Page 28 of Now Comes the Mist

A childhood memory stirs in my mind of running down a hill behind my grandfather’s estate in the country. I remember the breathless anticipation of scurrying up the slope, ignoring my mother calling me to come back at once, and then that moment—like a pause between heartbeats—of standing atop the hill before spreading my arms wide and letting the earth propel me downward, my pulse pounding and my mouth agape in an exclamation of shrill delight.

I have often imagined that plunging over those cliffs and rushing down to meet those foamy waves would be much the same. The thought is gripping in its terror and ecstasy as I picture townspeople finding my body crumpled in the sand or floating on the waves, my delicate pale dress contrasting with the dark water. I imagine men pulling me from the sea, Mamma hurrying to the beach, and Arthur prostrate with grief when the telegram reaches him in London.

I sigh.

This is where the fantasy always ends, whether I am dreaming or awake. The loss of Papa, my grandparents, and Van have scarred me sodeeply that I would rather lose them all over again than force Mamma or Mina or Arthur to feel even a fraction of what I have.

Last night, I had sleepwalked again, but only to the parlor in our lodgings. Very often, in the light of morning, I forget what I have dreamed—aside from a vague feeling of pleasure or fear or worry. But this latest episode insists upon lingering. In the dream, I was in the churchyard, watching grave robbers defile my family’s mausoleum. I screamed and shouted, but they could not hear me as they dug pickaxes and shovels into the coffins where my loved ones lay, taking what jewelry they could find. I had expected Papa to sit up and protest, but all that had lain in his tomb—and in those of every other family member—had been nothing but bones and dust. And when the grave robbers had finished their grisly task, they had locked me in with the skeletons and silence and death, pounding my fists on the door with no one to hear.

This is what dying would truly be like, I imagine my mind telling me.

Not a joyous scene in which I would reunite with Papa and be free of a life I never chose, but the stark reality of dust and darkness and bones, while in the world outside Mamma grieved, Arthur mourned, and Mina wept as she married without me there to fix her veil.

My morbid pleasure dissolves, and I am brought back to reality as I look down at my feet, firmly and securely planted on the ground.

I will be Arthur’s wife, and no matter what he claims, he will neither like nor understand these fantasies of death that seduce me.Thisis what I had tried to convey to loving Mamma, who believes that I am anxious about Arthur discovering the untidy way I discard my dresses in my room or my fits of temper whenever I am hungry. She thinks I fear what any other young lady would, when the truth is that I am not like any other young lady. I am not like anyone at all.

I think of how much it had hurt when Arthur had pulled away from our kiss in the churchyard. To imagine histruerejection after our marriage, when he learns about the peculiar workings of my mind, is even more excruciating, for he would not be able to put me aside. He would be trapped as my husband, and I cannot do that to him. Not to Arthur.

“I must truly love him,” I whisper with a rueful laugh.

My only solution is to be completely truthful. If I had pen and paper with me, I would confess everything in a letter to him this very moment. “This is me,” I would write. “This is all of me, and I want you to see it before it is too late.”

The urge is so powerful that I walk back to our lodgings a full few hours sooner than I had intended, but when I walk through the door, I have no opportunity to run to my room and my pen. For on the hall table is a gentleman’s hat, and drifting out of the parlor is a man’s voice.

Arthur is here, I realize. Arthur is here, and I could tell him everything I meant to write.

I find him sitting with Mamma. He rises at once when he sees me, his face so open and bright that I am seized by a pang of indecision. If I tell him the truth and he turns away …

Do not be cowardly, Lucy, I think, trying to appear light and easy. “Why, Arthur,” I say, holding my hands out to him. It is one of the advantages of being engaged, for I can touch him now in the presence of my mother, who beams upon seeing our joined hands. “What a wonderful surprise. You didn’t say you were coming in your last letter.”

“It was a spur-of-the-moment decision,” Arthur says sheepishly. He releases one of my hands to turn toward my mother, politely including her, though he keeps a firm hold on my other one, my fingers warm and secure in his. “I’m afraid I didn’t think much before I purchased a train ticket this morning. I just wondered how you were faring at Whitby.”

“Well, you’re just in time for tea,” Mamma says with an affectionate smile, getting up from the sofa. “Let me see how Agatha is getting on with the preparations. Excuse me.”

And then Arthur and I are alone. We look at each other shyly, as though we are fifteen and he is the first boy brave enough to declare himself my suitor.

“I couldn’t stay away,” he says softly. “I missed you too much.”

“I’m glad you’re here.” I reach up to fix his cravat, even though it is already impeccably straight. I can’t help thinking that it might be my last chance to do so, now that I will tell him the truth about me. We sit side by side on the sofa, still holding hands. He angles his long legs to the side so as not to bump into the glass table, and his knees press into mine comfortingly. “I was sitting up on the cliffs just now, near the abbey and the graveyard.”

“A graveyard doesn’t seem the right place for you, darling.” He reaches out to smooth my hair right above my ear, the gesture tentative and sweet, sending tingles down my neck.

I take a deep breath. “Arthur, I want to tell you something that’s been on my mind.”

His gaze, which has been fondly roving over my hair and my ear and my chin, focuses on my eyes. “What is it? Is something troubling you?”

I nod and lower my eyes, for his trusting gaze is almost too much to bear. “You know how I am still in mourning for Papa. We have talked of it many times. But what you don’t know is that death fascinates me. It always has and it always will, and if you are to be my husband, I want you to know everything before you are tied to me.”

“Do you mean that it frightens you?” he asks.

“No. And yes at the same time,” I say, struggling to explain. “Who among us is not afraid of dying? But there has always been a part of me that longs for it as well.”

“Longs for it?” Arthur echoes, alarmed.

“When I was on the cliffs, I imagined tumbling over the fence. I thought about how it might feel to plunge into the waves and what would happen afterward, when I was found. I don’t mean that Iwantthis to happen, exactly,” I add, seeing his concern growing with every word. “I only mean that I often envision my own death. There is something almost … pleasurable in it.”

He looks at me in silence, trying to understand.

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