A Shadowed Fate

by Marty Ambrose

  ‘Do you think Lord Byron himself might have been the one who lied?’ the Abbess queried. ‘Perhaps he blamed himself for his daughter’s death and simply created a fiction to assuage his conscience. Grief can cause strange behavior.’

  ‘No,’ Trelawny responded swiftly and firmly. ‘He spoke the truth about Allegra. I believe it with every part of my being. As soldiers who faced death together, we had a bond that went deep … knowing that each day might be our last. He told me during his final days as all men do when there may not be much time left.’

  ‘Like Matteo,’ I added.

  His mouth thinned. ‘I hate to admit it, but yes – like Matteo. He knew he was going to commit suicide, so that was his last act to try to redeem his soul. I suppose we must at least honor his attempt to ease his conscience.’

  ‘But in doing so, he committed an offense against God by taking his own life.’ The Abbess’s eyes hardened slightly – a glint that reflected a wall of rigidity. ‘I fear he will face damnation for that transgression—’

  ‘I disagree with you on this matter, Madre,’ Trelawny cut in with an equally tough stare. ‘If a man like Matteo wishes to remove himself from this world, I think he should do it and rid the rest of us of his heartless evil. In my years on the battlefield, I saw many men like him, and there is no changing their nature. They enjoy giving rein to the kind of darkness that most of us shield ourselves from with our belief in morality – however fragile. It keeps us on the path of justice. But they never fight for a cause; they fight because they enjoy killing. I did what I had to do, but I never liked it.’

  She shook her head. ‘While a man lives, there is always hope.’

  Before Trelawny could continue, I spoke up. ‘Perhaps we could settle this spiritual matter at another time since I am still waiting for an answer to my original request: can you open the convent’s records, Madre? As you see, I am not a young woman, and I would like to have some closure before it is too late. I may not have too many years left, and I want to know what happened.’ I paused. ‘Please, do this for me.’

  When she did not respond, I realized that no entreaty would dissuade her from the rules and regulations that she had embraced as a bride of Christ. I gazed up at the Madonna again. As a mother, she would have granted my request.

  Ave, O Maria, piena di grazia …

  ‘I shall grant your request, Signora Clairmont,’ the Abbess said. ‘Whether Father Gianni sent a letter to me about your daughter or not, I believe he probably intended to do what he felt was best for you. I believe that a mother should know the fate of her own child. It may take a few hours. All the convent documents are kept in the cellar and I will sort through them this afternoon – if you can wait.’ She stood, her back straight and tall as if she were one of the statues of blank-faced saints that we had passed along the hallway. Not made of stone. But the strength of compassion.

  I sighed in relief, giving thanks to the Madonna for answering my plea.

  ‘You seem to be riveted on the painting.’ She cast a momentary glance over her shoulder. ‘It is beautiful, is it not?’

  ‘Bella,’ I echoed in Italian. ‘The artist must have been moved by the subject matter to create such a beautiful rendering of the Madonna and Child – the use of texture and color is breathtaking. It looks quite old … perhaps some unknown Renaissance painter?’

  ‘More like an excellent reproduction,’ she corrected me. ‘It hung in this very place when I arrived at the convent, and I was told that one of our students had painted it as a gift to the nuns who taught her. Naturally, I could not move it. During my tenure as Abbess, I have taken great comfort in its beauty. There is such a glow of holiness in every stroke of the brush.’

  ‘Indeed.’ I smiled. ‘It is also a testament to the loving guidance that the teachers provided to her. She was most fortunate to have been educated here – as was Allegra.’ There. I had admitted it aloud. Perhaps my anger with Byron had prevented me from seeing that the convent could provide her not only with an education but with kindness. I had not wanted to see the reality of that fact, but I did now.

  My initial impression shifted even more so.

  ‘May we tour the convent grounds while you search the records?’ Trelawny asked in a brusque tone, obviously still somewhat irritated that the Abbess had not agreed with his assessment of Matteo’s character. He never was one to back down from an argument. Or change his position.

  ‘Certamente.’ She gestured toward a low-beamed side door. ‘If you leave through that portal and follow the passage, it will take you toward the courtyard and the gardens. You might also want to see the Chiesa di San Giovanni – the church connected to the convent. It dates back to the fourteenth century and has four chapels, one with a main altar of rare, colored marble – beautiful.’

  He inclined his head. ‘You are most obliging.’

  I rose to accompany him, but the Abbess held up her hand. ‘Signora Clairmont, I thought you might like to see the room where Allegra stayed while she lived here – it is not in use presently.’

  My heartbeat quickened, but I remained still. Could I manage a visit to Allegra’s room without dissolving into tears? Stand in the space where she had awakened every morning, slept every evening, and drawn her last breath on this earth – or so I thought. My sweet daughter. Of course I wanted to see the room. With all my heart. Its four walls had contained her presence within, if only for a short time, and perhaps something of her spirit lingered in the air like the perfume of a flower that once bloomed. Delicate. Soft. Just beyond the reach of the senses. I could never let go of wanting to inhale that scent one more time.

  At least I could see her in my mind’s eye.

  Turning to Trelawny, I said, ‘I shall join the rest of you after I see her room.’

  ‘Are you sure, Claire?’ He waited.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I shall accompany you—’

  ‘No, I must do this alone.’ I took one final, brief glance at the Madonna, her face lit with maternal love. ‘It is a farewell of sorts … I will be fine. Truly.’

  He stared at me for a few moments then exited through the door, ducking low to avoid the wooden beam across the top.

  ‘Come.’ The Abbess ushered me into the main corridor and up a small flight of stairs.

  Palazzo Guiccioli, Ravenna, Italy

  January 2, 1821

  Allegra’s Story

  Papa seems to be nervous all the time, staying up late at night when Pietro is here. And I never see the contessa anymore. Papa told me she is staying with her family outside of Ravenna and that the weather was too cold for her to travel, but I do not think he is telling me the truth.

  Something else is happening because I am rarely allowed to leave the palazzo.

  I can feel the tension all around me.

  And I sometimes hear shots outside at night.

  Papa’s carriage driver disappeared and, afterwards, the other servants began to speak in muted tones in the hallways. Always in Italian. But I can understand them. They are afraid Papa will be arrested, and they will be implicated in his crimes. But he is not a traditore.

  Everyone seems afraid.

  Except for Tita. He fears nothing and no one. And he never lets me out of his sight now, sometimes sleeping outside my room with a gun at his side.

  A few days ago, I heard Papa discussing with Tita something about a convent in Bagnacavallo, but they abruptly stopped talking when I approached. I do not know what that means, but I hope that Papa does not want me to go there. He says I need to be in a school for young ladies so I can marry well, but I do not want to leave him.

  I would die if I had to part from Papa again.

  SEVEN

  ‘And love shall be his torment; but his grief

  Shall make an immortality of tears …’

  The Prophecy of Dante, III, 101–102

  The Convent of San Giovanni, Bagnacavallo, Italy

  July 1873

  The air grew warm and stifling
as the Abbess led me down a narrow hallway on the second floor of the convent.

  Near the end of the passage, I saw a slender not-so-young woman with dark hair and pale skin, holding her Bible and rosary in hand, coming toward us. She gave a greeting in Italian and moved on, her skirt whispering along the floor with a quiet flutter. No one followed her. ‘We have only a handful of teachers here during the summer – mostly ones who live in Bagnacavallo …’

  ‘I was a governess as well – not only in Italy, but Russia,’ I commented, noting that the windows along the north side of the hallway were closed and latched tightly. ‘Moscow was a cold place, but the Zotoffs – my employers – treated me as if I were part of their family … and their daughter, Betsy, became a friend to me even after I left Russia. I corresponded with her for many years.’

  ‘No doubt being around children gave you great joy.’ She stopped in front of an open door. ‘I will leave you here then … please stay as long as you like.’

  ‘Grazie.’

  As she moved off, a sudden thought occurred to me: ‘How do you know this was Allegra’s room? Her stay here was so long ago.’

  She hesitated and spoke without turning around. ‘I was told by the previous Abbess when I arrived. She was elderly then, her memory failing somewhat, but she recollected that the English poet’s daughter lived in this chamber – nothing beyond that, though.’ The Abbess then hurried off, promising to send word as soon as she located any record of Allegra’s days at the convent.

  I could only hope that she would find something … anything.

  I took a few moments to compose myself at the threshold of Allegra’s room and, slowly, entered. As I strolled around the small space, first impressions touched me – white walls adorned with a small etching of Jesus Christ, a narrow bed with a neatly tucked-in quilt, and a dark wooden cabinet with several drawers in the lower half. Nothing remarkable. Nothing personal to suggest these walls had housed Allegra.

  As her name floated through my thoughts, I tried to summon an image of my daughter reading a book in the corner or kneeling to say her prayers at night. Hear the sound of her childish laughter as it trailed through the solemn quiet of the convent. Touch the fabric of her dresses that her papa had had made of the finest Venetian silk. But I could not bring any of these visions to life.

  It seemed empty.

  And, strangely, I felt numb.

  So different from my visit to Bagni di Lucca when it breathed memories from the past time and place that I had shared with Mary and Shelley. But the convent held no such recollections for me. I could not reach back into my psyche and find any deep emotion tied to this tiny cell. Perhaps Byron had been right when he mused on memory …

  All that mem’ry love the most

  Was once our only hope to be:

  And all that hope adored and lost

  Hath melted into memory.

  It was inevitable, I suppose, that some things faded into a cupboard, carefully wrapped and tucked away in a neglected nook of lost imaginings, but I would never see it as delusion – more like moving into a fresh new room in the same house. Some precious objects had to be put out of sight or they would clutter every inch of every space. Just not my daughter.

  Then again, it was always possible the Abbess had been wrong about this being Allegra’s room since I never knew its location.

  Sighing, I noted the sunlight slant through the small window, beaming across the bed with a rich glow. To see the courtyard garden, Allegra would have had to stand on a chair, but, knowing her stubborn will, she would have done so at every opportunity. Her portal to the outside world. The glass at the top formed a cloudy, diamond-shaped pattern, but the lower half was a single, clear pane which provided a wide and open view of the flowers and cypress trees below. Much like her father, she had loved nature.

  But this room had little to offer me beyond the fact that Allegra once lived here. Then my glance fell upon a scratch on the lower right side of the windowpane. Several rough, jagged lines that seemed to form … letters. I edged closer and leaned down, making out the initials, ‘AB.’ My hand went to my mouth, stifling a small cry.

  Allegra Byron.

  In that moment, I had a flash of her face, blue eyes sparkling with mischievous intent as she scratched her initials on the window. She giggled … and I listened as the sound swirled around me – finally, I could see her again and hear her laughter. My child. She had left this mark. Sinking on to the bed, I let the knowledge sink in. Then I smiled. Could anything be more delightful than envisioning Allegra doing something endearing? The child of my heart.

  I sat there for some time, quiet and still, savoring the moment. Whatever I learned from the convent records, at least I had this memory to sustain me.

  ‘Aunt Claire?’ Paula hovered in the doorway, watching me intently. ‘You were gone so long that I grew worried. Trelawny told us that the Abbess brought you upstairs to your daughter’s … room. Are you all right?’

  ‘Better than ever now that I have seen it.’ I patted the bed, and Paula took her place next to me. ‘It seemed a rather cold and forbidding place at first – until I spied something.’ I pointed to the ‘AB’ initials etched on the pane. Paula moved toward the window and, after recognizing what the letters signified, she turned to me, her eyes wide with surprise.

  ‘Do you think that Allegra … did that?’

  ‘I do.’

  Paula traced the letters with her index finger. ‘The cuts have smoothed down with the passage of time, almost not even visible at this point. One would have to have been looking for the marking.’ She turned to me. ‘Did the Abbess show it to you?’

  ‘No – she never mentioned it,’ I responded. ‘We must tell her when she returns.’

  ‘Do you think she will find anything in the records to help us? After all these years, I cannot imagine that someone did not notice a discrepancy about Allegra’s death. It seems unlikely …’ Paula faltered, seemingly hesitant to say more.

  ‘But not impossible.’ I held out a hand to her. ‘Let us take this as a sign that we were meant to travel to the convent so I could see an image of my daughter that I have never seen before. It gladdened my heart, and whatever happens next, at least I will have that.’

  She briefly raised my hand to her cheek. ‘You are so right, Aunt.’

  ‘Sometimes a journey does not lead where one would think,’ I said, half to myself. ‘But I have never regretted setting out on a new road – it may lead to some discovery which is totally unexpected. Even at my age, I find the possibility intriguing.’ I rose from the bed. ‘Now, let us join Trelawny and Raphael … they are probably at their wits’ end being in sole charge of Georgiana.’

  ‘I thought you said Trelawny had children of his own?’

  ‘Oh, my dear, he was never the one to care for them – that was the responsibility of his three wives. I am afraid most men, as you know, are not exactly skilled in child-rearing.’

  ‘Indeed,’ she readily agreed. ‘Even Raphael seems hapless at times when it comes to Georgiana.’

  ‘But he does try to help you and he loves Georgiana – that is truly what counts.’ I rose and glanced around the room once more with a deep sigh. ‘It is very difficult for a woman to raise a child alone; while I did not want to give up Allegra, sending her to Byron and eventually the convent gave her a much better life that I could ever have provided for her—’

  ‘You do not know that,’ Paula protested. ‘It was a painful choice, but you did what you thought was best for her.’

  ‘Perhaps … there are so many unknowns when it comes to how fate might have changed our lives – one small turn around a different corner, one altered decision – I cannot say how it would have turned out.’ I linked my arm through hers. ‘Come along, there is nothing more for us to see here.’ And with that, I drew her out of the room, leaving that vision of Allegra behind.

  It was time to move on.

  As we exited, I thought I heard a tiny giggle once more, trai
ling us into the hallway. She would always be with me.

  We made our way toward the courtyard, not saying much beyond a brief observation about the pristine state of the convent – the Abbess seemed to run a tight ship when it came to cleanliness being next to Godliness. A quality that had always seemed to elude me. In fact, I preferred a bit of mess here and there; it made life interesting.

  Once we emerged, I blinked in the bright afternoon sunlight as it glinted off the rich brown buildings of Bagnacavallo just visible outside the walls, no doubt bustling with the kind of vibrancy not present inside the convent.

  Too quiet for me. Having grown used to living in Florence, I preferred the constant hum of activity.

  Paula and I strolled through the herb and flower garden toward a stand of cypress trees where Trelawny held Georgiana high in his arms so she could pick a small, brownish-gold cone from its branches. Raphael guided her arm, murmuring words of encouragement in Italian and English.

  ‘I may need to revise what I just said about men and child-rearing,’ I murmured as we approached them. ‘It appears they are doing just fine.’

  ‘Surprisingly so,’ Paula responded.

  Once Georgiana had completed her task, Trelawny set her down again, and she dashed toward us, her curls flying behind her as she chattered away in Italian to her mama.

  Trelawny turned to me. ‘Was your visit upstairs … successful?’

  ‘And more.’ Smiling, I glanced up at Allegra’s window. ‘Somehow I think I found her again – at least the girl she was when she lived here.’ Moving toward an iron bench in the middle of the courtyard, I noticed a profusion of rosemary bushes with small, blue flowers – the ‘dew of the sea,’ symbolizing remembrance. So fitting, because I would always recall this day. ‘Did you hear anything from the Abbess?’