Page 10 of Now Comes the Mist

I stare after him as he walks away. “Well, I never!” I say, laughing and trying to make light of the situation. “You would thinkIhad been the one to insult him.”

Mamma’s smile is still plastered on her face as she takes my arm and leads me across the ballroom. “How many times have I told you? Men are scared off by outspoken women.”

“Why shouldn’t anyone speak out against incivility, man or woman?”

“There is a time and a place to do so. And putting aside the fact that you are a woman and expected to be modest and demure,” Mamma continues, “a party thrown inyourhome foryourguests is not that time or place. You should be generous toward everyone here, Lucy. I thought you knew better. Think of what poor Papa would have said if he had seen you just now!” Even as she chides me, she gives a welcoming nod to guests strolling by.

“Papa hated the Hursts as much as you do.”

“He believed in decorum above all, and you have shown an appalling lack of it in ordering that guest to leave with such little civility.”

The fight goes out of me, and I feel the giddy energy of the night ebbing. What is it all for, really? This dancing and flirting in the name offinding a husband to fill the hole Papa left behind in my heart? This is what Mina knows: that my gaiety and charm are just an act to hide the gaping emptiness inside me. And for all their admiration, Dr. Seward and Mr. Morris and even Arthur Holmwood would see this eventually if I married any of them. Away from the façade of parties and in the light of reality, they would realize that I am another woman entirely—one who wears a mask of cheer to hide the smudges on her soul left by Death.

My mind reels away from this crowded room and back to the cool, misty churchyard with Papa and my grandparents. There, I might be alone and peaceful, surrounded by the silent memories of those who had once loved me and can never return.

“I know you were only trying to do the right thing, my love,” Mamma says, squeezing my arm. And then her gaze sharpens. “Or is there more to the story? Who is Mr. Morris to you? I only invited him at Dr. Seward’s request, thinking it harmless. I should have thought you would be dancing with Arthur instead of a perfect stranger. And an American, at that!”

“He’s no one to me,” I say dully, catching Mina’s eye from across the room. Her brows knit with concern, recognizing my mood. “And Arthur has not even looked at me once tonight. He isn’t in the least interested in me, Mamma, and the sooner we accept that, the better—”

“Excuse me, Miss Westenra.” Arthur Holmwood is standing close enough to have heard every word I was saying. A muscle twitches anxiously at the corner of his jaw, but his eyes on me are calm. In this light, they are more of a true green than hazel.

“Mr. Holmwood,” Mamma says, flustered. “I … I hope you are enjoying the party?”

“Very much. But I believe I would enjoy myself more if Miss Westenra would give me the honor of the next dance?” He holds out a hand that is neither slender and sly like Dr. Seward’s nor rough and weather-beaten like Quincey Morris’s. It is simplyArthur.

I stare at it, making no move to take it, then look up at him with no small degree of frustration. Arthur Holmwood has puzzled me to the brink of insanity these past few months, showing interest one minute and apathy the next. The camellias he sent tonight had been warm and open and honest, but the man himself is a fog of indecision. If not for the flowers, I would have assumed that he never thought of me from one moment to the next. I hate that it matters so much what Arthur thinks of me—whatanyman thinks of me, aside from Papa.

“Lucy,” Mamma whispers, shocked by my silence.

Arthur’s hand wavers and a flash of worry flickers in his eyes, and it is this that saves him. I place my fingers in his. “Yes, I will dance with you, Mr. Holmwood,” I say. “But only if you are being truthful about it being an honor.”

My mother’s mouth is agape at my nerve. Over her shoulder, I see Mina, Dr. Seward, and Mr. Morris all watching us, despite being in conversation in their respective groups.

Arthur applies a bit of pressure to my hand. “I would not have said so if it were not true,” he says, and as he leads me toward the other dancers, I wonder if he can feel my traitorous pulse thundering in my wrist.

CHAPTER FOUR

The waltz I danced with Quincey Morris had been lively, but the music for my dance with Arthur is lush, melancholy, and romantic. Arthur, of course, is a perfect dancer as is required of men of his class, and I know that he and I make a beautiful pair to watch as we move across the ballroom. His feet touch the hem of my skirts, light as feathers, and my waist seems formed to exactly fit his hand. If only we could be as serene on the inside as we appear on the outside.

From the muscle still twitching in his jaw and the involuntary tightening of his hand around mine, I can see that he is as discomfited as I am. At least he is looking at me now, so directly that it is almost shocking. To his credit, he does not miss a single step of the waltz.

The other couples laugh and talk in low voices as they dance around us, but Arthur and I remain silent. I know he is waiting for me to say something, but after that reproach from my mother about being too outspoken, I will not utter a word until he does so first.

“Miss Westenra, thank you for the pleasure of this dance,” he says at last.

“You are welcome, Mr. Holmwood,” I say with chilly formality.

“I couldn’t help overhearing what you were saying a moment ago.” His gaze falters, but his eyes do not stray from mine. “Do you believe what you said? That I … do not care for you?”

“I would not have said so if it were not true,” I say, repeating his words with an ironic smile. My reply seems to distress him, but relenting is not in my nature. “I must be honest. I do not know what to make of you. This is the second time in our acquaintance that you have asked me to dance, and tonight, you sent me flowers. Yet you never look at me or speak tome. You do not acknowledge my existence. Why are you astonished, Mr. Holmwood, to hear my assumption that I never cross your mind?”

The dismay on his face would be comical were it not so genuine. “Miss Westenra, I am grieved to hear that my behavior has led you to this conclusion.”

“It is not just your behavior,” I say calmly as we sail past Mamma and her friends. My mother is putting on a decent show of appearing cheerful and gay, but I can tell she is wondering—and fearing—what I could be saying to Arthur. “But also the behavior of other gentlemen, to which I have been comparing yours. I can name at least seven other men in this room who seem more willing to converse with me than you are.”

“Seven?” Arthur almost groans.

I look up at the ceiling, pretending to think. “Seven who are age-appropriate and unattached. If you expand that number to include the men who are either too old or too married to even think of speaking to me, then the list of names grows significantly longer.”

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