“Of course you do,” said Lady Harriett. “And you shall have it if you do as I say. Now, get some sleep, Mr. Bellingham. I shall manage your enemies.”
“You are very good, Lady Harriett. Yes, quite good.” He shambled out of the room, bouncing upon the doorframe as he departed.
Lucy watched him depart, not knowing what to make of him, but understanding intuitively that Lady Harriett played upon his madness in order to get something from him. Lucy had always thought her vile and self-serving, but she had not imagined her capable of this sort of manipulation. She dared not wonder why Lady Harriett toyed with this Mr. Bellingham. There were bigger matters that concerned her—primarily, escaping with the pages in her possession.
No sooner was he gone than others began to drift into the room. They were undeniably corporeal beings, but they moved with the distracted, otherworldly indifference of ghosts. There were three men and two women, all of different ages, all well dressed, though every one of them had some sign of indifference in attire—a ribbon not tied properly, a loose cravat, buttons hanging by threads. They entered the room and stood looking at books or out the window. One picked up a marble bookend and held it up to the wall sconce to better examine the veins.
Lucy looked at Byron, who shrugged and put an exploratory finger to test the severity of the bruise upon his cheek.
“Lady Harriett,” Lucy began, but managed nothing further. The moment she spoke all five of Lady Harriett’s guests turned to her with a suddenness that verged on terrifying. The marble bookend fell to the rug below as the man who had been holding it took three sudden steps toward Lucy, stopping only a foot away. He bent forward, putting his face near hers, staring with great intensity.
Lucy could not help but notice that he had a rather nice face—beautiful even, if pale and slightly gaunt—but his eyes were wide, unusually colorless, and unfocused. His hair was thick and the gray of an overcast sky.
“She ought not to be here,” he said in a dreamy voice. He stood up straight again, and began to examine his thumbnail.
“I know that, Mr. Whitestone,” snapped Lady Harriett. “I shall deal with her.”
An old woman of perhaps forty, who had previously been staring out the window, leaned forward. “We are counting on you to do precisely that.”
“Yes,” answered Lady Harriett. “And now you must let me proceed as I see fit.”
“She intends to gather the leaves,” said the first man.
“I
The other woman, a bit older than the first, remained at the window. “If we kill her, we need not think of her anymore. Is that not so?”
Lucy’s pulse thrummed in her neck. If Lady Harriett wished to kill her, Lucy did not believe she knew of anything that would prevent her.
“If that were true, then I would have killed her before now,” said Lady Harriett, her voice so cold that Lucy had no doubt that this assertion was true. “She has protected herself, so if we kill her, we shall be worse off than we are with her alive.”
“Perhaps we can keep her locked away,” said Mr. Whitestone. He put a finger to his cheek. “What?” he asked no one in particular.
“I know what needs doing,” said Lady Harriett, “and I shall do it. Now, off with all of you. I shall meet with you presently.”
The group appeared slightly surprised, but not offended. They exchanged looks. One of the men shrugged, and without further conversation, they drifted out of the room as curiously as they had drifted in.
Lady Harriett, Lucy, and Byron remained silent for some moments afterwards. Lucy wished Byron would speak, but when he did not, she took the burden upon herself, affecting the sort of bravado she wished she possessed. “I am sorry to have intruded upon your menagerie of madmen, but it is time we left.”
“I don’t know that you shall ever leave,” said Lady Harriett. “My late Sir Reginald would not have hesitated to execute justice by his own hand. Perhaps there can be no better way to honor his memory.”
“Come, Lady Harriett,” said Byron who had begun to recover himself. “Let us not make more of this than we ought.”
“You must think me a fool, Byron,” said Lady Harriett. “After all I have done for you, that you abuse me in this manner is unthinkable. I cannot say what I shall do with you or your little slut. For now, you shall have the run of the house, for you can do no harm, but do not think that you can walk out of the building.” She smiled at Lucy. “Perhaps you would care to try.”
Lucy attempted to rise from the sofa, but she could not. There was something clammy on her wrists, on her knees. It felt as though there were hands upon her, countless tiny hands touching her, feeling her flesh in places no one had ever touched her. She could almost see them from the corners of her eyes, the shadowy creatures from the mill, things of darkness and ambiguity. She could not look at them directly, but as she turned away, she saw dozens of wispy fingers tugging upon her skirts. These things, she realized, were Lady Harriett’s creatures, or at the least, hers to command. Fear and nausea shot through Lucy, and she understood at once that she was out of her depth.
“You are nothing, girl,” said Lady Harriett. And now she cried out, but not to Lucy. “Oh, stop it! Hands off the girl until I tell you otherwise or she attempts to escape.”
The shadowy creatures were suddenly gone. Relief washed over Lucy as she realized she could move once more. “Who are you,” said Lucy, “that you can command such things?”
Lady Harriett laughed. “I thought you worth my attention, but it seems you know nothing.”
“I know only of my sister and my niece,” said Lucy, “and what I must do for them.”
“There are millions of sisters and millions of nieces, and their fate is in the balance,” said Lady Harriett. “I care nothing for your family.”
“Though my sister be Mr. Buckles’s wife?” said Lucy.
“Buckles is useful because he is so eager to please. Now, I shall have one of my girls show you to your rooms—or you may share a room if you like. I care not if you play the whore with this man. In the meantime, I shall have to consider what to do with you.”
“If I am not back by tomorrow evening, I shall be missed,” said Lucy.
“Not my concern,” said Lady Harriett. “But you have no need to fear ruin, for I shall summon Mr. Olson. I’ll have Buckles officiate at your wedding, Miss Derrick. You and Mr. Olson shall, at last, be joined.”
Nothing that had happened that night filled Lucy with as much terror as this announcement. With a clergyman to officiate, and one loyal to Lady Harriett and who could be depended upon to swear whatever she demanded, the wedding would be valid.
“Mr. Olson no longer wishes to marry me,” protested Lucy.
“You know as well as I that his opinions may be managed,” said Lady Harriett. “Rejoice, for soon you will be a married woman. May you be as happy as my Sir Reginald made me.”
The servant showed Lucy to a massive room, painted gold, with a gold carpet and gold velvet curtains. The dangers of the evening, combined with the intensity of the color, began to make her head ache. Byron’s room was next to hers, as though Lady Harriett were daring them to behave shockingly, but Lucy had no capacity for mischief of that sort. She had hardly sat on her bed, preparing herself to think of her situation, shielding her eyes from the room’s unrelenting color, when there was a knock upon the door. Lucy rose, feeling like a somnambulist, and opened the door to find Byron standing there, appearing grave, one half of his face bright red.
“May I come in?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, her voice heavy with fatigue, “but you must leave the door open.”
He stepped in but closed the door behind him. “I do not know that I wish for anyone to hear what we have to say.”
“I see not what difference it makes.” And yet, Lucy did not rise to open the door again.
“I am sorry things have gone so badly,” he said.
Lucy shook her head, unable to find the words to express her despair.
Byron took a half step forward, but remained some five feet from her. “I swear I shan’t let that marriage take place. You are a resourceful young woman of remarkable ability, and I shall not have you abandon hope. We shall get you out of here, and if it is too late to return undiscovered, what of it? What they say of you means nothing. You decide what it means to be Lucy Derrick.”
