A Different Kind of Woman (Mansfield Trilogy Book 3)

by Lona Manning

  Mary felt the blood drain from her head and a wave of dizziness passed over her. She turned her head—the deep brim of her bonnet shaded her face, but only partially, and the violence of her reaction was evident to the two servants, who exchanged interested glances.

  At last, Mary said, “Why—why did Miss Clairmont—where did they go?”

  “To Venice, madam. I escort them part of the way to Venice. I make the arrangements for the—

  “Never mind what you did. Why are they gone to Venice? Why has she gone with him?”

  “I heard them speak of By-ron this, By-ron that.” He nodded wisely. “They go to see Lord By-ron.”

  “When will they return?”

  Paolo bobbed his head deferentially, “I do not know, madam, but when they need my help, Signor Shelley will write me.”

  “He will inform Mrs. Shelley, rather than you, I should think.”

  “Oh, certainly, madam. In fact, I have a letter from Signor Shelley for the Signora, I am taking it to her now.”

  Mary would have given a hundred pounds to know the contents of that letter, but she managed to contain herself and said only: “How will Mrs. Shelley write back to him? What directions did Mr. Shelley give?”

  “He is in Venice, just as I said, madam. Signora Shelley is to write him in care of the post office there.”

  Mary handed him all the money in her pocket, saying, “There is no need to mention this conversation to Mrs. Shelley, do you understand?”

  “Of course!” Foggi winked and smoothed his moustaches. “What conversation, madam? It is already forgotten.” He shrugged his shoulders dramatically. “I had no conversation. Who would I have a conversation with? Of course I have no—”

  “Enough!” she waved him away. “Go home, now.”

  With an elaborate bow for Mary and a dramatic sigh of repressed devotion for Lucenza, the servant took his leave, and Lucenza for once had the good sense to say nothing to her mistress.

  Mary’s first conviction, which froze her blood, was that Claire had run away with Shelley, or rather that Shelley had run away with Claire. But this could only mean Shelley, who had protested his adoration of her, who had named her ‘the partner of his soul,’ was an utter liar and dissembler, and she had been completely taken in. Could it be possible? Could Shelley prefer Claire to herself? And could both Claire and Shelley have practised so entire a deception upon her, and upon the other Mary, who waited for her husband at the far end of the village with their two children?

  Mary tottered forward, but her legs felt like wood beneath her. She tried to keep walking, and breathing, and forcing herself to look at the facts calmly and rationally.

  No—no—it was impossible that Claire could be preferred. Claire Clairmont was just a silly child. There must be was some connection between Claire Clairmont and Lord Byron. She had heard a great deal about Lord Byron’s appetites from her friends in London, and in fact the stories were so shocking, so beyond the bounds of propriety, involving acts and behaviours which scarcely had a name in English, that she regarded them with some scepticism.

  But what other construction could be put on the matter? Shelley had taken Claire with him to Venice—they were both entirely careless of appearances—and now they had not even the chaperonage of their manservant. Foggi must know a great deal more. He knew they spoke of Lord Byron—what else had he seen and heard? Did Shelley and Claire take separate bedrooms at the end of the day’s journey? Did they sit apart in the carriage? Or did they hold hands, did he stroke her dark curls, did he kiss those pink lips, or cause those sparkling dark eyes to light up with laughter?

  With a start, Mary realised that Lucenza might now be a useful source of information. She resolved to no longer restrict her comings and goings—let the foolish chit have as many rendezvous with Shelley’s manservant as she pleased, let him ruin her. Mary would reward her for any information she could bring back.

  “Madam? Madam?” She became aware of Lucenza’s voice calling her.

  Mary stopped and looked about her, and saw she had been so abstracted of mind, she had walked past the post office.

  “We shall walk as far as the bridge today, Lucenza. And call at the post office on the way back.”

  “It is very hot today, madam.”

  Then I shall push you into the river when we get there, Mary thought to herself.

  * * * * * * *

  Upon her return to her rooms, Mary could no longer contain her fury, and she wrote a letter to Shelley, despite the chance the letter might be opened and examined as it passed between here and Venice.

  What am I to suppose, what would any woman suppose, upon learning you travelled with your sister-in-law, unescorted, across Italy? How dare you undertake this journey without informing me she was to be your companion? Only a guilty conscience could explain your silence.

  You always pleaded your tender consideration for your wife. Now, she will be exposed to the scorn of the world!

  This letter should take no more than five days to reach you—within ten days I expect your reply, and if I do not receive it, I shall call upon Casa Bertini and inform your wife that your marriage is at an end. If you will not, I will. Pray, rely upon what I say.

  You have only yourself to blame. Mrs. Shelley may be accustomed to being treated in this fashion, but no woman of spirit endures this usage.

  Her anger had by no means subsided by nightfall, and Mary lay awake for hours, tossing and turning. Sometime before dawn she must have fallen asleep, for she was sleeping soundly when a shrill female cry arose from the courtyard below her window. At first she muttered, rolled over and cursed the Italians, but the screaming and wailing continued, along with cries of Roberto! Roberto! Ah, mio adorato! Non morire, amore mio! and Mary recognized the voice of her maid, Lucenza.

  She heard voices, footsteps, window shutters being flung open, angry shouting.

  Whatever was about to happen next would undoubtedly require that she be awake and dressed to confront it. Indeed, she scarcely had time to arise and pull a dressing gown over her shift, when she heard someone hammering loudly on her door. She looked closely at her mirror, her eyes adjusting to the dim light of moonlight. Curl-papers covered her head—she seized one of Lucenza’s mob caps and put it on, and snatched up a large shawl as the pounding on the door continued. “Signora! Signora! Apri la porta! Signora!”

  Summoning her most British glare of reproof, Mary opened the door and beheld an Italian officer, his too-small uniform smothered in braid and buttons straining across his pot belly. One of Madame Ciampi’s maidservants stood behind, holding up a lamp with one hand and rubbing the sleep out of her eyes with the other.

  “Madam,” the man announced as though bringing tidings of the Apocalypse. “I am Lieutenant Vannini of the Palazzo Communale. There has been an incident.”

  The lieutenant insisted she go downstairs with him. The dining room was half-filled with tourists and local citizens, with more arriving every moment, most of them like Mary in night attire. Everyone was talking at once. Madame Ciampi’s excited tones rose above the general hub-bub, but she spoke with such vehemence that Mary, whose Italian was tolerably good, could not understand her.

  Someone, in all the din, was sobbing hysterically. Mary realized it was Lucenza, squatting down in abject misery on the floor.

  “Be quiet, you miserable creature,” Madame Ciampi scolded. “Hold your tongue!”

  “Speak! You must tell us! You must tell us who attacked the Englishman.” Lt. Vannini began shaking Lucenza’s shoulder.

  It was some time before Mary was able to gather the essential facts—Lucenza had left her chamber and gone downstairs in the middle of the night to meet with her English suitor, the valet. They were talking together—”Huh! Talking! Tell us some more lies!” exclaimed Madame Ciampi— when a man came up behind her and cried, “do not touch our women, you English dog!” In the blink of an eye, he sunk a dagger into the valet’s shoulder, and disappeared into the night. This much th
e lieutenant managed to extract from Lucenza, between her wails and sniffles, but she swore she did not recognise the voice of the attacker, and had seen nothing in the darkness.

  The English valet had been carried off to receive medical attention; hopes were entertained that his wound was not fatal, and Lucenza, judging by the expression on Madame Ciampi’s face, was just as guilty as the man wielding the knife.

  “She refuses to say if she knew the attacker,” said the gendarme, turning to Mary. “You must command her to confess, madam.”

  “Of course, but what if she truly does not know?” asked Mary. “It is dark outside, and if the assassin approached from behind her, how can she be certain?”

  “How many lovers does this girl have?” demanded Madame Ciampi. “This little Lombardy whore has been slipping out every night, and you—you have permitted it, madam!”

  “How dare you! I shall be leaving this establishment in the morning!”

  “I’m afraid not, madam,” Lieutenant Vannini put in. “While this affair is under investigation, you are on no account to leave our jurisdiction until you are given leave.”

  Mary bit back an angry retort. She thought of naming Paolo Foggi; it seemed likely to her he might be the culprit. But to do so would bring Shelley’s wife into the situation, which she still hesitated to do.

  It was very late, and Mary much disliked appearing in front of her fellow Englishmen while in an ugly mob cap. Summoning up all her self-control, she managed to choke out an apology to Madame Ciampi, regretting that such an untoward incident had occurred outside her respectable establishment. She assured Lieutenant Vannini she would press her wayward maid to confess.

  Mary ordered a bottle of brandy to be brought up to her room, and she poured a glassful down the throat of her whimpering servant, before sending her to bed.

  * * * * * * *

  Mary picked at her breakfast, then walked out to purchase some newspapers, but retreated quickly upon discovering that the stabbing was the talk of Bagni di Lucca. Roberts, the valet, had survived the attack and was said to be mending.

  Madame Ciampi told her the police had already questioned Paoli Foggi, but he swore his innocence on all the blessed saints and Mrs. Shelley also declared her servant had not stirred from their home last night. Mary felt certain that Foggi had no compunctions about lying, and perhaps neither did his mistress.

  Lieutenant Vannini asked to be allowed to question the maid again, but Lucenza continued to deny, between hiccups, sobs and sniffles, that she had seen anything of the attacker in the dark—only an arm, only a flashing blade, which had plunged into Roberto’s shoulder!

  The police repeated their prohibition against Mary’s leaving Bagni di Lucca until the matter was resolved, which Mary would have defied as a matter of course, but she was waiting to receive Shelley’s reply. An exceedingly miserable week passed. Mary had no appetite for her dinner, no inclination for music, no patience for reading. She left her apartment only to rid herself of Lucenza’s company, for the maid was forbidden to stir abroad and such was her fear of encountering Madame Ciampi that she obeyed.

  The last day of August was the hottest day of the year, and also the day which saw the end of Mary’s patience. There was still no answering letter from Shelley, and she could endure it no longer. She would declare herself to Mrs. Shelley and inform her that she and Shelley were returning to England. The heat was so oppressive she had to pause at the top of the street. Her breakfast was disagreeing with her. She took a few deep breaths, then knocked at the door of the Casa Bertini.

  After a few moments of dreadful suspense, the door was opened by a man she had never seen before; not a servant but an older English gentleman, carelessly attired in rumpled clothing, with thinning hair and a prodigious nose.

  “Yes, madam?” the man said.

  “I am Mary Bertram,” Mary heard herself say. “Is Mrs. Shelley within?”

  The man opened and closed his mouth twice, then said, “I—well—just a moment please.”

  He turned back into the hallway and Mary could hear him calling, “My dear! My dear, there is a young lady here—she is looking for Mary....” A female voice answered from within, and at last, a handsome-looking older woman, plainly but neatly dressed, came to the door.

  She glanced up and down at Mary with an intelligent, appraising look and said, “I am Mrs. Robinson, a friend of Mrs. Shelley. I’m sorry, I did not hear your name.”

  “I am Mary Bertram—I have been staying here at Bagni di Lucca this summer, and made the acquaintance of...” Mary stopped herself—she could not say she knew Mrs. Shelley, because Mrs. Shelley would certainly deny it. But the older woman assumed what Mary had left unsaid.

  “Oh! Mary told me, most positively, she had met no-one at all.”

  “Yes,” added the man. “We thought she would be passing her birthday all alone, you know. That’s why we came from Livorno.”

  Mary nodded. “Her birthday—yes, just so.” She had not anticipated having these two strangers for an audience and was adjusting her thoughts, when the lady asked: “Did she not inform you of her departure? Did she send you no note? But, to be sure, it was unplanned and she left in such a hurry!”

  “What—is she gone then, ma’am?”

  “Yes,” the man chimed in. “Yes, Mrs. Shelley and the children left for Venice this morning.”

  “Not Venice, Mr. Robinson,” the lady corrected him. “They are going to—”

  “But wait!” cried the man, looking at Mary suspiciously. “You are not enquiring in any official capacity, are you?” But Mary was too confused by the question to make any sort of reply, even in denial.

  The lady laughed. “My dear, that would not be at all likely.”

  “Perhaps she was sent by the landlord? Mary asked us—”

  “Oh, tush, husband!” cried the lady. “She is English. Pardon me, madam,” she added, turning back to Mary. “Mrs. Bertram, you say? Mrs. Shelley, I am certain, did not mention meeting a Mrs. Bertram.”

  “Rather,” Mary suddenly thought to say, “that is, my acquaintance was with Miss Clairmont, in point of fact—you say they are gone?” Mary tried to look past the Robinsons, into the house behind them. “All gone?”

  “Yes, this morning,” Mrs. Robinson repeated politely.

  “And—she took the dear, dear children with them?”

  This last improvisation convinced Mrs. Robinson that the stranger on the doorstep was indeed a friend of the family, and she responded in a more confiding manner: “Yes, gone very early in the morning, and the poor baby was most unwell. She is teething. I am very anxious for her. It is dreadful to be travelling with little children in this heat! I advised her against it, but she would go!”

  “I am quite surprised—that is, I was given to understand the Shelleys intended to remain here for another month at least, so I did not expect to hear they are gone so abruptly.”

  “Yes!” nodded the man. “In point of fact, Mary—I mean Mrs. Shelley—had just invited us to come and stay with her here, whilst her husband was gone, but a letter arrived from him yesterday, urgently demanding she come away, and now, here we are, left behind to pack up the last of their things...”

  “How very obliging of you, Mr.—Mr. Robinson?” Mary murmured uncertainly.

  “Yes,” his wife repeated patiently. “I am Lucy Robinson and this is my husband.”

  “So very pleased to meet you,” Mary returned, trying to think of an opening, more questions to pose. The sun was beating down on her back and she longed to be invited in. “Perhaps, Mrs. Robinson,” she ventured, “perhaps Mrs. Shelley’s sudden departure has to do with the Italian servant, and the—incident. Perhaps they wanted to remove their manservant from the reach of the authorities here.”

  “Incident?” said Mr. Robinson.

  “You recall, dear, Mary mentioned it to us. A stabbing in the village,” Mrs. Robinson replied, then turning again to Mary, she added decisively, “I think not, Mrs. Bertram. Why would Mrs. S
helley risk the health of her child for a servant of no very good character? Especially if he was the culprit? And I should imagine that word of the affray had yet to reach Mr. Shelley; he must have written his letter at least five days ago. But he was most insistent that she leave immediately—immediately!”

  “I see. Then—where did you say they were going?”

  “Dear, remember that Mary asked us—” Mr. Robinson said.

  “Oh very well, Mr. Robinson, but she meant, not to let the landlord know, and the tradespeople.”

  “I—I see,” Mary said again, and for perhaps the first time in her life, words failed her. She did not know what else to say, or to ask.

  “Well, then,” said Mrs. Robinson, her hand still on the door.

  Mary nodded, defeated, and started to turn away, but the courtyard began to tilt and swirl around her, and she grabbed on to the door frame to support herself.

  “You are unwell, I fear, Mrs. Bertram!” she heard Mr. Robinson say. “Pray, come inside, come inside.”

  “I shall fetch you a glass of water,” added his wife. “Pray, sit here. Fortunately, we still have the furniture which belongs with the house.”

  Mary glanced furtively about her and perceived the remains of a household in disarray—cupboard doors hanging open, a few books and papers strewn about—dirty platters on the table, a child’s hoop and stick abandoned in a corner. Everything spoke of a hasty removal.

  “Do you mean to say, ma’am—is it your understanding, then, that the Shelleys have no intention of returning?” said Mary faintly.

  “I hardly know. I doubt it. And at any rate, you may know enough of Mr. Shelley to be aware of his predilection for revising his plans with very little notice. They were going to settle in Pisa, then they left Pisa, they were going to live with us in Livorno, but—”

  “Shelley did not care for Livorno,” Mr. Robinson interjected. “He did not think it interesting enough.”

  “Here is some water. Plain boiled water, from the kettle. Do you want my smelling salts, Mrs. Bertram? You are very pale. Are you indisposed? Can I get you anything?”