David Liss - The Twelfth Enchantment - A Novel

“ Lord Byron of Newstead!” said Lucy, now overcome with surprise. The handsome stranger—the one who had come to her, supposedly under a curse, to demand she not marry Mr. Olson—was a peer, their very own local peer. It was as though she’d found herself transported into a fairy story. She rose to give him a quick curtsy as she struggled to recall what other courtesies were required for this enigmatic gentleman, who, from his native neighborhood, was much absent and so the subject of enthusiastic speculation. “My lord, I am Lucy Derrick, and this gentleman is my uncle, Mr. Richard Lowell, and we are delighted to have you in our home.”

“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.”

There was a moment of silence in which Uncle Lowell might have said that he must not rush, that he must remain a guest for as long as he might wish, but this offer never came. Instead it was Mrs. Quince who spoke. “But you must tell us, my lord,” she said, in a rather disastrous attempt at a sweet voice, “what you wished with our Lucy, and what care you about Mr. Olson.”

Lord Byron appeared truly puzzled. “I can see that any gentleman must wish for a connection with this charming young lady, but, to my knowledge, I have never seen her before I came to this house. As to this Mr. Olson, I do not know the name.”

“You have no connection with Miss Derrick?” Mrs. Quince demanded.

“Regrettably, I have not that honor.” Lord Byron studied his hosts carefully, and then allowed his eyes to settle once more upon Lucy’s. “I am fatigued and not myself. I must remove to Newstead for fresh clothes and a bath, but before I go I should like to discover what it is precisely that I have done here.”

Mrs. Quince arranged for a coach to take Lord Byron to his estate, and while they awaited its arrival, she remained in the sitting room as Lucy provided the baron with a somewhat abbreviated account of his appearance at Uncle Lowell’s house. She found herself looking out the window as she spoke, or at her fingers, or at Mrs. Quince because it was difficult to look at Lord Byron. He was not merely handsome, he was unnaturally handsome, and being near him made her forget how to act like herself. While she tried to remember where to put her eyes and her hands, and how to hold her body, Lucy recounted how he had arrived, begged Lucy by name not to marry, and spoke some other strange and inexplicable things. She thought it inappropriate to mention the vomiting of pins or removal of curses. Lord Byron appeared suitably mortified by even this redacted narrative, and his discomfort demonstrated that he was indeed mortified to hear of his conduct.

When she dared to look at him, Lucy saw Lord Byron cast disapproving glances in Mrs. Quince’s direction, as though he wished the chaperone would leave. Perhaps she merely flattered herself. On the other hand, Lord Byron’s reputation in the neighborhood was as something of a profligate, though details were vague, and virtually all handsome young noblemen enjoyed such reputations.

“My lord,” Lucy said, once she had gathered her nerve, “you told me to gather leaves. What does it mean?”

He shook his head. “It appears I spoke a great deal of nonsense.”

Lucy did not think it was nonsense The words kept returning to her, and she felt absolutely sure that she would, at some point, understand exactly what they meant. She could not say if she thought that good or bad.

At last, his hired coach appeared outside, and Lord Byron rose to excuse himself. “Miss Derrick,” he said, “would you do me the honor of walking me to my conveyance? I would have a private word with you.”

Lucy blushed, and she silently rebuked herself for doing so. This astonishingly beautiful peer was not going to say anything of consequence to her. She could not hope for it. And yet, he desired something, and she could not think what.

“There is nothing you may say to the young lady that you may not say before me,” announced Mrs. Quince.

“You may keep watch upon us to make sure I remain a gentleman,” said Lord Byron, “but I would say something that is for Miss Derrick’s ears alone.”

“And what might that be?” asked Mrs. Quince.

“Surely you see the paradox of the question,” he said with a smile so condescending that Lucy had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

As they descended the stairs, and Mrs. Quince glared at them through the window, Lord Byron leaned toward Lucy’s ear. His breath was hot and distracting, and Lucy felt her heart quickening and her stomach muscles tighten. “Tell her I asked you for a kiss, and you refused,” he said. “She will believe it and trouble you no more.”

Lucy’s face was burning from even the mention of the word kiss . A feeling of pleasurable warmth began in her middle and spread outward, threatening to overwhelm her. “What can you have to say,” she managed, “that such a proposition is the disguise?”

“I have something for you, Miss Derrick. I found it upon my person when I awoke this morning. I cannot say how it came to me, but then much of my recent past is a mystery to me. As for this document, I know not your circumstances or what precisely this means, but I collect you are not happy with your uncle and his woman looking over you. Please, you need not respond. I merely wish you to understand why I thought it prudent to give you this in private. If I am mistaken, then by all means show this to your uncle at once. If I am correct, then I have done no harm and possibly some good.”