The Twelfth Enchantment

4

ONCE MISS CRAWFORD HAD DEPARTED, THE FATE OF THE STRANGER remained a matter of significant consternation for Uncle Lowell. He sent Mrs. Quince several times to investigate whether or not the stranger had yet awakened, and Uncle Lowell advised that she not be quiet when opening and closing doors. Still, as though a drunkard, the man showed no sign of rousing.

Lucy slept very ill that night, distracted as she was by her astonishing evening. Had she truly removed a curse from this man? Miss Crawford had seemed so sure of what she had said, and at the time Lucy had certainly felt that something had happened, but as each hour passed, she began to doubt that very much had happened at all. There had been no bright lights or shattered glass or other signs of wondrous things. The creature Lucy had seen, or believed she had seen, had been but shades of darkness, and it was possible, even likely, that the whole incident had been but an outburst of her imagination under Miss Crawford’s guidance.

On the other hand, there was much that an overactive imagination did not explain, such as the stranger’s peculiar outcries. He had said she must not marry Mr. Olson, but he had also said she must gather the leaves. She did not know what that meant, but the words echoed in her thoughts all night, like a haunting tune that, once heard, could not be forgotten.

Back and forth she debated with herself, pondering what was real and what was not, so the next morning at breakfast she was possessed of little appetite—in part from fatigue, and in part because, in the light of day, her situation with Mr. Olson seemed far more alarming than any supposed curse. Her life, which had been so unhappy, was on the verge of growing more terrible than she could imagine. There was no one to offer her advice, no one to tell her what to do, and this feeling of helplessness made her miss her father with such intense yearning that her stomach clenched and her lungs turned to stone in her breast.

Even as she felt his loss as an unbearable weight, she knew he’d been the man she cherished only in the last year of his life. Until her death, Emily had been his favored child; Lucy and Martha, the middle sister, had warranted little more than staccato bursts of conversation at meals. Mr. Derrick had room in his heart for only one of his motherless children, and Emily—clever, observant, and learned—was the obvious choice for a man who spent nearly every hour of every day sequestered in his library, tending to household business or losing himself in his books.

Lucy had never resented her father’s overt preference. Her father’s favoritism had always felt proper, so the emptiness she felt now had a familiar quality. Even when he had still been alive, for much of Lucy’s life, she had yearned for him. She’d wanted him to talk to her, to tell her his private jokes, to invite her into his library and share his ideas and frustrations, but he had been always too busy with his solitude or with Emily.

Emily, for her part, had always appeared slightly embarrassed by her father’s favoritism. Many times he would call for her and she would cry back that he must wait, for she was talking to Martha of a book, or listening to some gossipy story that Lucy was telling. It was Emily who taught Lucy the workings of the household, how to deal with merchants and tradesmen and laborers, who addressed her questions about the wider world and her own transition from childhood to adulthood. When she had been small, she went to Emily to cry over an injury or a slight from a friend. For a girl who had grown up without a mother and with a distant father, Emily had been the closest thing she had to a parent.

After Emily’s sudden and unexpected death, Martha and Lucy feared their father would never recover. He shut himself away, barely ate, and spoke little but what the operation of the household required. Only once he had withdrawn entirely did Lucy understand how much of her father she had experienced through Emily—through the clever remarks no one but they understood, their conspiratorial whispers, the sounds of their laughter or spirited debates, muffled by the closed library door. Papa might have withheld himself from Lucy, but he had been there for Emily, and that had always been enough.

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?”

“Yes,” said Lucy, her voice catching in her throat. His gaze was intense, and she wished she could cease her blushing. She thought of him, before the front of the house, calling out her name, and she found herself wishing—wishing beyond all reason and hope—that he would show some of that passion once more.

“I should think you know her name, given how you cried it out like an oysterman last night,” said Uncle Lowell.

Lord Byron looked about with evident confusion. “I do not recall that I did so.”

“Very convenient,” said Uncle Lowell. “I beg my niece to cease her bowing and scraping. A baron is a very shabby sort of peer, and Byron a shabby sort of baron from what I hear.”

From his seat, Byron bowed at Uncle Lowell. “I am pleased, if somewhat surprised, that my reputation precedes me.”

“It has not preceded you very far,” said Uncle Lowell. “Your seat is perhaps ten miles from here. Is that whence you’ve walked?”

“Ten miles…,” murmured Lord Byron. “But I came from London.”

“You are in Nottingham now, my lord,” said Lucy.

Lord Byron appeared very pale now. He raised his beer to his lips and sipped, though the vessel trembled vastly. “Perhaps I rode part of the way. I recall nothing. I have no notion of how I—but, only tell me, what day this is.”

“It is the fourteenth of April,” said Lucy, who then added, “eighteen hundred and twelve,” because perhaps he didn’t know the year either.

“I last remember the ninth,” said Lord Byron, his voice distant and strained. “I was in London, upon an errand. I remember—I am not sure—but I think I arrived where I wished to go, and then I recall nothing. Except…” Upon turning to Lucy, he met her gaze with something like amazement. “Except you,” he said. “I recollect your face, Miss Derrick. You did something to help me, did you not? I cannot recall what, but I have this notion that I am in your debt.”

Feeling herself redden, Lucy turned away. “I do not know that I did anything.”

“Stuff!” cried Uncle Lowell. “Can you pay for the expenses you’ve incurred or not? Baron of Newstead be damned, for it don’t signify any silver in your purse.”

With evident reluctance, Lord Byron turned from Lucy. “I shall pay my obligations, but I do not think myself well enough to return to London just yet. I will retire to Newstead and trouble you no more. Direct any expenses I have incurred to me there.”

There was a moment of silence in which Uncle Lowell might have said that he must not rush, that he must remain a guest for as long as he might wish, but this offer never came. Instead it was Mrs. Quince who spoke. “But you must tell us, my lord,” she said, in a rather disastrous attempt at a sweet voice, “what you wished with our Lucy, and what care you about Mr. Olson.”

Lord Byron appeared truly puzzled. “I can see that any gentleman must wish for a connection with this charming young lady, but, to my knowledge, I have never seen her before I came to this house. As to this Mr. Olson, I do not know the name.”

“You have no connection with Miss Derrick?” Mrs. Quince demanded.

“Regrettably, I have not that honor.” Lord Byron studied his hosts carefully, and then allowed his eyes to settle once more upon Lucy’s. “I am fatigued and not myself. I must remove to Newstead for fresh clothes and a bath, but before I go I should like to discover what it is precisely that I have done here.”

Mrs. Quince arranged for a coach to take Lord Byron to his estate, and while they awaited its arrival, she remained in the sitting room as Lucy provided the baron with a somewhat abbreviated account of his appearance at Uncle Lowell’s house. She found herself looking out the window as she spoke, or at her fingers, or at Mrs. Quince because it was difficult to look at Lord Byron. He was not merely handsome, he was unnaturally handsome, and being near him made her forget how to act like herself. While she tried to remember where to put her eyes and her hands, and how to hold her body, Lucy recounted how he had arrived, begged Lucy by name not to marry, and spoke some other strange and inexplicable things. She thought it inappropriate to mention the vomiting of pins or removal of curses. Lord Byron appeared suitably mortified by even this redacted narrative, and his discomfort demonstrated that he was indeed mortified to hear of his conduct.

When she dared to look at him, Lucy saw Lord Byron cast disapproving glances in Mrs. Quince’s direction, as though he wished the chaperone would leave. Perhaps she merely flattered herself. On the other hand, Lord Byron’s reputation in the neighborhood was as something of a profligate, though details were vague, and virtually all handsome young noblemen enjoyed such reputations.

“My lord,” Lucy said, once she had gathered her nerve, “you told me to gather leaves. What does it mean?”

He shook his head. “It appears I spoke a great deal of nonsense.”

Lucy did not think it was nonsense The words kept returning to her, and she felt absolutely sure that she would, at some point, understand exactly what they meant. She could not say if she thought that good or bad.

At last, his hired coach appeared outside, and Lord Byron rose to excuse himself. “Miss Derrick,” he said, “would you do me the honor of walking me to my conveyance? I would have a private word with you.”

Lucy blushed, and she silently rebuked herself for doing so. This astonishingly beautiful peer was not going to say anything of consequence to her. She could not hope for it. And yet, he desired something, and she could not think what.

“There is nothing you may say to the young lady that you may not say before me,” announced Mrs. Quince.

“You may keep watch upon us to make sure I remain a gentleman,” said Lord Byron, “but I would say something that is for Miss Derrick’s ears alone.”

“And what might that be?” asked Mrs. Quince.

“Surely you see the paradox of the question,” he said with a smile so condescending that Lucy had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

As they descended the stairs, and Mrs. Quince glared at them through the window, Lord Byron leaned toward Lucy’s ear. His breath was hot and distracting, and Lucy felt her heart quickening and her stomach muscles tighten. “Tell her I asked you for a kiss, and you refused,” he said. “She will believe it and trouble you no more.”

Lucy’s face was burning from even the mention of the word kiss. A feeling of pleasurable warmth began in her middle and spread outward, threatening to overwhelm her. “What can you have to say,” she managed, “that such a proposition is the disguise?”

“I have something for you, Miss Derrick. I found it upon my person when I awoke this morning. I cannot say how it came to me, but then much of my recent past is a mystery to me. As for this document, I know not your circumstances or what precisely this means, but I collect you are not happy with your uncle and his woman looking over you. Please, you need not respond. I merely wish you to understand why I thought it prudent to give you this in private. If I am mistaken, then by all means show this to your uncle at once. If I am correct, then I have done no harm and possibly some good.”

“What can you mean?” The words caught in her throat.

“Come around the far side of the coach. I will have to hand this to you quickly, when the woman’s view is blocked. You must then come back around where she can see you, so she does not become suspicious.”

Lucy felt her heart racing. She was now involved in an intrigue, one that clearly had nothing to do with a peer choosing to make love to her. She followed Lord Byron to the far side of his coach, and he placed into her hand a thick collection of pages, folded three times. Instinctively, she stuffed them into the bodice of her gown, blushing all the while.

Lord Byron led her back to the other side of the coach. “Please, my lord. What have you given me?”

“Francis Derrick was your father?” he said in a quiet voice.

She felt herself grow faint and gripped his arm, though let go again at once as though shocked. She felt embarrassed at having grabbed him, and yet delighted, and wondered how she might find an excuse to grab his arm again. “Yes.” It was hardly a whisper.

“You will forgive me, but when he died, what did he leave you?”

“Very little,” managed Lucy. “He died with many debts, and what he had, he gave to my sister and her family.”

Lord Byron nodded. “This morning, I found upon me the last will and testament of a Mr. Francis Derrick, and with that, some records of his finances. I did not read it overly closely, as it did not concern me, but the substance of these documents is that, beyond a few items left to this person or that, his sole beneficiaries for his personal effects and a sum of money he estimates as near ten thousand pounds, are his unmarried daughters, Lucy and Martha Derrick. I am sorry to tell you that it appears you have been the victim of a scheme to defraud you of your inheritance.”