Page 5 of Lucy Undying

7

May 10, 1890

Journal of Lucy Westenra

I cannot decide whether Quincey Morris is simple, or simply American. I wish this cowboy and Doctor Seward would not inflict themselves upon me. The dreadful stories they share! If I have to keep smiling and act amazed that the brave, strong men used weapons to kill some poor creature, my teeth will break from all the gnashing I do.

How is it brave to go against an animal while wielding a gun? Perhaps if they bested a buffalo in hand-to-hoof combat, or wrestled a wolf into submission, I would be impressed. No. I would root for the wolf. To be a wolf, sliding silent and unseen through the wilderness…I always imagine what it would feel like to be a falcon, a wolf, a tiger. But Mother calls me her little dove, and Mina calls me her pet. Alas, no fierce and wild predatory life for me. I am a kept and coddled thing. But that makes me safe from the guns of Doctor Seward and Mister Morris.

Another aggravation? I can only understand a fraction of what Mister Morris says. His cowboy turns of phrase are bewildering. Does no one make sense in America? And he speaks so slowly, as if I were a simpleton instead of him.

I’m being unfair. He doesn’t seem unkind. But now I’ve learned that Arthur Holmwood and the omnipresent doctor and the earnestly incomprehensible cowboy are allied in brotherhood and friendship. Arthur will be joining them on their next visit! Does every swaggering boastful man in the world know one another? I feel beset on all sides. Or like they are hunting prey together, and I’m the bumbling creature they have in their sights.

This might even be a relief. I’ve lived in fear of a proposal from Doctor Seward, Arthur Holmwood is determined to court me, and even Quincey Morris seems keen to occupy my time and attention. But if all three are such dear friends, then surely none of them can pursue me without permission from the others.

I cannot imagine Arthur, elegant and assured and entitled, relinquishing a claim on anything. Nor can I imagine the doctor and his cold, dead eyes willingly looking elsewhere. Nor can I imagine the Texan giving up a hunt once he has found his prey.

Perhaps they will kill each other! Then I can prettily mourn them and be free. I do quite like the drama of black lace. I would look lovely, pretending to cry over their graves as my darling held me close.

I have hidden sharp teeth after all, daydreaming the deaths of three perfectly fine men. I should repent. But repentance never seems to take with me. Still, no wishes for the men’s deaths. The best I can hope for is that they grow tired of me. I find myself deeply tiresome in their company. Surely they will come to find my performance tiresome, too.

No need to think of them further. Mother has entombed herself in bed today and all my men are off somewhere drinking and smoking together, so I’m free. I will write my darling and await a reply, and then practice my best listening faces for when Mother awakes or my tormentors return. I’ve been slipping lately, and Mother has noticed. I would prefer she not pay more attention to me.

I miss school. I miss learning. I miss having something to do with my time, knowing what was expected of me and earning smiles and praise. Mother tells me I will be happier when I’m a wife and mother. She certainly doesn’t seem happy being a mother. And being a wife ended in disaster for her.

I do wish for a life where I’m happy, but whenever I try to imagine it, I see myself on the cliffs, walking arm in arm with my darling, laughing.

Why can I not have that future? Why must maidens become mothers? Why must I marry at all? I have never felt more loved or taken care of than when I was young and guided and taught by someone who truly cared about me. Take me back to those days, sharp brown eyes looking at me over my book, whispered secrets and an entire shared world, just the two of us.

Mother calls. My daily taste of freedom is over. Perhaps Mister Morris will teach her his cowboy rope tricks, and she can keep me close even more efficiently.

If I can survive until Mina comes next week, I’ll have so many funny stories for her. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll take all my pain and aggravation, wrap it neatly with a bright bow, and turn it into something to make her laugh.

8

London, October 4, 2024

Iris

I discover two things while getting my keys and legal documents. The first is that, in the UK, lawyers are called solicitors. The second is that, regardless of what they’re called, my mother had a type when it came to legal representation. It’s not just the fact that Albert Fallis also has a lewd-adjacent name. There’s something eager and possessive in the way he speaks to me, a malicious twinkle in his eye, like he knows a secret I don’t.

Joke’s on him. I’m the one with a secret neither he nor Dickie Cox will find out about until it’s too late.

“So lovely to meet the newest Goldaming. Such a legacy.” He taps his fingers against his thumbs as though pinching the air between them. He’s shelled in layers of tweed with a scarf so large he could retreat into it if threatened. A pale white hermit crab of a human.

The whole office is wood paneled, from the floors to the ceiling. It’s as dim as twilight and so dusty my allergies are already declaring war. Albert looks proud, gesturing around his claustrophobic box of an office. “I have more than a century of work with your family here in this very room.”

“Wow,” I say, nursing my coffee. “You look great for your age.”

His eyes disappear beneath bushy gray eyebrows in a deep scowl. “Not me, personally. I mean my office. We’ve served your family as solicitors for generations. With respect and dignity.” He even talks like he’s pinching me. I’ll bet he’d love to leave angry red welts on my arms beneath my sleeves where no one could see them.

I lean back in a stiff leather seat. It’s so low that my shoulders barely come up to the height of Albert’s desk. He isn’t a tall man, but he’s positioned himself as the biggest person in the room. I really do feel like a kid, staring up at him.

I hated being a kid, and now I hate Albert, too. I’m sure there are good lawyers in the world somewhere, but it’s little surprise my mother only employed creeps.

Leaning back farther in my chair, I take up as much space as I can, knees wide and unladylike. “I’ll take the keys to the London house, the Whitby house, and all the legal documents for both. Now.”

He blinks at me for several seconds before speaking. “The Whitby house is being let out as a holiday rental; we’ll have to check with the manager if it’s available to visit.”