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
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
“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.”
There was a protracted moment of silence, and then it was Mrs. Quince who spoke. “The girl apparently believes she has some choice in this matter.”
Uncle Lowell nodded and looked at Lucy. “You are mistaken to believe you may refuse to marry as we say.”
Lucy was so astonished by this answer that she could hardly breathe. “I am of age,” she said so quietly she wondered if they heard her.
They did hear. “And what shall that get you?” asked her uncle. “Have you money upon which to live? Have you the means to defend your position?”
Lucy said nothing. There was nothing to say. She had nowhere to go, no one to help her, not unless her father’s estate came to her.
“The marriage shall proceed as planned,” said her uncle. “You may go now.”
Lucy affected anger and left in a sulky march, for if she did not pretend to defiance, she would certainly have succumbed to despair. As she crossed the threshold, she thought to turn back to glare at Mr. Olson, but then checked herself, and in that instant, she thought she saw something in the corner of the ceiling, concealed in the moldings, flickering in the firelight. It was but a hint of shadow, but it moved. It flexed. Then it was gone.
9
A week ago, Lucy would have retreated, but things were now different, and she would not obey. She could not even conceive how she might step into her previous timidity, and because retreating would do her no good, there was no direction but forward Lucy moved to push past Mrs. Quince.
Astonished, the serving woman lashed out and grabbed Lucy’s wrist, digging in with her fingernails and drawing blood. Mrs. Quince yanked hard at Lucy’s arm, attempting to knock her off balance, possibly to make her stumble. It was not a new maneuver, however, and Lucy was prepared for it. She stepped into the momentum, and then, stopping suddenly, she took hold of Mrs. Quince’s arm, pulled hard, and then suddenly let go. Mrs. Quince fell upon her back, striking her head against the hard floor. And she lay there motionless, her face puckered with anger.
“I think,” said Lucy, “that I shall go out.”
By the time Lucy reached the door, Mrs. Quince was already upon her feet, but she did not approach. “What do you think you shall be when you are alone and without money or home?”
“I cannot know,” said Lucy. “Could it be worse than what I am now?”
She stepped out into the street and met Byron at the door. Again, his appearance, his mere physical presence, astonished her. She had thought of him over and over during the night, she had dwelt upon how handsome he was, and yet, now that she gazed upon him, his beauty staggered her, as if she’d had no idea of it before. His dress was remarkably like that of the previous day, but the familiarity made him no less magnetic. He led her down the stairs, holding out his arm for her to take. “I fear I must leave in the morning, and I wished to call to see if you had survived the meeting of the Star Chamber.”
“There is no longer any doubt,” said Lucy, forcing herself to sound at her ease. She felt a trickle of blood on her wrist, but she did not inspect it, lest Byron see it. It would heal soon enough. Instead, she concentrated on the feel of his arm under her touch—warm and muscular and confident. “Mr. Olson has made his intentions clear. We are to marry in six weeks.”
