The Twelfth Enchantment

11

LUCY COMFORTED HERSELF THAT MR. BUCKLES AND LADY HARRIETT chose not to stay. After their brief conversation, they set out at once to return to Kent. One good result of the visit, however, was that it effectively reintroduced Lucy to the routine of the house. Neither her uncle nor Mrs. Quince said anything of her walking with Byron or her brief confinement to her room.

Nevertheless, Lucy remained trapped. She had to marry Mr. Olson. She did not see how she could avoid it, not unless the new will proved valid and she came into her inheritance. Otherwise, she would be cast adrift with no money or refuge.

Oddly enough, in the face of these devastating consequences, Lucy found a new calm. Events were now out of her hands. She could hope the world might rescue her, and if it did not, she would float along on the tides of fate, much the way everyone else did. Who was she to think she deserved better? She would marry Mr. Olson, so dull and cold, but capable of providing her with a decent life. Women prayed daily for such a husband.

Lucy’s efforts to resign herself to her fate were interrupted when Mrs. Quince pushed open her door to tell her that she had a visitor. “It is that Crawford woman. I did not know you continued to carry on with her. I believe I shall have to speak to your uncle.”

Lucy would not have yet another connection taken away from her, but protesting would not serve her ends. Instead, she silently followed Mrs. Quince to the sitting room, where the ethereal Miss Mary Crawford stood looking out the window to the street beyond. She wore no green today, but a frock of white trimmed with light pink, and a broad-brimmed white hat with a matching pink band. With her fair hair and fairer skin, she glowed, almost like an angel.

“What is your business with Miss Derrick?” asked Mrs. Quince.

“She is my friend,” said Miss Crawford. “Is she not permitted friends?”

“Of the proper sort,” said Mrs. Quince with the sort of sniff she believed must make her appear more formidable.

Miss Crawford took a step forward. “Do you suggest something, Mrs. Quince? I beg you speak plainly.”

Much to Lucy’s surprise, Mrs. Quince retreated. Lucy had never seen her do so except in the presence of someone she wished to flatter. “I know of nothing objectionable,” she said, and then walked toward the door, where she hovered for a moment, one last attempt to intimidate. Miss Crawford turned her back to her, however, and so Mrs. Quince departed.

When they were left alone, Lucy permitted herself to look at Miss Crawford, studied her face for signs of good news or bad. Miss Crawford met her eye, and her thin, vaguely sad smile suggested nothing good.

“The will is not real,” Lucy said, holding on to the wall for balance. “It is false, and I have no cause for hope.”

“It is real,” said Miss Crawford, stepping forward to take her hand, “but the situation is complicated.”

Lucy felt the most unexpected sensation, the warmth of pure affection that seemed to course from this woman’s gloved hand. “You’ve already been so kind to me. I must thank you for making the effort, for attempting—”

“You need not thank me. Though we have met but recently, we are friends, and I will always do what I can for you. There is so much more to say, about this and about other things. Will you come with me, Miss Derrick?”

“Go with you where?”

Miss Crawford’s countenance appeared suddenly so serious that Lucy could never have predicted what she said next.

“To a picnic.”

She had packed a basket in preparation, and they rode out of town, toward the southwest, in the direction of Gotham Village. It was a pleasant spring day, warm and dry—perfect for a picnic, but somehow Lucy did not think they were to sit out of doors because the weather was fair. In the carriage Miss Crawford tried to make idle chatter, saving the meat of her conversation for their destination. Lucy tried not to stare at her hostess, tried not to notice how her fair hair and pale skin seemed to glow in the dark of the carriage, tried not to notice her pure, almost painful beauty.

They came at last to their destination, near one of the old fairy barrows alongside the road. It was a hillock, much like the one on the road to Mr. Olson’s mill. Already the brown grass was beginning to green, and some flowers were near blooming. A trio of rabbits scattered as Lucy and Miss Crawford approached and laid out a blanket and, upon that, a large basket. The lady had brought only a light meal of seedcakes, a loaf of bread, and a wedge of orange cheese. She had also packed a bottle of wine, the cork pulled and loosely replaced, and two pewter glasses. Lucy did not drink much wine, certainly not unwatered, and not in the middle of the day.

Miss Crawford removed some plates and prepared portions for them both. She then poured wine and handed Lucy a cup. Something felt almost ceremonial in her gestures, and Lucy somehow knew it would be wrong to refuse to drink. The wine smelled of earth and mushrooms and damp fallen leaves, but the taste was bright and fruity and delicious.

“My solicitor believes this will genuine,” said Miss Crawford at last. “The one read after your father’s death was false, and you were almost certainly cheated out of your inheritance.”

Lucy let out her breath very slowly. This information was neither new nor surprising. She had suspected it from the moment she had first seen the new will, but to hear this fact asserted, without reservation, by another person—it made her feel faint. She set her cup down, struggling to balance it upon the ground.

“There are difficulties, however. Your father’s solicitor, a Mr. Clencher, is dead, and so we know of no witnesses who can directly testify on the matter. The fact that the handwriting of this new will more closely resembles that of other documents by your father’s hand is to your advantage, but it is a case that would certainly circulate in the courts for years, and cost thousands of pounds to bring to a conclusion. The resolution of the matter would likely cost more than the value of the inheritance. I know you must dream of a speedy reversal of this injustice, but the falsification of your father’s estate is hidden behind legal barriers that make prohibitive the cost of revelation.”

Lucy sat clutching her cup of wine so tight her fingers began to numb. She set it down with a trembling hand, and then wove her fingers together in an endlessly moving pattern. This life she lived was not hers, it was a fabrication, a falsehood, an unnecessary misery. She ought to be living in comfort, in independence, but that true existence was barred to her. This was the end of her hopes, and she would have to marry Mr. Olson. “There is nothing I can do?” she asked.

“You do have… options, though not perhaps the ones you imagine. I understand you hoped you could deliver yourself from your current situation, and that cannot happen with this will. But I believe I can offer you some help, if you will trust me.”

Not daring to speak, Lucy only nodded.

“I think,” Miss Crawford said, “we must begin by discussing the man who is most probably the architect of this fraud.”

Lucy snapped out of her misery, her attention focused and sharp. At the same time, she observed, as if from a dispassionate position, how much more powerful was anger than misery. “Then you know who cheated me.”

“There is a suspicious circumstance of a gentleman who shared the same solicitor as your father, and who hired this Mr. Clencher for a number of lucrative endeavors around the time of your father’s death. These endeavors are poorly documented, and by all appearances, Clencher was paid for facilitating the false will and then keeping silent.”

“Who was this other man?” Lucy rose without meaning to, hardly knowing she moved at all. She wanted to move, to act, to do. “Is it someone I would have heard of?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Miss Crawford. “The man who has cheated you is very likely Mr. William Buckles, your sister’s husband.”