Chasing the Green Fairy: The Airship Racing Chronicles

by Melanie Karsak

  I considered her question. “Do you like horses?” I asked.

  “Horses? Very much.”

  “Some horses are easy to ride. They take the saddle with no complaint and go gently for the rider. Some horses pull carriages and don’t mind hard work. Other horses are wild. They run across the open fields with the wind in their manes and won’t be captured. Your father is like one of those wild horses. He cannot live under a yoke. And when someone tries to tame him, he yearns to be free. But that doesn’t make him wicked.” I thought of the truly wicked men I’d known in my life. No, Byron was not wicked.

  Ada sniffed, wiped her nose with her sleeve, and looked at me as she thought over my words. “Did you really leap from that airship in Paris?” she asked. “I saw the engraving in the newspaper. My mother called you Byron’s fallen angel.”

  I laughed. “Yes, I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if I had not jumped, someone I care for would have died.”

  “Weren’t you afraid?”

  “I didn’t have time to be afraid.”

  “You just jumped . . . without thinking it over?”

  “Sometimes the right thing to do is obvious.”

  Ada leaned her head against my chest. I put my arm around her and kissed the top of her head. After a moment, she pulled back and smiled at me. “Do you know what I heard?” she asked, placing her small hand on my chest above my heart.

  I shook my head.

  “A pegasus.”

  Giovanni opened the door. “He’s ready for you,” he said then added in a whisper, “I didn’t tell him.”

  I took Ada’s hand, squeezed it, then entered the darkened room.

  The chamber had the stale smell of a sickroom. Medicines, sweat, incense, and other heavy smells choked the place. The curtains were drawn, the windows were closed. Inside, it was too warm and very still.

  “Lily?” I heard Byron call weakly from the bed.

  I could just make out his silhouette. He was sitting propped up by pillows, but his chin was on his chest, his head hanging.

  “I’m here,” I replied.

  “Thank god,” he more breathed than said. “Please come close.”

  “George . . . I . . . George, I’ve Ada here with me.”

  He was silent for a moment. “You brought Ada?”

  “Yes.”

  “Annabella permitted it?” he asked weakly.

  “No. I sneaked her in.”

  Byron laughed which caused him to cough heavily. “Come, my girls,” he said finally.

  I looked down at Ada who smiled up at me.

  We crossed the room to Byron’s beside. There, the once glorious man lay dying ingloriously. He was sickly pale, his skin tinted yellow around the eyes and lips. His face was swollen, his hair wet with sweat. A pungent, rotting smell effervesced from him. The sheen of fever made his eyes glimmer with sick madness while a strange shadow danced around the corners of his eyes. I had seen that shadow only once before; Mr. Fletcher’s eyes had held that same shade as he’d lain dying on the street. I suppressed a shudder.

  I helped Ada sit on the side of Byron’s bed.

  “I haven’t seen you since you were a baby,” Byron told Ada, reaching out to touch her cheek. “Do you remember me?” he asked her.

  Ada did not answer right away. “No,” she replied.

  I realized that Ada had considered lying but had rejected the polite and political answer.

  “I suppose your mother has taught you to fear me,” Byron said with a sigh as he took his daughter’s hand.

  Ada lifted his hand and kissed it. “You are my father.”

  I smiled at the girl. No matter what Annabella had done to raise the child to hate him, the girl was Bryon’s daughter through and through.

  “I’ve read your poetry,” Ada added. “I could never really believe that a bad man could create such beauty.”

  “My words are nothing compared to the daughter I created,” Byron replied.

  I choked back a sob. I dared not look at either of them.

  The door to the bedchamber opened. “Pardon me, my Lord. Lady Byron has demanded that Ada return at once or that she be permitted to enter,” Giovanni said.

  With the door open, I could hear Lady Byron screaming at me. Having lost all sense of decorum in her fit of rage, Annabella was cursing me with words I was surprised she’d even heard before.

  “Please, kiss your father once,” Byron said to Ada, “before you go.”

  The child, who was now weeping, did as her father asked.

  “Always remember that I loved you,” I heard him whisper to her.

  “I love you too,” Ada said miserably then pulled away.

  She crossed the room to Giovanni who waited for her with his arm outstretched. She looked back at her father once more before Giovanni closed the door behind them.

  “SHALL I OPEN THE CURTAINS? The sun is up,” I said and went to the window.

  He did not reply.

  I pushed the curtains open. Weak sunlight shone in. The windows had a fabulous view over the gray waters of the lagoon. I cranked the window open a crack, hoping to let out the rancid smell. I took a deep breath and turned back. Byron sat with his head hanging low on his chest. His eyes were closed. Sitting gently, I took a spot on the bed beside him.

  After a moment, he looked up at me. His eyes searched every shape and angle of my face. Without another word, he pulled me toward him and kissed me with urgent and frenzied passion. I was startled at first, and the woman I wanted to be, Sal’s lover and companion, momentarily resisted. Byron frantically pulled me toward him, but he was weak. I felt his arms lose their strength. I gave in. I wrapped my arms around his thin, sickly frame. I let myself fall into him. All the love I had ever felt for him, denied feeling for him, and wanted to give to the man who could not be tamed rolled out of me like a storm cloud. Despite having let him go, I still felt intense passion for Byron. After several minutes, he fell back against the pillows in exhaustion.

  “Oh my dear,” I whispered, taking his hand in mine, stroking his cheek with the other. “How did this happen to you?”

  “I was sick in the winter. The doctors insisted I should be bled. I never regained my strength,” he said, his eyes closed. “Lily, water, please?”

  I poured him a glass from the pitcher on the nightstand but didn’t like the color of the liquid. I smelled it. It was stale. “Not this. You’ll have fresh water,” I said and rose.

  I found Giovanni waiting in the antechamber. He rose when I opened the door. “Lily?”

  “Bring a fresh pitcher of water. Can you search the kitchens for fresh mint? Wash it yourself and put it in the pitcher . . . and bring a fresh glass.”

  Giovanni nodded. “Of course.”

  I went back and sat once more beside Byron. I smiled softly at him.

  “How did you know I wouldn’t be angry with you for bringing Ada?” he asked.

  “I didn’t.”

  Byron kissed my hand. “There is no one in this world like you,” he whispered then reached out and stroked my hair, his finger twisting around a ringlet in my locks.

  I began to weep.

  “Not yet,” he said in a soft voice. He touched my chin, lifting my face toward him. I inhaled deeply, tried to catch my breath, and looked at him. His eyes were glued to my face.

  “What are your doctors saying? Dr. Thomas?” I asked.

  Byron started to cough. The deep coughs rattled through his chest. His whole body shook. I found a handkerchief on his side table; I handed it to him. He coughed hard into it. When he handed it back to me, I saw there was blood on the fabric. I became angry. Was this the best care they could give him? Why wasn’t anyone doing anything?

  “Dr. Thomas is not here yet. I called for him yesterday. I’ve two physicians in attendance: one wants to bleed me, the other thinks I need ammonia. I won’t let them bleed me again.”

  Giovanni opened the door quietly, left the pitcher, then exited agai
n.

  I retrieved the minted water, which now smelled fresh, and poured Byron a glass. “Drink,” I said. I guided Byron’s hand to the glass and helped him lift it. He took just a few sips.

  “My love . . . my passion,” he whispered as I took the glass from him. He leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes. He drifted back to sleep.

  I scanned the room. On a table nearby the doctors had vials of medicines, odd and torturous looking medical equipment, and heaps of bandages. The room felt like a tomb. While he slept, I looked over Byron’s bedclothes and blankets. They were stained with body fluids and soaked in sweat. Clearly, no one had cleaned him up in days.

  I again went to the antechamber. “Giovanni, who the hell are the physicians attending him?”

  “Dr. Bruno, he’s new, and Mr. Millingen who was traveling with the army.”

  “Where is Dr. Thomas? The Englishman.”

  “In Zante. Lord Byron sent a messenger for him yesterday.”

  I frowned but held on to the hope that Dr. Thomas, who I knew well and liked, would arrive soon. “I need more fresh water, milled soap, lemons, and fresh linens. We need to get the room and Byron cleaned up. It’s like a graveyard in there.”

  “Oh Lily, I wish he’d let us fetch you sooner.”

  “Why didn’t he? Why are they here,” I said, gesturing to the vultures outside, “but I’m the last to know?”

  “He didn’t want to interrupt your life. That was what he said.”

  I looked back at Byron, and in that moment, I hated everything about my life.

  WHILE BYRON SLEPT, I SCRUBBED every surface of the room with soap and lemon. While the air outside was still unmoving, it was fresher than the air in the room. I covered him to his neck and opened all the windows. At my direction, Giovanni also had managed to scrounge up some springs of fresh lavender and jasmine. I filled Byron’s room with vases of herbs. With Giovanni’s and the secretary’s help, we removed the soiled linens from Byron’s bed while he slept. I sent heaps of stained and sweat-soaked linens away to be burnt. Byron woke only once and was disoriented.

  “Mother?” he called weakly.

  “It’s all right, George,” I said. “We’re just putting on fresh linens.”

  “My foot is hurting again,” he said in a small, feeble voice.

  I moved toward his malformed foot, but the secretary reached out to stop me.

  “He would never permit it,” he whispered aghast.

  I shook his hand off and removed the stocking covering Byron’s foot. The clubbed foot, which often pained him, looked far more swollen than usual.

  “Heat a towel,” I whispered to Giovanni.

  The secretary frowned disapprovingly and left in a huff.

  Giovanni returned a few minutes later with a hot, damp towel.

  “I can take it from here,” I said.

  Giovanni nodded and went back into the antechamber.

  Gently, I applied the warm cloth to Byron’s foot.

  “It aches,” Byron groaned.

  “The heat will comfort it,” I told him.

  Byron seemed surprised to hear my voice. He opened his eyes wide. “Lily!” he said aghast and tried to pull his foot away.

  “Stop that. Let me finish,” I said, and gripping him firmly, I wrapped the heated towel around his foot.

  I saw a war rage behind his eyes. He wanted to be angry, but in the end, he softened. “It smells like lemons in here.”

  “I hope so. Everything in the room is clean now . . . besides you.”

  My normally prim poet still looked and smelled like a walking corpse. “Will you help me?” he asked quietly.

  “Of course.”

  I finished caring for Byron’s foot then went to his dresser to pull out a clean bedgown. On the top of his bureau, Byron had a small bottle of cologne. I opened it and inhaled deeply. The sweet scent of orange blossom and patchouli filled my senses. This was the Byron I knew. I prepared a basin with soapy water, sprinkled in some cologne, and set it beside his bed. I closed the windows and came to his bedside.

  “Okay, let’s get you out of this,” I said as I helped him sit up. He was so weak. I began to fear that redressing him might be too much for him. Gently, I pulled the clothes off him, keeping him covered all the while. Carefully, I took one limb at a time out from under the fresh blankets and washed what looked like a month’s worth of grime from his skin.

  “Do you remember New York? You bathed me then too . . . the morning after . . . of course, we were both in the tub,” he said with a naughty smile, a glimmer of his true self shining through.

  “Remember? What kind of woman forgets her first time?”

  “Not your kind.”

  Outside, a spring rain started to fall. Thunder rolled across the misty horizon. I stroked the wet towel across his chest. He had lost much of his muscle tone, his chest and stomach now soft. I washed him gently. Seeing him in such a state filled my heart with terror. I set the wet cloth aside, dried him, then gently redressed him in fresh clothes.

  “Angus . . . he wanted me to-” I began, but Byron put a finger to my lips.

  “Has the tinker married you yet?” he whispered.

  “No.”

  “He’ll ask,” Byron said as he gently stroked my hair. He then dropped his hand and closed his eyes. He became very still and silent.

  I put my hand on his forehead. His fever burned. “George?”

  “Lily . . .”

  “Drink some cool water,” I said, lifting the glass to his lips.

  Weakly, he took a sip. “I wanted to marry you,” he said, his voice sounding hollow, “but feared what I might do to you . . . to us. Despite all my rough ways, all my life I wanted to be a married man. I loved the vision of it, but my time with a ‘suitable match’ like Annabella taught me I was no good for anyone. Certainly, no good for someone I actually love.”

  “I liked us as we were.”

  “But in the end, it wasn’t enough, was it? I am awash with regrets . . . more than I can name . . . so many more than I can name,” he whispered tiredly then fell asleep, leaving me to weep in private.

  AN HOUR LATER, BRYON’S DOCTORS entered the room in the middle of a flustered argument. The elder of the two was speaking scornfully to the younger man. Giovanni and the secretary trailed miserably behind them.

  “What is this?” the elder, dressed in dark robes like an undertaker, demanded as he eyed the room over.

  “A clean and proper sick room,” I replied, standing.

  Byron still slept soundly.

  “Who are you?” the second, younger doctor asked me.

  “Who are you?” I replied.

  “Julius Millingen. I am the army surgeon.”

  After my run-in with Julius Grant, I decided it was not my week for dealing with men named Julius. “Lily Stargazer.”

  “Well, I’ll be!” Mr. Millingen replied, astounded.

  “Madame, I’m Dr. Bruno,” the elder doctor said. “We need to examine Lord Byron. Please step out.”

  “Dr. Bruno, begging your pardon, but unless you plan on putting a pistol to my head, I’m not going anywhere.”

  Dr. Bruno exhaled in exasperation. “I’ve no time for the romantic ideas of one of Lord Byron’s girls. Please remove this wo-” he was saying to Giovanni when I crossed the room and grabbed the good doctor by the throat, cutting him off mid-sentence.

  “Not another word,” I said. “I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m not moving an inch because as far as I can see, you must have learned medicine in a gutter,” I said then let him go.

  “Clearly, Madame,” Dr. Bruno said, rubbing his throat, “you are an expert on gutters.”

  “That’s enough, Francesco,” Byron roared from his bed in a rare moment of strength.

  “Lord Byron, do forgive me. Certainly, there is no problem if you wish her presence,” Dr. Bruno said, glaring at me. “We’ve come to check your condition.”

  Byron motioned for him to proceed.
r />   I stood with Giovanni and the secretary at the end of Byron’s bed and watched as they worked him over. They examined his mouth and eyes, listened to his breath, his heart, and prodded his body far more roughly than I was comfortable watching.

  “Is this the doctor who bled him?” I whispered to Giovanni.

  He nodded. “Yes, sour old apple.”

  “Are there no better doctors to be found?”

  “We are waiting for Dr. Thomas.”

  I frowned.

  “My Lord, I am still seeing signs of inflammation. You must consider bloodletting. I assure you, it will let the poison from your body and ease the inflammation. It will save your life,” Dr. Bruno said.

  Byron shook his head. “No. What say you, Mr. Millingen?”

  “My Lord, I believe the bloodletting can wait, but I do suggest we try ammonia to help the condition.”

  “Which is ridiculous,” Dr. Bruno replied. “The longer you hold off the bloodletting, the worse the condition will become.”

  Byron closed his eyes. “Dr. Bruno, I am beginning to think you want to grow famous by saving me through the bloodletting. The same treatment, proscribed again by you, nearly killed me this winter. I’ll not permit it . . . nor the ammonia for now. Giovanni, where is Dr. Thomas? I sent for him more than a week ago!”

  Raising an eyebrow, I looked at Giovanni.

  “En route, my Lord.”

  “I’m beginning to think he is delaying on purpose. And where is Lily? I have been calling for her! Hasn’t she come yet?”

  “I’m here, George.”

  He opened his eyes and looked at me. “Yes,” he said then, seeming to realize his confusion. “Yes, that’s right.” Byron then eyed over the doctors. He sighed. “Both of you, get out. Giovanni, go find a witch in the village. I’m better off with a toothless soothsayer than these learned doctors.”

  “My Lord,” Dr. Bruno said bitterly as he bowed then exited.

  “My Lord,” Mr. Millingen echoed, following behind Dr. Bruno.

  I grabbed Giovanni as he headed toward the door. “We need to fetch the nearest local doctors, as many minds as can be gathered today. Send Edward and tell him it’s urgent. These men know nothing. We need other learned opinions and quickly.”