The Twelfth Enchantment: A Novel (11 page)

They strolled through the streets, toward Nottingham Castle, and Lucy could not but enjoy that eyes were upon them. All looked and wondered who was this unspeakably handsome man—or perhaps they recognized him, for though not often in Nottingham, he was well known there. Lucy chose not to care what others saw or would say. She was upon an adventure. Here she was, having a marvelous afternoon. Perhaps one day all of her afternoons would be marvelous.

“Do you mean to stay at Newstead long?” she asked him. “The Nottingham assembly is next week, and I think you would make a pleasing addition to the company.” Then, thinking of his foot she added hastily, “Though perhaps a man as busy as yourself has no time for our country dances.”

He laughed, perhaps knowing too well what his presence would mean in such a place. “I should enjoy attending any dance where you are present, but sadly, I must return to London. I am new in the House of Lords this year, and if I wish to make a place for myself, I cannot neglect attendance.”

“It was much talked of here when you spoke out in favor of the local hosiers over the mill owners,” Lucy said. “There are those who claim you are a Luddite yourself.”

“I have no inclination for anything so awkward as machine breaking,” Lord Byron said. “I gave that speech primarily to attract some notice. One must have outlandish opinions if one is not to fade into obscurity.”

“Then you do not favor the workers over the mill owners?” asked Lucy.

“The cause of the workers is as good as any other. It is hard to care about such things overmuch, but I hear that this Mr. Olson you are supposed to marry is a mill owner. That is reason enough to side with the laborers.”

What did he mean by telling her this? She hardly knew what to say. “I sense you are being flippant, but I imagine the Luddites appreciate your support, even if you do not mean it.”

“I am fond of Nottinghamshire and would hate to see the county turned into some sort of wasteland of oppressed peasants. I like my laborers the way they are, thank you very much.” When Lucy did not reply, he added, “Do not think that my departure will mean the end of our friendship. Not for my part.”

That was
something
. He did flirt with her. Lucy felt a sharp jolt of fear or excitement or longing—she could not be certain which. Surely it was at least possible he felt some true interest in her. “You are very kind, Lord Byron,” she said, pleased with how easy her voice sounded.

“I am, in truth, very selfish, and because I am selfish, I cannot deny myself the company of a young lady as captivating as you.”

Lucy looked away to hide her flush of embarrassment. Her life had not taught her how to respond to praise with good graces. Byron was making his intentions clear, was he not?

“Have I told you that I am a poet?” His voice suggested only boredom with his own accomplishments.

“No,” she said, not quite sure what to make of this new information.

“Yes, my
Poems on Various Occasions
is very pretty, I think, though nothing more. I created a bit of controversy three years ago with my satiric work
English Bards and Scotch Reviewers
. It was a clever piece, but there is no shortage of men who can write cleverly. I am now preparing for publication the first portion of a long poem I call
Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage
. I wrote much of this while traveling in Greece. Remarkable country, and I think the sublimity of the experience is reflected in these excellent verses. The world, I do not doubt, will notice this effort.”

“I am glad,” said Lucy, still uncertain what Byron wished to convey to her.

“I do not tell you these things to boast. I don’t believe in false modesty, and I know what I am. I am an exceptional man, and so I know of what I speak when I say that you are an exceptional woman. You see, I recall everything now.”

The first thing Lucy thought of was the mill, and those voices calling out for her to gather the leaves, just as Byron had. Might he be able to tell her the meaning? “Do you know why you said those things to me?” she asked.

“No, not that. I remember what you did. I remember how it was you alone who could find the curse that was upon me. And then there was that
thing
, wasn’t there? That dark thing. I remember lying frozen with terror, fearing
—knowing
—that … that … whatever it was … was going to reach out and clutch me with its … I don’t know what. Not hands, but something. And then you stepped before it, defying it, and it feared your defiance. It was only an instant, and yet in that instant how many hours of terror did I experience. But you, Miss Derrick, had the courage of a lion. They may hold you cheap here, but I know better.”

Lucy did not wish to deny what he said. She wished him to heap his praise upon her and bask in his attention, but she was also frightened, for what she had seen both with him and at the mill had all been real. She desperately wanted it all to be the product of her heated imagination, but if he had seen these things too, then how could she deny the truth?

They walked in silence for some minutes, but as they approached the center of town, Byron turned to Lucy. “I cannot say how I knew to warn you, but I must agree with my more distracted self. You cannot allow yourself to marry this Olson.”

Her first impulse was to say,
Then I have delightful news, for I have rejected him!
Lucy knew better, however. She wanted to tell him everything she had done, and why, but she could not. She needed him to make his intentions clear. She yearned for it. She felt the need for it twist into a knot inside her, and the fact that he did not made her want to scream with frustration.

“You do not know him,” Lucy said at last, pleased with her vague response.

“I know he is not worthy of you.”

All at once, Lucy was angry—at herself and at Byron. She felt foolish. Who was he, a peer with an estate and a seat in the House of Lords, with his poetry and holidays in Greece, to tell her what she was free to do or not do? He knew she was not an independent gentlewoman. Unless he offered her some alternative, it was unconscionable of him to advise her against marrying Olson. Jonas Morrison had been much the same in his easy dismissal of the chains that bound her to propriety. She had been a child when she’d allowed herself to be persuaded by him, but she was a child no longer, and was furious with herself for dreaming a child’s dreams of love and happiness.

“I have not the luxury of deciding who is worthy,” Lucy answered, not troubling herself to hide her irritation.

“You have more options than you know,” said Byron airily.

When they returned to Uncle Lowell’s house, Lucy did not know what to do. She could not invite him in, for her uncle and Mrs. Quince to see. Nor could she simply send Byron away without risking rudeness. Her decision was made for her, however, as Mrs. Quince awaited her outside the house.

“Look at this,” she said, setting her hands upon her hips. “Water rises to its own level, as they say. In this instance, it is the level of a gutter.”

Lucy could think of nothing to say, but Byron bowed low to Mrs. Quince. “Mrs. Quince, if memory serves, and memory always serves well when it is beauty to be recalled.”

She snorted. “I am not fooled by your nonsense, and I have no use for titled profligates. Come, girl. Your uncle wants you within, and asked that this gentleman accompany you.”

Byron followed her inside, and there they found not only Uncle Lowell, but Mr. Olson as well. He did not appear surprised to see Byron, so Lucy surmised some neighbor had told him of Byron’s visit.

Olson rushed to his feet with a rapidity that could only signal belligerence.
“
Lord
Byron,” he said, as though the title were but an affectation. “I demand you declare your intentions toward this lady. What do you mean by walking with Miss Derrick?”

Byron bowed once more. “What I mean is to talk to her, and as the weather is fine, we chose to talk out of doors. However, I must point out that it pains me to answer your questions, as we have not been introduced.”

Mr. Olson did not much like this response. “I am Walter Olson, and I know you are aware of my intention to marry this lady.”

“But I am not aware of any reason that your intentions are my concern,” Byron replied.

“Then let us speak of
your
intentions toward Miss Derrick,” Mr. Olson said.

Lucy observed that Byron but poorly hid his discomfort. He must now either propose marriage on the spot or declare he did not want her. Of course, men cannot be held accountable to all the women they do not marry, but neither should they be made to tell each one to her face that she has not been chosen.

“I have never before today spoken at length with Miss Derrick. It is absurd to ask such a question of me.”

Of course he was right, but Lucy would have hoped for a less timid response. He was not a schoolboy, he was a peer, a member of the House of Lords, a
poet
. He was, by his own accounting, and by Lucy’s, an impressive man, and yet he chose not to be impressive now. She understood his reasons, but she wished he might have said something else.

“And,” added Byron, “my intentions are my own concern, and Miss Derrick’s. Certainly not yours.”

It took all of Lucy’s will to suppress a smile. This was what she had hoped for. A hint—no more than a hint—of what was to come. It was enough for now, surely.

“It seems to me that you have no more to offer my niece than a lot of romantical fluffery,” said Uncle Lowell, pronouncing his edict from his chair with all the gravity of an ancient lawgiver. “I beg you will excuse
us. There are some private matters at hand, and we do not choose to speak of them in the company of strangers.”

Lucy blushed with mortification. Byron said he would leave for London in a day or two, and she did not know if she would see him again. “Allow me to see him out,” said Lucy.

“Ungston will tend to that,” said Uncle Lowell. “You may sit, Lucy.”

Though she shook with rage, Lucy was prepared to do as she was told. Byron, however, approached her and took both her hands.

“As we cannot say our good-byes in private, we must do so in public.” As if interpreting her expression, he added, “I shall call upon you before I depart the county.” He then bowed to the rest of the room, and took his leave.

Lucy took some small pleasure at his cool defiance of her uncle. Taking hold of Byron’s calm as though it were her own, Lucy sat.

Uncle Lowell raised his head slightly, ready to present to the world another utterance of wisdom. “Mr. Olson,” he pronounced, “wishes to say something.”

Mr. Olson nodded. “Miss Derrick, I received your message, which I now understand you wrote without your uncle’s knowledge or permission. It is not uncommon for young ladies to suffer a certain degree of confusion, and yours is without doubt an impulsive nature. The incident in which you nearly ran off with a rake was known to me even before I made my offer of marriage, though I thought you had matured beyond such things. It is time for you to set aside childhood, and so I have chosen to disregard your rejection of marriage. Your uncle and I have set upon a date six weeks hence for your wedding.”

Mrs. Quince rose to her feet and held her arms out to embrace Lucy. “I am so happy for you, Miss Derrick.”

Lucy turned away from Mrs. Quince. She felt dizzy, as though the floor shifted under her. This announcement was nonsense. She had severed ties with Mr. Olson by letter because she had wished to avoid a confrontation, but now a confrontation was upon her, and she had no choice but to accept their terms to argue. Perhaps accepting and remaining
quiet for six weeks was the best course. By then she would have heard from Miss Crawford about the will. Once she had the means to establish her own household, she could say and do just as she liked.

But no, Lucy would not be so duplicitous. This was the moment to assert herself. She rose and looked at Mrs. Quince, who had by now lowered her arms, but still remained standing, staring at Lucy. She turned to Mr. Olson. “I beg your pardon, but I am resolved. I do not believe a marriage between us would lead to anything but mutual unhappiness.”

There was a protracted moment of silence, and then it was Mrs. Quince who spoke. “The girl apparently believes she has some choice in this matter.”

Uncle Lowell nodded and looked at Lucy. “You are mistaken to believe you may refuse to marry as we say.”

Lucy was so astonished by this answer that she could hardly breathe. “I am of age,” she said so quietly she wondered if they heard her.

They did hear. “And what shall that get you?” asked her uncle. “Have you money upon which to live? Have you the means to defend your position?”

Lucy said nothing. There was nothing to say. She had nowhere to go, no one to help her, not unless her father’s estate came to her.

“The marriage shall proceed as planned,” said her uncle. “You may go now.”

Lucy affected anger and left in a sulky march, for if she did not pretend to defiance, she would certainly have succumbed to despair. As she crossed the threshold, she thought to turn back to glare at Mr. Olson, but then checked herself, and in that instant, she thought she saw something in the corner of the ceiling, concealed in the moldings, flickering in the firelight. It was but a hint of shadow, but it moved. It flexed. Then it was gone.