PoetsandPromises (4 page)

“Miss Ashwood,” Elisabeth repeated, not sure whether she
should bob her head or shake hands with the unprepossessing young gentleman.
Conventional manners did not appear to be observed in this house.

“Keats is a medical student but not for much longer. I am
determined to persuade him to answer his muse and I predict he will become the
very first of poets in time,” Hunt proclaimed.

In the dim light Elisabeth could see the young man blush
painfully at the praise, although a half-smile of pleasure touched his thick
lips.

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Keats,”
Elisabeth said politely, opting for common courtesy. She was unable to make out
Mr. Keats’ mumbled reply but it was of no importance as Hunt was already
striding across the room, motioning impatiently for them to follow. He stopped
at the sofa upon which a young man and woman sat in quiet conversation.

“Mary, my love,” Hunt said to the woman seated on the sofa.
“I have someone here who is a great admirer of your father. Miss Ashwood, John
Godwin’s daughter Mary Shelley, and her husband Percy Shelley. Entertain Miss
Ashwood, my dears, until I am finished with Sherbourne.” With that, Hunt turned
and strode out of the room, waving for Sherbourne to follow.

Elisabeth, a bit disconcerted, smiled uncertainly at Mary
Shelley, who smiled back. Mrs. Shelley looked to be around twenty years of age,
Elisabeth decided. Abundant fair hair framed a heart-shaped face set with
earnest hazel eyes and a high, wide forehead hinted at intelligence. Her
husband, who had not stood at the introductions, lounged coatless on the sofa,
his arm extended along the sofa back behind his wife’s shoulders. Long, soft
curls of brown hair fell over a face with features that could almost have been
termed delicate. He fixed Elisabeth with an intense gaze from mesmerizing eyes.

“You chose well, Miss Ashwood,” he spoke in an unexpectedly
high but melodious voice, “to base your education upon Godwin’s
Political
Justice
. It formed the basis of my own intellectual searches. Although of
late,” he said with a sideways glance at his wife, “Godwin has fallen from the
practice of his highest ideals and one must look to the writings and not the
man for inspiration.”

Confused and uncertain, Elisabeth smiled but did not answer.
She glanced around looking for a place to sit, since she was apparently
expected to stay with the Shelleys. But other than the sofa there was nowhere
but the floor to sit. Mary Shelley noticed Elisabeth’s hesitation and moved to
her left, patting the sofa between herself and her husband.

“Come sit with us, Miss Ashwood. It is too fatiguing to
stand and the floor is chill in February.”

Elisabeth did as Mrs. Shelley requested, feeling a blush
rise in her cheeks at the thought of sitting so close to a man who was not
wearing a coat. A gentleman simply did not appear coatless before unrelated
females. It was evident that the members of the literary set were as careless
of convention as Lady Parker had warned. However, Elisabeth did not wish to
appear missish before her new acquaintances, so she took a seat between the two
as requested.

“Are you an admirer of my mother’s works as well as my
father’s, Miss Ashwood?” Mary Shelley asked, turning her great hazel eyes on
Elisabeth.

“Your mother?” Elisabeth asked, confused.

“Mary’s mother was Mary Wollestonecraft,” Shelley
elucidated.

“I am sorry—I had not made the connection,” Elisabeth
answered. “But yes, I have read Mrs. Wollestonecraft’s works and found them
very instructive.”

“You are unusual, for her works have fallen out of favor
these years since her death. Truthfully I did not fully appreciate my mother’s
contributions myself until Shelley instructed me,” Mary Shelley admitted,
reaching across Elisabeth’s lap to take her husband’s hand and press it. The
Shelleys were obviously much attached and Elisabeth envied their obvious care
for each other.

“Tell me, Miss Ashwood,” Mr. Shelley suddenly addressed
Elisabeth, “I assume that as an admirer of Godwin you would agree on the
importance of education, but what is your opinion on education for women? Do
your views match Wollestonecraft’s?”

Elisabeth turned her head to face Mr. Shelley before she
answered him and was again aware of the singular aura of intensity that
surrounded the poet.

“I agree that women are too often treated as children,”
Elisabeth began after a short hesitation in which to marshal her thoughts, “and
that we are taught our ultimate goal is marriage, which many women are led to
believe they may reach through judicious flattering of men and dressing to
catch their eyes. And I do believe women should receive a more useful education
that would prepare them to be good partners to their husbands, or to make their
living should they not marry.”

Shelley listened with flattering attention while Elisabeth
spoke. When she finished he suddenly stood up and began pacing before the sofa.

“Yes, it is true that along with the injustice to the
laborer, the greatest injustice in this society is to its women,” he said.
“Women who are cut off from their natural talents and understanding at a young
age to be taught to deny their intellectual gifts.” Shelley’s voice became
increasingly impassioned and his arms swung wildly as he paced back and forth
beforethe sofa, expounding his views of
education and marriage for women. Mary Shelley watched her husband with rapt
attention, although Elisabeth felt quite certain it was not the first time she
had heard his views. Clearly Mr. Shelley was a man who felt most deeply about
perceived societal injustices.

“Tea is served,” Mrs. Hunt called from doorway, interrupting
Shelly’s speech midstream. “Have you seen my children? No? I have lost them
again. No telling what mischief they are up to,” she said with a sigh and
bustled off.

Shelley had broken off at Mrs. Hunt’s interruption and stood
still, holding his hand out to his wife. Mary stood and held out her hand to
Elisabeth. “Come, I shall show you the way to the dining room. You must not
mind our informal ways, you know. We are all of us of artistic and literary
temperaments here and refuse to be bound by conventions,” she finished, giving
a delightful laugh. She placed her arm around Elisabeth and guided her down a
short hallway.

As the three entered the dining room together Elisabeth saw
a table heavily laden with bread, cheese and fruits, although no one was yet
sitting at it. Mr. Keats entered the room behind them and Elisabeth saw his
countenance light up at the sight of the table.

“Sit here by me, Miss Ashwood,” Mary urged, pulling
Elisabeth forward. “Sherbourne will sit with Hunt at the end, as he is the
honored guest this day.”

Elisabeth took the chair between Mary and Mr. Keats while
Shelley lounged into the chair at the head of the table. The other gentlemen
entered soon afterward, Hunt taking his seat at the foot of the table,
Sherbourne on his left, another gentleman at his right. Mrs. Hunt was the last
to sit down, in the place remaining across from Elisabeth. Elisabeth was
introduced to Mr. Hazlitt, whose frown appeared ingrained, and to Mr. Peacock,
whose countenance was more congenial.

“We do not stand on ceremony here,” Mrs. Hunt said to
Elisabeth. “Please begin. Help yourself to whatever takes your fancy.”

As the guests ate Hunt began talking, speaking to the table
in general. “I’ve been picking Sherbourne’s brain. He tells me the East India
Company’s expansions over so much land is too great. That the army cannot keep
control and hold sovereignty over such a vast area. I agree it is a situation
that cannot continue. One must fault the former governor, I believe.”

“But it was Richard Wellesley who left the foundations for
such an empire,” Sherbourne countered. “He was the indirect ruler clear up to
the Punjab by the time I went out in ‘05.”

“Ah yes,” Hunt agreed. “Let us not forget where Arthur
Wellesley had his start. The three Wellesley brothers of India—Henry and Arthur
and Richard. A place where unbridled ambition might reach its zenith. Hazlitt?”
he queried, speaking to the gentleman Elisabeth had not recognized.

“It is true the Company has been ruler of India in all but
name,” Hazlitt responded, “but the government is now taking back control, or
endeavoring to do so. The East India Company was intended to be in trade, not
territory and rule.”

“It appears to me that those duties were thrust upon the
Company,” Mr. Peacock commented.

Elisabeth’s attention wandered from the discussion as she
watched the other guests at the table. Mr. Keats applied himself to his plate
with the focus of a born trencherman, Mrs. Hunt passed food from one end of the
table to the other so that everyone had an opportunity to take some of each
dish, Mary Shelley’s wide eyes seemed to take in everything that passed as she
dined on bread and fruit and Shelley sat silent, staring at the ceiling in an
unfocused manner as he tore off pieces of dry bread and nibbled on them.

“But we are boring our brown wren, who has clearly become an
admirer of poetry,” Hunt said suddenly. “Are you also an admirer of Lord Byron?
Every young woman must be admirer of Byron, although Byron himself felt women
were not fit to eat at the same table.” Having tossed out a potentially
divisive topic, Hunt leaned back in chair to see what would happen.

“Byron created his own cult so that all the women would hear
of him,” Hazlitt commented dryly. “He knows well how to court fame and
fashion.”

“You are too hard upon him,” Mary Shelley protested.

“Fie, Mary, you must admit he is hard upon your sex.”

“He likes to say things that shock one and cause him to be
remembered.”

“How is he?” Mrs. Hunt asked. “I quite miss his presence
myself. Whatever Lord Byron thinks of women, one must admit few have written
such lines to celebrate the sex. ‘She walks in beauty like the night of
cloudless climes and starry skies, and all that is best of dark and light meet
in her aspect and in her eyes.’ I defy anyone to produce such fine lines about
a woman’s beauty.”

“Twaddle,” Hazlitt pronounced irritably.

“Byron is doing well and pleads for us to join him in
Italy,” Mary answered Mrs. Hunt’s inquiry, ignoring Hazlitt’s comment. “He
attempts to persuade us with promises of fine sailing weather.”

“He is a good sailor, our Foul Weather Jack, that I will
admit,” Hunt pronounced, reentering the discussion. “That is what we call him
because of his preference for sailing in a strong sea, Miss Ashwood. Have you
ever sailed?”

“No, I have not had the opportunity,” Elisabeth admitted.

“There is nothing like it in world,” Shelley said
unexpectedly, contributing to the conversation for first time, once again
fixing Elisabeth with his intense gaze. “You must sail someday, Miss Ashwood,
indeed you must. Preferably on a schooner where you may feel one with the sea.”

“Percy is quite mad about sailing,” Mary Shelley said to
Elisabeth. “Now that the topic has come up we shall hear nothing else for the
remainder of the meal.”

Mary’s prediction proved correct and the rest of Elisabeth’s
afternoon was spent listening to a discussion of sloops and schooners and the
finer points of sailing. Shelley’s descriptions of the look and the feel of the
sea caught Elisabeth’s imagination and she attended carefully to his words.

The party broke up about five o’clock when Mrs. Hunt’s
children rushed in to the dining room and began pulling on her skirts,
demanding their mother’s attention.

“The trials of motherhood,” Mrs. Hunt commented with a laugh
as she pulled a small child onto her comfortable-looking lap.

“When the children arrive I leave,” Hazlitt pronounced,
rising from the table and suiting his action to his words.

Giving Elisabeth a meaningful look, Sherbourne also rose and
Elisabeth followed suit as the viscount took leave of their host. Outside,
Sherbourne stopped to speak to Peacock while Elisabeth stood a short distance
away, waiting. Suddenly Mary Shelley ran out of the house and over to
Elisabeth.

“Miss Ashwood,” Mrs. Shelley said breathlessly as she came
up to Elisabeth. “I am so pleased to have made your acquaintance. I must see
you again. Promise me.”

“Of course, Mrs. Shelley,” Elisabeth agreed, taken aback by
Mary’s intensity. “I shall be delighted.”

“Mary, please,” Mrs. Shelley corrected. “Thank you. I shall
depend upon you.” With that, Mrs. Shelley ran back into the house, leaving
Elisabeth staring after her with a bemused expression until Lord Sherbourne
joined her a few moments later followed by Molly.

“Well, what did you think of your literary afternoon?”
Sherbourne asked Elisabeth as the carriage rolled out of the yard and the three
began their ride back to London.

“It was not quite what I expected, but I enjoyed it,”
Elisabeth replied honestly.

“You seem to have made a conquest of the Shelleys,”
Sherbourne observed.

“I liked them both very much, although I must confess I
found them rather odd,” Elisabeth admitted. “They appear to have very strong
feelings about everything. What is Mr. Shelley’s poetry like? I do not believe
I have ever read any of his poems. Have you?”

“Not that I recall, although it is possible we have both
read some without remembering, for I believe Hunt always prints the poems of
his favorites in
The Examiner
. I shall have to look for some of his
poems in the newspaper. I only met Percy Shelley myself when I returned from
India and went to see Hunt. Shelley is a half-score years younger than I, and I
did not know him before I left England.”

“I found his descriptions of sailing quite fascinating,”
Elisabeth confessed. “It must be an extraordinary sensation to be alone on the
vast sea in a small boat.

“You must have sailed in large ships, Lord Sherbourne,”
Elisabeth added. “What was it like?”