‘Not yet,’ Raphael said. ‘Considering the convent’s age and the number of students who lived here over the years, it may be a while before she finishes her search through the records.’
I slid on to the bench. ‘Do we still have time, Trelawny?’
He nodded. ‘We are only hours from Ravenna, but I will send word to the Al Cappello that we may arrive late in the day. I also need to check on a few details with my contact here at the Piazza Nuova – it is only a few blocks away, so I should not be long.’ He gave a little bow and headed out through an open archway.
After he left, Paula queried, ‘While we wait, would you like to see the Chiesa di San Giovanni, Aunt Claire? Georgiana was too restless to take inside the church – and I would like to see the marble altar.’
‘By all means you go, but I think I shall remain here. The day is too fine to be indoors.’
She paused. ‘Are you certain it is not too warm?’
‘Absolutely.’ I reached into my bag and pulled out Byron’s memoir. ‘And I have plenty to occupy myself.’
After Paula asked once again, she finally strolled off with Raphael and Georgiana reluctantly in tow. Slightly relieved to be left alone, I leaned back against the hard iron bench, absently noting the wild rose vines that grew around its legs. Then I put on my spectacles and flipped to the page where I had stopped reading, when Byron stood vigil over his wounded carriage driver through the night in Ravenna …
The danger has passed with Guido – he will live.
By the early morning hours, he had improved enough to be moved to his family’s farm outside the city. After his father and brother smuggled him out of the palazzo, I still could not sleep. I paced the room, wrote annoyed letters to all my correspondents in England who rarely answered my repeated requests for news of London, then checked on Allegra at least half a dozen times.
Exhausted, I finally dozed off in my study, pistol in hand, only to be awakened a few hours later by Tita.
He told me rumors had been swirling around Ravenna all night that a mob of Austrian sympathizers intended to march on the palazzo and take me prisoner. But as they gathered near the Battistero degli Ariani, one of them had been stabbed by the Carbonari in an ambush – then the rest disbanded.
I refrained from asking who had wielded the knife, noting that one of Tita’s short blades, which he kept in his sash, was missing.
The call to arms would be soon.
Allegra needed to leave Ravenna.
Much as I do not wish to part from her, I know it is best. If I am arrested – or worse – she would be at great risk.
I dispatched Tita to the nearby Convent of San Giovanni to contact the Capuchin nuns. She would be safe there.
Claire will not like it …
Slowly, I closed the memoir.
No, I did not like it, but at least now I understood it. But why had Byron withheld the truth from me? If I had known about the dire situation in Ravenna, I would not have been filled with bitter disappointment over what I believed to be his mistreatment of our daughter and disregard for my feelings when he placed her in the convent. He could have restored himself so easily in my esteem, yet he chose to let me continue to think badly of him.
Then again, Byron always let people think what they wanted about his true character, never bothering to reveal what lay inside the hard shell of disillusionment that he presented to the world. He had his loyal retainers like Tita and Fletcher. The rest could judge as they saw fit. Most people would want others to know about their good deeds, yet Byron hid them.
Slipping the memoir back in my bag, I glanced up again at Allegra’s window. Did she know how much her father loved her, even in the face of revolution? And how much her mother missed her beyond that? If she was still alive, I could share all of this with her.
My darling girl.
Transferring my gaze to the clear blue sky, I spied a lone cloud drift past the sun – one tiny shadow in the endless expanse that stretched above me. Raising my hand as if to brush it off into a far horizon, I heard Paula’s voice as they approached.
Then I caught sight of the Abbess emerging from the convent.
She had found something. I knew it.
My heart pounding, I stood quickly and moved toward her at the moment Paula and Raphael returned with Georgiana.
Trelawny must have been delayed, but I could not wait.
‘I apologize that it took me so long to find the records about your daughter,’ the Abbess began as she held out a large book with frayed leather edges and a faded, gold-embossed stamp of 1822 on the front. ‘These old volumes were stacked in a corner in a haphazard pile behind some wooden crates—’
‘What did you find?’ I cut in eagerly.
She opened the book carefully, brushing off the dust as she pointed at one yellowed page. ‘I am afraid it is not good news. On this date of the twentieth of April 1822, it lists six names of young girls who died of the typhus.’
I scanned the names and saw … Allegra Byron.
My shoulders sagged. ‘But that does not mean she actually died. Byron told Trelawny that he fabricated her demise—’
‘If so, I am certain there would have been a notation to show where she had been taken – a place, a name … something,’ she continued. ‘As I asked before, is it possible that Byron lied to Trelawny?’
‘No – he did not lie to me,’ Trelawny declared as he reappeared in the courtyard. ‘All that means is the convent record was forged.’
The Abbess slammed the book shut. ‘Are you suggesting that one of our religious order lied about a child’s death?’
I felt Paula and Raphael tense.
‘Anything is possible,’ he said, ‘especially if one of the nuns felt she was protecting Allegra from harm. I am not saying it was an immoral act – indeed, it may have been the most ethical choice, given the situation.’
‘I have nothing more to say to you, Signor.’ The Abbess’s mouth tightened into a thin line. ‘You may remain in the courtyard to pray, Signora Clairmont, but then I must ask you to leave. I cannot help you further.’ She spun on her heel and strode away.
I stared at her retreating figure in bafflement. ‘That seemed like a dismissal.’
‘Quite rude,’ Paula said as we watched the Abbess disappear inside the convent. ‘She could have at least entertained the possibility of a forgery.’
‘Si.’ Raphael frowned.
I turned to Trelawny, my hope dimmed as if covered by that tiny cloud that had blocked the sun a few minutes ago. ‘You are certain that Byron told you the truth when he said Allegra survived?’
‘I am,’ he said without hesitation.
‘Then we must follow a different avenue because I do not think we will find anything to help us in our quest here.’ Taking in a deep breath, I summoned my resolve again. ‘Someone in Ravenna may be able to provide information.’
‘I can almost guarantee it,’ Trelawny promised. ‘When I was in Bagnacavallo, I received news from my contact in Ravenna that an important person has agreed to see us tomorrow.’
‘Who?’ I raised my brows, waiting.
‘Teresa Guiccioli.’
I simply stared at him in amazement. ‘She still lives?’
He nodded.
Was it possible that the woman who supplanted me in Byron’s affections had survived all these years?
If so, she was the one person who might know what actually happened in Ravenna all those years ago – a witness to Bryon’s hidden activities with the Carbonari. And a source of truth about Allegra.
‘We must see her,’ I urged, feeling that cloud dissipate into the clear skies of faith and promise, illuminating the path before us.
Toward Byron’s last mistress – Teresa Guiccioli.
Convent of San Giovanni, Bagnacavallo, Italy
January 19, 1821
Allegra’s Story
I felt cold.
Standing in the convent courtyard under one of the old cypress trees, I looked
up at its branches shaped into a point at the top. Stretching up like a spear into the sky. Straight and strong. All of the oak and chestnut trees in Italy turned bare and gray during winter, but the cypress never lost its color. It always looked like spring, with branchlets sprouting tiny brownish-gold cones, even though the season was a long way off.
Where was Papa? He had been inside with the old Abbess for hours.
When we arrived, she had welcomed us warmly. Even though she seemed very old, with skin wrinkled like parchment, I could see she was charmed by Papa, prattling on about how the nunnery was built of Tuscan clay and had been damaged in an earthquake years ago. I stifled a yawn. She then handed me over to Sister Anna – a nun with olive skin and dark, serious eyes.
But I had grown fidgety, so she escorted me out to the courtyard, and when I jested that its barren, wintery garden looked haunted, she simply smiled and urged me to play near the cypress trees because its wood was used to make the cross of Jesus and could ward off demons. Questo non è affatto vero – not true. Tita had always told me the tree had the magic Sud Italia in its being. He gave me a little pendant that he had carved from the bark into an Italian horn, a cornicello to protect against the malocchio – evil eye. I put it on a silver chain and always wore it under my dress.
She promised to return quickly after prayers.
I want to go home … back to Ravenna.
This convent feels like a prison after living with my papa in his palazzo.
I pulled my heavy woolen shawl tighter against the winter wind that blew in from the west.
‘Buongiorno.’ A girl about my age with long red curls and pale skin skipped toward me, then stopped and curtsied. ‘I am Chiara.’
I did the same as I introduced myself.
‘Are you going to be a student here?’ she queried.
Shaking my head vigorously, I explained that my Papa would never allow that to happen.
She did not respond.
Suddenly feeling a sense of uncertainty, I pulled out my little pendant and held it close, explaining the magic powers behind the cornicello.
‘You will not need that here.’ Her face took on a happy glow. ‘The Madonna watches over us.’
She must have noticed my puzzled expression because she began to tell the story of Mother Mary and the Bambino. As I listened politely, I tucked the cornicello inside my dress again. Perhaps I would not need it after all.
‘I was going to watch the old man from the village who weaves baskets out of straw – he has a cart just outside the wall, even in the winter.’ Chiara pointed to an open archway. ‘Do you want to join me? If you are very quiet while he works, he will give you a fritole.’
I clapped in excitement and started to follow her when Sister Anna hurried out of the convent portico and exclaimed, ‘You must stay on the convent grounds, Allegrina. Your papa will not be long.’
My spirits drooped as I watched Chiara depart.
Sister Anna held out her hand. ‘Come along, it is too cold to be outside.’
‘Si.’ I let her lead me indoors where we waited in an empty hallway for what seemed like an eternity.
When I finally spied Papa, I gave a cry of relief and ran toward him.
I never wanted to see this place again.
EIGHT
‘Pleasure shall, like a butterfly new caught,
Flutter her lovely pinions …’
The Prophecy of Dante, III, 115–116
Convent of San Giovanni, Bagnacavallo, Italy
July 1873
I could scarcely believe it as I listened to Trelawny explain that when he had been making inquiries in Ravenna about members of the Gamba family who might help us in our quest, he learned that Teresa still lived – and resided outside the city.
An unexpected turn of fate, to say the least.
‘But she must be quite old,’ Paula blurted out, then her face flushed as she realized the import of her words. ‘Pardon me, Aunt … I did not mean to imply anything that would reflect on your age. You are truly the most remarkable person. I was simply surprised.’
‘I take no offense, my dear,’ I assured her. ‘The truth is I am not young by any means. I, too, was astonished – not so much that Teresa had reached my age, but that I had not heard about it. After all, Florence is not that far from Ravenna.’ Through the years, I had often imagined meeting Teresa, trying to understand why Byron had turned to her after me, but I realized no good could come of such an encounter. Shelley told me she had a pleasing sweetness in her manners that Byron found calming, and I contented myself with that explanation.
Of my many qualities, ‘sweetness’ was never one that I claimed.
‘Apparently, la Guiccioli moved back to Italy only recently. She had married the Marquis de Boissy almost twenty years ago and lived quietly in Paris, penning her book about Byron in French. She waited until her husband died before she published her Recollections of Lord Byron in France a few years later … then I lost track of her as she moved into the realm of the forgotten,’ Trelawny said.
How well I knew that land. Those of us who traveled with the famous often ended up abandoned in its empty terrain.
I did not intend to read it.
It was too painful.
Georgiana tugged on Raphael’s leg as she pointed at another cone nestled high in a cypress tree. He lifted her in his arms, so she could reach one of the branches.
‘How many books can be written about a man, even one as famous as Byron?’ Paula kept a steadying hand against her daughter’s back. ‘I could understand someone like Mr Rossetti wanting to buy Aunt Claire’s letters for his Shelley biography, but these gossipy “recollections” of every conversation with Byron seem so … tawdry.’ She paused, the color rushing into her cheeks once again. ‘I did not mean you, Trelawny – you wrote about war adventures that you shared with Byron – not mere blather.’
He gave a short bow, but the twist to his mouth signaled that he was well aware that Paula’s exception of his work seemed hasty and half-hearted.
‘Why did you not write your own book about Byron?’ Raphael inquired of me, edging Georgiana a bit higher. ‘You were part of the literary circle and had first-hand observations of his friendship with Shelley …’
As his voice trailed off, I stared off briefly into the distance that stretched beyond the convent walls, as I slid on to the bench again. ‘The many others who wrote about their recollections of Byron were friends or social acquaintances, such as Thomas Moore or Lady Blessington, but our relationship was more … complicated. I always considered what we shared much too personal to reveal to the world—’
‘But Teresa Guiccioli left her husband to live openly with Byron – it had to have been a great scandal at the time. If she could write about her love affair with him, so could you,’ Paula pressed. ‘And Mary wrote that biography of Shelley even though he was married when he became her lover.’
Smiling sadly, I shook my head. ‘Teresa had rank and wealth, and Mary had literary genius – two qualities that protect a woman from brutal public censure. I have neither. And lest you forget, the world we live in has little tolerance for a woman of obscure background who has a child out of wedlock and chooses never to marry. Believe me, if I had written about my relationship with Byron, I am one who would have suffered from cruel attacks.’ Besides, I could never bring myself to reveal the intimate details of our connection, initiated by my own bold proposition to meet him outside the city for a secret tryst.
In truth, I had been the aggressor in England – and later in Geneva when I arranged for all of us to connect on the shores of Lac Léman. I wanted to be the muse of a great poet, not just one of the many women who drifted through Byron’s life, so I had maneuvered myself into his world.
How could I ever write about those stolen moments when Byron made love to me, created poetry about my ‘sweet voice,’ and vowed to care for our daughter?
Those memories were mine alone.
At least, he had been tru
e to that last promise – in his own fashion.
Paula gave an exclamation of disgust. ‘I think it is spectacularly unfair that you are not given the same favored status to write about Bryon. You deserve the opportunity to tell about your life with him, especially now, when it is possible that Allegra did not die—’
‘That can never be revealed,’ Trelawny cut in with a firm voice. ‘Whatever propelled Byron to hide her fate needs to remain a secret … at least until we know the whole story.’
‘I agree – we must be prudent.’ I echoed his tone. ‘Saying anything at this point could be dangerous to all of us. And, truly, I prefer to keep some parts of my life private, Paula. Telling all does not mean giving the whole story – just one piece of it. All the so-called friends who wrote about Byron had only a glimpse of the man behind the legend: he always knew how to perform what people expected of him. Only a few of us saw the bitter and lonely man in exile …’ The friends closest to him.
The ones who turned me into an invisible presence from the past – a ghost hovering only in the edges of their lives.
It still rankled.
I could excuse Trelawny for omitting any references to me in his book because he wanted to protect Allegra, but Mary had expunged me in her writings about our circle to create the portrait of a ‘moral’ life with Shelley. As a widow with a young son, she struggled with poverty, so I understood her motivation only too well, but I found it hard to accept that my own stepsister could be so callous. And history always sided with those whose fame extended beyond their lives like a drama with no end … never with the bit players in the wings. That had been my role, and so be it. But I would write the last act.
‘I still think it is unjust.’ Paula sniffed.
‘True, but this is not the time or place to debate literary fairness.’ Trelawny motioned toward the archway. ‘The horse and carriage await outside, and we need to depart if we are to arrive in Ravenna before evening. I can then send a note to Teresa to inquire if she would be willing to see you, Claire.’ He ended the sentence on a questioning note.
‘I would like to make her acquaintance.’ Sitting back, I let my own words sink in. A meeting with Teresa Guiccioli. My nemesis. My rival. But, strangely, also my hope. If there was any chance that she might have some fragment of a recollection about Allegra’s fate, I needed to pursue it. ‘Should we inform the Abbess of our departure, just for courtesy’s sake?’
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