Outcasts (24 page)

A raindrop plopped on Mary's hand, another on her cheek. Thunder rumbled overhead. “We must go in, my love. A storm is coming.”

Shelley looked up, oblivious to the rain pelting his cheeks. “A storm. Yes.”

I discovered that he, the author at once of my existence and of its unspeakable torments, dared to hope for happiness; that while he accumulated wretchedness and despair upon me he sought his own enjoyment in feelings and passions from the indulgence of which I was forever barred.

—Frankenstein,
Volume III,
Chapter VII

T
he rain
commenced as they entered the Villa; Shelley left the door open so that the smell of rain and lake water wafted through the building. They heard Byron stumping along ahead of them, shouting for Fletcher. On the sofa, Polidori was sifting through some papers.

“His lordship's limp grows worse when he is downcast,” he said.

“The outward sign of the inner man,” Shelley mused. “How often we judge our fellow creatures by their externalities, by which we are so often misled. Why do we never learn better?”

“You yourself have said it,” Mary reminded him. “In
Queen Mab,
do you not recall? ‘The beauty of the internal nature cannot be so far concealed by its accidental vesture.' Does that not mean that if Albé's external appearance is beautiful, it is because it reveals the beauty of his internal nature?”

Polidori snorted. “Poets.”

Shelley ignored him. “But you must remember the foot,” he said. “His infirmity is part of his externalities, so it, too, shows truth. Our Albé is a flawed man, in every definition.”

“I fear that we have yet to see his darkest side. That will come soon enough. Claire cannot forebear to give him the news much longer. Polidori has already guessed her condition.”

Shelley glanced sharply at the young doctor, who nodded. Shelley shoved a stack of books off a divan and sprawled across it. “Truth will out,” he said. “Deception is always abhorrent to me.
You know my mind in this, that when we expose the deformities of human nature, only then can we begin to reform it.”

“This is not a deformity likely to be exposed soon,” Mary said. “B sees himself as an outcast, a monster because of his foot. Or so Doctor Polidori says.” She seated herself on a low stool near the sofa. “How is your ankle?”

“Better. I thank you.” Polidori said. “Fletcher brought me some papers to divert me.”

Shelley was wandering around the room restlessly. “Tell me, John. As a doctor, you must surely agree that the outward appearance of a man often disguises his inner truth. Do you not agree?”

“Certainly,” Polidori said. “A man may appear vital and hale on the outside, while inwardly harboring a cancer.”

“Then consider whether Albé's crusty attitude may merely be the hard turtle shell that hides a softer, more easily damaged heart,” Mary said. “If he teases you, it is only a form of defense, much like the over-matched force that sallies from a beleaguered castle to engage the enemy by surprise, hoping to overwhelm it.”

“Consider, Mrs. Shelley, that a man's outward appearance may also accurately reflect his inner self,” Polidori said coolly. “As his actions reflect his character.”

Mary stiffened. “And what may we say of a man who hits his employer with an oar?”

Before he could answer, they heard Claire's voice in the foyer.

Shelley and Mary locked eyes, and turned as one when the door opened. Fletcher bowed Claire in. “If you'll be waitin' here, Miss, I'll see if his lordship is at home.”

Claire entered, wearing a light green sprigged muslin gown, untying her bonnet. “Oh, Polly, I did not know you were here.” She dropped a curtsy, and the doctor replied with a stiff bow from his position on the sofa. “Why Shelley, your face is as black as soot! Whatever have you been doing?”

“Killing Albé's wine bottle collection,” Shelley said.

Claire's bright gaze went from him to Mary. “Do you know, dear Mary, Albé is actually working on another canto of
Childe Harold?
Is it not thrilling?”

“Of course,” Mary said. Her heart gladdened to see Claire so happy. Perhaps, after all, there could be some rapprochement between her and Byron.

Fletcher re-appeared in the doorway. “Miss, his lordship sends his compliments, and asks if you would join him on the balcony.”

“Tell his lordship I shall come directly. It is awfully windy today! And Albé will be dictating, and I shall have to weight down my papers with brandy bottles and ink pots!” Pausing, she looked at Mary. “We have a great deal to do today. Mary, is it possible you could assist us?” She said the ‘us' with a proprietary air.

“I shall join you in a few moments,” Mary said.

Claire dimpled. “We shall have such a wonderful afternoon!” She dashed through the doorway.

Polidori looked after her for a moment, then shook his head. “You will pardon me, Mr. Shelley, Mrs. Shelley. But I fear that for all her hopes, his lordship regards her only in the light of, er, an amanuensis.”

Shelley lifted an eyebrow. “More than that, clearly.”

Polidori did not, as Mary expected, rise to the bait. He held out the paper he was holding. “I found this verse among some of his papers this morning.”

“More of
Childe Harold?”
Shelley said eagerly.

But before Shelley could take it, Polidori delivered it into Mary's hand.

A single sheet of paper, covered with Byron's scrawl, with blottings and scratchings-out. And, she was shocked to note, blotches that could only have been dried tears. Tears? From Byron?

Shelley leaned close to read over her shoulder, but she turned away, seeking better light.

… Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,

It shrunk not to share it with me,

And the love which my spirit hath painted

It never hath found but in thee….

Mary scanned down further.

From the wreck of the past, which hath perish'd,

Thus much I at least may recall,

It hath taught me that what I most cherish'd

Deserved to be dearest of all:

In the desert a fountain is springing,

In the wide waste there still is a tree,

And a bird in the solitude singing,

Which speaks to my spirit of thee.

She turned the paper over, looking for an inscription or a title, and found it:
Stanzas to Augusta.

Tears blurred her vision, and she let her hand fall. Shelley snatched up the paper, reading it quickly. He let out a long sigh and handed it back to Polidori. “Give this back to his lordship,” he said quietly. “Don't tell Byron we have seen it.”

“Augusta Leigh is his half-sister. He writes to her still,” Polidori said quietly. “I … I mean no offense to Miss Clairmont, but you can see how … he will never….”

Shelley laid a hand on Mary's shoulder. “Of course, it was rumored all over London.”

Mary nodded. “His own sister!”

“Half-sister, actually,” Polidori said. “They had the same father, and different mothers. They were raised separately.”

She glared up at him. “As if that could matter! Byron stands in the same relation to Augusta Leigh that I stand to Fanny! They have a parent in common! They are almost one flesh, and he—”

“He loves her,” Shelley said firmly. “Can you read what we just read, and not know that? Can you not see the strength of that love, that renounces and yet remembers?”

She paced away from him. “And what does that mean for Claire? If he is writing this to his … sister, he cannot love Claire. He will not love her.”

“You think a man cannot love two women at once?” Shelley asked.

Whirling, her hot retort died on her lips as she saw his grin. “Rogue! This not a matter for amusement. She is heading over a
cliff, and she cannot see it.”

The grin died on his face, and Shelley hunched his shoulders and clasped his hands behind his back. The movement made him look like one of the herons that stalked absurdly up and down the lakeshore.

“Do you know, there were rumors of a child.” Polidori spoke in a low voice. “They say that his sister bore him a daughter two years ago. He weeps at night, and I have heard him saying the name ‘Medora' in despair.”

Shelley shook his head. “I daresay it's as false as everything else we have heard about the man. Look at his politics, his philosophies. Look at his affairs. Why, Albé himself jests about his reputation. What calumny will the world of hypocrites and Custom not hurl at him?”

“You defend him,” Mary said. “He has abandoned at least one child in England. I am given to understand that she is only a month older than our own William. Now you tell me there was another child, a child by his own sister? And where is this child? Does he love it? Care for it? Or has he disavowed all of his offspring at once?”

Shelley looked distressed. “I do not know.”

“Fletcher!” Byron's voice floated down from the balcony. “Where the devil have you put my—oh, there it is. Come, Claire, I have some verses for you.”

Distantly, Claire's giggle wafted down to them from the terrace. Mary leaned on Shelley. “Albé takes her to his bed, while he writes this to another woman. He seeks indulgence and passion from Claire, while all the time his heart is elsewhere. What does this mean for your principle of love?” she asked.

Polidori shuffled papers, his face pale, not looking at either of them.

Shelley shrugged helplessly. “I will speak to him. I will tell him of the child. He will see reason.”

Polidori shook his head. “His lordship is not a reasonable man,” he said. “It is his disposition to deem what he has, whether it is women or dogs, as worthless. He will not accept this child.”
His tone was ominous. “I would not be the one to tell him of it.”

Mary shook her head. “No. That is for Claire to do. Oh, why did she do it?” She whirled away from Shelley, her heart wrung.

“Dearest? I do not understand you. You defend her, then decry her. What is amiss with you?” Shelley's voice was gentle. As always, it undid her. She sagged, felt his arms come around her.

“I think of her child, love. I think of him or her, unloved, unwanted by its father. I think of Claire, who loves so passionately and unrestrainedly. I think of their child, growing up despised, ignored. Oh, you do not know what Albé's life was like, as a child. Until I saw that poem, I was not sure he could love at all.

“And even now, I think his capacity for love is as deformed as his leg.”

A tap at the door, and Fletcher stood looking around. “Beg pardon, sir” he said stolidly. “There be a lass with your babe at the door.” From behind him came a familiar wail.

Shelley grinned. “Ah, the princeling arrives.”

The sound woke the milk in her, and she felt the familiar ache in her breasts. “Have them come in,” Mary directed. She settled into a comfortable chair as Elise entered. She held William in a brown blanket, his face covered against the light rain.

Polidori was struggling to his feet. “If you will excuse me,” he said. “I must go to my room and lie down. All this philosophy is exhausting.”

Shelley offered his arm to the young man. “Fletcher, come assist the doctor. We will take you upstairs.”

“Very kind of you,” Polidori said through gritted teeth. Between them, he limped painfully to the hallway. Pausing at the door, he looked back at Mary. “You see? I limp as badly as his lordship, yet I have not his morals. One cannot judge the inner man from the outer.” Before she could respond, he tottered out the door.

… as we ascended still higher, the valley assumed a more magnificent and astonishing character. Ruined castles hanging on the precipices of piny mountains; the impetuous Arve, and cottages every here and there peeping forth from among the trees, formed a scene of singular beauty.

—Frankenstein,
Volume III,
Chapter I

E
lise took
young William to the kitchen to make herself some tea. Ascending to the second floor, Mary found Claire and Byron already at work in the drawing room. A large table lay under sheets and stacks of paper, most of them held down with half-empty bottles of wine or assorted bibelots. One stack of paper at the corner of the table lay under a shoe. In one corner stood a hanging birdcage in which a parrot ruffled its feathers and looked out disconsolately on the world.

Claire and Byron sat at the end of the table closest to the windows. Byron's head bent over his paper, his whole body hunched over with the tension of composition. His mastiff lay disconsolately near his feet, massive head on its paws. Claire held a quill pen in one hand and appeared to be writing. Mary knew she was probably copying something of Byron's out into a fair copy, something that could be sent to a publisher. The handwriting of immediate creativity, as Mary knew too well, was often crabbed and skewed, difficult to parse.

Mary laid her wrap across a sofa back. “Shelley has gone out in the boat. How may I help?”

Byron, engrossed in the progress of his pen across paper, ignored this exchange.

“It is hard to think what you might do that I cannot.” With a brittle smile, Claire dipped her quill into the ink pot. “Oh, alas, we seem to have run out. Mary, dearest, perhaps you can be of some assistance after all.”

Mary drew up a chair near the ink pot. It was nearly empty, so Mary reached for the bottle of fermented oak gall ink and carefully tipped it into the jar. She used a discarded quill to stir the ink until it was well blended, then passed it over to Claire.

Suddenly Byron threw down his pen and leaned far back in his chair, nearly tipping it over. He passed his hand over his eyes and shook his head. “Mary? Good heavens, I did not see you there. I beg your pardon, I am completely engaged with this damned verse.”