Outcasts

by Sarah Stegall

  Mary clenched her fists, afraid that interfering would drive Claire to some new foolishness.

  Polidori said feebly, “Miss Clairmont—” but no one paid him any attention.

  “You cannot mean that,” Claire said. Her voice held anger, still, but Mary also heard an undertone of fear. “I cannot believe you mean any of it.”

  “You exasperate me, madame,” Byron said. “You persist, in the face of all evidence, in telling me what I do or do not mean. I assure you, I mean every word.”

  “Albé, George, please—”

  “Never call me that.” Byron’s voice was cold and contemptuous. “Never, ever, call me by my Christian name. You will never be intimate enough for that.”

  “I shall call you coward and traitor before I am done!” Claire’s voice rang out. “You will listen to me! You must, you will acknowledge me and this child!”

  “Madame, make any claim you care to. Think you, after what I have endured in England, from my own wife no less, that any scandal from you shall touch me?”

  “Care you nothing for your own child?”

  “Should I care more for a by-blow than my own legitimate daughter, got on a legitimate wife?” he snarled in return.

  “Not yet,” Claire said. “Not while I carry this child.”

  “It is not mine!” Byron cried, and now Mary heard a note of despair in his voice. “Do you know how many bratlings are laid to my door?

  “I love you, yet you do not feel even interest for me. Fate has ordained that the slightest accident that should befall you should be agony to me, but were I to float by your window drowned, all you would say would be ‘Ah, voilà!’”

  Eyes blazing, Byron shot back, “Shall we try it? Here is the lake, handy enough. Fletcher shall hold you under, and I shall examine my feelings as you drift with the tide.”

  “Byron!” Shelley put his arm around Claire. “This will solve nothing! Claire, you must calm yourself, and Byron, you must be reasonable!”

  Claire burst into tears and fled through the doors to the terrace, slamming them behind her. Polidori struggled to his feet, to go after her. Mary laid a hand on his shoulder and shook her head; he subsided into his seat but whispered, “She will take a chill!”

  Mary approached Byron, who was staring into the fire, storms in his face.

  “That was not well done, Albé,” she said. “She is not lying to you. She would not.”

  Shelley came up with a glass of brandy in his hand and shoved it at Byron. “I am persuaded you are too good a man to desert her, and your own child,” he said quietly. “Would you have it raised, as you were, with no father?”

  Byron looked from Shelley to Mary. “Damn you both.” He took the glass and tossed the brandy back as easily as if it were water. “And damn her to hell.” He wiped his face with his hand. “I never loved her. I never told her I loved her. I made it plain, my God how could I make it plainer? She was nothing to me. Is nothing to me.”

  “You felt nothing for her? No sentiment at all?” Shelley sounded astonished.

  Byron’s laugh rang bitterly in the room. “Oh, Saint Shelley is it? You will debauch both of Godwin’s daughters, but shy at lifting a light skirt?”

  Polidori gasped.

  Shelley took no offense, but shook his head. “There is more than mere sexual connection at risk here, my friend. You are casting off your very own flesh.”

  “And has it not been rent from me, often enough?” Byron raged suddenly. He flung the empty glass into the fireplace, where it shattered. “One child taken by the judge, another never to be—” He stopped himself, choking a little. He leaned both arms on the fireplace. “Now I am presented with this … by-blow. This unwanted baggage. You have no qualms about adopting orphans right and left, Shelley. Why don’t you take it?” He straightened, turned, and looked Shelley in the eye. “After all, it might be yours.”

  “No, no,” Shelley said mildly. “If Claire says it is yours, it is yours. You may rely on it.” He looked at Mary. “Perhaps you should see to Claire, while I talk to Byron.”

  “It will do you no good,” said his lordship. “None at all.”

  Shaken by the anger of the scene, Byron’s sharp temper, his sudden violence, Mary hurried to find Claire. As soon as she flung open the door to the terrace, the rain slapped her in the face, cold as ice.

  “Claire!”

  “Go away!” Claire leaned against the railing as if she would throw herself off of it. The rain had soaked her to the skin. Her thin muslin dress was completely transparent.

  “Dearest, you must come in out of the rain,” Mary said. She wiped the rain from her eyes, feeling her hair go sodden and limp.

  “No. Leave me.” Despite the violence of her words, Claire’s voice was leaden, lifeless. “I want to go home.”

  “Impossible, Claire. Come inside.”

  Claire trembled, either from the cold or emotion or both. “I do not want to go back in there with him.”

  “You are past that now,” Mary said. “Like it or not, you are bound to him now by the life you carry. This is something not even Shelley can understand, but I do.”

  Claire looked at her out of miserable eyes. “He does not love me.” She said it with wonder, like a child who has discovered her toy is broken, at a loss. “He does not want me.”

  Mary forbore to say “I told you so”, and led Claire back into the room.

  It was empty, and the door to Byron’s study was closed. Mary led her step-sister to the fire. A light foot-blanket was folded across the lounge; she caught it up and wrapped Claire in it. As the girl sat shivering before the fire, Mary yanked on the bell pull. When Fletcher appeared in all his placid solidity, she ordered him to bring hot tea and more blankets. He said nothing, but turned and went.

  From behind the study door, Mary heard Byron’s voice raised in shrill anger. She heard the quiet murmur of Shelley’s words.

  When Fletcher brought the tea, she forced the teacup into Claire’s hands, and laid more blankets over her. Gradually, Claire stopped shivering, but she continued to stare dully into the fire, saying nothing.

  Mary felt sorry for her step-sister, more sorry than she could remember feeling in a long time. Claire, desperate for attention, for purpose in life, had dug the pit she had fallen into.

  “You are in despair, now,” Mary said softly. She put her hand on Claire’s shoulder. “But you know that Shelley and I, at least, will never desert you.” She felt bitterness at the back of her throat; she did not want to be tied to Claire forever, but what could she do?

  “He shares our principles,” Claire said, her voice thick. “He feels as we do, he thinks as we do. And yet he looks only to his own self-interest. All would be well, if he would look to his heart.”

  “His heart is forever tied to another,” Mary said gently. “He cannot be with her, and no other will substitute. I do not believe Albé has any more love in himself to give.”

  “Yet he lives as though he does,” Claire said. “He flirts and swives and laughs, he makes passionate love to anyone and anything. He is so full of life!”

  “He is full of despair,” Mary said. “These are all his masks, put on to hide the scars beneath. He shows the world one face, but inside, he feels that he is dead. Have you not read his poem, ‘Darkness’?”

  Claire put a hand on her belly. “He will destroy me. He will destroy the child we have made.” She leaned forward to put her head in her hands. “I want to go home. I want to see Godwin.”

  Mary suppressed a bitter laugh. “He would not help you. He, like Shelley and Byron, lives in a dream.”

  Claire sat up slowly, looking at her. “A dream?”

  “Yes. They live in the mind, they devise principles and theories, they write great poems and books, but the world does not change for them. So they stubbornly live as if the world was as they want it to be, as if by sheer will they could remake it into the society they want. And look what it has got them!” She clenched and unclenched her fists.
“Godwin, destitute. Shelley, cut off. Byron, exiled. And always, it is we, the women, who suffer. My mother, who died birthing me. Your mother, turned into a screaming termagant by constant worry. And Byron—how many hearts broken by that man? I swear to you, sometimes I think men are all monsters.”

  “But is it not worth the sacrifice?” Claire said. “To perfect humankind, to make the world better, is it not sometimes necessary that some must suffer? Must we not set an example?”

  Mary’s shoulders sagged.

  “Marriage is slavery, Mary. We have seen that, you and I. We have seen two good people, your father and my mother, caught in an endless web of conflict and unhappiness, because they cannot separate.”

  “At least Godwin knows better than to throw a woman onto the street. But why has he cast us off?” Mary said.

  “Because we are stronger,” Claire said simply. “We have an education. We have what we need to live independent lives.” She straightened and drew the blankets around her shoulders. “And I must find a way to live an independent life without Byron. With our child.”

  Before Mary could formulate a reply, the door to the study opened. Shelley came out first, looking tired. Mary immediately stood and went to him, and took his hand. He bent over and laid his forehead on hers.

  Byron strode out, his eyes red, bags under his eyes, his curls all disheveled. “I will accept the child,” he said in a croaking voice. “There will be conditions. We will talk later about its future.”

  Claire stood slowly, slipping the blankets from her shoulders. “Thank you,” she said quietly. She locked eyes with Byron, and there was a long silence. “It will need the love of both of us.”

  After a long silent moment, Byron turned away. He leaned on the mantel, grabbed a poker and prodded the fire. “It will not have it,” Byron said in a low voice. “I will do the poor best that I can.”

  “I? Do you not mean ‘we’?” Claire stood slowly. “Shelley?”

  Shelley cleared his throat; his blue eyes looked sad. “We must talk later, my dear. For now, will you not change, and rest? You must not catch an ague.”

  Claire paid no attention, continuing to stare at Byron out of huge, dark eyes. Her fingers clutching the blankets around her shoulder trembled; drops of water shook from her sodden hair to spatter on the hearth. “Albé?”

  Byron would not look at her. “Go to bed, Claire.” His voice was weary. “Fletcher will make you up a room. Fletcher! You rag, put Miss Clairmont in a guest room. Make it the farthest one from mine you can manage.”

  Claire suddenly sagged, as if she were a marionette whose strings had been cut. “Albé, please.”

  A noise at the door; Mary turned to see Polidori standing rigid, holding a bottle in one hand. His eyes locked with Mary’s and his look was hot, angry. But then Claire turned away from the fireplace and the light showed the devastation in her face. Polidori lunged forward.

  “Miss Clairmont! You are drenched!” He took her hands. “Your hands are freezing!”

  Claire sagged against him. “Help me get her into bed,” Shelley said. He glanced over his shoulder. “Mary?”

  She gently pried Polidori away from Claire, and put Claire’s arm over her shoulder. Polidori pressed the small bottle into her hand. “Laudanum,” he whispered. “To calm her nerves.”

  Byron stepped towards his study. “Polly! Come here, I need your assistance.” Polidori glanced back at Claire, then stumped after his master.

  Half-dragging, half-walking the stumbling girl between them, Shelley and Mary followed Fletcher to a small bedroom on the other side of the house. Fletcher strode into the room, flinging dust covers off of a small table, an armchair, a desk. He swept back the hangings from the bed and plumped at it.

  Shelley led Claire to the armchair and put her in it. “I’ll make up the fire,” he said. “Do you have anything for her to wear?” he asked Fletcher.

  The servant met his gaze squarely. “She has left … clothing … in his lordship’s chambers before,” he said. “I will ask the maid to bring them.” He hesitated, his eyes on Claire, and a look of compassion flitted across his face. “If it will help, I will fetch Miss Clairmont some broth.” He bowed and withdrew.

  Claire leaned forward and put her face in her hands. Mary stood near her, adjusting the blankets while Shelley made up a fire.

  “I thought he loved me. I know he did.”

  Mary stroked her hair, drawing the long tresses through her fingers. “Maybe he did. Do not tease yourself over it now. It is late and you are tired. For your sake, and the babe’s, you should rest.”

  “How can I ever sleep again?”

  Shelley snorted bitterly. “Oh, you will sleep. That’s the hell of it, my dear. That you can endure great pain and anguish, yet you will continue to breathe and eat and live.” He had got the fire going, and now stood to reach for a poker. “As long as one has ties and affections, one is subject to disappointment and pain. Love denied turns to poison so very easily.” He put aside the poker, knelt, and took Claire’s hands in his own. Gently, he kissed her forehead. “My dear girl, that is why we must love so often, so freely. We must spread love as far and wide as we can, seed it o’er the universe.”

  Claire’s fingers clutched his. “I only wanted to make him happy.”

  A knock on the door; Mary answered it to find a pudgy maid holding out a bundle of Claire’s clothes. She curtsied, peeking slyly past Mary to catch a glimpse of Claire. Mary moved to block her view, and took the clothes. “That will be all, thank you very much,” she said firmly, and closed the door.

  Shelley had touched his forehead to Claire’s, and the two of them sat holding hands, close before the fire. Mary stood with clothing in her arms and looked at their silhouette. What was to become of Claire? What would Godwin’s reaction be, he who had always thought of Claire as a victim of Shelley, not an accomplice? What would become of the child? It was not even born yet, did not show below Claire’s bodice yet, but already was a source of trouble and tears. She had no illusions that Byron would share Claire’s life, share the child, would take any trouble at all over it. Thinking of her sister Fanny, forever scorned for her illegitimate birth, Mary feared for the future of Claire’s baby.

  The child was not yet born, she thought to herself. Yet it is already rejected.

  Mary laid out the dry clothing on the counterpane: at least the chemise had been laundered, so she could get Claire into that and then into bed.

  Shelley rose from the fireplace, releasing Claire’s hands. “I will go to him,” he said simply.

  Mary walked with him to the door; just as she opened it, thunder pealed overhead. She leaned to whisper in Shelley’s ear. “The weather is worse indoors than out, I vow.”

  Shelley nodded quietly. The windows suddenly rattled as the wind threw rain at it like an assault of gravel. “I wish we could take Claire home. But I fear that in this downpour, we would be soaked before we progressed five feet.”

  Mary agreed. “We must stay here.”

  “And Albé will be up all night. If we let him go to bed, he may change his mind about Claire,” Shelley said. He glanced past Mary to where Claire sat staring at the fire. “Put her to bed, then rejoin us. Let us see if we can keep his lordship’s mind occupied tonight, lest he brood.”

  She nodded, and he left. Mary helped Claire to shed her soaked clothing and then toweled her off. She helped her into her shift, made sure her hair was dry, and led her to the bed.

  “I want to go home,” Claire murmured at one point.

  “It is too stormy,” Mary said.

  “Not that home. My home. I want my mother.”

  Mary sighed inwardly. She could not imagine Jane Godwin’s reaction to her daughter’s out of wedlock pregnancy by the notorious Lord Byron. “My dear,” she said, “you really must get into the bed.”

  A knock on the door again, and this time Claire whirled towards it. “It is he! He has come!”

  “Byron? No, Claire, he—”

>   “Oh, not Albé. I mean him, the demon who walks in his shadow, the dark angel!”

  “Claire, what do you mean? You are raving again.” Mary pushed her step-sister towards the bed. “Get in, and I will answer the door.”

  Claire crept in between the covers, and Mary stepped to the door. She laid her hand on the latch, but hesitated. Claire’s fear, or the weather, or the scene with Byron, had unnerved her, and she wondered, just for one tiny moment, what stood on the other side of the door.

  Mary drew a deep breath and yanked open the door.

  John Polidori, looking startled, stood with a tray in his hands, on which rested a covered bowl. “How is she?” he asked. “I have brought a restorative.”

  Mary ushered him in. “Thank you, Doctor.” She took the tray from him.

  Polidori cleared his throat. “I am glad to offer my services in a professional capacity,” he said importantly. “I am trained in obstetrics, as well as other faculties.”

  Claire glared at him over the rim of the bowl. “Did he send you? Does he now care at least for his own flesh and blood?”

  “In my capacity as his lordship’s physician, I must look after his interests. Including, er, his children.”

  Mary and Claire both stared at him. Slowly, a pink flush climbed Polidori’s cheeks.

  He bowed stiffly. “Pray excuse me, ladies.” He bowed himself out and shut the door.

  Mary looked at Claire, and Claire at Mary. “I could almost laugh,” Claire said. “He is so ridiculous.”

  “Yes,” Mary said, handing her the bowl and a spoon. “But of us all, he is the only one who is … normal.”

  “Normal?” Claire scowled into her cooling broth.

  Mary busied herself spreading the damp clothes before the fire to dry. “Byron’s father abandoned him in childhood. Shelley’s father has cut him off. Godwin has rejected all intercourse with either of us,” she said as calmly as she could. “But John Polidori was raised in a loving family, with a father who supported him. He is neither cast off nor inclined to cast anyone off.” She rubbed her face with her hands, then extended them to the warmth of the fire.