Page 26 of Now Comes the Mist

This is everything my short existence has led to from my very first breath on this earth. From the moment I was placed into my mother’s arms, tiny and red and screaming, and been announced a girl,thishas been expected of me. Nineteen years of learning how to curtsy, how tohold a fork, how to dance and sing and play music. Nineteen years of being educated and groomed and dressed like a doll so that I might first be a credit to my father, then to my husband. There is no other route my life could have taken, no hidden path of brambles leading me off the road that has faced every woman who came before me, even my great-grandmother with her royal and romantic past in a land far away.

There will be no journeys for me now, no voyages across the sea, no sprawling ruins or sun-touched mountains or deep shady forests. It had all been an unquenchable yearning and a useless hope only to be spoken in the dark. “Some of us must sacrifice a great deal, must we not? Names, tongues, and roots,” Dr. Van Helsing had said, but he had not mentioned the sacrifice a woman must make of her own existence. Of course he had not. Only Mamma and Mina would understand, and they have spent years pressing me to accept my fate and be that ideal of womanly perfection and virtue. Someone modest and circumspect, someone who loves children, someone who doesnotdesire her dearest female friend, someone who speaks and moves and lives with such elegance and grace as to be the perfect choice for a gentleman’s wife.

Like Van, who became Vanessa so that she could be with my great-grandfather, I will be Lucy, who became what she was not so that she could belong to Arthur Holmwood.

There is only one correct answer to what he has asked of me.

My reeling, frantic mind searches for a way to stall. I reach for my favorite armor, my playful demeanor, and keep my eyes on my lap where his hand still covers both of mine. “Why have you not spoken before now? Perhaps,” I add, with a touch of wickedness, “you only want me because you know that two other men wish to be my husband.”

“Do you really believe that?” Arthur asks quietly.

“You never made clear your intentions before. You came when I called and kissed me in the churchyard, but you did not mention marriage until Jack and Quincey proposed. Neither of them ever made me wonder, you know.” I sigh and turn away, watching the branches sway in the breeze. “Tonight, I considered securing my future at last with either the doctor or the cowboy.”

“But you refused them.” Arthur now lays both of his hands on mine. They are so much larger than my own that his fingers splay over my lap, and only my skirts separate his touch from my naked legs. He swallows hard, but he manages to hold on to his composure. “When Quincey came inside, I saw your answer in his face. And then Jack went out to you, andI couldn’t stand it anymore, so I followed after a while, and his eyes … I just knew. And it gave me hope.”

“Refusing them doesn’t mean I will accept you,” I whisper, my playfulness dissolving as I try to take my hands away. But Arthur’s grasp tightens, and I think again of how he held me in the churchyard, his arms locked around me like a drowning man’s on a buoy. “That night, I told myself to forget you. And when the moment came, to choose another—”

“But you didn’t choose another,” Arthur says, calm and determined. He inches closer to me, his eyes level with mine. If he tipped his head forward, our mouths would meet again. He spreads his hands, expanding the heat of his touch on my legs and trapping my breath in my raw throat. His plea comes out in a hoarse whisper. “Please, Lucy, I am begging you. Marry me.”

He has prostrated himself before me, helpless with longing. He will offer me his hand, his heart, and his home, and I have the ability to determine the course of his life with one word. I will choose whether this man is happy or heartbroken. But however immense this power seemed on the night we first kissed, it is pale and weak and silly to me now.

Already I am envisioning our life together. There will be a ring upon my hand, binding me to him. He will take away my name and give me his to let the world know that I belong to him as much as his horse or his carriage do. I will live in his home, entertain his guests, please his parents. I will sit by his side at every event, another hunting trophy won after a long and victorious chase. And—I swallow hard to clear the bile in my throat—any children I bear will be considered his, though I buy them with the pain and blood of my own body.

I will have nothing.

I will be nothing.

“Lucy, you’re killing me.” Arthur moves his hands to either side of my face, as though he might squeeze my answer from me like juice from a berry. “What are you thinking?”

“I am thinking of how much it hurt when you pushed me away,” I say shakily. “And of how much more it will hurt when you push me away after we are married.”

A fire ignites in his eyes. I have saidafterwe are married, notif. “What do you mean by that?” he asks eagerly. “I already explained about the other night—”

“I mean that when I become your wife, Arthur, you will see all of me,” I say. “And I am afraid you will turn away. I am a woman made of darkthoughts. Death is always with me, and I with it. There is a sadness I cannot shake, and you will grow tired and frustrated with me.”

“I wouldneverturn away from you.” He moves even closer, until my knees are pressed into his abdomen. Whoever is watching us from the house will have quite an interesting view of his back, shielding whatever we are doing from their curious gazes. “I would love and accept all of you, Lucy. Please believe me. I know how you still mourn your father. Don’t be angry, but your mother has told me that you often sleepwalk to the churchyard where he lies.”

This startles me. “When did she tell you?Whatdid she tell you?”

“Not much. Only that she and your maid have found you wandering in your sleep.” The corners of his mouth lift shyly. “I think your kind mother hopes as much as I do that you will marry me. She told me she could never presume to know your heart, but she thought she sensed a regard in you that she had not seen for any other man. Was she right?”

I look straight into his eyes. “Yes,” I whisper.

Arthur touches my face so tenderly that I almost cry again. “How can you think that I would consider your grief a failing? You are a woman who loves deeply and are marked forever by those you love. I … I only hope you think I am worthy of that love, too.”

“I do think that.” I place my hand over his with the feeling of someone standing on the edge of a crumbling cliff. Every second that passes is another rock, and another, and another, bringing my feet closer to the fall. “But why did you wait so long to ask me?”

He gives a short, rueful laugh. “You know how bashful and awkward I am. I’m not a dashing cowboy, painting beautiful pictures with my words, or a handsome doctor who always knows the right romantic gestures to give.” He indicates himself. “This is all I can give you. And I know it is a poor offer compared to the ones you’ve received tonight.”

As stunned as I had been to see him smile, I am even more shocked by the tears in his eyes. Arthur Holmwood is crying before me as he professes his feelings, and through my muddle of grief, confusion, and anxiety is the overpowering need to make him happy. I want him to know only joy, this gentle soul who might ease the pain of being forced down this road for me.

“I love you,” I say quietly.

The change that comes over Arthur’s face clears my mind of any other man walking on this earth. It is like he is a candle and I have lit the wick, and the flame is dancing before my eyes, bright and searing wheremoments before there had been nothing, only darkness. He puts his arms around me and whispers, “Say it again.”

“I love you,” I tell him. Only when I taste a drop of salt do I realize that I, too, am crying—though I am not certain whether it is because of that long-awaited happiness or the dreadful certainty that I have now embarked upon an irreversible course. Perhaps it is both. “I love you, Arthur. My answer is yes. I will be your wife.”

And then he is kissing me, as passionately as he had that evening. I lean into him, feeling all the warm points of connection between us: our lips, moving with urgent intent; his arms gathering me close to him; my breasts against his jacket; the warmth of his torso against my legs; how soft his hair feels in my fingers as I stroke the back of his head.

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