‘Paula and I can let her know.’ Raphael lowered Georgiana to the ground, then he offered Paula his arm. After she took it, the three of them strolled toward the convent.
Once they disappeared inside, I looked up at Trelawny, shielding my face from the sun with my hand. ‘Do you think Teresa will agree?’
‘Yes.’ He seated himself next to me, stretching out his long legs in black riding boots in front of him. ‘When I knew her in Pisa all those years ago, she seemed a kind woman, and it would be a great unkindness not to see you. The meeting is long overdue …’
‘Was she … pretty?’
He laughed. ‘Having had three wives, Claire, I know better than to answer that question.’
‘It was a stupid thing to ask – of course she was pretty. Remember what Byron said in Don Juan? “I hate a dumpy woman.” He would never have been with an unattractive lover.’
‘Certainly not,’ he said with deliberate emphasis in my direction.
Somewhat mollified, I knew there was nothing to be gained in pursuing this topic – except reviving my youthful vanity. Still, I could remember what it was like to be ‘Beauty’s daughter’ beyond the lines in Byron’s poem. ‘I am most eager to meet her for myself.’
‘Then our visit here is finished. Perhaps we shall find what we seek in Ravenna.’ He rose and extended a hand to me. ‘The rider who shadowed us on the first part of our journey seems to have disappeared – for now. But after the incident with Georgiana, we need to remain vigilant.’
‘Agreed.’ I allowed him to assist me as I rose from the bench, and I took one last look at the window of Allegra’s room. ‘But I found something here that I had lost, so the trip has given me a gift that I never expected.’
For an instant, I embraced Allegra in my heart before I turned away.
‘I am truly happy to hear it.’ He drew me toward the archway. ‘It is unfortunate that the Abbess was not exactly cooperative.’
‘No, but you have found Teresa was still alive. That could be … enlightening.’ I refrained from pointing out that he had offended the Abbess by suggesting that one of her Capuchin order may have forged the convent’s records.
As we emerged from the convent walls, I spied the carriage and Trelawny’s horse, and while the street seemed quiet with only an occasional passer-by, I felt reassured that he would be riding next to us as we traveled to the end of our journey. And he was right: we had to remain watchful on such unfamiliar terrain.
It was a long, flat road to Ravenna and, as I had seen thus far, anything could happen.
The trip, in fact, proved to be uneventful, as Trelawny had suggested. Few carriages passed us on the road, and after only two hours, we drove into the heart of Ravenna. Though a stranger to this city, I found it seemed oddly familiar after reading Byron’s confessione. Typical narrow cobblestone streets. Brown brick buildings. Charming piazzas. Much smaller than Firenze, it had an old-fashioned, elegant appeal.
I could see why Byron found it to be one of his favorite places.
The carriage halted in front of a classically styled palazzo in warm shades of terracotta. As we alighted, I noted a small brass plate near the front entrance that bore the hotel’s name: Al Cappello. The Hat. A classic name for Italian hotels, yet this one was certainly a step above our usual lodging.
‘Do not worry, Claire,’ Trelawny said as he dismounted his horse. ‘It is well within our budget. The owner is quite a devotee of Byron’s poetry and was easily persuaded to offer us rooms at a considerably reduced price when he heard he and I were friends.’
Of course.
Trelawny and Raphael saw to the luggage as Paula and I ushered a sleepy Georgiana inside. She had missed her afternoon nap and was visibly drooping. As was I. It had been an emotional day, and I needed a cup of tea and time alone to gather my thoughts – and allow myself to reflect on what might occur next.
Perhaps the end of our quest.
I longed for it but also feared it.
Barely half an hour later, I was settled into a spacious, airy suite with coffered ceilings and a sitting room. Thick red brocade curtains adorned the large open windows, a delicate ladies’ desk positioned between them. The room smelled old … a scent that lingered from the layers of plaster and paint. As I sat quietly and sipped a strong cup of oolong tea, I felt my spirits revive in such a beautiful setting. Paula and Georgiana resided in a similar room next door, with Trelawny and Raphael down the hall.
Events were moving swiftly now – Trelawny had already set out to contact Teresa about a meeting tomorrow.
The church bells rang out six times in the distance – seeming to come from different parts of the city, and I took a moment to say a silent prayer for strength. I would see this through and know that my life had found new meaning. All that I ever had experienced and all that I wanted to know would come together in this time and place.
My glance fell on Byron’s memoir where it lay on the tea table. It, too, bore the traces of age with the faded leather cover and yellowed pages. But each of the recordings rose up from inside so vivid and so real that it seemed as if they had occurred only yesterday: Byron entering the Porto Adriana during Christmas time and being halted by the religious procession, cradling a dying man in his arms outside the Palazzo Guiccioli, and fighting an assassin in the woods of Filetto. The images blurred in my mind’s eye like a pageant of scenes that both delighted my senses and grieved my heart.
Picking up the memoir, I traced my fingers along Byron’s handwriting – jagged and irregular, scrawled across each page. No one had ever seen this confessione aside from Trelawny – and now me with a touch that longed to reach beyond the separation of death. Sadly, I could not breech that gap as I skimmed his words …
I took Allegra to see Dante’s Tomb this evening, knowing she would not be with me much longer. I wanted her to remember that her papa was once a poet who admired the great Italian bard who was buried in Ravenna.
We could not walk the short distance from the Via Cavour to the Sepolcro di Dante because it was too dangerous, so Tita called for my carriage and followed closely behind as we moved through the centre of the city. He then stood guard as I led her inside the small domed monument.
Hand in hand, we solemnly moved toward the sarcophagus, the dim interior lit by a single votive lamp, kept burning day and night with Tuscan olive oil. It cast a thin, wavering shadow against the bas-relief of Dante reading at a lectern on the far wall.
My fellow poet in exile.
He knew only too well the pain of losing one’s home.
But not the pang of giving up one’s daughter …
Silently, we stood in front of Dante’s final resting place, and I squeezed Allegra’s fingers, whispering, ‘Te amo, mia figlia.’
‘Te amo, Papa.’
I recited the Latin epitaph inscribed on the sarcophagus lid, translating the verse by Canaccio as I pointed at the words: ‘… but since my soul left to be a guest in better palaces / and ever more blissfully reached out to its creator’s stars / here is enclosed the remains of me – Dante …’
‘Papa, you are not leaving me, are you?’ she asked me in Italian.
I could answer her truthfully that I was not departing …
I closed my eyes briefly, feeling the tears spill over my cheeks. He had not wanted to surrender her any more than I had, but we both did what we knew was best for our child. Maybe that was the bond that connected us at this point in time: I now understood that we had found a way for our heads to rule our hearts when it came to our daughter. His deep feelings for Allegra could not be doubted; they permeated each and every line of what he recorded in his memoir.
Taking another sip of tea, I pondered those moments when Byron took inspiration from Dante inside the tomb. Now I also understood why he wrote The Prophecy of Dante. It was not just his homage to the great poet; it was his way of finding solace in exile when he had to surrender all ties to his homeland – even his daughter.
As I re-read t
he passage, I realized yet again that Byron had been a lonely man. I had heard only Shelley’s accounts of his excesses and reckless behavior when I lived in Florence, and I imagined Byron’s life in Ravenna had been similar to Venice: filled with bright gaiety and beautiful women. In fact, it was very different. Certainly, he had Teresa. But much of the time he lived alone in the Palazzo Guiccioli, wistfully fixating on the past and fatefully anticipating the coming revolution.
How wrong I had been about that, too.
Draining the last of my tea in one long, deep swallow, I needed to breathe in the fresh breeze as it swept in from the nearby coast. Calm my mind and heart. So I let myself out of the room and down the stairs toward the lobby. I smiled at the young woman who stood behind the desk, but she did not see me. Her head was bent, dark hair falling forward, as she focused intently on some documents that lay stacked in front of her. As I emerged into the late-afternoon sunlight, I took in the fruit market next door, with its lush displays of blackberries, apples, and pears, and the little boys playing soldier with wooden swords in the street. Two chattering young women in pale-colored silk dresses nodded and smiled at me as they strolled past. So ordinary and safe. So different from the city teeming in violence that Byron described in his memoir.
I crossed the narrow street and ambled along, taking in the Renaissance-style buildings, neatly kept with freshly painted walls and blooming flowers in pots along the entranceways. Inhaling the soft scent of roses, I glanced up at the street sign and blinked: Via Cavour. I had stumbled on to the street which housed the Palazzo Guiccioli. Quickening my pace, I scanned the address numbers until I found it.
Via Cavour 41.
Byron’s residence.
The hub of revolution and scene of so much turmoil.
Staring at the rough brown exterior with its green shuttered windows and massive front door, the palazzo seemed little altered from how Byron described it almost fifty years ago, though perhaps a little more well-worn, with tiny cracks in the walls and chipped tiles on the roof. But still a palace in every way. Except now it was simply a quiet building on a semi-deserted street. No trace of anything beyond the commonplace.
Yet it all had happened here.
I imagined Byron kneeling in the snow next to the Austrian soldier who lay dying, gasping out the word ‘assassin’ as the city erupted in bloodshed and brutal counterattacks. Carbonari plotting in the shadows. Fierce clashes in the night. And in the middle of this tumult was dear Allegra, playing in the courtyard under Tita’s watchful eye. Somehow, innocence still flourished in spite of revolution and war.
A miracle.
Glancing toward the Porta Adriana, I noted the last few pedestrians exit Ravenna’s oldest part of town through the graceful archway – and realized that I stood alone on the Via Cavour.
A whiff of something savory being cooked nearby drifted my way. Fragrant herbs and pungent spices used in the Italian dishes that I loved. Realizing that it had been hours since I last dined, I turned to make my way back to the Al Cappello and saw a figure approaching out of the corner of my eye, and an oddly primitive warning sounded in my brain. The shadow rider? Had he followed us here? Turning quickly, I caught only a glimpse of a stocky man wearing a hat that hid his face, approaching with rapid steps … then I felt a hard thump against my shoulder and I stumbled backwards, almost falling on to the cobblestones when a young woman caught my arm.
With a surprisingly strong grip, she held me up as I steadied myself again; the unknown man disappeared around a corner without breaking his stride.
‘Signora, stai bene?’ she asked, not letting go.
‘Si.’ Straightening my dress with shaky hands, I tried to calm myself and reassure her once again that I was fine. Then I inquired if she had recognized the man. She shook her head as she released my arm.
‘The brim of his hat was pulled down too far to see his face, but it seemed as if he went right toward you,’ she said in Italian, ‘and attempted to knock you down.’
I tried to brush off the comment with a laugh, but I knew it was true: the man had deliberately targeted me on a public street in the center of Ravenna. Taking in a deep breath, I realized it was time to face the fact that we were being followed by someone who was playing a cat-and-mouse game – first shadowing us, then approaching Georgiana in the woods near Vergato, and now attacking me. But never showing his face, never revealing himself.
One thing was certain: he was growing increasingly bold.
By the time the young woman escorted me back to the Al Cappello, we were chatting companionably, trying to distract ourselves, but I knew from the throbbing pain in my shoulder what had really occurred.
I bade her a grateful farewell and slowly moved inside the lobby, finding it deserted. Thanking my good fortune that I did not have to stop and explain where I had gone, I headed up to my room, locking the door behind me. I leaned back against the door and closed my eyes, rubbing my shoulder and trying to remember anything about the man that might have been remarkable. Medium height. Nondescript clothing. Nothing stood out. And with his face hidden by the hat, I could not say whether he was old or young … but there was something familiar about him.
‘Did you have a nice walk?’ Trelawny asked.
Instantly, my eyes fluttered open to see him lounging in my sitting room, arms folded, with a cold, congested expression on his face.
‘I assume a servant let you in—’
‘With Paula, of course,’ he cut in with a harsh tone. ‘She just stepped out for a moment to attend to Georgiana.’
‘Oh, I see.’
He tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. ‘You seem a bit … frazzled. Did something happen while you were out?’
‘No … well, nothing really significant.’ Pausing, I knew he would be able to see through any dissembling; it was better to tell him the truth. ‘If you must know, a man ran into me on the Via Cavour, but I cannot say for certain if it was an accident or not. The young woman who helped me back to the Al Cappello thought he tried to knock me down, but I am doubtful—’
‘For God’s sake, Claire, could you be sensible for once in your life?’ He heaved himself off the settee and knocked Byron’s memoir to the floor, causing the sheets to scatter. ‘We have likely been trailed on our entire journey by a man with some kind of evil intent, and you decide to wander the streets alone? Are you mad? The least you could have done was ask Raphael or Paula to accompany you.’
‘You are right, and, in truth, I think the attack on me was intentional.’ Biting my lip, I kicked myself inwardly for my own foolishness. ‘I am very sorry to have caused you distress, Edward. I was wrong to simply wander off from the hotel. I can only plead a momentary weakness caused by this long, emotional day. Forgive me.’
Staring at the ceiling briefly, he sighed. ‘I could never hold a grudge against you, even if you try my patience in a hundred ways.’ He then bent down and retrieved the pages, slipping them inside the leather cover before handing it to me. ‘The entries are probably out of order.’
As I took it from him, he covered my hand with his.
‘You never would let me take care of you, even though I have cherished you my entire life. I always knew that Byron had enthralled you completely and totally – I accepted that. But you could have grown to care for me if you had let me into your heart just a little. We shared that one night together in Pisa – and I never asked you to explain why you simply left me after that. But now I am asking. Why did you give me a glimpse of paradise and then expel me?’
‘There is nothing to be gained by discussing this—’
‘I want to know the truth. Certainly, I have led a rough life and deceived you when I should have explained everything years ago, but I knew, if I did, that you would never speak or write to me again. So I held my tongue and let the lie stretch between us until it was a dark chasm never to be breached. I accept all of that – and more. But I have cleansed my soul and tried to make amends, and you have given me nothing in
return. I ask you again in this place and time when the future feels so uncertain: why?’
I tried to pull away from him, clutching Byron’s memoir closer, but Trelawny would not let go. ‘Truly, I can scarcely recall it.’
‘I do not believe you.’
Images of the young Trelawny in Pisa flashed through my mind. Black hair. Dark eyes. Rakish smile.
Oh, I remembered every moment. He had appeared late at night and found me alone at the Casa Galetti after everyone had simply abandoned me … I was desolate, knowing that our magic circle of beloved ones had been shattered forever, and I would never know such happiness again. Not bothering even to light candles, I sat in the darkness, listening to the stillness of the warm summer evening near the Arno River.
Trelawny had appeared in the doorway, almost filling the space with his tall, broad shoulders – his handsome face racked by anguish. I did not speak – just led him to my bed chamber where we let our passion fill the emptiness that surrounded us.
Time stopped. Grief stopped. And I felt alive again in his arms when he swept my hair back and showered my face with slow, passionate kisses.
I held nothing back.
In the early dawn, I watched him sleep – his face so youthful in repose. In my own way, I loved him and could so easily have built a life with him, but would that have been fair? He would never be Byron. Never the man who consumed my heart and soul. He would never light my world with his poetry and brilliance.
For that, he would come to hate me.
We had turned to each other for comfort, but that was not enough.
And I had also seen the way he looked at Mary; once she had grieved for Shelley long enough, he would court her himself. I knew it. And I would not be the third wheel in yet another relationship – ever.
A Shadowed Fate Page 16