Outcasts Read online

  —Frankenstein, Volume III, Chapter VIV

  Mary woke suddenly, with the impression of a fading shriek in her ears. Had she heard someone screaming? Light flared fitfully at the window as the storm approached from across the lake. She rolled to her side, feeling for Shelley, but she was alone in the bed.

  “Shelley?” she whispered.

  “I’m here,” he said hoarsely. He had pulled on his pantaloons but had not buttoned the fall; dark hair arrowed downward from his stomach. He stood silhouetted against the window, his pistols in his hands. “I hear them. They are outside the door.”

  They. Mary felt a chill go over her skin, even though she was cocooned in warm sheets. “It is only the storm. I am sure of—”

  A thump against the door. Mary clutched the sheets to her chin. She heard the ominous click of the pistol cocking. Could it be? Had footpads, agents of the Tory government entered the house?

  Another thump, and a dragging sound. A whimper.

  “It’s Claire,” Mary said with relief.

  Shelley pointed his pistols at the ceiling and eased the hammers down. “Go to her.” His voice was calm.

  Mary dragged her feet out from under the covers. The floor was cold under her bare soles. Hurriedly slipping her night rail over her head, she took the duvet off the foot of the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. She glanced at Shelley, and at that moment lightning flared behind him. She saw his face, serene, his torso bare in the moonlight. She smiled inwardly and opened the door.

  Facing her, her eyes distant and vacant, stood Claire. She was completely naked, her long dark hair falling over her breast. Mary almost cried out in alarm at the blank and empty look on her features. It was like looking at a ghost. “Claire?”

  Her stepsister made no sound, but turned slowly and walked towards the stairs. She heard the cold sound of metal on wood as Shelley tossed his pistols onto the bedside table.

  “She will do herself an injury!” Shelley hissed, and strode past her. “Claire! Stop!”

  Claire showed no sign of hearing him, but continued slowly to the head of the stairs. In complete silence, she began descending. Shelley was close behind her, hovering. He glanced back at Mary. “Bring a robe for her.”

  Mary pulled the duvet tighter around herself. “Perhaps if you woke her…?”

  “No. It would be futile, perhaps dangerous.” Notwithstanding, Shelley laid a hand on Claire’s shoulder. She paid no attention, but walked out from under it, still descending.

  Mary started down the stairs as well. “She can hear us, can she not? Claire!” she called sharply.

  “Don’t!”

  “But she has never done this before,” Mary said.

  “It must be the shock of seeing Albé with that other woman,” Shelley said. He glanced up at Mary; they were nearly to the bottom of the staircase, with the naked and oblivious Claire leading them. “Could it be her … her condition?” he asked helplessly.

  “Pregnancy has never affected me thus,” said Mary. “Perhaps we should consult Polidori.”

  Shelley grimaced. “I doubt he knows anything of use. Look, she is headed for the door! Some strange power moves her!”

  Mary doubted it. Claire seemed to have no trouble negotiating a house in complete darkness that she had only lived in for a couple of weeks. She suspected this was some charade on her step-sister’s part, but to what end? Was she really that desperate for attention? For Shelley’s attention? And yet, if that was her aim, Mary had to admit it was working. Shelley followed her down the stairs like a shadow.

  Undeterred by the conversation around her, Claire walked calmly towards the front door. Passing under the central chandelier, she carefully unbolted the door and opened it. Cold air gusted in; her hair fanned out behind her.

  “Shelley, she will catch the grippe!” Mary hurried forward, unwinding the duvet from about her shoulders. “We must keep her inside!”

  “It is useless,” Shelley said, following her out.

  Unhappily, Mary followed both of them into the lower terrace in front of the house. Above, clouds hid the moon, and fog shrouded the shore of the lake below. The cold sound of water sloshing on the shore reached her ears, along with the soft sound of leafy branches tossed by the wind. Rain gusted against her face, then stopped. Shelley’s white torso was her only guide; she followed him carefully down the cobbled path. Fog closed in behind her; she hurried so as not to lose sight of him.

  “Where is she?”

  “Here,” came his voice. Shelley had come to a stop. Claire stood before him, teetering on the breakfront wall. Her hair blew in the wind, but she seemed calm, her skin white in the darkness, her form seeming to shimmer and waver as fog drifted past.

  “The water is directly below her,” Shelley whispered. “Give me the blanket. I will attempt to catch her. I do not want to startle her, lest she fall. She may cry out; be prepared.” Mary unwound herself from the duvet and handed it to him. Cold licked her skin. He stepped forward softly.

  Mary huddled herself, arms clasped, watching. Claire stood unmoving. Just as Shelley reached her, his foot slipped on a wet stone and made a soft sound. Claire’s head jerked, then she caught herself and returned her head swiftly to its former position. The gesture was almost too quick to see, but it was enough to tell Mary that Claire was wide awake, alert to Shelley’s movements. This was just another of her attention-seeking hoaxes.

  Then Shelley darted forward with the duvet in his hands. Swiftly he caught her up in it, winding it around her. She shrieked and thrashed, then subsided as if fainting. Shelley caught her up easily into his arms and turned back towards the house. Claire’s head hung down over his arm, her hair trailing in the wind.

  “She wakened, but fainted,” Shelley said. “Much as I have done in the past. Let us pray the shock has not been too great for her nerves.” He turned and walked back up the path. Mary followed him, her feet numb and slipping on the stones.

  Inside the house, Shelley mounted the stairs two at a time. Mary hurried after him, and arrived in time to see him tucking Claire into the center of their bed. “You get in on that side,” he was saying. “I will get in on this. We must warm her up.”

  “We should build a fire,” she began.

  Shelley shook his head. “No time. The chill may have settled in her bones. It is imperative that the vital force be recalled to her, and she must be warm.”

  “We should send word to Byron,” Mary said.

  “I think it would be most unwise to disturb him at this hour.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw a brief twitch in Claire’s hand where it lay on the cover. Once again, proof that Claire could hear and understand every word. Mary felt irritation at this childish pretense.

  “My goodness, her sleep is deep,” she said. “Perhaps we should prick her with a needle, to see if she wakes from her faint.”

  Shelley, who had turned his back to slide out of his pantaloons again, now turned a scowling face to her. “Come, Mary. This is tiresome of you. Your sister needs help, not pinpricks.” He climbed into the bed on the other side of Claire, naked against her.

  Reluctantly, Mary lifted the covers and slid in. Her sister’s flesh was cold as marble. Still, there was a tension in Claire’s body that told Mary, veteran of many nights wedged into a narrow bed with her sister, that Claire was awake and shamming.

  The bed creaked under Shelley’s weight as he climbed in on the other side. He cast an arm across the blankets covering Claire and put her head against his chest. “She will be all right in the morning,” he said confidently.

  “Why has she done this?” Mary was speaking as much to her conscious sister as to Shelley. “Why now?”

  “I spotted laudanum on the table beside her bed as I came past the door,” Shelley said. “No doubt she hoped it would help her sleep. This business with Albé, it is distressing to her.”

  “I would never have called her weak-minded,” Mary said. “I have never known her to take laudanum to s
leep.”

  Shelley wrapped both arms around Claire and shifted in the bed, so that the young woman was wedged between himself and Mary. “Many things are changing,” he murmured. “Anything is possible.”

  Soon, Mary felt Claire’s breathing change, and felt her body relax in sleep. On the other side of her, Shelley’s heavy breathing changed to light snores.

  Mary lay awake, unable to sleep, watching the moonlight creep through the shutters before the overcast shrouded it into a dim memory. She remembered her home in London, on Skinner Street near Clerkenwell. She thought of her father’s library, with her mother’s portrait over the desk. Her thoughts became darker as she remembered coming into the room one afternoon to find her father rigid and unresponsive, in one of his first fits of catalepsy. She thought of Claire’s blank expression as she walked down the stairs. Was it possible Claire had somehow developed the same cataleptic disorder as William Godwin? But how could that be, when Claire was not even related to him by blood? From this question, Mary’s thoughts drifted to questions about inheritance, and how much children took from their fathers.

  Round and round her thought circled, restless, coming back always to one theme: her father. Why, after raising her to believe that marriage was a trap and that freedom of individual choice was paramount, had he cast her out and abandoned her? Had he seen some flaw in her, some imperfection? Mary knew her father had spent his life raising her to be the image of her mother, and she was content with that. To be the mirror of her strong and beautiful mother, to be created and fortified in that image, was much to her liking. But her father had turned his face from her, leaving her cold and alone.

  Separated from her lover by her sister, Mary lay alone and wakeful long into the night.

  Part Three:

  June 16, 1816

  Chapter XXVII - The New Man

  He had come forth from the hands of God a perfect creature, happy and prosperous, guarded by the especial care of his Creator; he was allowed to converse with, and acquire knowledge from, beings of a superior nature: but I was wretched, helpless, and alone.

  —Frankenstein, Volume III, Chapter VII

  Arriving early at the Villa Diodati the next morning, Mary found Polidori on the sofa. His pale face, sweaty brow and disarranged cravat told her he was in some distress; his naked foot nested in a mound of bandages told her why.

  “Let me help,” she said, advancing toward him.

  He held up a hand. “Pray do not disturb yourself, Mrs. Shelley,” he said. “I can manage well enough.”

  Mary eyed the torn strips of sheeting that lay crumpled on the floor. “I fear not, doctor. Do allow me to bind up your foot, lest it begin to swell. You may supervise.”

  Before he could protest further, she knelt on the floor next to him and gathered the strips of cloth together.

  Polidori let his head fall back; his undone cravat revealed his strong neck. He closed his eyes. “I am indebted to you, madam, for your kindness.”

  “You should supervise me,” Mary said. “I would not wish to bind it wrong. Is there no one to help you? Albé seemed to be intent on providing you with pillows and every comfort.” This last was said a little ironically; Mary hoped to lighten the young man’s sour mood.

  A bitter smile crept across his face, though his eyes remained closed. “His lordship discovered in himself a particular revulsion for any treatment of a twisted foot,” he said. “I can understand his reluctance, but it still left me fumbling about by myself, I fear.”

  Mary carefully wrapped bandages around Polidori’s foot and ankle. “Did he not think to call for another physician?”

  “I begged him not to,” Polidori said. “My reputation is shaky enough in this neighborhood, but to be thought a physician who cannot heal himself would be the very outside of enough.” He hissed suddenly and clenched his fist.

  “I am so sorry!” Mary drew back in dismay. “I am hurting you.”

  “Quite the contrary,” Polidori said. “Your touch is quite soothing. The fault lies in the joint itself. I fear that the anterior talofibular ligament has suffered a severe strain. If you will be sure to bind the foot in a flatter position—yes. Thank you. That will keep it strong while I heal.”

  Winding the bandage around his ankle, Mary said, “How long will that require?”

  Polidori opened his eyes and smiled slightly. “Alas, I fear that I will not be able to dance at Madame Odier’s tomorrow night, as I planned. It would be best to reverse that crossed bandage—yes. Just like that. Do you waltz, Mrs. Shelley?”

  Mary kept her eyes on his foot. “No, I do not. But it looks quite … vigorous.”

  “I would be glad to teach you, once this ankle is healed. It is quite acceptable nowadays for married women to dance the waltz.”

  Mary frowned. “You forget, sir. I am neither married, nor likely to be invited to a ball.” She glanced up and met Polidori’s stricken look.

  “I … I … forgive me, I pray. I did not mean to be insulting. I only thought you would enjoy it, and sought to allay any fear you might have of … of …” Polidori appeared to be lost, and faltered. He lay propped on his elbows, looking miserable.

  Mary smiled. “Any fears I might have of impropriety, perhaps? Oh, we are not concerned with impropriety. And in any case, anything Shelley and I might do in the way of dancing would call forth no remarks at all, so long as we are in the company of Lord Byron.”

  Polidori grinned, showing white teeth. “Very true, ma’am. Very true. Please pull the bandage a trifle more securely, if you will. Yes, that will do nicely.”

  Mary tied off the bandage and stood. “It is a pity the healing will take so long. If only one could speed it up somehow.”

  Polidori pushed himself to a sitting position, gingerly lifting his injured foot onto the stack of cushions. “Or replace the foot altogether. I would like a new foot, one that was stronger and more flexible. Imagine how much his lordship would pay to have his club foot replaced with a normal one.”

  Mary gathered up the unused bandages and began to roll them. “Or soldiers injured in a war could gain a new arm or leg. Perhaps some day science will be able to graft on a new limb, as one grafts on a new peach tree limb.”

  Polidori fidgeted with his cravat, trying to neaten it. “A novel idea, to be sure! Perhaps we could graft on extra limbs, so that we could have four arms and hands instead of two! Tell me, how would Mr. Shelley embrace such an idea? Would that fit in with his idea of the ‘perfectibility of man’?”

  “Shelley would probably want to improve on the basic design,” Mary said dryly. “Perhaps we could add springs to the new leg, to facilitate jumping off of balconies.”

  Polidori gazed moodily at his bandaged foot. “I did so at his lordship’s urging; otherwise I am not generally given to … to demonstrations of this sort. Perhaps next time Mr. Shelley will apply a spark to me from his Leyden jar, and I will jump more readily.”

  Mary closed her eyes, remembering the twitching leg stumps of the chicken galvanized by her lover. “Think of what we might accomplish with such science,” she said. “Perhaps we could revive the dead.”

  Polidori stared at her. “You would so intrude upon the Creator’s prerogative?”

  Mary smiled slightly. “If the Creator does not intend for us to use science, why did he put it in the world? No, Doctor, I will not allow my mind to be corrupted by the lies of religion, which uses fear to bind men to it. The truly free man will be a man of science.”

  “Or a man made by science, according to you,” he said. He shifted restlessly, seeking a better position for his foot.

  “Have you eaten?” Mary said.

  “Only a light collation,” Polidori said. “I cannot persuade anyone in this house to bring me any meat, even when I offer to pay for it myself.”

  “Perhaps a strong broth? Or tea?”

  “Meat. I offer no offense, Mrs. Shelley, but truly, a man must have meat or he will fall into a decline and ruin his health.”


  “Perhaps the fluid you need is of a heavenly variety. I can fetch Shelley’s Leyden jar directly.”

  Polidori shuddered. “I beg you, no. The demonstration two nights ago was disturbing. Did you not find it so?”

  Mary stared past him. “But to return the dead to life, would that not be wonderful? Would it not mend a thousand thousand broken lives, broken hearts?” She looked not at the window, but into the haunted past, and a pale, still body, so tiny and vulnerable, so cold in her arms. “It is so long before the mind can persuade itself that one whom we saw every day, and whose very existence appeared a part of our own, can have departed for ever—that the brightness of a beloved eye can have been extinguished, and the sound of a voice so familiar, and dear to the ear, can be hushed, never more to be heard. These are the reflections of the first days; but when the lapse of time proves the reality of the evil, then the actual bitterness of grief commences. And for some, it never dies.” She looked away from the window, and caught Polidori’s startled gaze. “You have heard of my mother, perhaps?”

  Polidori half-bowed from his sitting position. “Who has not heard of the famed defender of the rights of women, Mary Wollstonecraft?”

  “Do you know, my father keeps her portrait above his study,” she said wistfully. “It is his shrine, his altar. Every day he writes, under her gaze. I have seen him staring at it with tears in his eyes. I think he speaks to it, now and again.”

  “I perceive that your father has a second wife?” Polidori said cautiously.

  Mary nodded. “He married Jane Clairmont, Claire’s mother, to provide us with a mother.”

  “So you are half-sisters?”

  “By no means. Claire, who was called Jane then, and Charles, my stepbrother, were from a previous marriage.”

  Polidori tilted his head to one side, observing. “You were unhappy with the second wife? How old were you?”

  “My mother died within eleven days of my birth; my father remarried as soon as possible thereafter, to assure that someone could raise me. It … it was not a felicitous choice.”