The Twelfth Enchantment: A Novel (6 page)

Then, one day, Lucy and Martha had been in the sitting room, sewing in mournful silence, when the library door cracked open, spilling forth sunlight. For weeks he had kept the curtains drawn, and now both sisters looked in wonder as their father walked to the door and stared for a long moment. “Lucy,” he said, “I should like to speak with you.”

She set down her sewing and entered the library, where he invited her, rather formally, to take a seat across from him by the window. They remained silent while Lucy breathed in the scent of tobacco and juniper. Mr. Derrick looked at his daughter, and Lucy stared out the window until she could stand the silence no longer. “We all miss her, Papa.”

“Of course we do.” His voice was clipped, almost impatient. “Tell me of the books you like to read.”

The demand astonished her because it had no apparent connection to what had come before and because Papa had never before shown interest in what she read, or if she read at all.

“I like novels,” she said.

“Novels are fluff,” he said, hardly allowing her to finish speaking
before he passed judgment. “Do you read anything else? History, philosophy, books upon the natural world?”

Lucy brightened, because she believed she could answer to his satisfaction. “I am now reading Mr. Lunardi’s account of his balloon voyages in Scotland.”

His eyes, long red from crying, grew wide, and faint creases grew at the side of his mouth. “Why do you read upon that? What is it that interests you?”

“There are machines that allow people to fly,” Lucy said, filling her voice with wonder—perhaps intentionally, perhaps not. She was sixteen, and the distinction between performance and sincerity was not always clear, even to her. “How could I not be interested in marvels?”

He took Lucy’s hand in his, and he wept unabashed tears, copious and silent. When he was done, he wiped his eyes with a handkerchief, smiled at Lucy, and let go of her hand. “I should very much like,” he said, “to hear more upon the subject of ballooning.”

From that afternoon until his death, Lucy had been his new favorite. She visited his library daily, talking to him of the books he gave her. He exposed her to the rudiments of ancient languages, Greek and Latin and especially Hebrew, upon which he instructed with an endless vigor. He directed her studies in astronomy, history, and particularly botany, keen that she be able to identify all manner of plants. He demanded that she learn the lives of medieval and Renaissance thinkers—dabblers in new science and old alchemy. She would struggle through these books all morning, and then her father would quiz her throughout the afternoons.

Then, after a few months of that, came the walks. Papa had always valued his privacy and quiet in his study, but now he took Lucy out into the woods surrounding their estate. He would bring his botanical books and test Lucy on her ability to identify barks and weeds and flowers and plants, making certain she could distinguish between common, Persian, and Algerian ivy or fringed, smooth, or hairy rupturewort. He talked of his love for those woods, of how he treasured the animal life, even the
insects. Once he made her watch as an army of ants devoured a sliver of apple, for even when disturbingly savage, nature was always beautiful.

Never, not once, did he ask Martha to join them, and when Lucy suggested that she come along, he had dismissed the notion with a wave of the hand, as though the idea was too absurd to warrant a serious reply. Lucy found she wanted Martha’s forgiveness for this sudden and unexpected elevation, but Martha refused soothing. “He’s found comfort in you,” she had said. “And so have I. And I’m glad it is you and not me.”

“This is silly,” Lucy answered. “It can be both of us.”

“I am not like you and Emily,” Martha said.

“I am not like Emily either,” Lucy protested.

Martha had hugged her again. “You must not think I am jealous. I am only happy. Emily was bright, like the sun, and we could not see each other when she was here. But we see each other now.”

It was true. In the weeks since Emily’s death, Lucy and Martha had become inseparable. The idea that they had once been distant, while undeniably true, now felt absurd. It was why Lucy felt betrayed when Martha, shortly after their father’s death, accepted a proposal of marriage from their relation, a clergyman named William Buckles. Harrington, the family estate, was entailed upon male heirs, and Mr. Buckles, a distant cousin, inherited the property. Martha believed she was looking after her sister as best she could, and when she’d broken the news to Lucy, they’d hugged and cried as though they had suffered yet another calamity. Lucy had looked at her sister, her quiet, bookish sister who never asked for anything, who never resented her siblings, who never dreamed that she ought to hope for happiness, and felt so gripped by love that it nearly broke her heart.

“You cannot marry him,” Lucy had told her. “I know it is horrid to say, but he cannot make you happy.”

“He can make you secure,” Martha said. “How can I be happy otherwise?”

If Martha did not marry Mr. Buckles, she too would have nowhere to live, but Lucy believed this fact never occurred to her sister.

Papa, for his part, had detested the idea of the marriage when Buckles
had first proposed it, for he detested Buckles as a simpering buffoon, but Papa died only a few months after the proposal, leaving the girls paupers. When Mr. Buckles renewed his offer, Martha accepted at once. In the end, the marriage did little to ease Lucy’s situation, for Mr. Buckles would not have his wife’s sister live in what was now his house. With no money, no prospects, and no parents, Lucy removed half a country away to Nottingham to live with an uncle, not even a blood relative, who did not much know her and had no wish to remedy that situation. Through no choice of her own, she rarely saw her sister, and now, her sister’s infant girl. They were the only family Lucy had in the world, but Mr. Buckles did not much care for travel, or for guests, both of which were a bother.

Uncle Lowell’s breakfasts were not the best. He served no bacon with his eggs and no butter with his bread. He preferred for himself a weak porridge and fresh fruit when in season, dried when it was not. He instructed Ungston to prepare small quantities of eggs as a concession to his niece, but he often observed that he did not love being put to the expense of serving what he did not eat.

Lucy, whose shape was not excessively slender, usually ate heartily, but today she only picked at her bread and pushed her eggs about with her fork while Uncle Lowell talked about the newspaper he read. Mrs. Quince sat near him. Having already eaten, her principal task was to refill Mr. Lowell’s cup with chocolate and agree with his observations.

“More of your Luddites,” he said to Lucy, as though her vague sympathy with their grievances the day before implicated her in their crimes. “A band of these brigands broke open a mill not twenty miles from here and destroyed every stocking frame within. They fired upon the owner and his man. What say you to that, Miss Lucy? Do you yet stand with these pirates and rally to the banner of their General Ludd?”

“I never said I stood with them,” Lucy said as she speared a piece of egg with her fork and then removed it by scraping it against her plate. She did not like that he accused her of sympathizing with the Luddites, but at least he did not speak of the stranger or Mr. Olson. It was only
temporary, Lucy understood, but if the man in the guest room would wake up and exonerate her, perhaps the whole situation might turn into no more than a marvelous anecdote, leaving her unscathed.

“If you no longer desire eggs,” said Uncle Lowell, “you need but inform me. You may say, ‘Uncle, I ask you not to beggar yourself with the expense of eggs, for I do not choose to eat them.’ I do not think myself unreasonable in that regard. What, have you nothing to say, Miss Lucy? Have you no response to my sensible request?”

It is probable that Lucy would indeed have had no significant response under usual circumstances, but in this case she did not speak because she was staring at the stranger, who stood at the entrance to the dining room. He had shed his coat and wore only his trousers and his dingy white shirt, open to reveal his tanned skin and curls of dark hair along his broad and muscular chest. He wore no shoes, but his ruined foot was wrapped in a pillowcase.

“I do beg your pardon,” said the man, his voice tinged, if not overwhelmed, with accents of the north, “but I wonder if you might inform me of where I am, what I am doing here, and why my clothing is tattered and my feet torn to shreds.”

Lucy stared in amazement, Mrs. Quince clucked her tongue with distaste, but Mr. Lowell was instantly upon his feet. “If
I
might inform
you
?” he demanded. “It is you who must inform me, sir, who you are and what you are doing here. You must inform me why you have come to trouble my niece and why you have put me to the expense of doctors and witches and now, I suppose, food and drink.”

“He disrupts a stranger’s home,” observed Mrs. Quince, “and then wants food and drink.”

“Yes, of course.” Lucy rose from her chair, almost catching her feet upon the table leg, for she found she was suddenly anxious. “Sir, please sit. You must be hungry.”

“I confess I am famished and terribly thirsty,” he said, “but you must indulge me elsewhere, for I am unused to being so dirty, and I fear I must offend you.”

“You would put me to the expense of opening up another room for your convenience? I’ve smelled the unwashed before, I assure you. If you will only sit at the far end of the table there—just there, yes, that seat farthest from my own—I am certain it will be well.”

The man, who it now seemed was possessed of fine manners, bowed and took the seat. Lucy went to the sideboard, prepared for him a dish of eggs and bread, and rang the bell for Ungston that the stranger might be brought some small beer.

Though evidently famished, the gentleman restrained himself for a moment that he might give formality its due. “I beg the indulgence of introducing myself. My name is George Gordon Byron, Baron of Newstead in Nottinghamshire, and a member of the House of Lords. I tell you of my titles not in the hopes of impressing you, though we must admit that they
are
impressive, but because I am aware of my appearance, and I do not wish you to think me a vagabond.”

“
Lord
Byron of Newstead!” said Lucy, now overcome with surprise. The handsome stranger—the one who had come to her, supposedly under a curse, to demand she not marry Mr. Olson—was a peer, their very own local peer. It was as though she’d found herself transported into a fairy story. She rose to give him a quick curtsy as she struggled to recall what other courtesies were required for this enigmatic gentleman, who, from his native neighborhood, was much absent and so the subject of enthusiastic speculation. “My lord, I am Lucy Derrick, and this gentleman is my uncle, Mr. Richard Lowell, and we are delighted to have you in our home.”

“I am Mrs. Quince,” said Mrs. Quince, who hastily rose to curtsy and add, “my lord.”

Lord Byron who showed signs of surprise, took no notice of Mrs. Quince. He gazed at Lucy with new curiosity. “Your name is Derrick?”