“Claire, what are you saying?”
“Nothing but the truth, I declare! Your mother went chasing after a famous philosopher, to make her name even greater. You have captured the greatest radical philosopher of the day, Percy Shelley. Yet when I lie down with a mere poet, you scorn me!”
Mary gasped. “No, you misunderstand! He does not love you, Claire! I only wish you happy—”
“You wish me at the devil, don’t deny it! You are merely jealous, because my lover is more famous than yours. And some day, our child will be more famous than yours! You and Shelley have your William, Byron and I will have our son, and we shall see who is the more influential.”
Aghast, Mary said, “I hardly know where to begin to disabuse you, Claire! You know that has never been our intent. You know jealousy plays no part in our—”
“Fiddle!” Claire said. “You see only what you want to see.”
Mary bit back the reply, that in fact it was Claire who blinded herself to reality. In the end she only said, “But Lord Byron does not love you, Claire! I am persuaded of it! He will not support you, or the child. What will you do?”
“You are wrong,” Claire said smugly. “Do not forget, he traveled all the way from England to be with me.”
Mary balled her fists in her lap, willing herself not to give way to temper. “This trip to Geneva was your idea, Sister. At your insistence, we came to Lake Leman. It strikes me that rather, you have traveled all the way from England to be with him.”
Chapter II - Outcasts
But where were my friends and relations? No father had watched my infant days, no mother had blessed me with smiles and caresses; or if they had, all my past life was now a blot, a blind vacancy in which I distinguished nothing.
—Frankenstein, Volume II, Chapter IV
Mary didn’t particularly like this room of the Maison Chapuis, but it would have to do. Facing north, it endured every draught of cold air this unseasonable weather offered. But it also caught the afternoon sun—when there was sun—which warmed the clammy room somewhat. Mary and Claire had done what they could with it. The sky blue love seat and matching chairs had been cleaned, the sideboard polished, and the curtains beaten free of as much dust as possible. But the homely look of the worn parquet, the black marks along the wainscoting from mildew stains, and the general air of shabbiness always embarrassed her. Still, it was really the only room in which they could decently receive visitors, so she made it her afternoon retreat. She sat now on this particular rainy afternoon with her embroidery in her lap, watching the water run down the panes of glass. The pallid light sloping in through the windows looked weak and ineffectual, distorted as if in a dream.
A door slamming, the sound of boots on the wooden stairs, and then Shelley calling her name. Mary turned eagerly to the door just as it burst open, and her tall, wild-haired lover strode into the room. At five feet eleven, he was above average height, slender and strong. His light brown hair fell in waves across his pale complexion, highlighting his large, vivid blue eyes. His muddy boots tracked dirt across the floor, his breeches dripped with lake water, and his waistcoat was buttoned awry, but his face shone with happiness and animation. Reaching for her hands, he exclaimed, “I missed you!” He caught her hands and kissed them, one after the other.
Behind him, Lord Byron limped into the room, a scowl on his handsome face, his dark curls falling over his forehead. At five foot eight inches, he was shorter than Shelley, but his frame was more compact, even a trifle pudgy. His normally pale complexion flushed as he turned to his companion. “Damn those stairs! Polly, see if there’s any brandy in this house!” His greatcoat flared around him like a cape as he shrugged it off, looked around for someone to hand it to and, finding no servant waiting to take it, tossed it over the arm of a chair.
Last into the room was John Polidori, a young, darkly handsome man of neat appearance and large, speaking eyes. Also shorter than Shelley, he was tall enough that his close-fitted pantaloons showed off a fine leg. Altogether, Mary thought, he was a fine, dark-eyed man. Right now those eyes flashed at his patron. “I am not the butler, my lord,” he said peevishly. “Indeed, I am not perfectly sure whether Mr. Shelley employs one.” His cravat had lost its starch, and was drooping woefully under his dark coat.
“Oh, pay Byron no mind,” Shelley said. He cast himself onto the love-seat and stretched his legs out before him. “Mary, can you get us some brandy? Or tea?”
Before she could answer, Claire bounced into the room from the opposite doorway, her hands full of lace. “Oh, Mary, look! These would—oh, hello!” Her manner was as artificial as it was bright.
Byron flinched slightly, turned away, and began re-arranging some bibelots on the mantle. “Never mind the brandy,” he muttered. “Perhaps some mulled hemlock?”
Polidori reached into his coat pocket and drew forth some letters. “When we called for the post, we brought away a copy of Mr. Leigh Hunt’s Examiner,” he said. “He has reviewed Coleridge’s Christabel.”
Claire stretched forth a hand. “Oh, let me see! Let me see!”
Polidori bowed slightly as he handed it over. “You are an admirer of Mr. Coleridge’s?”
“She’s an admirer of anything that gives her a good scare,” said Byron. “It gets her juices flowing nicely. Read her ten lines of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner and she’ll swive for hours.”
Polidori frowned. “Oh, come now—”
Claire waved a hand. “Oh, I pay no attention to you when you are in this teasing mood, my lord,” she said, scanning the paper. “You would insult your own mamma when you are out of sorts.” Byron looked startled but said nothing.
Polidori handed the remainder of the mail to Mary. She shuffled quickly through it, pausing at one letter with hope in her eyes. But it was a letter from Fanny, her half-sister. She felt a moment of something like panic, and then straightened. She kept Fanny’s letter and handed the rest back to the doctor.
“I am afraid I saw nothing from your father,” he said quietly. His sympathetic smile animated his face. “I know you are looking for a letter from him.”
“Perhaps tomorrow,” she said, masking her disappointment. She reached for the bell. “Will you have tea?”
“Ah, tea,” breathed Shelley, his head thrown back on the love seat. “Where small talk dies in agonies.”
“Quite,” said Byron. “So let us have large talk. Polly, you told a good story the other night, about some doctor you’d been chatting with. Let’s hear it again.”
Polidori looked puzzled, then flushed. “Oh, no, really, I don’t think so. Not quite the thing with ladies present.”
“On the contrary,” Byron said. “Exactly the thing when these particular ladies are present, and we need not pretend to be cotton-mouthed. Ah, here we are!” He smiled as the maid entered, bearing a tea tray. She put it down on the low table, ducked a curtsy at his lordship and her mistress, and shuffled out. Byron’s speculative gaze lingered on her.
Mary picked up the teapot and poured a cup for Shelley. She passed it to him, saying to Byron, “Don’t make poor Polly blush on our behalf, my lord.”
Shelley took the cup and saucer from her and leaned back again, his long legs in front of him. “Oh, by all means, do,” he said, his eyes mischievous over the rim of the cup. “I haven’t blushed in at least a week. I am overdue.”
Byron took his cup from Mary and stood frowning down at the tray. “No sugar again?”
Claire sidled up next to him. “Oh, my dear, you know we don’t use sugar, for political reasons.”
“Political reasons? The worst reason in the world,” his lordship said. “Sugar don’t vote!”
“No, but it’s produced on slave plantations,” said Mary calmly. “Therefore we abjure it. May I offer you some honey?”
“And the honey bee is clinging / To the buds; and birds are winging / Their way, pair by pair—yes, I’ll take some. Damn, but this is inconvenient.”
“At least we are spared
the nuisance of having to take it up with the fingers,” said Polidori. “I had to do so at Madame Einard’s a couple of weeks ago. Nasty mess it made.” No one responded to him, and he looked down into his teacup.
“It is surely absurd even for you, Shelley, to allow the contents of your larder to be dictated by events half a world away,” Byron said testily. “This is taking things to an extreme.”
Shelley smiled. “My dear Byron, if one is to hold a principle, one must hold it all the way. Where would you have me halt my opposition to slavery? Where should I draw a line?”
“At his lordship’s inconvenience?” murmured Polidori. Catching Mary’s look, he flushed and looked away.
“Of course, if at any time your lordship is desirous of sponsoring a bill in Parliament, banning the importation of slave sugar …” Shelley’s eyes twinkled at his friend.
Byron bowed over the cup. “No, thank you, unless I am allowed to do it by post. I would prefer never to set foot in England again.”
Claire touched his arm. “Oh, but how will you ever see your dear little girl again? Do you mean to abandon her?”
This produced a strained silence. Everyone looked everywhere except at Byron’s face, which first flushed and then paled. Abruptly, Byron turned his head away from Claire and looked at Polidori, who was effacing himself against a wall. “Come, Polly. You have a story for us?”
“Yes, Doctor, let us have something amusing. And naughty!” Claire folded the newspaper and placed it on the table. Shelley immediately picked it up, opened a page, and sank into intense study.
Mary stirred her tea, looking from Claire’s smiling face to Byron’s frowning one. She wondered when Claire would tell him about the baby. She did not think Byron would welcome the news.
Byron sipped tea and made a face. “Well, Doctor?”
Polidori shifted his feet, glanced out the window, and then looked into his teacup again. He cleared his throat. “It was more in the nature of a medical discussion,” he said diffidently. “I cannot conceive that it would be of any interest whatever—”
“Polly talked to some local sawbones about priapism,” Byron cut in, a sardonic grin on his face. “His proposed ‘cure’ for it was something like ‘more of the same’. Doctrine of signatures, I imagine, or at least of amanuensis.” His laugh held a bitter edge.
Polidori looked up, surprised. “More of the same? Not at all, at least—”
“But what is this ‘prepism’?” Claire asked.
“An uncontrollable erection,” Byron said. “A perpetual salute. A morning glory in eternal bloom. A manly swelling that will not subside. In short, an alarm cock.” Delighted with his own humor, he glanced meaningfully at Mary.
Mary raised one eyebrow but said nothing. She had long since concluded that the only way to quell his lordship’s freakish sense of humor was to ignore it.
Claire giggled. “Oh, that does sound … interesting. Do tell us, Doctor! What cure did your medical friend prescribe?”
“Yes, come, Polidori. In round, solid medical terms, tell us your friend’s remedy,” Byron said.
Polidori placed his teacup carefully on a sideboard, not looking at anyone. “He suggested the, ah, exertion of rhythmic manual pressure on the organ until tumescence subsided.”
Byron laughed out loud, rocking back on his heel. “Rhythmic manual pressure! Oh, famous! And who, exactly, is to provide this hand-gallop? Shall I someday be obliged to pay a doctor to deflate my favorite weapon? Or shall I have Claire here trained in the art? Perhaps you could oblige with a lesson, dear Polly-Dolly?”
“You are offensive, sir!” said Polidori, his face first white, then red. “That is an outrageous—”
Claire laughed him to silence. “Oh, he is a rogue, and a damned rogue, is he not?” She jumped up and put her hand on Lord Byron’s sleeve. “Come, my lord, let us be more sedate, or Polly will go off in a fit!”
“I doubt that Polly can ‘go off’ save in the presence of some light-skirt,” sneered Byron. “He spends most of his time in the back streets when we go to Geneva.” Claire giggled and he laughed with her, pleased.
Polidori stood rigid. “I protest! You know I am hunting through the bookshops!”
“Yes, but only through the naughty ones,” said Byron. He turned to Claire. “He is obsessed with finding out just how vulgar and offensive the books of Europe can be. He will not rest until he has plumbed the very depths of their depravity. Why, only the other day, he dropped a book of erotic pictures on the head of an inoffensive shop girl.”
“That was an accident!”
“No doubt you were distracted by the fullness of her bosom,” drawled Byron. “Or were you contemplating a close examination, doctor?”
Polidori opened his mouth to retort, but catching the dangerous gleam in his employer’s eye, closed it again. He turned his attention to a minute examination of an imaginary speck on his sleeve.
Byron turned to Mary. “How now, my Mary? Are you not shocked? Or were your Pantisocratic principles engaged at all?”
“Not my principles,” she said coolly. “But perhaps my aesthetics. I find your laughter in rather poor taste.”
The smile died on Byron’s lips and his back stiffened. “Alas, I had thought you were beyond such common hypocrisy. Or am I to suppose that, having abandoned convention, you now espouse chivalry?”
“What has taste to do with either?” she said.
Polidori coughed, not meeting his employer’s eyes. “Perhaps Mrs. Shelley finds it in poor taste to laugh at the deformities of others.”
Byron’s face hardened and his eyes narrowed to a squint. “Indeed,” he snapped.
Claire stamped her foot. “Stop this! You’re baiting him, Polly! And only because you have no sense of humor!” She turned to Byron, tugging at his arm. “Come, let us go play chess. Leave him to his spite!” She stomped out of the room; Byron, his eyes ablaze, bowed stiffly to Mary and hobbled after Claire, his limp more pronounced than ever.
Polidori immediately came to sit down in the chair facing Mary. “My profound apologies, Mrs. Shelley,” he said. “I never know how to turn off his lordship’s freaks without making them worse. I thought it were better to accede to his request, knowing that your mind is too strong to take greater offense than there was in the story itself.”
Mary nodded, amused. “Well done, Polly. You apologize very nicely.”
Polidori grinned, a dimple appearing in each cheek. “Thank you, ma’am. The company of his lordship affords me many opportunities for practice.”
“Your dimples are quite nice,” Mary said, making an effort to be friendly. She rather pitied Polidori, who often reminded her of her awkward younger brother. “They make you look rather cherubic. You should cultivate them. Do the ladies at M. Odier’s appreciate them?”
Polidori blinked. “Ah. They do not have much opportunity to see them.”
“Oh, for shame, doctor. You should smile more. Do you dance the waltz at M. Odier’s? Do you like it?”
“I like it, Mrs. Shelley, but I am a trifle … constrained in that company. I never know what to expect. Everyone is so informal. And yet more formal.”
Mary poured herself more tea, offered the pot to Polidori, and was declined. “Every land seems to have its own peculiar manners. Here, we live so quietly, I have no knowledge of, of fine society.” She sipped, and said more darkly. “Indeed, I have no knowledge of any society.” She looked up at him frankly, and met his open gaze. “You know how we are pariahs wherever we go. At least, wherever there are Englishmen abroad.”
Polidori nodded. “I … I have been privy to some talk. People do not always know that I am associated with you. And of course,” he said bitterly, “everyone wants to talk of Byron, Byron, Byron. I have written a play. I am a published writer. Yet I am nothing, not even a name to them. I am a star in the halo of the moon.”
Mary looked pensively at the door through which her sister and her lover had disappeared. “Why is he so anxious to rein
force every prejudice the world has against him?”
Polidori shrugged. “He is a pariah, and he is proud. How else would he behave? Can you imagine him groveling for the good opinion of the world?”
Mary smiled. “I would never grovel for his, nor wish him to grovel for mine.”
Polidori smiled. “And that is precisely, ma’am, why he cares for your good opinion of him, and why he so fears your censure that he anticipates it. It lets him feel as if he is in control of his reputation.”
“Even if it is an evil one,” she sighed.
“Very true,” Polidori said. He reached for a sandwich. “Are these cucumber? How did you get them? Our cook swears they are not to be had.”
Shelley threw down the paper and yawned. “Is there any toast? Where is Byron? What have you been talking about?”
Mary handed him a plate with two pieces of buttered toast. “We are discussing Albé’s good opinion of me.”
“He should have a good opinion of you.” Shelley bit into the toast, scattering crumbs across his waistcoat. “I do, and I am not a fool.”
“Has he really heard nothing of our conversation?” wondered Polidori, nodding towards Shelley.
“Oh, when Shelley is absorbed in something, you could fire cannons over his head and he would not pay you the smallest heed,” said Mary. She picked up another piece of toast and began to butter it.
Shelley munched happily, sticking his hands in his pockets and sliding down to sit on his spine. “Very true. Once, in order to test my concentration, Mary stripped herself bare and—”
“Shelley!” Half-laughing, half-serious, Mary thrust the toast at her beloved. He opened his mouth like a child being fed, and bit off a piece. “I declare, you’re as shameless as Byron,” she said. “Without, of course, half his wit.”
Shelley waggled his eyebrows at her, making her laugh, and Polidori smiled. “You two are well suited,” he said, a little wistfully.
“Thank you,” Mary said. “What news in the paper, my love?”
Outcasts Page 2
