and soon enough they may strip it from the rest of us.” Lucy felt herself inclined to side with her late father over her future husband. Indeed, the growing poverty in the county over the past few years only made her more inclined to sympathize with the Luddites. Their wild rhetoric—with talk of their fictional General Ludd—and certainly their violent acts disquieted her, but given the shortages of food that had struck Nottingham, the weakened trade caused by the ongoing war with France, and the general decline in opportunities to earn wages, perhaps wild rhetoric was appropriate.
Though used to keeping such opinions to herself, Lucy now thought she ought to voice what had been her father’s opinions in these matters. “But men lose their livelihood to machines like yours, and the wages you pay can hardly support a family. It is what I read in the newspaper.” Both the man who currently paid her way in the world, as well as the one who proposed to take upon himself that responsibility, stared at her. In response to this silence, Lucy pressed on, affecting a light cheer in her voice. “Do not their grievances have some merit?”
Mr. Olson cleared his throat, perhaps to signal that he would bear the burden of addressing this question, but then paused for many agonizing seconds. At last, after indulging in a leisurely gaze upon his intended bride with an expression of something like surprise, or perhaps with a pinch of distaste, he offered his response to her inquiry. “It is a silly question.”
All her life she had been dismissed as foolish. Emily had ever been the clever one, and Martha the bookish. She, the youngest, was but a silly girl, and her great mistake when she was sixteen had only confirmed to the world that she was an empty-headed thing, incapable of making sound decisions. Perhaps she had been silly once, but are not all children? She was now twenty years of age and did not like for her opinion to be of so little account.
“I find it distressing,” said Uncle Lowell, “that you sympathize with these layabouts over your future husband. Let them open their own mills if they like. Mr. Olson cannot refuse to profit because doing so might cost another man his income.”
Mr. Olson turned to Lucy, his expression an awkward attempt at softness. “I am certain Miss Derrick is only showing the goodness of spirit for which we hold her sex in such esteem. It is, however, my belief that one comment such as hers, while charming, is sufficient. Such a refrain soon becomes shrill.”
“Just so,” said Uncle Lowell. “My late wife always stayed away from my affairs. Lucy, I trust you will do the same.”
Lucy knew her part. It ought to have been the easiest thing in the world for her to say that of course they were correct, that she could not hope to understand the complexities of Mr. Olson’s business. In truth she did not, and though she felt compassion for the men she daily saw in want of food, she did not believe she comprehended either the cause or the solution to the changes that affected the hosiery trade. Yet that she was now being asked to rebuke herself, to promise never again to offer an opinion, infuriated her.
The heavy silence dragged on while the clock ticked and Uncle Lowell attempted to clear something from his throat and Mrs. Quince shot daggers from her eyes.
Lucy was saved from having to speak further by a violent pounding upon the door and the muffled sound of shouting from without. This noise continued for some time, for, other than Mrs. Quince and the cook, Uncle Lowell employed a single servant, the same he had employed for near forty years. This was a stooped old fellow called Ungston who was distressingly slow in his movement, owing to arthritic joints. Lucy, who had grown accustomed to the sounds of the house, noted the distinctive shuffling noise as the aged serving man approached the front door.
“Rather a ruckus,” said Uncle Lowell.
It seemed to Lucy someone ought to have gone to help the old man, but all remained seated, with ears cocked, better to hear whatever there was to be heard—which consisted of Ungston muttering while he unbolted the lock and then the creak of the heavy door.
After that came more shouting, which encouraged them to rise.
“Lucy Derrick!” an unknown man called. His voice was hoarse and ragged, but frighteningly powerful, and yet shrill, like a dog’s howl. “I will speak to Lucy Derrick!”
The voice sent through Lucy a wave of confusion and guilt. She must have done
“What is this?” Her uncle pushed himself up from his chair. His was the sharp tone of a man who suddenly realized he had been cheated. As the burden of his niece was about to be lifted, here came some unexpected trouble to ruin the enterprise. His scalp turned red, and the fringes of his hair appeared to puff out, as a cat’s fur when the creature is agitated.
Lucy did not trust herself to speak, fearing her confusion must be mistaken for culpability, so she only shook her head.
“Stay here,” said Mr. Olson. He no doubt believed there was some other love come to claim his prize, and it would serve him right for his coolness, Lucy thought. Once Mr. Olson had left the room, with Uncle Lowell close behind him, Lucy managed to get to her feet.
“What have you done?” said Mrs. Quince in a low and dangerous voice. She gripped Lucy hard by the wrist and did not let go, though she did no more. On occasion Mrs. Quince would pinch or kick, and once she had even scalded Lucy with hot water, which had left a pale scar on the back of her hand. But Lucy’s engagement to Mr. Olson had changed all that. The balance of power had begun to shift, and Mrs. Quince had been content to abuse Lucy when she was powerless, but it was another thing to take liberties with a young lady on the verge of independence. Still, she gripped hard and made no sign of letting go. “Is this some new Jonas Morrison with whom you play the whore?”
Lucy tried to pull away, but Mrs. Quince would not let go. “I’ve done nothing. I have no notion of who it is. But I wish to see.”
Perhaps Mrs. Quince also wished to see, for she shoved Lucy before her and followed her to the front of the house.
As they approached the door, Lucy saw the intruder standing upon the steps. He no longer cried out, but he spoke loudly and with a great deal of animation. Out in the narrow street, a small gathering of pedestrians, and a single cart man, paused to observe the confusion.
The man on the steps was startling handsome, possessed of an almost feminine beauty. His face was sculpted and even and flawless beneath a wild tangle of black hair. His eyes were wide and dark and moist, even as they appeared red-rimmed and slightly crazed. He wore fashionable clothes—the close-cut jacket, a once-white shirt open at the collar, and buff trousers that were now all the fashion in London. These looked expertly tailored, but they were tattered below the knees and filthy. When she approached as near as she dared, Lucy saw that the man’s boots were torn open upon their soles, and one of his feet appeared oversized and misshapen.
“I must speak to her,” he said. “The leaves are scattered, and I must speak to her.”
Lucy started, as though she’d stumbled into an invisible wall. Scattered leaves? It was as though she’d heard these words before, but she could not remember when, like something she’d dreamed, but long ago, lost in both confusion and time.
“Who are you?” demanded Mr. Olson. “You’ll speak to no one without telling me your name and your business, and perhaps not even then.” His tone was angry but also restrained. Something about the stranger suggested that he was not appearing at his best, and that a certain deference was advised.
“I must speak—” The stranger paused and looked up, meeting Lucy’s eye. Something shifted and softened in his gaze. His eyes went wide, and his posture shifted. He took a deep breath and, for an instant so brief she might have missed it, he smiled, wide and brilliant. “You,” he said. “Are you the lady I seek? Are you Lucy Derrick?”
Lucy found she could not speak, but she managed a slow nod.
The stranger lowered his head for a moment and then looked again at Lucy. “I’ve been sent… been made to tell you, that you… you must not marry him. You must gather the leaves, but you must not marry him!” He arched his back, threw his head toward the sky, and took a step backwards, missing the step and falling upon his side to the street. With his head down, as if in a posture of religious subjugation, he raised one hand and pointed at Mr. Olson.
