Hideous Love: The Story of the Girl Who Wrote Frankenstein (2 page)

he had proclaimed my father was a genius

who deserved his financial support

and I admired Mr. Shelley for that.

But the ceaseless obsession

that my stepmother, the woman of scales and dread,

my siblings and even my father,

seem to have for Mr. Shelley is comedy.

No man can live up to it.

Jane smirks, “You’ll see,

his noble birth, his high ideals—

You’ll choke on your coal-stained doubts.”

I roll my eyes at my stepsister,

thump downstairs in my blue everyday frock,

because why would I dress up

to dine with some priss of a man?

Even his name sounds like a girl, Shelley.

But when I slink

into the parlor

Mr. Percy Shelley

traps his gaze

upon my brow

so tight

I cannot inhale,

and then he gasps

as if I am a masterwork.

I stand stunned.

He
genuflects before me.

No one has ever looked

at me, and certainly

no one has ever looked at me

like this,

like I am anything sigh-worthy,

something to hang diamonds on.

This man who owns

the breath of my father

stares at me

as though I am holy.

When Mr. Shelley

introduces himself to me

this second time,

I swear I smell rosehips

and lavender on his palms.

I glance around

and smile

to find that this evening

his wife is not in attendance.

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WHAT IF HE LIKES ME?

May 1814

What if it was not only awe

and admiration for my breeding,

but something more that caught

Mr. Shelley’s eye,

something particular about me?

What if he calls again,

what shall I wear,

how coy should I act,

what exactly have I to say to him?

What if he didn’t care

for me at all and I imagined

the moment happening between us?

What if he never calls again

and I am left to wonder

what might have been?

He is yet a stranger to me,

and then somehow I feel

as though I have known him

for many years now,

as though he may be the one

I imagined would come

and whisk me away

like a valiant soldier

rescuing me from the prison

of my house.

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HE COMES TO CALL

May 1814

At first one can

be certain whom

Mr. Shelley intends

to visit and that name

begins not with an
M
.

He and my father

argue into the night

about politics while

Jane and I hide on the stairs

catching phrases as if they sate,

like they are crumbs for the starving.

We listened to Mr. Coleridge’s poem

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

when I was a little girl

in much the same manner,

hiding behind a chair.

I saw nightmares because

of it for a year.

Now what I hear,

the sweet tones of Father

and Mr. Shelley’s sharp intellects,

breeds dreams when I sleep.

He glimpses me

one night as I linger

in the stairwell

and the next day

when Mr. Shelley calls

he requests me,

as well as Jane,

whose attendance I hope

is for nothing more than

to dissuade suspicion.

When Mr. Shelley and I meet

I will certainly stutter.

I will fall down the stairs

before I have a chance to speak.

I must remember that everything

I say reflects upon my brilliant parents.

For once I wish to bite my tongue.

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LIKE MY FATHER

May 1814

Mr. Shelley does not dote

on Jane. She is but

furniture to him.

“You are finer

than your surroundings,”

he says to me.

“I see it in your

broad forehead—

intelligence, cleverness.”

I blush until my cheeks

become the color of my hair.

He gestures to the portrait

of my mother above

the mantel. “I know

the writings of your mother,

have you read them?”

I nod my head.

I wish for words

to pour from my mouth,

as usual, but today

I stand mute.

“You too

have great things to write.

It is your lovely fate.

And I believe I will

be your guide.”

His winsome eyes snare me.

And somehow

I feel in my heart

that he may be right.

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WALKS IN THE PARK

June 1814

We see each other

on the forested grounds

of the Charterhouse school.

Jane and I pretend

to my stepmother

that we are just out for a walk,

but all my joy wraps

inside those moments

when Shelley

joins us and then asks

Jane to stand at a distance

for he and I must speak

of philosophical things.

“What is the purpose of poetry?”

Mr. Shelley asks me.

Today I do not hesitate to say

“To enlighten. To heighten

one’s awareness of the world

and one’s place in the world.

Or some might say

to capture beauty at its

most vulnerable core.”

“What is beauty?” he demands.

“An ideal.” I smile.

“You jest, but nothing

is too ideal

that can be imagined.”

He looks as though

he might grasp my hand,

but instead breaks off a branch.

“Poetry is political.”

He swirls the branch at me

as if it were a sword.

I feign as though

I have been wounded.

“I know.”

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PAPER BOATS

Summer 1814

Jane and I watch

as Shelley folds the paper

into triangles.

He fans out the bottom

so his creation

resembles a little ship.

“All you need now

is a crew,” I say.

He shakes his head.

“I require another vessel.”

He quickly transforms

paper into boat

and hands me one.

“Shall we test their might?”

I ask him, cradling his gift.

“First we must christen them.

I hereby name thee the
Wollstonecraft
,

the strongest, most brazen ship on the sea.”

And he gives his paper boat a shove

onto the river.

I thrust my craft forward,

“And I christen thee the
Shelley
,

the master of tides, the builder of ships.”

Our paper boats crest

the river’s pooling,

floating along the shore

together.

“Your construction

withstands the waters.”

Shelley smiles and lights

a match. “But not fire.”

He flames our cruising ships

so they are pyres

upon the water,

brilliant and smoking

upstream.

Jane and I clap our hands.

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LOVE AFFAIR

Summer 1814

I shall wear my tartan

dresses now

for he is as dear to me

as the Scottish countryside

from whence the material came.

I am enraptured

in his high ideals

bind up in clouds

of his noble thoughts.

He stares at my crown

of red hair

and I swear he admires

not only the resemblance

I bear to my mother’s portrait

over the mantelpiece,

but also the match of what

lies beneath.

He worships the best

part of me,

that which most men

would discount,

that which gives

me greatest pride,

my brain.

We talk of politics

and literature

and he vows

to be my new instructor.

He is generous

like none I have laid

eyes upon.

He gives his shoes

to the poor when he has no coin.

Like the monarch’s

two wings

I can match

him wit for wit.

We fit glove to hand,

and he praises the finding

of an intellectual equal.