by Lona Manning
And Mary did hesitate, at the loss of everything she had ever wanted. But pride, pride carried it. And she rode away, intending never to speak to Percy Bysshe Shelley again.
Chapter 14: England,
Summer 1818
Fanny was surprised when Mrs. Butters announced a visit to London, given her indifferent state of health, but she wished to consult a solicitor. Of course there were solicitors in Bristol, and in London her own son was in fact a solicitor, but Mrs. Butters wanted to engage someone new, and Fanny did not enquire into her reasons.
“There is my cousin Maria’s husband, Mr. Orme,” Fanny had suggested. “I believe his reputation is very good.”
Mrs. Butters agreed that Fanny might write to her cousin and arrange an appointment with Mr. Orme, and, when all was set in motion, Mrs. Butters prepared to leave for London along with Madame Orly, now Madame Duchesne, and her husband, to see them established in town. Mrs. Butters’ friend, Mr. Meriwether—that same Mr. Meriwether who was the husband of Margaret—had resumed his wine trade and opened a warehouse in London. Thanks to the intervention of Fanny and Mrs. Butters, he had taken Captain Duchesne as his agent, and the business was prospering well. “In good times or bad, Fanny,” Mrs. Butters remarked, as she stood by her carriage, tugging her glove on her hand, “gentlemen will find the funds for wine.”
Fanny had wanted to be of the party going to London for more than one reason. She had recently received one of her brother John’s brief notes, which he sent in response to her longer ones. Lately, someone named Prudence had been mentioned in his letters. Fanny was very curious, but hardly knew how to question her taciturn brother by return of post.
In addition, Fanny wanted to be in constant attendance upon her benefactress, given her poor health. But Mrs. Butters made it clear that Fanny was to remain behind in Bristol. Their ladies’ bazaar had become such a successful enterprise, it now made considerable demands upon Fanny’s time and ingenuity—she was needed in Bristol.
Old Mr. McIntosh climbed up into his seat and took up the reins, but Madame Duchesne had not descended from her old room. Fanny volunteered to go up and find her. Her knock on the door was answered with a quiet, “entrez.” Fanny came in and found the Frenchwoman sitting by the window, dressed for her journey, gazing at a miniature in her hand. She looked up and smiled at Fanny, but it was a wistful smile.
“I am just talking to Jean-Phillipe,” she said. Fanny drew closer and Madame Duchesne held up the miniature so that she could examine it.
“Is this—is this your fiancée, from when you were a girl in France?” Fanny asked.
Madame nodded. “Yes, this is he. It is strange, but I felt I needed to say au revoir to him before I start my new life in London.”
“Don’t you think he would have wanted you to be happy?” Fanny offered.
“I shall be happy. I am not asking for his permission,” said Madame Duchesne with a wry little smile. “But I owe him this much. A moment for a fond farewell. He was the love of my girlhood.” She kissed the miniature lightly, and then began to wrap it in a piece of silk.
“You know, Fanny,” she said. “I was only fourteen when my parents arranged my betrothal to Jean-Phillipe. Who knows what our lives would have been together? One can never know what might have happened.” Looking up at Fanny, she added, “and neither will you, I suppose. You might have defied your uncle and been happy with Mr. Gibson.”
“The circumstances are very different,” said Fanny impulsively. “You had no choice about what happened to you and your poor fiancée. But I had to make a choice, and I did. And at least I know that Susan is very happy, and how could I have been happy myself, knowing I had destroyed my sister’s happiness?”
“What is this? Why do you speak of your sister?”
Fanny shook her head. “I didn’t speak of it, for fear Susan would feel herself under a debt of gratitude to me. I told you and Mrs. Butters that my uncle had spoken out against the match, and yes, I had my own doubts, but as well, Mr. Miller, that is to say, my sister’s father-in-law, well, he—"
Just then, Mrs. Butters called up from the bottom of the stairs.
“Madame! We shall leave for London without you!”
“Coming, Madame Butters!” Madame Duchesne snatched Fanny by the hand. “You might have confided this to me, Fanny! I thought we were friends!”
“Promise me,” said Fanny, “that you will tell no-one. For no-one needs to know. Please.”
Madame Duchesne didn’t answer, but hurried down the stairs, followed by Fanny. She put the conversation aside to say an affectionate farewell to Mrs. Butters.
“Dear madam—I cannot help but feel you ought to put off this journey,” Fanny murmured in her ear. “Indeed, I fear you are not well.”
“Then I shall go now, and hurry back,” Mrs. Butters replied.
Captain Duchesne solicitously handed the old widow up into her carriage, then his wife, then he took his own seat and the horses pulled away.
* * * * * * *
Mr. Miller had assumed as a matter of course, that Mrs. Price would devote all of her time to her daughter Susan during and after her lying-in. The old baker doted upon his daughter-in-law, and he was surprised when her own mother did not appear.
He did not visit Mrs. Price very frequently, because she had taken up the habit of enquiring if he might find some employment for her poor son Sam. This plea laid him under the inconvenient and awkward necessity of declining, and when pushed, to bluntly explain he would only hire a one-armed man to work in his bakery if he could find no more two-armed men in Portsmouth. Mrs. Price had persevered, he had as steadily refused.
The arrival of the little stranger at least furnished a different topic of conversation, so that Mr. Miller felt he might hazard a brief visit to wish her joy.
He knocked at the door and waited for some time before a trollopy-looking servant opened the door and escorted him to the little parlour.
“That is not Eliza, I think,” he remarked as he took his seat, after the servant had gone through the swinging-door.
“Eliza!” Mrs. Price exclaimed. “Eliza was gone last winter. And another after her. No-one, my dear Mr. Miller, has been so much plagued about their servants as I have! When my dear husband was alive, we kept an upper and lower servant you know, but now I find I can only have a stout girl of all work, and nothing will answer.”
“It is a very great pity for you, ma’am. But you have something more cheerful to think on—your new grand-son.”
Mrs. Price expressed her pleasure and satisfaction, in answer to his congratulations, and added that, out of consideration for Susan, she would put off her visit until the child was a little older, “when Susan is sufficiently recovered to entertain visitors.”
“I see,” said Mr. Miller, though he really did not. “Still, it is excellent news that Susan and the baby are both very well.”
“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Price complacently. “Susan is in very good hands with your family, Mr. Miller. It is a blessing to me at my time of life, to see her so well provided for. If only I could say that for all of my children! It has been such a struggle, you know, getting them all out into the world!”
She appeared to be veering toward a renewal of her pleas for her unfortunate son Sam but then, to Mr. Miller’s relief, some association of ideas prompted a different thought: “You know, Mr. Miller, I have been reviving my idea of going back to Northamptonshire.”
“Indeed ma’am. I think I have heard you mention the idea once or twice before. Is there some change—is your daughter gone to Northamptonshire?”
“No, Betsey is here with me, of course.”
“I meant to enquire,” said Mr. Miller, “after Miss Price.”
“Oh, you mean Fanny! No, she is still in Bristol.”
“I think she has not married?”
“No... no. She is... let me think...” Mrs. Price set down her knitting, the better to recollect. “William is thirty this year, so Fanny must be six-and-tw
enty. I have given over expecting it, now.”
Mr. Miller found that this was not such a comfortable topic for him, either.
Chapter 15: Italy, Summer 1818
Mary had resolved never to speak to Percy Bysshe Shelley again, but she was still in possession of his trunk filled with his books and notebooks. She spent a day obsessively looking through the contents, then, vexed to the last degree with herself, she sent Lucenza out to hire some men to take the trunk up the hill to the Casa Bertini. The maid soon returned with an Italian servant blessed with more than the usual profusion of thick dark curly hair.
“I told you to hire two men, Lucenza.”
“I met this man in front of the casino, signora. He says he is the manservant of Mr. Shelley.”
“Tell Mr. Shelley you got this trunk at the post office, do you hear?” Mary said, holding out some coins.
The man smiled, revealing a row of brilliant white teeth. “At the post office. Of course, Signora.” He bowed, and with a humble expression, added, “Excuse me, Signora, with your gracious permission, I appear in my shirt in your presence.” He slowly removed his jacket, evidently taking no small pride in the display of his muscular form, and handed the jacket to Lucenza, who goggled.
He advanced confidently upon the trunk. Mary hid a smile as he made a first effort to lift it—and such was the vanity of the servant, preening himself under Lucenza’s admiring gaze, that he somehow managed to lift the trunk on his second attempt and stagger through the door. How he proposed to get his burden up the hill to Shelley’s house, Mary hardly knew or cared. Lucenza, not daring to meet her mistress’s eye, murmured, “I shall follow him, Signora, and return his jacket to him.”
“What of your Englishman, Lucenza?” Mary demanded irritably. “Have you forgotten him already?”
Lucenza giggled and simpered, and Mary wanted to give her a good slap. Instead, she let her go, so she could be alone.
She knew she should order Lucenza to pack up her trunks, she knew she should leave Bagni di Lucca, but curiosity, pride and spite kept her locked in place. To retreat would be to admit how deeply she had allowed Shelley to wound her.
A few days later, Mary was seated at her preferred table near the promenade at the al fresco café. While she declined to speak to anyone in town, her lively mind still demanded a place where she could watch her fellow Englishmen as they passed up and down the street. She was waiting for her dinner to be brought when she noticed the dark-haired girl known as Claire being carried down from the upper village in a sedan chair. Knowing the poverty of the Shelley household, Mary wondered that the girl had even a few scuttis to spare for such an indulgence, but the question was answered when Claire called for the bearers to stop. As they handed her out of the chair, it became apparent she had sustained some injury, for she limped slowly toward the cafe, wincing and grimacing as she came. She then paused and looked about her, no doubt desiring to find an unoccupied table in the remotest corner where she might dine on meat without being observed.
Seized by the impulse of the moment, Mary rose and saluted her cordially: “Excuse me. You would be doing me a very great kindness if you consented to join me at my table. When dining alone, a lady is always the prey of impertinent men, and is unkindly remarked upon by the ladies as well. Let us defend each other from the malicious tongues of those who are disposed to find fault, whether we eat too much or too little. Please, say you will help me dispatch some fowl and a dish of gnocchi.”
The promise of a good meal was irresistible to the impoverished Englishwoman. She introduced herself as ‘Claire Clairmont.’ Her sister and Mr. Shelley, her sister’s husband, were gone riding in the mountains, but she had tumbled from her horse the previous evening, and she was resentful the excursion had not been postponed until her knee was better.
Mary felt a fierce wave of jealousy and anger wash over her at the thought of Shelley enjoying the countryside without her, but she expressed only solicitude. “You must bathe your limb frequently, Miss Clairmont. I am certain the hot baths will be efficacious.”
It was very easy to draw Miss Clairmont into conversation, for she had made no new acquaintance in Bagni di Lucca. When the ladies discovered they both spoke French, they turned to that language.
“You say you are here with your sister and her husband. I believe I saw your sister the other day, out walking with a little boy. A handsome woman with beautiful hair, is that not so?”
“And they have a baby girl also,” said Claire, passing over the opportunity to pay tribute to her sister’s beauty.
Mary motioned the waiter to pour out another glass of wine for her guest and ventured, “Mrs. Shelley must be very obliged to you, when she is so far from home, and with two small children to watch over!”
“She is not even my half-sister,” said Claire, with a harsh, unladylike laugh, and Mary watched, amused, as discretion struggled with the urge to unburden herself to a stranger. “That is to say, my mother is married to her father, but Mr. Godwin is not my father.” This explained, thought Mary, how the sisters could be so different in form, colouring, hair, eyes, and temperament. Miss Clairmont’s skin was even browner than Mary’s own; her eyes and hair were black and but for her dress, she might have been taken for a native of the region.
Mary leaned forward and said confidingly: “We have this in common, Miss Clairmont. I too have a half-sister, rather older than I, but we are very close. I lived with Anna and her husband for a time, before my own marriage. It is not always desirable to be a captive spectator of someone else’s union, do you not agree? If the marriage is unhappy, one is awkwardly situated—if happy, then one is perhaps a little envious.”
“Have you met my sister’s husband, Mrs. Bertram? Have you met Mr. Shelley?”
Mary pushed her pasta about on her plate. “I have made no acquaintance in Bagni di Lucca, save you. I may have seen him. I am not certain.”
“If you had seen him, you would be in no doubt of it. He is that sort of person.”
“This chicken is not very tender, is it?” remarked Mary with a careless air. Then, “what sort of person is he?”
Claire looked off into the distance, struggling for the words. “He is like no other man. When he first came to our house to meet Mr. Godwin, I thought he was some kind of angel. There is something unearthly about his countenance, his address—or rather, he is completely a part of nature, as though he shares the same spirit with the trees and the sky. He is consumed with the world of his ideas, so much so, that we fear he will forget to eat, or even to breathe. He is a poet.”
“A poet! Just fancy! And have I read any of his works? Is he published?”
Claire took another long sip of her wine. “He is published, yes, but scarcely read—not by anyone. But, oh my lord, he is most awfully clever. You should hear him, when he is in conversation with Lord Byron.”
Mary knew that as an Englishwoman, she was obliged to say, “Lord Byron!” with great interest, or it would be thought odd. “Are you acquainted with Lord Byron? Pray, what is he like?”
Claire tossed her head. “I was dazzled by him, briefly, as most girls are.” She bit her lip and laughed. “At Como, we were guests at Lord Byron’s villa, you know, and the landlord of the inn across the lake kept a telescope, so that his guests could spy on Byron and watch his comings and goings. His maid hung some tablecloths out to dry, and it was given out that they were Mary’s and my petticoats, and that we were part of his harem.”
“Ah yes, our fellow-countrymen have the most vicious and censorious minds. They delight in being scandalized.”
“And yet, you know, Byron did use to say terrible things about women,” Claire scowled. “He was fond of saying women ought to be shut up in seraglios. I am sorry to disabuse you, Mrs. Bertram, if you are an admirer of Byron, but if you knew him as I do, you would understand he is utterly arrogant, vain and cruel.”
“Oh, dear.” Mary could not feign interest in Byron any longer. “Well then, Miss Clairmont, how l
ong will you stay here at Bagni di Lucca?”
“It is nothing to do with me,” answered Claire with a touch of resentment, as she speared another piece of chicken from the platter. “I shall have no say whether we come or we go. Oh my lord, this town is most dreadfully dull. I should far rather be in Rome or even Livorno.” She sighed. “It is no matter. Shelley is always restless. I would lay odds that within a month he will be ready to move again. We have changed houses and cities ever so many times!”
“I hope that Mr. and Mrs. Shelley are not unhappy in Bagni di Lucca?”
“Oh, they like it tolerably well, I suppose. They intend to take many more excursions on horseback.” This thought brought fresh effusions of self-pity and resentment at being left behind.
As Claire complained of her ill-treatment, Mary became aware of a dignified, grey-haired man of military bearing, arm-in-arm with a well-dressed lady, who had paused nearby and was looking at her most intently. She met his eye, he drew closer and addressed her thus: “I beg your pardon madam, but do I not behold Admiral Crawford’s pretty little niece?”
“I am niece to Admiral Crawford, yes, sir,” answered Mary.
“I thought so! I never forget a pretty face! And such eyes! When did I last meet you? More than ten years ago, I fancy, when I was in visiting your uncle, and he called you into the parlour to play on your harp for us. Betty, my dear,” he said, turning to his lady, “this is Admiral Crawford’s niece.”
“And you, sir, I think, are Admiral Fremantle?” Mary replied.
“I am delighted you remember me!” the Admiral cried. “Indeed, what an unexpected pleasure to meet with you again. Your uncle, you will be pleased to hear, was in tolerable health and spirits when I last saw him—not two months ago—in London—as lively as ever he was—has it really been twenty years gone since we served in the Mediterranean together!” The old sailor shook his head. “Well, Miss Crawford, upon my word, but it is most extraordinary seeing you here, of all places! But of course you are no longer Miss Crawford? I did enquire of you to the admiral and he said you were married.”
