Outcasts

by Sarah Stegall

  Polidori sprang forward to pull it out for her. “Allow me, Miss Clairmont.”

  “Thank you.” Looking troubled, Claire sat and Polidori adjusted her chair. He then took the one next to her, sending a fulminating look at his employer.

  Byron, so far from noticing, was staring at Shelley. “You have brought a book to my table, sir?”

  Shelley glanced down. “Yes. I found this copy of Coleridge above your fireplace. Christabel; Kubla Khan: A Vision; The Pains of Sleep. Leigh Hunt has given it a good review, you know.”

  “Ah, yes,” Byron said lightly. “Murray, the publisher, sent it to me in the post recently. It is only out since May. Most intriguing.”

  “We must have a reading after dinner,” Mary said politely. She wished Shelley would put the book down, but he paid no attention to the company, his nose buried in the pages.

  Byron signaled to the servants to begin serving. Mary smiled at him. “We are indebted once again to your lordship. I have no notion where I am to replace my cook.”

  “I do not envy you the task,” Byron said. His smile was as dazzling as sunlight. “A cook who can accommodate so varied a menu will be a rare find, indeed. Fletcher, do make sure that the good doctor has his fair share of the entree.” This last remark was in the nature of an irony, as Polidori was known to hold vegetables in distaste.

  Fletcher served Byron, but a single footman served the rest of the diners. The fare was as unusual as the seating arrangements: no mutton, no turbot, no poultry dishes. Rather, in respect of his guests’ principles, his lordship had decreed a vegetable repast. The soup was followed by asparagus and peas rather than a meat dish, and that was succeeded by mounds of boiled potatoes, along with a dish of beets prepared with mustard.

  “I do hope that this conforms to your politics,” Byron said, leaning towards Mary. “I believe I have covered your avoidance of meat, sugar and celery. Unless in the last hour you have also forsworn root vegetables? If so, the kitchen will be sorely taxed, but we shall make some effort to oblige.”

  “Your lordship is very kind,” Mary said primly. “You set a very fine table. Thank you.”

  “More than kind, he is wise,” Shelley said, looking up from the book. “Our diet should be that of the earliest men, I am persuaded. The depravity of the moral and physical nature of man originates in his unnatural life and diet. The sooner we return to eating as nature decrees, the sooner we will turn from vice to folly.”

  “Surely meat is the natural food of man,” Polidori said. “We are hunters, after all.”

  “By design, not at all,” Shelley said sternly. “Where are your fangs, doctor? Your claws? With what weapons do you kill and rend your meat? None at all. Indeed, you cannot even eat meat as nature presents it.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It is only by softening and disguising dead flesh by culinary preparation that it is rendered susceptible of mastication or digestion, and that the sight of its bloody juices and raw horror does not excite intolerable loathing and disgust.” Shelley took a roll from the footman and began to butter it. “No, doctor, our natural diet is clean, honest, and devoid of that violence that must attend on the destruction of our fellow creatures for food.”

  “What would you have us eat, then?” said Polidori stiffly.

  “Vegetables, with as little cooking as possible, and bread.” Shelley flourished his roll.

  Polidori admonished his patron. “My lord, you really should eat more than a mouthful of potatoes,” he said to Byron as his lordship passed up the soup de bonne femme. “It is unwise of you to tax your strength in this manner.”

  Byron cocked an eyebrow. “I have said, I am on a reducing diet. I can hardly fit into my waistcoat.”

  Claire laughed. “And how long will you continue to eat nothing but biscuits and soda-water?”

  “And wine,” murmured Mary, as she watched Fletcher refill Byron’s glass.

  “Only as long as you continue to notice it, my little fiend,” Byron said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. For a moment, some warmth shimmered between Claire and Byron. Mary began to hope there might be some substance to their feelings, despite Byron’s careless rejection of her earlier that day.

  “Oh, nonsense,” Claire said.”You are looking positively underweight, Albé. The doctor is right, you should have some bread, at least.” She patted his lordship’s hand. Byron frowned and drew his hand away.

  “I cannot, Shelley has eaten all of it. I say, Shelley, leave a crumb for us.” Byron gestured for Fletcher to fill his wineglass again. “Shelley? Oh, someone poke him.”

  Shelley, absorbed in the book, heard none of this until Claire leaned over and touched his arm. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You interest me, Shelley,” Byron said, pushing a potato onto his fork. “I abjure most meat to keep my figure trim. You, however, reject it through principle. Tell me, which approach is more likely to find favor with our fellow beings?”

  “Surely the principle of mercy outweighs even vanity,” Shelley said, smiling.

  “And where shall our fellow-beings learn this principle? You will have to shout rather loudly to be heard over the butchers and cooks of the world.” Byron took a tiny bite of potato and washed it down with a healthy swig of wine.

  “Our Shelley is the new Prometheus,” Claire said, raising her glass to Shelley. “Like the godling, he will use his gifts to persuade mankind. Surely you have read Queen Mab, my love?”

  Byron shrugged. “I have. The notes bid fair to outweigh the poem. Good my Shelley, next time pray confine your notes to a separate volume, so that I may more easily avoid them.” His cheek dimpled in a disarming grin.

  Shelley flushed but returned the grin.

  “I was quite in earnest. Shelley-Shelley, my Shelley-savior, what Madonna will bring forth this Messiah who will lead the masses to enlightenment? Shall it be my Claire, here, virgin when I first took her?”

  Polidori gasped and swung round to stare at Byron, who paid him no mind. “Or shall it be fair Mary and her son, another Christ? Or even you yourself, Shelley? Perhaps you are our new Shiloh.”

  Claire cocked her head to one side. “Shiloh?”

  Byron put his elbows on the table and rested his chin in his hands. “Ah, I forget. I am among the heathen, here. Have you none of you followed the news of Mistress Southcott, of Exeter? She who claimed to be a prophet, and to be bearing the new Messiah?”

  At their blank stares, he shook his head. “And here, Shelley, was your golden opportunity, had you but known it. She prophesied that her son would be the new savior, and would be named Shiloh. You could have stepped up and claimed the title! You would be honored! Feted! Followers would flock to you, and your harem could expand fivefold!”

  Shelley laughed. “What fantasy is this, my lord? A Shiloh?”

  Polidori coughed. “’Tis true, Mr. Shelley. Two years ago, I believe. She was a lay preacher who claimed to be bearing the new, er, Messiah. Instead, she died, I recall.”

  “Or was taken up in a whirlwind,” said Byron gaily. “Or swallowed by the earth! Either way, as I say, Shelley, you should take up her now-bereft followers as your own! Be the new Messiah, and lead us all to a paradise of free love, reason and virtue!”

  Shelley’s expression had faded from amusement to stone. “Your lordship will have his jest,” he said formally. “But you know I am an atheist, and would never try to deceive men into virtue by reference to that which does not exist.”

  His tone sobered Byron, and Mary caught a fleeting glimpse of a hurt, embarrassed schoolboy under the Satanic brows. Then Byron looked down and shifted his feet. “Ah, Shelley, don’t be offended. My Shiloh, my own savior, you are more like to be the new Prometheus than the new god. More like to be torn by a vengeful god, than ascend to his throne.”

  Any reply Shelley might have made was cut short by the servant who removed his empty plate. Byron threw down his napkin and rose. “I propose that we dispense with the formalities—”
r />   Claire laughed gaily. “What formalities have we observed so far?”

  “—And retire, all of us, not just the ladies, to the fire our Prometheus has so lately brought to life. Come, Claire.” Byron extended a hand to Claire, who rose and took his arm. Gazing merrily up at him, she allowed him to lead her away into the parlor.

  Polidori coughed into his hand. “Well. It seems we are to amuse ourselves. Mrs. Shelley, may I have the honor?”

  Mary allowed him to raise her from the chair. Shelley sat staring absently into space, toying with a biscuit. “My love?”

  “Ah.” He came to himself with a start, and rose from his chair. “Of course. I shall join you directly.” He shoved the biscuit into a pocket, picked up the Coleridge book and wandered through the door to the hallway. Mary started to call him back, but shrugged.

  Polidori drew her hand through the crook of his arm. “We shall have to excuse him. He will come back.”

  He will come back.

  As she allowed Polidori to lead her away from Shelley, the words echoed coldly in her mind.

  Chapter IX - Shelley’s Experiment

  Our family was not scientifical, and I had not attended any of the lectures given at the schools of Geneva. My dreams were therefore undisturbed by reality; and I entered with the greatest diligence into the search of the philosopher’s stone and the elixir of life. But the latter obtained my undivided attention: wealth was an inferior object; but what glory would attend the discovery, if I could banish disease from the human frame, and render man invulnerable to any but a violent death!

  —Frankenstein, Volume II, Chapter I

  The fire had died down only a little, but the parlor had not warmed appreciably during their dinner. Rain hit the windows fitfully, in a sullen rhythm. Cold fingers of wind played with the drawing room curtains. Their heavy velvet surfaces were damp here and there with rain that had been driven in through cracks in the window jambs, evidence of some neglect.

  Polidori bowed Mary into a chair and then, at Byron’s order, went to fetch the mail and a newspaper from the library. Claire whispered with Byron, who seemed in a playful, if sardonic mood.

  Mary drew her chair closer to the fire, but still a shiver went through her. She wished she had been able to find her shawl. It worried her that she was so distraught lately that she may have mislaid something so precious to her. She picked up her reticule and drew out her embroidery.

  “Ah, Shelley,” Byron said, hailing his friend. Shelley had managed to find his way back to the parlor, still clutching the volume of Coleridge.

  “I say, Albé, this is a remarkable poem, this Christabel. We must have a reading.”

  “And we shall, but not at this instant. Come, I’ve had a letter from Leigh Hunt. Let us see what he has to say about my Parisina.” The two men leaned over the missive, searching the crabbed handwriting for mention of Byron’s latest poem.

  “More light, Sister?” Claire leaned close with a candle in a silver holder. Without waiting for Mary’s answer, she touched the flame to a candelabra on the table beside Mary, lighting all six candles.

  “Surely I do not need so much light,” Mary said, half smiling. It disturbed her that Claire assumed so many of the duties of a hostess in Byron’s house. Yet, what could she say? It was for Byron to object, if he did.

  His lordship, however, was across the room, deep in conversation with Shelley. Polidori lounged carefully just to Shelley’s left, clearly hoping to join the conversation. He was, however, ignored as always.

  “I have always preferred this room,” Claire said. She sat down on the settee next to Mary. Her rose muslin dress caught the light from the fire and cast highlights on her olive skin and dark eyes. “So much more elegant than the dining room. I have suggested to Albé that he have it redone in Empire blue. Since that was Napoleon’s favorite color, he favors the idea.” Her eyes sparkled.

  Mary glanced at the dusty white moldings, the faded grandeur of the green watered silk wall coverings, the white woodwork marked here and there by mildew. The entire room looked like an aging grande dame, hanging on to its memories of the cool rationality of the Enlightenment. “It would be most expensive,” she said. “But it would be very elegant, I am sure. I did not know that Napoleon’s favorite color was blue.”

  Claire leaned close, whispering. “I don’t know that it was. I merely said it was. Albé didn’t know, either, so he believed me.”

  Mary was a little shocked, but not at all surprised, to learn of Claire’s lie. Perhaps, she told herself, it was unimportant to someone like Byron whether his ladylove told the truth or not. She herself could not imagine lying to Shelley. “Did you bring your embroidery?” she said, changing the subject.

  Claire shook her head impatiently. “No, of course not. But how can you sit here and pay no attention to what’s going on out there!” She flung a hand towards the windows, which at that moment were lit by a distant flash of lightning.

  “It is too damp for me out there,” Mary said. “And you know you would not endure it for a second. You would cry when your dress was ruined by the rain.”

  Claire stared at her. “Of course not. How little you know me.” She rose abruptly and walked boldly over to where the men stood. “Byron! Shall we have a game of chess? Or make it back-gammon, if you would win this time!”

  Byron turned, and Mary was relieved to see the amusement in his face. She wanted Byron to love her sister, now more than ever. “What, and disgrace myself in the good doctor’s eyes? He would never forgive me if I lost a game, any game, to a mere woman.”

  Startled, Polidori objected. “Why, no, my lord, I would never—”

  “Oh, you are an old woman, Polly-Dolly,” Byron said. His tone was so affectionate, however, that even the prickly doctor subsided.

  “Let us have some news of the outside world, instead,” Shelley suggested. He picked up the newspaper lying on the sideboard.

  “Yes,” Mary agreed. “What new revolutions are brewing? What new popes have fallen or arisen? What new wonders has science birth’d in the last two weeks?”

  “What new plays have opened?” Polidori contributed, his gaze darting from Byron to Shelley.

  “And most important of all—” Byron spanked Claire smartly on her rear, forcing a surprised gasp from Polidori. “Who is swiving whose wife in Mayfair this summer?”

  “More likely, the world has come abroad to Geneva,” said Mary. “If the number of telescopes trained on this house during the luncheon hour are any indication, we are the toast of Europe. Or at least, its most favored destination for idlers, gawkers and fools.”

  “What’s this?” Byron said, his dimples deepening. “Something has touched a nerve in our Mary.” He turned to pour a brandy.

  “My fault, I believe,” Polidori said. “I was in town last night, as you know, at Madame Odier’s. Many of the guests do not know that I know you, so they spoke rather more freely than otherwise. I told Mrs. Shelley that the prevailing rumor in town presently has it that the tablecloths Fletcher and the maids hang on the balcony every morning are, er, the petticoats of her and Miss Clairmont!”

  Byron threw back his head and laughed. Claire beamed and put her hand on his arm; he covered it with his own. “We must make sure to lay out some stays and corsets in the morning. Or perhaps we could hang my trousers beside them in the name of equality. What say you, Shiloh?”

  Shelley laughed, and turned to gather Mary in to his amusement. Their eyes met, they smiled, and for a moment, for Mary, there were no other people in the room. Then he strode over to her, newspaper in hand. He bowed gallantly. “Dearest, you are always the light in my firmament. May I also ask you to be the light of my newspaper?”

  She smiled and shifted to give him room next to her, closer to the candelabra. “What news of the fettered and corrupted world, then, my love?”

  The settee was small enough that his shoulders rubbed against hers. Subtly, she arranged herself so that, beneath her white muslin skirts, her l
eg lay along his long one. In his forest green waistcoat and dark brown trousers, polished boots, and wildly disarrayed hair, he could have passed for a woodland creature himself. Dropping a warm smile on her, he opened the pages. “Ah. An item to interest our good doctor. A bookseller in Chatham announces the publication of a treatise on the diseases of India, with special reference to a recent spate of dangerous fevers in Madura, Dindigul and Tinnivelly.”

  “Madura, Din-digul and Tin-ni-vel-ly! Madura, Din-digul and Tin-ni-vel-ly! Shiloh, do those syllables not sing, absolutely sing to you?” Byron said gaily. He struck a theatrical pose and his fine baritone rang out. “Ma-du-ra—”

  “Din-digul and Tin-ni-vel-ly!” Claire added her soprano in a descant, laughing so hard she could hardly keep the tune. Together, she and Byron repeated the phrase several times, varying the notes, their voices winding together like a braid of song. Mary smiled to see them happy together.

  She felt Shelley stiffen beside her. “Oh, this is unfortunate,” he muttered.

  Byron and Claire broke off their impromptu concert. “Bad news?”

  “Richard Sheridan is ill, perhaps dying.” He turned a page. “His friends are requested to aid him.”

  “Short of money, no doubt,” Byron said shortly. His face lost its happy expression, becoming closed and shut off. “He has never been the same since they released him from debtor’s prison.”

  Mary shuddered at the mention of the shadow that fell so near her own father. Shelley looked up and locked glances with his friend. “We should write to him. I can write my solicitors. Perhaps a subscription—”

  “He would not accept it,” Mary said in her soft voice.

  Byron looked at her. “You know this? How?”

  “Do you not remember, how the Americans voted him twenty thousand pounds once, for trying to stop England fighting their secession? Yet he refused it. A man that proud, he will not accept charity even on his deathbed.”

  “I fear you are right, dearest,” said Shelley, folding the paper back.