The Devil and Ms. Baxter - Part I

A Story by Mark Wallace

This story takes place in the drawing rooms of early 19th century England. The dull life of one young woman is enlivened by the arrival of a mysterious stranger, whose reputation precedes him.

Of Lucy Baxter, a fair young maiden

      Of twenty summers, a tale I will tell,

For whom the joys of life were fading;

      That humble village where she did dwell

Could not provide enough sensation

      Towards another life she felt compelled.

Oh, if only Lucy Baxter had a warden

To shield her from the bold Aleister Gordon.

In her twentieth year, Lucy Baxter had almost grown tired of the endless round of balls, soirees and afternoon teas that her life had become.

“What a bore it is!” she said, falling prone onto her bed.

“Don’t do that, Lucy, you will crease your dress,” said her sister Jane, at the mirror applying rouge.

“Oh, bother my dress!”

“How do I look?” asked Jane.

“Very well,” said Lucy. “I really am in no mood for the Carlyles. They’re beastly.”

“Well, they are rather vulgar, but who knows who’ll be there? I hear they have a very eligible cousin, who is fourth in line for a dukedom.”

“Really?” said Lucy, without interest.

“Yes. Or maybe fifth. I believe he’s about your age, too. We might marry you to him yet”, said Jane. “It is about time for it.”

“Is he handsome at all?”

“Not very handsome, I believe. Though what is more handsome than a dukedom?”

“I should say he is a crushing bore. All of the Carlyles are bores.”

Jane grew suddenly severe: “Come, sister, do not talk such nonsense. No man wants a wife who talks in that manner. You must accept my advice on the right way to go about getting a husband. It is time for it. Let us go”

And so they went to the dance at the Carlyles'. Almost immediately upon entry, Lucy was accosted by the Carlyle’s youngest son Tom, a youth of her own age.

“How do you do?” he said, giving a low bow.

“Quite well. And you?”

“Jolly good. When I saw you come in the door, well, you know…”

“Yes.”

“You really are looking quite… well…”

“Yes. But I must go over there. I believe my sister is in want of me.”

So she made her way to the other end of the hall, and sat. Tom Carlyle was a bumbling fellow, and she knew if she gave him any encouragement at all he would ask her hand in marriage. She suspected he had been leading up to it with the attempted compliment on her appearance. So, she resolved to studiously avoid him for the rest of the evening.

The dancing had already begun and she soon received an invitation from a local swain. He was a foolish young popinjay, she thought, but tolerably handsome, and a competent dancer, so she acceded to his request.

“It is a beautiful evening,” said the swain, whose name was Frederick Beasley.

“Indeed.”

“There is a full moon.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. It is said that under the influence of the full moon we become unlike ourselves. We become more excitable, more passionate. Do you find it so?”

“I can’t say that I do.”

“It is a phenomenon well known to keepers of lunatic asylums. The patients become agitated and difficult to control.”

“Indeed.”

“Your eyes have something of the lustre of the moon. They give one the feeling that a dog must have when he howls at the moon.”

Not finding this remark wholly comprehensible, Lucy did not reply. Frederick went on: “Would you care to take a walk with me beneath the moon? Then I could show you what I mean.”

“I would not,” Lucy answered.

The evening passed tolerably enough, as Lucy danced with various available young men. There was, however, one young man with whom she did not dance. He had entered with Lady Mortmain, a rich widow of some fifty summers.

“Who is that man?” she asked Jane.

“That is Lady Mortmain’s nephew, just returned from India.”

“He is rather handsome, is he not?”

“He is a great rake, they say. Do not dance with him if he asks”

“He doesn’t seem to be dancing at all. Is he married?”

“No. He is said to have made his fortune in India, though still not much over thirty years. There is a great scandal about him. He ran off with the Viceroy’s wife when he was leaving - they had been seeing each other for some time in secret. He tired of her on the way home and is believed to have left her somewhere in Arabia, in the company of some Bedouins.”

“He is rather an exotic character.”

“He’s a Devil! Look at the darkness of his eye. Do not meet his eyes, though. It wouldn’t be safe.”

Lucy regarded this interesting specimen with some curiosity.

“Oh, dear me,” said Jane. “I believe he’s looking this way. Did he hear us?”

“Hardly. He’s quite the other side of the room.”

“I think he’s looking at you.”

“Do you think so?”

“I’m certain of it. He’s being quite brazen about it. Don’t meet his eyes!”

“Oh, don’t be silly.”

He was walking towards them.

“He’s going to ask you to dance,” said Jane. “You mustn’t. He’s not respectable.”

“I must dance if he asks,” said Lucy.