Outcasts

by Sarah Stegall

  “Mary …” His voice was soft and warm. He threaded his fingers through her hair, pulling hairpins, letting it fall in a cascade down her back. “Mary.”

  She slid her hands up under the shirt, feeling his skin against her palms, slipping her hands around his waist. This was how she had first touched him, that night in the St. Pancras churchyard. They had met there, as usual, at her mother’s grave. As usual, they discussed her father’s writing. And as usual, they had inched closer and closer to one another, aware of the tension building between them.

  She remembered how she had thrilled when his hand first sought hers, first traveled up her arm, first cupped her chin for a shy kiss. And then the night he had, with fire and trembling and passion, laid her down on that grave and taken her childhood. Did he remember that night, the girl trembling in his arms with passion and joy and surprise?

  Mary stretched up on tiptoe, and Shelley bent down, and his mouth found hers in the semi-dark. Warm, as his mouth had been that first time, but no longer shy. She slid her hands back around, up his chest, feeling hair tickle her palms, feeling his flat nipples rising under her fingers. Against her belly, he rose hard, pressing against her through the thin muslin of her gown. His arms came around her, stroking her back, combing her hair through his fingers. They moved together, and now Shelley was unbuttoning her, divesting her of gown and petticoat and chemise, letting them all drift silently to the floor like foam around Venus rising from the waves. She shivered a little as the cool air struck her skin, but then he skimmed a hand down between her full breasts and she felt heat flood her body. For a man who lived in his head, his hands could be remarkably expressive.

  “My love,” she whispered. He dipped his head to kiss her again. She broke the kiss to help him slide his shirt over his head and arms, a wifely moment, and quickly folded his shirt across the chair. Shelley might think nothing of flinging her garments to the floor, but Mary knew washerwomen came dear. When she turned from the chair, he had already kicked his way out of his pantaloons and smalls, so that the dim light of the candle gilded his bare skin. Naked, the gangly wild man who slouched his way through Europe became an elegantly framed man, long of limb and torso, proportioned as an athlete. His long walks had given him the silhouette that Byron could only hope for, lean and graceful. And at this moment, highly aroused.

  The poet-philosopher held out one large hand, inviting her. Gathering her close, he molded her to him with hands and lips, sealing them together through thigh and hip and shoulder, her breasts pressing into him. He whispered her name into her hair, trailing hands above and below, now circling her waist, now stroking her shoulders. His hand slid between her thighs and she became liquid fire. Mary threw back her head, moaning.

  “My girl, my Mary …” He bent suddenly and picked her up in his arms, lightly as a child. She felt the flex of muscle under her hands as she grasped his shoulders. He took one stride forward and flung them both, half-intertwined, onto the bed, muttering,

  He reared his shuddering limbs and quelled

  His gasping breath, and spread his arms to meet

  Her panting bosom …

  “Oof! You quote from your own poem? Oh, vain!” Mary laughed as he landed on her, his weight bearing her down into the feather mattress. The support ropes holding it up groaned as Shelley, on hands and knees, leaned over her, kissing her neck, down her chest, from one soft breast to the other.

  “Her panting bosom,” he whispered. “My Mary.”

  She clutched his head in her hands as he kissed her stomach, threaded her fingers through his light chestnut curls, caressed his ears. His mouth teased her, his hands possessed her, his heat seeped through her. Under him, she sank into the feathers, as if falling into a sea of down. She shifted, parting her knees, felt him fall between them. “My heart,” she murmured, and felt his hands on her thighs.

  Then he was kissing her deeply, sliding into her, filling her and she felt that tension growing in her belly, felt it spiraling through her center, as he rocked into her over and over. His hands caught hers, pressing her down, almost smothering her. But she felt liberated, knowing at this moment that she owned him, he was completely and only hers. The knowledge percolated through her, even as thought fled and feeling took over, until her arms and legs were wrapped around him, holding him close, closer. Shelley, damp with sweat, cried out and surged into her, and Mary met him halfway as she herself crested at the tide they made between them. She screamed into his shoulder as he bellowed into the feather mattress, arms braced, head down.

  Then the quiet fell over them, as he subsided and they gently twined together, melting in afterglow. She smelled him again, that unique combination of rain and man and sweat that locked itself in her brain and said, “Shelley” to her. She could have found him by that scent blindfolded, in total darkness.

  “I know that poem, too,” she whispered into his shoulder: “Then, yielding to the irresistible joy. / With frantic gesture and short breathless cry / Folded his frame in her dissolving arms.” She giggled. “Although, my arms are not quite dissolving …”

  He chuckled into her breast. “Now blackness veiled his dizzy eyes, and night / Involved and swallowed up the vision.”

  “Go to sleep, dearest.”

  Wrapped in his arms, his breath warm against her neck, Mary let herself slide into sleep.

  Part Two:

  June 15, 1816

  Chapter XV - Polidori the Gossip

  … when I became fully convinced that I was in reality the monster that I am, I was filled with the bitterest sensations of despondence and mortification. Alas! I did not yet entirely know the fatal effects of this miserable deformity.

  —Frankenstein, Volume III, Chapter IV

  At breakfast, Shelley had a book in one hand and toast in the other as Mary came down.

  “Has Claire come home?” she asked.

  Shelley dipped the toast in his tea and shook his head. “Elise tells me she came home at dawn. I suspect she may be out of sorts today. And in her condition …” He shrugged, as would a man so well experienced with pregnancies. “It appears to be clearing, my love. Would you care to take a walk with me?”

  “I would, but I must feed William. Perhaps this afternoon we may walk down to the village.”

  “Hmm.” Shelley closed the book he was reading and beamed at her. “You look lovely, my sweet. I have an agreement with Byron to shoot with him this afternoon, if the weather holds.”

  Mary nodded. “Then I shall take our son out for some sunshine.” She leaned over to kiss Shelley’s cheek. “Do be back by noon.”

  “Assuredly!” Shelley swept out of the room.

  After her breakfast, Mary called the nursemaid to bring William. “Have you seen my mother’s shawl?” she asked, when Elise brought her baby.

  “No, Madame,” the girl said. “Eet ees that white one, no?”

  “Lamb’s wool, white, with fringe,” said Mary. “It was my mother’s. I cannot conceive where I may have left it. Oh, very well, fetch me the dark blue one in the parlor.”

  The girl handed over William, already fussing. Mary carried him to the small lawn between the house and the lake. She sat on a low stone wall with her back to the breeze and opened her dress.

  The lake was a million shades of blue in the bright sunlight; the mountains loomed above it like remote and majestic guardians. Mary wondered who lived on those wooded slopes, what kind of man it would take to survive on those craggy heights. A strong man, she thought, one whose nature was closer to the animal nature than that of the men she knew. Perhaps one of the denizens of Rousseau’s works could survive there, she thought. Elise came out to wrap the blue shawl around her shoulders, then returned to the house.

  The chill breeze whipped Mary’s hair against her face; with her hands full of her son she could not put it back but was forced to endure it. She turned a little, so her back took the full force of the wind, and faced more directly into the sun. How warm it felt on her face! At her breast, W
illiam suckled contentedly, his eyes closed. Mary smiled down at the perfect lashes lying along his chubby cheek. Softly, she sang to him:

  Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly,

  Lavender’s green

  When you are King, dilly dilly,

  I shall be Queen.

  She broke off. “Not quite the thing for the son of a republican,” she murmured. William paid no attention, his whole being given over to the bliss of the moment.

  “Would I could do the same,” his mother whispered. She looked out over the small terrace, with its rock retaining wall above the tiny lawn that fell down to the enclosed cove below. The clouds above Jura were huge, gray, massive. Though she sat in bright sunshine, even as she watched, their shadows flowed ominously down the mountainside, headed for the shoreline, the lake, her. She treasured this moment in the sun with her healthy baby, and didn’t want to go in just yet. But soon. If William took a chill …

  A step on the path above—Shelley? Mary peered eagerly over her shoulder, but it was John Polidori. She adjusted her shawl to cover her exposed breast but otherwise made no effort to hide herself.

  “Mrs. Shelley.” His posture was stiff and formal. He was meticulously dressed, in a dark suit with a cravat so fiercely starched Mary decided it could probably stand in a corner on its own. “I am first commissioned by his lordship with an invitation. He proposes to sail over to Geneva again this morning, and asks if you and Miss Clairmont would care to come along.”

  “That would be delightful,” Mary said. “Tell him we shall join him at the dock at his convenience.”

  The doctor nodded absently, his gaze fixed rigidly over her head. “Thank you. I shall convey your compliments to his lordship. And now, on my own poor behalf … I … I owe you a most sincere apology,” he began. His face paled, then flushed, and he clasped his hands behind his back. “I cannot conceive what came over me last evening. I pray you will find it in your generous heart to forgive me for such a—”

  Mary waved a hand. “Oh, do sit down, Polly,” she said.

  He stopped with his mouth open, blinked, and then shut his mouth with a snap. He seemed offended at her easy forgiveness. “It was really quite—”

  “Oh, I know you could not have meant those things you said. Indeed, you rather reminded me of William, when he gets caught with his hand in the cookie jar.”

  Polidori looked at the child in her arms, confused. And perhaps insulted, by the expression on his face.

  Mary smiled. “Oh, I meant my younger brother, William. He’s at an awkward stage, do you know. Thirteen, and unsure of himself and how to behave around girls.”

  Polidori’s mouth tightened. “Indeed. I am an adolescent, to you. How very amusing.”

  Mary soured inside. She had no patience for this self-involved man’s constant sulking. “I meant it as a compliment, Doctor. I am fond of my younger brother; I only meant that you remind me of him.”

  “I am older than you are,” he said stiffly.

  She sighed. “Oh, do let us be friends,” she said. “Pray be seated, and let us enjoy this fine morning before the rain arrives.”

  Polidori fidgeted with his waistcoat button, touched his stiff cravat nervously. Finally he relented and seated himself on a low stone wall. “The child seems well.”

  “Yes, thank you. He feeds quite lustily.”

  The doctor smiled, and stretched his legs out in the sunshine. His polished boots shone. How closely he mirrored the dandy who employed him, Mary thought.

  “There has been no fever or chills?” Polidori asked. “He sleeps as usual?”

  “Yes, he seems to be fine. No ill effects from the vaccination. Shelley and I are grateful for your care, Doctor,” she said. “It was kind of you to arrange for the procedure.”

  Polidori nodded. “I am glad. At least here is one patient his lordship cannot throw in my face,” he said.

  Mary raised an eyebrow but said nothing. For some reason, Polidori always chose her to unburden himself to. “You have quarreled?”

  Polidori waved a hand, but his cheeks turned a little pink. “Nothing, nothing at all, I assure you, Mrs. Shelley. As for the vaccination, I am glad to find you and Mr. Shelley so … advanced in your thinking.”

  “We are not burdened with superstitions about vaccinations, at any account,” she replied. William broke off his nursing and fussed a little. “All finished, my Will-mouse?” She shifted him, threw the shawl onto her shoulder, and put him up to pat his back. As she did so, her shawl slipped a little, exposing her bare breast.

  The doctor glanced quickly away, his cheeks even pinker. “I, er, brought the book by Tasso I spoke of earlier.” He stood and faced away from Mary, gazing out over the lake. “Your Italian is coming along very well.”

  Mary listened with only half her attention. William fussed more, his little legs kicking. The shawl slipped completely off her shoulder and fell to the ground. Holding the squirming infant in one arm, Mary struggled to fasten up her bodice. William’s flailing foot caught her on the chin. “Be still!” She bent to retrieve the shawl, but the boy slipped, and at the last moment she had to catch him with both arms before he fell. Defeated, she sat back against the sun-warmed wall and cradled her son.

  Polidori, oblivious, stared across the lake at the darkening vista. “I daresay his lordship would say mine is insufficient, despite having been raised in both Italian and English.” His tone was of brooding offense. No doubt he had been rehearsing it all morning, Mary thought.

  Mary’s temper snapped. “Oh, do stop feeling sorry for yourself and help me, Dr. Polidori!”

  Surprised, he turned, assessed the situation, and immediately stooped to gather her shawl. “Would you like me to hold him?”

  She promptly handed the kicking baby to the doctor. “By all means, if you can contrive not to drop him. My shawl … thank you.” Grateful for its woolen warmth, she settled it firmly across her shoulders, finished fastening her gown, and held her arms out for her son. Polidori, holding the infant with careful concentration, handed him back. William protested, his little mouth opening with a wail, his feet kicking. His sock fell at Polidori’s feet. “Oh, I say …”

  Polidori was looking at William closely. Mary felt her heart give a little lurch. “Doctor? Is something wrong?”

  Polidori blinked, his black eyes looking sheepish. “Oh, not at all. I was thinking of something his lordship said the other day, about how his mother caused his deformity by binding her stays too tightly. You will forgive me if I observe, er, that neither you nor Miss Clairmont, er, wear stays. Speaking, of course, strictly as a medical man.” He seated himself again, this time very close to Mary. “I applaud you on your forward thinking.”

  Involuntarily, Mary glanced at William’s feet. They were perfectly formed, with five fat pink toes on each straight foot. She looked up at met Polidori’s look. “A mother cannot help but feel for him,” she said. Mary wrestled her son’s foot into his sock, then set him firmly on her shoulder. She patted his back. “No, my lack of stays is my mother’s doing. She refused to confine herself with such unnatural bindings, and when I became old enough to throw off my, my stepmother’s medieval restrictions, I abandoned them as well. Not for William’s sake but for mine.” She looked at Polidori. “Forgive my curiosity, doctor, but … have you seen Lord Byron’s foot?”

  “Indeed I have. It is on his mind day and night, I assure you. If there is ever the least little twitch or pang, we must retire for him to consult me.”

  “It seems so strange to think of him as … imperfect.” Mary said. “He is so … in so many other respects he is …” She could find no words to finish her thought.

  Polidori raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I understand. His lordship’s physical beauty transcends all bounds. I have lost count of the women who have cornered me in balls and salons for a private chat about Lord Byron’s person.” His mouth twisted bitterly. “They are very disappointed to learn that he does not have a cloven hoof.”

  Mary smiled
. “I did not suppose he had. But he never mentions it, never makes apology for it.”

  “That does not mean it is not far from his thoughts.”

  “You make it sound as if he considers himself some kind of, of monster.”

  “He does,” said Polidori bluntly. “You may think it is society’s scorn for his … behavior that forces him into exile. I think in his heart, however, it is his foot. He has never been comfortable among society. He is extremely sensitive, and never allows anyone but me or Fletcher to see him unshod.”

  Mary looked up from burping her baby, startled. “No one? Not even …”

  Polidori’s posture grew stiff. “This is not really seemly conversation for a … a lady.”

  Mary chuckled. “Not even a lady with a child? And do not forget, Claire is my own step-sister.”

  “Yes, but he—” Polidori bit his lip, looking off towards the lake. A slow flush climbed his cheek. “His lordship is free enough with his tongue where it concerns me,” he said in a low, tight voice. “Why then should I adhere to strictures he does not?” He turned towards Mary. “He does not even undress when he … with ladies. Not even with Miss Clairmont, so I gather from … from his remarks.” He looked very uncomfortable.

  Mary found his shyness amusing in a medical man. “Really, Doctor, there is no need to spare my blushes. My questions come from a mother’s concern, not morbid curiosity.” She looked down. “You may not know that William is not my first-born.”

  Polidori’s face went blank. “Not …”

  Mary felt the old pain, the one she always felt when she thought about that thin, frail creature born on a cold winter night. “Last year, in February. She was … the doctor said she was two months early. They did not expect her to live. She lived eleven days.”

  Suddenly she buried her face in William’s hair, inhaling the sweet baby-smell of him, hiding her tears.