Claire's Last Secret

by Marty Ambrose

  ‘N–no, but I … I feared perhaps you had reconsidered or had become ill.’ Even as I said the words, I shook off my fanciful imaginings.

  ‘Come, let us sit down, and I will tell you what I found.’ We strolled over to the front pew and sat down, side by side.

  Once seated, I turned to him. ‘I must know if Allegra survived.’

  He paused. ‘Let me tell you first what I do know: Mr Rossetti is an English tourist and quite respectable from what my sources could tell me. It is apparently true that he traveled here to meet you and purchase your letters.’

  ‘And Allegra?’

  ‘I found records in the biblioteca that Allegra Byron was placed in the Convent of Bagnacavallo in the spring of 1821, as you told me. Her name appears in the roll, along with about twelve other young girls who were the same age. Some of them were British and some were Italian. Nothing else was recorded in the provincial records except …’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘What?’ My voice held a note of urgency.

  ‘During April of 1822, typhus swept through the convent, and many children died—’

  ‘Was Allegra one of them?’ Deep sadness began to well up around my heart like a poisoned fountain, drowning all light and hope in bleakness. I had been a fool to even dare believe that my daughter had survived.

  ‘It is likely she … succumbed to the disease,’ he said, touching my arm. ‘Very few children survived it in the convent.’

  ‘But do you have proof?’

  ‘Not exactly—’

  ‘So then it is possible that she lived?’

  Glancing down for a few moments, he patted my hand. ‘If she had survived the typhus, surely she would have been returned to her father. Did he not say at the time that she had died?’

  ‘Not himself. I heard about her death from Shelley and Mary, though they hid it from me for five days after Byron sent word to them. They said they were waiting for the right time to give me the details, for my sake, but I never quite believed that. Then the death certificate came, but it was much later.’ I remembered how Shelley had entered the room where I had been reading, his steps tentative and his face drawn tight with sadness. I knew bad news was coming, but I had never dreamed it would be the type that caused my world to stop.

  ‘Why would you not believe them?’

  ‘Just a feeling … I always thought that Byron asked them to wait, but I never could work out why. Now I have a reason to question his behavior. Perhaps she did not really die?’ I ended on a question, but Father Gianni shook his head imperceptibly.

  ‘Be careful not to give in to false hope,’ he urged with gentle kindness. ‘I have written to the Mother Superior at the convent to verify Allegra’s death certificate and then, when I receive her response, I will send it to you as final proof of what happened to your daughter.’ He paused. ‘After that, there will be no question, but prepare yourself because I have no reason to believe that her fate was any different from what you have believed all of these years.’

  I sat back, taking in his wise words. Of course, Father Gianni was right. I had let my emotions take me into a place of unfounded fantasies. Silly. Desperate. Foolish. ‘I understand, Father, and thank you.’ I began to rise, but he signaled for me to wait with a quick flick of his hand and I slid back down.

  ‘One more thing … When I looked at the letter that Byron wrote from Ravenna, it had a faint image at the top. Had you noticed?’

  ‘No.’ My brows knit in puzzlement.

  He retrieved the letter from his robe pocket, unfolded it and pointed at a small ink-drawn image of a bowl with a star etched on the front. ‘See, right here?’

  Squinting without my spectacles, I noted the drawing. ‘I never really noticed it – just assumed it was an absent-minded mark he had drawn.’

  ‘Perhaps it seemed that way to you, but Italians would immediately recognize it as a charcoal burner.’

  I shrugged in helpless confusion.

  ‘Let me explain it to you with something that I left on my desk.’ He rose to his feet, still clutching the letter. ‘Wait here and I will be back – un momento.’

  ‘But …’

  Ignoring my protestations, he quickly disappeared through the altar’s side door.

  Was Father Gianni showing the signs of his age? A silly drawing of a charcoal burner hardly seemed significant. All I wanted to know was whether Allegra was alive; the rest was nothing to me. More than likely, he had found some little-known historical fact about the image and simply wanted me to know – maybe as a distraction – but I waited nonetheless out of respect for him.

  As the minutes passed, I glanced up at the large dome overhead, decorated with frescos and ornate gold trim. It always took me aback with its serene, awe-inspiring beauty, but I felt only impatience at this moment. Tapping my toe on the stone floor, I twisted my head to peer at the door, trying to will Father Gianni to appear. For the second time today, he kept me waiting and wondering …

  When I could bear it no longer, I strolled toward the side altar door, expecting him to appear at any moment. When he did not, I let myself into the adjacent room known as the Old Sacristy, an ancient part of the basilica that allowed only priests. Once inside, I let my eyes adjust to the shadowed light and, as the room gradually became clear, I saw Father Gianni … lying crumpled beneath the marble statue of Cosimo de’ Medici.

  Quickly, I rushed forward to see if he was breathing, calling out for help: ‘Aiuto! Aiuto!’ Kneeling down, I gently turned him over and saw a gaping wound near his heart.

  Dio mio.

  He had been stabbed and was bleeding profusely.

  ‘Aiuto! Aiuto!’

  Then the room began to spin into blackness.

  Captain Parker’s Log

  April 8, 1815

  At sea near Java

  We have spent three days under full sail after leaving Makassar, attempting to find the source of the ash shower; it had continued to rain down on us since we first felt the explosion, but luckily we were able to navigate through it and catch enough wind to keep the Fortuna moving southwest. Only a volcanic eruption could have caused the eerie darkness that blocked out the sun day and night and triggered the sooty taste in the air, but we had no sense of its origin.

  Any survivors would be in shock – starving and desperate – so we were compelled by a great sense of urgency.

  At least the world had not ended.

  First, we sailed to the village of Djokjakarta, on the island of Java, but found nothing amiss in the bustling streets when we went ashore – only people going about their business in the warm, stifling humidity. British authorities told me there might have been a small eruption from Mount Bromo on a mostly uninhabited part of the island to the east. They did not appear concerned since they had no reports of affected islanders, and the volcanic ash appeared to be falling less and less each day.

  Still, we were unconvinced. The wildlife on Java seemed unnaturally hushed and still, as if waiting for nature to make its next move. Scant whiffs of an offshore breeze stirred the palm tree fronds and no birds appeared in the skies – a muted quiet that seemed to bode ill for the island.

  We sailed the Fortuna around the south shoreline of Java, scanning the mountain range with our telescopes for some sign of an active volcano: the jagged peaks of Merapi, Klut and Bromo could be seen in the distance, rugged yet calm. Their staggered formation dominated the landscape, but they, too, seemed quiet.

  Lowering my binoculars in puzzlement, I theorized from the wind direction that the ash cloud must have drifted west from yet another island.

  But which one?

  I gazed up at the sun hidden behind thick, shaded skies as far as the eye could see, and rapidly calculated where the closest volcano was located.

  Tambora. Due east, located on the northern shore of Sumbawa in the Java Sea, Mount Tambora had erupted many times in the distant past, but had lain dormant for the last century. Locals respected and feared its looming presence, but I had never a
ctually seen it.

  The Fire Mountain – that is what they called it.

  When I told my men that we should set sail for Tambora, some of the Javanese exchanged glances of fear; I heard the words ‘Mandara’ and ‘Saleh.’ Not knowing what they meant, I asked my first mate to translate and, after some discussion with them, he told me that they spoke of a legendary kingdom, which once sat at the foot of Mount Tambora. Its ruler, King Mandara, had reportedly insulted a traveling merchant named Saleh who cursed him and caused the mountain to erupt and destroy the kingdom.

  The Bay of Saleh was born.

  I gave a dismissive shrug as he finished the story: a fairy tale. Even if it were true, that was long ago, and a thriving town now stood in its place.

  But when my English crewmen heard the story, they crossed themselves and begged that we head back to Makassar until other British ships could join us; they also did not want to put our precious cargo at further risk.

  For a few moments, I considered agreeing to their request, but then I shook off the foolishness of such thoughts. ‘That is but a legend – a story told to entertain children,’ I assured them. ‘The eruption is over, and if it were Mount Tambora we need to make for the island to rescue any survivors. Following the rules of the sea, we cannot abandon them when it may be days before other vessels can join us. To be sure, our cargo will not suffer if we take a few more days to search.’

  The men looked down, shuffling their feet on the deck in guilty assent.

  So we sailed east, ever watchful for pirates who might also be drawn to the source of a natural disaster to pillage any unguarded villages.

  We knew not what awaited us when we arrived at Tambora, but we were resolved.

  The Fire Mountain.

  FOUR

  Villa Diodati, Geneva, Switzerland, 1816

  ‘When will these storms end?’ I moaned, staring out of the window. Sunless skies met the choppy waves of Lake Geneva in a tapestry of dreariness, day after day. The chilly winds. The endless cloudy days. The unrelenting lightning. ‘You would think I had become used to this weather growing up in England, but I have never experienced such depressing weather.’

  Mary sat next to the fireplace where the wood blazed its crackling warmth into the morning room – an intimate space, decorated with gilt furniture and a pink marble mantle; she was rocking William’s cradle as she stared into the flames. ‘It drains the spirit. I find myself drifting through the day like a ghost who is trying to find a restful place.’

  ‘Maybe we are dead and simply do not know it,’ I said, moving away from the window. Mary and I sat alone with little William in the room – Byron and Shelley had gone out riding in spite of the drizzle. Without their presence, we always found ourselves even more bored and restless with the gloomy weather. ‘What do you think, Mary? Are we the living dead?’

  She sighed. ‘It feels like it – except that my sweet boy brings me back to the reality of being alive.’ Smiling, she reached down and brushed his soft hair. ‘Is he not the most beautiful creature that you have ever seen?’

  ‘Of course.’ I heard him make little baby noises that I now found so dear, considering my own condition. Surreptitiously, my hand covered the slight swell of my stomach hidden under my billowy white cotton dress.

  A log broke apart in the fireplace, causing tiny embers to shoot up the chimney.

  ‘Does he know about the child yet?’ Mary asked.

  I winced. ‘No.’

  As always, Mary surprised me with her perceptiveness. We had never spoken about my night-time visits with Byron, since I would wait until she and Shelley had retired for the evening before walking up the short path between our cottage and Diodati. But she knew me too well not to guess about my nocturnal activities.

  ‘You will have to tell him soon …’ Her face held a gentle warning. ‘You don’t want him to hear it from anyone else.’

  ‘Polidori?’

  She nodded. ‘He does seem to make mischief wherever he goes and might drive a wedge between the two of you, if he could.’

  I leaned my forehead against the mantle, staring down at the flames. ‘He dislikes me intensely. I knew it from the first day that we met, but he feels quite differently about you—’

  ‘Stop, Claire. I will not hear any of that nonsense.’ Her translucent skin took on a flush that had nothing to do with her closeness to the fireplace. She was embarrassed because, much to everyone’s surprise, Polidori had become enchanted with Mary. His eyes followed her everywhere, and he had recently taken to writing her the most desperate-sounding poetry. He was besotted and we were all quite amused by it – as much as I could apply humor to Byron’s young physician.

  Even as Polidori gazed longingly at Mary, I was the object of his sharp watchfulness. I could not prove that he had searched through my letters or broken my locket, but my suspicions remained unabated. He was my foe, though I remained puzzled as to why he had taken such a dislike to me from the moment that we met. Perhaps I had done him a wrong in another life. Perhaps he was jealous of my relationship with Byron – or Mary. Who knows? But I kept my distance and my own counsel on this matter. Byron would only laugh if I told him, and Shelley would plead with me to extend compassion to Polidori. Neither option seemed a likely choice for me. So I kept Mary as my sole confidante and stayed ever vigilant.

  ‘When will you tell Byron about the child?’ Mary pressed me.

  ‘Soon.’ I kept staring at the flames. ‘I need to think about when it might be best to give him the news … when he is not so … bitter about having left his wife and his country. There is no question of marriage between us, of course. He has a wife, and I do not think she would want a divorce. Indeed, she is probably praying for his return.’ Who would not want to be with him? ‘No, my situation is very different. All I can really hope for is that he will love me and support our baby.’

  ‘I do understand.’ Mary’s voice echoed through the room. ‘Perhaps we were both too impetuous in our pursuit of love. Neither of them was free, but how could we not follow our hearts? Does not love truly trump all social convention? All mundane definitions of morality?’

  Glancing over my shoulder, I shot her a glance of irony. ‘Are you trying to convince me or yourself?’

  She sighed. ‘Both, I suppose.’

  I moved back to the settee and sat next to Mary, looking down at William’s face – so sweet in repose. ‘What is done is done now. We can never go back. And would we, even if we had the chance? You would not have William, and I would not be expecting my own child. No, this is our destiny, and we must embrace it.’

  ‘Why, Claire, you sound so different from when we first left England – almost fatalistic.’

  ‘Perhaps copying out Byron’s new canto of Childe Harold has affected me,’ I admitted. ‘Every line is about loss and the endless cycles of change in history – some of the verses moved me to tears yesterday. “For pleasures past I do not grieve, / Nor perils gathering near; / My greatest grief is that I leave / No thing that claims a tear.” Is that not the most tragic thing that no one would mourn our deaths?’

  ‘Do not dwell on such dark thoughts,’ Mary warned, gently squeezing my shoulders. ‘It can do no good for you or the child – trust me. Besides, you will always have my support; do not doubt that.’

  Truly?

  I leaned my head on her shoulder as we did when young girls. Although I was the more headstrong of the two of us, I relied on Mary’s strength of character and purpose. Often, I felt drawn in many directions, pulled by the whims of the moment, but Mary grounded me and brought me back to reality.

  ‘Remember when your father, Godwin, married my mother and brought my brother, Charles, and me into your household? I was terrified that he would change his mind and send Mama and us back to the tiny, cramped rooms in south London,’ I reminisced as she smoothed down my wild curls. ‘You took my hand the first day …’

  ‘And showed you all of my books, from Milton’s Paradise Lost to Defoe’s Robin
son Crusoe,’ she finished for me with a soft voice. ‘Could anything have been more tedious than going through every title on my bookshelf?’

  ‘I found it quite kind, though I was never as single-minded about learning as you.’

  ‘True – and I did not have your ear for languages.’

  ‘C’est vrai.’

  Mary laughed. ‘I never thought anything would come between us as sisters – and it has not.’ Yet. The word was left unspoken.

  ‘But men sometimes have a way of changing the bonds between women.’ I raised my head and met her eyes, directly and honestly. ‘We are never so vulnerable as when we are in love. I was so happy for you and Shelley when you pledged your eternal devotion to each other at your mama’s grave. She would have been pleased, but I wanted to have a great love myself.’ I had helped Mary in her secret assignations with Shelley in the cemetery where her mother, the great writer, Mary Wollstonecraft, was buried – and paid the price of my own mother’s disapproval when she found out. Yet I was willing to brave her displeasure in the cause of true love.

  Mary’s eyes shuttered down, and I knew why; she often found the heritage of a famous mother a difficult weight to bear.

  ‘Byron cares for me – in his own way.’ I tried to sound confident, but my voice seemed uncertain, even to my own ears. I had been so eager to see him, to take up where we left off with our passionate encounters outside London. But during the last few weeks, even though I loved him more than ever, he was a changed man from the fiercely ardent poet who became my lover in England. Sad. Bitter. Lonely.

  When we all huddled around the fire at Diodati, conversing on his favorite topics, which ranged from Aristotle’s Poetics to his exploits in Albania as a young man, Byron’s enthusiasm held a hollow note. We had given him the nickname Albe, much to his amusement. But love? I could not say.

  Mary coughed lightly. ‘He is a lost soul, and I am not sure he can love with anything but half a heart. In spite of his bravado, I can see that our dear Albe still mourns the loss of his old life: the social whirl in London and the literati that worshipped him. It is all gone now. I suppose we do not really understand what he has given up since we have never had that kind of fame and adoration, but I think we are poor substitutes.’