Outcasts (5 page)

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 parlor, 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?

There had to be a way to gain his attention. She would have to think of it. Of course, there was one person whose letters Godwin would never refuse.

“Shelley …”

A new existence would bless me as its creator and source; many happy and excellent natures would owe their being to me. No father could claim the gratitude of his child so completely as I should deserve theirs.

—Frankenstein,
Volume I,
Chapter VI

T
he breeze
off the lake was chilly as Mary stepped outdoors to go look for Shelley. She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and made her way down the lawn to the edge of the water.

Cool and deep, it surged and lapped at the breakwater below her. What words could she use to capture the smell of water? Fresh, yet as old as time. Shadows hid the distant city of Geneva, and the wavelets made restless little sounds at her feet, as if complaining that life was too tame now that the storm had passed. Yet, over the top of Mont Jura, here came a mass of dark grey; she thought of armies marching, of the cannons that sounded so much like thunder. It was easy to see where ancient peasants got the idea of a god in the sky as lord of storms and lord of hosts. She smiled to herself, knowing what Shelley would make of the idea. On the subject of God, or rather not-God, Shelley could talk for hours.

It was a marvel, she thought, how Nature could have moods like a person. She had seen these very wavelets now lapping grumpily at her feet whirl and dash in a fury against stone and tree. She had seen these same puffy clouds driven like slaves before a tyrant wind, shredded by its violence, piled one on another as they were forced over Jura and Mont Blanc. She had seen the lightning jump from cloud to peak, from cloud to cloud. What messages were those flashes carrying? What language did the clouds speak?

I am getting to be as fanciful as Claire, she thought. She smiled a little grimly at the thought.

There was no sign of Shelley having come this way; perhaps she should look for him in the other direction. The smell of rain grew stronger, and with a sigh Mary turned to go. The path back up across the lawn looked slippery, so she chose the longer but safer route up the stone-paved walkway that ran up through the vineyard separating her house from Byron's villa. The vineyard was in full leaf, a green bower whose vines rose nearly to the height of Shelley's head. She, a head shorter than her lover, was completely dwarfed. It was like being lost in a wood, but one nowhere near as terrifying as the woods above Geneva, where their coach had broken down. Lost in memory, she almost missed the sounds ahead of her. Until one voice brought her up short.

“Again! Oh, my lord, take me again!”

Mary froze. It was Claire, and from her words, she was not alone. Mary wondered if she should go back.

“Oh, cease, woman!” Byron's mocking laughter rang out. “Here, take your stocking. I fear it is ruined.”

“No, not yet! Do not go!”

“Much as I should be flattered, my dear, I really have no inclination to tumble you yet again in a damp underbrush. Nay, indeed, I am inclined, as you may plainly see, rather than at that angle that would most engage our mutual attention.”

Mary felt her cheeks warm at Byron's words, but could not make herself retreat to give them privacy. Not just yet.

“Albé, I beg you, stay a moment. I must tell you something.”

“If it's about dinner, yes, of course we shall come,” Byron said. There were the sounds of cloth on cloth, the tick of a buckle. Mary surmised that someone—most likely his lordship—was getting dressed. “But I must really get on, I—”

“Wait.” And there was something so soft and pleading, so intimate in Claire's voice that Mary actually took a step backwards, seeking to give them privacy.

“What is it?”

“My lord!” Fletcher called from some distance. “My lord, are you there?”

“It will have to wait, my girl,” Mary heard Byron say. “It would be better if we were not discovered.”

“I don't care,” Claire's voice rang out defiantly. “Let them talk! Fletcher knows all about us!”

“Yes, but the rest of Geneva does not. Or at any event, not yet,” Byron said. “I would keep it that way, for your sake at least. There are already too many tongues wagging about me and mine. I would not have you included.”

“I don't care!” Claire repeated. “I love you. I care nothing for the opinions of the low and ignorant. You and I, we are alive and in love—”

“In love? Do not flatter yourself, dear girl. This has been a pleasant interlude, but do not give yourself airs!” Byron said testily.

Mary put her hand to her mouth. Claire could be a pest and a headache, but she did not deserve such low treatment. She pushed forward, determined to break through the hedge and support her step-sister. The soft pleading in Claire's voice stopped her.

“You called me your little fiend, you said we were friends of the heart,” Claire said passionately. “I know you love me!”

“Peace, woman! What I say in bed is not to be taken seriously. As for being a friend, a mistress never is nor can be a friend. While we agree, we are lovers, and when it is over, we are anything but friends.”

“Think you that I am as weak willed as all the others?” Claire said. Mary felt heat go over her. “All the other women I have read about? The men I have heard whispered about? Your own wife?”

“Take care,” Byron snarled. “I do not take well to slander.”

Claire was not discouraged. “Women have failed you and failed you, have they not? Because they are mired in the ignorance of our age, that holds that men and women cannot be equals.”

“You are not my equal!” Byron nearly shouted.

“I am as intelligent, as passionate, as any man. As you yourself, Albé. You know—”

“You cannot compare yourself to me, child,” Byron said.

“You care so much for rank?” A note of contempt crept into Claire's voice. “I had not thought you so … so poor-spirited.”

“I am not your Shelley or your Godwin,” Byron said in a hard voice.

“But do you not fleer at convention, at what the ignorant and close-minded say you must be, should be? You, who could be any genius—”

“As always, you misunderstand,” Byron broke in. “Let me make it plain to you, madam. I am a nobleman. You are a commoner—”

“Oh, that matters nothing between two who … who love one another—”

“Think you that we live in isolation? Claire, I do not live on an island, at least, I no longer do. I do not live in a remote forest or a mountain top, nor do you. We live in a world that is hostile to us, to you. Think you that your innocence or your ideals will protect you from scorn?”

“My father cares nothing for the small-minded world—”

“The more fool he,” Byron said. Mary heard exasperation in his voice. “Shelley may think him a genius, I think he is a dangerously naive fool.”

Claire gasped. Mary shook her head; although she had suspected Byron of conventional notions, this was her first confirmation of it. Well, it was to be expected.

“Albé.” Claire's voice was soft, caressing. “Here, your cravat is crooked….”

“I can dress myself, I thank you,” his lordship said testily.

“Stand still,” Claire said. There was silence, while Mary imagined Claire's quick fingers tying her lover's neckcloth. Mary recollected how often Claire had assisted her father in this way. “There. Even Fletcher will not find that completely disreputable, I fancy. Albé, I … I really must speak to you about something important.”

A long, deep sigh from Byron. “Child, I already know.”

Mary blinked. He knew? Claire echoed her thought. “How do you know?”

“Any fool can see what you want,” Byron said. “You want me to be Shelley to your Mary. It cannot be. I will not live that way.”

“But you have had mistresses, lovers, you surely cannot care what people say!”

“God!” Byron's voice was tight. “Such unworldliness. Claire, how do you live? I declare Shelley and Godwin both have much to answer for.”

“Why are you angry? What do you care? I know that I, for my part, care nothing for what people say of us.” Claire's voice took on the familiar defiant quality.

“Of course you do not.” Mary heard Byron draw a long, shuddering breath. It sounded as if he was close, as if she could reach through the hedge and touch his sleeve. “Claire, you do not know what it would be like. You are unknown, and I pray God you stay unknown to the world. A connection with me will bring you more notoriety than any lifetime can hold. You say I care nothing for gossip; you are mistaken. I care. I cannot help but care. And there is nothing, nothing I can do. Do you know what is said of me in the drawing rooms of London? Do you know that they—”

There was a choked silence, and a rustle of leaves. Then Claire's voice, soft and low. “Here. Let me hold you. I know it hurts, what they say. They are jealous, and they are liars. And I know there is nothing behind your words, Albé, nothing but despair. They have hurt you, but I will not. I will never hurt you.” There was the soft sound of a kiss, and Claire's whisper. “My love.”

Mary stepped quickly and quietly backwards the way she had come. There were soft murmurs in the vineyard ahead of her, and perhaps a sob, though she could not tell whose. Her foot came down on something hard and she stumbled—Claire's shoe lay in the path. She left it there as she continued backing away. When she was far enough down the path, she turned and hurried back to the house.

It was not until she crossed the threshold that she realized there were tears on her cheeks.

William, the youngest of our family, was yet an infant, and the most beautiful little fellow in the world; his lively blue eyes, dimpled cheeks, and endearing manners, inspired the tenderest affection.

—Frankenstein,
Volume I,
Chapter I

M
ary hurried
into the house, distraught. Should she tell Shelley what she had overheard? Should she speak to Claire? Should she say nothing? The latter seemed the wisest course, at least until she knew Claire's mind better.

Under all the worry, irritation. Claire was, once again, the source of drama and conflict. Why, oh, why must she always be part of the household, always clamoring for the center of attention, always, always shrill and demanding?