Miss Crawford scowled. “Why ever not?”
On an impulse, Lucy decided to tell her, and it felt strangely liberating to say the words aloud, to own the story, and, for once, to not feel ashamed. “When I was sixteen, I ran off with a young gentleman. He said he wished to marry me, but in truth he did not. It would have been the ruin of me, and the humiliation of my family, had the plan not been disrupted, but in my absence—I was gone but only a day, but in that time…”
Lucy did not know how to proceed, she did not know that she could. It occurred to her now that she had never spoken of the elopement to anyone. Everyone had always known about it. She had traveled north all day with Jonas Morrison, whose mood had become decidedly gloomy. He had always been wonderful with her—lively and witty and affectionate—but on their journey there had been no sign of that charming gentleman. There was no celebration of love, no kissing or hand-holding or eager chatter as they sat in the coach, and so as they drove, Lucy began to regret what she had done. Perhaps she would have regretted it anyhow, for it was one thing to dream of doing a naughty thing, to plan and make preparations for it, but it was quite another to act upon those desires.
Jonas Morrison hardly looked at her, instead staring out the window, or scribbling with a pencil into a tiny black bound volume he kept in his waistcoat pocket. Lucy felt his silence like an accusation, and a hundred times she turned to Mr. Morrison to tell him that she had made a mistake, that she wished to return, but something in his look made her fearful to speak. For months he had been the man she had always dreamed she would marry, but at that moment he had become someone entirely different.
It had rained that day, and the roads were not good. They made it only to Dartford before they had to stop for the night, but when they entered the inn, they found Mr. Derrick waiting for them. Lucy never discovered how he had overtaken them or known where they would stop, but he was there, standing by the fire, tears running freely, and she almost fainted as she thought that she had utterly broken her father’s heart. She’d stepped forward to hug him, to beg his forgiveness and explain that she had done nothing wrong and they could go back to the way things had been, but something stopped her. She took two steps and froze because she understood that those tears were not for her. All at once, she realized he had come on business far more serious than her elopement.
“It is Emily,” he said before she could utter a word. “Our Emily. She—this morning, she never awoke. She is gone. You were both gone.”
Much of what came next was lost to her. Perhaps she swooned, but next she knew, she sat by the fire, her head down, a blanket over her shoulders and a cup of hot wine in her hand. She did not recall her father upbraiding Mr. Morrison for running off with his daughter. Instead, she had a vague memory of the two men talking closely together, whispering, as though Emily’s death, and Lucy’s reaction to it, required that men who ought to be enemies join together for her own good. Most inexplicably, she was almost certain she had seen her father shaking Mr. Morrison’s hand. Lucy did not think it could have happened that way, but it was not a subject she had ever felt she could discuss with her father.
Mr. Morrison had once been a fixture in their neighborhood, friendly with Lucy’s father, but after that day he simply vanished, ashamed to have been exposed, and wanting no more entanglements with a love-struck sixteen-year-old girl whom he had played with for his simple amusement.
Lucy told Mary Crawford a brief version of the story. When she was finished, Miss Crawford took Lucy’s hand. “It was a youthful indiscretion that led to no harm. Whatever happened to your sister was none of your doing. You know that to be true, but it is time for you to believe it. You must cease condemning yourself for something you never did.”
Lucy looked away, blinking back the tears.
“I cannot imagine how miserable they have made you,” Miss Crawford said.
“They are not as kind as I should like,” said Lucy, “and your words are most welcome, but that is not what affects me. It is that you have made me think of my father.”
Lucy recalled the day, some weeks after he first invited her into his library, they reviewed together a book upon astronomy, and Mr. Derrick began to speak at great length upon the subject of Galileo and his excommunication.
“I am certain,” her father said, “that this punishment affected him greatly. But Galileo reported what he believed to be true, and so I suspect that while the charge of heresy was unwelcome, he likely did not berate himself. Do you not agree?”
Lucy said that she did agree.
Mr. Derrick closed the book with a dramatic snap. “We must always remember not to condemn ourselves for what we have not done.” Lucy had rarely felt more loved and understood. Now here was Miss Crawford, who was determined to be her friend. That would not be enough to help Lucy through whatever she must face in the days and weeks ahead, but it was something. It was something indeed.
7
WHEN LUCY RETURNED TO HER UNCLE’S HOUSE, SHE WAS IN A BUOYANT mood. Miss Crawford would help her to regain her inheritance. Perhaps, even at that moment, Lord Byron was thinking of her, considering the implications of courting a girl with no dowry, but Lucy would not be so penniless when her inheritance was returned. It was not the princely sum a peer might hope for, but he was only a baron after all and could not be so very choosy.
She knew it was foolish to count her father’s inheritance before it was in hand, certainly before she had heard from Miss Crawford’s solicitor. As for Lord Byron, he likely flirted with every young lady he saw, and she could not reasonably expect to be in his presence again. Even so, it felt wonderful to indulge in the fantasy, and she did not wish to stop herself.
Lucy had hardly ever troubled herself to imagine her life as Mrs. Olson. She thought of that future only as one in which she would be free of her uncle and Mrs. Quince, but Byron—that was something else altogether. She saw it at once, the two of them dressed in the height of fashion, traveling in his brilliant equipage, attending balls and routs and patronizing pleasure gardens. She could see herself hosting gatherings at their fine home, being greeted as Lady Byron. And she imagined the private times together, the walks, the quiet meals, the evenings before the fire.
Unfortunately, this new feeling of hopefulness had a price. Now that she could dream of other prospects, no matter how distant, the idea of marrying Mr. Olson had become odious. She did not love him. She did not like him. How could she promise before God to be bound to him forever? It seemed to her madness, madder even than agreeing to run off with Jonas Morrison. He, at least, had been handsome and charming. He had made her feel pretty and clever and delightful. Mr. Olson only made her feel… she hardly knew what. He made her feel, at best, nothing.
Prior to visiting Miss Crawford, she had, per her uncle’s demand, sent Mr. Olson a note in which she explained Lord Byron’s confusion and her innocence. She had done so as coolly as she could, but she had nevertheless expressed that she yet desired the marriage might proceed. It had been painful to write, for she wanted no such thing. She could hardly remember a time when she did wish to marry him, even though that time had been yesterday. Lucy understood, however, that it would be prudent to make no firm decision at present. If Mary Crawford could achieve nothing with her father’s will, then it would be best to have Mr. Olson available. Did it make her a vile person that she considered her options with such a mercenary eye? She suspected it did, and yet what choice had she? She must survive. She must have food to eat and clothes and somewhere to sleep. And certainly no one judged a penniless peer who married for wealth. Why should she be held to a different standard?