In Bed With Lord Byron

he hissed. ‘They have reviled me. They dare to question my morals, when they are all swimming in a sea of debauchery themselves, covering it
up with smiles and social graces. Well, I shall go, and then they will regret it!’
    The journey to Switzerland was not much fun.
    We had to go by boat, and boats and I are not the best of friends. The only other time I’ve had to travel in one was when I was fourteen and we took a day trip to the Isle of Wight. I
spent the whole journey hanging over the side of the boat, looking green.
    Well, this boat trip though brief, was torture. I spent most of it in the cabin, puking into a silver dish. My immune system was obviously ill-suited to nineteenth-century germs, for my
sea-sickness evolved into something more insidious. By the time we had reached Ostend, Belgium, I became delirious, clawed by nightmares; I heard Anthony screaming accusations at me and begged him
to forgive me, but he merely stared down at me sternly, shaking his head. In my more rational moments I feared that Byron would grow bored and leave me behind, stranded for ever. To my amazement,
however, he was unbelievably considerate and tender. He took away the silver bowls and washed them with his own hands. He had servants bring me broth for my cold fits and ice for my hot. He combed
my hair away from my face and planted soft kisses on my forehead and read me verse, some of it his own compositions.
    ‘Listen to this,’ he chuckled. ‘
Coleridge
. . .
Explaining Metaphysics to the nation / I wish he would explain his Explanation
.’
    ‘
Don Juan
,’ I said weakly. ‘A poem that is quietly facetious upon everything.’
    ‘
Don Juan
! I do like that as a title. Perfect. Lucy, you’re not just a pretty face!’
    I passed out with a smile on my lips.
    As soon as I showed the slightest sign of recovery, Byron sped me off in his coach. It was an exact replica of Napoleon’s carriage (which was why he had avoided France).
Much of the time I slept with my head on his shoulder. We stopped at another hotel somewhere but I was too weak for even a goodnight kiss. Then we were back in the carriage. When I came round
again, it was night. The carriage was speeding at a rollicking pace and through the window I saw shards of countryside spinning past, flashes of grim night sky. I let out a moan. Byron shushed me
and touched my burning forehead, whispering that we were close to Geneva now.
Geneva!
I felt panic pulse through my weak body, thumping hotly in my aching head. I felt as though we were in a
coach being drawn by the Fates and things were spinning further and further out of control . . . Would I ever get home now, when my vanished time machine – if it was even retrievable –
was hundreds of miles away?
    I found myself sinking back into the darkness, desperate for oblivion.
    I woke up again to the sound of birdsong. I sat up and breathed in deeply. The air tasted pure and sweet. Tentatively I touched my head. Yes, I was feeling better; my feverish
head was now cool. But the question was – where the hell was I?
    I seemed to be in a castle. I got up and saw a tray by my bed. The tea was still quite hot, and I drank it down and felt revived.
    On the bed I noticed a selection of dresses and a note from Lord Byron:
    If you’re well enough, Lady Lucy, then do put something on – all are gifts for you. By the way, I was forced to undress you last night – much against my
     will, I assure you – and I was perplexed by the peculiarity of your underwear.
    I let out a giggle. No doubt my strapless white underwired bra from M&S had looked like some sort of alien contraption to him.
    I ran my hands over the clothes. They were gorgeous – like something straight out of a Jane Austen costume drama.
    Hearing a noise, I ran to the window, peering out through the crisscross of lattice on to a heavenly view: misty mountains staring solemnly over a large lake, where Byron was lolling in a boat.
Another couple were rowing on the lake and Byron was calling over to them. At first I thought he was admonishing them, but then he stood up and risked nearly falling out of the boat to shake hands
with the man.
    It was then that I twigged. Some faint memory stirred of sitting in a dull lecture on the Romantics and my tutor droning on, ‘And it was in Geneva that Byron struck up his famous
friendship with Percy and Mary Shelley; there, in the Gothic castle, they told ghost stories and ignited the idea for Mary