“The natural society of man is family,” Claire said, her hand still on her abdomen. “Rousseau called it the most ancient of all societies.”
Mary glanced up and found Shelley looking at her; in his gaze she read consternation.
Byron tilted up the bottle and drained it. He flung it into the water. “I do not know that I resemble Jean Jacques Rousseau,” he said. “I have no ambition to be like so illustrious a madman—but this I know, that I shall live in my own manner, and as much alone as possible.”
The rest of the journey was finished in silence.
As soon as the boat nudged the shoreline, Shelley jumped into the knee-deep water. Extending a hand to Claire, he said, “Come, my dear.”
Claire stood, steadied herself on Byron’s shoulder, and fell overboard into Shelley’s arms. He caught her easily and strode off towards the cottage without a backward glance. Polidori scrambled clumsily over the gunwale and waded ashore. Mary stood and began to climb over. Her skirts encumbered her and she tottered, half in and half out of the boat.
“Fletcher, tie us up,” Byron ordered. He clasped Mary’s arm. “No, allow me.” He swung over the side.
“My lord, your boots!” Fletcher cried.
“Damn my boots. I’ll order a new pair, made from your skin. Here, Mary, jump down to me.”
“No, I cannot.”
“Nonsense,” Byron said. He glanced at the sky. “In a moment, you will be soaked to the skin. Allow me to help you.”
Reluctantly, Mary leaned over the side. Byron caught her in his strong arms and turned towards the shore. “Put your arms about my neck, that way we will be balanced.”
This close, Mary smelled him: tobacco, brandy, sweat and under all of that, wet wool. The hair at the back of his neck curled against her hand. His irregular step frightened her a little, but he brought them both to shore securely. Above the waterline, he swung her down and set her on her feet.
“Thank you, B,” Mary said. She smoothed her dress.
“Fletcher will bring your parcels,” he said. Byron offered his arm. “Allow me.”
She took his arm and walked with him up the slight rise. His limp seemed more pronounced; perhaps he had had too much brandy. “Will you stay to tea? I bought some pekoe in Geneva.”
“I thank you, no. I am off to the Villa.” Having reached the house, Byron swept her a bow and released her hand. He hesitated a moment. “Mary, I pray you will forgive some of what I said. I often say things I do not mean.”
“Then perhaps you should say the things you do mean,” she said, but smiled to take the sting from her words. Byron smiled slightly, bowed and walked away.
Inside the house, Mary found Shelley coming down the stairs. “I have put her to bed,” he said. “She needs to rest. Elise will bring her some tea.” He bent down to kiss her cheek.
“You are still wearing your coat, love,” she said. “Will you not stay for tea?”
Shelley shook his head and stepped to a case on a sideboard. He opened it, looked to make sure of the pistols within, and then shut it. “I have an appointment to shoot with B,” he reminded her. “Would you join us?”
“After I feed our son, perhaps,” Mary said. She glanced at the sky. “Will you not wear a hat? It may rain.”
Shelley tucked the pistol case under his arm and smiled at her. Then he stepped through the door, admitting a gust of rain-smelling air.
Chapter XX - The Taunt
I learned that there was but one means to overcome the sensation of pain, and that was death—a state which I feared yet did not understand.
—Frankenstein, Volume III, Chapter V
It took Mary longer than she had planned to feed William and settle him for his nap. By the time she began walking to the Villa Diodati, the afternoon was darkening again.
As she approached the Villa, Mary heard the crack! crack! of gunfire. This was followed by a brief interval, and she heard men laughing. Rounding the corner of the house, she came upon a familiar scene.
The lawn sloped down from the terrace to the edge of the water, where a low stone wall kept waves at bay during storms. Along the top of this wall stood a row of empty wine bottles, some of which consisted only of a shattered base. On the balcony overlooking the lawn, Shelley and Byron, in shirtsleeves, were re-loading a brace of pistols. A table stood nearby, attended by the stoic Fletcher, on which several firearms lay. Byron stepped forward, raised his pistol, and fired.
Crack!
Mary startled, as she always did, even when expecting the report. She had resigned herself to Shelley’s love affair with guns. To her, they were a violent and dangerous diversion, but the son of a landed aristocrat merely saw them as tools for sport, much like a tennis racquet. And Shelley was a very good shot.
“Not quite on target, LB,” he said now as Byron stepped back.
Byron caught sight of Mary and immediately pointed his pistol skyward. “My dear, you must give us better warning! Never surprise an armed man!”
John Polidori peered around the baron. “Mrs. Shelley!”
Byron looked over his shoulder at the physician. “Ho, there, Polly-Dolly! You will spoil my aim! Curse this weather!” The last was directed heavenward, whence a light rain had begun to patter the ground.
“It will not affect my aim in the least,” said Shelley, busy reloading. “As long as the powder is kept dry, why should rain make a difference?”
“The rain may make a difference to Mrs. Shelley,” said Polidori.
Byron cocked an eyebrow at him. “Very well, if you must play the gallant, o’er-leap this balcony and give her your arm through the storm.”
Polidori turned a slight red. “If no other man will assist her,” he said, looking sharply at Shelley. Shelley, however, was sighting along the barrel of his pistol at a tree limb, paying no attention. “Very well.”
Polidori grasped the railing of the balcony. Byron, perceiving too late that the doctor actually intended to jump, called out a warning, but Polidori threw himself over the railing and dropped. He landed solidly ten feet below, on both feet, but the ground was muddy from the rain and he slipped. With a cry, he fell to one side, full length on the grass.
“Oh!” Glancing up to make sure no one was shooting, Mary hurried to his side. “Doctor! Are you hurt?”
Polidori’s face was white, and sweat beaded his forehead. “I … I seem to have sprained my left ankle.”
Behind him, the lower terrace doors burst open and Byron limped out, his coat flying behind him. Shelley was right behind him, looking concerned.
Mary helped Polidori to a sitting position. He massaged his ankle, but the heavy boot made it difficult.
“Physician, what ails thee?” cried Byron, but his tone belied his mocking words. He knelt next to the doctor. “Can you stand, man?”
“I … I shall try.” Polidori put out a hand. Byron came to his feet, pulling Polidori. But the doctor winced when he put his weight on his injured ankle. “Oh!” he slipped sideways, but Shelley was there to catch him before he fell. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but I really cannot walk on it.”
Byron slid an arm across the man’s shoulders. “Shelley, grasp him thus, and let us lock our arms beneath him. We shall carry him into the house. Mary, could you be so good as to get the door?”
Mary held the French doors open as the men carried Polidori across the threshold. As Byron passed her, she saw the strain on his face, and saw the effort that his deformed leg was costing him. But Byron said nothing as they entered and laid Polidori on the sofa in the parlor. They were in the downstairs parlor, which still retained the clutter and scattered apparatus of last night’s experiments. The Leyden jar remained in the center of the table.
Fletcher appeared at the doorway, looking anxious. “Cold water, Fletcher,” commanded his lordship.
Mary helped settle the doctor on the sofa. “What shall we do for you?” she asked.
“Raise my foot a little,” said Polidori. “A few pillows, yes. On
e more should do it.”
“There are no more pillows,” said Mary, looking around.
“I will fetch one from upstairs,” Byron said. “Shelley, see that he is made comfortable.” Byron turned and hobbled up the stairs, leaning heavily on the banister.
“This boot must come off, man,” Shelley said. He grasped Polidori’s muddied boot; Polidori braced himself. As gently as possible, Shelley worked it off his foot. Polidori said nothing, but his hands clenched the sofa cushions until his knuckles stood out bone-white under the skin. Mary put a hand on one of his, and was rewarded with a look of immense gratitude.
As soon as the boot was removed, Polidori let out his breath in a long sigh. “Thank you, Mr. Shelley.”
Fletcher arrived with a bowl of water and some cloths. Mary began wringing them out and placing them on Polidori’s ankle and foot.
“Oh, no, ma’am, you must not trouble yourself,” he protested.
Mary waved him away. “This could be quite serious, Doctor,” she said. “I need hardly tell you that. You should stay off of this ankle awhile.”
Byron thumped back down the stairs, carrying two white satin pillows. “From my own bed,” he stated, handing them to Mary. As she tucked them under Polidori’s foot, he added, “Fear not, they were fresh-laid this morning. I have not yet soiled them with my touch.”
Polidori shot him a look of loathing. “Well, I did not believe you had so much feeling,” he said.
Mary recoiled. “John! You cannot mean to be so ungrateful for his lordship’s generosity!”
Shelley laughed. “Mary, I’m surprised at you, as would be your father. Godwin says that gratitude and other such passions are unconstrained by judgement. They are not to be heeded when determining how we should act. Lord Byron perceives, correctly, that his doctor is essential to his health, so he naturally acts in a manner that benefits Polidori. Why, then, should Albé be owed a pointless expression of empty gratitude?”
“Why, indeed?” retorted Byron. “Best of all, let the good physician abuse me to my face and damn me to my friends; then I shall certainly acquit myself well rewarded. Fletcher, bring the brandy from my study.”
Polidori struggled to sit up, despite Mary’s caution. “I thank you for your pains, my lord,” he said sulkily. “I pray I shall discommode you no further.”
Byron stared at him, then shrugged. “As you wish, then. Come, Shelley, our targets await.” He stomped out, leaving the doors open behind him. The breeze brought the fresh scent of rain and lake water, and a hint of sunshine.
Shelley stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, until Mary waved him away. “I will deal with this,” she said.
When Shelley left, Polidori grasped Mary’s hand in his. “Thank you,” he said fervently. “Your kindness overwhelms me.”
“More gratitude?” Mary said lightly. “My kindness is of no more weight than your gratitude. His lordship needs his physician, and I need my tutor of Italian. I will do what I can to help you, as any person should.”
Deflated, Polidori released her hand. “Nevertheless, I am grateful,” he said. He lay back on the sofa and closed his eyes. He laid an arm across his face when she placed a cold compress on his ankle.
“Whatever were you doing, jumping over the wall like that?” she asked.
“It matters not,” he muttered.
“You did it in response to Albé’s taunt,” she said strongly. “Why do you allow him to goad you thusly?”
His laugh was short and bitter. “Patronage, my dear ma’am. Patronage. The curse of the educated and unemployed.” He removed his arm and looked at her out of unhappy eyes. “Do you know, I am the youngest person ever to receive a medical degree from Edinburgh medical school? I have published poetry. I have written a play. And yet his lordship considers me a secretary.” He spat the last word.
“Claire tells me that the publisher Murray has paid you to write about Lord Byron. Have you considered that he may find this objectionable?” She wrung out a cloth in the cold water.
He was silent a moment. “How else am I to live? His lordship promises, but does not pay, like all the aristocracy. And then he taunts me about—”
“About me,” she finished for him.
His eyes met hers, full of pain, and then he looked away. “About everything. I am the butt of every joke.”
“And you endure it.”
“I must. Do you know what the patronage of the author of Childe Harold is worth? I hope to get Murray to publish my play, if he likes my notes on Lord Byron.”
Mary nodded, understanding very well the difficulties of publishing. “And of course, you are aware that Byron is one of the directors of the Drury Lane Theatre. He can get your play onto the bill.”
Polidori shrugged. “I misdoubt it. He has not even read it.”
Mary saw sweat on his jaw and wished she had something to ease his pain. “Tonight I will ask him to read it after our meal.”
Polidori turned his head, eyes wide. “You would do that? If you ask him, he will surely not refuse!”
She smiled and adjusted his pillow. “You think too highly of my influence on him.”
Polidori grasped her hand in his. “Oh, Mrs. Shelley, dear ma’am! This is worth all the pain in my ankle, if you will get him to consider it!”
Mary withdrew her hand but cocked her head. “You say you earned a medical degree only last year, yet you are more anxious to have your play produced. Are you dissatisfied with medicine?”
Polidori shook his head. “Not at all, but my father, he is a translator of Italian works, a literary man. I would have him bear some pride in me, some appreciation of the works of my hand.”
Mary’s mouth twisted. “I know that feeling right well, Doctor!” She rose to her feet. “Try to rest this afternoon, and I will speak to Shelley.”
Polidori granted her an earnest look. “I cannot be more in your debt, ma’am!”
“Gratitude is a useless emotion,” she said, but smiled. Seeing Fletcher enter with another bowl of cold water, she nodded to him and went out through the French doors.
Chapter XXI - Targets
I took every precaution to defend my person in case the fiend should openly attack me. I carried pistols and a dagger constantly about me, and was ever on the watch….
—Frankenstein, Volume III, Chapter V
Byron’s servant, Berger, had brought the pistols and loading table down from the balcony onto the lawn. There, Mary found Shelley and Byron preparing to shoot again.
Shelley saw her, turned, smiled, and went back to loading his pistol. His hand was black with gunpowder. “My Maisie-girl is as quiet as a little dormouse. I like her that way.”
Byron grinned, and Mary had to admit that, in the sunlight with his tousled hair falling over his wide brow, Byron was an enormously attractive man. “A quiet woman. What a concept! Would that I knew one.” He raised his arm, holding a loaded pistol, and sighted at the wall at the bottom of the lawn, just above the water’s edge.
Crack!
A wine bottle disappeared in a puff of vaporized glass.
“Oh, well done,” Shelley said. “That’s five for you, and eight for me.”
“It most certainly is not, my Shiloh. That’s seven for me. I am almost even with you.”
Shelley chuckled and stepped forward to take Byron’s place at the head of the lawn, a pistol in each hand. “Come now, be fair, my lord. You cannot count the one that fell over when you nicked the wall under it. Nor can you count the one that knocked its neighbor over. That’s not quite the same as shooting it. “
“It’s dead, nonetheless,” Byron said. He handed his pistol to Berger to load and picked up a half-full wineglass. “Madame Mary, how is our good doctor?”
“Well enough. You should not have teased him as you did.”
Byron shrugged and knocked back his wine.
Shelley peered over his shoulder. “These are very fine Mantons,” he said, admiring the pistols. Looking back to the targets,
he squeezed off another shot. One more bottle shattered.
“I protest!” Byron said, laughing. “Come, Shelley! You are destroying my wine bottles faster than I can empty them! Berger, fetch another bottle of the ’95 claret.”
“Wine will not improve your aim,” Shelley said evenly. Sighting down the barrel of the other pistol, he squeezed off a shot. Another wine bottle vanished in a tinkling rain of glass as the the echo of the shot rebounded across the water. “Really, these are too easy. We need a challenge.”
Byron placed a chair for Mary, and she lowered herself into it with a sigh. “Are you certain you will take nothing? The day is damnably oppressive. Some ratafia, perhaps? Berger! Damn your eyes, bring us something cold and wet!”
One of Byron’s peacocks strutted slowly out of the hedge-copse on their right. Shelley’s pistol tracked it unerringly. “What say you, my lord?” he said playfully. “Shall we have peacock for dinner?” The flintlock snicked back and Shelley extended his arm.
“Nonsense,” Byron said lazily. “You do not eat meat, so do not try to convince me that you will kill that bird:”
Never again may blood of bird or beast
Stain with its venomous stream a human feast.
Shelley laughed, and Byron raised an eyebrow. “You did not think I had read Queen Mab? Shelley, Shelley, you underestimate me. But you will not shoot my bird.”
“Perhaps it is a monarchist,” Mary said. “Shelley, would you shoot a monarchist?”
“Assuredly,” he said. “Byron, do stand next to the bird. I can rid the world of two overdressed creatures at once.”
“Have you ever fired at a man?” Byron asked.
Berger arrived with a tray, bearing claret, lemonade and gunpowder. Mary accepted a glass of ratafia with a smile. It smelled of cinnamon and peaches.
“I have,” Shelley said, lowering the empty pistols and turning back to the group.
“Only when he has been fired upon,” Mary said, sipping her drink. The sugary, fiery punch made her eyes water.
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