Page 15 of Now Comes the Mist

I laugh. “You speak so warmly that Ialmostbelieve you.”

He gives me a good-natured grin. “Well, I hope I find a way back into your good graces, ma’am, and can show my gratitude properly.”

As Mamma begins serving Mr. Morris, Arthur takes a sip of his tea and coughs. Embarrassed, he dabs at his mouth with a napkin and puts the cup down in a hurry.

“Too hot for you, dear?” Mamma asks, concerned.

“Forgive me,” Arthur says. “I have never tasted such a variety of tea before.”

Frowning, Mamma lifts the teapot to inspect it. “Oh, dear. Agatha has mistakenly prepared Lucy’s tea for both of you instead of my chamomile.”

Quincey sips his tea, pauses and then takes a second sip. “I think it’s delicious. I’ve never tasted anything like it before, either. Fragrant, very floral.”

“Yes, but also quite bitter?” Arthur suggests.

“No. Not to me,” the cowboy says, shrugging. “Why do you call it Lucy’s tea, ma’am? Do the young lady’s considerable gifts extend to growing tea as well?”

I answer for my mother. “Not quite, Mr. Morris. You are drinking a jasmine tea that my father loved, though I find I am the only one left to enjoy it now.” My last words come out so quietly that they are almost a whisper. Arthur picks up his cup, looking stricken as I run my fingers over my locket.

“I won’t let you enjoy it alone anymore, Miss Lucy,” Quincey says, and I give him a look of gratitude. “May I have another cup, please, Mrs. Westenra?”

Mamma obliges him. Her eyes dart between us, displeased that the dashing cowboy is gaining so quickly in my favor. “Lucy loves this tea so much that we will have to bring it with us to Whitby,” she says gaily, turning the subject. “It is truly the loveliest place in the summertime. Lucy loves the cliffs and walks there often, don’t you, my love?”

Perhaps it is the melancholy of remembering Papa, but all it takes is the wordcliffsand I can feel the briny sea wind whipping my hair as I stare down, down, down to the water’s edge, where the hungry white foam would rise to meet me if ever I fell. I have often imagined how it would feel to fling myself into the air, to suddenly lose the ground beneath my feet and feel my stomach drop as I plummet. Imagining the freedom of it, thechoice, is almost ecstasy.

I look up, realizing they are all waiting for my answer. Quincey is smiling, eager to approve of whatever I say, but Arthur’s face is solemn and watchful. He has seen again what he does not understand in me, and I push away the awful feeling that perhaps this is what attracts him—that if I married him and unveiled the mystery, he would no longer find me compelling.

“It is a beautiful place,” I say.

“You look peaked, dear. Wehavebeen sitting here a long time,” Mamma says, and I hear in her voice that a plot is afoot. Subtlety is an art that my beloved mother never quite learned. “On the subject of walks, I believe a stroll outdoors might revive you. Arthur, would you take her? I’m a bit busy here.” She gestures to the women sewing across the room.“And I was hoping thatyouin particular, Mr. Morris, would stay and give me your advice.”

“Me, Mrs. Westenra?” Quincey’s expression while regarding our colorful summer frocks is so nearly frightened that I laugh, and Arthur does as well. “I wonder if an American cowboy might not have the elegant and sophisticated taste you would wish for in dresses …”

“Nonsense!” Mamma guides me to my feet so that Quincey can take my place beside her. “You are exactly the person I need. You can tell me what colors the ladies in America prefer.”

“Shall we, Miss Westenra?” Arthur asks quietly.

“We shall, Mr. Holmwood,” I say, matching his formality.

I slip on a coat and gloves, and we step out into the chilly February day. Another man might have given me his arm or I would have taken it, offered or not. But Arthur is not like the others, nor would I have him be. He folds his hands behind his back, I keep mine at my sides, and we walk with a respectable distance between us. No one watching us would suspect that we were anything more than friendly acquaintances taking a polite stroll.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“Yes, thank you. Now that my mother has prescribed this medicinal walk with you.”

“You were sad just now, when she mentioned Whitby. But you weren’t thinking of your father. You didn’t touch your locket.” As though embarrassed by his own observation, Arthur looks away, pretending to study the passing carriages. “Were you thinking of Miss Murray’s wedding later this year, perhaps? And her having to move away to Exeter with Mr. Harker?”

I sigh. “No, but well guessed. Jonathan will leave in the spring and may not return until full summer. I am trying to persuade Mina to put the wedding off until autumn, so that she may join us at Whitby. It would be nice to have someone to walk with.”And to keep me away from the cliff’s edge, I think as a little thrill rises up in me, all the sweeter for having to be kept secret.

Arthur glances shyly at me. “I have not been to Whitby myself for years. The doctor thinks the sea air would do my father good, but Papa is so reluctant to leave the house these days.” It is his turn to sigh. He has never been one to show much emotion in public, and I take this as a sign of very serious worry indeed.

“Is his health worsening?” I ask, touched that he would show me this private grief.

“I’m afraid so. I’m not sure what I would do if he—” He breaks off abruptly.

“I’m sorry, Arthur.” I am surprised to find how unbearable his pain is to me. I touch his arm and he looks down at my gloved fingers. I half expect him to pull away and take me back to Mamma at once, as Dr. Seward might. But instead, he applies the gentlest pressure to my fingers.

“Thank you,” he says, very low.

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