‘Yet that “drivel” does pay one’s rent,’ Shelley added with a wry twist to his mouth. ‘Sadly, I can only write what the Muse directs me to put to paper, but I certainly would not be averse to selling more than a handful of copies. Unless we use them to start fires, they provide little sustenance to our lives.’
‘How true.’ I sighed. We had barely enough money to pay for lodgings and food. I had almost depleted my small savings and Mary had none, so we depended on Shelley’s incessant demands to his father for funds, and he was not happy with his only son’s elopement. Not to mention, Sir Timothy had a reputation for being tight with the purse strings in general, though he had reluctantly agreed to a thousand pounds a year for us since William’s birth.
‘Perhaps I could do some copy work for an aristocrat with inclinations to write?’ I proposed with a smile.
‘Excellent idea. Did you have a particular lord in mind? Someone who might be working on a new poem?’ He cast an ironic glance in my direction.
‘Maybe.’ What better way to make myself indispensable to him and provide a few pounds for us to survive in Geneva? It was not an expensive place to live, like London, so it would not take much for us to rent a cottage of our own.
‘That is provided that Lord Byron decides to remain in the area for any length of time. His traveling companion, Doctor Polidori, told me they were making their way south to Italy – Venice, I think.’ Shelley must have seen my crestfallen expression, and he added hastily, ‘But I may have heard that incorrectly.’
‘I couldn’t blame him for not wanting to stay here with the unrelenting gray skies and rain,’ Mary commented, gazing out of the window. ‘It feels like a shadowy blanket covers us at times. To think that horrible volcano is causing all of this – it is the stuff of nightmares.’
‘But one wakes to a new dawn afterwards,’ I chimed in, feeling certain that Byron meant to stay the summer in Geneva.
A shadow of doubt flitted across Mary’s face and, for some reason, it irritated me.
Could she not be happy because I was happy?
‘Maybe we can offer Lord Byron an incentive to stay.’ Shelley held up his volume of Aeschylus. ‘I had the sense that he is a man who likes a good literary debate – that could be quite stimulating and illuminating. I shall mark my favorite passages for our after-dinner discussion tonight and engage him with the beauties of our ancient Greek poet.’
I clapped my hands in gratitude.
And I could offer him other enticements.
Feeling quite light-hearted, I retreated to my room to dash off a letter to Byron. Hunting through the small desk for my quill and paper, I spied that the lid of my correspondence box stood ajar. I peeped inside, but the neat stack of letters seemed intact. Still, a thread of caution wafted through me – a hint of something being amiss.
Had someone been searching through my letters?
Two hours later, Byron sent his servant, Fletcher, with a message that he had secured a room on the lower floor of the hotel for supper – it had privacy and a view of the lake. I could barely contain my excitement, though it took some coaxing for Mary to abandon her forebodings about leaving William with a servant for the evening. Eventually, I found a local young woman of good reputation to stay with him, and Mary agreed.
Shelley decided to spend the afternoon reading poetry, so I proposed that Mary and I take William for a long walk through the winding streets of Geneva, just across the Pont du Mont Blanc – a bridge that connected our part of Geneva with the Old Town. After tea, we set out, ignoring the slight drizzle. It was a steep climb to the Place du Bourg-de-Four – the highest point in the city – while managing William’s baby carriage, but we wanted to see St Peter’s Cathedral where the Protestant reformer, John Calvin, preached in the sixteenth century, or so Shelley told us. Standing in front of its neoclassical facade, the rain had turned to a mild mist, and the breeze coming in off the lake felt cool through my cotton dress. But I did not care – the history and view of the lake were beyond splendid.
‘Are you not inspired by the beauty of this spot?’ I murmured as we scanned the cathedral’s Doric columns and immense wooden doors.
‘More like awed … they say there is a chair inside where Calvin reposed before he took the pulpit.’
‘Not a seat that our dear Shelley would want to see,’ I teased.
She cast a droll look in my direction, but then a middle-aged woman carrying a basket of ripe strawberries approached us with a deep frown, and Mary’s light mood instantly dissipated.
‘I feel as if people are watching us now that Byron has attached himself to our party,’ she whispered, drawing back from the old woman who hobbled past us, mumbling something in French under her breath.
‘He is quite famous, but we cannot let ourselves become too agitated,’ I urged, though I, too, had some misgivings, especially after seeing my correspondence box disturbed last night. It had never occurred to me that Byron’s notoriety might have an effect on our lives – might even cause a stranger to search through our possessions for something connected to him.
‘That is easier said than done, my dear Claire.’ Mary leaned down and tucked William’s blanket tighter around his tiny figure. ‘We must not give rise to further gossip.’
Quickly, we made our way back to the Hotel d’Angleterre, not speaking of the subject again, but the seeds of caution had been planted. I kept my suspicions about my letters to myself.
By evening, we had regained some of our spirits as we sat around a resplendent table (though Byron and Shelley consumed little beyond vegetables and wine in Seltzer water) in one of the hotel’s private dining rooms; it contained a lofty ceiling painted with picturesque scenes of sailing vessels skimming along the water on a sun-drenched day. One side of the room was lined with windows from ceiling to floor that overlooked Lake Geneva, and in the twilight I noted that a heavy fog obscured the mountains off to the east.
We all relaxed in the beauty of our surroundings and the seclusion of our dining room in the cozy, flickering candlelight.
‘Mary and I roamed through the old section of Geneva today and saw the great cathedral – it was quite impressive,’ I informed the group in a light tone.
‘Ah, yes. St Peter’s Cathedral – the church of John Calvin.’ Byron made a sweeping motion with his hand, then turned to Shelley. ‘You may not be aware of this, but I was raised a Calvinist in my early years in Scotland – a religion that promises little hope or redemption in its gospel.’
‘How unfortunate,’ Shelley said.
Byron laughed. ‘I think I earned the damnation that I was predestined to enjoy.’
Polidori tipped his wine glass, causing a scarlet stain to appear on the white linen tablecloth. Blood red.
‘Clumsy boy,’ Byron mocked as he refilled his physician’s glass.
‘I enjoyed the outing, but we had the oddest feeling that we were being watched,’ Mary chimed in, a lovely vision in the candlelight with her pale face and white silk dress.
Byron threw his table napkin over the stain. ‘Your imaginations may have been overstimulated, but I do not doubt the occasional passer-by may cast a curious glance in your direction. They appear avidly interested in my movements – prying, staring and gossiping. It never ceases – day and night. And now that we are friends, you will be subject to the same treatment. It can drive you mad – a subject fit only for a Roman poet, eh, Shelley?’
‘Most certainly not!’ Shelley exclaimed. ‘The Roman poets cannot touch the transcendence of the Greeks – not on any subject. They exalted freedom of thought and literature, which set the world on its present course of constantly evolving upwards toward an ever more ideal state—’
‘My dear Shelley, you could not be more deluded.’ Byron fingered the stem of his crystal glass. ‘The Greeks lived in a fantasy world, believing that their little experiment in democracy would change the world; it did not. By the time their city states fell and Rome became the dominant power in the world, our
fate was set. Humanity will be engulfed time and time again with the endless cycle of tyranny, revolution, change – and tyranny once more. It was ever thus.’
Shelley shook his head in vigorous denial.
At least we had moved off the topic of being spied upon.
‘I take it, then, my lord, that you are a cynic about human nature,’ Mary added, placing her hands on the table and leaning forward. ‘How do you explain the glorious French Revolution and the fall of aristocratic power? The common man never had such an opportunity to take his place at the table of abundance.’
‘And what did he do with such opportunity?’ Byron responded. ‘Squander it away with the Terror – and eventually yet another tyranny with that power-mongering little Corsican, Napoleon, who picked up the crown of France with his sword and engulfed Europe in the worst war it has ever seen. No, I see nothing glorious in the Revolution when one tyrant was replaced by another …’
‘Surely you see some redeeming quality in the French cause?’ I posed.
‘None whatsoever.’ He took a deep swallow of the red wine – tossed it back without savoring. A drink to forget.
‘Oh, come now, even you cannot discount the momentous event of destroying the French monarchy,’ Shelley protested, his voice growing shrill with the passion of conviction. ‘When Louis and Marie Antoinette died at the guillotine, the world held its breath and history was forever changed – for the good.’ He pounded the table with his fist. ‘I cannot believe otherwise.’
‘Trust me, the aristocrats will be back,’ Byron cut in with a voice that held a note of weariness. ‘When that collective breath is finally and fully exhaled again now that Napoleon has been captured, those who did not die in the Terror will reclaim their birthright. Never underestimate the cunning of bluebloods; they find a way to survive like the cockroach lurking in the cellar, just waiting to reemerge.’
‘You speak from such vast experience, my lord?’ Polidori shifted in his chair, nervously tapping his fingers on the table almost as if he wanted to provoke Byron. ‘After all, you are a peer of the realm.’
‘Indeed.’ Byron rose to his feet and limped over to the immense windows, gazing out at the growing darkness. ‘I have no illusions that I am not a part of the hypocrisy that I detest. I gave my speech to Parliament in support of the frame breakers – it made headlines but little difference in their lives. They will continue to experience privation and hardship and death – and no one will care. The privileged few will fight to maintain their ascendency.’ He turned back to our little group with a twisted smile. ‘But why should I, too, suffer? I experienced enough of genteel poverty when I was growing up in Edinburgh to know that I never want to live like that again. I intend to take up the good old virtue of avarice in my old age.’
‘At not yet thirty?’ I posed in disbelief.
‘It’s not actual years that age us; it’s our actions, our lives … and lost loves.’ He seated himself again, pouring another glass of wine. His features clouded with despair. ‘If I had to calculate my age by that method, I would be over a hundred … I have made such an appalling mess of my life.’
Was he referring to the scandal of his divorce and the rumors of his illicit relationship with his half-sister, Augusta? I knew his marriage had been a sham; he told me as much when we met secretly in London. As for Augusta, I was never able to summon the courage to ask him because I feared the answer.
‘I shall buy you a strongbox to hold your money, my lord, and a packet of hair dye, should you want to play the vain gentleman,’ Shelley proposed with a smile. ‘Or perhaps the real secret is to associate only with old men who keep tight purse strings – then you will always seem young and generous.’
Byron blinked, then began to chuckle deep in his chest. ‘You mock me, sir, and I deserve it. What kind of host am I to depress my guests with such talk? This is an evening to celebrate the beginning of a friendship, not remember the end of a life that I can never have again. Such is the world.’
‘And we must always believe that it will improve if we hold true to our ideals.’ Shelley raised his wine glass. ‘Shall we drink to life, love and beauty?’
We all raised our glasses in response, murmuring in agreement.
‘And to new friends,’ Byron added, glancing from person to person around the table, ‘who brighten even the darkest hour.’ I did the same, panning from Shelley’s eager, open countenance, to Mary’s hesitant expression, to Byron’s flushed cheeks, ending with Polidori’s fixation on … me. A twinge of fear passed through me at his constant monitoring. Why was he observing my every move?
Nervously, my eyes came back to Byron. Surely he would protect me. As if he had read my thoughts, his hand reached out under the table and found my knee, caressing my skin through the soft silk of my pink evening dress. My body melted inside, desire radiating through my veins. I’d missed the touch of his hands so dearly … and the passion-filled nights we had shared in England. My mad hope that he felt the same was turning to reality tonight. It was not just a passing fling but real, deep love.
I cast aside my suspicions about Polidori as fanciful imaginings.
We all clinked our glasses with a harmonious chime of crystal, and it felt like a beginning – a moment when the universe brought our little group together with the promise of a life-altering connection. It was as if a charmed circle had descended on us, sprinkling the magic of creative energy among us.
I believed that I would partake in the enchantment and take my place as an equal partner in the circle of friends, writing my way toward acceptance and maybe even fame.
And I hoped that Byron would be happy that I was expecting his child.
By the time we returned to our rooms, our feelings were soaring with the exhilaration of being in Byron’s company. In spite of his occasional moodiness, his conversation had the effervescence of champagne: delicious and sparkling. We did an impromptu dance as I sang one of Shelley’s favorite Irish songs, until he and Mary broke away to check on William. I sailed into my room as if on a cloud until I saw what lay on the floor. Then my breath caught in my throat at the sight.
My gold heart-shaped locket, supposedly given to my mother by my unknown father, had been broken apart, the diamond chip missing and the pieces strewn about. Slowly, I bent down and scooped up the fragments, trying to piece them back together.
Did I have a thief – or an enemy?
Miss Eliza’s Weekly Fashion and Gossip Pamphlet
May 30, 1816, Geneva
The Ladies’ Page
Rumor has reached the ears of your editor, Miss Eliza, that the infamous poet, George Gordon, Lord Byron, has engaged a splendid house in Cologny – the Villa Diodati, which once housed the Puritan bard, John Milton. Oh, the irony!
I know all of you, my dear readers, are consumed by two burning questions: does Lord Byron intend to linger on the shores of Lake Geneva, and does he intend to reside at the villa alone?
If you recall, ladies, Lord Byron has recently separated from his wife, Miss Annabella Milbank, and departed from England under a cloud of scandal (which I cannot print here, of course). Perhaps he intends to partake of our lovely Genevan society for the entire summer? If so, you can be certain that I will find a way to meet him and delve into his future plans.
One last juicy tidbit: Lord Byron has been seen in the company of Percy Bysshe Shelley, the son of Sussex landowner, Sir Timothy Shelley … and two as yet unnamed women (shocking!). Is it possible that there is love in the air – or debauchery?
Ladies, take your spyglasses and fix them on the Villa Diodati.
THREE
Florence, Italy, 1873
I could scarcely breathe as I came back to the present in Florence.
Glancing down at my wrinkled hands, though, was a potent reminder of the intervening years.
Remembering that first night when we were all together in Geneva during the summer of 1816 stirred up deeper, more disturbed memories than I had allowed myself to recall for ma
ny, many years. In spite of the excitement of our first meeting on the lake and the intimate connections that immediately sprang up as we bonded over politics and poetry, there were shadows around us right from the beginning.
The incessant storms, the ailing health of little William who was destined to die so young … and Polidori – always lurking in the background like a dark cloud.
I had also forgotten about my correspondence box and broken locket, because nothing had ever been tampered with again. None of my letters actually turned out to be missing, and I had the locket fixed, as well as the tiny diamond replaced, without mentioning either incident to anyone. I did not think anyone would believe me since I was known for my high spirits.
Later on that summer, other events occurred that made these early ones pale in comparison.
But I was not ready to resurrect those memories yet …
Glancing down at the note that had been folded under my teacup, I read once more: Your daughter lives.
Was it possible someone in that group had deceived me all along? Stolen from me? Maybe even worked against me after I had given birth to Byron’s daughter, Allegra?
The walls of my bedroom seemed to close in and, all at once, the silence felt oppressive, as if the past had reached forward and seized my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs. I sat back against the pillows and took in several deep breaths, calming myself.
Perhaps the note was someone’s idea of a jest. A sick, twisted one, certainly, but a joke nonetheless. My family and close friends all knew that even though I had received a death certificate from the nuns at the convent, I had never actually seen Allegra’s body. Yet, surely, the nuns would not have lied. Now that I had converted to Catholicism and conversed with holy sisters in Florence, I knew the power of what it meant when a woman dedicated her life to the service of God.
Besides, even if there had been a sliver of doubt about Allegra’s fate, why contact me now? Who would want to stir up these feelings in a woman of my age? Even more disturbing, did the note have something to do with Mr Rossetti’s appearance? It hardly seemed a coincidence.
Claire's Last Secret Page 5
