blinking rapidly as she considered his words. “Then let us go to Kent. I believe there is a set of pages in the hands of my sister’s husband, Mr. Buckles.”

“Then we shall go fetch them,” he said.

“There is something else.” Lucy looked out the window as she spoke, unwilling to gaze upon his expression when he heard what she had to say. “Was my father, like you, a Rosicrucian? I would know, if you do not mind, the story of my own life.”

Mr. Morrison sat across from her, slumped forward, his hands dangling between his knees. He appeared utterly defeated by her request. He glanced over at Mr. Blake, and observed that the old engraver sat with the book on his lap, his mouth open, conveniently asleep.

Mr. Morrison spoke in quiet tones. “Your father wished it all kept from you, and after everything that happened, it never seemed the proper moment to reveal those secrets. I suppose it is the right moment now. Yes, your father was a member of the order. He led the order when I joined. He and I were very close. I thought of him as a father.”

Lucy hardly knew how to understand this. “But you chose to corrupt his daughter?”

Mr. Morrison looked away, and then rose, walked to the window, where he adjusted the curtains, and then returned to his seat. “Your father always knew you were special. There were certain card and crystal readings around the time of your birth that alarmed him, and he believed you needed to be sheltered from your own natural talents, which he believed would be too conspicuous. This moment of transition we live in has been long coming, and your father suspected if you were to practice, dark forces would seek you out. That is why he kept you at a distance before Emily died—not because he did not love you, but because he wished to protect you. He wanted that you might live a life free of danger.”

“Then why did you attempt to convince me to run off with you?”

Mr. Morrison let out a long sigh. He shook his head and looked away, and then down. “Your father and I had a disagreement. We received
intelligence that there would be an attempt upon your life, but he did not believe it, or he did not believe it was something from which he could not protect you. He was not careless with his daughters—you must never think that—but just the opposite. He was so careful, he believed such wards and spells and precautions that he had taken were impregnable. I was less optimistic. I believed there was danger, particularly to you, for Emily could take care of herself.”

“What do you mean?” asked Lucy, hearing her voice catch.

“You must know what I mean. Emily practiced. She was very skillful. Your father taught her everything he knew, and she was widely regarded as something of a prodigy, though she lacked the raw talent he believed you to possess.”

Lucy could not think of what there was to say. Her father had been a hermeticist, a Rosicrucian, and her sister his apprentice. They had studied magic together, the two of them, locked in his study, as Lucy was later to do—or begin to do. All those books he had her read, the philosophers, the languages, the botany. He had been laying the groundwork for what Lucy would later become. It was all so clear now.