Page 23 of Now Comes the Mist

My mind feels scattered and fragmented. I clutch at the edges of the dream. There had been a man waltzing with me. Or at least, Ibelievewe had been waltzing. My back had been pressed against him, and I had turned my head over my shoulder, and his lips …

“Miss Lucy?” Harriet asks, staring at me.

I press my hands to my hot cheeks. The dream had felt so real: the press of his mouth on mine, the feel of him behind me, his hands on my body. “Did you see anyone else here?”

Poor Harriet looks frightened now. “Of course not, miss. It’s the middle of the night.” She touches my elbow. “Please let me take you back to your room, or you’ll catch cold. At least you sleepwalked around the house tonight instead of out to that dreadful churchyard.”

Obediently, I follow her out of the room. Just before she shuts the door, I look back at the mirrors, almost expecting to see a shadowed figure gazing out at me. But the reflection is only that of my own small and slender form, draped in white and full of endless, futile yearning.

CHAPTER TEN

Afew days later, Mamma holds another dinner party. Jack Seward is invited, this time without Dr. Van Helsing, who has returned to Amsterdam. The guest list holds other familiar names. One of them is Quincey Morris, to my satisfaction … and another is the Honorable Arthur Holmwood, to my chagrin. My mother has ignored my pleas to exclude him.

“It would be unconscionably rude to leave him out,” she protests whenever I bring it up. “I am sorry he has displeased you, but at least give him a chance to redeem himself.”

She believes that Arthur and I have had a lovers’ quarrel, and I do not disabuse her of this notion, not when half a dozen bouquets from London’s finest florists arrive every morning. From a bed of greenery spill red camellias, fragrant forget-me-nots, and last night, even a desperate two dozen roses. I tell the maids to throw them away, but I can still smell them in the hall; no doubt Mamma has hidden them away in her own room, unable to get rid of such lovely gifts.

That evening, as our guests begin to arrive, emotion rages inside me. It took three hours to decide what to wear as I tossed aside dress after dress for looking too desperate, too hopeful, or too aloof. But my goodness, what frock would properly assert “I am a beautiful, brilliant woman whose heart has been broken by the only suitor she ever truly loved, but must try to look unbothered to all the other men who desire her”?

And Mina is not even here to calm and advise me. She is in Exeter with her aunt and only knows of the latest developments through my tear-stained letters. Her responses are loving, sisterly, and full of encouragement that I will make the right choice and do the right thing.

But I do not deserve her confidence. I attempted to force Arthur’s hand, and now I have lost him forever. When I think of how abruptly he had ended our embrace, I am filled with a shame so sour I can taste it. “This doesn’t feel right,” he had said, his back turned to me, and his fists clenched. I had been so conceited, so overconfident. I had never imagined such a rejection from anyone, least of all the one person I felt certain would accept me no matter what I did.

I do not know how I can face him tonight—how I can look at him and speak to him as though we were mere acquaintances mingling at a party.

And so I do neither.

When the sound of laughter and the clinking of glasses fills our home, I do not look at or speak to Arthur after a brief greeting, as is expected of the hostess’s daughter. I devote myself to Jack and Quincey, who have singled me out, a pair of hungry wolves seeking out a willing lamb.

Tonight, I have chosen a demure gown of watered silk that covers my shoulders and décolletage, the blue-grey shade resembling mist over the sea. The front may be modest, but the neckline dips courageously in the back, revealing several surprising inches of skin above a row of gleaming pearl buttons. I have swept my hair into a knot with a pearl comb to display my back to best effect, and I feel many eyes on me as I chat to Jack and Quincey. Arthur’s, in particular, are like a warm and lingering touch, but he does not make the slightest attempt to win me back.

He truly does not care, I think, throwing my head back to laugh too hard at something Dr. Seward has just said. The heartache is so powerful, it threatens to dissolve my façade. My breath catches in my tight throat and Dr. Seward notices at once.

“You look faint. Is it too warm for you?” he asks. There is professional concern on his face, but his brown eyes are full of yearning for any excuse to touch me. I hold out my hand to him, but to my never-ending amusement, Quincey Morris swoops in like a great thundercloud and takes it before the young doctor even has time to blink.

“Let me take you outside for some air, Miss Lucy,” the cowboy says in his butter-smooth drawl. “It isn’t dark yet, and dinner won’t be for a while longer.”

I look up at his strong and handsome face, his eyes crinkling as he smiles at me, and force Arthur from my mind with all the willpower I possess. Here is a kind, amusing, intelligent man who has made no secret of his affection for me. “I would like that very much, Mr. Morris,” I say, and he leads me out of the room. I catch a glimpse of Dr. Seward’s crestfallenexpression and Mamma’s sharp gaze before the American and I are alone in the garden under the darkening sky.

“I’m glad to have a moment alone with you,” Quincey says. He glances over his shoulder at the curious faces watching us from the windows, one of them doubtlessly Mamma’s. I try not to think about the others, and to whom they might belong. “I’ve been wanting to speak to you privately since our dance at Miss Murray’s engagement party.”

“Goodness. That long?” I ask, looking down at our joined hands. I like the sight of my delicate fingers in his big, weathered hand. “You could have written to me.”

“There are some things you shouldn’t rely on paper to say to a lady. Or … or to ask a lady,” he adds, gazing at me with such significance that I begin to suspect what is coming.

A giggle threatens to burst from my chest, but I restrain it and look up at him demurely. “What is this all-important question, then, Mr. Morris?”

He takes my other hand, too, so that we are standing face-to-face, and shuts his eyes. His chest rises and falls with his deep slow breaths, and he rolls his head on his big shoulders as though stretching after a long ride. He swings my hands lightly like we are two children playing in the garden, and the desire to laugh overtakes me once more as I realize that this large, strong, effusive man who is full of courage and cheer, who carries deadly weapons everywhere he goes and looks ready to fight at a moment’s notice … isnervous.

I press my lips together to suppress my merriment. “Mr. Morris?” I prompt him.

Quincey’s eyes fly open. “America is a beautiful country,” he blurts out. “And it’s completely unlike anything you see here.”

“I … I’m sure you’re right,” I say, surprised.

“I know you love London. But I think you would love Texas, too. It’s a sight to behold, especially on horseback. Golden fields under a hot sun, a rolling green country with grass rippling like waves, the sky in summer endless and bluer even than the sea. I don’t leave home often, but whenever I do, the sight of it coming back is like cool water to a thirsty man.”

I ache with envy at the warmth in his voice and the way his gaze grows distant, picturing that far-off land he loves. He can come and go from home whenever he wishes, take ships and trains and carriages and explore the entire world until his feet grow weary and carry him back across oceans to the place where he is happiest.

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