by Lona Manning
Obviously her uncle had been unwilling to name Mary’s husband, whom he detested, to his old friend. Mary supplied the information, that she was the wife of “Edmund Bertram, son of Sir Thomas Bertram.”
“Mr. Bertram?” Admiral Fremantle laughed, “Not ‘captain’ or ‘admiral’? I would have thought Admiral Crawford’s pretty niece could have had her pick of the Navy, eh?”
“We cannot all have your wife’s good fortune, sir.”
“And when may my wife and I have the pleasure of making Mr. Bertram’s acquaintance?” The admiral looked about him, as if expecting to see a husband appear from behind the potted palms.
“Mr. Bertram is in England at present—” Mary began, feeling a flutter of anxiety, but speaking very calmly, as though there were nothing out of the ordinary in travelling without one’s husband. But Mrs. Fremantle gasped in surprise.
“Gracious!” she exclaimed solicitously. “And you are left here alone, Mrs. Bertram?”
“That is,” Mary added hastily, “family business has called him back to Northamptonshire—”
“The Bertrams of Northamptonshire! Ah! Yes, now I recall.” In an instant, Mrs. Fremantle’s smiles and nods changed to icy disdain. “Mrs. Bertram—Miss Mary Crawford as was. But you will pardon my husband for not remembering you at first, Mrs. Bertram, for we have not moved in the same circles for some time. Come, my dear,” she turned to her husband, giving him a little tug, “we must get you to the baths. Good day, Mrs. Bertram.”
And the bewildered admiral was pulled away, and whilst they were still within Mary’s hearing, Mrs. Fremantle exclaimed to him, “Do you not recall, Thomas—that woman—Lord Elsham—scandal—how could you think of presenting such a creature to my notice!
Mary’s angry and resentful glare followed the Fremantles as they walked away, the lady scolding, the husband abashed.
“Well,” Claire murmured, after a few moments of exceedingly awkward silence. “I perceive that you, too, know what it is to be an outcast!”
Mary tossed her head in vexation, too mortified to speak. The sly grin on Claire’s face at that moment was intolerable to her.
“Do not mind it, Mrs. Bertram,” Claire said, patting Mary on the arm in a manner which Mary found deeply presumptuous, “we shall all be outcasts together. Mrs. Fremantle will not know you—what do we care for Mrs. Fremantle?”
“There comes a time, Miss Clairmont,” said Mary, “When the opinion of the Mrs. Fremantles of the world matters a great deal. One must conform to society—or rise so far above it, that it does not matter. When a lovely woman stoops to folly, says Goldsmith, she has nothing to do but die, but wealth and rank are also known to be clearers of ill-fame.”
“Oh my lord, yes,” said Claire, complacently resuming her meal. “When Shelley becomes Sir Percy, he will be respectable and rich. We have only to wait for his father to die, and that will not be much longer.”
Chapter 16: London, Summer 1818
To receive a letter of any kind was an unusual occurrence for Prudence Imlay. To receive a letter all the way from France added an extra fillip of pleasure. To receive a letter from Mr. Gibson that bore her name in the salutation and his signature at the end, was a circumstance so delightful that Prudence thought the world could do little more for her.
My dear Miss Imlay,
I am taking the liberty of writing you directly to thank you for the informative letter which you were so obliging as to enclose with John’s brief note to me. As you know, John Price is a most unsatisfactory correspondent, and your memorandum giving me particulars of the London literary scene in my absence was very much appreciated.
I have, as you may imagine, spent no small portion of my time here in Paris in haunting the book shops. My books are here; they have been translated for the edification of the French and the enrichment of some-one other than me.
And now I come to my request, which I would rather entrust to you than to John, even though Betsey is his sister. It has been my custom to send books to Miss Betsey Price every September for her birthday. I believe she is about 14 or 15 years old now. Could I ask you to select two or three volumes and send them to her with my compliments. Her direction in Portsmouth is below. Please call on my banker, I have made the funds available for you.
With my very best wishes,
I remain, etc.
It had become a settled habit for John Price to pass his Saturday afternoons with Prudence, so she restrained her eagerness to fulfil Mr. Gibson’s directives until they might carry out the errand together. John looked over the list, and asked, “Why would Mr. Gibson want Lamb’s Tales from Shakespeare?”
“Because these books are not for Mr. Gibson,” said Prudence, and who could be begrudge her if she revelled in the consciousness of her superior knowledge. “It is strange, you know,“ she added, “that I only learn from Mr. Gibson, and not from you, that you have a sister named Betsey.”
“She was just a baby when I left home,” said John. “I have not been back to Portsmouth since. I don’t know her.”
“Then how does Mr. Gibson know her?”
John related the story of Mr. Gibson’s adventures in the Navy with his oldest brother William, and how he had come back from Africa half-dead with yellow fever, and convalesced in his family’s attic. “But I didn’t know him at that time, you see. I was gone from Portsmouth for all of that.”
Prudence was very taken at the thought of the author lying ill in a cheerless attic. He might have died, unknown and unlamented, with his novels never written. “Should we ever go to Portsmouth,” she said, “you must show me where it was.”
John shrugged. “My father moved about so often, I hardly know which house it was. And say, why should we go to Portsmouth?”
Prudence shook her head, in a pitying sort of way. “Never mind.”
They had been walking together during this interesting conversation, and had reached Skinner Street, where they entered the shabby premises of the Juvenile Library, a book shop specialising in books for young people. Mr. Gibson had authorised Prudence to select several more volumes for Betsey, and the pair were soon happily employed in their favourite pastime, sampling and comparing books.
“Although I cannot know what your sister might like, or what she might have read, since you know nothing about her,” remarked Prudence.
“Allow me to recommend these books of popular history,” interposed the shopkeeper, a severe-looking woman with green spectacles perched on her nose. “Or perhaps the young lady would care for a French grammar?”
Prudence looked at John, and John shrugged.
“I suppose anything will do,” said John, “since we don’t know.”
The book shop was low-ceilinged, and at that moment, directly above their heads, Prudence and John heard the sound of a chair scraping back across the floor, followed by heavy footsteps. They could distinctly hear two men quarrelling:
“I have reached the limit of my endurance! Begone, sir! You shall have your monies when I receive funds from my son-in-law Mr. Shelley!”
“And when might this miracle occur, Mr. Godwin?”
“He is at present in Italy. Your rapacity, sir, your unconscionable greed, in seeking to extract monies—
“For eighteen months’ worth of unpaid rent, Mr. Godwin!”
“I could condemn you, sir, for the blackguard you are, but I feel only pity, as your diabolical heartlessness in conspiring to eject my wife and our two little boys into the street, to deprive us even of the means of conducting our livelihood, must be, as it ought to be, felt by you as a grievous reproach upon your conscience, a black stain upon your soul! Good DAY, sir!”
There followed the sound of footsteps coming heavily down a staircase, a door flew open, a man attired in sober black burst through, looked over to the sales counter, said, “Good day to you, Mrs. Godwin,” and departed, slamming the shop door behind him. The entire building shook and Mrs. Godwin made herself very busy behind the counter with some stacks of pap
ers as though nothing of what had just passed had anything to do with her.
John’s mouth set in a firm line. Prudence watched, surprised, as he took up the copy of Tales from Shakespeare and dropped some money on the counter. Without another word, he snatched Prudence’s arm and pulled her out of the shop.
“That,” he said, as they regained the street, “was the sound of my childhood. Except for the Italy part. And father swore rather more and did not use the larger words. But in essentials, that was my childhood—always hiding from our creditors, always expecting to be thrown out on the street and disgraced in front of our neighbours. If I ever have children, I will never, ever, suffer them to endure the same.”
“Oh, John!” cried Prudence. She had never seen him so moved before, so distressed. “No, indeed they will not. Not if I have anything to say about it.”
* * * * * * *
Mr. Orme usually chose to walk to his chambers, it being the only mode of exercise available to him during the week, as his practise was a busy one. On a wet morning in October, he was passing along Essex Street when a miserable-looking man in shabby clothes accosted him. Orme paused, expecting a tragic tale and a solicitation for monies, but the man said: “I beg your pardon sir, are you a man of the law?”
“I am. What business do you want with me?” returned Mr. Orme, looking with some distaste at the man’s unkempt appearance. One of his eyes looked off at a different angle than the other, and Mr. Orme was perplexed as to which eye he should be looking at.
“I need an attorney, sir, for to help me collect some monies that are owing to me, a very great sum indeed sir, fully two thousand pounds, so that I should be pleased to share whatever you might think is right, if you could assist me.”
Orme did not want to bring the fellow into his office—he smelled foul, for one thing, and his claim to be the rightful owner of such a large sum also strained credulity.
“Step over here. I shall give you three minutes of my time for you to explain yourself. What is your name?
“My name is Benjamin Walker, sir.”
“And you are from the North, I perceive.”
“Yes, sir. I was a witness at a great trial in York, sir, that no doubt you will recollect, for the murder of Mr. Horsfall, sir, the mill-owner, what was shot down.”
“Yes, I recall that trial. And you say you were a witness? For the Crown?”
“That is, to my shame, I was there when they killed Mr. Horsfall—but it were George Mellor who done it and he forced the rest of us to go along— but I was the only one who came forward and confessed. And I got pardoned, sir.”
“Well then, you were very fortunate to have escaped the noose,” Orme rejoined, looking at him with undisguised distaste. The man did not have the appearance of one who had subsequently engaged in penitential and benevolent acts of atonement. He looked like a man who drank every penny he was given and slept in ditches.
“The thing is, sir, they offered a reward for them as could provide the information for to solve the murder, and I gave the evidence, but afterwards, they just turned me out of jail and I have been distressed for work ever since, I can’t live at home no more, everybody hates me and wishes me dead, and I have no education and cannot make my own case. So I need an attorney, you see.”
“So did you come forward for the reward, or because of a guilty conscience?”
“I never asked for nowt, sir. I never knew about no reward,” Walker protested. “But they took me up and kept me in jail and they kept telling me, ‘we know that you did it, but speak out, and you shall have two thousand pounds,’ that’s what they said to me, sir, and then they took up my old mother, sir, and put her in jail, and I thought I had better confess.”
“But now? What do they tell you now?”
“They tell me I can’t have no money, sir. But, everyone knows it was on my word that my comrades were hung and that’s why I can’t go home.”
Orme frowned. With the utmost reluctance, he said, “I shall look into this matter for you.”
“Oh, thank you sir!”
“It may take some time. My name is Orme. You may call upon my office in one fortnight’s time.” Orme then pressed a few shillings into the man’s grimy hand. “Go and get something to eat. I shall not make a habit of this—you must shift for yourself as best as you can—but I will seek a reply from the authorities in Yorkshire, which ought to settle the matter one way or another.”
“Thank you, sir! God bless you, sir!”
Chapter 17: Italy, Summer 1818
Mary was astonished at her own folly and irresolution. Here she was—free, independent, able to go where she willed, clever, beautiful and in possession of ten thousand pounds. When she lived with Edmund, freedom had worn a very different aspect—freedom had beckoned her, sung to her, called her until she thought she might go mad with longing to escape. Instead, she lingered on in this boring provincial town, repenting of throwing away her lost opportunity to conquer London society on the wings of Shelley’s genius. The next moment, she was wondering how best to punish him and all his household.
Shelley sent her long, passionate letters twice a day, and that same irresolution made her hesitate between casting them into the fireplace unread, or reading them eagerly and dwelling on every word. In the end, she read them and then burned them.
He reiterated the arguments he made at their parting—they were intended for one another, but a malign Fate had kept them apart—they had tragically, mistakenly, pledged themselves to others—but, what of that? He lived for the pursuit of truth, so did she—why, therefore, live a life of falsehood? Why, secure in the knowledge of his love for her, should she be jealous of his wife?
“Surely our mutual situations compel us to disregard all considerations but that of the happiness of each other.”
His misery was so gratifying. “Comfort at least by your pity a heart torn by your indifference—lend me some aid to endure the trial you have brought upon me—one of blighted hopes—a life of loneliness.” How different from Edmund’s final, cold parting!
Of all the inducements operating in Shelley’s favour, the conviction of being wanted was not the least attractive. Edmund did not need her. Once, he professed to love her, but now he only tolerated her as a duty. Shelley said he needed her and his letters often included some bewitching poetry that breathed his despair.
Secondly, there was the consideration that Shelley’s wife was neither amiable nor happy. She had stolen Shelley away from his first wife—Claire confirmed it—it were only justice to visit the same fate on her.
If the drama had played out in London, perhaps Mary Crawford Bertram would have resisted. But she was in Italy, breathing the air of romance, under an Italian sky, her ears assailed nightly with Italian love songs strummed on the guitar, and—she was intensely lonely.
She resumed her early morning horseback excursions into the forest, re-visiting the glade where she and Shelley met. He was not there the first day, nor the second, and she feared he had forsaken the spot because of its melancholy associations. But on the third day, she saw him there, in his usual place above the waterfall, with his notebook.
Mary thought she would never forget, so long as she lived, the look which crossed Percy Shelley’s countenance when he looked up and beheld her. He looked as a man under sentence of execution might look when an angel flings open the door to his cell and tells him he is free. For a long moment, they looked at one another.
Her last remnants of pride and reserve prevented Mary from being the first to break the silence. Under no circumstances would she sue for terms—it was up to Shelley to confess his error, to beg her pardon.
But in this, once again, she was to find herself betraying her resolutions, for Shelley climbed down from his rocky perch, went up to her, reached up to take her hand, and said: “If your whole soul does not urge you to forgive me—if your entire heart does not open wide to admit me to its very centre—forsake me, never speak to me again.”
Hi
s beautiful eyes were filled with longing and despair. His countenance, his whole being, said, if you leave me again, I shall die. Mary exclaimed—she protested—she was, somehow, once again in his arms.
* * * * * * *
Mary and Shelley enjoyed a rapturous reunion and for a few weeks were exceedingly happy. Shelley’s verse poured from him like an overflowing stream, while Mary sketched her plans for launching him in London society. She would pay for a slim, handsome volume of his poetry, and distribute it to every person of taste and influence in town. He could dedicate the book to someone of high rank—perhaps to the new Royal princess, Adelaide.
After she established Shelley amongst the first ranks of poets, she would ask Edmund to divorce her. She could be Lady Shelley one day. She would gain everything she had wanted, by exchanging Edmund Bertram for Percy Shelley. She would be so powerful, so famous, so wealthy and so notorious, that no-one would dare turn their back on her again.
There was such a thing as destiny! And she had found hers, at long last! She would make him famous, and he would make her immortal, in his poetry.
Not long after their visit to Lucca, Mary was preparing to retire for the evening, when Madame Ciampi’s housemaid announced a visitor.
Shelley appeared—restless, agitated, uneasy. He began to speak, he paused, he wrung his hands and finally fell to his knees beside her.
“Good heavens, Shelley, whatever is the matter?”
“First, you must swear to me, Marina, persuade me of your constancy and love, for everything that I am about to do, and will suffer for our sakes, is with one aim in mind—that we might be together forever.”
