Page 9 of Now Comes the Mist

I lower my voice. “Will you tell me something? Something I’m aching to know?”

His eyes spark. “Anything.”

I press my lips together, feigning nervousness. “I’ve heard that American cowboys have very, very big …” I am delighted to see that he is holding his breath. “Hats. Is that true?”

Mr. Morris throws his head back and howls with laughter. “You’re one of a kind.”

I beam up at him. Dr. Seward would have been horrified by the joke, but Mr. Morris is obviously a different kind of man. A man I wouldn’t have to worry about offending—a man who might actually value my speaking freely before him. “I’d like to see that open plain you mentioned someday,” I say frankly, and there is such warmth in his gaze that it fills my soul.

The music ends and I notice a couple near us. The man is glaring at Mr. Morris. I don’t know him, but I recognize his partner as Penelope Worthing, a lively, pretty red-haired girl with whom I grew up and have always liked. I glance from the emerald ring sparkling on her hand to her pale, horse-faced partner, whose front teeth jut out from his thin lips. Penelope notices my observation, flushes, and whispers to him, but he continues to stare.

She gives me an apologetic smile. “Good evening, Lucy. How lovely you look tonight! I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure of being introduced to your partner.”

“I would be happy to introduce you.Andyour companion, who is looking most avidly at him,” I say, and the man blinks his bulging blue eyes at me, startled by my directness. But I have long since learned that in company such as this—where women are trained never to say what they mean and must instead embed a myriad of insinuations into every innocent comment—it is best to force the knife to the core of a situation. And I am a woman who keeps my knives sharp. “This is Mr. Quincey Morris, an American friend of Dr. Jack Seward’s. Mr. Morris, this is my childhood friend, Penelope Worthing.”

They murmur polite greetings. “This is my fiancé, Alastor Hurst,” Penelope says, sounding abashed as she indicates her smirking companion.I feel a twinge of distaste and sympathy, for I recognize the name. The Hursts are social-climbing merchants who had tried for years to befriend my parents—to no avail, as Mamma despised their airs and pretensions—but their wealth is undeniable. And it is no secret that Penelope’s philandering older brother has put their parents into dire financial straits. Clearly, this will be a marriage of desperate circumstance—not the outcome I would have hoped for Penelope.

Alastor Hurst scans Mr. Morris from head to toe, his lip curled to clearly telegraph his disgust. “Miss Westenra,” he says. “Mr. Morris. You seem to be having a most amusing conversation. I’ve never heard such noise during a waltz before.”

“Alastor,” Penelope says, closing her eyes briefly.

“It’s called laughter, sir,” I say with a dazzling smile, even as anger burns in me like acid. “It must be a foreign concept to you if it puzzles you so deeply.”

“Laughter?” Mr. Hurst repeats. “It sounded more like the braying of a donkey. It is rather distracting, trying to dance amid such noise.”

Above reproach, Papa’s voice echoes in my head.At all times.

But I cannot look at this simpering, equine-visaged fool and remain silent. “Oh, dear,” I say with mock sadness. “If merriment is so repulsive to you, I find your presence at our party rather curious, Mr. Hunt. Or was it Holmes?” I remember his name perfectly, but I can’t resist. This buffoon is not worth even the dirt on Penelope’s shoe.

Mr. Hurst turns white with fury, but he directs his venom at the cowboy. “I didn’t realize you people were allowed in places like this. I’m astonished at Audrey Westenra for inviting you. Shouldn’t you be shoveling coal somewhere or cleaning horse dung out of the stables?”

There is absolute silence in the room. Even the musicians have stopped playing.

Penelope closes her eyes again, looking as though she wishes a hole would open in Mamma’s expensive French carpet and swallow her.

I draw myself up to my full height. “Sir, you have insulted my guest quite enough. I find no other recourse but to ask you to leave at once.”

Gasps of shock and delight sound out around us.

“Miss Lucy, please,” Quincey Morris says quietly. “I reckon there’s no need to send him away on my account, not when he is escorting a young lady.”

But Penelope speaks up at once. “I don’t mind leaving. Come, Alastor,” she says, seizing her fiancé’s arm, her face red with mortification. “Take me home.”

“Am I to be dismissed with so little courtesy?” Mr. Hurst sputters. “Do you know who I am, Miss Westenra? Who my parents are? So high and mighty as you are.”

“I will not tolerate such appalling behavior at a party given in my home,” I say calmly.

“We’re leaving,” Penelope says, pressing my hand in farewell. “I am so sorry, Lucy. And Mr. Morris, I hope you will enjoy your time in England.”

“Do come back and have tea with Mamma and me soon,” I say with an apology in my own voice. Mr. Hurst deserved to be attacked, but I regret having done so at Penelope’s expense.

Mamma unsuccessfully attempts to intercept them at the door, then rushes over to me as the music starts up again and the spectators scatter. “Lucy,” she whispers, with a big smile on her face to mask the horror in her eyes. “What on earth just happened?”

I gesture to the cowboy. “That man insulted my guest, Mr. Morris.”

“Oh, I see,” Mamma says helplessly. “Well, I am very sorry for his rudeness in that case.”

Mr. Morris bows. “No need to apologize, ma’am. I have heard much worse before, and it is I who am sorry for the interruption of your party.” When he turns to me, his gaze is not as warm as it was. “Miss Lucy, thank you for the dance and conversation. Will you excuse me?”

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