Ungston who was distressingly slow in his movement, owing to arthritic joints. Lucy, who had grown accustomed to the sounds of the house, noted the distinctive shuffling noise as the aged serving man approached the front door.
“Rather a ruckus,” said Uncle Lowell.
It seemed to Lucy someone ought to have gone to help the old man, but all remained seated, with ears cocked, better to hear whatever there was to be heard—which consisted of Ungston muttering while he unbolted the lock and then the creak of the heavy door.
After that came more shouting, which encouraged them to rise.
“Lucy Derrick!” an unknown man called. His voice was hoarse and ragged, but frighteningly powerful, and yet shrill, like a dog’s howl. “I will speak to Lucy Derrick!”
The voice sent through Lucy a wave of confusion and guilt. She must have done
“What is this?” Her uncle pushed himself up from his chair. His was the sharp tone of a man who suddenly realized he had been cheated. As the burden of his niece was about to be lifted, here came some unexpected trouble to ruin the enterprise. His scalp turned red, and the fringes of his hair appeared to puff out, as a cat’s fur when the creature is agitated.
Lucy did not trust herself to speak, fearing her confusion must be mistaken for culpability, so she only shook her head.
“Stay here,” said Mr. Olson. He no doubt believed there was some other love come to claim his prize, and it would serve him right for his coolness, Lucy thought. Once Mr. Olson had left the room, with Uncle Lowell close behind him, Lucy managed to get to her feet.
“What have you done?” said Mrs. Quince in a low and dangerous voice. She gripped Lucy hard by the wrist and did not let go, though she did no more. On occasion Mrs. Quince would pinch or kick, and once she had even scalded Lucy with hot water, which had left a pale scar on the back of her hand. But Lucy’s engagement to Mr. Olson had changed all that. The balance of power had begun to shift, and Mrs. Quince had been content to abuse Lucy when she was powerless, but it was another thing to take liberties with a young lady on the verge of independence. Still, she gripped hard and made no sign of letting go. “Is this some new Jonas Morrison with whom you play the whore?”
Lucy tried to pull away, but Mrs. Quince would not let go. “I’ve done nothing. I have no notion of who it is. But I wish to see.”
Perhaps Mrs. Quince also wished to see, for she shoved Lucy before her and followed her to the front of the house.
As they approached the door, Lucy saw the intruder standing upon the steps. He no longer cried out, but he spoke loudly and with a great deal of animation. Out in the narrow street, a small gathering of pedestrians, and a single cart man, paused to observe the confusion.
The man on the steps was startling handsome, possessed of an almost feminine beauty. His face was sculpted and even and flawless beneath a wild tangle of black hair. His eyes were wide and dark and moist, even as they appeared red-rimmed and slightly crazed. He wore fashionable clothes—the close-cut jacket, a once-white shirt open at the collar, and buff trousers that were now all the fashion in London. These looked expertly tailored, but they were tattered below the knees and filthy. When she approached as near as she dared, Lucy saw that the man’s boots were torn open upon their soles, and one of his feet appeared oversized and misshapen.
“I must speak to her,” he said. “The leaves are scattered, and I must speak to her.”
Lucy started, as though she’d stumbled into an invisible wall. Scattered leaves? It was as though she’d heard these words before, but she could not remember when, like something she’d dreamed, but long ago, lost in both confusion and time.
“Who are you?” demanded Mr. Olson. “You’ll speak to no one without telling me your name and your business, and perhaps not even then.” His tone was angry but also restrained. Something about the stranger suggested that he was not appearing at his best, and that a certain deference was advised.
“I must speak—” The stranger paused and looked up, meeting Lucy’s eye. Something shifted and softened in his gaze. His eyes went wide, and his posture shifted. He took a deep breath and, for an instant so brief she might have missed it, he smiled, wide and brilliant. “You,” he said. “Are you the lady I seek? Are you Lucy Derrick?”
Lucy found she could not speak, but she managed a slow nod.
The stranger lowered his head for a moment and then looked again at Lucy. “I’ve been sent … been made to tell you, that you … you must not marry him. You must gather the leaves, but you must not marry him!” He arched his back, threw his head toward the sky, and took a step backwards, missing the step and falling upon his side to the street. With his head down, as if in a posture of religious subjugation, he raised one hand and pointed at Mr. Olson.
Lucy turned away, which was very well, for she heard the ranting man begin to retch like a drunkard, and she took a step back in disgust. She might have retreated into the house entirely, afraid of she knew not what except that this—all of this—was about her. Somehow it was about her, and Lucy felt shame and humiliation afresh. She wanted only to run away, but she then heard gasps, then a woman shrieked, and Mr. Olson cried out in surprise. “It cannot be!” he said in a hushed voice. Upon the street one of the gathered crowd—a woman—called to Jesus to save her.
Unable to contain her curiosity, Lucy crept forward. Peering out into the street, she saw the man bent over, upon all fours like a dog. This strange and disordered and beautiful man was upon the ground. His body convulsed, undulating like a wave, and then he vomited again, emitting a long string of shining, nearly dry, silver pins. They fell from his mouth in a slow and steady stream, tinkling a thin music as they fell upon the steps.
When he looked up, the man locked his eyes with Lucy’s, his expression full of yearning and a desperation so deep that tears came to her eyes. Somehow this astonishing man, this impossible event was about poor, penniless, friendless Lucy Derrick. She wanted to ask him how, to make him explain himself so she and the world would understand, but she could make herself say nothing. Then it was too late, for he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and fell over, utterly insensible to the world.
2
The moment he was gone, Uncle Lowell, with Mrs. Quince at his side, turned to confront Lucy. Anger had scalded his scalp purple, and his thin mouth twisted with consternation. “He will withdraw his offer of marriage, and I cannot say I blame him. Can’t blame him at all.” He looked upstairs, in the vague direction of the stranger.
Mrs. Quince nodded gravely while he spoke. Unless solicited, she knew better than to venture an opinion when her master was in such a temper.
“He’ll need a doctor, I suppose,” Uncle Lowell said. “You tease a man into swallowing pins, and I will have to pay for his care out of my own pocket. My own pocket! It is as though you’ve sent a thief to my home to rob me in the night.”
Lucy had a great deal of difficulty composing herself, for she had no way of making sense of the events she had only just witnessed. She felt the tears welling up, but she knew her uncle and Mrs. Quince would choose to interpret tears as a sign of guilt rather than confusion.
Lucy found herself desperately missing her father. He would know what to do. He would know what these strange events meant. With a withering glance or a stern aside he would have silenced Uncle Lowell, but her father was dead, and she would have to manage on her own.
With a great effort, she took a deep breath and spoke the words she had been rehearsing from the moment she had recovered from the initial shock. “I have never before looked upon that man. I have no idea who he is or what connection he could have to me—and as for the physician’s bill, perhaps the stranger will pay it himself.”
