by David Liss
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.”
5
WITH LORD BYRON GONE, LUCY RETIRED TO HER ROOM TO REFLECT in silence on all that had happened. What an astonishing and terrible two days it had been. She had met Miss Crawford, who, though a stranger, and one she would likely never see again, enchanted Lucy with the illusion of friendship. She had perhaps—or perhaps not—used actual magic to aid a handsome man in need, and that man had turned out to be a peer, one who gave every sign of flirting with her. This was an exciting development, particularly since it was entirely possible she had ended her engagement with Mr. Olson. And now this peer had handed her what appeared to be her father’s will, which told a very different story from what the solicitors had presented.
Along with the will, dated only four months prior to her father’s death, Lucy found a reckoning of her father’s assets, which were far greater than the meager holdings and expansive debts of which the solicitor has spoken. According to the documents she held in her hands, Mr. Derrick had been possessed of investments that slightly exceeded ten thousand pounds. There was a matter of jewels that had belonged to Lucy’s mother, as well as some plate and paintings and a few diamonds. There were other objects of value as well, including furnishings, rugs, and the contents of his considerable library. The will specified that, at the time of its composition, Mr. Derrick was free of significant debts, and he expected only trivial claims against the estate.
Lucy well remembered the misery of sitting in the parlor of her old home, Harrington, with Martha holding her hand while Mr. Clencher, the solicitor—a man so thin he appeared on the cusp of expiring—explained the nature and consequences of the will. The solicitor had told them in his dispassionate voice that Mr. Derrick had died with many encumbrances. Once these had been settled, a sum of approximately 240 pounds would be divided between Martha and Lucy, in addition to a few items of jewelry, which were of indifferent value. What objects that would not need to be sold to pay off debts were to stay at Harrington. The will specified that the house should remain largely intact.
Once she understood the contents of the will, Martha immediately wrote to her cousin, Mr. Buckles, to accept his standing proposal of marriage. She said nothing to Lucy until she received a favorable reply, and the contract was complete in all but deed. “It is the best way I know of to take care of you,” Martha then explained to her sister. “You will live with us as long as you wish, and you will keep your things, and in every way you can, you will live as you have been used.”
/> Lucy had wanted to beg her yet again to not marry Buckles, but there was nothing to be gained in expressing an opinion with which Martha was familiar. Martha knew Lucy’s mind, and Lucy knew her sister’s. Martha would marry to protect Lucy, and nothing Lucy could say would prevent her from doing so. If there had been someone Lucy could have married first, to stop her sister, she would have done it, but there was no one. She was powerless to stop her sister’s sacrifice, and the best she could do was to honor it by pretending to be at peace with it.
Despite her good intentions, Martha had been unable to do much for Lucy. She and Mr. Buckles married at once, but no sooner had her new husband removed to Harrington than Lucy was made to depart. Mr. Buckles would not permit Lucy to join the household. His patroness, the Lady Harriett Dyer, whom he obeyed in all things, did not think it wise that so newly married a couple should be burdened with a troublesome and mischievous young girl, one whose reputation and loose morals presaged many difficulties to come. Martha rarely argued with anyone, and hated to quarrel with her new husband, but Lucy had heard the shouting as her sister pled her case, all to no effect. Mr. Buckles would not be moved. Lady Harriett had given her opinion, Mr. Buckles said. What did Martha mean by suggesting she not be heeded? Martha had no power over her husband, no wiles with which to force his hand. Lucy therefore went to the widower of her mother’s sister, Uncle Lowell in Nottingham, and Buckles magnanimously granted her an annuity of thirty pounds per annum.
Now, more than three years later, she held this will in her hands, feeling her anger build. If these pages had been written by her father, then either he had established monstrous debts in the last few months of his life, or Lucy and Martha had been horribly cheated. Instead of living in misery and want, she ought to be a free gentlewoman of independent means. Her share of the fortune, five thousand pounds, was hardly a staggering sum, but it was enough to establish a comfortable and independent life. It ought to have been hers. It was hers, and someone had conspired to steal it away.
