Outcasts Page 3

Shelley picked up the Examiner. “An excellent poem by a youngster named Keats. Hear:

  … the sweet converse of an innocent mind

  Whose words are images of thoughts refin’d,

  Is my soul’s pleasure; and it sure must be

  Almost the highest bliss of human-kind,

  Is that not wonderful? A very promising work.”

  “I think I have heard that name,” Polidori said. He reached for the toast, but Mary drew it out of his reach and handed it to Shelley. “I think he is a medical student or some such. I fancy I may have met him at a lecture in London.”

  “There seems to be a very host of hybridized poets these days,” Shelley murmured. “I look forward to the dawn of a new age. Chemist-playwrights writing dramas about sulfur. Musician-philosophers writing songs in the key of electricity. Oh, Mary, I am reminded: in Geneva I fell into conversation with a most interesting gentleman in a bookstore, who is an experimental philosopher. His English was very bad, and my German is, as you know, nonexistent. But we contrived, and he sold me a glass Leyden jar! I put it in the entry way.”

  “What an extravagance!” exclaimed Polidori. “Surely Mrs. Shelley would have preferred something more practical.” He smiled at Mary. “Perhaps you should make him take it back!”

  She looked at him coldly. “Shelley is free to spend his money as he pleases,” she said. Inwardly she shrank a little at the thought of their bills and creditors. But Polidori’s presumption irked her and she rose to her love’s defense. “I shall be very interested to see whatever he wishes to show me.”

  Abashed, Polidori stared down into his cup. Shelley, ignoring him, rose and began to pace restlessly.

  “I say, Mary, we must have Byron and Polly to dinner this evening,” he said, his gaze fixed on some distant inner horizon. He ran one hand through his long hair, which fell in disorder around his collar. “The clouds were building over Jura as we came across; maybe we will have lightning tonight.”

  Polidori looked at him skeptically. “Do you seriously believe lightning is electric? That it is some mysterious fluid flowing to earth? It certainly does not give that appearance. I think it a very stupid idea.”

  Shelley shrugged his lanky shoulders. “We shall see, if we are fortunate enough to have a display. Mary? Dinner?”

  Her smile was a little forced. “Of course. Doctor, will you be good enough to ask Lord Byron to step back in?”

  Shelley held up a hand. “No need, my dear. I’ll speak to him myself.”

  Polidori rose as his host exited the room. “Thank you for the lovely tea, Mrs. Shelley. It was most refreshing.” He reached his hand forward. Automatically, Mary extended hers, and found it clasped in a warm, damp hand. “Arrivederci, signora,” he said, bowing. His lips brushed the back of her hand, he raised his face to look into hers, his dark eyes looking moist. “Most kind signora.”

  Uncomfortable, Mary began to withdraw her hand, but Polidori clung to it. “I treasure these afternoons,” he said in a low voice. “Lord Byron is often unpleasant. At such times, your kindness is … a balm to me.”

  She forced a smile. Where was Shelley? She heard his voice in the other room, a low laugh from Claire. She pulled her hand from Polidori’s. “You are always welcome, Dr. Polidori. You and Lord Byron.” She emphasized the last few words. Polidori’s face fell a little, the glow in his eyes abating.

  “Of course,” he said. His voice held an edge of bitterness. “A star in the halo of the moon.” Abruptly he bowed and stalked out of the room.

  Mary drew a deep breath and picked up her embroidery again. She was making a shirt for little William, and the watery light of this room was not strong enough for her to see clearly. Suddenly a pain shot through her finger, and a red stain appeared on the cloth. She exclaimed and stuck her finger in her mouth just as Shelley strode back into the room.

  “Dearest!” he said, instantly seeing her pained face.

  She laughed. “Oh, it is nothing. I stuck my finger with the needle. Have they left?”

  “They have.” He sat and took her hand in his, kissing the wounded finger. “I told them dinner would be served at seven.”

  She laughed warmly. “I am sure Albé took that ill.”

  “He did. Damned me for a country squire keeping country hours. I told him in that case, dinner would be served at five.”

  “Perhaps you had better warn Cook.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” he said. He released her hand and reached for the paper. “Cook knows as well as you do that Albé and Polly won’t be back over here before half past eight at the earliest.” He glanced at her mischievously over the top of the paper. “Of course, that leaves us ample time for …” He glanced meaningfully towards the hall, which led to their bedroom.

  Smiling to herself, she began to put away her sewing. “How odd. I find myself in urgent need of a nap.”

  Chapter III - Fanny’s Letter

  I read and re-read her letter and some softened feelings stole into my heart and dared to whisper paradisaical dreams of love and joy …

  —Frankenstein, Volume I, Chapter V

  By the time Mary returned to her workroom, her son had been put down for his nap, her lover had gone for a walk, and her step-sister was at the Villa Diodati, transcribing some poetry for Byron. At last, she had a moment to herself. She drew out Fanny’s letter.

  Mary sat down under the window in the window seat, heedless of the chill that emanated from the glass. Below her, she could see the small lawn that sloped down to the water, the path that wound its way up the hill to the Villa Diodati, and the edge of its vineyard. Trying to control the trembling in her hands, she folded them together and pressed them into her lap, with the paper of the letter crumpled between them. She raised her gaze to the mountains, concentrating on their piny slopes, the majestic crowns that scraped the cloud-laden sky. She could see whitecaps on the lake, and in the distance a fishing vessel made its slow way along the far shore. Clouds hid and revealed the sun, leaving dappled shadows in their wake. Such beauty, she thought, must surely portend some lifting of the shadow on her soul.

  She looked down at the letter in her hands. She knew the handwriting, of course. Her half-sister Fanny’s hand was as familiar to her as her own. Between the two of them, there had always been a fine sympathy, if not always understanding. Fanny inclined to melancholy, and was less inclined to books and reading. Since the death of their mother, Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin, Fanny had been alone, an orphan. A grieving William Godwin had published their mother’s journals and letters, naively believing the world would be as astonished by his bold wife as he had been. Unfortunately, what most people read and remembered was Mary Wollstonecraft’s shocking sexual freedom, her depression, her suicide attempts. The world learned of her affair with an American, and the birth out of wedlock of her daughter, Fanny.

  The notoriety had made Fanny the most infamous bastard in England. She lived quietly, taking on more than her share of the housework, and rarely left the house. Left behind when Claire and Mary ran away with Shelley, the brunt of the family’s anger had fallen on Fanny. For this, and for Fanny’s continued distress in the Godwin household, Mary felt more than a little guilt. Despite Shelley’s invitations, however, Fanny had not left that household to come live with them.

  Far, far more would Mary have preferred her half-sister’s company to her step-sister’s. She would trade Claire for Fanny any day, but the very qualities Mary loved in her sister made it impossible for Fanny to desert William Godwin.

  Her mouth a taut line, Mary broke the seal on the letter and unfolded it slowly. The sodden sunlight played across its lines.

  June 2nd 1816

  Skinner Street

  London

  Dear Mary

  Papa has given me leave to write to you and S—and once again he tells me that Shelley must send him money—

  Mary bit her lip, anger surging through her. Money. That was all Godwin ever mentioned in her connection. No word of love or forgiv
eness, no word even of censure. Nothing about his namesake and grandson, William. Would nothing move him?

  She resumed her reading:

  —right away as he owes two hundred pounds to MK and to the assessment man. I find your letter of May v. interesting because I was so afraid there would be difficulty with the carriages and passports, as when you were there two years ago. France sounded so different now, with the people so broken. Were you and S not afraid? I know Jane was not for she would take on Wellington’s army in defense of her love.

  Mary looked up, eyes clouded by anger. “Her love?” To whom could Fanny be referring? Doubtless Fanny meant Shelley. Mary was quite certain the family in Skinner Street knew nothing of Jane’s … of Claire’s romance with Byron. Nothing could have scandalized Mrs. Godwin more, or disturbed her father’s calm more, than knowing that one of their family had formed a liaison with so notorious a rake. Byron epitomized everything Godwin despised—aristocratic arrogance, sexual philandering without real feeling, support for the status quo. If Godwin had been outraged by his own daughter’s elopement with Shelley, he would have been even more furious had he known that Claire, who was his step-daughter only by marriage, had so betrayed his principles as to take up with the most scandalous roué in London only a few months ago. No, Mary, Claire and Shelley had quietly decided that the longer this affair was kept from the Godwins, the better.

  I hope that the weather has improved. In your last you said the rain was incessant and that it seemed to be more winter than summer. I trust little William has not taken cold. Remember that if he is close to being weaned you must take extra precautions regarding the disentery. Roll several folds of flannel round the body, from the chest to the waist. Also, give him water, in which rice has been boiled, being very careful to strain away the husks, lest they choke him. Although Mrs. G. used laudanum to quite her William when he was teething, you know I do not agree with this. I trust you will not allow S or anyone else to dose my little nephew with it. I wonder why Jane has not written to me. I am worried that she may be ill because usually she writes many letters.

  Of course, Mary thought, Jane—or rather Claire—was trying to conceal her circumstances from her family. Mary hated lying to Fanny. Her elder sister had always been Mary’s supporter and confidant. Yet even she could not be trusted not to betray a secret to Mrs. Godwin. Mary shuddered to remember her stepmother’s red face, the screaming, the sly bullying she used to control her husband and family. It occurred to her, not for the first time, that of all the children in that wretched household, the one who had most quickly imbibed Jane Godwin’s controlling ways was her daughter Claire. Mary remembered Claire’s anger this morning, and saw once again her hated stepmother’s face.

  And she, Mary, had abandoned Fanny to that creature’s mercies. Taking up the letter again, she read:

  Our indoor weather has been inclement, as well—

  Mary felt her stomach do a slow roll. “Indoor weather” was their phrase for the storms generated by her stepmother.

  —and I do not know where I shall find shelter. I have taken on more of the household work—

  Meaning, Mary knew, that Mrs. Godwin was turning her despised step-daughter into a household slave.

  —and with Papa so busy in his study it is sometimes days before we speak.

  No doubt, Mary thought, her father was once again hiding from his wife’s wrath.

  Thus your letters are very precious to me. I cannot feel at ease until I hear from you. I long to hear of little William and of Jane, and how S is walking about in all weathers in the daytime and writing revolution all night. I have written to you a week ago now, and I hope very much there is a letter from you coming to me. I have never understood and I hope you will explain why you ran away from me and if it was some fault of mine or error I beg you will tell me so that I may apologize and we will be friends again, for it is unbearable that you should be so far from me. I know that S is all your happiness now and little William but I pray that some day I may be again your dearest sister.

  A tear dropped onto the paper, quickly turning the last letter to a black blob. Mary wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

  I have had a letter from our Aunt Eliza. It is proposed that she and Aunt Everina, along with Uncle Edward, will visit London in August. She is full of cheerful news and congratulates me on S leaving me money in his will. But that does me little good as S will outlive all of us, I am persuaded, and I do not wish to become independent through the death of one I cherish so closely. Bid S my tenderest regards and remind him Fanny remembers him, if he does not remember her. At any event, Aunt Eliza seems no closer to accepting me as a teacher in her school than before. It seems that I am an exile, without ever having even left home, nor through any fault of my own.

  Mary sighed. While it was true that Fanny had always been subject to fits of depression, Mary had to admit she was fully justified in this melancholy. Since turning twenty-one the previous year, the question of Fanny’s future had been on everyone’s mind. Shelley, of course, immediately proposed that she be added to their household, but Claire protested so loudly that Mary gave up any hope of compromise. Shelley then promptly offered to leave Fanny a thousand pounds in his will, but as Fanny herself pointed out, this was of little use to her presently.

  The hope had always been that Fanny would take up a position in the school run by their mother’s sister, Eliza. Unfortunately, once again the hand of William Godwin had interfered—after he had published Mary Wollstonecraft’s letters, thereby bringing permanent scandal to the name of Wollstonecraft, Eliza had nearly gone bankrupt as parents pulled their children out of her school. It had taken years for Eliza to recover her family name and reputation: to add now to any lingering prejudice by taking in the very bastard so prominently named in those letters was unthinkable. Fanny, abandoned by all, had no future.

  If ever you find yourself needing company, do but let me know and I would gladly take up the way of your life. I need not even have a Shelley to keep me, but to be living among those I love, in freedom and sunshine, rather than among these storms and frosts, would be a paradise to me. Would that I could be near you now, if only for a day or two. When you return to England, you must let me visit you often.

  Mary closed her eyes. Much as she missed Fanny, and longed for her company, there could be no question of a visit as long as Claire was with them. By the time they all returned to England, Claire’s pregnancy would be obvious and no hint of that could reach Skinner Street.

  It occurred to Mary that her father would suspect Shelley of being the father of Claire’s child. Her face went hot, then cold. He might even be right, whispered part of her mind. No, no, it could not be true. Not that Shelley would ever swear eternal fidelity, as a matter of principle. Rather, if he had been sleeping with Claire, he would take no pains to hide it. The same principles that allowed him to make love to any woman he professed to love would not allow him to be furtive about it.

  Would they not?

  I read over your letter to Papa the other day, which he has not read—

  A pain went through Mary’s stomach and she clutched the letter against her breast for a moment. “He does not even read my letters?” she whispered.

  Your escape with S is still very much a sore point with him. S wrote him a stern letter of goodbye and no money, in which it is clear some error has been made. I either related my story very ill to S or he, paying little regard to what I might say, chose to invent a story out of his own imagination for your amusement, which you too have coloured to your own mind and made what was purely accidental, and which only occurred once in a story after the manner of Caleb Williams vis. of ‘Mamma pursuing you like a hound after foxes’.”

  Mary remembered the wild flight from Skinner Street at five o’clock in the morning, the closed carriage thundering along the roads, the little inn at Calais where she was recovering from the sea sickness of their crossing. And she remembered the irruption of Mary Jane Clairmont Godwin into the pa
rlor, screaming for her daughter (never, of course, for Mary), demanding her return, threatening Shelley with gendarmes. She remembered how Claire—then called Jane—had meekly agreed to return with her mother. And then the next morning, one word from Shelley turned Claire around and she defied her mother. Mary knew that, from that moment on, it was war between her stepmother, Shelley and herself. She really had not far to look to understand her father’s cold rage. No doubt he was castigated daily by that harridan, she thought. Yet surely the author of Political Justice had enough fortitude to hold his own against her? She remembered the charged silences, the closed doors, the tears during her growing-up years, and thought: perhaps not.

  Regarding S, I have news that will come as a shock to you. Papa has tried to conceal it from me but Mamma was glad to tell me of it. It seems that Shelley’s wife, Harriet, has taken up with a soldier and they are lovers. She has left her children with her father and moved to Chelsea, or so I gather. I do not know if S is aware of this, or even if he would care if he did. I wrote to her two weeks ago in the care of her father but have had no reply; I do not know if my letter reached her.

  Doubtless it was intercepted, thought Mary. Harriet’s family had been angry with Shelley’s separation from her. Mary closed her eyes. So many separations: Harriet from Shelley, Mary from Godwin, Mary from Fanny, Shelley from his father, Byron from his wife. Why must so much of the world intrude itself on the affairs of the heart? It was not fair. It was not just.

  Mamma says there are some very bad stories being told about you from when you thought of settling in that neighborhood. I still think they originated with your servants and Harriet, who, I know, has been very industrious in spreading false reports against you. I, at the same time advised S always to keep French servants and he then seemed to think it a good plan. You are very careless, and are forever leaving your letters about.

  More injustice. Mary crumpled the letter in her fist, her vision blurring with tears. No love, no acceptance, no yielding from those who had once formed the center of her universe. She wondered if she would ever get over the shock of her father’s rejection. And worst of all, that he would not even read her letters. He would not hear her. How could she reach him, how could she turn his love to her again, if he refused to hear her voice or read her words?