The Twelfth Enchantment: A Novel (31 page)

Not an hour in London, and Lucy was becoming a Londoner.

Mr. Gilley had rented a large, luxurious town house in Crown Street, perhaps not quite so close to Hyde Park as Norah would have liked, but close enough to be somewhat fashionable. The interior of the house seemed even more massive than its exterior suggested. The rooms were well lit and beautifully appointed, with the most fashionable furnishings and window treatments and paintings. There were too many servants for Lucy to learn their names at once, and she had the choice of three unoccupied rooms to call her own. Both of Norah’s parents were home, and while Mrs. Gilley greeted Lucy with cool indifference, Mr. Gilley appeared delighted that Lucy was there, and gave her a lengthy lecture on how to protect herself from catching cold while walking about London. He fussed over her in a thousand ways, begged her to make any adjustments to her room, inquired into her preferences for dinner, and promised her that she would enjoy the delights of London or he would alter London to her liking. A room below stairs was found for Mrs. Emmett, and so there was an end to all the necessary adjustments. Mr. Gilley cared not how long she remained because he liked her, and Mrs. Gilley cared not because she had no regard for her at all. Lucy could hardly have asked for more, and the charms she had brought to effect these ends might, perhaps, never have to be unpacked.

Lucy’s next order of business was clear. It was far easier to make her way to Kent from London than it was from Nottingham, but now that she was in London, she began to realize just how little she had planned. Besides determining how to get to Kent, she would need to determine the best possible course for getting inside Lady Harriett’s house undetected, discovering the pages of the
Mutus Liber
from Byron’s library, and then getting out again.

That she would be no closer to saving her niece saddened her immensely. Mr. Morrison, after all, was no doubt deflowering virgins in
some foreign land as he searched for other pages, and if he found them, would it do Lucy any good? He would return to her if he could—her spell would see to that—but would he have the pages with him when he did? There was no point worrying about what she could not control, however. She would find the pages, one at a time if she had to. She would study and learn and experiment and practice until the pages were hers.

Lucy had hoped that Mrs. Emmett might prove to be of some use in these matters, but she appeared utterly confounded when Lucy asked her for advice. “I cannot say anything as to that, Miss Derrick,” she answered. “I only know when it is time for you to go to Kent, you will go.”

“Then you know I will get there?”

“I cannot tell you that, Miss Derrick,” she said. “I can only say that if you are meant to go, you will go, and at the time you are meant.”

“Meant by whom?” Lucy asked testily.

Mrs. Emmett appeared to detect none of Lucy’s irritation. She only smiled and looked off to the distance, as though the person or force she referenced was just beyond her vision. “By them who mean such things.”

Only after her arrival did Lucy realize that she had somehow expected Mrs. Emmett to ease her way in London, but that would not be the case, and she was hardly better prepared for the confusion of the metropolis than if she were on her own. How precisely did one get to Kent? How much did it cost? Lucy had her quarterly allotment of ten pounds, and she had to spend with caution. Money could be made by other means. She knew that, but she was reluctant to practice cunning craft when she did not have to. Every spell cast required herbs and paper and pen and ink—things that cast money or might be missed. More than that, she’d never felt comfortable with the idea of using magic to earn money. What came into her purse must exit from another’s, and how could she say whose need would be greater?

So she told herself that she did what she could. She learned what she could learn, and she planned as best she could plan. She was who she was—a young woman of limited means and almost no freedom, and she could not help being that. If she truly were at the center of things, as so many had told her, then would not the right opportunity present
itself? Fate had sought her out in quiet Nottinghamshire. She could hardly be said to be hiding in London.

Meanwhile, the routine of fashionable London life soon settled on her, and a week had passed before she knew it—a week in which her sister, Martha, lived with a monster and her poor niece was held captive somewhere by something Lucy dared not even contemplate. Instead of searching for lost alchemical books or battling creatures from the invisible world, she browsed in dress shops, attended music recitals, and visited fashionable homes to view art and collections of curios. There was more in her future too: the opera and the playhouse and the tea gardens. On all of these excursions, Mrs. Emmett accompanied her, as though she were Lucy’s chaperone, and dutifully allowed herself to be sequestered in kitchens and servants’ rooms when they were not in transit. Servants began to complain of her, however. They spoke to Norah, and Norah, in turn, spoke to Lucy.

“She makes them uneasy,” she said one afternoon as they sat in the parlor. She kept her voice down, as though afraid Mrs. Emmett would overhear her, even though she had been sent halfway across town upon an errand. “They say she never eats and never talks except when directly addressed, and then she says only the most absent and polite things.”

“You make her sound like the perfect serving woman,” Lucy said.

“She is certainly not the sort of serving woman to be found in fashionable homes, and I’m afraid she’ll have to go.”

Lucy did not pay Mrs. Emmett, and did not know how to dismiss her or even if she could. She had visions of the woman mooning about the town-house door like a stray dog, or worse—sneaking inside. There would be constables and bailiffs and magistrates. She could not allow any of that.

“I don’t know that I can do without her,” said Lucy.

“Of course you can,” said Norah. “There are a hundred women in London who will do for you a thousand times better than that country oaf.”

“I cannot part with her,” said Lucy, and because she did not know how to argue the point, she left the parlor and fled to her own room.

The next morning, Mr. Gilley found her descending the stairs, and took her by the elbow to the empty parlor to discuss the matter. Lucy did not like that he touched her so freely. Something about his expression suggested an intense and disproportionate pleasure in the act. It occurred to her, as he led her into the room, that she had never before been alone with her friend’s father, and did not much care for this development.

“I understand there is some difficulty with your serving woman,” he said to her.

“Norah says the others don’t like her. I know she is odd, but I cannot let her go.” Lucy kept her eyes lowered because she wished to appear pitiable and because she did not care to see how Mr. Gilley looked upon her. She could all but feel the heat of his gaze upon her skin.

“If it is a matter of money,” said Mr. Gilley, “I can offer some assistance and send her off. She can offer no objection.”

“It is not that,” said Lucy. “I cannot do without her. If she cannot remain, then I must return home.”

Mr. Gilley said nothing, and Lucy felt the quiet of the room, and the warmth that came from the fireplace and the nearness of Mr. Gilley’s lurking form.

Mr. Gilley looked at her and pressed his lips together in a tight approximation of a smile. “That shall not be necessary. My servants will be more tolerant. You must never fear that I will fail to look after you, Miss Derrick.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Lucy, curtsying. It was the most formal, distancing thing she could think to do, but it was too late to correct her error. She had put herself in the power of a man who was determined to extract from her what he could, and Lucy did not know that she could ever again let down her guard while under his roof.

While the crisis with Mrs. Emmett had been building and resolving, the rest of the household had been attentive to but one thing: the assembly at Almack’s, to which Mr. Gilley, with some pains, had secured tickets. The Wednesday assembly was the most fashionable event in all of London,
and only the grandest people went. If it were known that Lucy had never formally been presented at court, she would have been barred entry, but Lucy chose not to raise the point, and Norah conveniently forgot to tell her parents—likely less out of concern for Lucy than for the difficulty such a revelation might present.

Lucy’s joy at the prospect of attending was incomplete. Shortly after arriving at the Gilley house, she’d received a letter from Martha in which she made every effort to put a happy face upon her suffering, but Lucy had no doubt that Martha was worried to distraction about what she believed to be her baby. Even Martha’s handwriting appeared unsteady and distraught.

Lucy had to find a way to get to Kent and to the next pages of the
Mutus Liber
, even if it meant exposing herself to horrible rumor and speculation. The day after the assembly, she told herself, she would go. She would find some way, no matter the cost. She would be under too much scrutiny before then, but after, when everyone was exhausted and self-satisfied, she would find the opportunity to escape.

Norah insisted upon new gowns for the both of them, and when Lucy announced she did not have the money, Mr. Gilley offered to pay for hers, explaining that he should love to see her in a new gown above everything. She hated to put herself in his debt, but it was too awkward to refuse, and so she accepted with many thanks. Lucy walked away from the experience with a trainless, stomacher-front gown of a beautiful coral color, flattering to her shape, perfectly matched to her complexion. Accompanied by a shawl of a charming ivory shade, and with her hair dressed up and curled, precisely to the fashion, and then covered with a prim little hat with a saucily small brim, Lucy felt very pleased with herself indeed. When Norah, who looked fine in her somewhat less-flattering tunic of too bright a red—a color she had loved in the milliner’s shop, but now required constant reassurance that it had not been a mistake—told Lucy she looked “well enough,” that was sufficient to feel like a triumph.

Lucy had to feign enthusiasm for the assembly, but her apathy vanished when they walked into Almack’s ballroom—beautifully lit, as
bright as day, full of the most fashionable ladies and the most handsomely appointed men that either she or Norah had ever witnessed. The room was perhaps four times the size of that any dance the Nottingham, and it was peopled with likely ten times the number of occupants. Unlike the Nottingham assembly, where one conversed with farmers and small landholders and petty merchants, here were lords and ladies, men and women whose every act was written up in the newspapers, the stupendously wealthy by birth, nabobs freshly returned from India, actors and actresses who graced the London stage, poets and novel writers and painters and celebrated musicians.

“It is safe to say,” Norah told her, “that if a person is fashionable, and if he is in London tonight, then he is here in this room.”