Byron gazed at Mary with a dark look in his eyes, as though seeing her clearly for the first time. “You know Sheridan so well?”
Claire answered first, sitting down on the opposite settee and patting it suggestively with her hand. “Indeed, yes, B. He was … is … a friend of our Papa’s, is he not, Mary? He has been an admirer of Mr. Sheridan’s for almost all his life.”
“Not, perhaps, as much as he used to be,” said Mary. “Remember that they quarreled rather publicly over the French Revolution.”
Byron raised an eyebrow. “I had always imagined Richard Brinsley Sheridan to be a supporter of reform,” he said. He studiously ignored Claire’s obvious attempts to get him to sit beside her.
“He was,” Mary said. “He is. But he was a man without a fortune. He could not afford the luxury of political dissent, when he had a living to earn.” Her gaze met Byron’s and locked, despite the hauteur creeping into Byron’s expression. “Not every revolutionary is born to wealth,” she said. “Rousseau, Voltaire, Sheridan … men of principle but without means.”
“Which makes it ever more incumbent upon those of us with means to be the means of revolution,” Shelley said heartily. “What say you, my lord? Shall we form a company of charitable revolutionaries? Shall we use our money to shove the powerful and tyrannical off their thrones?”
Polidori snorted. “You cannot be serious. Why, for his lordship to fund a revolution would be a remarkable inconsistency.”
Byron looked coldly at his doctor. “I have no consistency, except in politics; and that probably arises from my indifference to the subject altogether.” He turned to Shelley. “Even so, and though I approve your theories in theory, so to speak, I am not persuaded that they will bring us anything but misery. Do away with aristocracy? No, sir. If we must have a tyrant, let him at least be a gentleman who has been bred to the business, and let us fall by the axe and not by the butcher’s cleaver.”
Claire winced. “Government by the corrupt and idle? Do you not see what is happening in the world, in England? B, how can you close your eyes to such tyranny?”
“Perhaps, as a member of the peerage, his lordship finds it inappropos to see what he is not supposed to see,” Mary said acidly.
“It is easy enough to peer through the window into the counsels of the mighty, when they lock you out,” Byron said, frowning. “I am an accident, my feral little fox. I was never supposed to be a member of the peerage.”
“How not?” said Polidori, taking out a snuffbox. At Mary’s frown, he put it away again.
“I was destined for hell, and got diverted into another delivery,” said Byron. His tone was light but his frown was dark. “When my cousin got himself killed in the wars, they had no choice but to dump the peerage—and the debts—on me. Why, the damn fool could not even wait until Waterloo to die.”
Shelley said, “That hardly makes you a revolutionary, though.”
“No, merely an outsider, which is worse. To the ton, I am an upstart, a hanger-on, an oddity and a monster. The last time I attended a ball, they stared at me in horrified fascination, as if I were an exhibit in a raree-show.” Byron bit off his speech suddenly, turning away.
“His lordship does not demur his title enough to forswear his state,” muttered Polidori. Mary looked sharply at him. It wasn’t that she disliked his opinions—far from it—but that he was so cowardly about them. He would only mutter them, not speak them aloud as Shelley. But then, she thought, what poor man has the luxury of free speech? Even as the thought crossed her mind, an image of her impoverished father came into her mind, steadfastly writing his revolutionary tracts despite government censure. She smiled at the thought.
“And what amuses my Dormouse?” said Shelley in her ear. He rattled the paper, holding it up as a screen between the two of them and the rest of the company, which was getting up a quarrel.
I love my father, and you, and all free thinkers, she wanted to say. What she said was, “Do something quickly, lest open war break out in Byron’s best drawing room.”
“And I am a man of peace,” he said. He patted Mary’s hand and opened the paper. “I say, Byron, shall we go for a sail on the night tides?”
Byron, interrupted in mid-tirade against Polidori, paused. He lifted an eyebrow. “You are careless of your life, Shiloh, but I value mine. Have you not heard the thunder all evening?”
“Oh, but how magnificent, to bare our breasts to the storm, to feel its full fury on our faces and know that Nature’s most powerful forces are arrayed against us!” Shelley cried.
Byron shook his head. “Not even for the opportunity to see Mary’s breast bared to the storm. There is too much danger of lightning.”
“Danger? I should say opportunity! Why, we can even advance the progress of science,” Shelley said.
Mary looked up in alarm.What had started as a diversion threatened to turn into something more dangerous. “Shelley—”
But Shelley shook the paper practically in Byron’s face. “See here, where a fellow in Milan claims that all this un-summer-like weather—cold, storms, all of it—is the consequence of introducing Franklin’s lightning rods into Europe! Can you imagine a thing so absurd!”
Polidori shrugged. “But it makes sense to me, Mr. Shelley. If I put up a lightning rod, am I not inviting lightning? Why be surprised if we experience more of it?”
“Hah. I perceive that you are unfamiliar with the works of Dr. Franklin. He actually discerned that the inclement summer of 1783 was caused by a volcanic eruption in Japan! It was not lightning that brought storms, nor the lightning rods that brought the lightning! The dust from the eruption entered the air and shielded us from the sun’s rays.”
Polidori shook his head. “I do not wish to be impolite, but surely that is nonsense! How could a volcano in Japan affect weather in Boston?”
“It would have been in Philadelphia, actually. But do you not see the majesty of it? The magnificence of it? Byron, surely you can see how stupendous an idea it is, that Nature erupts on one side of the world and causes rain on the other side!”
Byron shrugged and picked up a poker to jab at the fire. “I am not so enamored of Dame Nature as to assert that she works so subtly. Come, we must have a game of whist or chess.”
But Shelley threw down the paper and strode up and down the room, his gaze on his feet and his hands in his hair. “I have it! Byron, it is splendid! We can use this very storm to disprove this Milano! Let us set up the Leyden jar and draw down some of the electrical fluid! It will show that Franklin’s rods are not the cause of all this intemperance.”
Polidori looked alarmed. “What? There is no electricity in lightning! Lightning is fire, not an electrical fluid.”
“No, doctor, it is surely formed from the same substance as the etheric upper atmosphere,” Shelley said. “My teachers, my books, they agree that the etheric fluid is surely converted by some subtle means into electrical fluid. I have myself felt it!”
Polidori and Byron both looked at him. “You have felt it?” Byron sounded curious.
“Oh, yes,” Shelley said. He stopped in front of Byron, his hands waving wildly. “When I was at Oxford, I used to conduct electrical researches. There is one device—I can build it again in no time!—whereby a wheel is turned, and electrical fluid is generated out of thin air! And by touching a rod, it may be conveyed to the person. I have used it to thrill my sisters, and on one occasion made my sister’s long hair rise up into the air!”
Claire giggled. “Like the time in London when we went out in the thunderstorm, do you remember? And your hair was standing out around your head like a halo! I called you Saint Shelley!”
“Yes, of course,” Shelley said excitedly.
“And a saint you will surely be, or at least the first martyr to science,” Byron said. “You cannot be serious, Shiloh! I will not have you struck dead on my very lawn!”
“Nothing of the kind. I have worked with these substances many times. Come, Polidori! Surely, as a
man of science, you will help me in this! Let us read the heavens in their own light!”
Polidori drew back. “I have … I have seen men who were killed by lightning. In Edinburgh, at my medical studies. I would not see that again.”
Mary rose to her feet, her embroidery falling to the floor. “Shelley, no!”
Shelley looked from one to another. “None of you are wise enough, or brave enough, to look your Dame Nature in the face?”
“I will,” said Claire. “I know where the Leyden jar is. I will send Fletcher for it.” Without waiting for an answer, she darted out of the room.
Chapter X - The Storm
I eagerly inquired of my father the nature and origin of thunder and lightning. He replied, “Electricity;” describing at the same time the various effects of that power. He constructed a small electrical machine, and exhibited a few experiments; he made also a kite, with a wire and string, which drew down that fluid from the clouds.
—Frankenstein, Volume I, Chapter I
Mary put a restraining hand on Shelley’s arm, but he shook it off, gently. “Come, my Mary. There is nothing to fear.”
Byron chuckled. “Indeed, I begin to think not. Consider it, my dear Mary. Should Shelley, the notorious atheist, be struck down by fire from heaven, thus giving triumph to his enemies? That would require Heaven to have a sardonic sense of humor, and I am persuaded that God does not know how to laugh. Shelley, what will you require of us?”
Too afraid to speak, Mary stood trembling as the men readied their experiment.
“We must have a kite, some silken string—Mary, we shall commandeer your embroidery threads. Oh, and a kite. Oh, damn, where shall we find a kite?”
Byron’s face went slightly pink, and he looked down at the fire. Mary was startled—he almost looked shy. Byron cleared his throat. “I am … tolerably good at making kites.” His glance slid sideways to Mary. “Mayhap I can press some silk petticoats into service—”
Shelley laughed. “Famous! Yes, we must have some silk. Mary? You will oblige?”
Mary’s first instinct was to slap Byron for his impudence. She made fists of her hands and put them behind her. “I think not, dearest. And I must urge you against this course.”
Shelley was not listening. “I have it! A shirt, your lordship. Mine is muslin, it will hold too much water.”
“Albé’s shirt is silk,” Claire said, and giggled.
“Ah!” Shelley cried. “Come, Byron. Sacrifice your tailor to the needs of science!”
Byron, reluctantly, unbuttoned his waistcoat. “If I am to sacrifice my wardrobe, I absolutely require lightning in a bottle. I shall toast you in it.”
“To be sure!” Shelley cried. Helplessly, Mary watched as her lover stripped the feathery plumes from an array of dried reeds, then tied the stems into a large X. “Polidori, please hold this.”
Polidori held the X shaped frame, and Byron quickly tied the thin shirt onto it. Soon he held a clumsy but functional kite.
As he worked, Mary noted that Byron’s chest was pale but well-muscled. Most of all, she noted the goosebumps on his skin. Byron looked at the kite carefully, then drained his brandy glass. “It might fly,” he said. “It is nearly as elegant as a pregnant camel, but perhaps it can become airborne. Indeed, in this wind, the pregnant camel might fly.”
Claire returned at that moment, followed by a panting, dripping Fletcher. Fletcher carried a two foot high cylinder of glass. The inside of the lower third of the glass was lined with copper foil; a cork stopper closed its throat and a long wire ending in a ball of lead emerged from the cork. He set it down carefully on the small sideboard and stepped quickly away.
Polidori caught up the water carafe from the sideboard. “You will need this, or so I am told.”
Shelley shook his head. “Not at all. That is an outmoded conceit, thoroughly discredited by Dr. Franklin in his researches.”
Looking offended, Polidori backed away, still holding the carafe.
Byron cocked his head as he regarded Shelley. “You do not need water to contain the electrical fluid?”
“On the contrary. The fluid is captured in the metal of the inner lining, I believe.” Shelley busied himself with the jar, tightening the lid, rattling it to hear the chain inside tinkle against the glass. “Yes, all is in order.”
Mary caught Shelley’s hand in hers. He looked at her, startled, then his smile softened his face. “I cannot allow myself to fear,” he said softly to her. “How will Dame Nature respect me, if I let her bully me? You will see; all will be well.”
“I cannot lose you!” she said. Images of his burned, blackened body danced in her imagination. Without him, where would she go? How would she and William live? “Have you thought about what it will mean if something goes wrong? If there is some accident, how will I live without you? I cannot bear the thought!”
His fingers tightened around hers, and he raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them. “My love, I go out on the lake every day. That is far more dangerous. More men drown than die from the lightning-strike. Would you have me cower?”
Before she could answer, he was turning away. Claire was ahead of him, flinging open the French doors with a laugh. The rain struck him in the face as he stepped through, and Shelley laughed.
“This is madness,” said Polidori angrily. “I will have no part of it, my lord. It is detrimental to your health.”
“Then if I am struck by the fire of heaven, I shall not owe you this month’s salary,” Byron said testily.
“Albé …” Mary said. “Can you not stop him?”
He caught her look, held it, and shook his head. “Too late, my dear,” he murmured. Byron stayed long enough to catch up the Leyden jar into his arms, then he limped out after Shelley.
Thunder cannonaded through the mountains on the other side of the lake, their peaks outlined by the flicker of lightning. As the party descended the terrace and crossed onto the sodden lawn, the wind whirled through the vineyard, causing the leaves to dance in a satanic frenzy. Ahead of Mary, Shelley’s tall form strode along, with Byron hobbling behind as fast as he could. Ahead of them both, Claire laughed and twirled down the aisles between the vines, her dark hair haloing around her head. Lightning strobed, illuminating her as if she were in a theatrical show—the light now starkly blue-white, so bright that Mary squinted, now black as a windowless dungeon.
And always, the singing of the wind. Mary clutched her arms around herself. Here, near the shore, it was beating the waves to a froth, but overhead she heard the deep groan of high altitude tempests shaped by the peaks of Mont Blanc and Jura. Rain beaten to mist by the blast gusted in her face and then was flung elsewhere, so that she was alternately ignored and taunted by the rain.
Ahead of her, the trio halted near the little beach. She could see them only by intermittent flashes; torches or lanterns were out of the question in this cyclone. As she approached, placing her feet carefully on the slippery grass, she saw them as a series of images caught in succession: Shelley taking the Leyden jar from Byron, the two of them placing it on the sand, Shelley uncoiling the silk, and Claire dancing about with the kite in her arms, laughing in near-hysteria.
“… need a key, such as Franklin used?” Byron was asking. Coming close, Mary could see water running off his bare back and shoulders.
“No,” Shelley said. He was tying her embroidery silk to the wire leading from the Leyden jar, his movements quick and expert. He tossed his limp, wet hair impatiently over his shoulder. “I have a refinement on that technique. We must set a wire from the jar’s outside metal band into the ground. This will draw off the more dangerous electrical vapors. What we must avoid at all costs is contact with the silk, once the kite is in the air.”
“Oh, no, Shelley!” cried Claire. “I want to hold it! I want to feel the wind tugging at it, begging it to fly from my fingers!”
“More likely it will strike you dead,” Shelley said prosaically. “Once the kite is launched and the silke
n cord is wet, it will suck the electrical fluid from the sky. If you are touching the silk at that moment, you will be killed.”
“Oh, Shelley, this is too dangerous!” cried Mary.
He looked up at her just as the levin flared again, and she caught his impish grin. “Not at all, my dear, if we follow some simple precautions. You will see. The rain will wet the silk line so that it can freely conduct the electrical fluid into the Leyden jar, capturing it. Then we can take the electrical fluid indoors, where we may kindle other electrical fires, or—”
A white-hot bolt of lightning zigzagged across the sky, and at the same moment, Claire tossed the kite heavenward. The wind sucked it out of her hands, carrying it aloft in seconds. Thunder cracked overhead. Byron shouted something, but Mary could not make out the words. Shelley stepped quickly away from the jar at his feet, pulling Byron with him. “Don’t stand too close!” he shouted. “Claire, come away!”
The skies opened up with an angry hiss, and suddenly Mary was drenched with icy rain. The wind slapped her sodden hair into her face. “Shelley!” she cried. “Come out of this!” Lightning flared again, winked out, and blue circles danced before her eyes in pitch darkness.
When her sight cleared, she saw Byron with his face turned to the sky, laughing, his mouth open. Water ran off his chest and hair. Beside him, Shelley crouched down to stare at the Leyden jar, then craned his neck to follow the string up into the darkness.
Somewhere in the night, Claire shrieked and laughed. “Come dance with me! LB, come and dance!”
This was madness, Mary thought. Her heart pounded. Were they all to be killed out here, dancing with the lightning? She shivered, and felt hot tears on her cold cheeks.
Across the water, lightning flickered again and again. By its light, she saw Claire run up to embrace Byron, who pushed her away, eyes intent on the jar. Shelley pointed to the kite string, which now glowed with a dim and unearthly blue glow. She followed the glow upwards, along the kite string. Far above her head, eyes squinting in the rain, she could just make out the blue outline of the kite, bobbing madly in the gale. Then it plummeted suddenly, dipped, plummeted again, and fell into the heaving lake. The blue glow snuffed out.
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