The Twelfth Enchantment: A Novel (23 page)

“Quite a lot of ghosts upon this estate, do you not think so?” he asked.

“I saw none,” Lucy said.

“Not even the dog?” the old man asked. “He is quite friendly for a dead dog. Ghost dogs are often so quarrelsome, you know. I saw him frolicking by the water. He must enjoy it for now, for his time of enjoyment will come to an end soon, perhaps. So much of it will.”

“What do you mean?” asked Lucy. The man’s voice was light and easy, but his words chilled her.

“The world is changing, young lady. You must know that. The things that play in the forest about here—they will play no longer. And sport no more seen on the darkening green.” He paused for a moment. “Oh, dear. I do hate when I quote my own writing, but I just now understand what I was saying, and it is such a surprise when things become clear.”

“Lucy!” Martha hissed just above a whisper. “Do you know this
gentleman
?”

The older man removed his hat and bowed. “I do beg your pardon. I seem to have forgotten my manners. My name is William Blake, engraver, and I am at your service.”

There was no doubt the man was peculiar, but Lucy’s instincts told her that she had nothing to fear, so she curtsied and smiled at the man. “I am Lucy Derrick, and this is my sister, Mrs. Martha Buckles.”

“Very charmed, ladies. And I believe it is you, Miss Derrick, that I have come all the way from London to see. And having completed my task, I must return to London and my work. I do hate to be away from my home and my dear wife. I only wished to come here to make your acquaintance.”

“I am very sorry,” said Martha. “You traveled more than a hundred miles to meet someone you did not know, and having said hello to her, you return from whence you’ve come?”

“You have it precisely,” Mr. Blake answered with great cheer. “Now I have ordered it so that when Miss Derrick and I meet again, we will no longer be strangers.”

“That is nonsensical,” said Martha.

“If you subscribe to the narrow reason of Bacon and Newton and Hume and men of that stripe, then I suppose it is,” answered Mr. Blake. “I choose not to let the devil’s logic interfere with God’s truth, not when it is before my eyes.”

Martha turned to Lucy. “You appear remarkably unperturbed. Do you know something of all this?”

Lucy shook her head. “This sort of thing happens to me a great deal these days. But sir, can you tell me nothing more of your business with me?”

“I cannot because I know nothing of it,” he answered. “I have no doubt we shall know in time. But the green is darkening, is it not? The mills come, belching smoke and ash, grinding men to dust, and nature prepares to decay. You know it too, I think.”

“Lucy,” Martha said again, the urgency evident in her voice.

Lucy was about to respond, but she suddenly heard weeping, and she observed that Mr. Blake heard it too. It was a soft sound—a delicate, feminine sobbing—nothing menacing, and yet Lucy understood that the afternoon had turned. The air grew cool, and the hair on the back of her neck bristled. Everything around her refined and sharpened into vivid colors. She heard every twig and leaf crunch under their feet.

They traveled some fifty feet down the path and found, sitting under
a tree, a young woman in a dingy white dress, rustic by the look of it. They could not determine her age, for she had her back to them, but she wore her coppery hair loose and unruly under her bonnet, and by her size—tall and very thin—Lucy imagined her to be in her late teens. There was something about her look, about her misery and the way she held her head in her hands, that reminded her of herself weeping after the death of her sister. She remembered one afternoon, some weeks after the day her father had admitted her to his study, when she had been walking behind the house, and Emily’s death had struck her fresh, like a blow. She had understood, as if for the first time, that her sister was gone, that she would never see her again, and the emptiness of this realization overwhelmed her. She had fallen to the ground and wept, unable to stop herself, unable to find the will to try.

She knew not how long she lay there—hours perhaps—lost in her own misery, until she’d felt hands upon her shoulders. She’d shrugged them off, but they were insistent, and when at last she looked up, Lucy saw that it was her father, out of his study, pulling her to her feet. He was not used to being an affectionate man, and he did not love to touch even his children, but he took her into his embrace and let her weep against his shoulder for long minutes, until she felt smothered by the scent of wet wool. She did not know if there was ever a moment when she’d loved her father so well, or needed him more, or was so glad to have his guidance.

Now she looked upon this strange girl as she sat hunched over, a mournful, almost bovine sound escaping her lips, and Lucy wanted to comfort her, wanted to offer her some small portion of what only another person can provide in such moments of grief. As they approached, the girl did not regard them at all, and they saw she was bent over a book. The text must be passing melancholy, Lucy thought, to elicit such a response.

Martha hung back, but Lucy circled around, and Mr. Blake walked by her side, a look of pure concern upon his wrinkled face. When they could see the girl’s face, they noted that she was pretty, with a fair countenance, somewhat marred by freckles and a nose broad and flat at the
bridge, but with large, very beautiful hazel eyes—red and moist with tears though they might have been.

As Lucy and Mr. Blake approached her from the side, the girl suddenly started and scrambled to her feet in a terrified scurry, more animal-like than human. Once she rose, however, she appeared somewhat calmed by the sight of the two young ladies and the kindly older man, who anyone could see posed no threat. There was, however, a marked look of incomprehension on the girl’s face. Her mouth hung slightly open, her eyes squinted as though willing the world to form into some intelligible shape.

Curiously, the girl wore a slate around her neck, held on by a piece of thick cord, and in her hand she held a piece of chalk. The book she’d been reading lay on the ground, and Lucy read the spine. It was Byron’s
Poems on Various Occasions
.

“Hello,” Lucy said cautiously. “We are sorry to have startled you.”

Martha had now come around to face the girl, who had begun to mark up her slate with furious speed.
I am Sophie Hyatt. I am deaf
.

Lucy gestured that she would like the slate so she might respond, but the girl shook her head and gestured toward her lips. Lucy had read of deaf people who could understand words by watching a speaker’s lips, though she had never seen the thing done herself. Overwhelmed by the wonder of it, Lucy said, speaking slowly and moving her mouth in exaggerated gestures,
“I am Lucy, and this is Martha and Mr. Blake.”

The deaf girl laughed, and in her laughter, she appeared remarkably beautiful.
Speak as you are used
, she wrote on the slate, and held up the sign with her eyes twinkling.
Not so slow
.

“I am sorry,” Lucy said. “I did not mean to offend you. Or to startle you. We heard you weeping, and wished only to make sure you were not in distress.”

“Not in distress,” said Mr. Blake. “In love.”

She wiped at her eyes with her fingers and wrote,
Yes
.

Unable to help herself, Lucy said, “Not with Byron, I hope.”

Sophie took a step backwards.
Do you know him?
she wrote after a moment’s reflection.

“Only a little,” said Lucy, not wishing to set herself up as a rival to this deaf girl, though she
was
pretty, and a certain kind of man liked a vulnerable woman. Was Byron such a man? Would he prefer this poor creature to Lucy? She hated herself that such thoughts occurred to her, and she summoned the will to set them aside. In this she was very near successful. “I do not know him well enough to be invited to Newstead. I come merely to look at the grounds with my sister, and we met Mr. Blake along the way.”

Do you love him?

Lucy and Martha exchanged looks. Lucy liked him, certainly, but she was almost entirely confident that she did not love him. Martha took the uncertain look upon Lucy’s face as amusement, and began to laugh, and Lucy laughed too. She did not wish to mock the deaf girl, and tried to stop herself, but to her surprise the girl laughed with them.

I am very jealous
, she wrote.
It is silly, for he does not love me
. She paused for a moment, studying Lucy, her head cocked like a bird’s.
I think you are like me
.

“What does she mean, Lucy?” asked Martha.

Sophie smiled.
Three years ago they came. They showed me the wordless book. Very powerful, but I pretended not to know the good pages from the bad
.

Lucy felt a sudden pang of paralyzing fear. These phenomena were unavoidable. These people were ubiquitous. It seemed as though she had been living in a fantastical world her whole life, one that willfully ignored the magic all around. She had been too blind to see it, but now that her eyes were open, it was everywhere.

“Who came to you?” asked Lucy.

A lady, very proud, all in black, as if mourning. A simpering man. A curate
.

Lucy put a hand to her mouth. It had been Lady Harriet and Mr. Buckles. It could be no one else, and they too were interested in the
Mutus Liber
, the book with the false pages. They wanted it for themselves. It could only be that Lady Harriet wanted the power of eternal life. She wanted to become one of those revenants of which Mary had
spoken—a broken, inhuman thing. It seemed to Lucy that Lady Harriet was already upon her way.

Martha took her hand. “You look so pale, Lucy. And I cannot understand a word the two of you exchange. This is more curious even than Mr. Blake, if you will forgive me for saying so. What is all this?”

Lucy forced a smile. “Just local lore, too tedious to explain.” She looked at Sophie and gave another easy smile. “Have you been in the house?”

No
, said Sophie.
When I go, it will be with you
.

Martha stepped closer, looking concerned. “Do you want anything? Food? A ride somewhere? We have a coach just at the roadway.”

The girl shook her head.
I live close. I am done here
. She gathered up her things and wandered into the woods without looking back.

Mr. Blake watched her go and then rubbed his hands together. “What a remarkable day! But now I have a long journey back to London. May I see you ladies off?”

He escorted them back to their coach, and waved kindly as they rode off, as though he were an uncle or an old friend. Several times Martha turned to Lucy to ask questions, but each time she stopped herself. It soon became evident that, whatever she might wish to ask, she was not certain she would want to hear the answer.

I
T WAS A STRANGE DAY, FULL OF NEW PEOPLE AND NEW INFORMATION
, and when she returned to her uncle’s house, Lucy excused herself, claiming fatigue, and retired to her room, determined to be alone until dinner. There was so much to think about. Lady Harriett Dyer and Mr. Buckles had, three years earlier, shown the
Mutus Liber
to the deaf girl Sophie Hyatt. It was evident they had been searching for someone who could identify the true prints from the false. Did they know that Lucy could do that? Was there a link between Lucy’s natural talent and Mr. Buckles’s theft of her property? Did these new facts somehow explain why Lady Harriett had been so adamant that Lucy marry Mr. Olson?

Much to her own surprise, Lucy found herself feeling jealous that this deaf girl had been shown the pages.
Her
pages. She wished Mary had lent her the book, because she longed to look at them. She closed her eyes and tried to recall the complex images she’d seen, but they were too elaborate, too elusive to be summoned.

Since his arrival, Lucy had done her best to avoid Mr. Buckles, either by staying out of any room that he might occupy or by directing all of her attention to the baby when he was around. He had, she was now certain, stolen her birthright and her independence, and she hated that she must pretend he had not. But now, it seemed to her even worse. It was not simply that he had stolen from her out of malice and greed. If Lucy’s suspicions were right, Mr. Buckles was involved in a complicated and long-standing conspiracy against her—a conspiracy whose scope and goal was beyond her understanding.

After she and Martha returned from Newstead, Lucy had excused herself by saying she was tired so that she might go to her room and pursue answers in her books. She had found none. She did not even know what she looked for, but she could not bear to do nothing. After several hours, she abandoned the effort and joined the family in a late dinner.

That night, after her sister had retired to bed, Ungston once again informed Lucy that Miss Crawford awaited her in her carriage. Lucy rushed outside, and even in the dark, the lady’s grim expression was evident.

“Mary, is something wrong?”

“Not wrong, no,” said her friend. “Please step inside for a moment. I must speak with you.”