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
“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
“
“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.”
