Mr. Morrison had once been a fixture in their neighborhood, friendly with Lucy’s father, but after that day he simply vanished, ashamed to have been exposed, and wanting no more entanglements with a love-struck sixteen- year-old girl whom he had played with for his simple amusement.
Lucy told Mary Crawford a brief version of the story. When she was finished, Miss Crawford took Lucy’s hand. “It was a youthful indiscretion that led to no harm. Whatever happened to your sister was none of your doing. You know that to be true, but it is time for you to
Lucy looked away, blinking back the tears.
“I cannot imagine how miserable they have made you,” Miss Crawford said.
“They are not as kind as I should like,” said Lucy, “and your words are most welcome, but that is not what affects me. It is that you have made me think of my father.”
Lucy recalled the day, some weeks after he first invited her into his library, they reviewed together a book upon astronomy, and Mr. Derrick began to speak at great length upon the subject of Galileo and his excommunication.
“I am certain,” her father said, “that this punishment affected him greatly. But Galileo reported what he believed to be true, and so I suspect that while the charge of heresy was unwelcome, he likely did not berate himself. Do you not agree?”
Lucy said that she did agree.
Mr. Derrick closed the book with a dramatic snap. “We must always remember not to condemn ourselves for what we have not done.” Lucy had rarely felt more loved and understood. Now here was Miss Crawford, who was determined to be her friend. That would not be enough to help Lucy through whatever she must face in the days and weeks ahead, but it was something. It was something indeed.
7
She knew it was foolish to count her father’s inheritance before it was in hand, certainly before she had heard from Miss Crawford’s solicitor. As for Lord Byron, he likely flirted with every young lady he saw, and she could not reasonably expect to be in his presence again. Even so, it felt wonderful to indulge in the fantasy, and she did not wish to stop herself.
Lucy had hardly ever troubled herself to imagine her life as Mrs. Olson. She thought of that future only as one in which she would be free of her uncle and Mrs. Quince, but Byron—that was something else altogether. She saw it at once, the two of them dressed in the height of fashion, traveling in his brilliant equipage, attending balls and routs and patronizing pleasure gardens. She could see herself hosting gatherings at their fine home, being greeted as Lady Byron. And she imagined the private times together, the walks, the quiet meals, the evenings before the fire.
Unfortunately, this new feeling of hopefulness had a price. Now that she could dream of other prospects, no matter how distant, the idea of marrying Mr. Olson had become odious. She did not love him. She did not like him. How could she promise before God to be bound to him forever? It seemed to her madness, madder even than agreeing to run off with Jonas Morrison. He, at least, had been handsome and charming. He had made her feel pretty and clever and delightful. Mr. Olson only made her feel… she hardly knew what. He made her feel, at best, nothing.
Prior to visiting Miss Crawford, she had, per her uncle’s demand, sent Mr. Olson a note in which she explained Lord Byron’s confusion and her innocence. She had done so as coolly as she could, but she had nevertheless expressed that she yet desired the marriage might proceed. It had been painful to write, for she wanted no such thing. She could hardly remember a time when she did wish to marry him, even though that time had been yesterday. Lucy understood, however, that it would be prudent to make no firm decision at present. If Mary Crawford could achieve nothing with her father’s will, then it would be best to have Mr. Olson available. Did it make her a vile person that she considered her options with such a mercenary eye? She suspected it did, and yet what choice had she? She must survive. She must have food to eat and clothes and somewhere to sleep. And certainly no one judged a penniless peer who married for wealth. Why should she be held to a different standard?
All of her dreams burnt off like morning fog when, as she ascended the stairs, she heard Mrs. Quince calling for her in a birdsong voice. Lucy prepared a flimsy story of taking a walk to clear her head, but Mrs. Quince had no questions about where she had been. When Lucy followed her voice to the kitchen, she stood by a basket packed with food and a bottle of claret.
“I want you to take this to Mr. Olson at his mill,” she said.
Lucy looked at the basket, not wanting to look into Mrs. Quince’s pale eyes, which bore down on her with menacing intensity. “Perhaps that is not wise.”
Mrs. Quince showed no inclination to listen to nonsense. In two quick strides she came to Lucy and took her jaw hard in her pale hand, her long fingers gripping tight. “Your uncle wishes it.”
Lucy attempted to step back and pull her head away, but Mrs. Quince pulled her closer, digging into her flesh with her fingernails. “You will go where I tell you, and you will marry whom I say.”
Mrs. Quince let go. Lucy turned away, knowing she had no choice but to bide her time. There could be no ruptures, no major conflicts.
Choosing her battles, she nodded. “I will go.”
Mrs. Quince harrumphed in triumph. “Better for you to have been good from the first.”
Lucy took the basket and set out for the half an hour or so it would take to walk to the mill. It was a mild day, but still cool, and Lucy wore a long blue coat that she thought becoming, and it did a fine job of keeping her warm so that she could enjoy the stroll. She walked by Grey Friar Gate and over the footbridge and then along the rural ways that wound along the far side of the Leen, now swollen with spring abundance. She passed the hill the children called the “fairy mound,” but there were no children playing there today.
She had visited the mill only once before, and that was with a large group from town and before it had been populated by machines and workers. Nevertheless, she had been down this road many times, and had often enjoyed the quiet, peaceful walk. Scattered along the way were rural cottages where the bulk of Nottingham’s hosiery had once been made by artisans. When Lucy had first come to live in the county, these cottages had been vibrant places, full of comings and goings and the ceaseless noise of the interior looms. She had walked by to see children playing, women sitting together peeling turnips or sewing, men gathered to smoke pipes after a day’s labors. Now all was altered. The cottages were dark and silent, or if she saw their inmates, they sat inert before their houses, watching her with hungry eyes, like wolves considering uncertain prey.
At last she approached Mr. Olson’s mill, a large two-storied rectangular structure whose base was built of stone but the rest formed from unpainted lumber. A massive chimney belched dark smoke. When still fifty feet away she could hear the clattering of dozens of stocking frames—it sounded like an endless torrent of pebbles tumbling upon a wooden floor. There was a chorus of coughing and the muted sound of a single child crying.
Lucy had never before been inside a working mill, and did not know what constituted proper etiquette. Did she knock as though it were a private house or walk in as though it were a shop? Her indecision was answered when she observed one of the two main doors—for they were built like those of a barn—was open, and so Lucy merely stepped inside. What she saw left her breathless. The entire floor was an expanse of stocking frames—each one a rectangular machine as tall as a man and half as wide, fitted with twenty or more needles and wires into which quick moving hands fed the wool that produced the celebrated Nottinghamshire hosiery.
It was not the kind of work or the number of machines that horrified Lucy. It was, first of all, the gloom of the mill. There were few windows, and those were up high, letting in only thin shafts of daylight. These highlighted the amount of linen dust and debris in the air—the reason why nearly every worker paused several times each minute to cough. Even though she but stood at the threshold, Lucy’s lungs grew leaden. Then there were the workers
