by David Liss
Lucy tried to imagine who that someone might be. Perhaps her Uncle Lowell, who valued money so highly, but that hardly made sense. He certainly did not want for money, and prized his quiet even more than his wealth. An extra ten thousand pounds would not significantly improve his lot, but a dependent niece had clearly altered it for the worse.
Also a suspect was Mr. Buckles, but, again, the fact that he was in a position to manipulate her did not mean he possessed motivation to do so. Papa’s death meant that Mr. Buckles came into a comfortable and well-established estate that provided him with a healthy income from rents. If the new will were to be believed, Mr. Derrick had raised three daughters, set a handsome table, and stuffed a library full of books while managing to save ten thousand pounds. Surely the property itself was valuable enough to dissuade any man of some intelligence from such extremes. Beyond that, Mr. Buckles had the patronage of Lady Harriett, so if he had any serious wants, surely that lady would offer such assistance as he required. And above all else, forgery was a crime that carried the penalty of hanging with little chance of reprieve. No sane man would risk these consequences without a desperate motivation.
What of the solicitor Mr. Clencher? He would have been in an excellent position to deceive the courts, but Papa would never have done business with someone of so little integrity. If none of these men, then who? Perhaps some villain Lucy did not know. Of course, there remained yet another possibility—that the will she now held was the forgery—but who stood to gain from the creation of such a document? Lucy had nothing of her own to pay in the search for the truth, so this new will could hardly be part of a confidence game played upon her. More than that, the will felt right, just as the old one, she now understood, felt wrong.
All of which begged the question of what to do next. Lucy could not ask her uncle or brother-in-law for help because, though their guilt was certainly unlikely, they had nevertheless been the first two people she suspected. Similarly she could not ask Martha, since it would be wrong to set her upon a quest she must conceal from her odious husband and which, though it was but a remote possibility, might lead to her husband’s execution. She supposed she might ask Lord Byron, and the idea was not without its attractions. Unfortunately, Lord Byron had a reputation for rakishness and distraction, and these were not the traits a vulnerable young woman sought in a legal adviser. Moreover, in light of her near elopement with Jonas Morrison four years earlier, arranging clandestine meetings with Lord Byron was altogether too dangerous.
There was but one person Lucy could think of—Mary Crawford. Though their acquaintance was new, Lucy believed she could trust Miss Crawford. She had to trust someone, and a charming and independent lady of fashion, one whom Lucy had managed to impress, seemed to her the best possible choice. She hated to impose upon a stranger with something of this nature, but there was more in the balance here than mere money. Her father had wanted Lucy to have something, and an unknown person had interfered. Someone had thwarted her father’s dying wishes, had cheated a man as his body lay cold and his heart sat still in his chest. A lady like Miss Crawford, who had shown unmistakable signs of goodness, would not want so grave a crime to go unpunished.
No sooner had she determined this course of action than Uncle Lowell came to visit her. He knocked upon the door, which was polite, but did not wait for a response before entering, which was not. He had previously observed that it was his house, and he did not see that he must demand permission before entering any part of it. He would never have barged into his niece’s room at a time she might be dressing, but as Lucy was already dressed, he did not think she could be about anything he was not within his rights to witness.
He entered the room and paced back and forth for a moment, and then, at last, he spoke. “Now that the question of the man’s name has been answered, you are to pen a note of apology to Mr. Olson and send it at once.”
Lucy was in no mood to hear any demands from Uncle Lowell. “And what is it I must apologize for?” she asked, making no effort to soften her tone.
“Don’t stand upon ceremony, girl, unless you wish him to withdraw his offer.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong,” answered Lucy, for whom the revelation of the will had fueled her sense of persecution, “and I care not what he does.”
Uncle Lowell began to redden. His fists clenched and unclenched as he spoke. “That’s a damned pretty thing to say. Do you think he’s not heard of your whoring about with that scoundrel Morrison before you came here? Unless you wish him to believe the worst, you must convince Olson you are not engaged upon some adventure with that baron.”
He now saw the document in Lucy’s hand, and she observed that he saw it. She began to set it aside, though she realized too late that doing so was a mistake.
“What is that?”
Panic had her in its grips, and for a moment, Lucy could not think what to say. If she was made to hand over the will, everything could end at that moment. Maybe her uncle had stolen the money, and maybe he would simply not want the family name to become involved in a scandal over a few thousand pounds that were not even his. She could not allow him to make that decision, so Lucy forced herself to clear her mind and master her feelings. She held on to the will and met her uncle’s eye. “It is a letter from my sister.”
Uncle Lowell studied her carefully, perhaps sensing something amiss, but being a man too blunt for duplicity, he did not easily recognize it in others. After a moment he said, “I’ll hear no more arguments. You will write to Mr. Olson.”
Lucy felt strangely liberated. She very much liked the idea of playing a deep game, of keeping her options open, of possessing more information than anyone suspected.
“Certainly,” she told her uncle. Relieved that she had preserved her secret, she was prepared to offer a concession. “I shall write him at once.”
6
HER BUSINESS WOULD NOT WAIT. LUCY WENT OUT AND WALKED to High Pavement in the hopes of finding Miss Crawford home. She told neither her uncle or Mrs. Quince that she was leaving, an omission that might come back to haunt her, but she could not trouble herself about that presently.
She found Miss Crawford at home, and her serving woman, the peculiar Mrs. Emmett, answered the door, beaming at her in her ebullient manner. Again, she wore her bonnet in a curiously low fashion, and Lucy wondered if she had some sort of scar or rash or disfiguration upon her forehead that she wished to conceal.
“My dear Miss Derrick!” cried Mrs. Emmett. “Miss Crawford will be so pleased you are here. And I am pleased too. Not that it can matter to you, but I am and I shan’t hide it.”
Lucy followed the cheerful woman into the sitting room and waited only a moment before Miss Crawford entered. She appeared, if anything, more beautiful in the full light of day than she had at night—pale and radiant, her hair almost unnatural in its whiteness. She again wore green, today a frock of verdant filigree upon an ivory background, and this too made her green eyes appear unnaturally intense.
“Miss Derrick, I am so glad to see you,” she said. “I had thought to call upon you this morning and inquire after our stranger, but I did not perceive your uncle would welcome me.”
“He does not welcome anyone,” said Lucy. Her voice wavered as she spoke. She had not realized how truly apprehensive she was until this moment. She took a deep breath and steadied herself. She tried to slow her pounding heart. She did something that felt a great deal like … like quieting herself, she realized. She was here to find her own way, she told herself. This was her life, and if she had not the power to shape it as she wished, then she had at least the will to try.
Standing near her, Miss Crawford took Lucy’s hand. “Are you unwell? Come and sit.” She led Lucy to a chair near the fire, and she sat next to her and took her hand once more. “We have met but recently, but I hope we can be friends.”
“I hope so too,” Lucy said. “But I do not wish to abuse your kindness.”
“Fear nothing of the sort. You must tell me all.�
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Lucy did. She took another deep breath and proceeded to tell her about Lord Byron’s awakening, and his discovery of the will. “I very much hate to impose upon our acquaintance, no less because it is so new, but I have no one else I might turn to or trust.”
Miss Crawford hardly took a moment to consider what she heard. “I shall be blunt and hope my bluntness does not offend you. I am a lady of independent means, but I have not always been so. I recall what it is to be dependent, so if it is within my power to aid you in anything, it will be my pleasure to do so. So you must tell me if you believe this will genuine.”
Lucy nodded, nearly light-headed with gratitude.
“Would you entrust the document to me?”
Lucy did not want to let go of the will, but holding it in secret would accomplish nothing. If she did not entrust it to a stranger, what could she hope to do with it? “Of course,” she answered after a long moment.
“Then I shall do what I can for you. I shall have my own solicitor make inquiries, and do so in a quiet manner. We do not want those who would cheat you to discover that you are aware of what they have done. You must know that forgery is a capital crime, and those who have deceived you must be willing to go to great lengths to protect themselves. You cannot risk anyone learning that you have discovered these irregularities.”
Lucy nodded, feeling relief flood through her. She had someone to trust, someone who could help her. It had been so long since she had felt this. Not since her father was alive had she felt as protected as she did at that moment. “You are so fortunate to be your own mistress,” she said, but she saw something dark in Miss Crawford’s face, and she understood she had said the wrong thing. “I am sorry. Have I offended you?”
“No,” said Miss Crawford, forcing a smile. “It is only that I should much prefer not to be my own mistress. I was married once. I have reverted back to my family name because I am not known here, and I do not wish to play the part of the rich widow.”
“I am sorry,” said Lucy. “I did not know.”
Miss Crawford rose and adjusted a gilt-framed mirror above the fireplace. It was something to do, something to occupy her hands while she said something she thought she ought to say and did not wish to. “I shall tell you something, because I think it may help you someday. My husband and I were very happy together. I loved him beyond reason, though when he married me, he loved me only a little. He yet longed for another woman, and this longing was a barrier between us, but I married him because I told myself I would make him forget her. Some would call me foolish, but I had faith in my love for him. In the end, he came to love me as much as I could have wished, and our days together were wonderful before death separated us. I tell you this not to be maudlin, but so you will know that love is a strange thing.”
Lucy said nothing. There was nothing to say, and she could not imagine why Miss Crawford had told her these things. Did she somehow know about Lord Byron and wish for her to accept him on his own terms? Did she urge Lucy to marry Mr. Olson and learn to love him?
Miss Crawford walked back over to her chair and sat, making a great show of smiling and smoothing her skirts. “But enough of that. There is something else I would discuss with you. It is regarding what transpired last night with this baron.”
Lucy did not want to discuss curses and magic and beings made of darkness as though they were real things. As long as she did not discuss these subjects with Miss Crawford, as long as they were but her memories alone, then she might convince herself that what she had experienced had been but mistake and illusion and the self-deception of the moment. “I do not wish to be rude, but I have not the time,” said Lucy. “I must return, for I am not trusted to be gone long.”
Miss Crawford scowled. “Why ever not?”
On an impulse, Lucy decided to tell her, and it felt strangely liberating to say the words aloud, to own the story, and, for once, to not feel ashamed. “When I was sixteen, I ran off with a young gentleman. He said he wished to marry me, but in truth he did not. It would have been the ruin of me, and the humiliation of my family, had the plan not been disrupted, but in my absence—I was gone but only a day, but in that time …”
Lucy did not know how to proceed, she did not know that she could. It occurred to her now that she had never spoken of the elopement to anyone. Everyone had always known about it. She had traveled north all day with Jonas Morrison, whose mood had become decidedly gloomy. He had always been wonderful with her—lively and witty and affectionate—but on their journey there had been no sign of that charming gentleman. There was no celebration of love, no kissing or hand-holding or eager chatter as they sat in the coach, and so as they drove, Lucy began to regret what she had done. Perhaps she would have regretted it anyhow, for it was one thing to dream of doing a naughty thing, to plan and make preparations for it, but it was quite another to act upon those desires.
Jonas Morrison hardly looked at her, instead staring out the window, or scribbling with a pencil into a tiny black bound volume he kept in his waistcoat pocket. Lucy felt his silence like an accusation, and a hundred times she turned to Mr. Morrison to tell him that she had made a mistake, that she wished to return, but something in his look made her fearful to speak. For months he had been the man she had always dreamed she would marry, but at that moment he had become someone entirely different.
It had rained that day, and the roads were not good. They made it only to Dartford before they had to stop for the night, but when they entered the inn, they found Mr. Derrick waiting for them. Lucy never discovered how he had overtaken them or known where they would stop, but he was there, standing by the fire, tears running freely, and she almost fainted as she thought that she had utterly broken her father’s heart. She’d stepped forward to hug him, to beg his forgiveness and explain that she had done nothing wrong and they could go back to the way things had been, but something stopped her. She took two steps and froze because she understood that those tears were not for her. All at once, she realized he had come on business far more serious than her elopement.
“It is Emily,” he said before she could utter a word. “Our Emily. She—this morning, she never awoke. She is gone. You were both gone.”
Much of what came next was lost to her. Perhaps she swooned, but next she knew, she sat by the fire, her head down, a blanket over her shoulders and a cup of hot wine in her hand. She did not recall her father upbraiding Mr. Morrison for running off with his daughter. Instead, she had a vague memory of the two men talking closely together, whispering, as though Emily’s death, and Lucy’s reaction to it, required that men who ought to be enemies join together for her own good. Most inexplicably, she was almost certain she had seen her father shaking Mr. Morrison’s hand. Lucy did not think it could have happened that way, but it was not a subject she had ever felt she could discuss with her father.
Mr. Morrison had once been a fixture in their neighborhood, friendly with Lucy’s father, but after that day he simply vanished, ashamed to have been exposed, and wanting no more entanglements with a love-struck sixteen-year-old girl whom he had played with for his simple amusement.
Lucy told Mary Crawford a brief version of the story. When she was finished, Miss Crawford took Lucy’s hand. “It was a youthful indiscretion that led to no harm. Whatever happened to your sister was none of your doing. You know that to be true, but it is time for you to believe it. You must cease condemning yourself for something you never did.”
Lucy looked away, blinking back the tears.
“I cannot imagine how miserable they have made you,” Miss Crawford said.
“They are not as kind as I should like,” said Lucy, “and your words are most welcome, but that is not what affects me. It is that you have made me think of my father.”
Lucy recalled the day, some weeks after he first invited her into his library, they reviewed together a book upon astronomy, and Mr. Derrick began to speak at great length upon the subject of Galileo and his excommunication.
&n
bsp; “I am certain,” her father said, “that this punishment affected him greatly. But Galileo reported what he believed to be true, and so I suspect that while the charge of heresy was unwelcome, he likely did not berate himself. Do you not agree?”
Lucy said that she did agree.
Mr. Derrick closed the book with a dramatic snap. “We must always remember not to condemn ourselves for what we have not done.” Lucy had rarely felt more loved and understood. Now here was Miss Crawford, who was determined to be her friend. That would not be enough to help Lucy through whatever she must face in the days and weeks ahead, but it was something. It was something indeed.
7
WHEN LUCY RETURNED TO HER UNCLE’S HOUSE, SHE WAS IN A BUOYANT mood. Miss Crawford would help her to regain her inheritance. Perhaps, even at that moment, Lord Byron was thinking of her, considering the implications of courting a girl with no dowry, but Lucy would not be so penniless when her inheritance was returned. It was not the princely sum a peer might hope for, but he was only a baron after all and could not be so very choosy.
She knew it was foolish to count her father’s inheritance before it was in hand, certainly before she had heard from Miss Crawford’s solicitor. As for Lord Byron, he likely flirted with every young lady he saw, and she could not reasonably expect to be in his presence again. Even so, it felt wonderful to indulge in the fantasy, and she did not wish to stop herself.
Lucy had hardly ever troubled herself to imagine her life as Mrs. Olson. She thought of that future only as one in which she would be free of her uncle and Mrs. Quince, but Byron—that was something else altogether. She saw it at once, the two of them dressed in the height of fashion, traveling in his brilliant equipage, attending balls and routs and patronizing pleasure gardens. She could see herself hosting gatherings at their fine home, being greeted as Lady Byron. And she imagined the private times together, the walks, the quiet meals, the evenings before the fire.
