Page 13 of Now Comes the Mist

I want to go to him, but I hesitate, thinking of Jack recoiling from my embrace, Quincey’s cold eyes when I had spoken for him, and Arthur’s hand keeping us properly apart as we danced.

The stranger holds out his long white hand. On the smallest finger shines a brass ring set with a garnet of deep wine red. “Lucy,” he says for the third time. His tender, melodic tone is veined with both kindness and aching desire, and it is an invitation I cannot refuse.

It is only a dream, I think, giving myself permission before I run into his open arms.

He is as cold and solid as a marble statue. He has no smell and no warmth, but somehow his embrace is as familiar to me as my own name. I press my face against his chest and close my eyes, feeling a greater peace than I have known for some time. He holds me securely, but not tightly. Here, I am free to go whenever I wish, and there are no open graves to swallow me.

The man presses his icy lips to my forehead. I feel small and protected in the cradle of his arms as his hands stroke my back, arctic through my thin nightdress. His fingers teeter on the precipice of my waist, atantalizing inch from the curve of my bottom. I lift my face to his, which is still masked in shadow, and hold him closer to me.

It is only a dream, I think,and no one need know what we do here.

“No,” the man agrees, and in his voice I hear a smile.

I put my hand against his cool cheek, expecting him to pull away. Everything about this would be shocking by the light of day: me alone with a stranger, caressing his face so intimately as his hands learn the topography of my body. But he does not move as I trace his sharp jaw, clean-shaven but rough with bristle. My fingers find a long straight nose and a wide mouth. His lips, still smiling, brush a knowing kiss on my thumb.

Another invitation.

A flame ignites in my chest. This man will not refuse me like the others. He will give me everything I desire. He cares nothing for propriety when I am in his arms. Quickly, before I lose my courage, I press my mouth to his. His lips slide over mine, soft and delicate as a feather, and grow warm as I kiss him. I wrap my arms around his neck, pressing my breasts tightly to his hard chest. His hands stroke my body from shoulder to hip, and I shiver at his cold fingers on my bare arms. I am aching, melting. I sigh into his mouth, but he stops me at last with a quiet laugh, touching my face in a mirroring caress of how I had explored his.

“Lucy,” he says again, heartbreakingly tender.

I hear a farewell in his voice and tighten my arms around his neck. I have no shame in the dream, not for the possessive way with which I hold him to me or for the urgency in my voice when I whisper, “Please don’t go.”Not when I have found you.

He leans his forehead against mine. “I will find you again,” he vows. His accent is one I cannot place, but it makes me think of sprawling ancient cities, ruined castles embraced by dark tangled trees, and wild peaks glinting in the light of a cold sun. His arms wrap around me, gentle and protective. “I will find you, Lucy.”

And then I wake up.

I am shivering alone on a bench in the churchyard. The moon has emerged from a blanket of thick clouds, and the garden, conservatory, and statues have all vanished. But there, held upon the wintry breath of night, is the stranger’s promise, lingering like the mist.

CHAPTER SIX

By afternoon, my dream has vanished into the sunny reality of the sitting room, where Mamma and I sip tea and wait to be fitted for our new dresses. The dressmaker arrived today with a coterie of apprentices, each carrying an armful of colorful garments. They divide them neatly onto two racks, one for Mamma and one for me, busily smoothing fabrics of lilac, rose, and pearl—all the cheerful hues we plan to wear on our holiday in Whitby this summer.

I struggle to hide a yawn as the dressmaker orders her workers about. Fortunately, I had woken no one else with this latest bout of sleepwalking and had crept home to wash my cold, dirty feet just as the first light of dawn had appeared in the sky.

“You look exhausted, Lucy,” Mamma remarks. “Did you have trouble sleeping after all that dancing? At least the party was a triumph.”

“It was. Mina enjoyed herself a great deal, even if Jonathan did not.” I pour myself another cup of fragrant jasmine tea. It had been Papa’s favorite and had reminded him of his grandmother, and he had never cared about the cost of having it shipped from overseas.

Mamma laughs. “Poor Jonathan. He dislikes being the center of attention, and an engagement ball was not something he ever wanted.”

“Well, Mina likes parties and dancing, andsomeonehas to give her what she likes.”

My mother raises an eyebrow at my tone. “You don’t like Jonathan, then? I’ve never gotten a sense of what you think of your Mina’s husband-to-be.”

“It’s not that Idon’tlike him,” I say slowly. “I just always imagined that when I ended up losing Mina, it would be to a far more superior man than he.”

“You’re not losing her. You may not see her as often, once she sets up house in Exeter, but I’m certain you will write many letters and visit.” Mamma sips her own tea—chamomile, her tastes ever sensible in contrast to Papa’s and my more adventurous preferences. “And I disagree. Jonathan may be of humble origin, but then so is Mina. He is hardworking, honest, and educated. He adores her. And they’ve known each other for years, like you and Arthur.” She glances at me. “Everyone talked of how beautifully the two of you danced last night. My friends were jealous that you secured him fortwowaltzes when their daughters couldn’t manage one.”

I look down into my tea, remembering the jolt of fear I had felt before parting from him. “He is so shy,” I say softly. “I thought he wasn’t interested, but he was only shy all along.”

“I never doubted that he had feelings for you. What man could resist you?” Mamma asks, with a proud sniff that makes me chuckle. “And Lucy, I hope you aren’t angry with me.”

“Angry? Whatever for?”

“For scolding you after that incident with the American. You have a great deal of spirit, and I hate reprimanding you about something you can’t help.”

“Oh, Mamma, it’s all right. I shouldn’t have sent Mr. Hurst away.” I shake my head ruefully. “Mr. Morris clearly didn’t appreciate my defending him. He seemed almost affronted. As much as I hate to admit it, you were right that men don’t like an outspoken woman.”

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