As always when he was in this mood, Mary found hers matching his. She felt a giggle rising in her, and scrunched her skirt around her knees. She knelt next to Shelley, then stretched herself on her stomach. Baby William, confronted with two parents side by side, cooed.
“He is a very fine baby,” Shelley said soberly. “Almost as fine as I was.”
She looked at him critically until she caught the twinkle in his eye. “Oh, I have no doubt you were spoiled to an inch of your life,” she said. “Servants to wait hand and foot on Sir Timothy Shelley’s heir. A different nurse for Sundays and regular days. A gold-mounted baby carriage.”
Shelley laughed, and baby William echoed him with a gurgle. “Not at all. But I did have a pony when I was three. Shall we get Will-mouse a pony, my love?”
“He’s a trifle young.”
“He’ll be a big boy, like me,” Shelley said. He rolled up into a sitting position, scooped up his son, and lifted the child over his head. William squealed in delight. “Won’t you, my son? We shall teach you to ride a pony, and sail in boats, and—”
“And swim,” said Mary firmly. “And tie his own shoes, and read Greek and Latin.”
Shelley brought the child closer to his face and nuzzled him. “He’s a little young yet for Catullus.”
“But not too young for a bedtime story.” She reached in vain for William, as his father swung him out of her reach.
“We shall be pirates!” Shelley cried to his son. “Adventurers! We shall sail the seven seas, my son and I! We shall climb all the Alps, and see every river’s source. I will teach you chemistry, and we shall unlock every secret Nature hides!”
She laughed. “Will you make him a philosopher?”
“One of the Peripatetics! Like his father!” Shelley said, tossing his son in the air. The boy giggled as Shelley caught him again. “We shall go a-roving! We shall visit the Indies!”
“With tuppence in his pocket, like his mother and father,” Mary laughed. “How much did I have with me when I ran away from Skinner Street to be with you?”
Shelley smiled at her, his look warm. “My fearless Mary! I think you brought five pounds with you?”
“Not even so much,” she said. “I brought you only myself.”
“And Claire,” he reminded her.
“And Claire,” she said, making her voice neutral.
“When we get to Italy, we will buy a house with a sunny garden.” Shelley nuzzled his son. “Shall we live on the coast or in the countryside? No, Will-mouse, you bust dot pull by doze ’ike dat. Ow.”
She thought of the narrow, cramped house in Skinner Street in London where her father had moved the family when she was a child. She thought about the noise of the crowds a few streets over at the execution grounds, cheering the death agonies of the condemned. She thought about the stench of the nearby slaughterhouses, and how they had had to keep the windows tightly closed in a vain attempt to keep it out. She remembered the noise of carriages on the cobbles at all hours, keeping her awake.
“A house in the country,” she said. “With a window I can open.”
“It shall be a temple to the Lares and Penates,” he declared, tickling William. “They are innocent deities, and their worship neither sanguinary nor absurd. Their shrine shall be good wood fires, and a window frame entwined with creeping plants. Their hymns shall be the purring of kittens, the hissing of kettles, the long talks over the past and dead—no, William, ouch!” He disentangled William’s small fist from his long locks. “We shall have the laughter of children, the warm wind of summer filling a quiet house—in Italy, perhaps? And the pelting storm of winter struggling in vain for entrance.”
Mary laughed, glancing at the window. “With that last, we have had too much experience of late!” She watched as Shelley cuddled the boy, head bent to head, the gold of William’s hair contrasting with the sun-dappled brown of his father’s. It was a fine picture he painted, but she remembered that they had lived in four different homes—or was it five?—since she had eloped with Shelley two years ago. “A home. Yes,” she said. But it came out in a whisper.
Shelley did not hear her, or perhaps did not want to. “Ho!” he addressed his son. “Shall we build a boat and set sail for the North Pole? Or we will sail to Virginia and look at the red men!”
Useless to dream of a fixed home, when Shelley embodied the very wind itself.
Elise, the nursemaid, appeared at the door, apparently unconcerned to see her employers romping on the floor like children. “Madame,” she reminded Mary in her heavily accented English. “Eet ees time for the boy to be in bed.”
Mary glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Yes, it is. Shelley, hand him over.”
“But we are going to sail to the Indies and sing under a hot sun!”
Mary took the baby from her lover. “He shall do all that tomorrow,” she said. “But now, he goes to bed.”
William protested, but Mary kissed his fat cheek and handed him to Elise. “I shall be up presently to sing to him.” Bobbing a curtsy, the young woman left, with William’s cries floating behind.
Shelley lay face upwards on the carpet, hands behind his head. “My father never played with me.”
Mary plopped down beside him, spreading her skirts around her. “Mine, neither. Maybe you must be a boy as much as a man to do such a thing?” She leaned over and kissed his nose. He smiled. “You are an experiment in fatherhood.”
He raised an eyebrow and drew her down into a passionate kiss. His mouth was soft but demanding, and Mary felt the familiar warmth seeping through her that his kisses always brought. She brought her hands to his face, then slipped them into his hair, so silken against her fingers. She felt his mouth smile under hers, and then he rolled, taking her with him, until he lay atop her on the hard wooden floor. His mouth left hers and traveled down her neck.
“Mary, Mary …” he murmured.
She pressed the back of his head, clasping him to her shoulder like William. She longed to shout, to scream, to tell the world of this man, this special and intoxicating man who saw into every corner of her soul. What she said was, “Shelley, Elise may be back at any moment….”
“I don’t care,” he murmured. His fingers danced down her side. “How does this come off?”
“Shelley!” she protested, half laughing. “You are shameless!”
“With you, always,” he said, his voice filled with gloating. “My Pecksie girl …”
Half-laughing, half-protesting, she squirmed out from under him. “Shelley! At least wait until we are back in the bedroom!”
“Women.” He rolled onto his back again, sighing. “Byron does not hide his amours in his bedroom.”
Mary stood, smoothing her skirt. “Assuredly. Which is why he is the scandal of Europe.”
“But I’m a scandal too!” Shelley complained. “In my own minor way. Mary …”
She smiled and held out a hand. He got to his feet, clasping her hands in his. “My Mary …” He kissed each cheek softly. He twined his fingers in hers, tugging gently, and led her out the door. But instead of turning left to go to their bedroom, he turned right.
“Shelley?”
He shushed her with a finger to his lips, entering the short hallway. His greatcoat lay across the small receiving table; he caught it up and handed it to Mary. Still silent, he opened the front door and guided her through.
The night was overcast, with the smell of rain on the wind. The clouds scudded before gusts of wind, revealing and then concealing the dilapidated garden around them. It was not as cool as Mary had feared. Still, she shivered a little as she slung the coat one-handed around her shoulders. It smelled of Shelley—sweat and crushed grass and shaving soap. She clutched it close around her as her lover led her down the short steps to the walkway and out towards the little dock where his boat was moored. Faintly, she heard the lapping of waves against the low retaining wall.
“Shelley, what are you doing?” she said, her voice low.
“We have had hardly any time alone,” he whispered back. “May I not have a moment with you, just us together?” His voice sounded a little plaintive.
She wanted to ask him why, if he wanted her to himself, he insisted on dragging Claire with them everywhere. What she said was, “You will catch a chill.”
“No, but thank you for reminding me.” He turned right, heading for the bottom of the little garden. “Ah.” Despite the dim light, he unerringly found the small box he had nailed to a tree near the waterline. He opened the hinged front of it.
“A thermometer reading? Now?” Mary was half amused, half frustrated. Her mad love had once again set out on one course and diverted himself to another. Straight lines were anathema to Shelley.
“I neglected to do it as usual, at sundown.” Shelley busied himself taking the large mercury thermometer out of the box. He turned it this way and that, trying to catch the light strongly enough to read the markings. “Sixty degrees? On a June night? Remarkable! Alas, I have nothing to write with—oh, wait. Look in the pocket of my coat.”
Obediently, Mary thrust her hands into the pockets of the greatcoat. As usual, they were full of an odd assortment: bread crumbs, a flower, a smooth rock, coins. Her fingers encountered paper and drew it out: a letter. “Here—” Then her eyes fell on the inscription and she froze. Her father’s handwriting was as familiar to her as her own. She stared down at the letter, blinking. “What ….how?”
Shelley looked up, and even in the dim light spilling from the upper windows of the house, his face looked pale. “Oh. I didn’t mean for you to see that.”
Mary thrust the paper towards him. “Dated a week ago. And you didn’t tell me.”
He turned from her and slowly placed the thermometer back in its house. He closed the door and placed his hand flat on it. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
Her hand shook. The papers rattled. “Do you think I am a child?”
He looked at her, his eyes looking larger than ever. “Maie, I … no, you are not a child. But you are my happiness, and if you are made unhappy, then I am made unhappy, and …” He trailed off, biting his lip.
“What did he say?”
Shelley sighed. “He asked for money.”
“Of course,” she said bitterly.
“He wants five hundred pounds.”
Mary closed her eyes. The book shop, the demands of a large family, and her father’s illnesses, all contriving to make him a constant borrower. Except that William Godwin, in line with his philosophy of utilitarianism, did not consider it borrowing. “Money belongs to whoever needs it the most,” she quoted softly.
“Exactly,” Shelley said, his voice lighter. “A sentiment with which I am, as you know, completely in accord. And I am quite happy to use my coin to succor the revolutionary, the reformer, the man who will make mankind better. But … but I am afraid, Mary, that that man may not be your father.”
Oddly enough, her bitterness against her father vanished in the face of this criticism. Feeling her whole being growing cold, she said, “You called him the greatest man of the age.”
“Yes. And I meant it. But, Mary, I have given him so much … lover fifteen hundred pounds! And it vanishes!”
“He has so many calls on his purse, and his creditors beset him constantly.” Even to her, her defense sounded less than forceful.
“I understand. But whatever I give him, it is not enough. I gave him over a thousand pounds two years ago. Another five hundred this spring. And now he writes demanding more. Yet I see nothing from him that improves anyone’s lot but his—no new books, no society for reform, nothing. He merely spends it and asks for more, as if I were a fountain of gold. Mary, dearest. Is it not prudent to consider whether this is the best use of what little money I have?”
She was silent, her heart wrung. Shelley was right, and yet, and yet. Godwin had never needed her; now she could help him. Now she could earn his love back, perhaps. “He is my father,” she said softly. “For a long time, he was my god.”
Shelley sighed and ran a hand through his hair. The effect made him look like a startled ostrich. “I thought when my grandfather died, it would all settle itself out. But the allowance from the estate is so small, and much of it goes to Harriet….”
At the mention of Harriet, Mary felt a pang. Should she tell him the contents of Fanny’s letter? Honesty compelled her. She had never lied to Shelley. And yet … she would spare him that news awhile longer, as he had spared her. She bit her lip. “So. Are you going to refuse Godwin?”
Shelley hunched his shoulders and stared up at the clouds covering the waning moon. Its light shone feebly behind its veil. “I don’t know. Would it not be better spent on … other causes? An orphan, perhaps. Or that organization for women’s education your aunt wrote to Fanny about. Or Claire. She will need money for the baby.”
At the mention of Claire, Mary’s jaw tightened. “Surely that is Byron’s affair.”
Shelley looked at her, a long silent look. She read in it sympathy and cynicism, an unusual combination for the ebullient Shelley. “And you really think Albé will make provision for what he will call a bastard?”
“So you would rob Godwin to pay Claire,” she said angrily.
“That is unjust. As your father has said, money belongs to those who require it.”
She knew it. It didn’t matter. The paper crumpled as she made a fist. “Claire comes first,” she spat. “Always. I know that.”
“No! Mary—”
She flung the letter at his feet. “Pay them both, then. Leave nothing for me and your son.”
Shelley’s look hardened. “Would you have me deprive a child of food and clothing, to satisfy you? Would you have me cast a child off? Would you have me cast Claire off?”
As always, he had penetrated to the heart of her, to the fear that coiled around her soul. “Shelley …” Her voice pleaded, heavy with the words she could not say. Don’t leave me. Don’t desert me. Don’t cast me off.
In one long stride he was in front of her, catching her up against him. His long arms wrapped themselves around her. “Oh, let us not quarrel, Dormouse. You know I will give up everything for you. I will do anything for you, my love. I will buy your father’s love for you, even if I must do it in installments. I will write tomorrow to my solicitors.”
She slipped her arms around him, holding his solidity and warmth against her. He was here, she thought. Not Godwin, not the father who had cast her off only for doing what he had advocated. Hypocrite, her mind said, but she closed her eyes and turned away that thought. To question her father on that principle was to bring into question everything she and Shelley had done in the name of his philosophy.
And it was far too late for that.
Chapter XIV - Brides and Lovers
… let us only cling closer to what remains, and transfer our love for those whom we have lost to those who yet live. Our circle will be small, but bound close by the ties of affection and mutual misfortune. And when time shall have softened your despair, new and dear objects of care will be born to replace those of whom we have been so cruelly deprived.
—Frankenstein, Volume III, Chapter V
Returning to the house, Mary waited while Shelley secured the doors. This was one of the facets of her life with Shelley she loved most of all: going up to bed. In the sober and staid routine of locking up, checking that drapes were drawn, assuring that the fires were out or dying, Mary felt grown-up and responsible.
The domesticity of it soothed her, reassured her of her place with Shelley, of her entry into the world of women and competence and agency that her mother had once known. She was not quite sure whether Mary Wollstonecraft had enjoyed putting out all the candles but one, to light her way upstairs with her beloved. It was, nevertheless, a connection to her mother in that bond of housekeeping. For Mary Godwin, it was the rituals that they carried from place to place that made their household a home; the dwelling itself changed every few months, so it was more impo
rtant to her that the evening ritual be got through, than that the sofa was sagging or that the cushions were worn.
Shelley followed close behind her on the stair, his hand on her hip. Warm and full of promise, it rested lightly; she was intensely aware of it as she rounded the turn and started up the last flight. At the landing, she glanced over to see that Claire’s door was closed. Doubtless she would stay the night at the Villa with Byron. For once, Mary had a night to herself with Shelley. With an inward sigh of relief, she opened the door to her sanctuary.
Their bedroom was small, and since Claire had taken the room in front, she and Shelley had made do with the rear, where there was no view of the lake. Still, it was theirs and they could close the world out, and Mary was glad of that. She set the candle on the table beside the big four poster bed. She heard the creak of the single chair next to the door and Shelley sat down to pull off his boots.
“We should see about a new cook in the morning,” Shelley said. A boot thumped to the floor.
Mary opened the latch and swung the shutter wide. Above them, clouds roiled and churned, the moon not yet risen but beginning to limn the slopes to the east. “It must be past one,” she said.
“Aye,” said Shelley. The other boot hit the floor. “And I needs must rise at dawn for another reading.”
Mary laughed softly. “Another thermometer reading? Are you scientist or philosopher?”
“Both,” he grinned. “And lover.” He stood and slid his braces off his shoulders.
Mary stepped to him and placed her hands on his. “I will do it,” she said. This was another ritual, one she also carried from place to place in their wanderings. Behind the closed door, she and Shelley were not mother and father to small children, or philosopher and writer, or even political radical and revolutionary. They were merely man and woman, beloved and familiar.
This was her time, Mary thought. Not Claire’s or Byron’s or the world’s. Hers.
So Mary made her movements slow, drawing the silk shirt from his waistband. He stood still, tall and bushy haired, saying nothing. But this close, she smelled the rain on him, smelled wild night air and warm male skin. She leaned in and rested her forehead on his chest.
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