Outcasts Page 15

  Mary gathered her skirts and ran out after Byron. The day had turned grey and cold, and the shouts of men and the cries of animals seemed louder. It was all so foreign, so strange. Disoriented, she almost lost sight of the blue coat, the head of chestnut curls.

  “Byron!” she called. One or two heads turned at the name, but she pressed on. She caught up with Byron as he hobbled across a gutter between streets and crossed into a quieter lane. “Wait!”

  Breathing hard, he stopped, leaning on his cane. When she came up, he looked away. Were those tears on his cheeks? “Leave me alone, I pray you,” he said as she came to a stop beside him.

  She put a hand on his arm; he tensed as if to throw it off, but let it remain. “Byron … B. Do not be angry, I pray. Shelley meant no harm to you, you know that. He is your friend.”

  His shoulders hunched under the broadcloth; under her fingers his arm trembled. “He mocks me. Is that a friend?”

  “Mock you? No. You have not sailed with him, dined with him, talked to him all these weeks, and not yet seen how he is with money? How we all are?”

  “He is freer with my purse than my wife was!”

  “He is as free with his own,” Mary said. “You know how he is. Have you not seen him give literally his last penny to a beggar on the street? Money is only a thing to him. It is not important.”

  “Oh, aye, not important! Because he was born into it, raised with it, will inherit thousands of pounds! Those of us not so fortunate have something of a different attitude! Do you know what it is to be poor, and mocked?” Byron said in a low voice. He glanced up at her, his changeable, beautiful eyes dark with emotion. “Do you know how it is to be ‘Lord Byron’, and unable to live up to it? To own the home of your dreams, and stable cows in it because you cannot repair the roof? Do you know what it is to have to sell the one place on Earth where you are happy? Because of money. Damned money!”

  Mary thought of her feckless father, forever going over the bills, calmly writing letters to complete strangers asking, no demanding, money to pay his debts. “Yes,” she said. “I know what it is to be poor. And to be in debt. And for that very reason …” She turned to face him, forcing him to look at her. “For that very reason, my friend, I refuse to sacrifice friendship on its altar.”

  His mouth trembled. Mary found herself wanting to put her arms around him, to comfort him as she would William. But here, in this very public place, she could not. “My friend,” she said. “Were he down to his last shirt, my Shelley would never ask you for money for himself. I have seen him ask a friend for money, only to turn around and give it away to a ragged urchin in a gutter. He would give you his very heart. For him, money is only a means to an end. He has no … pride wrapped up in it.”

  Byron was silent a moment. “Pride.” He sighed. “Yes, a besetting sin of the Byrons.” He bent his head, looking at his feet, his black boots polished to a high sheen by Fletcher. “Never quote me on that, my dear.” He looked up, and a tremulous smile played across that mobile mouth. “I will deny all. We are damned, we Byrons, by money. My father married for money twice, and killed himself when he ran out. My great-uncle spent every groat he could, for sheer spite because he was angry at his heir. They both died and left me nothing but debts and a name of infamy, so yes, pride is my inheritance. Pride and penury.”

  Mary could think of nothing to say, so she patted his hand that gripped his cane. Lord Byron looked at her kindly. “I am going to the Hotel,” he said, giving her its direction. “Tell them to meet me there, and we will have a nuncheon. At my expense, of course,” he said, faintly mocking.

  “Thank you,” she said. His mercurial temperament had swung through black anger to bitter humor again. She wondered how he could live so volatile a life. “We shall be there at one.”

  Byron leaned over and kissed her cheek, surprising her. His lips were soft on her skin. He murmured. “Tell that bastard Polidori that, having acquired a new watch, he is not allowed to be late. And tell Percy Shelley he is the luckiest man alive.”

  Before she could reply, he had swung around and stumped off across the lane, ignoring a carriage which was forced to pull up short. As the driver shouted at his indifferent back, Mary watched him go, and thought that possibly Lord Byron was the loneliest man on earth.

  Chapter XVIII - The Rake

  I am malicious because I am miserable. Am I not shunned and hated by all mankind?

  —Frankenstein, Volume III, Chapter VIII

  Claire and Mary were walking a little ahead of Shelley and Polidori, searching for a chandler’s shop. “Must Polly follow us everywhere?” Claire complained. “We cannot have a moment to ourselves.”

  Since this thought so perfectly mirrored her own opinion of her step-sister, Mary kept her remarks to herself. The sky was beginning to cloud over, and she worried that their trip back might be conducted in the midst of a storm. Yet Claire dawdled along the lanes, looking in all the shops. A music store caught her eye, and with a cry of delight she dashed inside. “Claire, no—” But it was useless. Shelley strolled in after her without a glance at Mary.

  Polidori stopped beside her and offered her his arm. “Are you fatigued in this sun?” he asked.

  Mary shook her head. “If I follow them into the shop, we will be there all day. If I stay here, Shelley will eventually come out looking for me, and Claire will inevitably follow.” Even she could hear the bitter note in her voice.

  Polidori nodded towards a bench set under an overhanging sign. “We may at least take our ease, out of the traffic.” He led her to the bench and stood beside her as she sat gratefully on the hard bench. He seemed less stiff and formal than he had been that morning, apologizing. Mary felt herself unexpectedly at ease with him. She noted several approving female glances cast his way, and smiled at his utter obliviousness.

  He took out his new watch and opened it, then glanced up at a clock on the church tower at the end of the street. “I declare, their clock is a minute slow,” he said.

  Mary raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps yours is fast.”

  “Not possible,” Polidori said smugly. “The jeweler keeps perfect time on every item in his shop. I am assured that this is most accurate timepiece in Geneva.” He closed the case, polished it on his sleeve, and deposited it in the watch pocket of his vest. “By the bye, I saw that Mr. Shelley purchased a lady’s watch after you left the shop.”

  “For Claire?”

  “Not at all. He put it in his own pocket. For you, perhaps? Or a sister?”

  “I doubt it was for Elizabeth or his other sisters,” Mary said. “They have more money than he does.”

  Polidori looked stricken. “Oh, dear. I beg your pardon. Perhaps I have spoiled a surprise meant for you.”

  Mary brightened. “Of course. My birthday is next month.”

  Polidori bowed. “My felicitations, ma’am. I am forewarned, and shall be ready with an offering of my own.”

  His earnest look reminded Mary of the passage in the gallery the evening before. She smiled tightly and turned her head to look into the shop. But the darkening day had turned the shop window into a mirror, and all she saw was her own face and Polidori’s. Where was Shelley? How much longer would he be?

  After half an hour, Shelley came out of the shop with Claire on his arm. She was giggling and clutching a few sheets of music. As soon as he caught sight of Mary, Shelley dropped Claire’s hand from his elbow and strode over.

  “Dearest, I missed you.” He caught her hands in his and pulled her to her feet, tucking her hand into his elbow. “Come, we must rendezvous with Albé.”

  As he guided her, Mary caught sight of Claire and Polidori standing side by side, looking equally bereft as Shelley led her away.

  The streets had become slightly less crowded as noon approached and the inhabitants retired indoors for the midday meal. Mary’s thin shoes were not much help on the slippery cobbles, and she was glad when they rounded a corner and found themselves approaching the hotel. It was not large,
a fairly modest but clean establishment. Mary had feared that Byron would have selected either the most expensive establishment in Switzerland, or a brothel.

  The host led Mary and Shelley to a small room off the main room; Byron rose as they entered. His lordship was well into a bottle of wine already, but bowed Mary and Claire to a seat. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering,” he said as Shelley drew up a chair between the two women. Polidori, looking uncertain, finally settled next to Claire. “They have some exceptional cheeses here; I trust Shelley will eat them?”

  “With pleasure,” said Shelley.

  “Excellent,” said Polidori. “Most wholesome. And for Mrs. Shelley, perhaps a boiled egg?”

  “And kill the bird unborn? No,” said Byron before Shelley could answer. “But I have ordered a milk pudding. Will that suffice for our matron?” He smiled at Mary.

  Almost as if his words had ordered it, Mary suddenly felt the tight ballooning feeling in her breasts that signified a let-down. Then a sudden damp feeling, and she felt her cheeks go hot as she realized her breasts were leaking.

  “Oh.” She looked to Shelley in confusion, but he was pulling a book from his pocket. Claire merely gawked at her, staring at Mary’s chest. Mary wanted to kick herself for failing to line her bodice with more absorbent materials before leaving her baby behind. How had she forgotten that William nursed at this hour? She looked around for something to dab at her front.

  John Polidori pulled a large napkin from the table and handed it to Mary discreetly. She tucked it into her neckline, concealing the spreading wet patch on her front. She shot the young doctor a look of fervent gratitude; his cheeks flushed.

  Byron did not miss this interchange. “Why, Polly, I do believe you are seeking a new subject for experimentation. Shall I be jealous?”

  Claire giggled. “I suspect Polly has never seen a breast, save those on a corpse.”

  Shelley, shocked, said, “Claire!” and Polidori flushed to the roots of his hair, giving his dark complexion an even darker cast.

  “Oh, let there be no false modesty here,” Byron said. “Are the daughters of William Godwin, the prophet of free love, too shy to discuss openly the pangs of that tender passion?”

  Polidori went white. “My lord—”

  “What are you doing, Albé?” Mary said sharply. “What has got you in this mood?”

  “Mood?” Byron shook vinegar over his boiled potatoes and reached for the salt. “Oh, my mood is nothing. Why, do you not know that you are the object of our dear doctor’s passion? Come now, are you not both enamored of our young Italian lover, so ardent and—”

  “Stop it!” cried Mary. “This is ungracious of you!”

  Polidori, breathing heavily, sat rigid in embarrassment at the opposite end of the table from Byron.

  “And unwise,” Shelley said drily. “What kind of fool offends his physician?”

  Byron laughed. “Of course, you are right, my friend.” Byron signaled the waiter to begin dishing out the soup. Polidori continued to glare at his employer, not looking at Mary. “We will cease to tease the young doctor. Ah, Shelley has another book. I see that I am not the only patron of a bookstore today.” He half-bowed at Claire. “You may appreciate my find, a collection recently translated from the German. It is called Fantasmagoriana, and is full of ghost stories.”

  Claire giggled. “I shall not sleep for a week!”

  “Doubtless, from some cause or other,” his lordship said slyly. “Did you purchase a book as well?”

  Claire nodded. “I have the newest from Miss Austen,” she said. “I believe it came out just last year. This one is Emma.”

  “I cannot conceive why you read that rubbish,” Mary said. “Her plots are nothing but schemes for marriage. As if that were all a woman might aspire to.”

  Claire glared across the table. “Do you not see the subtle critique in each one? The sly joke at—”

  “I do not,” Mary said firmly. “Moreover, I believe you are mistaken in your perception. Take, for example, the novels of Mrs. Radcliffe—”

  Byron said hastily, “What have you there, my Shiloh?”

  Shelley opened the leather bound book. “I saw this at the bookseller’s on Montreux Street. It’s the first volume of a novel called Glenarvon. I perceive that it was published last month, and it is composed of extraordinary, very overwrought prose. Hear, where the heroine first meets her lover:”

  The eye of the rattle-snake, it has been said, once fixed upon its victim, overpowers it with terror and alarm: the bird, thus charmed, dares not attempt its escape; it sings its last sweet lay; flutters its little pinions in the air, then falls like a shot before its destroyer, unable to fly from his fascination.

  Sipping wine, Byron nodded. “Overwrought, indeed. And who is this reptilian lover?”

  Shelley turned back a page. “A Lord Ruthven. Interesting name.”

  Byron set his glass down with a thunk, his pale face going nearly paper white. “Ruthven?” He extended his hand. “Let me see,” he demanded.

  Shelley handed over the book and reached for bread. “It appears to be a novel about a woman seduced and abandoned by a lover. I think it—”

  “Damn the woman! God damn her!” Byron exploded. He flung the book to the opposite wall, missing Polidori’s shocked face by an inch. Byron’s face went instantly from white to red and then white again.

  Alarmed, Polidori shot to his feet. “My lord! You are unwell!”

  Byron waved him away and put his face in his hands. “Damn the woman to hell and back!”

  Claire had picked up the book and looked at it. “It does not list the author’s name.”

  Byron’s fists clenched, clenched again. “I know who it is,” he said, his voice low and guttural. “I know her, damn her. Damn her!”

  Claire laid down the book, rose from her chair and came to kneel beside his chair. “Dear Albé,” she said. She laid a hand on his upper arm, and he leaned toward her. Claire opened her arms to embrace him, but at the last moment he pulled back.

  “The little antelope,” Byron muttered. Mary heard tears in his voice, but he kept his head turned away. “It was over, it was finished. I told her and told her. This is her revenge.”

  Bewildered, Shelley asked, “Who is this ‘Ruthven’?”

  “He was … a family connection,” came Byron’s smothered voice. “She … I told her …” He choked to a stop.

  “You are saying a woman wrote this?” Shelley asked, bending to pick up the book.

  “Who is this ‘she’?” asked Claire, confused.

  It was Polidori who finally made the connection. “Lady Caroline Lamb,” he said quietly. “It must be her work.” He took the book from Shelley and glanced into a few pages.

  “Lamb?” Shelley said, wrinkling his brow. “Could she be related to Charles and Mary Lamb? I do enjoy their Tales from Shakespeare. Mary, dearest, are they not acquaintances of your father?” He looked at her out of innocent blue eyes.

  Mary set her mouth in a grim line. “They are. But this Lady Caroline is no relation that I know of.” Everyone in London who could read a newspaper during the previous two years knew very well who Lady Caroline Lamb was, and about her passionate, very public affair with Byron. Only Shelley, who rarely read the gossip columns, could have been unaware of it. Mary hesitated, unsure how much to say in front of Byron.

  Polidori felt no hesitation. “Lady Caroline is the wife of William Lamb, the Member of Parliament. Her liaison with his lordship two years ago is well known,” he said in a low undertone. “Doubtless she still has some feelings for him.”

  “Oh, doubtless,” Byron said with bitterness. “But they are not now what they were, I perceive.”

  “Then it is as well that you are separate from her,” Shelley said judiciously. “If you have no sentiments for one another, or one of you has lost the sentiment, it would be nothing but foolish custom to remain together.”

  Mary felt a chill come over her. These were almost the very
words Shelley had used to justify leaving his wife for her.

  Shelley continued. “Love withers under constraint: its very essence is liberty: it is compatible neither with obedience, jealousy, nor fear.”

  “Or fury, apparently.” Byron reached for his wine glass and drank deeply.

  “So you conceive that his lordship owes his mistress nothing?” Polidori asked, his voice very quiet. “That he can ruin her reputation, expose her to infamy, destroy her relation with her husband, and walk away scatheless?”

  “Ah, there speaks our peasant,” Byron said scornfully. “The values of the tradesman, the merchant, for whom reputation has a price. Think you that Caro risked anything at all? She is the daughter of an Earl, married to the heir of a viscountcy, and the cousin by marriage of my own wife. Her friends were shocked by our connection, but she was still everywhere received. And shall continue so.”

  “I cannot help but note the difference between Lady Caroline’s reputation, and our own,” Mary said suddenly. Everyone looked at her. “Our friends have fallen away, all but a very few. My own father will not see me, he walks past me on the street, and all because Shelley and I have done exactly as he taught.”

  “As have I,” Claire said staunchly.

  Mary looked at her. “Godwin thinks Shelley kidnapped you.”

  Byron shook his head, then addressed Shelley. “Can this be true? Godwin has renounced you both?”

  Mary answered before Shelley could do so, her voice hard. “I have not heard from him directly in two years. We are outcast.” She felt a pain in her stomach, almost as if someone had punched her in the middle, but fought to retain her countenance.

  Claire blinked, but continued trying to soothe Byron. “Surely the only reason for lovers to remain together is love itself,” she said. “The hypocrisy of the world is only the whine of ignorance and prejudice.”

  “Noble words,” sneered Byron. “But I doubt Caro ever read Godwin. I don’t know if it was love or madness. She pursued me through ballrooms and public streets. When I think of the scenes, the hysterics, the loud and vociferous dramas enacted in front of all our friends, it is sickening, ugly. But I never insulted her in public, never made her a laughingstock in print—and she calls me a snake!”