The Twelfth Enchantment Part 4

"It seems an unhappy place," Lucy said, listening to the clacking, the staccato coughing, and the occasional thud she now understood to be the overseers' cudgels. She thought of her father's claim, that mills were a blight upon the land. She wished she could leave right then. It seemed to her urgent that she do so, but she could not think of how she could flee without humiliating herself, so she closed her eyes for a moment and tried to breathe. Perhaps Mr. Olson would not notice her distress.

He did not. "It is a place of business and not meant for amus.e.m.e.nt," he said slowly, as if explaining one of life's unavoidable distresses to a child.

Lucy swallowed hard, trying to fight back the feeling of nausea that was overtaking her. "But conditions appear so beastly for your workers."

"They must be so," said Mr. Olson, "if I am to make money. It is the nature of a mill. I cannot change how such matters are ordered, so I do not see why I may not profit from them."

It was certainly true that she knew little about the ways of business. The world was full of things better kept hiddena"war, slavery, subjugationa"and crying out against them would do nothing to stop them. And yet, for all that, she did not know how she could be wed to someone who chose to perpetuate what any feeling person must agree is wrong. It is one thing to accept that one is powerless to stop the suffering in the world, but quite another to benefit from what brings misery to others.

She said nothing, for three years at her uncle's house had taught her the futility of arguing with a man a point that ran contrary to his interests. Instead, she said, "I hope you like cold chicken."

"I do," he said with the seriousness that suggested he liked cold chicken a great deal. "And whatever pleasure I derive from this meal, it will be nothing in comparison to that I take from your having brought it to me. I am not at all displeased that we are to be married."

Lucy struggled to think of a response. As she considered what combination of words might best extricate her from this situation, she noticed that something had changed. It took her a moment to find the source of the alteration, but then she realized what it was. The quiet. There was no clacking of looms. There was no coughing. She heard only the m.u.f.fled cries of the overseers and now the near-perpetual thump of their cudgels.

"Has work ended for the day?" asked Lucy.

Mr. Olson removed and examined his watch and, seeing the time, appeared grave. He pushed himself from the chair, and ignoring Lucy completely, threw open the door to the office. The dust from the mill filtered in at once, as did the gloomy silence and the heat of so many bodies in close proximity.

"Get back to work, you mutinous b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!" cried one of the overseers.

Lucy saw the balding red-haired man shouting and swinging his cudgel at the shoulder of a child not twelve years old who sat perfectly still, his hands in his lap. The cudgel struck with a dull smack, but the boy did not respond. None of the workers moved or spoke or so much as turned their heads. They sat entirely motionless, rows of them, silent and still as the dead, a mute audience with gla.s.sy eyes.

"You must make him stop it!" Lucy cried. She could not believe what she saw. The strangeness. The cruelty. This was not the world as she knew it, but some terrible, alien place, and she wanted no part of it.

Mr. Olson did not hear her. "What goes on here?" he demanded.

None of the workers spoke. The overseer stepped forward. "They on a sudden stopped. No reason, and all at once."

"I can have replacements for every last one of you before sunup," said Mr. Olson. "Do not think to test me."

No one answered. Somewhere within the building, a bird took wing. Mr. Olson balled his hands into childish fists. "This is Luddite business. These people have been put up to combining against me."

Lucy managed to take a step closer. One of the women in the row closest to her suddenly turned her head in a sharp and twitchy gesture, like a startled squirrel. She studied Lucy briefly and then opened her mouth. She paused for a moment and then spoke. "Gather the leaves."

The fear that had been building within Lucy now gathered its forces and engulfed her. The words spoken by the mill worker had been enough to stagger her, but there was far more here to terrify. Everywhere in the mill were dark corners, pockets of shadows. Every one of these seethed and pulsed with insubstantial creatures such as the one Lucy had seen when she'd removed Lord Byron's curse. Like that shadowy presence, these beings were composed of darkness, but they had distinctive shapes. She saw legs, spindly hands with wispy fingers, flickering tails, and vile teeth that rose from open mouths to dissipate like smoke. They were visible only from the corners of her eyes, and the instant she gazed directly at one of these forms, it vanished in the s.h.i.+fting light. Still, Lucy sensed them moving and throbbing and swarming like great cl.u.s.ters of slick and pulsating insect larvae. Instinctively, she understood that she alone could perceive these awful creatures. She had been touched by something, and now she could see what others could not. Perhaps what frightened her most was that she understood these things had always been there, lurking and watching and pulsing, and she too had once been oblivious.

Without thinking, she grabbed one of Mr. Olson's arms, but he shook her off as though she were an ill-behaved dog. The absent cruelty of that gesture helped her to clear her thoughts.

One of the other laborers, a little girl, also turned her head. "You must gather the leaves." She spoke the words, and the shadow creatures writhed and s.h.i.+fted and leapt from rafter to rafter, like clouds of darkness that pa.s.sed over Lucy's head.

More mill workers now spoke. Gather the leaves. You must gather the leaves. Their sound was a cacophony, each speaking over the other, but all fifty of them said it again and again. An entire mill full of workers had ceased their labors to tell her something desperately important, and she had no idea what it meant. And while they spoke, the shadowy forms circled above them, all moving clockwise, as though forming a vortex that would suck them all upward, flying into oblivion.

"This is utter rubbish," Mr. Olson told her, "but it is Luddite rubbish, and therefore dangerous. You must go." He took her arm with an impatient grip and opened the outer door to his private room. Lucy cast one more glance at the mill workers, calling out as though mad, as though lost in religious ecstasy. She took in one more peripheral glance of the frenzied creatures, and then helplessly and gratefully let Mr. Olson lead her away. The cold air rushed into her lungs, the safety of the woods invited her. Lucy wondered if he had a private door for convenience or to allow for an escape should he ever face such an uprising.

"Have no fear," Mr. Olson said. "The mill will continue to produce."

He spared a brief look in her direction and then closed the door without further ceremony. Lucy stood in the cold, unable to determine what to do. The sudden silence, the stillness in the air, the absence of the host of insubstantial creatures now seemed odd and inexplicable. The quiet felt unnatural, like an accusation. How could it be that all those people spoke the exact words Lord Byron had said? How could those creatures be real? Was this trulya"and she hardly wished to use the word, even to her herselfa"magic? It was like that moment, in the inn in Dartford when she'd seen her father standing by the fire, tears running down his face, and she'd understood, all at once, that the world was far different from what she had always supposed. Then, she had discovered the world's sadness, and today, she had discovered its darkness.

Lucy forgot to breathe, and then, against her will, she sucked in a thirsty gulp of air.

With nothing else to do, Lucy began to walk from the mill. She was afraid, but also curious, and so she swallowed her fear and circled around to the still-open front door. As she grew closer, once more she could hear the mumbled chanting, the rustling non-sound of the creatures' frenzied circling.

Frightened, but too curious to turn away, Lucy approached the front of the mill. The dirt and dead leaves and twigs crunched under her feet. She heard the distant hooting of an owl. The overlapping voices repeated their refrain until she was no more than twenty feet from the open door, and then, all at once, the chant stopped. For a moment there was only silence, and then came the clacking of a single loom, joined by another, and then a loud cough, and the busy thrum of a fully functioning mill. Lucy had the strange idea that if she were to step only a little closer the work would cease once more, the chanting would resume, and the shadows would again quicken. She believed it as much as she believed anything, yet she dared not put this notion to test lest she discover that she was right.

A hundred feet up the path, with the declining sun now in her eyes, Lucy saw a figurea"still and straight and tall with wide shoulders. She could not see his face, so glaring was the sun, but she had the distinct impression that he stared at her, that he waited for her.

Lucy thought of retreating to the mill, but she could not go back there, not with those workers, with their dead eyes and their monotonous chants. And this man had not threatened her. He might only be a farmer or a laborer on his way, wanting nothing more from her than to tip his hat and wish her a good afternoon.

The figure did not move. She could see almost nothing of him, and put a hand to her forehead in an effort to s.h.i.+eld her eyes from the sun's glare, but it did little good.

"Good afternoon," she said cautiously.

He stepped closer. His movements were stiff and lumbering, and yet unnaturally quick. The whole effect of him presented a convoluted image, as though his limbs were attached in some wrong way and as though he, like the creatures from the mill, were made of shadows. He did not seem vile like those scattering, pulsating things, but he was somehow similar. And yet, unlike too, for despite all the s.h.i.+mmering obscurity, he was a lumbering figure of a man, dressed in rough clothes, and he held in one hand a ma.s.sive hammera"the sort used for a for breaking things. He was, she now understood, a machine breaker. This man was a Luddite.

"Miss Derrick," he said in a voice deep and resonant and low, like the mournful note of a bra.s.s horn. She felt her bones vibrate. "Miss Derrick, you must gather the leaves."

Partly out of terror, and partly out of exasperation, she squatted down and clutched a handful of limp winter-worn leaves that remained upon the ground, holding them out toward the silhouette. "Will this do?"

The man laughed, and the sound was rich and throaty. "That is not what is meant."

"Then perhaps you will tell me what is meant," said Lucy. She dropped the leaves and slapped her hands together to knock away the dirt. She was beginning to find her confidence, and liked it. Whoever, whatever this man was, he was not like the black thing she'd seen last night; he was not a creature of void and darkness. "Who are you? And where are these leaves I must gather, and why and what must I do with them once they are in a nice little pile?"

His face was still hidden, but Lucy had the distinct impression that he smiled. "You will know when it is time. You have seen that there are those who do not wish you to succeed, and so you must wait until you are ready. You are not yet ready."

"Then why do you tell me to do what I am not yet ready to do?"

The hidden man c.o.c.ked his head slightly, giving the impression that he smiled, though she could not know for certain. "So you will make yourself ready. Those who are to be your allies prepare themselves. You have seen the mill and the horror it brings. With what shall you counter something like that?"

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 physicala"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 odda"there could be no doubt of thata"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 finis.h.i.+ng 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 mana"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 a.s.sembly 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 Nottinghams.h.i.+re 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 friends.h.i.+p. Not for my part."

That was something. He did flirt with her. Lucy felt a sharp jolt of fear or excitement or longinga"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 embarra.s.sment. 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, fearinga"knowinga"that a that a whatever it was a was going to reach out and clutch me with its a 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 deny the truth?

They walked in silence for some minutes, but as they approached the center of town, Byron turned to Lucy. "I cannot say how I knew to warn you, but I must agree with my more distracted self. You cannot allow yourself to marry this Olson."

Her first impulse was to say, Then I have delightful news, for I have rejected him! Lucy knew better, however. She wanted to tell him everything she had done, and why, but she could not. She needed him to make his intentions clear. She yearned for it. She felt the need for it twist into a knot inside her, and the fact that he did not made her want to scream with frustration.

"You do not know him," Lucy said at last, pleased with her vague response.

"I know he is not worthy of you."

All at once, Lucy was angrya"at herself and at Byron. She felt foolish. Who was he, a peer with an estate and a seat in the House of Lords, with his poetry and holidays in Greece, to tell her what she was free to do or not do? He knew she was not an independent gentlewoman. Unless he offered her some alternative, it was unconscionable of him to advise her against marrying Olson. Jonas Morrison had been much the same in his easy dismissal of the chains that bound her to propriety. She had been a child when she'd allowed herself to be persuaded by him, but she was a child no longer, and was furious with herself for dreaming a child's dreams of love and happiness.

"I have not the luxury of deciding who is worthy," Lucy answered, not troubling herself to hide her irritation.

"You have more options than you know," said Byron airily.

When they returned to Uncle Lowell's house, Lucy did not know what to do. She could not invite him in, for her uncle and Mrs. Quince to see. Nor could she simply send Byron away without risking rudeness. Her decision was made for her, however, as Mrs. Quince awaited her outside the house.

"Look at this," she said, setting her hands upon her hips. "Water rises to its own level, as they say. In this instance, it is the level of a gutter."

Lucy could think of nothing to say, but Byron bowed low to Mrs. Quince. "Mrs. Quince, if memory serves, and memory always serves well when it is beauty to be recalled."

She snorted. "I am not fooled by your nonsense, and I have no use for t.i.tled profligates. Come, girl. Your uncle wants you within, and asked that this gentleman accompany you."

Byron followed her inside, and there they found not only Uncle Lowell, but Mr. Olson as well. He did not appear surprised to see Byron, so Lucy surmised some neighbor had told him of Byron's visit.

Olson rushed to his feet with a rapidity that could only signal belligerence. "Lord Byron," he said, as though the t.i.tle 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 your intentions toward Miss Derrick," Mr. Olson said.

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 poet. He was, by his own accounting, and by Lucy's, an impressive man, and yet he chose not to be impressive now. She understood his reasons, but she wished he might have said something else.

"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 hinta"no more than a hinta"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, p.r.o.nouncing 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 p.r.o.nounced, "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."