altar or rescued deus ex machina by a timely message from Miss Crawford—or perhaps heroic intervention by a contrite Byron, ready now with an offer of marriage. These fantasies did not alleviate her suffering, but only rubbed salt in her wounds.
There was nothing to do but wait and hope for the best. It had not been so very long ago that she had been resigned to marry Mr. Olson. Would doing so now really be so terrible? If she did not account for the will, the inexplicable warnings, and the interest, however inappropriate, of Byron, then perhaps hers was not the worst imaginable lot. Maybe Lucy simply had to learn to look at things as she had been used to doing before. Certainly, if she remained in her room for the next six weeks she would go mad. She was therefore resolved to go downstairs and face her uncle and Mrs. Quince. She would endure the awkwardness of the first conversation, and then she could return to her old life—at least until she devised an alternative.
Much of the morning and early afternoon passed in efforts to screw up her courage, and then she heard a carriage rolling to a stop before her uncle’s house, and then there were the sounds of voices below—distant and muffled.
Her uncle had so few visitors, and Lucy understood that a rare opportunity presented itself. If she were to face him and Mrs. Quince before callers, then surely their ire would be hidden, or at least dampened. And then, once these visitors left, the first encounter would already be over. Wanting to take advantage of this opportunity, Lucy dressed herself, tended to her hair, and made herself look as well as she could without aid, and went downstairs, a smile plastered to her face and feeling like an idiot.
When she walked into the parlor, a spike of dread pierced her. Sitting with her uncle and Mrs. Quince, both of whom appeared to be exceedingly uncomfortable, was Mr. William Buckles, her sister’s husband, as well as that man’s patroness, the widow Lady Harriett Dyer.
“Ah, yes, Miss Derrick,” said Mr. Buckles, rising to his feet. He bowed deeply and awkwardly, for he was a towering, pear-shaped sort of man. He was dressed, as she had always seen him, in his clerical black and a white cravat, which always appeared out of sorts somehow with his perpetually red complexion. This, combined with his breathless way of speaking, gave the impression that Mr. Buckles had just come from running up several flights of stairs.
“Yes,” he said, gasping for breath as he returned to his seat. “Yes, it is Miss Derrick. The young lady we’ve come to see.” He took out a handkerchief and ran it along his high forehead—for his browning-apple-colored hair was receding like an army in full flight.
“Has Martha come?” Lucy asked, forgetting all manners, and not caring that she did so. “Have you brought the baby?”
“No,” answered Lady Harriet, in her clipped voice. “
Lucy did not trouble herself to hide her disappointment. She could not imagine why Mr. Buckles would come without Martha, and nothing could have cheered Lucy so much as a visit from her sister. But here, instead, was Lady Harriett, who owned an estate not ten miles from the home in which Lucy had grown up. Mr. Buckles had been Lady Harriett’s curate before he had inherited Lucy’s father’s house, and in exchange for these attentions, he was slavishly devoted to her.
Lady Harriett looked well enough for a woman of her age, which Lucy supposed to be fifty or thereabouts. She was trim and fine-boned, with a sharp nose and tiny eyes that were penetrating for all their smallness. Her skin was white and vaguely waxy, and her lips extraordinarily red. Lucy always supposed she must have been pretty as a young woman, though she also supposed her unkind spirit must have dampened her attractiveness considerably. Adding to her sour demeanor was a black gown and headdress, full widow’s attire that might have been in the mode some time before the final quarter of the previous century. Lady Harriett had worn widow’s black since her husband, Sir Reginald, had died a few years earlier. The precise details of his demise were unknown to Lucy, as it had happened when she was in mourning for her sister Emily.
Now here was Lady Harriett, glaring at Lucy with inexplicable contempt. Contrary to all logic, Lucy looked to her uncle for guidance, but he appeared nothing but uneasy, like a man who had released his dogs and now feared they would devour him. Mrs. Quince, for her part, sat with a look of smug satisfaction.
“Sit down,” Mrs. Quince ordered.
Lucy sat. She longed to be defiant, but she wanted something substantial to defy, and sitting was probably the best course of action.
“It is rather a long ride from Kent,” said Lady Harriett, “but I have come here to speak with you, and I will not brook any rudeness on your part. My late Sir Reginald knew how to manage a girl like you, and so do I. Do you understand me?”
“I understand your words,” said Lucy, “but not the cause for speaking them.”
“Already she is saucy,” observed Mrs. Quince.
Lady Harriett paused a moment and said, “It is my understanding that you have defied your uncle’s wishes regarding your impending marriage to Mr. Olson. Not only have you dared to refuse this marriage, but now you throw yourself at a profligate baron. Miss Derrick, the world well remembers precisely what sort of a girl you are. The sooner you are bound in matrimony, the sooner you will be safe—or at least safer—from your weaknesses.”
Lucy seethed, furious and stunned by this intrusion. “I beg your pardon, Lady Harriett. You and I have been introduced, but we little know one another. I am not certain by what authority you direct me, or what has prompted you to make the long drive to do so.”
“She is very rude,” said Lady Harriett to Mr. Buckles.
“I did not expect this rudeness,” agreed Mr. Buckles. “I am ashamed for her.”
Lady Harriett folded her hands into an attitude of prayer and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Mr. Buckles is married to your sister, which makes his larger family my concern. I would not have you bring scandal upon Mr. Buckles through your improprieties. I believe that is how Sir Reginald would have ordered things were he alive, and it is how I shall do so.”
A vein throbbed distractingly in Lady Harriett’s temple. It hardly seemed likely that she came all this way out of concern for Mr. Buckles’s reputation, which would be but little touched by Lucy’s actions. But for some reason she did care. That much was evident. And Byron, under the influence of his curse, had also cared whom Lucy married. Lucy could not fathom of what possible concern this match might be to the world.
“Your interest in my future is most unexpected,” said Lucy after a brief pause. “If I may speak bluntly, you are not my relation, and you have neither power nor authority over me. I beg you indulge me when I ask what shall happen if I choose not to marry Mr. Olson.”
“You shall find I have power and authority over more than you suppose,” said Lady Harriett. “If you refuse to marry Mr. Olson, then I will instruct Mr. Buckles to bar you from having any contact with his wife and daughter, whom you shall never see again.”
Lucy stared in amazement, unable to believe what she heard. Martha and little Emily were her only family— for she hardly counted her uncle—left in the world, and she could not imagine Mr. Buckles could be so monstrous as to prevent his own wife from having contact with her sister. Martha would have no choice but to obey her husband’s demands, but such an order would only fill their marriage with resentment and bitterness. “You cannot mean it,” she said.
“Lady Harriett is, ah, very serious,” said Mr. Buckles. “It would distress me to no small extent to give pain to my wife, but I will not… will not, shall we say, hesitate to do so for the good of my family. If you do not marry this Olson, you shall be cut off entire.” He paused to wipe his brow in a dramatic and determined manner, as though the rest of the company must now pause to admire his brow-wiping prowess.
“I beg you recall the annuity which Mr. Buckles has been generous enough to provide,” added Lady Harriett. She rose from her chair with the gravity of a queen vacating her throne and stepped across the room to stand directly before Lucy. “Your obstinacy is an insult to my late husband’s memory, and I shan’t tolerate it. If you continue on this course, you may remain in your uncle’s house no longer. Consider your situation, young lady. Either you marry Mr. Olson, or you will be cast adrift, utterly alone and friendless.”
Mrs. Quince nodded at Lucy, as though she herself had arranged everything that had happened and now gazed upon her own handiwork with pride and satisfaction.
