The Twelfth Enchantment: A Novel Read online

  Mr. Olson turned to the serving woman as though the effort strained his neck, but then addressed his answer to Uncle Lowell. “It is not convenient to set a date. The establishment of my mill consumes my time. The machines are new and the workers unaccustomed to their use.”

  “Quite right,” said Uncle Lowell. “A man who does not put his business first is a buffoon. And yet,” added he who so wished his niece gone from his home, “I wonder if your efforts would not be aided by the acquisition of a wife to manage your household. You might then freely fix your mind upon matters of business.”

  “You and I think very much alike,” said Mr. Olson. “I should be surprised to find you had considered an option that had eluded me entirely. I conclude the disadvantages of the scheme you suggest most certainly outweigh the benefits. A new wife must bring with her demands and distractions and difficulties to be resolved.”

  “Yes, yes, and I suppose you have your hands full with these”—Uncle Lowell waved his hand about the air, a gesture he often reserved for discussions of people he thought contemptible—“Luddites, as they style themselves. You must worry that they will set themselves against your mill.”

  “The Luddites are malcontents and brutes,” said Mr. Olson, who now smiled for the first time since his arrival. “They are like children who complain a game is unfair because they have lost. I make twenty pieces of hose at a labor cost that would previously have produced but one, but they say that I take away their employment. It is their own fault for not being so efficient as I.”

  Lucy knew of these debates. Everyone in Nottingham did, for Nottinghamshire was the heart of this uprising of laboring men who set out to destroy the machines that had deprived them of their work and, as a result, beggared them. Now the army was in town to stop the Luddites, but everyone said there had been no abatement in the destruction. Not a week went by without a hosiery mill burned or fired upon or broken open and its machinery smashed.

  Lucy’s father had always been against these mills, had spoken of them as a curse upon both nature and labor. Once she had stood with him looking upon a pottery mill not far from their home, and he had shaken his head with disgust. “Behold one possible future, Lucy, and a terrible one. These mills strip their laborers of their humanity, and soon enough they may strip it from the rest of us.” Lucy felt herself inclined to side with her late father over her future husband. Indeed, the growing poverty in the county over the past few years only made her more inclined to sympathize with the Luddites. Their wild rhetoric—with talk of their fictional General Ludd—and certainly their violent acts disquieted her, but given the shortages of food that had struck Nottingham, the weakened trade caused by the ongoing war with France, and the general decline in opportunities to earn wages, perhaps wild rhetoric was appropriate.

  Though used to keeping such opinions to herself, Lucy now thought she ought to voice what had been her father’s opinions in these matters. “But men lose their livelihood to machines like yours, and the wages you pay can hardly support a family. It is what I read in the newspaper.” Both the man who currently paid her way in the world, as well as the one who proposed to take upon himself that responsibility, stared at her. In response to this silence, Lucy pressed on, affecting a light cheer in her voice. “Do not their grievances have some merit?”

  Mr. Olson cleared his throat, perhaps to signal that he would bear the burden of addressing this question, but then paused for many agonizing seconds. At last, after indulging in a leisurely gaze upon his intended bride with an expression of something like surprise, or perhaps with a pinch of distaste, he offered his response to her inquiry. “It is a silly question.”

  All her life she had been dismissed as foolish. Emily had ever been the clever one, and Martha the bookish. She, the youngest, was but a silly girl, and her great mistake when she was sixteen had only confirmed to the world that she was an empty-headed thing, incapable of making sound decisions. Perhaps she had been silly once, but are not all children? She was now twenty years of age and did not like for her opinion to be of so little account.

  “I find it distressing,” said Uncle Lowell, “that you sympathize with these layabouts over your future husband. Let them open their own mills if they like. Mr. Olson cannot refuse to profit because doing so might cost another man his income.”

  Mr. Olson turned to Lucy, his expression an awkward attempt at softness. “I am certain Miss Derrick is only showing the goodness of spirit for which we hold her sex in such esteem. It is, however, my belief that one comment such as hers, while charming, is sufficient. Such a refrain soon becomes shrill.”

  “Just so,” said Uncle Lowell. “My late wife always stayed away from my affairs. Lucy, I trust you will do the same.”

  Lucy knew her part. It ought to have been the easiest thing in the world for her to say that of course they were correct, that she could not hope to understand the complexities of Mr. Olson’s business. In truth she did not, and though she felt compassion for the men she daily saw in want of food, she did not believe she comprehended either the cause or the solution to the changes that affected the hosiery trade. Yet that she was now being asked to rebuke herself, to promise never again to offer an opinion, infuriated her.

  The heavy silence dragged on while the clock ticked and Uncle Lowell attempted to clear something from his throat and Mrs. Quince shot daggers from her eyes.

  Lucy was saved from having to speak further by a violent pounding upon the door and the muffled sound of shouting from without. This noise continued for some time, for, other than Mrs. Quince and the cook, Uncle Lowell employed a single servant, the same he had employed for near forty years. This was a stooped old fellow called Ungston who was distressingly slow in his movement, owing to arthritic joints. Lucy, who had grown accustomed to the sounds of the house, noted the distinctive shuffling noise as the aged serving man approached the front door.

  “Rather a ruckus,” said Uncle Lowell.

  It seemed to Lucy someone ought to have gone to help the old man, but all remained seated, with ears cocked, better to hear whatever there was to be heard—which consisted of Ungston muttering while he unbolted the lock and then the creak of the heavy door.

  After that came more shouting, which encouraged them to rise.

  “Lucy Derrick!” an unknown man called. His voice was hoarse and ragged, but frighteningly powerful, and yet shrill, like a dog’s howl. “I will speak to Lucy Derrick!”

  The voice sent through Lucy a wave of confusion and guilt. She must have done something to cause a man to come to her uncle’s home and cry out her name, but she could not think what that might have been nor to whom she might have done it. Like any young lady, she indulged in mild flirtations, and she enjoyed dancing at the monthly assemblies, but she had made no secretive connections. No one made love to her with serious intent, and she had neither teased nor spurned any man since her arrival in Nottinghamshire. She might be a gentleman’s daughter with some personal charms, but her situation made her an uncertain match.

  “What is this?” Her uncle pushed himself up from his chair. His was the sharp tone of a man who suddenly realized he had been cheated. As the burden of his niece was about to be lifted, here came some unexpected trouble to ruin the enterprise. His scalp turned red, and the fringes of his hair appeared to puff out, as a cat’s fur when the creature is agitated.

  Lucy did not trust herself to speak, fearing her confusion must be mistaken for culpability, so she only shook her head.

  “Stay here,” said Mr. Olson. He no doubt believed there was some other love come to claim his prize, and it would serve him right for his coolness, Lucy thought. Once Mr. Olson had left the room, with Uncle Lowell close behind him, Lucy managed to get to her feet.

  “What have you done?” said Mrs. Quince in a low and dangerous voice. She gripped Lucy hard by the wrist and did not let go, though she did no more. On occasion Mrs. Quince would pinch or kick, and once she had even scalded Lucy with hot water, which had left a pal
e scar on the back of her hand. But Lucy’s engagement to Mr. Olson had changed all that. The balance of power had begun to shift, and Mrs. Quince had been content to abuse Lucy when she was powerless, but it was another thing to take liberties with a young lady on the verge of independence. Still, she gripped hard and made no sign of letting go. “Is this some new Jonas Morrison with whom you play the whore?”

  Lucy tried to pull away, but Mrs. Quince would not let go. “I’ve done nothing. I have no notion of who it is. But I wish to see.”

  Perhaps Mrs. Quince also wished to see, for she shoved Lucy before her and followed her to the front of the house.

  As they approached the door, Lucy saw the intruder standing upon the steps. He no longer cried out, but he spoke loudly and with a great deal of animation. Out in the narrow street, a small gathering of pedestrians, and a single cart man, paused to observe the confusion.

  The man on the steps was startling handsome, possessed of an almost feminine beauty. His face was sculpted and even and flawless beneath a wild tangle of black hair. His eyes were wide and dark and moist, even as they appeared red-rimmed and slightly crazed. He wore fashionable clothes—the close-cut jacket, a once-white shirt open at the collar, and buff trousers that were now all the fashion in London. These looked expertly tailored, but they were tattered below the knees and filthy. When she approached as near as she dared, Lucy saw that the man’s boots were torn open upon their soles, and one of his feet appeared oversized and misshapen.

  “I must speak to her,” he said. “The leaves are scattered, and I must speak to her.”

  Lucy started, as though she’d stumbled into an invisible wall. Scattered leaves? It was as though she’d heard these words before, but she could not remember when, like something she’d dreamed, but long ago, lost in both confusion and time.

  “Who are you?” demanded Mr. Olson. “You’ll speak to no one without telling me your name and your business, and perhaps not even then.” His tone was angry but also restrained. Something about the stranger suggested that he was not appearing at his best, and that a certain deference was advised.

  “I must speak—” The stranger paused and looked up, meeting Lucy’s eye. Something shifted and softened in his gaze. His eyes went wide, and his posture shifted. He took a deep breath and, for an instant so brief she might have missed it, he smiled, wide and brilliant. “You,” he said. “Are you the lady I seek? Are you Lucy Derrick?”

  Lucy found she could not speak, but she managed a slow nod.

  The stranger lowered his head for a moment and then looked again at Lucy. “I’ve been sent … been made to tell you, that you … you must not marry him. You must gather the leaves, but you must not marry him!” He arched his back, threw his head toward the sky, and took a step backwards, missing the step and falling upon his side to the street. With his head down, as if in a posture of religious subjugation, he raised one hand and pointed at Mr. Olson.

  Lucy turned away, which was very well, for she heard the ranting man begin to retch like a drunkard, and she took a step back in disgust. She might have retreated into the house entirely, afraid of she knew not what except that this—all of this—was about her. Somehow it was about her, and Lucy felt shame and humiliation afresh. She wanted only to run away, but she then heard gasps, then a woman shrieked, and Mr. Olson cried out in surprise. “It cannot be!” he said in a hushed voice. Upon the street one of the gathered crowd—a woman—called to Jesus to save her.

  Unable to contain her curiosity, Lucy crept forward. Peering out into the street, she saw the man bent over, upon all fours like a dog. This strange and disordered and beautiful man was upon the ground. His body convulsed, undulating like a wave, and then he vomited again, emitting a long string of shining, nearly dry, silver pins. They fell from his mouth in a slow and steady stream, tinkling a thin music as they fell upon the steps.

  When he looked up, the man locked his eyes with Lucy’s, his expression full of yearning and a desperation so deep that tears came to her eyes. Somehow this astonishing man, this impossible event was about poor, penniless, friendless Lucy Derrick. She wanted to ask him how, to make him explain himself so she and the world would understand, but she could make herself say nothing. Then it was too late, for he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and fell over, utterly insensible to the world.

  2

  MR. OLSON, WITH SOME MARGINAL ASSISTANCE FROM UNGSTON, managed to carry the stranger to one of the long-unused guest rooms on the second floor, where they set him upon a dusty counterpane and left him, mumbling incoherently, seemingly unaware of his surroundings. Having done his duty as the youngest and fittest man present, Mr. Olson departed without further comment.

  The moment he was gone, Uncle Lowell, with Mrs. Quince at his side, turned to confront Lucy. Anger had scalded his scalp purple, and his thin mouth twisted with consternation. “He will withdraw his offer of marriage, and I cannot say I blame him. Can’t blame him at all.” He looked upstairs, in the vague direction of the stranger.

  Mrs. Quince nodded gravely while he spoke. Unless solicited, she knew better than to venture an opinion when her master was in such a temper.

  “He’ll need a doctor, I suppose,” Uncle Lowell said. “You tease a man into swallowing pins, and I will have to pay for his care out of my own pocket. My own pocket! It is as though you’ve sent a thief to my home to rob me in the night.”

  Lucy had a great deal of difficulty composing herself, for she had no way of making sense of the events she had only just witnessed. She felt the tears welling up, but she knew her uncle and Mrs. Quince would choose to interpret tears as a sign of guilt rather than confusion.

  Lucy found herself desperately missing her father. He would know what to do. He would know what these strange events meant. With a withering glance or a stern aside he would have silenced Uncle Lowell, but her father was dead, and she would have to manage on her own.

  With a great effort, she took a deep breath and spoke the words she had been rehearsing from the moment she had recovered from the initial shock. “I have never before looked upon that man. I have no idea who he is or what connection he could have to me—and as for the physician’s bill, perhaps the stranger will pay it himself.”

  “Pay it himself! Quince, the girl says he will pay it himself.”

  Mrs. Quince shook her head. “I heard the words, but I can hardly credit them.”

  “Hardly credit them!” cried Uncle Lowell. “He will pay for a medical man when he cannot pay for shoes. Quince, send for Snyder, if you please. You may tell him to give the gentleman above the bill. Perhaps he will vomit forth shillings to settle matters.”

  He strode from the room and slammed the door to his study, but Mrs. Quince remained, her mouth pinched tight and bloodless. “Miss Lucy Derrick,” she said, her high, almost girlish voice now a sort of singsong. “It was only a matter of time until you found some new Jonas Morrison with whom to play the slut. Shall you destroy your uncle’s health with your scandals as you did your late sister’s?”

  Lucy stepped back, fearful that Mrs. Quince would punctuate her words with a slap. When no such violence came, and it became clear that the serving woman awaited a reply, Lucy managed, “You must fetch Mr. Snyder.”

  Mrs. Quince walked about the room, adjusting a painting and removing a line of dust from atop a sconce. “I shall indeed, for if that man dies, he cannot tell us what you have been about. What is he, Lucy? A merchant’s son? An innkeeper? A dissolute gentleman? I know you have a fondness for those. And what shall happen now? Mr. Olson will never marry a girl so scandalized as you, and your uncle will expel you for your crimes.” She nodded at her own wisdom and strode from the room with her chin up, like an actress upon the boards.

  Lucy remained in the parlor, close to the fire, though she could not banish the chill that left her teeth chattering. She hated life in her uncle’s house, hated it beyond anything she had ever known, but to be cast out with no prospects was unthinkable. She was twenty y
ears old, and Uncle Lowell had no legal obligation to care for her. He was also a man singularly immune to reflection and therefore capable of sending Lucy away and giving no thought to what suffering and horrors would become her fate. When Lucy, newly orphaned, had first come to live with her uncle, she would sit for hours dwelling upon the staggering injustice of her life. In those first few months, Mrs. Quince had been her friend and had comforted her and confided in her. Then everything changed, and Mrs. Quince became cold and cruel and hateful, and Lucy imagined herself the most put-upon young lady in the world. Her miseries had been real enough, but she had known them to have finite boundaries. Now she faced a bottomless abyss of suffering, a life in which there truly were no limits to the pain, humiliation, and want she might know. The threat of ruin was real, and it was true, and it could be upon her as soon as tomorrow.

  When Mr. Snyder arrived, he went upstairs at once, and Uncle Lowell and Mrs. Quince joined Lucy in the parlor. Uncle Lowell demanded that Lucy vacate the seat nearest the fire so he might be warm while he brooded in reptilian silence. Mrs. Quince sat near him with her needlework, her fingers quick and dexterous. Now and then she would let out a breathy laugh at some unspoken thought. The tall case clock, off in its timekeeping by at least fifteen minutes, ticked as erratically as a dying man’s heart.

  After no more than half an hour, the medical man entered the room, bowed, and stood with his hands behind his back, like an officer awaiting orders. Snyder was a serious sort of man, the type many would choose for their physician. He was of about Uncle Lowell’s age, though he wore his years with more dignity, and dressed in black so that he was often mistaken for a man of the church. Not tall, he possessed a thin frame and narrow, humorless eyes the color of mud. Lucy had seen him often in the years she’d lived in her uncle’s house, and had never observed him to smile. He made a habit of presenting his findings with absolute confidence, but today he looked about the room with a great deal of uncertainty. He began speaking three or four times before he could find his words.