fruit that had tempted generations of alchemists, but the art was so much more than that, so much more subtle, and Lucy regularly sat up long into the night, her eyes straining by the candlelight, to grasp what was, by its nature, almost too slippery to be contained.
More than once she had almost quit the endeavor and thrown the book aside as incomprehensible madness. Or, if not that, at least too complicated for her mind. Perhaps others might make sense of it, but Lucy would entrust it to no one. In those dark moments she told herself that she need not master the book. Perhaps it was best that she not master it, and enough that she keep the book out of other hands. These moments of despair did not last long, and soon enough, feeling ashamed of her weak will, Lucy returned to the task. Mary had allowed herself to be erased from existence so that Lucy might retain control of the book. Lucy would make certain she honored Mary’s sacrifice.
Lucy could not think of Mary without being struck by melancholy. She had chosen annihilation and oblivion, had elected to be blasted out of existence, with no hope of continuation or resurrection.
Or, Lucy thought, one morning a month or so after the decisive encounter at Newstead, it was what she
It also comforted her to look upon those who had benefited from Mary’s sacrifice. Emily thrived, as did Martha. The loss of her husband had initially been a terrible blow. Lucy had not told her sister the truth, not at first, for there was so much to absorb, but in time Lucy chose to sit Martha down and tell her everything. First she told her about the magic, proved it to her with a dozen demonstrations before Martha could bring herself to anything like belief. Then she unveiled to Martha the truth about Mr. Buckles, and all that had passed between them. It had been a difficult evening, full of tears and horror, but it had been necessary. She would not say it, but Lucy knew that Martha had accepted that if ever a creature deserved destruction, it was Mr. Buckles, a man willing to sacrifice his own child at his mistress’s whim.
Martha’s life was made easier by not wanting for money. Martha immediately gave Lucy the five thousand pounds that should have come to her upon the death of their father. The money itself meant not so much to Lucy, now that she was free of her uncle’s tyranny, as well as any threats of unwanted marriage. She also felt certain she could use her talents to meet any needs. What mattered to her was that her father’s wishes had, at last, been fulfilled, and that somewhere he knew that. Other than the safe return of her niece, nothing she had done in her life gave her more satisfaction.
Lucy had exchanged several letters with Mr. Blake, who accepted her recounting of the events at Newstead without question, finding nothing strange or improbable in anything. He had sent to Lucy copies of his handcrafted books, which were strange and perplexing things, but Lucy treasured them, and believed they might contain important information if only she could figure out how to make sense of them.
As for Mr. Morrison, little was heard of him in the many weeks subsequent to the incident at Newstead. The ball from Byron’s pistol had not done serious harm to his heart or his lungs, but it had shattered a portion of his collarbone, and his recovery had been both long and painful. Lucy had done what she could in those early days when he was too fragile to move and was confined to his room at a Nottingham inn. She showered him with talismans and herbs and poultices. She spent hours each day leafing through her books for formulas and secrets that might speed his recovery. That she did much good was beyond question, for his surgeon, who feared for his life, was amazed at how quickly Mr. Morrison recovered despite the severity of the injury.
Nevertheless, the wound required a long convalescence, and as soon as he was well enough to travel, he took his leave and departed for his family estate in Derbyshire. Lucy had received a few letters from him, in which he discussed very little but his health. He thanked her for all she had done on his behalf and that of the country.
In response, Lucy wrote him long and chatty letters, informing him of the circumstances of her family, whose happiness owed much to his efforts and sacrifices. In one letter she spoke of her opinion about Mary’s fate, about how no one could truly know her ultimate destiny. To this note she had received no answer, and Lucy feared she had overstepped her bounds. It seemed to her that she might never hear from him again.
Then, in midsummer, she received notice from Mr. Morrison that he was much recovered and was now traveling. He wished to call upon Lucy and her sister. He did so, without any further warning, some weeks later.
Lucy watched from the window as he exited his carriage, and the delight she felt upon seeing him took her by surprise. She wanted to see him. She knew that. She had been anticipating his visit each day, feeling disappointed when there was no word from him. And yet, despite all that, she had not expected to feel as though the breath had been struck from her lungs. She had not expected her heart to thunder so alarmingly or her hands to shake. She had begun to suspect that the feelings for him that had come upon her in those dark days were an illusion brought about by the danger of their adventures, but now, seeing him healthy and recovered, she realized that it was far more than that. She knew that she had been living for this moment.
Martha rushed to the door and ushered Mr. Morrison within. Lucy marveled to see him so strong and healthy. A little thinner and more drawn in the face, but his color was good, and he appeared quite cheerful. He wore a handsome light brown suit, and looked so… so, Lucy did not know what. Remarkable, she supposed. He appeared healthy and confident and comfortable. He appeared every bit the man who had so fascinated her four years ago, and every bit the man she had fallen in love with only months past.
When he set eyes upon Lucy, he colored considerably, and rose from his chair in the sitting room to bow to her. Lucy felt herself break into a great smile, and it was all she could to do keep herself from embracing him.
After much fussing about tea and cakes and fruit, the three of them sat together for well over an hour, and little of moment was discussed beyond Mr. Morrison’s health, which he claimed was as good as could be expected. He still experienced some pain and limitations in movement—a result of the ball remaining lodged in his flesh—but his recovery had far exceeded even the most optimistic hopes of the medical men, and he could complain but little.
After a sufficient time had passed, Mr. Morrison cleared his throat and inquired if anyone would care to walk outside on so beautiful a day. Lucy at once expressed her enthusiasm for the notion, but Martha had the good sense to decline. And so it was that the two of them went outside to stroll down the country lane in the general vicinity of town.
“The Luddites continue their insurrection,” said Lucy after a prolonged silence. “I read that they make inroads into Lancashire and Yorkshire.”
“And my own Derbyshire as well,” said Mr. Morrison. His voice was easy and neutral. “Ludd’s power is now one of influence and inclination. He can lead men to destroy what he hates, but little more. They make their statement, and perhaps it is even a statement that needs to be made, but I do not think their insurrection will amount to much.”
“So I failed?”
Mr. Morrison laughed. “
Lucy blushed, but she also smiled.
“I appreciated your words regarding Mary,” he added. “I can hope she still continues somewhere, but I cannot know, and in that I suppose I am like any widower. Perhaps that is some comfort. I loved her excessively, you know.”
“I know you did,” said Lucy, her eyes cast down.
“But that was long ago. You must know I told you the truth when I said I had no pretensions that the woman you knew as Mary Crawford was the woman I loved as Mary Morrison. What she did, destroying herself, was courageous beyond anything I have witnessed. She was a heroine of the first order, but Mary, my Mary, would not have done that. My Mary would not have abandoned hope. This was not a better person, but a different one. I shall honor her sacrifice forever, but I did not lose my wife a second time.”
“I wish I could say I understand,” said Lucy. “I believe you, but it is so hard to comprehend how you can differentiate them so.”
