with a young nobleman who mistook Mary’s social graces for an interest greater than what she entertained. He began to press his case to her, and when she flatly refused an improper relationship, he chose not to accept defeat. He appeared in her way often, speculating upon whom she might visit, what events she might attend, even what paths she might walk. He would attempt to visit her at her house when he knew Mr. Morrison was away. In short, this man would not be discouraged.
Mr. Morrison visited him and warned him that he must stay away, but the young nobleman laughed in his face. He would not duel. He would not stoop to take Mr. Morrison’s complaint seriously.
Before events could unfold in this way, the nobleman took a more drastic course. He assaulted Mary’s coachman one afternoon, knocking him quite insensible. He then threatened Mary with his ferocious dog, and forced Mary to drink a tincture of opium, which put her into a deep sleep. With his beloved in the back of the coach, he drove her far outside London to his country estate. The nobleman had convinced himself that, once she awoke there, away from London and her unworthy husband, she would not only accept her fate, but embrace it. She would recognize that she wanted to remain there and be happy.
It did not happen that way. Mary was angry and outraged and terrified. She feared for her life and her virtue, and attempted to run away and seek help. She broke free, escaped her prison, even killed the man’s dog. But the villain, now that he had her, could not let her go. He caught up with her and a struggle ensued. Perhaps he never meant to hurt her, and perhaps, in the passions of the moment, he lashed out, but either way he struck Mary’s head against the ancient stone of his hall, and she fell to the ground, dead.
Lucy sat listening in silence. It was a horrible story—chilling and terrifying—but only now did she believe, truly believe, that the woman whom she had called her friend those many months in Nottingham had been dead, a revenant, something inhuman. Before it had been an idea, a notion; now she felt the truth of it. She saw the truth of it on Mr. Morrison’s face.
“This man,” said Lucy. “What has happened to him?”
“You know him,” said Mr. Morrison in the dark.
Lucy felt at once unbearably cold. It seemed that the carriage had disassembled all around her and she was floating unmoored through space. “No,” she whispered. “It can’t be.”
“It was Byron who killed my Mary. On looking upon what he had done, he was filled with—I cannot even guess how his mind functions—remorse, terror, disgust, grief? I shall not trouble myself to speculate. But he wished, as so many in his place have wished throughout time, that he could undo what cannot be undone.”
“Except he could.”
“No, not he. His mind may be able to conjure up silly rhymes, but he does not have the capacity to decipher the
“How did he know her or know what she was?”
“It has always been so on this island, Lucy. Their kind infuse the nobility, and those mortals who hold titles learn the secret. According to what we have learned, Lady Harriett had already sought out Byron, detecting in him a weakness and self-love that could be exploited by her kind. She even sent him on a mission to Greece on behalf of the revenants’ interests.”
“But why should Lady Harriett agree to help him in this? I can only imagine that others with power and influence have asked for this favor. I know that they do not make these transformations lightly, so why do this for Byron?”
Mr. Morrison laughed a quiet and bitter laugh. “Byron is not like other men. You’ve seen how women respond to him—as men do toward beautiful women.”
“Do you mean to say that Lady Harriett is in love with him?”
“No, of course not, but she understood that a man like that, with the power to enchant, would be an asset. So she did something for him that would put him forever in her power.”
So here was something yet more astonishing, something that defied imagination. Byron was the man who had killed Morrison’s wife, had turned her immortal soul into a twisted, fragile, vulnerable distortion of the true Mary. A man might console himself with the dream of reuniting with his wife in heaven, but not Mr. Morrison. His beloved Mary was damned forever to this terrestrial sphere because Byron had struck, and then struck again.
“You told me once,” she said softly, “that what you cared about was revenge. And yet, since these events began, you have been in Byron’s presence. But you did not act.”
“I have accepted a responsibility far greater than my own desire for revenge,” he answered. His voice was quavering, and Lucy had no doubt that, in the dark, the tears fell freely. “I promised I would not seek revenge until I had settled the matter with Ludd. I promised I would not put my desire to destroy Byron above my duty to my nation. You cannot imagine how I’ve wanted to strangle him each time I have been near him, but I have restrained myself, thinking that the day must come soon.”
Lucy parted the curtain to look out at the passing blackness. She wished she knew what to say to Mr. Morrison, what response was appropriate to this story of love lost and murder and delayed vengeance. She could think of nothing, so she said, “If I may ask, who was the woman whom you loved before Mary?” Then, at once, she regretted it. She had caused him enough pain, made him recount enough of his losses, so she quickly spoke up again. “I am sorry. I should not have asked that. It is none of my concern.”
“Of course it is your concern,” he answered. “Can it be that you truly do not know? But I suppose that is what makes you who you are. After Emily died, your father made me promise never to tell you the truth of the circumstances, for your sake, and I agreed. I would have kept that promise until the day I died had not it been necessary to reveal the truth.”
“But what has that to do with this woman?” asked Lucy, but as soon as she asked the question, understanding dawned on her, and she felt her face burn with embarrassment and her heart flutter with surprise.
“It has everything to do with her,” said Mr. Morrison, his voice heavy and thick. “The woman I was in love with, with whom I could never be, is you.”
Lucy could not consider, truly consider, what he said, and what his words meant or how they made her feel. She dared not ask herself the most pressing question of all—had Mary known, when they first met, that Lucy was the woman her own husband had once loved? She would not torture herself with a question to which she could find no answer. She could only think that here was a man who had lost everything, had sacrificed his heart for duty and service and loyalty. Everything Lucy had ever known or thought about Mr. Morrison was wrong. Never in her life had she misjudged anyone to so great a degree, and she could hardly comprehend what this new information meant to her, but even in her numbness she could no longer deny that her feelings for him had undergone the most profound of alterations.
33
Finally she could take it no longer. “If what you said was true,” she began, not willing to speak of his supposed love for her aloud, “why did you not search for me after my father died?”
“I promised him I would not trouble you. He wanted to protect you from the memory of what happened to Emily, and he was a man, and all men are weak. I think he wanted to protect himself. But he made me give my word, and then I’d heard you had gone to live with a wealthy uncle in Nottingham, and I presumed you were well.”
“If you’d known I was miserable?” she asked.
“Then I would have broken my promise to your father for your sake, not because I hold my promises cheap, but because the substance of the vow was to protect you, and I know your father would have preferred anything to your suffering.”
Jonas Morrison, the man who had taught her that love was a lie meant to turn young women into whores, was showing himself to be the opposite of what she had so long supposed. He was a good man and honorable and romantical.
Later that morning, as they continued their journey, Lucy said, “When this is over, what will you do to
