Page 33 of Lucy Undying

I looked down to make certain I was. I was still a bit moonlight-traumatized. I never got over that, as you’ve seen. “Yes,” I confirmed. “I’m still here.”

“Well then, you may as well be useful. Smell this.” She held up the arm of one of the soldiers. His other limbs were gone, though he’d been sewn up well.

“Laudanum,” I said, wrinkling my nose. It reminded me of something. Someone. Mother. But something stronger, more recent. A trio of women, on the floor, unconscious. Who were they? What had happened? Everything from my life before was held at a remove, as ephemeral as a dream.

“Morphine,” she corrected. “It’s more efficient. But ignore that. Smell his blood, then go out and find someone with this exact type of blood. Exact,” she insisted. And then she turned her back on me and got to work.

That was how I became a blood and body parts courier, and how I inadvertently ended the war.

30

May 24, 1890

Journal of Lucy Westenra

I wrote of my sorrows too soon. To be fair, my sorrows never stop humming and buzzing around my head like a plague of flies. If I waited until they were over to write of them, I would never write at all. Though it is exhausting keeping up two journals, so perhaps I should stop. Let the fake Lucy be the only Lucy. Bury these truths in the floor forever.

I’m not ready for that yet, though. So, to my newest sorrows:

There I was, existing in a black miasma of restless despair (miasma is a word Mina taught me, and I always think of her when I use it, which isn’t difficult because I’m always thinking of her anyway) when Doctor Seward knocked unannounced on our door. He does that more and more often now that Mother is dying.

(Mother’s malady is strange. It comes and goes in waves. Doctor Seward always seems to visit as she has peaked in energy. Every time, I’m afraid he’ll tell me he was mistaken and she’s on the mend. But that is never the case. He assures me that such fluctuations in her health are normal for her condition. And he’s never wrong—inevitably she sinks back into lethargy and takes to her bed for days at a time.)

I was surprised at his visit today, though. It was the hour after lunch, and Mother was abed, as she always is then regardless of how she’s feeling. I tried to explain that she was sleeping, but he said he was there to see me. Fearing more medical news (and hoping it was that Mother would die sooner rather than later, as my biggest fear is that this process will take years) I sat and smiled at him as sweetly as I was able. I braced myself to properly demonstrate whatever emotions would be required of me.

Imagine my surprise when he proposed marriage!

I must have looked as shocked as I felt. He quickly began reciting his qualifications. Running a sanitarium already qualifies him to care for me. A girl who dreams of marrying another girl. Who imagines such things? He could not argue himself above his social status. If only he knew how little I care about that! But also how little I care for him. He could be as rich as the king and I would become a hermit in a cave before I would consent to a life at his side. In his bed! Oh, I feel ill at the thought of it.

Too shocked to interject, I let him talk unhindered. Within five minutes he had proposed, justified the proposal, retracted the proposal, apologized, and vowed to remain my friend and caregiver. I may have cried at some point, it was all so horribly mortifying. He bowed stiffly to me, advised me to have some of my mother’s brandy to calm my nerves, and left.

No sooner had he departed than another knock came at the door. I hadn’t even had time to collect myself. I thought he had talked himself back into proposing. Would this be the rest of my life, hearing Doctor Seward propose and then un-propose and then re-propose until I really did need to be committed to the sanitarium?

But it was Quincey Morris. My relief was immediate, and I welcomed him gladly. I expected him to launch into a tale of American heroism and drama, but he was flushed and nervous. He was using such strange, unintelligible phrases (something about regulating the fixings of my shoes, a reference to lamps that might have been biblical, and, my favorite, “Won’t you just hitch up alongside of me and let us go down the long road together, driving in double harness?”) that it took me far too long to realize he, too, was proposing.

I laughed. It felt so absurd. Like an ad had been distributed in that morning’s papers—“Lucy Westenra, Brokenhearted, Available for Marriage! Appointments start immediately after lunch!” I wondered how many would come.

His face fell when I laughed. Men hate to be laughed at by women. They usually become angry, as I learned when my art teacher tried to kiss me. To his credit, Quincey was merely sad. I reassured him that my laughter was because I was trying not to cry. He believed me, thankfully. And then I told him I could not accept his proposal—that the fault was not with him, I simply couldn’t leave Mother, and so we would be chained to London for the rest of Mother’s life.

“I could not bear to keep you from freedom and adventures in the wider world,” I said, leaving out that I could not bear to be forever chained to his side and sharing his bed. I must stop thinking of beds, it’s unbecoming of a young woman, though I do wonder what happens in them, and why I have no desire to discover it at the side of any of these men. At least the idea of Quincey holding me feels only claustrophobic, not repulsive.

He accepted my reasoning and rescinded the proposal. I let him kiss my cheek; he declared us friends for life. Unlike with Doctor Seward, I believe him.

What an odd fellow. I half regretted turning him down as I bid him farewell. He’s funny and dim and sweet. I would have to talk very little, which would ease some of my burden. I briefly considered running after him and asking him to whisk me away to America. Far from Mother, far from Mina. Maybe that would fix me.

Instead, I took Doctor Seward’s advice for once and poured some of Mother’s special brandy. I had a few sips to calm myself. It wouldn’t do for Mother to wake and find out what had happened—two proposals rejected without consulting her!

I returned to the sofa. Soon I felt dizzy and strange, entirely tilted off my axis. I was half in tears, half laughing, which is where Arthur found me. And then he, too, proposed.

It was almost as if Mina were in the room with us. I knew what she would tell me to do. All I could think was how happy she’d be if I were engaged, too. How close it would bring us to be brides together. In my discombobulated state, it felt almost the same as being engaged to her. Before I knew what I was doing, I said yes.

Arthur embraced me, holding me up as the room spun around us. Perhaps that is love. Or merely our future: Arthur Holmwood, supporting spinning, silly, broken me.

And that was how I chose from three unexpected options. Sanitarium, America, or the future Lord Goldaming. The devil you know is better than the one you don’t. And besides, Arthur is no devil. He’s handsome and pleasant and kind enough. He’s been helpful and courteous, and I will have exactly the life I’m already accustomed to. And his mustache will ensure I never have any crumbs on my face, sweeping them right off whenever he kisses me. I do not want to kiss him.

Mother approves of him. She was thrilled with the news, flitting around the room, already making lists of what must be obtained, who must be informed, the wheres and whens and hows of it all that I cannot possibly be bothered to care about.

Perhaps Mother will turn her eye and all her suffocating attentions elsewhere. I have, at last, nearly fulfilled the purpose for which I was made. That is that. I am engaged to Arthur Holmwood. I will write all this in as charming a letter as I can to Mina, and she will be happy for me, and that will be enough.

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