A Shadowed Fate

by Marty Ambrose

  I achieved fame but lost a part of myself.

  Quietly, I eased Allegra out of my embrace and limped hurriedly down the marble stairs, then out of the front door into the narrow, snow-covered street. The organ player was already almost at the end of Via Cavour, his bent figure pausing with a brief backward glance before he disappeared in the shower of snowflakes. For a few moments, I could still hear the waltz echoing down the street, and images of dancers swirled around me in a blur of silk dresses and elegant suits. Moving gracefully to the music’s lyrical flow. Laughing in the candlelight. Clapping as the waltz ended.

  Emotion welled up inside of me at everything that I had left behind in England. All that I was …

  Then one man stopped dancing and looked at me with haunted, dark eyes. He broke away from the dancers and slowly moved toward me with an unsteady gait. Gradually, the other figures faded away and I became aware that the lone man stumbling through the snow was real – a young soldier in uniform.

  ‘Buonanotte.’ I extended my hand, but he knocked it aside and fell against me, blood trickling from one side of his mouth in a reed-thin red line.

  In spite of my best efforts to hold him up, he fell on to the street with a groan of pain as he hit the hard stones beneath the layer of snow. Kneeling next to him, I saw a widening red stain on his jacket, and I realized he had been shot.

  Trembling, he murmured something under his breath that I could not decipher. He motioned me closer and, as I leaned in, I heard him hiss only one word:

  Assassino.

  THREE

  ‘The storms yet sleep, the clouds still keep their station …’

  The Prophecy of Dante, II, 40

  Florence, Italy

  July 1873

  Slowly, I removed my spectacles and leaned back against the headrest of my chair at the Palazzo Cruciato. In spite of the open windows in my parlor, the air had grown warm and stuffy in the afternoon heat. Languid and sticky. But I felt somewhat revived after reading the journal entry. It bore out Trelawny’s story: there had been danger all around Ravenna in 1821 with the shadows of revolution in every corner of the city – and Byron lay at the center of it with his Carbonari activities. The shooting of a soldier outside the Palazzo Guiccioli seemed a touchstone of the erupting violence of the time.

  Allegra had been in peril.

  I never thought I would accept the wisdom of placing our daughter in the convent at Bagnacavallo, but it may have been a prudent move after all.

  Closing my eyes briefly, I let that knowledge seep into my thoughts. After absorbing Byron’s recollections in his memoir, I could no longer doubt that he had tender feelings toward Allegra – and me. It did not even give me pause to read that Allegra called Teresa her mammina: I had known it at the time because Shelley had told me after he visited Byron in Ravenna. Back then, it had hurt me deeply to think my own daughter had replaced me with another woman in the role of mother, but I had shouldered that burden along with everything else when I gave her up.

  Byron’s words spoke to me across the stretch of time and had lessened some of the sting of my loss – he knew the depth of my sacrifice. A small thing perhaps, but not to a mother who never really had a sense of her lover as a father. I never asked for more from him, nor did he offer it.

  But at the center of his confessione lay the lonely exile who had joined the Carbonari to find some type of atonement. That aspiring heroic side of him was unknown to me. During the summer in Geneva in 1816, he was bitter and cynical, desperate to forget about his disgrace in England, without any real allegiance to anyone or anything. I had loved him, but he had no lasting love to give me. Something had died inside of him when he became an exile, but I did not fully understand it at the time.

  Like Trelawny, had I ever known Byron at all?

  Did anyone?

  He was an easy man to love, but an impossible one to know – and fame had made him wary. I recalled how spying, prying eyes followed his every move in Geneva, hoping to catch a glimpse of the great poet – and Shelley, Mary, and me. Tourists haunted us, gossiped incessantly, and descended even as low as to spread rumors that they had seen our undergarments hanging outside Byron’s villa. My current state of obscurity as an aging survivor gave me a veil of invisibility, which Byron never knew again until the day he died.

  In my mind’s eye, I could imagine Byron standing here, slim and handsome as he was when I knew him, with that ironic twist to his mouth as if to say, ‘See, Claire, I was not the villain that you took me for … I was simply a man.’ Tears misted my eyes. If I had known all of this, perhaps my later feelings toward him would have been so different: full of love and compassion, instead of anger and regret.

  If only …

  But I had a chance now to make things right. Everything had been put in motion when Michael Rossetti came to Florence just over two weeks ago to purchase my Byron/Shelley letters, when I found out that my daughter had not died in the convent, and when my priest, Father Gianni, had been killed at the Basilica di San Lorenzo by Matteo. I thought Father Gianni was my true friend, but Matteo had confessed a very different portrait of the priest who had seemed to me to be nothing but a sincere, holy man of the Church.

  Was it possible that I had been wrong about Father Gianni and he had been conspiring against me?

  Trying to absorb the possibility of his betrayal, I recollected every detail of my meeting with the priest after I asked him to inquire about Allegra’s fate. He said he had written to the present-day Abbess at the convent and was awaiting a response, but did I know that to be true? If it wasn’t true, why would he have lied to me? Such a deception would alter the sacredness of his vow as a priest and the promise he made to me as a friend.

  My fingers curled around Byron’s memoir, clutching it tightly in my lap. I was moving into uncharted territory where I had little to guide me but my own belief that on this journey I would find the answers I sought. The land of truth and newfound hope. So satisfying that the world could still offer such unexpected turns at this stage of my life.

  ‘Aunt Claire?’ Paula’s familiar voice interrupted my thoughts as she strolled into the room with Georgiana in hand. ‘Are you all right?’

  Turning to them with a smile of assent, I set my spectacles and the memoir on the tea table. ‘Byron’s reflections brought back old memories – some of them pleasant, some less so – but I feel more convinced that we can trust Trelawny.’

  She frowned. ‘I am not totally convinced. His story seemed rather contrived to me, but I will give him a chance, for your sake.’

  ‘And that is not a pardon, trust me.’

  ‘What of your visit with Matteo at Le Murate? Did he admit to knowing anything about the theft of your sketch?’

  ‘No.’ I patted my lap and Georgiana eagerly settled into her usual spot, immediately reaching up to play with my gold locket. ‘But he did say something rather disturbing about Father Gianni.’ I added the rest of the details from his insinuations against the priest, watching as Paula’s reaction turned from surprise into bewilderment.

  ‘Did you believe Matteo?’

  ‘I hardly know what to think … but why would a doomed man lie?’ I posed.

  Not responding at first, she slid on to the settee and arranged the folds of her blue muslin dress, smoothing down each section slowly and carefully. ‘I liked Father Gianni, but I had heard rumors around Florence about his past indiscretions. Of course, that may have been idle chatter, but he did not take the vows of the Church until later in life and much about his early life may have been hushed up. Who can say for certain? But the thought of being misled by people whom we trusted makes me think that we should question everyone’s motives.’

  ‘We must not become jaded, Paula – if only for Georgiana’s sake. She needs to believe in a world where the light of optimism shines forth. And it will, even if it takes time and effort.’ Still, I could not blame Paula for feeling uncertainty at this point. Every person in our lives had hidden some secret fr
om us – except Raphael. ‘Aside from Father Gianni’s behavior, the theft of the Cades sketch was a cruel act, but I have every hope that it will be recovered – truly, I do. We can never give up, my dear.’ I leaned my cheek against Georgiana’s head.

  Paula’s eyes softened as she watched the two of us. ‘No, we cannot.’

  We sat in silence for a few minutes. No matter what occurred yesterday or today, the future still held many possibilities … life’s shifting kaleidoscope of fate. ‘Maybe I should consider visiting Le Murate again this evening—’

  ‘No!’ She began to rise in protest, but I motioned her down.

  ‘But Matteo may have been holding back information because of Trelawny’s presence. His last words were for me alone, and I believe he would have shared more if he had not been interrupted by Lieutenant Baldini before he had a chance to finish,’ I explained. ‘If I returned on my own, perhaps he would relate the rest of what he knows, and we might have a chance of retrieving the sketch or at least knowing where to begin to find it. It is perhaps worth a try …’

  ‘I do not agree,’ she said in a firm tone. ‘Raphael said that place is awful.’

  Raising my head, I picked over my words carefully as I remembered the prison’s damp walls and acrid odor. ‘It is not pleasant by any means, but Matteo may know the identity of our thief, and we need that Cades sketch – it could make all the difference between living in genteel poverty and enjoying some degree of well-being.’

  ‘Even if I agreed, Trelawny and Raphael would never allow it.’

  I bristled. ‘May I remind you that I do not need a man’s permission to do anything? My actions are my own business.’

  That comment elicited a tiny smile from Paula. ‘You will never change, will you, Aunt Claire?’

  ‘Not in that regard.’

  ‘Sei arribbiata?’ Georgiana asked me, her small face puckered in concern.

  Hugging her tightly, I responded in English, ‘No, I am not angry, my sweet one. Just teasing your mama because she had a mistaken notion about me. But I have corrected her in this matter.’

  ‘Bene, bene.’ Georgiana snuggled into my arms, contented once more.

  ‘Leave Trelawny to me,’ I added. ‘After all these years, I know how to handle him—’

  ‘Oh, you do?’ he said, striding into the room with the kind of energy that seemed to fill up our little sitting room. ‘And what scheme, may I ask, are you hatching that you need to “handle” me? I thought I heard you mention Le Murate. Do not propose returning to the prison, because that is not an option – there is nothing more for you to learn there.’

  ‘I beg to disagree.’

  Raphael appeared behind him, carrying a tray with my china teapot and remaining cups. ‘I thought you might like some refreshment.’

  ‘Oh, perfect – thank you for being so thoughtful.’ Paula beamed, watching him set the tray on the tea table. He then seated himself next to her and murmured something in Italian for her ears only, the murmurings of hidden, shared moments between lovers. She blushed, then recovered quickly. ‘May I pour, Aunt?’

  ‘Please.’ I turned to Trelawny as Georgiana slid off my lap to join her mother on the settee. ‘And if I want to return and continue my conversation with Matteo, I will certainly do so. I appreciate your assistance, Edward, but I have spent most of my life making my own decisions and do not intend to change at this late stage.’ I smiled politely.

  ‘You are as obstinate as ever,’ he muttered.

  I pretended not to hear as Paula handed me a cup of the dark, strong tea. Taking a sip, I savored the earthy, slightly bitter brew for a few moments before I continued, ‘Perhaps if I met with Matteo alone, he might be more forthcoming.’

  ‘I doubt it—’

  ‘That remains to be seen.’ My fingers tightened around the thin, delicate teacup.

  ‘No, Signora Claire, I do not think Matteo will be able to speak with you again – ever,’ Raphael chimed in, his dark eyes clouding with some unspoken emotion. ‘There will no more opportunities to visit him in Le Murate.’

  ‘Again, I will be the judge of that—’

  ‘Matteo is dead,’ Trelawny stated flatly. ‘He apparently died by his own hand en route to Rome.’

  My breath caught in my throat. ‘It cannot be true.’

  ‘He took some kind of poison, which caused almost instant death.’ Trelawny slowly moved toward the fireplace and stared down at the bare hearth.

  ‘How horrible – and a mortal sin.’ I set my cup in the saucer, noting a tremor in my hand. After all that Matteo had done, I knew he deserved scant compassion, but I could not help but feel some stirrings of pity for him. Such a sad end.

  ‘Indeed.’ Trelawny continued to stare into the emptiness. ‘Perhaps he shall see Dante’s lines written above the Gates of Hell: “Eternal, and eternal I endure. All hope abandon, ye who enter here.”’

  Alarm flitted across Paula’s face as she took in the import of his words. Quickly, she rose and grasped her daughter’s hand with a firm grip. ‘I think it is time that Georgiana took a nap—’

  ‘But I want my tea, Mama,’ she protested, tugging on Paula’s dress.

  ‘Once you are settled, I shall bring you a cup. Come along.’

  Reluctantly, Georgiana allowed Paula to draw her out of the room, though I heard her pose a question to her mama in Italian: ‘Cosa c’è che non va?’

  Paula assured Georgiana that nothing was wrong.

  Once they had exited, Trelawny turned to me. ‘I apologize for blurting out such harsh sentiments in front of the little one … I am not used to being around children since my own brood has long been grown – and my daughter, Laetitia, who lives with me, has no children of her own.’

  ‘Apology accepted,’ I said, somewhat distracted at the image of Trelawny as a father. I knew all about his many wives and multitude of offspring, since our correspondence had never ceased over the years, but, like me, he never quite became domesticated and none of the relationships had lasted. He had drifted through life alone most of the time, wandering the globe from one adventure to another – always restless, always seeking a new horizon. Needless to say, that did not make for domestic bliss for any woman.

  ‘Perhaps I was somewhat at fault myself,’ I conceded as I stared down at my teacup. ‘All I can say is my desire to get to the truth of Matteo’s actions has made me … impatient.’

  ‘Apology accepted, as well.’

  Harmony restored, he strolled over and seated himself in the other wingback chair next to mine. I poured him a cup of tea and, as I handed it to him, we exchanged the lenient glances of old friends … a familiar compatibility of shared experiences. ‘How did you hear about Matteo’s death?’

  ‘Lieutenant Baldini caught Raphael and me on the Ponte Vecchio.’ Trelawny’s hand dwarfed the cup as he attempted to sip the liquid by threading his index finger through the handle. ‘When he gave us the news, he seemed angry that his prisoner had been allowed an opportunity to commit suicide as he was being transported to a larger prison in Rome.’

  A tiny shudder passed through me, as if I could hear Matteo laughing at having outwitted his jailors. ‘It seems so odd considering the penitence Matteo showed during our meeting at Le Murate. Why add to his sins by committing suicide? It does not make sense.’

  ‘I agree.’ Trelawny gave up on his maneuvers with the teacup and simply drained it in one long, deep swallow. ‘But we will never know for certain since he cannot answer our questions from his new home … in hell.’

  Raphael crossed himself and murmured a short prayer for mercy in Italian under his breath.

  Trelawny did not join him. ‘I will grant that Matteo applied swift justice to his own crimes, although, when all is said and done, a guilty man has few choices in the end. He knew he would probably be executed for killing the priest and just moved up the date by becoming his own executioner.’

  ‘But that verdict was for a judge and jury to decide – not Matteo. Perhaps God will sho
w him some grace.’ At that point, we fell silent, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Sadly, the one man who might know what forces conspired against me was now dead, and I was back where I had begun when Mr Rossetti first came to Florence – penurious and with nowhere to turn. ‘It feels like the final curtain is about to fall on our Florentine drama.’

  ‘Finito?’ Raphael echoed my sentiments.

  ‘Maybe not.’ Trelawny was stroking his gray beard meditatively. ‘Why are we thinking so negatively?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I watched as his eyes began to kindle with focused intent, which always meant trouble. ‘Father Gianni is dead. Matteo is dead. And all we have is Byron’s Ravenna confessione and your memories of a few conversations with him during his last days in Missolonghi. It does not seem like much to go on.’

  ‘A lost cause?’ He rose to his feet, pacing quickly back and forth in front of the window like the fluttering of an eagle ready for flight. ‘In my experience, a cause is only “lost” in the absence of hope. Who would have thought that Greece would throw off the yoke of Turkish oppression? At the time, it seemed unlikely, but Byron persuaded all of us that it was possible – even in the face of overwhelming odds.’

  ‘Or that Italia would unify in the Risorgimento?’ Raphael added quickly. ‘Few believed it would happen.’

  In spite of my melancholy reflections over Matteo’s death, I felt a quickening of my heart as I translated silently the word Risorgimento: Rising Again.

  ‘Lieutenant Baldini will continue the investigation to find the Cades sketch, but why can we not pursue our own inquiries about Allegra?’ Trelawny halted his pacing in front of me. ‘I propose we travel to Ravenna and visit the convent at Bagnacavallo – that is where it all happened. Surely, there are some records that still exist from those days. At the very least, we can talk with the present-day Abbess about Father Gianni. To my mind, it is the only way that you will know for certain about Allegra’s fate …’