by Lucy Muir
“I am so pleased you came,” Mrs. Shelley said into Elisabeth’s ear. “I was not certain you would, for of course we heard of your humiliation when your vouchers to Almack’s were taken away. Did you mind dreadfully?”
“No,” Elisabeth answered honestly. “Although I was distressed to cause Lady Parker such anxiety, given that she felt responsible for my disgrace.”
“But I daresay all is forgiven now that Lady Parker is to wed the Duke of Norland,” Mrs. Shelley commented shrewdly as she led Elisabeth toward the house, Molly following.
“Yes, of course,” Elisabeth said and then laughed, the amusing side of her “disgrace” striking her. Mrs. Shelley joined in, her clear laugh ringing through the warm evening air with an infectious gaiety.
“One weathers disgrace, as I know, but it is at times difficult,” Mary commiserated when their mirth ceased. “One must remember what is important in life, and I assure you it is not the opinions of others.
“But now you must come in,” Mary Shelley said, drawing Elisabeth through the front door of Albion House. “We have prepared a feast for you and Lord Sherbourne with all our friends invited, for feasting has no joy with no one to share it.”
Inside Elisabeth found the drawing room was filled with the people she had met at the Hunts’ and at the Shelleys’ before: John Keats, Thomas Peacock, Hazlitt, Claire Clairmont with her baby Allegra, Shelley, Mr. and Mrs. Hunt and a woman who was introduced to her as Mrs. Hunt’s sister, Bess. Mary urged everyone into the dining room where Elisabeth saw a table laden with roast fowl, savories and other tantalizing dishes, as well as the loaves of bread and platters of dried fruit on which Mr. Shelley subsisted. Glasses were filled with the diners’ choice of water or a white wine and Elisabeth and Lord Sherbourne were toasted repeatedly before the guests got down to the business of eating. Mr. Hunt, who considered any meal a failure if it was not accompanied by a lively discussion, chose to introduce the topic of love unbound by marital ties.
“You are up to your usual tricks, introducing such a topic at a betrothal feast,” his wife reprimanded him, glancing apologetically at Lord Sherbourne and Elisabeth.
“Nonsense, Sherbourne does not mind,” Hunt insisted.
“Who are you to be a proponent of love free of marital ties, in any event,” objected Hazlitt, “when you are yourself a model of wedded bliss, if such a state may be said to exist?”
“It is true I am supremely happy with my Marianne and seek no embraces out of the marital bed,” Hunt agreed, putting his arm around his wife’s plump shoulders and squeezing her affectionately. “But I will defend the right of those who wish not to be so bound to follow their own codes of morality.”
“At least you are consistent,” Shelley spoke up. “Godwin pretended to advocate free love and then opposed Mary’s affection for me—until we were married last December, after which he wished to become reconciled,” Shelley finished with disgust. “I despise a hypocrite above all things.”
“I have long felt you are too hard on Godwin,” Hunt objected, always happy to take the opposing side in any disputation. “Mary is his daughter—you cannot expect a man to be rational about his own daughter. He has an instinct to protect her.”
“If one’s beliefs are true one must follow them at all times, not only when one is pleased to do so. I believe love is a law unto itself—beyond all rights of man to constrain it,” Shelley stated passionately.
“What do you say, Peacock?” Hunt asked, seeking to continue the argument.
“I say that at this moment I am more interested in the contents of my plate,” Peacock replied in mild tones.
“Hear, hear!” Keats seconded.
The other guests laughed at Hunt’s failed attempt to keep the topic going and conversation veered to other subjects. Elisabeth noted that Lord Sherbourne seemed to be enjoying himself as he entered the discussions but she, shy of offering her thoughts in such exalted company, simply listened while she sipped at her wine. Elisabeth found she quite the liked the light delicate flavor of the clear wine, not too dry or too sweet, reminding her of rushing brooks and new green vegetation. Keats, seated to her right, noticed that Elisabeth was enjoying the wine and, approving of any enjoyment of good food and drink, took it upon himself to keep her glass filled.
When everyone was replete from the feast Mary Shelley stood and tapped the edge of her knife on her plate to capture the guests’ attention. “It is time for us to celebrate the coming of the solstice with a fire,” she announced. “Let us adjourn to the glade.”
The guests all trooped out to the small woods, in the center of which was an open glade where a bonfire had been prepared. The guests seated themselves on rugs that had been spread around the edges of the fire, all except for Elisabeth and Lord Sherbourne, whom Mary led to two chairs that had been draped with lengths of green cloth. While Lord Sherbourne and Elisabeth took their places on their makeshift thrones, Mary motioned for her husband to light the bonfire. While the flames took hold Mary picked up two circlets of entwined flowers.
“Now we shall crown the King and Queen of Midsummer,” she proclaimed, advancing to Elisabeth and Lord Sherbourne and placing the flower circlets atop their heads. “Subjects, you must make your obeisance and declare fealty,” she added, curtseying gracefully before Lord Sherbourne and Elisabeth and placing a flower on the ground before them. The other guests willingly entered into the playacting, lining up to bow before the royal couple, offering variously a coin, a piece of food or a flower. After making their obeisances the other guests returned to their places on the rugs where they reclined and watched the flames of the midsummer fire as they conversed and sipped more wine.
As the longest day slowly and regretfully gave up the sun’s rays, Elisabeth began to have a feeling of unreality, fed by the strange festivities and the unaccustomed amount of wine she had drunk. In the lengthening shadows a heavy sensuality settled upon the air and Elisabeth noticed that Hunt and his wife leaned into each other as they watched the dying flames, as did Mary and Percy Shelley. Elisabeth watched Mary in envy as the poet pulled his wife close and she rested her head upon his shoulder, a look of utter contentment upon her face. Elisabeth glanced over to Sherbourne, longing to be able to do the same, but even had they been seated nearer together she doubted she would have dared to touch her betrothed, so deep was the gulf that was now between them. Sitting on his pretend throne in his evening dress Sherbourne looked truly regal, the flimsy crown of flowers accentuating rather than taking away from his strong masculinity. How she wished she might feel those strong arms holding her once again, the warmth of his body filling her with longing for she knew not what. As pictures of herself once again in Sherbourne’s arms filled her mind, Elisabeth was overcome with a longing to smash through the wall he had erected between them. But how, how could she do it? A memory of the advice Miss Thibeau had given her flashed into Elisabeth’s thoughts. If there were ever a time she should try to follow the artist’s advice and tempt and tantalize Lord Sherbourne this was it, but how?
Silence gradually fell on the group as the last rays of the sun vanished and the eerie midsummer twilight crept in. Mary Shelley rose. “The longest day has ended. It is time to take leave of the King and Queen of Midsummer,” she announced. Taking the lead, she stood before Lord Sherbourne, curtseyed, approached his “throne”, gave him a quick kiss on his lips, curtseyed again and walked back toward Albion House, leaving the glade. One by one the other guests followed Mary’s example, Marianne Hunt giving Sherbourne a hearty buss as Leigh Hunt bestowed a chaste peck on Elisabeth’s cheek while he murmured his good wishes in her ear. John Keats, greatly emboldened by the wine, kissed Elisabeth full on her lips and then blushed, while Hazlitt and Mr. Peacock contented themselves with saluting Elisabeth’s hand. Finally only two guests remained, Claire Clairmont and Shelley himself. Claire walked forward first, touching her lips to Lord Sherbourne’s, after which she ran after the others back to the house.
Now only Shelley stoo
d before Elisabeth and Lord Sherbourne. The tall poet bowed ironically then stood a moment transfixing both with his intense gaze, seeming to search their deepest hearts.
“Sherbourne, I wish you the best,” he spoke. “But those who do not appreciate that which they have should willingly share it with others. Love is a force that must be obeyed.”
So saying, the poet reached out to Elisabeth, pulling her up from her throne and into his arms. He swept her into a tight embrace, his mouth covering hers as he pressed the length of his body against her own. Stunned by the poet’s audacity, Elisabeth began to pull away when she suddenly remembered the advice of Evonne Thibeau. This was her chance! Here in this isolated glade, empty of all others but the poet, she must tempt and tantalize Lord Sherbourne by emulating Miss Thibeau’s flirtatious manner. Emboldened by the wine, knowing she might never again have another such an opportunity, Elisabeth intentionally pressed into the poet and wrapped her arms around him, knowing this action would command Sherbourne’s attention and raise his passions. A moment later she abruptly pushed away from the poet’s embrace and whirled to face Lord Sherbourne. Provocatively, in the best imitation of the Frenchwoman that she could give, Elisabeth boldly looked the viscount over from head to toe and then ran her tongue lightly over her lips as Shelley vanished into the darkness.
Elisabeth waited, her breath caught in her throat, hoping for a response, but Lord Sherbourne remained seated on his makeshift throne. She wondered if she had lost all in her desperate gamble and only made herself look foolish instead of provocative. As the moment seemed to stretch into an agonizing eternity Elisabeth forced herself to walk forward, swaying her hips in an exaggerated manner. She gave a mocking curtsey and then dared to raise her eyes to the viscount’s. For a fraction of a second she saw naked longing and desire before Sherbourne reached up and pulled her down into his lap, covering her lips with his and enveloping her in a hard, punishing embrace that immediately softened into an embrace of love and longing. Elisabeth’s heart raced and her breath quickened as the viscount held her close, his love as evident as his passion. She relaxed into his body, feeling she might faint from the unaccustomed sensations whirling through her veins. He kissed her again, briefly but fiercely, and then spoke into her ear.
“I think we had best leave the glade and return to Albion House now or you will be ruined in truth,” he said quietly. “Come,” he added gently, helping her up. Taking Elisabeth’s arm, led her out of the glade.
The small church was packed on the morning the Duke of Norland and Lord Sherbourne were united to their chosen brides in the home parish of Lady Parker and Lord Sherbourne. Those fortunate enough to have been invited to attend were able to watch the entire ceremony from inside the church and marvel at the beauty of the two brides. Lady Parker glowed in a shimmering gown of peach silk that changed to gold and bronze with each movement of the skirt. Miss Ashwood was demurely beautiful in a gown of blue silk overlaid with white lace. Both brides looked up at their husbands with evident love, causing envy to stir in the breasts of all the unmarried men present and many of the married as well.
Jane Fairacre, standing with her vicar husband, wept to see her friend happy at last. Lord and Lady Ashwood, satisfied they had done their best for both their daughter and their son, smiled benignly upon one and all. James Earlywine, standing beside Lord Sherbourne before the clergyman, complimented himself on saving the viscount’s betrothal by his own to Miss Thibeau—a state of affairs not to be regretted since James thereby gained a beautiful and passionate woman for his own. Miss Earlywine, her eyes glistening with unshed tears at the beauty and excitement of it all, dreamed blissfully of the day she would stand before the world as a bride. And far away near London in the still-rural area of Great Marlow, Mary Shelley congratulated herself on saving a friend’s happiness while a pensive poet dreamed of love with no bounds and of sailing across the limitless ocean.
The End
About Lucy Muir
Lucy Muir is a multi-published professional writer who lives in the country with several pet rabbits and cats. Lucy loves doing the research involved in writing historical romances, and particularly enjoys discovering interesting facts to share with readers.
Lucy welcomes comments from readers. You can find her email address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.
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Poets and Promises
ISBN 9781419944499
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Poets and Promises Copyright © 2013 Lucy Muir
Edited by Ann Leveille
Cover design by Dar Albert
Cover photography by commons.wikimedia.org
Electronic book publication September 2013
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