Page 16 of Now Comes the Mist

“Death is cruel and cold and steals loved ones away too soon. I worry what you will think of me, Arthur, when I tell you how often I dwell upon it. I … I think about death all the time.” The words slip out before I can stop them. But perhaps it is my conscience revealing this small glimpse into my mind, in hopes that it will save him from me.Run, Arthur, while you can.

But Arthur does not run. He turns toward me, his face open and expectant. He hears in my voice that this is important to me, and so he will make it important to himself.

“There is so little choice for a woman in life. A man can go anywhere and be anything, but a woman has not that freedom. She can select which dress to wear and what meals to serve her guests, but these are decisions without meaning, because they are already expected of her. Do you see?” I ask as a furrow forms between Arthur’s brows.

“I … I believe so.”

“Even in the matter of marriage,” I go on, pretending not to see the flush that creeps onto his cheeks. “A man can choose who he likes, but a woman can only decide whether or not to accept a proposal. She must receive one first, and she cannot select from whom it comes.”

Arthur blinks down at his shoes. He is trying so hard to understand. “But she can choose who she encourages, and that is something, is it not?”

I look away to hide my frustration. I cannot seem to put into words what sours and festers inside of me: the knowledge that everything in life has already been decided for me by men, by society, by my family name and position, and that the only meaningful choice I might ever have is to relinquish that life. To give it up on my own terms, in a manner of my choosing. To leave the neat, precise path and plunge into the brambles, to fall into the sea and be with Papa and be understood again. But I have never been able to explain this even to Mina or Mamma, and I cannot expect Arthur to comprehend it. I am alone, hopelessly alone, and I always have been.

My hand finds my locket once more. “I think about death all the time,” I say again.

“Lucy, you are grieving,” Arthur says, his voice full of emotion. “That is all. You have lost your beloved father and miss him dearly. I know … I can imagine …”

I turn back to him and see the shine of tears in his eyes.

“I would not have you be otherwise. To be unable to forget the ones you have lost is the mark of a very warm heart, and no one could ever question the propriety of that.”

My own eyes sting from the grief and the empty certainty of knowing that I will never be understood, not even by poor, sincere Arthur, who only wants to think the best of me. He offers me a handkerchief of pristine white linen, embroidered with his initials, ALH, and I dab at my eyes. “How well the letters of your name look,” I say with a shaky laugh. “I’ve always thought thatAandLwere so pretty side by side. The second letter like an extension of the first.”

“Perhaps they were meant to be together,” Arthur says, and the light of hope in his eyes makes my stomach clench. “Not just on handkerchiefs.”

“Yes, they would look well on napkins and tablecloths and—” I stop myself from adding the word that would likely appall Mamma even from this distance:bedsheets. But Arthur seems to hear it just the same, and as I return his handkerchief, his fingers find the inch of skin between my glove and my sleeve. The heat of his touch makes my stomach clench in a delightful way.

“Are you in earnest, Lucy?” he asks, low and urgent. People stroll past us—couples, servants bearing packages, governesses herding children—and I know we are feeding gossip with our intense gazes on each other. But I hardly care as I look into Arthur’s face taut with longing, feeling the intoxication of knowing that as powerful as he is in this world, a man with a title, estate, and old family name,Ihave the upper hand here. And he is mine for the taking.

And then the moment has to be ruined by, of all things, a child.

A little boy has fallen near us and scraped his knees upon the ground, and he is screaming as though he has been run through with a hot fire poker. The sound sets my teeth on edge and my blood rising, and I move away from Arthur in a half-dazed rage. The child’s nurse runs over from wherever she has been socializing and hovers over him, fussing.

“Master Graham, you have torn your breeches! How careless you are,” she croons with that peculiar mix of scolding and praising I have never been able to understand in other women.

The boy continues squalling, no doubt enjoying the attention from sympathetic onlookers. Other passersby are smiling, pursing their lips, or gazing indulgently at him.

Even Arthur’s attention has been monopolized by the diminutive monster. “Poor little chap,” he murmurs, his eyes soft. “That was a bit of a fall.”

“Hush, now,” the nurse says, holding the child close. “Quiet.”

The boy’s wails soften into sniffles as he tucks his head against her shoulder. And what should happen next, but for his attention to turn to me. His eyes are round and dark and shining, ringed with lashes like writhing spider legs as they squeeze out fat tears. Slimy white matter crawls from his nose and directly into his open mouth as he stares at me, unblinking, his dirty and smudged doll-like hands gripping the nurse’s arm.

She notices his interest in me and offers an apologetic smile to Arthur and me. “Master Graham, don’t stare,” she chides the boy. “It isn’t polite.”

The child mumbles something in reply, his words indecipherable as more mucus enters his mouth. I swallow hard, trying not to gag as I stare at his repulsive little face. I am reminded of an image I saw once in one of Papa’s books, a lurid illustration accompanying one of the many tales of horror I loved to read. It was of a dead child with an uncanny resemblance to this boy, down to the slimy lash-ringed eyes and gaping mouth … a child that had crawled out of its grave to terrify and punish an uncaring mother. I have never been able to look at a child since without revulsion and distaste and, at best, utter apathy.

The nurse gives us another apologetic smile. “What did you say, my pet?” she asks him gently. “Did you say that something is blue?”

“Bloofer,” he mumbles, pointing his dirty chubby finger right at me. “Bloofer lady.”

Even though pointing is much ruder than staring, both Arthur and the nurse start laughing, as though the boy is the cheekiest, cleverest little thing.

“What on earth is he saying?” I ask, trying to speak in a light tone. But my words are tinged with the rage and disgust I am trying to hide, and Arthur and the nurse look at me quickly.

“He’s paying you a compliment, Lucy,” Arthur says. “He’s saying you are beautiful.”

“I beg your pardon, miss.” The nurse scoops up the boy and rises, her friendly face now apprehensive as she looks at me. I wonder what she sees in my eyes. “Master Graham means no harm. He’s always liked prettyfaces and yours is lovely, that’s all.” She bobs a curtsy to us and hurries off with the little boy, who is still looking back at me.

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