prodding by Lucy, lowered his hands, she observed that his face was red and his eyes were tearing.
“What name did you say?” he asked in a low, rasping sort of voice.
Lucy recalled that she had made it her habit to conceal such things from Mr. Morrison in the past. That she had neglected to do so now ought not to have posed any problems, but surely it did. Was it possible that he, like Byron, knew Mary?
Mr. Morrison took a step forward. “Say her name again!” he demanded, such rage in his voice that Lucy was afraid either to answer or to not answer.
Remaining quiet struck her as the more dangerous of the two options, and so she spoke. She needed to keep him calm at all costs, lest his rage shatter the hold of the love magic she had put upon him. “It is my friend, Mary Crawford.”
He put his hands to his face again and turned away. “My God, I could not have believed it. I would not have believed it. Is it truly possible?”
She took a halting step after him. “What is it Mr. Morrison? What has happened? Who is Miss Crawford to you?”
“Then you truly do not know?” he asked.
“I know nothing of her except what she is to me.”
Jonas Morrison lowered himself gently into an armchair and sat with his head down, wiping away tears without care to conceal them. When he raised his face to her, he appeared hardly recognizable. The stony, reserved face was now soft and moist and bloated with sadness. “Mary. Miss Crawford, as you style her, was my wife. It was she who was murdered, and she for whom I seek revenge.”
There was obviously an error. “I am sorry to have mentioned a name so troubling to you,” Lucy said, choosing her words with great care. “Hers cannot be an unusual name.”
“It is not a name, it is
“She encouraged me and she was my teacher. But your wife is dead. You said she is dead.”
“She
It was a mistake. It had to be. Mary, dead? Mary, a member of the very race she claimed to fight against? Lucy did not understand it. She could not even make herself think about it. Not now. Not yet. She had to restore some kind of order and meaning to the world.
He turned away from her, but Lucy knew it was her task to comfort him. In the past, he had treated her monstrously, but she had cast a spell so that he would cherish her, and surely in doing so she had inherited some responsibilities. She could not let him suffer like this.
As she approached, however, he spun around. “Dear Lord, how many times must I be humiliated? You cast love magic on me. You have been toying with me since—since Nottingham, the chocolate house. I see it all now.”
He gave her no time to answer, which was for the best. There was nothing to say.
“You would use me so? I must endure this as well?” He paused for a moment, wiped his eyes with a handkerchief, and then looked at her, his expression as hard and cold as any she had ever seen of him. “I know you are angry for what you believed passed between us so many years ago. I know you are angry, and I know you are determined, but never did I think you cruel.”
He left the room. She heard some forced conversation outside, and then the door shut. Beyond the other horrible feelings that swirled in her mind, Lucy understood that, in a capital on the threshold of revolution, she was now truly all alone without friends or protection. And yet, beyond all this, she thought that she had been exposed to Mr. Morrison, and he still did not recall that he had given her the pages of the book. She now possessed eight of the twelve pages, and to that one triumph she tried to cling, lest she collapse now in tears.
Lucy remained in that room, frightened and ashamed, unable to think of what to say or where to go. Mary was a revenant. She had lied to Lucy from their first meeting. She had tricked and manipulated her into ends Lucy could not now imagine. Lucy, who had felt friendless before, now felt utterly alone and without help.
Her coach to Nottingham had already departed, and she hardly knew what to do. She could arrange for another the next day, but would it be safe for her to travel the streets? What happened upon the streets? Was there violence and murder and riot? She did not know, and she hardly dared to ask her unwilling hosts for intelligence.
After perhaps an hour Mr. Gilley entered the room. Lucy now sat by the window, looking out upon the cool spring day. If Mr. Gilley noticed her distress, he did not trouble himself to acknowledge it.
“I trust we shan’t have any more of your gentleman friends trouble us today? All this coming and going brings in chill air, which is very bad for the lungs.”
Lucy did not turn her head. “I expect no more visitors.”
“You will do me the courtesy of looking upon me while you are in my house.”
Lucy turned to him. “I shall endeavor to try. I have missed my coach to Nottingham today. If the streets appear safe, I shall leave tomorrow.”
“You shall leave tomorrow regardless,” said Mr. Gilley. “I said you had three days to depart this house, and so you shall have.”
“And you’ll not trouble yourself if I step out into a riot.”
“You chose to behave without restraint. I cannot answer for the consequences. I have my daughter to think of, and it cannot be to her benefit to see the parade of rakes you bring through our halls, and it could prove detrimental to my constitution as well.” He rose, closed the door, and returned to her, sitting close upon the sofa. “However, as you are now of so generous a disposition as regards the favors of gentlemen, I think it may be possible for me to find a place to stay here in town, provided you are willing to be generous to me.”
Mr. Gilley put his hand on Lucy’s shoulder and smiled showing his very good teeth.
After all that had happened, Mr. Gilley’s proposal filled her with neither fear nor disgust. If anything, she welcomed his blatant expression of desire, his open willingness to state his terms. And what he wanted, what he wished to trade, was of no matter. There were charms she could use to protect her as she walked through the bloody streets. She could make herself safe—she was sure of it. If not, she could alter things otherwise to her liking. Mr. Gilley might desire her now, but it would take relatively little effort to make him love her, and once he did, his demands would be more easily controlled. Or she could make herself invisible to him, or feared by him, or any of a thousand other things. Maybe she was alone and abandoned, but she was not helpless. She had felt helpless her entire life, but she would not feel helpless today.
Lucy looked up at him. “No, I don’t believe I shall accept your offer. You may call me disgraced because my responsibilities demanded I travel from your home without your leave or knowledge, but I have done no wrong. I can assure you, Mr. Gilley, if I could resist Lord Byron’s charms, I shall have no difficulty resisting yours. Now, I beg you, remove your hand from my shoulder. You wish me gone by tomorrow, then all shall be as you wish. I shall tend to the coach, and if I must brave riot and mayhem, then so be it.”
Her words, direct and calm, horrified him. He took a step back. “You are brazen.”
She shook her head. “Shall you tell me so?”
“Perhaps not even another night under my roof is acceptable,” he said.
“As you like,” she responded as she rose to her feet. She would give him no satisfaction. She had nothing to fear. His mind was not his own, but hers to use as she wished. She did not love to use magic to alter people’s inclinations, but in this case, she would do so quite happily.
Just then came a knock upon the door, and Mr. Gilley’s urbane serving man bowed by way of greeting. “Sir, I regret disturbing you, but the young lady has another caller.”
“I can hardly affect surprise,” said Mr. Gilley. “What manner of debauched devil shall we expect this time?”
