Outcasts (15 page)

“A thermometer reading? Now?” Mary was half amused, half frustrated. Her mad love had once again set out on one course and diverted himself to another. Straight lines were anathema to Shelley.

“I neglected to do it as usual, at sundown.” Shelley busied himself taking the large mercury thermometer out of the box. He turned it this way and that, trying to catch the light strongly enough to read the markings. “Sixty degrees? On a June night? Remarkable! Alas, I have nothing to write with—oh, wait. Look in the pocket of my coat.”

Obediently, Mary thrust her hands into the pockets of the greatcoat. As usual, they were full of an odd assortment: bread crumbs, a flower, a smooth rock, coins. Her fingers encountered paper and drew it out: a letter. “Here—” Then her eyes fell on the inscription and she froze. Her father's handwriting was as familiar to her as her own. She stared down at the letter, blinking. “What ….how?”

Shelley looked up, and even in the dim light spilling from the upper windows of the house, his face looked pale. “Oh. I didn't mean for you to see that.”

Mary thrust the paper towards him. “Dated a week ago. And you didn't tell me.”

He turned from her and slowly placed the thermometer back in its house. He closed the door and placed his hand flat on it. “I didn't want to worry you.”

Her hand shook. The papers rattled. “Do you think I am a child?”

He looked at her, his eyes looking larger than ever. “Maie, I … no, you are not a child. But you are my happiness, and if you are made unhappy, then I am made unhappy, and …” He trailed off, biting his lip.

“What did he say?”

Shelley sighed. “He asked for money.”

“Of course,” she said bitterly.

“He wants five hundred pounds.”

Mary closed her eyes. The book shop, the demands of a large family, and her father's illnesses, all contriving to make him a constant borrower. Except that William Godwin, in line with his philosophy of utilitarianism, did not consider it borrowing. “Money belongs to whoever needs it the most,” she quoted softly.

“Exactly,” Shelley said, his voice lighter. “A sentiment with which I am, as you know, completely in accord. And I am quite happy to use my coin to succor the revolutionary, the reformer, the man who will make mankind better. But … but I am afraid, Mary, that that man may not be your father.”

Oddly enough, her bitterness against her father vanished in the face of this criticism. Feeling her whole being growing cold, she said, “You called him the greatest man of the age.”

“Yes. And I meant it. But, Mary, I have given him so much … lover fifteen hundred pounds! And it vanishes!”

“He has so many calls on his purse, and his creditors beset him constantly.” Even to her, her defense sounded less than forceful.

“I understand. But whatever I give him, it is not enough. I gave him over a thousand pounds two years ago. Another five hundred this spring. And now he writes demanding more. Yet I
see nothing from him that improves anyone's lot but his—no new books, no society for reform, nothing. He merely spends it and asks for more, as if I were a fountain of gold. Mary, dearest. Is it not prudent to consider whether this is the best use of what little money I have?”

She was silent, her heart wrung. Shelley was right, and yet, and yet. Godwin had never needed her; now she could help him. Now she could earn his love back, perhaps. “He is my father,” she said softly. “For a long time, he was my god.”

Shelley sighed and ran a hand through his hair. The effect made him look like a startled ostrich. “I thought when my grandfather died, it would all settle itself out. But the allowance from the estate is so small, and much of it goes to Harriet….”

At the mention of Harriet, Mary felt a pang. Should she tell him the contents of Fanny's letter? Honesty compelled her. She had never lied to Shelley. And yet … she would spare him that news awhile longer, as he had spared her. She bit her lip. “So. Are you going to refuse Godwin?”

Shelley hunched his shoulders and stared up at the clouds covering the waning moon. Its light shone feebly behind its veil. “I don't know. Would it not be better spent on … other causes? An orphan, perhaps. Or that organization for women's education your aunt wrote to Fanny about. Or Claire. She will need money for the baby.”

At the mention of Claire, Mary's jaw tightened. “Surely that is Byron's affair.”

Shelley looked at her, a long silent look. She read in it sympathy and cynicism, an unusual combination for the ebullient Shelley. “And you really think Albé will make provision for what he will call a bastard?”

“So you would rob Godwin to pay Claire,” she said angrily.

“That is unjust. As your father has said, money belongs to those who require it.”

She knew it. It didn't matter. The paper crumpled as she made a fist. “Claire comes first,” she spat. “Always. I know that.”

“No! Mary—”

She flung the letter at his feet. “Pay them both, then. Leave nothing for me and your son.”

Shelley's look hardened. “Would you have me deprive a child of food and clothing, to satisfy you? Would you have me cast a child off? Would you have me cast Claire off?”

As always, he had penetrated to the heart of her, to the fear that coiled around her soul. “Shelley …” Her voice pleaded, heavy with the words she could not say.
Don't leave me. Don't desert me. Don't cast me off.

In one long stride he was in front of her, catching her up against him. His long arms wrapped themselves around her. “Oh, let us not quarrel, Dormouse. You know I will give up everything for you. I will do anything for you, my love. I will buy your father's love for you, even if I must do it in installments. I will write tomorrow to my solicitors.”

She slipped her arms around him, holding his solidity and warmth against her. He was here, she thought. Not Godwin, not the father who had cast her off only for doing what he had advocated. Hypocrite, her mind said, but she closed her eyes and turned away that thought. To question her father on that principle was to bring into question everything she and Shelley had done in the name of his philosophy.

And it was far too late for that.

… let us only cling closer to what remains, and transfer our love for those whom we have lost to those who yet live. Our circle will be small, but bound close by the ties of affection and mutual misfortune. And when time shall have softened your despair, new and dear objects of care will be born to replace those of whom we have been so cruelly deprived.

—Frankenstein,
Volume III,
Chapter V

R
eturning to
the house, Mary waited while Shelley secured the doors. This was one of the facets of her life with Shelley she loved most of all: going up to bed. In the sober and staid routine of locking up, checking that drapes were drawn, assuring that the fires were out or dying, Mary felt grown-up and responsible.

The domesticity of it soothed her, reassured her of her place with Shelley, of her entry into the world of women and competence and agency that her mother had once known. She was not quite sure whether Mary Wollstonecraft had enjoyed putting out all the candles but one, to light her way upstairs with her beloved. It was, nevertheless, a connection to her mother in that bond of housekeeping. For Mary Godwin, it was the rituals that they carried from place to place that made their household a home; the dwelling itself changed every few months, so it was more important to her that the evening ritual be got through, than that the sofa was sagging or that the cushions were worn.

Shelley followed close behind her on the stair, his hand on her hip. Warm and full of promise, it rested lightly; she was intensely aware of it as she rounded the turn and started up the last flight. At the landing, she glanced over to see that Claire's door was closed. Doubtless she would stay the night at the Villa with Byron. For once, Mary had a night to herself with Shelley. With an inward sigh of relief, she opened the door to her sanctuary.

Their bedroom was small, and since Claire had taken the room in front, she and Shelley had made do with the rear, where
there was no view of the lake. Still, it was theirs and they could close the world out, and Mary was glad of that. She set the candle on the table beside the big four poster bed. She heard the creak of the single chair next to the door and Shelley sat down to pull off his boots.

“We should see about a new cook in the morning,” Shelley said. A boot thumped to the floor.

Mary opened the latch and swung the shutter wide. Above them, clouds roiled and churned, the moon not yet risen but beginning to limn the slopes to the east. “It must be past one,” she said.

“Aye,” said Shelley. The other boot hit the floor. “And I needs must rise at dawn for another reading.”

Mary laughed softly. “Another thermometer reading? Are you scientist or philosopher?”

“Both,” he grinned. “And lover.” He stood and slid his braces off his shoulders.

Mary stepped to him and placed her hands on his. “I will do it,” she said. This was another ritual, one she also carried from place to place in their wanderings. Behind the closed door, she and Shelley were not mother and father to small children, or philosopher and writer, or even political radical and revolutionary. They were merely man and woman, beloved and familiar.

This was her time, Mary thought. Not Claire's or Byron's or the world's. Hers.

So Mary made her movements slow, drawing the silk shirt from his waistband. He stood still, tall and bushy haired, saying nothing. But this close, she smelled the rain on him, smelled wild night air and warm male skin. She leaned in and rested her forehead on his chest.

“Mary …” His voice was soft and warm. He threaded his fingers through her hair, pulling hairpins, letting it fall in a cascade down her back. “Mary.”

She slid her hands up under the shirt, feeling his skin against her palms, slipping her hands around his waist. This was how she had first touched him, that night in the St. Pancras churchyard.
They had met there, as usual, at her mother's grave. As usual, they discussed her father's writing. And as usual, they had inched closer and closer to one another, aware of the tension building between them.

She remembered how she had thrilled when his hand first sought hers, first traveled up her arm, first cupped her chin for a shy kiss. And then the night he had, with fire and trembling and passion, laid her down on that grave and taken her childhood. Did he remember that night, the girl trembling in his arms with passion and joy and surprise?

Mary stretched up on tiptoe, and Shelley bent down, and his mouth found hers in the semi-dark. Warm, as his mouth had been that first time, but no longer shy. She slid her hands back around, up his chest, feeling hair tickle her palms, feeling his flat nipples rising under her fingers. Against her belly, he rose hard, pressing against her through the thin muslin of her gown. His arms came around her, stroking her back, combing her hair through his fingers. They moved together, and now Shelley was unbuttoning her, divesting her of gown and petticoat and chemise, letting them all drift silently to the floor like foam around Venus rising from the waves. She shivered a little as the cool air struck her skin, but then he skimmed a hand down between her full breasts and she felt heat flood her body. For a man who lived in his head, his hands could be remarkably expressive.

“My love,” she whispered. He dipped his head to kiss her again. She broke the kiss to help him slide his shirt over his head and arms, a wifely moment, and quickly folded his shirt across the chair. Shelley might think nothing of flinging her garments to the floor, but Mary knew washerwomen came dear. When she turned from the chair, he had already kicked his way out of his pantaloons and smalls, so that the dim light of the candle gilded his bare skin. Naked, the gangly wild man who slouched his way through Europe became an elegantly framed man, long of limb and torso, proportioned as an athlete. His long walks had given him the silhouette that Byron could only hope for, lean and graceful. And at this moment, highly aroused.

The poet-philosopher held out one large hand, inviting her. Gathering her close, he molded her to him with hands and lips, sealing them together through thigh and hip and shoulder, her breasts pressing into him. He whispered her name into her hair, trailing hands above and below, now circling her waist, now stroking her shoulders. His hand slid between her thighs and she became liquid fire. Mary threw back her head, moaning.

“My girl, my Mary …” He bent suddenly and picked her up in his arms, lightly as a child. She felt the flex of muscle under her hands as she grasped his shoulders. He took one stride forward and flung them both, half-intertwined, onto the bed, muttering,

He reared his shuddering limbs and quelled

His gasping breath, and spread his arms to meet

Her panting bosom …

“Oof! You quote from your own poem? Oh, vain!” Mary laughed as he landed on her, his weight bearing her down into the feather mattress. The support ropes holding it up groaned as Shelley, on hands and knees, leaned over her, kissing her neck, down her chest, from one soft breast to the other.

“Her panting bosom,” he whispered. “My Mary.”

She clutched his head in her hands as he kissed her stomach, threaded her fingers through his light chestnut curls, caressed his ears. His mouth teased her, his hands possessed her, his heat seeped through her. Under him, she sank into the feathers, as if falling into a sea of down. She shifted, parting her knees, felt him fall between them. “My heart,” she murmured, and felt his hands on her thighs.

Then he was kissing her deeply, sliding into her, filling her and she felt that tension growing in her belly, felt it spiraling through her center, as he rocked into her over and over. His hands caught hers, pressing her down, almost smothering her. But she felt liberated, knowing at this moment that she owned him, he was completely and only hers. The knowledge percolated through her, even as thought fled and feeling took over, until her arms and
legs were wrapped around him, holding him close, closer. Shelley, damp with sweat, cried out and surged into her, and Mary met him halfway as she herself crested at the tide they made between them. She screamed into his shoulder as he bellowed into the feather mattress, arms braced, head down.