Outcasts (13 page)

Mary stared at the jar, at the wire. Carefully she picked up the leather glove and slipped it on her hand. She reached for the wire, but another hand caught hers.

“No.” John Polidori's dark gaze met hers. “No, Mary. It is unsafe. It is … unnatural.”

“And death is natural, so it is acceptable?” But Mary made no further attempt to touch the Leyden jar.

“This is death, not life,” Polidori said, and pulled the glove off of her hand. He held it in his. “He plays with death. He thinks of it constantly. But you … you are a mother, a woman. The very essence of life. You should have no part in this.”

Mary pulled her hand away. A mother, yes. And then was not one, only a woman who had given birth to a corpse. She remembered the tiny body wrapped in a blanket, remembered how she rubbed her baby to warm it, would have held it to her breast had Claire not gently taken it from her and left her bereft, her arms empty.

She looked away from Polidori's earnest gaze, and saw the pale-fleshed corpse of the chicken lying in a puddle of grease on the table top. As she watched, it gave one final quiver, as if dying all over again.

Mary's hand rose to her throat; she clutched at her collar. “I … forgive me.” She rushed from the room, stumbling blindly into wall and door, nearly clawing her way through it to get away from that twitching horror on the dinner plate.

… when I destroyed his hopes, I did not satisfy my own desires. They were as craving and ardent as before. Still I desired love and fellowship, and I was still spurned.

—Frankenstein,
Volume II,
Chapter XVIII

M
ary fled
along the corridor, hurrying away from the sounds of Claire sobbing. She came to a staircase; her choice was to run upstairs or take refuge in the servant's quarters. She was unfamiliar with the kitchen area, so she caught the banister with one hand and hiked her skirts with the other. Running lightly up the stairs, she turned left at the top and entered a large receiving room. It was unlit, and the curtains had not been drawn. Clutching her elbows, Mary went to stand in the window overlooking Lake Geneva. Lightning flashed across the lake, and thunder rumbled through the room like a tiger growling from the shadows.

She felt wetness on her cheeks and thought at first the window must be open, but when she drew her fingers across her face she realized they were tears. For whom? She wondered. For little Clara, her dead daughter? For her own step-sister, about to be repudiated by Byron? For herself, doubting her own lover? Or even for the long-dead felon whose body had been given over to exotic experiments?

“Mrs. Shelley.”

She turned and found Polidori standing in the doorway. He carried a candlestick with a lit candle in one hand.

Mary turned back to the window to hide her tears. “You have a soft tread, Doctor. I did not hear you approach.”

She heard his feet now on the hardwood floor, saw her shadow cast onto the glass by the approach of his candle.

“I regret that that demonstration caused you any distress,” Polidori said. His voice trembled a little, as did the candle in his
hand. “If I may say so, Mr. Shelley does not always consider your feelings as he ought.”

“No, he does not,” she whispered.

A gentle hand on her arm, and she turned, to be presented with a snowy handkerchief. This act of simple kindness caused the tears to flow more freely, to her chagrin. “Forgive me,” she said, trying to recover herself.

Instead, she found herself pulled against a warm shoulder clad in fine wool, with an arm firm around her shoulders. For a moment, she let herself relax into John Polidori's embrace, seeking safety and solace.

It seemed that she had been seeking those very things forever, ever since fleeing her father's home with Shelley. From England, across Europe, back and forth in the wake of Shelley's whim, on the run from debtors and Shelley's waking frights. One child lost, another carried from country to country like baggage. She felt so tired, so tired.

Polidori's hand came to rest on her hair. “My dear Mrs. Shelley. Or, more truly, Miss Godwin. He does not treat you well. I know he is precious to you, but …” He stroked her hair. “My dear, he cannot love you, not truly, if he neglects your feelings as he does.”

He cannot love you.
The words sent a chill down her spine, echoing her very thought of a moment ago. But now she felt her whole being rise in revolt at the thought. She pushed herself out of Polidori's arms.

“You forget yourself, Doctor,” she said primly. And realized how absurd it was to be saying that to the man trying to comfort her, who had given her his handkerchief. “I apologize. I am … distraught. The demonstration, well, it would unsettle nerves of granite.”

“But you are not so frail, I am persuaded,” Polidori said. In the candlelight, his dark Italian eyes glittered, and shadows aged his face beyond his twenty years. “I warrant you have strength he does not see. You carry all of your family—your sister, Shelley, your son. Who carries you?”

Mary shook her head and looked away. “I do not need a man to take care of me,” she said. “My mother taught the world that women could stand equal to men.”

“Doubtless,” Polidori said. He stepped closer; she could smell soap and damp wool. “But it is not a sign of weakness to want to be respected. He does not respect you.” He caught her elbow, turned her to face him. “You can assuredly do better. He has defiled your name, and given you nothing. Not even his name.”

“He cannot,” Mary said. “Nor would I—”

“Of course he cannot,” Polidori sneered. He was so close Mary could feel the heat of him through the fancy waistcoat. Something in her wanted to relax against him again, wanted to sink into comfort and not question the source. “He is a fool. A man of honor would never have taken a virgin girl from her father's house when he still had a wife and child at home. What kind of man dallies with one woman while committed to another? You deserve better.”

All desire for comfort vanished. “Better?” Mary stepped back swiftly. “What ‘better' would you propose, Doctor?”

“Call me John, I beg you,” Polidori said. “We are friends, are we not?”

“Perhaps,” Mary said, a hard edge creeping into her voice. “But what are you saying?”

Polidori hesitated, fumbling at the last moment. In a trembling voice, he said, “You must know my feelings by now, Mary. Surely you are aware of my deep regard, my—”

Panic rose in Mary's breast. Don't let him say the words, she thought quickly. “Doctor. John. You mustn't—”

Fervently, Polidori seized her hand. His palm felt damp against her fingers. “Mary, come with me. To me. I will protect you, cherish you. I can take you to a quiet place, a retired country house where no one will know of your name or shame. Oh, let me—”

Mary jerked her hand away. “Shame? You speak of shame?”

“You know what they say of you, in the village, in London, everywhere. That you are Shelley's whore, even Byron's mistress.
The world condemns you, reasonless. What you have done, it was not done wantonly, but for love. The world will never understand, but I do. Mary. You are sweet and … and kind, you deserve better than this. Let me show you how I feel.”

And before she could protest, he had seized her shoulders, drawn her to him, and laid his mouth on hers. His lips were warm, wet, and trembling. He tasted of strong brandy.

Shocked, Mary thrust her arms against his chest, breaking his hold. She stepped backwards, ending with her back against the cold window glass. Thunder muttered over her shoulder. She wiped her hand across her mouth. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”

Polidori's eyes glittered black in the wavering light. “Mary—Let me spare you from this shame.”

“You do not understand. Shame? There is no shame in love. There is only shame in forced prostitution, in slavery. Do you know nothing, have you learned nothing from our conversations? You know my principles.”

“Yes, and what have those principles bought you?” Polidori burst out. “I see you. I hear you. I see you unhappy, unhappy with Claire, with your situation, unhappy with him.” He pointed at the door, in the direction of the rest of the house, of Shelley. “Like it or not, Mary, he shames you. I would shield you.” He took another step towards her. “Come with me. I can marry you. I can give you a name, a home. I will raise your son as my own. Let me love you, Mary Godwin.”

It was the last word, the repetition of her father's surname, that broke any idea in Mary of agreement. “I cannot be with a man who does not respect my mind. And if you do not agree with my principles, if you reject the very foundation of my mind and life, I cannot agree to be with you. I'm sorry, Doctor. John. I cannot. I see that you mean well, but you truly do not understand what it is, this between Shelley and me.”

“Will you abandon every decent principle for that man?” Polidori demanded. “Will you share him with your sister, with his wife? With the next woman to catch his eye? Will you
demean yourself so far as to be a cast-off mistress with a child, one day?”

Stung by the echo of her own fears, Mary slapped him across the face, reflexively, without thinking. Then her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, no. I should not have done that. I … I'm sorry. But you don't understand.”

Slowly, Polidori touched his cheek where her blow had landed. “No. I do not understand. I do not think you know what love is. But whatever it is you think you feel, it cannot be love.”

Mary shook her head. Useless to argue with the man. She stepped around him and headed for the door. “I am going home now.”

“Mary …” There was heartbreak in his voice.

Against her will, she stopped and turned. Framed against the window, lit by flashes of light, Polidori stood with hand outstretched.

“He will abandon you, in the end,” Polidori said. There were tears in his voice, but his silhouetted face showed nothing but shadow. “He will leave you. And you will be alone.”

Because he voiced her own deepest fear, because she would not, could not tolerate the thought, Mary Godwin turned and ran from the room.

Stumbling blindly down the stairs, clutching the handrail, she felt cold all over. Without Polidori's candle, the hall was dark, the boards popping and creaking under her slippers. When a hand suddenly shot out of the shadows and grabbed her arm, she shrieked.

And found herself struggling in Lord Byron's arms. “Hush, Mary, hush!” he said softly.

Mary struggled to catch her breath. “You frightened me, my lord.”

“Evidently,” he said. There was amusement in his voice, and he released her arm only to catch her hands in his. “You are chilled through, my dear. Come down to the fire.”

Behind her, a floorboard creaked, and they both glanced back into the darkness at the top of the stair. Was Polidori lurking there,
with his wet mouth and grasping hands? Mary shook her head. This was absurd. “I am overtired,” she said. “I must go home.”

Byron pulled her hand through his bent elbow and turned her towards the end of the hallway. “Of course. I will order up the carriage, if you want. The night is foul.”

She walked with him, finding assurance in his calm presence. She smelled him, a combination of cheese and lavender-water. “Did you find Claire?”

“I believe Shelley is comforting her now,” Byron said. Something in his tone made Mary stiffen.

“Comforting?”

“But yes,” he said, pausing to open a door. Beyond lay light and warmth. “She did not go far. In fact, I believed she relished the chase less than the capture. As I discovered last January.” His voice was grim.

“You owe her some measure of respect,” Mary said. “She came to you in love.”

“Do you call it that?” Byron closed the door behind them, and dropped her hand from his elbow. “I call it no more than lust, dressed up for company.”

“Is not love the great object in life?” Mary said. Surely this poet of the ages could understand that.

Byron was silent again, then said, “The great object of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even though in pain.”

“Do you love no one, my lord?” she asked.

There was a longer silence, as Byron led her down another long hall, this one papered in fading pale orange wall paper that showed damp stains here and there. A draft caught at Mary, making her shiver; Byron in shirtsleeves, and more than a little tipsy, seemed to feel it not at all.

Finally, at the door to the parlor, Byron laid a hand on the handle and turned to her. His face was pale, with lines she had never seen before etched in it, eclipsing the famous dimples. “Love.” He said it as if considering a new mathematical concept, a new concatenation of rhyme or meter in a poem. “Love.” There was such empty despair in his voice that Mary drew back.

In a low voice, staring past her, with sad eyes, he spoke. His voice was so low that she had to lean in to hear him.

For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run,

Nor made atonement when he did amiss,

Had sigh'd to many though he loved but one,

And loved one, alas! Could ne'er be his.

Without looking at her, he went through the door. Mary followed him.

… my country, which, when I was happy and beloved, was dear to me, now, in my adversity, became hateful. I provided myself with a sum of money, together with a few jewels which had belonged to my mother, and departed. And now my wanderings began, which are to cease but with life.

—Frankenstein,
Volume III,
Chapter XVII

I
n the parlor,
Shelley was helping a shivering Claire into a chair before the fire. Byron strode past all of them, making straight for the brandy decanter. Mary wondered where Polidori was. Did he still brood in the room with the bared window, overlooking the storm over the lake? How would she face him tomorrow?