The Twelfth Enchantment: A Novel (50 page)

“I am sorry,” Lucy said. She recalled what Mary had told her about the revenants—that mortality is a fundamental part of humanity. Lucy had no notion at the time that Mary had been speaking of herself.

“What is she like now?” asked Mr. Morrison. The strange flatness of his voice betrayed a pain Lucy could not contemplate.

“She was lovely to me—kind and patient and understanding. She always said what I most needed to hear. Even now, when I consider all I have seen and done, the places I have gone, the enemies and dangers I have encountered, I know that I could have done none of it had she not prepared me.”

“Then you trusted her? You trust her yet, though you know she deceived you?”

“I do not know,” said Lucy. “Perhaps she had her reasons, but I have come to see that, for all her goodness to me, she is cold and calculating and ruthless. She is, in some ways, unknowable.”

“I understand you,” he said. “We spoke once, you know. After she returned.”

“Mr. Morrison, you do not need to tell me these things. I can hear in your voice that it is painful for you. I thank you for your consideration, but you owe me no candor in this manner.”

He laughed. “You are a sweet girl. I cannot imagine how you have come so far and remained so innocent. I do not tell you these things because I wish to unburden my heart. I tell you what you may need to know if you are to survive what comes. You can have no illusions about Mary Crawford, as she now styles herself. It may come to pass that we must destroy her.”

“I will not destroy her,” said Lucy. “Though she lied to me, she is my friend.”

“She has been good to you, and she may even, in her own way, care for you, but she will not be your friend if it is not in her interest. She knows better than all of us that death is not the end, and she will not hesitate to send you on your journey should she believe the situation requires it. Some part of her hates you for your mortality, that you can move on and she cannot.”

“I don’t know that I believe you.”

“I think you had better learn to believe me,” he said. “I cannot go in with you if you are not willing to destroy her if you must.”

For a long time, he said nothing more. In the dark she heard him stir, as if trying to grow more comfortable. He coughed softly, the sound muffled by a handkerchief. Somewhere outside the cart they heard the lonely howl of a dog.

“You cannot know how I loved her,” he said. “At first what I felt for her was more moderate. It was time for me to marry, and she was suitable in so many ways, and I suppose what I felt for her was love, after a species. She loved me, and I hoped that would be enough.”

“She told me of her husband, though she was certainly vague. But she said that he’d been in love with someone else.”

Mr. Morrison said nothing for a moment. “When I met her, I thought I would never love again. I was heartbroken, but I came to love her more than I can say. She was clever and witty, and she understood me better than anyone I had known. And she loved me. Only someone utterly coldhearted could be so adored and unmoved by it. And, of course, she was beautiful. Now she is even more beautiful than she was. Her hair, her eyes, her complexion—they are different, as I am told sometimes happens. Her new nature fairly radiates something so compelling that when we were reunited I was all but lost in an instant, but she did not want me to be lost. When she spoke to me—I know not how to describe it. For all that she resembled my Mary, for all she retained her beauty, and that beauty had grown, it was as though I spoke to the dead. She is not soulless, but the soul is no longer human. I saw in her eyes that she
felt nothing for me, that she could hardly remember having felt anything for me. And I knew that my feelings were for someone who was gone forever.”

“How did she come to be what she is?” Lucy asked. “One does not simply … return.”

“No,” he said. “The tale is strange and terrible. It is hard for me to speak of it, so you will forgive me if I pause from time to time to collect myself. I would rather not say any of these things, but I have already withheld too much for too long. You must know everything.”

Mary Crawford had come from Northamptonshire with her brother Henry. They had been before in London, but circumstances had required a move, and there Mary had, if not quite fallen in love with a neighboring gentleman, at least imagined she was in love for a while. Then that gentleman had thrown her over for his penniless cousin, something of a simpleton, and Mary’s brother had become involved in a scandalous affair. The whole business was unpleasant, and at times sordid, and when it reached its conclusion Mary found herself unhappy and vulnerable.

It was then that she met Mr. Morrison, who was also unhappy and vulnerable in his own way, and at once she fell in love. They had met at a mutual friend’s house in London and, before they had parted ways on that first occasion, Mr. Morrison believed he wished to marry her. He saw something in her, in her soul, perhaps.

Soon enough they had married, and relocated to Mr. Morrison’s estate in Derbyshire, though they returned to London for the season, and it was there that the trouble began. Mr. Morrison and his wife came to be acquainted 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
Mutus Liber
, let alone construct the philosopher’s stone through some other means. Instead, he brought Mary’s body to someone he believed could do these things: Lady Harriett Dyer.”

“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.