The Twelfth Enchantment: A Novel

Lucy said nothing. Fear and confusion and even a hint of excitement rendered her tongue inert. The man bowed deep and low before stepping out of view, not into the woods, but seemingly into the shadows, as though he pulled the shadows to himself, the way she might pull a cloak around her own shoulders. Lucy did not believe it while she watched, and she doubted her own recollection afterwards, but it seemed that the shadows around him were somehow physical—layered like the steps of a stairway or folds in a piece of fabric. Into these shadows the strange man vanished, leaving Lucy alone with the sounds of wind and birds and her own panting breath.

8

DURING HER WALK HOME, A RESOLUTION GREW WITHIN HER, and though that strange man was right to fear a bleak future of mills and oppressed workers living as little better than slaves, Lucy could think only of her own bleak future. The workers telling her to gather the leaves was odd—there could be no doubt of that—but perhaps it meant nothing. And the dark creatures she’d seen were likely bats or other animals that congregated in mills for the warmth and shelter. There had been nothing fantastical in her experience, and she would not let her imagination or her fear of marrying Mr. Olson convince her that the world was a place out of a story for children. But Lucy did understand something new. While she was hardly ready to join with the Luddites and their campaign of destruction, she could not build her own life upon the foundation of a mill such as she had seen. She could not be the wife of a man who beat children to make them work harder and longer and for less money. She could not establish her own domestic security upon a kind of slavery. However much she wished she could forget or discount what she had seen, she could not.

There was but one course for her. The moment Lucy returned to her room, she composed a letter to Mr. Olson, and upon finishing it, she stepped out and sent it at once, before she could reconsider or waver or delay. In this letter, she apologized for being indecisive, but she could no longer conceal her conviction that a marriage would not produce happiness for either of them. She thought well of him (certainly an exaggeration) and had no doubt that he would make someone very happy (there must be someone). However, she did not believe that she was that woman, and because she would not be happy, she did not imagine he could be.

She concluded with many more apologies and well-wishes, and begged that he not disquiet either of them by pursuing the matter further. In this she hoped to shelter herself for as long as possible from her uncle’s wrath. As far as either he or Mrs. Quince knew, she had written the first letter of supplication, delivered a basket of food, and all was well. It was only a matter of time before they learned what she had done, and she could not imagine their fury, but Lucy hoped it would not matter. Any day, she told herself, Miss Crawford would send for her with happy news. Lucy dared not consider what might happen if that news never arrived. All she knew for certain was that the moment the letter was gone from her hands, speeding its way to Mr. Olson, she felt light and free and relieved.

The day after her visit to that horrible mill, Lord Byron called upon Lucy. Given the great mistake she had nearly made with Jonas Morrison, Lucy would never have been granted permission to walk alone with any strange man, let alone Lord Byron, but she very much wished to speak to him. Anyway, why should she not? She had already burned her bridges by rejecting Mr. Olson, and so she hardly had more to lose. Therefore when he invited her out upon the street, she saw no reason to request permission. She simply accepted.

When filthy, his skin blistered from the cold, dressed in tattered clothes, and nearly ruined with exhaustion, Lord Byron had still been unusually striking. Now, there were hardly words to describe his beauty. His face was angelic, sensual, and amused all at once, his form broad and manly. He dressed in the London style of Beau Brummel, with buff pants, boots, a dark blue swallowtail coat, though he varied the form by wearing no neck cloth and keeping his collar rakishly open. One of his boots appeared made for the purpose of accommodating his clubfoot. Lord Byron walked with precision, and used his walking stick to help disguise his lameness.

They strolled through the streets, toward Nottingham Castle, and Lucy could not but enjoy that eyes were upon them. All looked and wondered who was this unspeakably handsome man—or perhaps they recognized him, for though not often in Nottingham, he was well known there. Lucy chose not to care what others saw or would say. She was upon an adventure. Here she was, having a marvelous afternoon. Perhaps one day all of her afternoons would be marvelous.

“Do you mean to stay at Newstead long?” she asked him. “The Nottingham assembly is next week, and I think you would make a pleasing addition to the company.” Then, thinking of his foot she added hastily, “Though perhaps a man as busy as yourself has no time for our country dances.”

He laughed, perhaps knowing too well what his presence would mean in such a place. “I should enjoy attending any dance where you are present, but sadly, I must return to London. I am new in the House of Lords this year, and if I wish to make a place for myself, I cannot neglect attendance.”

“It was much talked of here when you spoke out in favor of the local hosiers over the mill owners,” Lucy said. “There are those who claim you are a Luddite yourself.”

“I have no inclination for anything so awkward as machine breaking,” Lord Byron said. “I gave that speech primarily to attract some notice. One must have outlandish opinions if one is not to fade into obscurity.”

“Then you do not favor the workers over the mill owners?” asked Lucy.

“The cause of the workers is as good as any other. It is hard to care about such things overmuch, but I hear that this Mr. Olson you are supposed to marry is a mill owner. That is reason enough to side with the laborers.”

What did he mean by telling her this? She hardly knew what to say. “I sense you are being flippant, but I imagine the Luddites appreciate your support, even if you do not mean it.”

“I am fond of Nottinghamshire and would hate to see the county turned into some sort of wasteland of oppressed peasants. I like my laborers the way they are, thank you very much.” When Lucy did not reply, he added, “Do not think that my departure will mean the end of our friendship. Not for my part.”

That was something. He did flirt with her. Lucy felt a sharp jolt of fear or excitement or longing—she could not be certain which. Surely it was at least possible he felt some true interest in her. “You are very kind, Lord Byron,” she said, pleased with how easy her voice sounded.

“I am, in truth, very selfish, and because I am selfish, I cannot deny myself the company of a young lady as captivating as you.”

Lucy looked away to hide her flush of embarrassment. Her life had not taught her how to respond to praise with good graces. Byron was making his intentions clear, was he not?

“Have I told you that I am a poet?” His voice suggested only boredom with his own accomplishments.

“No,” she said, not quite sure what to make of this new information.

“Yes, my Poems on Various Occasions is very pretty, I think, though nothing more. I created a bit of controversy three years ago with my satiric work English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. It was a clever piece, but there is no shortage of men who can write cleverly. I am now preparing for publication the first portion of a long poem I call Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. I wrote much of this while traveling in Greece. Remarkable country, and I think the sublimity of the experience is reflected in these excellent verses. The world, I do not doubt, will notice this effort.”

“I am glad,” said Lucy, still uncertain what Byron wished to convey to her.

“I do not tell you these things to boast. I don’t believe in false modesty, and I know what I am. I am an exceptional man, and so I know of what I speak when I say that you are an exceptional woman. You see, I recall everything now.”

The first thing Lucy thought of was the mill, and those voices calling out for her to gather the leaves, just as Byron had. Might he be able to tell her the meaning? “Do you know why you said those things to me?” she asked.

“No, not that. I remember what you did. I remember how it was you alone who could find the curse that was upon me. And then there was that thing, wasn’t there? That dark thing. I remember lying frozen with terror, fearing—knowing—that … that … whatever it was … was going to reach out and clutch me with its … I don’t know what. Not hands, but something. And then you stepped before it, defying it, and it feared your defiance. It was only an instant, and yet in that instant how many hours of terror did I experience. But you, Miss Derrick, had the courage of a lion. They may hold you cheap here, but I know better.”

Lucy did not wish to deny what he said. She wished him to heap his praise upon her and bask in his attention, but she was also frightened, for what she had seen both with him and at the mill had all been real. She desperately wanted it all to be the product of her heated imagination, but if he had seen these things too, then how could she