Page 30 of Now Comes the Mist

But Arthur shakes his head. “I am going back to London. There is a train leaving in half an hour. I will not stay tonight. Please make my apologies to your mother for missing tea.”

My pleasure dissolves into shock and disappointment. “Arthur!” I exclaim. “What is wrong? What has happened? Are you angry?”

He looks at me quickly. “Not at all. But I must go to avoid temptation … for you and for me. When I come to you, Lucy, it will be as a husband to his wife.”

“But we will be married no matter what,” I say, fighting the urge to scream, so frustrated as I am. “Iwillbe your wife and youwillbe my husband. What difference can it make if you spend a night with me before our wedding? You want this, too.”

“Yes!” he cries, his eyes wild. He glances at the door and lowers his voice. “I want you more than I have ever wanted anything. I forget myself near you. But I will not … intrude upon your privacy until we are man and wife. It is important to me to keep my honor and your virtue.”

“Damn them!” I proclaim, and he stares, appalled by my language. “What should we care of honor or virtue when we have each other? Arthur, I am dying for you.”

“I am going,” he says calmly. “I will write to you when I return to London.”

I clench my skirts in my fists, too furious to speak.

Quickly, he closes the distance between us and kisses my forehead, as chaste as if we were in full company. “I love you,” he says, tilting my chin to look deep into my eyes. “And I promise you that our wedding night will be everything you desire. I will make you happy then.”

And then he strides away, leaving me hungry and full of desperate, unsatisfied desire.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Night has fallen, and I am standing in the shadow of the ruined abbey atop the cliffs of Whitby. The moonlight is so bright that I can see every stone in the crumbling walls, every bench beneath the graceful trees, and every flower beside the path. I stoop to pluck a luminous white blossom, and the scent of it is like ephemeral sugar, melting and pure. All is still, and aside from the rumble of the ocean hundreds of feet below, there is not a sound to be heard. I hold the flower to my nose and continue up the steps, feeling utterly at peace.

The month of July settled upon Whitby like a thick smothering blanket, but tonight, the ocean air is cool and refreshing, and my bare feet are kissed by a delicate mist that seems to shimmer in the dark. I enjoy the wind riffling through my hair and the folds of my long silk nightdress as I make my way toward my favorite seat overlooking the water.

Someone is already sitting there.

A man gazes out to sea, his long arms propped behind him on the bench. From his serene posture and the way he tips his head back to look at the stars, he seems as appreciative of the air and the view as I am. He does not turn, and yet I sense the exact moment in which he becomes aware of me. There is a slight straightening of his torso, the merest tilt of his head to the side, and an intake of breath that I can feel more than I hear. The sensation of his focus shifting from the ocean directly to me is like sitting with closed eyes in a pool of moonlight.

He does not speak, but I sense his patient expectation.

I find my voice. “Good evening.”

“Good evening,” he says, and my heart clenches. I know that voice, deep and rich and full of music, with the slight trace of a foreign accent.My head feels light and buoyant as I sift through the ashes of my dark dreams, searching for this man, but they elude me. Perhaps my mind is playing tricks on me; perhaps he is only a stranger after all.

“I am sorry to disturb you,” I say politely.

“You do not disturb me in the least.” The rhythmic cadence of his words is like a lullaby, filling me with calm and well-being. I am overwhelmed by a sudden powerful drowsiness and a longing to sink into the plush feathers of my bed. The scene around me grows hazy and dim, and the lines of the abbey dissolve against the night sky.

“Good night, then.” I turn to go home, for I can barely keep my eyes open.

“Lucy.”

My drowsiness subsides at once. In an instant, I feel more awake than I have ever been in the whole of my existence. That one word, my name, spoken in his soft voice, is enough to bring the cliffs and the sea and the sky back into sharp resolution. I can almost feel the cold heat of the stars from where I stand. All at once, I am certain that I have heard my name from his lips before, and he and I have stood together in the night.

“Yes?” I ask.

“Come and sit with me a moment.”

His cordial tone implies that it is a request, but my feet obey as if it had been a command. I take a seat beside him, looking out at the great black expanse of ocean. I have never seen this view at night, and in the darkness, sea and sky seem to be one but for the keening of the waves below like some great sleepless beast in the depths. Strands of mist weave through the grass at our feet, and the air smells of fresh turned earth, peculiar but not unpleasant.

I long to study this man I suspect I have met in my dreams, but something holds me back. A languid heaviness hangs upon me like the stupor of coming out of sleep, when you cannot yet slip from its grasp. I am forced to keep my eyes on the sea and take in only what I can feel: the cool stone beneath me, the stem of the flower in my fingers, the warmth of my hair and the fluttering ruffles of my nightdress upon my shoulders. The bench is not wide, and though I am small and perched on the edge with my knees together, the stranger is very close to me.

From the corner of my eye, I see that his legs are much longer than mine and end in polished black shoes. He wears dark trousers and a well-cut jacket, from the sleeves of which his long pale hands emerge, one of them resting on the bench between us. I glean the sensation of a big,powerfully built man, but it does not occur to me to be afraid. I am in my favorite peaceful spot in Whitby, after all, and my companion has a quiet, thoughtful presence.

Something glints on the smallest finger of his hand, and my breath stops in my throat when I recognize it. I know that ring of brass, that garnet of deep wine red. I have felt it on my skin as he stroked my face, as he ran his hand down my bare shoulder. Images flash through the darkness of my mind like lightning: A pale hand reaching for mine. A ballroom of dying roses. A moonlit kiss in a garden of watchful statues. A path of brambles calling to me from the dark.

“Hello, Lucy. I told you I would find you again.” He sounds amused. His attention on me feels like drifting into slumber on a languid morning, the muslin curtains diffusing sunlight into something soft and dreamy. I feel his gaze take me in, but it is a pleasant, rapturous scrutiny. I could happily sit here for all eternity with his eyes on me, warm and tranquil. “This is my first visit to these cliffs. I wanted my earliest glimpse of England to be a beautiful one.”

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