“I see,” said Mr. Gilley. “I was unaware there was a connection. In any event, Miss Derrick, you alarmed us by disappearing as you did without a word.”
Lucy curtsied. “It is merely that the room was so crowded, and we were separated by the crush of people.” Feeling herself blush once more, Lucy turned away. She had vanished for a few minutes in a crowded gathering, and already they implied she had behaved inappropriately. What would they suggest when she vanished, for days perhaps, with Byron? The trick, of course, would be arranging things so that no one would find out.
25
BYRON COULD NOT DEPART FOR TWO DAYS. IT WAS LONGER THAN Lucy wished to wait, but less time than she would have had to wait without his help, and so she did not complain. It seemed to her that her time might be put to good use. Indeed, the more she thought about it, the more she realized she needed these two days to prepare, and so she asked Byron if there was a shop in London that specialized in books upon subjects occult. She had books aplenty, but she hoped to purchase ingredients she could use for her trip to Lady Harriett’s estate. She’d spent long hours sewing secret pouches into her frocks, poring through her books, memorizing spells and talismans, imagining every situation and how she might respond.
There was no guarantee she would find useful materials. Any such shop might be run by charlatans or cynics who sold books and trinkets in which they had no belief, seeing their customers as simpletons. If that were the case, Lucy would have lost nothing.
This left Lucy with the question of how to slip away unnoticed, but a few hours of study revealed this to be an easily mastered problem. When Norah and her mother wished to attend tea at the home of a lady of fashion—yet another wealthy woman with Tory leanings who would pretend not to be condescending while passing a stilted hour with strangers for whom she had nothing but contempt—Lucy affected a headache and said she would stay at home. She did not know how long her expedition would take, and she did not know if she could be home before Norah returned, so Lucy concealed her absence with a talisman. She directed Mrs. Emmett to remain behind in the event something went wrong, that she might best concoct a story to explain where Lucy had gone. Next, she directed one of the footmen to find her a hackney coach, which she took to the Strand, and found the shop Byron had mentioned, off the main thoroughfare on Bridge Street. It was a respectable old building, well maintained and orderly, and when she went in she was surprised to see that it looked like any other London bookstore, of which she had visited quite a few since arriving.
A kindly old gentleman in a spotless white apron smiled at her when she walked through the door. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so,” said Lucy. “What have you for breaking open houses?”
When she had finished her business, the shopkeeper cheerfully wrapped her purchases, and wished her a good day. When Lucy opened the door onto the street, she came face-to-face, much to her surprise, with Spencer Perceval, who had his hand out and was preparing to knock. His handsome face formed an O in surprise, and his slight form took a step backwards.
“Miss Derrick,” he said.
“Mr. Perceval,” she responded. Then, on a whim, she curtsied, because she did not know how one ought to behave in the presence of the prime minister.
He could not help but smile. “I see my warnings have had little effect.”
“I was but looking at some books,” said Lucy, who focused all of her will into not looking like a child caught stealing sweets. “Is that now a crime?”
“Your crimes are none of my concern,” he told her. “However, I wish to make certain you do not interfere with our affairs. Your visit here has nothing to do with the events we spoke of the other night, does it?”
“Of course not,” said Lucy. It never occurred to her not to lie, and it was this facility that made her so good at deception, especially if the man she deceived thought her pretty.
He studied her carefully, ostensibly for signs of dissembling, but Lucy had the feeling he used this examination to look at her because he liked to look at her. Lucy did not think of herself as vain about her appearance, but she knew when a man admired her, and she saw no reason not to use this advantage to keep Mr. Perceval off balance.
“The order cannot tolerate your interference,” he told her. “The next time I see you, I hope it is someplace less suspect than this.”
“I hope so too,” said Lucy. As she walked away, she had the distinct impression she had gotten away with something.
When Lucy returned to Mr. Gilley’s town house, Lucy handed her coat and hat to a servant, went to her room to set down her things, and then proceeded to the parlor, where Mrs. Gilley and Norah were playing cards. Lucy sat near them, with her back to the fire, and opened a novel that happened to be sitting there. Both ladies said hello, and neither asked where she had been or how she had passed her day. The spell had worked flawlessly.
It did not work forever, however. It would last no more than two sunsets, and so that meant when she climbed into Byron’s carriage the next day, she would have to reach Lady Harriet’s estate in Kent—a distance of some fifty miles—discover what she could there without being detected, and return to London before two days had passed. It seemed to her that this should be possible—provided nothing went terribly wrong, but there were any number of things that could go wrong, particularly when one traveled such a long stretch of road in such a hurry, and when one was involved in such risky undertakings as breaking open the house of a wealthy and influential lady, and doing so with a notorious rake.
Lucy collected all she might need for charms she might be forced to make or spells she might have to cast. Most of these she put in a small travel bag, but some she secured in a secret pouch she had sewn in the gown she would wear. She meant to keep emergency provisions in that, and perhaps use it to secure from the world what she did not want the world to see.
Mrs. Emmett declared that she would stay behind to cover Lucy’s absence. The good woman wept at the prospect of being apart from Lucy for two days, but she also insisted that she could not go, though she would not say why. Lucy wanted her there as a buffer against Byron, but Mrs. Emmett would not be persuaded.
Byron collected her in the predawn hours, somehow looking perfectly rested and impeccably dressed, despite the early hour. Lucy had been full of apprehension, afraid that he would attempt something inappropriate the moment she entered the coach, but though he smiled at her and snuck glances at her in the dim light, his behavior was entirely unobjectionable. After the first hour, Lucy began to relax and feel as at ease as she would if they were in the presence of a chaperone.
After they rode in silence for some time, Lucy explained her time limitations, and Byron merely smiled and told her that he would certainly have her back by the hour she desired. And perhaps he meant it, but it also occurred to Lucy that he would not be particularly troubled if he did not. Perhaps he would determine it to be in his best interest that she did not return in time. Once revealed as the sort of woman who would run off with a rogue for two days, she would have nothing to lose by accepting his scandalous proposals. Lucy would be on her guard.
Their conversation at first centered around trivial things, as though they were but two unremarkable people upon an exceedingly unremarkable journey. They talked of the gathering at Almack’s, of some of the people Lucy had met since arriving in town, the sights she had seen, and the plays she hoped yet to see. Byron talked of his forthcoming volume, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, which would be published soon, and how many voices had agreed that it was apt to bring him significant attention. He was buoyant and witty, and pleased with Lucy’s company. He was, in short, very much the man whom Lucy found so charming when she first met him in Nottinghamshire and the man she wished he had remained.
“I cannot thank you enough for helping me in this regard,” said Lucy.
“I am happy to offer my help,” he said. “If only because I willingly sold a book to Lady Harriett that I would have been so much happier
to give to you as a gift. And yet you seem reluctant to tell me what book it is and why it is so important.”
Lucy sighed. “The affair is complicated, and so unbelievable. Even having seen what you have seen, you would think me mad if I told you the truth. I would think myself mad. I have spoken it aloud only to Mr. Morrison, and it nearly broke my heart to do so.”
“You would tell him what you would not tell me?” He sounded more arch than angry.
“Only out of necessity.”
“Then I shan’t force you,” he said. “But you need not fear for my belief. I have also seen many things. The ghost of my dog, Boatswain, haunts my estate at Newstead, and people think me mad when I speak of it, but that makes it no less true. I would add that I am bound to accept anything that comes from your lips as the absolute truth.”
It was this ease that prompted her. “I had an older sister whom I loved very much, and she died very young. My other sister, Martha, named her first child for her. I cannot tell you what that child means to me, and now she is gone, replaced with a vile thing, a changeling. I know how it sounds, but I have seen it, even if no one else has. The book I seek will give me the knowledge I need to banish the changeling and return Emily to her mother.”
Byron said nothing for several long minutes. “I am sorry that such a book was in my power and that I let it go. I only wish I had known.”
“I did not know until recently. Have you ties to Lady Harriett?”
“Her family is old and established,” said Byron, “and because of my title, I am often in the company of such people.”
“Do you think she would give you what we seek as a favor?”
Byron shook his head. “Lady Harriett does not do favors, and I recall she was curiously eager to buy my collection, which is a poor one. I think she must have known what I had. If she truly wants this book for herself, she will never give it over. Do you have a plan that does not require asking politely?”
“Yes,” said Lucy. “It involves breaking open the house and stealing the book.”
“Oh,” said Byron. “I hope it works better than it did at my home.”
Lucy smiled at him. “That effort was planned by Mr. Morrison. I shall plan this one, and I assure you, it will go far better.”
They dined that evening at an inn, and who was to know that they were not husband and wife? It was, for Lucy, a wonderful feeling: powerful and anonymous. The eyes of all the ladies in the room were upon Byron in admiration and upon her in envy, and it seemed to her that she knew, if only in the smallest way, what it would feel like to be Lady Byron.
They remained at the inn until past midnight, and Byron drank more wine than Lucy would have thought wise, but she did not believe it her place to advise him on such matters. As he drank, he talked more about his forthcoming volume, which he both praised as brilliant and dismissed as having been effortlessly tossed off in odd moments. He felt sure that the book would secure him eternal fame, just as he felt sure it would make the world despise him.
When the time was right, they drove on, and Lucy watched the dark countryside pass before her. They were not far—less than sixteen miles—from Harrington, where she had grown up, and she knew the road well enough for it to make her melancholy. She was determined not to feel sorry for herself, however. Mr. Buckles had deceived her, and rather than pitying herself for the life she had lost, Lucy was determined to steel herself for revenge. She was not accepting her fate, but striking back, taking control of those who would order the world around her. Lucy liked how this sense of command felt.
They arrived in the vicinity of Mossings, Lady Harriett’s estate, but it was not yet late enough to attempt a forced entry, and so they sat in the coach until another hour had passed. Byron assured Lucy that the lady had a reputation for being a woman who went to bed early, and by one in the morning they could be certain that she, her staff, and any guests she might have would be long in their beds. It was only a matter of reaching the library and identifying the book or missing pages, and escaping before they attracted attention. Unfortunately, Byron did not believe he would be of much use in identifying books from his own collection. It seemed to Lucy a rather odd thing for a poet to so little know his own books, but Byron appeared to take a certain pride in his indifference to works that were not his own.
“I’ve brought a few tools that should help me to find it,” said Lucy, “and if I don’t know where it is, I will certainly know it when I see it.”
“It may be risky to take the time to search the library. The longer we are there, the greater the chance someone will notice that there are lights or will hear the noise we make.”
“No one will notice us,” said Lucy as she grabbed her bag. “Let us go.”
The estate was large, and Lucy felt exposed and conspicuous as they crossed the expansive lawns, thankfully not populated by dogs. They passed fountains and gardens and shrubbery, until at last they reached the main house, massive and stately, built in the unadorned style that preceded the reign of Oliver Cromwell. All was quiet upon the grounds, and in the dark, the house looked like a lonely mountain, or perhaps a sleeping giant, passive and still, but coiled tightly with danger.
They walked around to the servants’ entrance, moving slowly, cautious of dogs or any other unwelcome surprises. None came, and they at last reached the door, which was bolted shut. Lucy reached into her bag and removed something dark. Next she withdrew a tinderbox and made a light, which she applied to several candles attached to the object.
“Are you certain you wish to make such a light?” asked Byron.
“Oh, yes,” said Lucy, who affected far more confidence than she felt. Here she was, breaking open the house of a dangerous and powerful woman, attempting to commit a crime that could lead to her going to jail, to standing trial, to humiliation beyond anything she could imagine. She swallowed her fear because she had no choice.
Only by quieting herself, as though she prepared to cast a spell, could Lucy keep herself from shaking uncontrollably. She did this for Emily, she told herself. She did it for Martha and her father and she did it for herself.
The light revealed that the object she had retrieved was a sort of mummified hand that had several candles molded onto each of its fingers, and a wax base attached to the stump of the wrist, that it might be set down.
“Good Lord, what is that?” demanded Byron, probably in a voice louder than was wise.
“A hand of glory,” said Lucy, who wished to sound as though she thought this a very ordinary business for a sophisticated woman such as herself. “It is the pickled and roasted hand of a hanged murderer, upon which the proper incantations have been spoken. The intruder who holds the hand of glory may trespass without hindrance or detection.”
Even in the dark, Lucy could see Byron’s disbelief. “Does it work?”
“Let’s find out.” Lucy pushed against the servants’ door and found it conveniently open. They stepped inside.
The house was pitch-black, and their hand of glory provided a jumbled chaos of flickering light and overlapping shadows. She thought of all the remarkable things she had seen and done since the day Byron had pounded upon her uncle’s door. This was not the first adventure she’d had. It was not even the first house she’d broken open. Ought she not to be used to such things by now? Her heart pounded, and her hand trembled, and she wished only that she might finish and flee.
“Where do you think the library would be?” asked Lucy.
“These houses are all upon the same plan,” said Byron. “I believe I can find it.” He reached out to take the hand of glory himself, but then recoiled, not wanting to touch it. Instead, he pushed on through the dark and led Lucy up a set of stairs and then down a long hallway. At the end of it they found a series of open doors, one of which led to the library—an enormous room that very possibly could have contained all of her uncle’s house.
Byron closed the door and, without actually touching the hand of glory himself, led Lucy over to various
candles to begin to light the room. He took one of these and lit sconces and chandeliers until the space was quite bright.
“We will be visible from the outside, and from that wing of the estate,” he said, gesturing toward the window at the parallel wing. “But if everyone is asleep, and that horrid thing does what it is supposed to do, then it should not much matter.”
Lucy now removed from her bag a little divining rod she had made at home, to which she had applied the juice of a freshly cut apple, a drop of her own water, and a cat’s whisker. She then spoke a few words over the divining rod and held it upright in both hands.
The feeling was subtle, almost too subtle to be certain it was not merely her fancy, but she followed the impulse toward a section of books across the room and to a particular shelf of books. Lucy took every one of the books down and set them on a well-lit table and began to leaf through them. Byron picked up a volume as well, but it soon became clear that he had no idea what he was looking for, and so set it down again.
After the first two books, Lucy picked up a third and set it down unopened. Then another with which she did the same. After two more books, she reached out for another, and a sharp sensation ran through her fingertips, a shock of something living and powerful. It was almost as though the book called to her. No, not that. Something in the book called to her. She felt it wanting to be found, and had no doubt that this was what she had sought. She opened the book to almost precisely the middle and there, sewn irregularly into the volume, were three prints in the dreamy, discordant style she recognized as that of the Mutus Liber. Here were floating men and naked women and dancing animals. Here was a bear with the head of a mouse, combining mercury and salt. Here was an ancient and bearded man, like an artistic rendering of God, pointing his divine finger at a flower—a bluebell, Lucy believed—as it sprang from the ground. The images felt alive and needy, and what they needed was Lucy, and Lucy was happy to take them. It was though she was reunited with a long lost piece of herself.