The Twelfth Enchantment

23

THE FOLLOWING MORNING WORD ARRIVED FROM NORAH GILLEY that they were going to London two days thence, and Lucy began to make preparations to leave her uncle’s house. While she packed her things, a boy arrived at the house with a note from Mr. Morrison, who begged she meet him once again at the chocolate house. When she arrived, he was loitering outside and looking agitated and demonstrating no particular interest in chocolate.

“I must leave Nottingham at once,” he told her, moved nearly to tears by what he said. He took both her hands and looked directly into her eyes. “I ought to have gone already, but I could not leave without seeing you.”

“I go to London in two days, with Miss Gilley. Where do you go?”

“I have sworn an oath of secrecy. I can tell you only that I leave England.”

Lucy took a moment to consider this news. If there were parts of the book outside England, she could never retrieve them herself. Maybe it was best not to ask too many questions. Better he should go, find the pages, and then hopefully she could persuade him to give them to her. She hated to let him leave with the love magic still upon him, but for the sake of her niece, Lucy had no choice.

“Perhaps,” she said, “when you have completed your quest, you will find me in London.”

He let go of her hands and began to pace in short strides. “If there is a way to do so without compromising the safety of this nation, then I will find you, Lucy. As soon as I can.”

After saying this, he proceeded to make many declarations. He spoke of how they would be together once this dark hour had passed. If he noted that she did not encourage, or even respond to, these speeches, he made no sign of it. At last, greatly moved by his own sorrow, he departed, and Lucy wondered if she would ever see him again. If she wanted the missing pages of the book, she supposed she would have to.

Shortly before she left for London, Mr. Olson came to call. She longed to say that she was unwell and to send him away, but he had suffered much, and even if he had also caused suffering, Lucy did not wish to be cruel. More than that, he had loved her after his own fashion, and she must not hate him for that. On the other hand, he had never declared he no longer wished to marry her, and she did not want to hear him press his case. However, Lucy knew she would likely have to face many things, many people, she would rather avoid. Best to get into the habit.

She went downstairs and found him in the parlor, sitting with his legs pressed close together, hands in his lap, looking uncomfortable, and yet, for all that, he appeared, if not precisely happy then at least contented. His eyes were wide and bright and attentive, his suit new and neat and clean. He had cut his hair into the fashion of late, and it was neatly combed. As she entered the room, he rose to his feet and bowed at her, and he had the air of a man who believed in his own significance.

“Miss Derrick,” he said when they were seated, “I understand you are to leave for London for the remainder of the season.”

“Perhaps not so long. Perhaps longer,” she said. “I do not yet know.”

He nodded. “I thought it would be wrong not to take my leave of you. I know that matters did not end between us as I had wished, and I spoke some words which I now regret. Nevertheless, I hope when you think of me, you will think well.”

Apparently Mr. Olson had set aside any intention of pursuing the wedding, and he’d simply neglected to mention that fact to the bride. In any case, this was good news, making her inclined toward generosity. “With all my heart. I have never said how sorry I was to hear of your mill, and the reversals you suffered. I do not love such enterprises for their consequences to the men of Nottingham, but I never wished that you should face these difficulties.”

“On that score you need have no fear,” said Olson. “My machines were destroyed and I had no money to replace them, but opportunities have arisen, and I now construct a new mill in a new location. From this adversity, great things have arisen.”

He forced a smile at her. Perhaps he wished to show her what she had neglected to seize, but Lucy did not think so. She believed he was just as relieved to have escaped her as she was to have escaped him.

“I wish you much prosperity.”

“I cannot see how we can fail,” said Mr. Olson. “Lady Harriett, my patroness, has a good head for such matters as these—a remarkable trait in a woman.”

Lucy stood up and wrung her hands, and seeing that he stared at her she sat back down again. She opened her mouth, to say that he must not take her money, must not do business with her, but knew how it would sound, and she had no means of convincing him. Nothing she could say would be creditable, and so she put her hands in her lap and looked away. “I can only wish your business brings you the success you desire.”

“Thank you, Miss Derrick,” he said, seeming to find nothing odd in her behavior. “I am sanguine it will all be well. You see now, you would not have suffered for being married to me.”

“And yet,” she offered. “I sense that your feelings have altered.”

He nodded. “It is the strangest thing. You must understand that I know you are a pretty girl, but I have never valued such things in a wife. I have never wanted to marry for anything but property. It merely happened one day that I thought I was in love with you, and then one day I thought I was not. I suppose love is strange in that way.”

He rose to his feet, blushing and announcing that he had taken enough of her time. She saw him to the door and shook his hand, so they parted with declarations of friendship. Yet Lucy was deeply troubled, for now it seemed to her obvious that someone had placed a spell upon Mr. Olson to make him love her, and she could not imagine who that person might have been. It did seem curious, however, that Lady Harriett still had designs on Mr. Olson. Lucy wondered if she had been manipulating him all along. It hardly mattered, though. Soon Lucy would be gone, and this would no longer be her concern.

Two days later, Norah arrived at Uncle Lowell’s house in a handsome coach, drawn by four yellowish horses. Her parents had traveled on ahead, and it was to be just the two young ladies and Norah’s woman. With great difficulty, Ungston and the coachman loaded Lucy’s trunk, which contained no small number of books, including her mostly false copy of the Mutus Liber. In addition, there were magical implements, herbs, and, of course, as many of her clothes as she could manage.

Her uncle sat in his study, reviewing some letters, and took his leave of her coolly. “You’ve quite disappointed me in your conduct with Mr. Olson,” he said. “I hope you shall do better in London. You’ll be returning here in the end, I suppose.”

Lucy curtsied. “I have not troubled myself to think of the future.”

“No, I suppose not,” he answered, and then turned away.

Outside his study, Mrs. Quince waited for her. “Enjoy your travels,” she said with a pinched smile. “Do try to bring no more shame upon yourself.”

Lucy studied her, feeling unnerved by her restraint. “I have no notion of why you have treated me as you have, but in the end I will find out. You may be certain of that.”

Mrs. Quince stared in wonder, unblinking and unmoving, and remained that way until Lucy was inside the coach.

When Lucy and Norah approached the equipage, Lucy observed Insworth, Norah’s servant, hunched over her botched knitting, muttering gloomily under her breath as she teased out false stitches. She had been in the Gilley family for a long time, and no amount of ill humor or ineptitude could prove sufficient cause for dismissal. She was a remarkably sour woman, with an offensive smell, and so best not confined to a coach for a long period of time, but it was not she who gave Lucy her surprise. It was the woman sitting across from her: Mrs. Emmett.

Lucy paused, unable to think of what to say, so it was Norah who spoke for her.

“Your woman is here already,” she said, her mouth compressed into a pinched smile. “I did not know you possessed such a person.”

They climbed in, each lady next to her own servant, and soon the coach began to roll. Mrs. Emmett only looked out the window, and occasionally turned to Norah to smile beatifically. Lucy felt a boiling medley of emotions—anger, confusion, and most of all, curiosity, but she could ask nothing in front of Norah, and she postponed all her questions until a convenient time arrived.

Satisfaction, such as it was, had to wait until their first stopover at an inn in Leicester. Lucy found cause to take Mrs. Emmett aside. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“You can’t go to London without your serving woman,” she said cheerily.

“Did Miss Crawford direct you to come to me?”

“Oh, yes. Long ago, but I am your woman now. I told you that, Miss Derrick.”

“How is it that Norah seems to know you?”

“She knows me because I am your serving woman,” said Mrs. Emmett.

Further inquiry produced only answers of an equally unsatisfying and circular nature. Lucy learned nothing of Mary’s whereabouts. The best she could get out of the serving woman was that she, Mrs. Emmett, had always worked for Lucy. Lucy simply had not known it.

The remainder of the journey was without much amusement or event. On the first night they stayed at an inn in Bedford, where a trio of officers made much of the ladies, even if they made slightly more of Norah, perhaps because Norah made much more of them. Lucy had matters on her mind other than officers, but she did not judge Norah, for she recalled what it was to have nothing of import to occupy one’s thoughts. If anything, she felt a pang of jealousy for her friend’s freedom to indulge in these simple pleasures.

They were on the road again before first light, though Mrs. Emmett was asleep again soon enough, snoring so loudly that at first it was comical, later maddening. Before nightfall, Lucy could make out the approaching city looming on the horizon. The farmland around them became less expansive, the people less rude, and the air less clear. Indeed, shortly after lunch the windows of the coach began to cloud over with gray soot, and the air they breathed grew heavier with London’s belching chimneys and coal smoke.

As they entered the city, Lucy gripped Norah’s arm, for the scene around them was not one of refinement, but horror. London had always had its poor, but the new mills built upon the river, spewing forth thick clouds of black smoke, seemed like something out of Dante’s Hell. It was like the poverty of Nottingham, multiplied a thousandfold. A boy walked shirtless against the cold evening air, his body so gaunt Lucy could all but identify his organs. A woman, almost equally uncovered, held her naked baby upside down by its feet while she shouted at a leering, finely dressed man. Two gentlemen laughed while they slapped an insensible woman’s face. A young man, with no hands, held up his begging bowl between the raw stumps of his wrists.

This was the worst of it, but not the whole. Gangs of thieves roamed the streets, their occupation so obvious it might have been emblazoned upon their coats. Likewise the whores made no effort to disguise their trade. The most brazen of them exposed their breasts to the coach before realizing it was inhabited by ladies, at which observation they would spit or hurl turds. Lucy had never seen such filth—the animal refuse that gathered in the street, the human refuse that did likewise, and besides came flying out of windows as they passed. The stiffly moving rivers of kennel that made their slow, muddy way down the street. Dead dogs, dead cats and rats and horses—the latter being dissected by a gang of feral boys after meat—lay everywhere. And everywhere was soot—so deep and thick and inescapable it caked Lucy’s throat and nostrils and made her long for a bath.

Norah laughed to see Lucy’s response. “Oh, this isn’t really London. We shall go to places in town where these sights do not exist. I don’t trouble myself to look.”

Lucy nodded, not because she agreed or saw the wisdom in pretending that people did not live so, but because she dared not speak, dared not say what was on her mind. Here, in this terrible place, Lucy understood that the Luddites were right, that Ludd, whatever he might be, was right. The machine breakers, the revolutionaries, those who raged against what they could not stop—all of them were right. And Mary Crawford—whatever role she may have had in replacing her sister’s child—she was right too. What terrible thing would Lucy herself not do, would not any sane person do, to turn back the tide upon these horrors, to stopper up the vomiting chimneys, to wipe away the soot and ash and dirt that fell from the sky like snow.

Then, as Norah predicted, their surroundings improved. The streets became wider and cleaner and less populated in general, less populated with mendicants and felons and whores in particular. Suddenly there were broad, glorious houses, gentlemen with ornate walking sticks, ladies in fine gowns, servants with neat little children in tow, or happy little lapdogs in baskets. There were elegant horses and majestic equipages. There were parks and lawns, fields where careless children played, watched over by mastiff-faced nurses. The air was still heavy and thick and dirty, and the occasional wretch still crossed their path, and the occasional whore still leered as she searched for willing coin, but even so it was a different world, and Lucy found herself pretending that the other place did not exist—not because she wanted to, but because she did not know that she could do otherwise and survive.

Not an hour in London, and Lucy was becoming a Londoner.

Mr. Gilley had rented a large, luxurious town house in Crown Street, perhaps not quite so close to Hyde Park as Norah would have liked, but close enough to be somewhat fashionable. The interior of the house seemed even more massive than its exterior suggested. The rooms were well lit and beautifully appointed, with the most fashionable furnishings and window treatments and paintings. There were too many servants for Lucy to learn their names at once, and she had the choice of three unoccupied rooms to call her own. Both of Norah’s parents were home, and while Mrs. Gilley greeted Lucy with cool indifference, Mr. Gilley appeared delighted that Lucy was there, and gave her a lengthy lecture on how to protect herself from catching cold while walking about London. He fussed over her in a thousand ways, begged her to make any adjustments to her room, inquired into her preferences for dinner, and promised her that she would enjoy the delights of London or he would alter London to her liking. A room below stairs was found for Mrs. Emmett, and so there was an end to all the necessary adjustments. Mr. Gilley cared not how long she remained because he liked her, and Mrs. Gilley cared not because she had no regard for her at all. Lucy could hardly have asked for more, and the charms she had brought to effect these ends might, perhaps, never have to be unpacked.

Lucy’s next order of business was clear. It was far easier to make her way to Kent from London than it was from Nottingham, but now that she was in London, she began to realize just how little she had planned. Besides determining how to get to Kent, she would need to determine the best possible course for getting inside Lady Harriett’s house undetected, discovering the pages of the Mutus Liber from Byron’s library, and then getting out again.

That she would be no closer to saving her niece saddened her immensely. Mr. Morrison, after all, was no doubt deflowering virgins in some foreign land as he searched for other pages, and if he found them, would it do Lucy any good? He would return to her if he could—her spell would see to that—but would he have the pages with him when he did? There was no point worrying about what she could not control, however. She would find the pages, one at a time if she had to. She would study and learn and experiment and practice until the pages were hers.

Lucy had hoped that Mrs. Emmett might prove to be of some use in these matters, but she appeared utterly confounded when Lucy asked her for advice. “I cannot say anything as to that, Miss Derrick,” she answered. “I only know when it is time for you to go to Kent, you will go.”

“Then you know I will get there?”

“I cannot tell you that, Miss Derrick,” she said. “I can only say that if you are meant to go, you will go, and at the time you are meant.”

“Meant by whom?” Lucy asked testily.

Mrs. Emmett appeared to detect none of Lucy’s irritation. She only smiled and looked off to the distance, as though the person or force she referenced was just beyond her vision. “By them who mean such things.”

Only after her arrival did Lucy realize that she had somehow expected Mrs. Emmett to ease her way in London, but that would not be the case, and she was hardly better prepared for the confusion of the metropolis than if she were on her own. How precisely did one get to Kent? How much did it cost? Lucy had her quarterly allotment of ten pounds, and she had to spend with caution. Money could be made by other means. She knew that, but she was reluctant to practice cunning craft when she did not have to. Every spell cast required herbs and paper and pen and ink—things that cast money or might be missed. More than that, she’d never felt comfortable with the idea of using magic to earn money. What came into her purse must exit from another’s, and how could she say whose need would be greater?

So she told herself that she did what she could. She learned what she could learn, and she planned as best she could plan. She was who she was—a young woman of limited means and almost no freedom, and she could not help being that. If she truly were at the center of things, as so many had told her, then would not the right opportunity present itself? Fate had sought her out in quiet Nottinghamshire. She could hardly be said to be hiding in London.

Meanwhile, the routine of fashionable London life soon settled on her, and a week had passed before she knew it—a week in which her sister, Martha, lived with a monster and her poor niece was held captive somewhere by something Lucy dared not even contemplate. Instead of searching for lost alchemical books or battling creatures from the invisible world, she browsed in dress shops, attended music recitals, and visited fashionable homes to view art and collections of curios. There was more in her future too: the opera and the playhouse and the tea gardens. On all of these excursions, Mrs. Emmett accompanied her, as though she were Lucy’s chaperone, and dutifully allowed herself to be sequestered in kitchens and servants’ rooms when they were not in transit. Servants began to complain of her, however. They spoke to Norah, and Norah, in turn, spoke to Lucy.

“She makes them uneasy,” she said one afternoon as they sat in the parlor. She kept her voice down, as though afraid Mrs. Emmett would overhear her, even though she had been sent halfway across town upon an errand. “They say she never eats and never talks except when directly addressed, and then she says only the most absent and polite things.”

“You make her sound like the perfect serving woman,” Lucy said.

“She is certainly not the sort of serving woman to be found in fashionable homes, and I’m afraid she’ll have to go.”

Lucy did not pay Mrs. Emmett, and did not know how to dismiss her or even if she could. She had visions of the woman mooning about the town-house door like a stray dog, or worse—sneaking inside. There would be constables and bailiffs and magistrates. She could not allow any of that.

“I don’t know that I can do without her,” said Lucy.

“Of course you can,” said Norah. “There are a hundred women in London who will do for you a thousand times better than that country oaf.”

“I cannot part with her,” said Lucy, and because she did not know how to argue the point, she left the parlor and fled to her own room.

The next morning, Mr. Gilley found her descending the stairs, and took her by the elbow to the empty parlor to discuss the matter. Lucy did not like that he touched her so freely. Something about his expression suggested an intense and disproportionate pleasure in the act. It occurred to her, as he led her into the room, that she had never before been alone with her friend’s father, and did not much care for this development.

“I understand there is some difficulty with your serving woman,” he said to her.

“Norah says the others don’t like her. I know she is odd, but I cannot let her go.” Lucy kept her eyes lowered because she wished to appear pitiable and because she did not care to see how Mr. Gilley looked upon her. She could all but feel the heat of his gaze upon her skin.

“If it is a matter of money,” said Mr. Gilley, “I can offer some assistance and send her off. She can offer no objection.”

“It is not that,” said Lucy. “I cannot do without her. If she cannot remain, then I must return home.”

Mr. Gilley said nothing, and Lucy felt the quiet of the room, and the warmth that came from the fireplace and the nearness of Mr. Gilley’s lurking form.

Mr. Gilley looked at her and pressed his lips together in a tight approximation of a smile. “That shall not be necessary. My servants will be more tolerant. You must never fear that I will fail to look after you, Miss Derrick.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Lucy, curtsying. It was the most formal, distancing thing she could think to do, but it was too late to correct her error. She had put herself in the power of a man who was determined to extract from her what he could, and Lucy did not know that she could ever again let down her guard while under his roof.

While the crisis with Mrs. Emmett had been building and resolving, the rest of the household had been attentive to but one thing: the assembly at Almack’s, to which Mr. Gilley, with some pains, had secured tickets. The Wednesday assembly was the most fashionable event in all of London, and only the grandest people went. If it were known that Lucy had never formally been presented at court, she would have been barred entry, but Lucy chose not to raise the point, and Norah conveniently forgot to tell her parents—likely less out of concern for Lucy than for the difficulty such a revelation might present.

Lucy’s joy at the prospect of attending was incomplete. Shortly after arriving at the Gilley house, she’d received a letter from Martha in which she made every effort to put a happy face upon her suffering, but Lucy had no doubt that Martha was worried to distraction about what she believed to be her baby. Even Martha’s handwriting appeared unsteady and distraught.

Lucy had to find a way to get to Kent and to the next pages of the Mutus Liber, even if it meant exposing herself to horrible rumor and speculation. The day after the assembly, she told herself, she would go. She would find some way, no matter the cost. She would be under too much scrutiny before then, but after, when everyone was exhausted and self-satisfied, she would find the opportunity to escape.

Norah insisted upon new gowns for the both of them, and when Lucy announced she did not have the money, Mr. Gilley offered to pay for hers, explaining that he should love to see her in a new gown above everything. She hated to put herself in his debt, but it was too awkward to refuse, and so she accepted with many thanks. Lucy walked away from the experience with a trainless, stomacher-front gown of a beautiful coral color, flattering to her shape, perfectly matched to her complexion. Accompanied by a shawl of a charming ivory shade, and with her hair dressed up and curled, precisely to the fashion, and then covered with a prim little hat with a saucily small brim, Lucy felt very pleased with herself indeed. When Norah, who looked fine in her somewhat less-flattering tunic of too bright a red—a color she had loved in the milliner’s shop, but now required constant reassurance that it had not been a mistake—told Lucy she looked “well enough,” that was sufficient to feel like a triumph.

Lucy had to feign enthusiasm for the assembly, but her apathy vanished when they walked into Almack’s ballroom—beautifully lit, as bright as day, full of the most fashionable ladies and the most handsomely appointed men that either she or Norah had ever witnessed. The room was perhaps four times the size of that any dance the Nottingham, and it was peopled with likely ten times the number of occupants. Unlike the Nottingham assembly, where one conversed with farmers and small landholders and petty merchants, here were lords and ladies, men and women whose every act was written up in the newspapers, the stupendously wealthy by birth, nabobs freshly returned from India, actors and actresses who graced the London stage, poets and novel writers and painters and celebrated musicians.

“It is safe to say,” Norah told her, “that if a person is fashionable, and if he is in London tonight, then he is here in this room.”

The ladies had no choice but to remain in tow behind Mr. Gilley, but if Norah yearned to be asked to dance by some fashionable gentleman, Lucy was content to witness and observe and be unobserved, for she feared any conversation must expose her country ignorance. After introductions to a near endless procession of peers and foreigners of significance and a sprinkling of navy men, Mr. Gilley fell into close conversation with a handsome man in his sixties. He was dressed quite beautifully, Lucy thought, in a plain dark suit that both bowed to and defied the current London fashions. The man’s hair receded, his face was wrinkled, and he was short, thin, and quite pale, and yet there was something appealing in his face that was hard to deny. Lucy had little doubt that, in his youth, he had been striking. In his old age, he remained charming.

After exchanging jovial words with Mr. and Mrs. Gilley, he demanded to be introduced to the ladies.

Mr. Gilley cleared his throat and turned to Norah. “My dear daughter, Miss Norah Gilley, allow me to present to you Mr. Spencer Perceval.”

Norah conducted herself with excellent grace, and curtsied low. Lucy, for her part, was taken by surprise, and gasped quite openly. She did not follow politics closely, but there was no avoiding the knowledge that she was about to be introduced to the prime minister.

When Mr. Gilley turned to Lucy, the prime minister, perhaps ready to be finished with these introductions, about which he cared so little, was already shaking Lucy’s hand.

“And this,” said Mr. Gilley, “is my daughter’s particular friend, Miss Lucy Derrick.”

Mr. Perceval squeezed Lucy’s hand hard enough that she let out a little gasp. Then he let go at once. “Forgive me,” he said. “Only, miss, I know your uncle. May I have a private word?”

Lucy felt oddly out of place in her own life. “Of course,” she said.

Mr. Perceval took her arm and led her away from the Gilleys. “I don’t truly know your uncle,” he said amiably enough. “I do, however, know of you from the reports of my agent, Mr. Morrison.”

“Do you mean to say that Mr. Morrison is a Tory?” Lucy said with surprise.

The prime minister let out a boisterous laugh. “My party is not so fortunate. Mr. Morrison is a brother of the Rosy Cross, and I am the leader of more than this government.”

And now Lucy understood. Spencer Perceval, Prime Minister of England, was also the head of Mr. Morrison’s band of Rosicrucians. It was from him that the orders came.

“Mr. Morrison is bound to report everything to me, you know, and so he has been made to tell me about you. I hope you do not find this too shocking. You are lucky to have had the experience of serving with him.”

Lucy did not consider herself lucky. “And why is that?”

“Because,” said the prime minister, “Mr. Morrison is a great hero to this country. He has, quite literally, done more for England than any man alive.”

Lucy snorted, thinking of his silly tricks, his easy charm, and how he had deceived her four years earlier. “I find that difficult to credit.”

“Most young ladies are rather taken with him. In any event, he wrote of how you have found yourself in the thick of things, and even how you aided him in his efforts to retrieve the pages to a book we seek. Perhaps he had no choice but to impress your services, but you must know that your part is over.”

“I did not know that I had a part circumscribed to me.”

“You do,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “We all do, my dear. And please do not think I mean that we are an august group of savants and you are some meddling child, for that is not it at all. What I mean is that you have served your country and done far more than any of us would have dared to ask, and now we wish you to step aside. The earth itself is moving, Miss Derrick, and it would grieve me to see you crushed beneath it.”

Lucy did not much like being told what to do by a stranger, even if that stranger was the prime minister. “I shall certainly keep your advice in mind.”

“You would be wise to do so,” he said. “Have you any idea who are the players in this game? Have you any notion of what this Ned Ludd is?”

“No, Mr. Morrison did not tell me.”

“Of course he did not. It is not for you to know. Allow me to assure you that your ignorance is a gift. Relish it, and seek to learn no more. I say that out of concern.”

Lucy remained motionless, daring to neither move nor speak. Could it be true? Was she truly risking her life if she pursued the matter? And yet, what choice had she? She could hardly cower in fear while Emily was locked away in some unimaginable dungeon. Nor could she turn away from events of global magnitude when she had some role to play. Mr. Morrison and the prime minister, in their arrogance, decided that the future of Britain depended upon the enslavement of its laborers, but Lucy did not believe that. It was true that she did not know precisely what Ned Ludd wanted, but did it matter? Whatever his nature, was not he in the right and the Rosicrucians in the wrong, and so was she not obligated to stand with Ludd?

“By gad, Spence, do you mean to bore that poor girl all night?”

Lucy looked up, and walking toward her was—and there could be no mistaking him, even though she had never seen his face before except in prints and woodcuts—the Prince Regent, directly in front of her, gesturing toward her with a wineglass. Lucy was about to meet the Prince of Wales himself. Yet it was not he that made her uneasy. On one side of the prince stood a remarkably handsome, well-appointed man she did not know, and on the other side of that man stood George Gordon, Lord Byron.