The Twelfth Enchantment: A Novel

version of his visit to Uncle Lowell’s house. In the end, she understood only that a dashing, perhaps slightly dangerous, baron toyed with the idea of pursuing Lucy, and that was the reason Lucy did not wish to marry Mr. Olson. It was certainly only part of the truth, but it was a story that clearly pleased Martha, so Lucy allowed her sister to believe it.

While she did not anticipate anything unusual might happen, Lucy still preferred to limit the excursion to the two of them, and so she was quite relieved when Mr. Buckles demonstrated no interest in attending. “I have seen Lady Harriett’s estate,” he told Lucy. “I have been a guest there many times, and so have no need to see the estate of some minor baron.”

They packed a basket and hired a coach to take them the ten miles or so to Newstead. The two sisters were so delighted to be alone, truly alone, in each other’s company. Little Emily was with the nurse, and while Martha missed her child, as new mothers are inclined to do, she also relished the luxury of a few hours to herself.

That she also enjoyed being away from her husband was painfully obvious to Lucy, but she would not press this matter. Martha had sacrificed herself because she believed it was the only way to keep her sister from poverty. It had not worked, and now she was shackled to him until one of them was dead. It was too horrible to think of. It was no wonder that Martha loved her little baby to distraction, for Emily must be the only thing in the world to give her pleasure.

Had they not received directions, they would never have found the abbey, for its only indication from the High North Road was a white gate and a small post house. Once through the gate, they traveled for perhaps half a mile through thick woods, some of the last remnants of the long-since destroyed Sherwood Forest. Once the turrets and parapets of the ancient gothic structure began to appear above the trees, Lucy could not help but think how appropriate so imposing a ruin should be housed in a wood that was, itself, a remnant of the past.

Newstead Abbey was massive and imposing and beautiful and in a state of unspeakable disrepair. Walls crumbled, roofs were collapsed. It looked unfit for habitation, and yet, for all that, it was breathtaking. A decayed wall enclosed a wild garden to the north and east. To the west lay a massive lake that sparkled in the sunlight. Lucy had never seen anything so simultaneously magnificent and gloomy.

Martha too appeared momentarily transfixed. After gazing upon the main building with wonder, she took Lucy’s hand. “I think that to be mistress of Newstead might be something.”

Lucy smiled at her sister. “Certainly something I shall never know.”

The grounds were reasonably orderly—and massive—and the two sisters wandered from fountain to pond to topiary to well to crumbling statuary, giggling and pulling each other by the hand as though they were girls again. Some heavy clouds passed before the sun, and the air turned moderately colder. Their cheeks became apple red, and their breath puffed into the air with their laughter. Lucy could not recall a time when she had been happier. She forgot about magic and dark beings and leaf gathering. For this one day, she was determined, she would be but a young lady, thinking young-lady thoughts, visiting with her sister and diverting herself.

They wandered the grounds for two hours, ate their lunch, and walked until they were quite fatigued. They saw no other people and no animals of consequence—the rumors of Byron’s menagerie thus far being unproved, for they saw no bears or wolves or giant tortoises, and certainly not the ghostly dog said by locals to haunt the grounds. Lucy had wanted to gain some sense of what Ludd had meant by sending her to Newstead, but when Martha suggested they return home, Lucy began to feel that the excursion had been a wonderful failure. She had learned nothing. There were no clues or hints or cryptic messages.

As she considered these matters, Lucy noticed a stranger approaching. He was an older man, in his sixties at least, and dressed like a tradesman in plain woolens. He walked with a stick, and wore an expression upon his rounded face of such kindness that it never occurred to Lucy to be cautious. He grew closer, and his grin widened, and when he was close enough he paused and removed his hat.

He bowed to Martha, but then turned his attention to Lucy. “Are you the young lady for whom I am looking?”

“I cannot know,” said Lucy, who suspected that she must be precisely the young lady for whom he was looking, though she hated even to wonder why.

Martha tugged on her arm, perhaps alarmed by something in the man’s appearance, or, more likely, his mode of address. Lucy, however, ignored her sister. She could not know who the man was or what he wanted, but she felt certain she had nothing to fear from him.

“Quite a lot of ghosts upon this estate, do you not think so?” he asked.

“I saw none,” Lucy said.

“Not even the dog?” the old man asked. “He is quite friendly for a dead dog. Ghost dogs are often so quarrelsome, you know. I saw him frolicking by the water. He must enjoy it for now, for his time of enjoyment will come to an end soon, perhaps. So much of it will.”

“What do you mean?” asked Lucy. The man’s voice was light and easy, but his words chilled her.

“The world is changing, young lady. You must know that. The things that play in the forest about here—they will play no longer. And sport no more seen on the darkening green.” He paused for a moment. “Oh, dear. I do hate when I quote my own writing, but I just now understand what I was saying, and it is such a surprise when things become clear.”

“Lucy!” Martha hissed just above a whisper. “Do you know this gentleman?”

The older man removed his hat and bowed. “I do beg your pardon. I seem to have forgotten my manners. My name is William Blake, engraver, and I am at your service.”

There was no doubt the man was peculiar, but Lucy’s instincts told her that she had nothing to fear, so she curtsied and smiled at the man. “I am Lucy Derrick, and this is my sister, Mrs. Martha Buckles.”

“Very charmed, ladies. And I believe it is you, Miss Derrick, that I have come all the way from London to see. And having completed my task, I must return to London and my work. I do hate to be away from my home and my dear wife. I only wished to come here to make your acquaintance.”

“I am very sorry,” said Martha. “You traveled more than a hundred miles to meet someone you did not know, and having said hello to her, you return from whence you’ve come?”

“You have it precisely,” Mr. Blake answered with great cheer. “Now I have ordered it so that when Miss Derrick and I meet again, we will no longer be strangers.”

“That is nonsensical,” said Martha.

“If you subscribe to the narrow reason of Bacon and Newton and Hume and men of that stripe, then I suppose it is,” answered Mr. Blake. “I choose not to let the devil’s logic interfere with God’s truth, not when it is before my eyes.”

Martha turned to Lucy. “You appear remarkably unperturbed. Do you know something of all this?”

Lucy shook her head. “This sort of thing happens to me a great deal these days. But sir, can you tell me nothing more of your business with me?”

“I cannot because I know nothing of it,” he answered. “I have no doubt we shall know in time. But the green is darkening, is it not? The mills come, belching smoke and ash, grinding men to dust, and nature prepares to decay. You know it too, I think.”

“Lucy,” Martha said again, the urgency evident in her voice.

Lucy was about to respond, but she suddenly heard weeping, and she observed that Mr. Blake heard it too. It was a soft sound—a delicate, feminine sobbing—nothing menacing, and yet Lucy understood that the afternoon had turned. The air grew cool, and the hair on the back of her neck bristled. Everything around her refined and sharpened into vivid colors. She heard every twig and leaf crunch under their feet.

They traveled some fifty feet down the path and found, sitting under a tree, a young woman in a dingy white dress, rustic by the look of it. They could not determine her age, for she had her back to them, but she wore her coppery hair loose and unruly under her bonnet, and by her size—tall and very thin—Lucy imagined her to be in her late teens. There was something about her look, about her misery and the way she held her head in her hands, that reminded her of herself weeping after the death of her sister. She remembered one afternoon, some weeks after the day her father had admitted her to his study, when she had been walking behind the house, and Emily’s death had struck her fresh, like a blow. She had understood, as if for the first time, that her sister was gone, that she would never see her again, and the emptiness of this realization overwhelmed her. She had fallen to the ground and wept, unable to stop herself, unable to find the will to try.

She knew not how long she lay there—hours perhaps—lost in her own misery, until she’d felt hands upon her shoulders. She’d shrugged them off, but they were insistent, and when at last she looked up, Lucy saw that it was