by David Liss
“Good afternoon,” she said cautiously.
He stepped closer. His movements were stiff and lumbering, and yet unnaturally quick. The whole effect of him presented a convoluted image, as though his limbs were attached in some wrong way and as though he, like the creatures from the mill, were made of shadows. He did not seem vile like those scattering, pulsating things, but he was somehow similar. And yet, unlike too, for despite all the shimmering obscurity, he was a lumbering figure of a man, dressed in rough clothes, and he held in one hand a massive hammer—the sort used for … for breaking things. He was, she now understood, a machine breaker. This man was a Luddite.
“Miss Derrick,” he said in a voice deep and resonant and low, like the mournful note of a brass horn. She felt her bones vibrate. “Miss Derrick, you must gather the leaves.”
Partly out of terror, and partly out of exasperation, she squatted down and clutched a handful of limp winter-worn leaves that remained upon the ground, holding them out toward the silhouette. “Will this do?”
The man laughed, and the sound was rich and throaty. “That is not what is meant.”
“Then perhaps you will tell me what is meant,” said Lucy. She dropped the leaves and slapped her hands together to knock away the dirt. She was beginning to find her confidence, and liked it. Whoever, whatever this man was, he was not like the black thing she’d seen last night; he was not a creature of void and darkness. “Who are you? And where are these leaves I must gather, and why and what must I do with them once they are in a nice little pile?”
His face was still hidden, but Lucy had the distinct impression that he smiled. “You will know when it is time. You have seen that there are those who do not wish you to succeed, and so you must wait until you are ready. You are not yet ready.”
“Then why do you tell me to do what I am not yet ready to do?”
The hidden man cocked his head slightly, giving the impression that he smiled, though she could not know for certain. “So you will make yourself ready. Those who are to be your allies prepare themselves. You have seen the mill and the horror it brings. With what shall you counter something like that?”
Lucy said nothing. Fear and confusion and even a hint of excitement rendered her tongue inert. The man bowed deep and low before stepping out of view, not into the woods, but seemingly into the shadows, as though he pulled the shadows to himself, the way she might pull a cloak around her own shoulders. Lucy did not believe it while she watched, and she doubted her own recollection afterwards, but it seemed that the shadows around him were somehow physical—layered like the steps of a stairway or folds in a piece of fabric. Into these shadows the strange man vanished, leaving Lucy alone with the sounds of wind and birds and her own panting breath.
8
DURING HER WALK HOME, A RESOLUTION GREW WITHIN HER, and though that strange man was right to fear a bleak future of mills and oppressed workers living as little better than slaves, Lucy could think only of her own bleak future. The workers telling her to gather the leaves was odd—there could be no doubt of that—but perhaps it meant nothing. And the dark creatures she’d seen were likely bats or other animals that congregated in mills for the warmth and shelter. There had been nothing fantastical in her experience, and she would not let her imagination or her fear of marrying Mr. Olson convince her that the world was a place out of a story for children. But Lucy did understand something new. While she was hardly ready to join with the Luddites and their campaign of destruction, she could not build her own life upon the foundation of a mill such as she had seen. She could not be the wife of a man who beat children to make them work harder and longer and for less money. She could not establish her own domestic security upon a kind of slavery. However much she wished she could forget or discount what she had seen, she could not.
There was but one course for her. The moment Lucy returned to her room, she composed a letter to Mr. Olson, and upon finishing it, she stepped out and sent it at once, before she could reconsider or waver or delay. In this letter, she apologized for being indecisive, but she could no longer conceal her conviction that a marriage would not produce happiness for either of them. She thought well of him (certainly an exaggeration) and had no doubt that he would make someone very happy (there must be someone). However, she did not believe that she was that woman, and because she would not be happy, she did not imagine he could be.
She concluded with many more apologies and well-wishes, and begged that he not disquiet either of them by pursuing the matter further. In this she hoped to shelter herself for as long as possible from her uncle’s wrath. As far as either he or Mrs. Quince knew, she had written the first letter of supplication, delivered a basket of food, and all was well. It was only a matter of time before they learned what she had done, and she could not imagine their fury, but Lucy hoped it would not matter. Any day, she told herself, Miss Crawford would send for her with happy news. Lucy dared not consider what might happen if that news never arrived. All she knew for certain was that the moment the letter was gone from her hands, speeding its way to Mr. Olson, she felt light and free and relieved.
The day after her visit to that horrible mill, Lord Byron called upon Lucy. Given the great mistake she had nearly made with Jonas Morrison, Lucy would never have been granted permission to walk alone with any strange man, let alone Lord Byron, but she very much wished to speak to him. Anyway, why should she not? She had already burned her bridges by rejecting Mr. Olson, and so she hardly had more to lose. Therefore when he invited her out upon the street, she saw no reason to request permission. She simply accepted.
When filthy, his skin blistered from the cold, dressed in tattered clothes, and nearly ruined with exhaustion, Lord Byron had still been unusually striking. Now, there were hardly words to describe his beauty. His face was angelic, sensual, and amused all at once, his form broad and manly. He dressed in the London style of Beau Brummel, with buff pants, boots, a dark blue swallowtail coat, though he varied the form by wearing no neck cloth and keeping his collar rakishly open. One of his boots appeared made for the purpose of accommodating his clubfoot. Lord Byron walked with precision, and used his walking stick to help disguise his lameness.
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.”