The Twelfth Enchantment: A Novel Read online

  When she left the table, however, Mrs. Quince followed her into the hall. She put a hand on Lucy’s upper arm, but did not squeeze hard. “Who was that man at the assembly?”

  Lucy, feeling emboldened by her use of the talisman, decided to play ignorant. “He was handsome, was he not?”

  “What was his name?” Mrs. Quince’s already-high voice cracked.

  “It does not much matter. I shan’t see him again soon.”

  “You danced with a man to whom you had not been introduced?” As the serving woman became angrier, her voice grew lower.

  “Oh, we were introduced, but I don’t recollect his name. He was only passing through, so I did not think it worth recollecting.”

  Mrs. Quince let go. “You are particularly stupid today.” As though it were an afterthought, she slapped Lucy in the face. It was sharp and stinging, and then cold, and finally hot. Lucy did not move. She did not cry out. She waited for the tears to come, but they did not. There was nothing but a deep and burning anger, and the resolution never again to experience anything like it.

  A week after the Nottingham assembly, Lucy was approached by Ungston, who told her that a carriage belonging to a Miss Crawford awaited her. Lucy hardly paused to examine herself in the mirror. She rushed outside, only to find the coach empty. The driver informed her that she would be taken to Miss Crawford’s house anon.

  Miss Crawford met her at the front door, and embraced her warmly as though they were old friends. Her cheerful pale face was surrounded by a nimbus of white-blond curls. “My dear Miss Derrick, how I have missed you. I do wish I could have seen you again sooner, but I have been so terribly busy.”

  Miss Crawford led her inside and called for the tea things from Mrs. Emmett, who shrieked with delight when she heard that Lucy had arrived. Her eyes widened under her low bonnet, as she hurried into the room, wiping her floury hands on her apron, as eager as a puppy. Lucy had the distinct impression that had her hands not been covered with flour, Mrs. Emmett would have embraced her as her own daughter. Soon she sufficiently recovered herself, collected the tea tray, and set it down, surveying her work like a proud squire upon his dominion.

  “You two will have so much to discuss,” said Mrs. Emmett. “I shall leave you to it. Only”—and here she pivoted toward Lucy and smiled as though she might burst with pride—“only let me look upon you a moment, Miss Derrick.”

  Lucy felt herself frozen with confusion and embarrassment at this notice. “You are too attentive to me. I do not deserve it.”

  “You make me laugh,” said Mrs. Emmett, who then removed herself so, as she said, the two young ladies could speak of their young-lady business.

  “Now,” said Miss Crawford as she handed a cup of tea to Lucy, “you must tell me all you have been doing. Have you had any success with that little book I presented to you?”

  Lucy told her how she had learned to identify the talismans, and how she had used one upon Mr. Olson to powerful effect. “I did not think I could do it. When Mrs. Quince tried to teach me to read cards, she assured me I was utterly without talent.”

  “Mrs. Quince must be a mere dabbler who has no idea of what she sees. Many women with a strong feel for magic have difficulty with divination. If anything, your inability to master the cards is a sign of your native talents. Either she did not recognize what she saw or … or she was testing you.”

  “Testing me for what?”

  Miss Crawford looked away for a moment and then met Lucy’s eye. “It is an old trick cunning women use to test those they believe may have talent. Nearly anyone can read the cards, so if a person is useless with them, it can mean she has enormous potential.”

  “Why would she wish to test me?”

  “I don’t know, Lucy, but you cannot trust her.”

  “You may be certain that I do not.”

  “Good. You must be careful with your trust. You are talented, and so you must attract attention if you are not careful. I fear you will have to learn much, and quickly too. I must call you Lucy. We are such good friends now, and you must call me Mary.”

  “I shall love to do so,” said Lucy, whose heart hammered at the proffered intimacy.

  Mary smiled in the way of unhappy people. “I told you I am no cunning woman, but I can read the cards a little. I know that changes are coming, and we must be ready to face them. Dark and terrible things, things such as what you saw with Lord Byron and at the mill, but those things are but minor disturbances, harbingers of beings much more dangerous.”

  “But what has any of it to do with me?” Lucy asked.

  “You have seen these beings,” said Mary. “They are drawn to you and you to them. They speak to you, and I believe it is because you are already connected with them. I don’t know how, but I suspect they sense that you will be there to stand against the very worst of them.”

  Mary could not speak with any certainty or authority about the peril that brewed around them, but she believed in her soul it was real. “For now, you must continue with your studies. You must learn as much as you can, and be ready for what dangers may come.”

  Lucy did not much like the sound of that. She did not like vague threats and uncertain menaces, but Mary seemed disinclined to say more. “I don’t know how I shall continue to study if I have nowhere to live. My uncle has threatened to cast me out if I do not marry Mr. Olson, and after what passed at the assembly, I believe he may now finally withdraw his offer.”

  “Hush, my dear,” she said. “We will manage it. Your uncle may be affected by your influence. You know that now. You have taken the first steps down a path that will burden you with many responsibilities, but there are privileges now too. You need be at no man’s mercy. You can be mistress of your own life, and want neither for money nor shelter nor protection. These things will all be yours in time, and with application.”

  Lucy did not quite know if she should believe that these prospects could be realized, but Mary telling her that they could made her feel better, made her feel protected.

  “Again, for now,” Mary said, “you must continue with your studies. I have chosen some books for you to read, and you will take them with you. They may be rather dry reading, but it is important that you understand the basic principles of how magic works and what it is.”

  Mary rose and returned with a pile of half a dozen books, each far larger and thicker than the little volume she had presented to Lucy last time. “You must start with Agrippa’s Three Books. After Agrippa, I urge you to master Paracelsus’s Philosophia Adepta. It is the best of his writing. Then you may wish to attempt this English translation of the Sefer Raziel HaMalakh, though you must keep in mind that cabala is made to be confounding, and your utter bewilderment will be no reflection upon you, but upon the nature of the material. Knowledge comes sometimes only through the struggle to comprehend the incomprehensible. Oh, and this is interesting—a curious take on Mesmer’s animal magnetism that should work nicely with your natural charms. And do look at this translation of Abra-Melin. I sense you have a particular talent for talismans, and his squares may amuse you.”

  Staring at the books, Lucy felt overwhelmed and frightened. “When may I see you again? I am sure I must have questions.”

  “I shall do my best to send for you more frequently than I have, but you must not come here if I do not call for you. I do not wish to sound arbitrary, but there are matters I will explain later that I cannot discuss now. I must have your word on this, that you will not call upon me.”

  “Of course,” said Lucy, who could not but feel hurt at this.

  “Have no fear. I shall make sure you have all you need. And now, let us see about keeping you safe in your uncle’s house.”

  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 anot
her. 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.

  16

  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 mus
t 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.