‘Yes, we must go to Yvoire,’ I pronounced. ‘I shall get our capes, Mary. A walk will be good for William and you, for we must provide him with fresh air for his lungs and you with exercise for your frail limbs. We have been shut up here for much too long.’ Smiling, I exited the room to retrieve our walking gear.
Today would be my reunion with Byron. I knew it.
An hour later the sky had cleared. Happily, we made our way through the elegant lobby graced with marble floors and Grecian pillars, then ambled toward the shoreline with its row of small boats awaiting tourists who desired to explore the beauty and delights of Lake Geneva. Early on in our stay, we had sailed our way from village to village, most of them isolated and rural, and gloried in the swath of colors that stretched across the mountains to the east at sunrise, with Mont Blanc looming in the distance.
The lake felt almost like a presence as it watched us and we watched it in endless fascination. Always changing. A chameleon of color and texture depending on the weather and time of day. At times, it stretched out with a startling, sky-blue color when lit by the sun’s glow, then it would turn a murky, cobalt shade as the storms rolled in. As our little sailboat crisscrossed the lake, I would trail my fingers in the water; it always felt cool, even on the hottest day.
But now our trips were becoming less frequent as the showers would often be accompanied by startling thunderstorms – strong and violent – churning up the waves into swelling whitecaps.
Our familiar boatman approached immediately as we reached the quay. ‘Mesdames, Monsieur, comment puis-je vous aider?’
‘S’il vous plait, nous avons besoin de louerun bateau pour aller à Yvoire,’ I responded, being the only member of our little group who spoke French well enough to ask to hire a boat to take us to the medieval town on the east shore.
The boatman gestured toward a small wooden vessel with a tall mast and two sails, and Shelley nodded. He loved boats, in spite of the fact that he could not swim. He loved drifting along the lake for hours, trying to the master the intricacies of catching the wind.
Just then, his face took on a glow of awe as he gazed out at the jagged mountain peaks off in the distance, capped with snow. ‘Can the world contain such beauty?’
My breath caught in my throat. No, it could not.
But I wasn’t looking at the Alps; I had spied my beloved poet as he stepped out of a rowboat. Dressed in a black coat and black pants strapped around his boots, he moved across the dock with that peculiar gliding gait from his clubfoot, which only added to his mystique. A hush descended on passers-by as their faces turned to catch a glimpse of his Grecian features, which were almost too beautiful for a man.
As if sensing my presence, he turned and our eyes locked.
I gasped at what I saw in the depths of his sad, tortured gaze. He had changed since I last saw him. Older, with faint lines stretched across his forehead. Some gray hair threaded through his curls even though he was not yet thirty. I could only think that the scandal of his failed marriage had aged him well beyond his years. He seemed lost.
And he was not happy to see me.
My heart sank under the weight of the despair that assailed me.
What would I do if he simply walked away?
Then his glance moved to Shelley, and he brightened as if a candle had been lit inside of him. He slowly, haltingly moved in our direction, and I ushered Mary and Shelley forward as I murmured under my breath to her, ‘You must be friends – for my sake.’ Mary gasped and hesitated, but Shelley eagerly closed the distance between them, making his bow with all the elegance of his aristocratic heritage – something not lost on Byron.
Quickly, I did the introductions and let the men indulge in easy small talk that seemed to bode well for a friendship to ripen. And why should they not find mutual connection? They were both handsome and brilliant … and social outcasts from the aristocratic society to which they had been born.
Relief flooded through me.
I might have a chance after all at the life I longed for as the inspiration for a great man.
Mary cleared her throat with deliberate impatience, and Shelley immediately brought her forward. ‘Forgive me for being so remiss in reacquainting you with my soul’s twin: Mary Godwin. I believe that you met her last in London.’
‘Yes, indeed.’ He turned toward us, all charm and smiles.
‘It is a pleasure, my lord.’ She held out her hand and Byron bent over it, not quite letting his lips touch her fingers. It was very old fashioned but strangely fitting in this time and place. Obviously enchanted, Mary instantly dropped the air of reserve that surrounded her like a protective shield.
‘What luck that we are all here,’ Byron said, his eyes now warm and affectionate as they rested on me again. ‘I could not imagine a more congenial group in all of Geneva—’
‘Nor I,’ I cut in quickly. Too quickly.
I heard a man clear his throat. He stood behind Byron – younger and taller and leaner, but with the same poetic look: open collar and hair carefully arranged in artful disarray; his eyes were darker, though, full of secrets and hidden intentions. I shivered.
Byron turned and flicked his hand carelessly. ‘This is my personal physician, Doctor John Polidori – he joined me before I left England, since my recent “troubles” have caused fits of nervous agitation. Quite painful really with their intensity and duration. But you look after me so carefully, do you not, John?’
‘I try, my lord.’ He scanned us with a wary detachment as though we were experiments in his lab – creatures to be monitored and analyzed. ‘Though I cannot always protect you from that which would cause the most harm.’ His glance fastened on me with a hard glare.
Not exactly sure why, I realized in that moment that Polidori would be my enemy – or, at the very least, not a friend.
‘My young companion here also has a desire to write a novel – imagine that? A doctor and an author?’ Byron turned back to us, ignoring the brief frown that Polidori shot at him. ‘Do you think it is possible for a man of medicine also to be lit with the creative spark? I find it difficult to reconcile the two aspects of human nature.’
‘Let us remember the magnificent Hippocrates who was not only a physician but also a great writer—’ Shelley began.
‘Of medical texts,’ Byron chimed in.
‘The Hippocratic Corpus is pure poetry, some would say.’ Shelley was undaunted in his response, and Byron seemed delighted to be challenged in such a manner.
Polidori mumbled something that was incomprehensible and then spun on his heel, heading back to the rowboat. In one smooth movement, he untied the rope and jumped into the vessel, taking up the oars in both hands.
Shelley shouted for him to return, but he pulled away quickly and headed across the lake.
Byron laughed. ‘Don’t concern yourself with Polidori. He is quite highly strung and will be back by dinnertime, chattering your ears off. Having traveled with him from England, through France, I can tell you he is both a tortured soul and an absurd abstraction.’
‘A bit harsh.’ Shelley’s features puckered with distress. ‘I always think it benefits us to err on the side of compassion, not criticism. Aristotle would have us believe that modesty and reason will always steer us in the direction of goodness—’
‘I can see, my dear Shelley, we shall have much to discuss should I remain in Geneva. And I now think that I must stay here, if only to talk poetry and politics with you.’
Shelley bowed. ‘I warn you, though, the women will not allow us to monopolize the conversation. No one is more fixed in her opinions than Mary – unless it is Claire.’
I heard Mary give a little murmur of gratitude.
‘I expect no less from Godwin and Mary Wollstonecraft’s daughter,’ Byron continued, looking from her to me. ‘Or Godwin’s stepdaughter.’
My cheeks flushed at the compliment. ‘We should all find residences here – away from the hotel – so we can enjoy each other’s … company,
’ I proposed before I could stop myself. ‘I cannot imagine a more pleasant way to spend the summer.’
All eyes became riveted on me. Mary pinched my arm, as if to warn me not to reveal myself so blatantly. I could not help it. What was the point in hiding how I felt?
‘My sister presumes too much,’ Mary said, her voice taking on the long-suffering tone of familial exasperation.
‘Nonsense,’ Byron pronounced. ‘This is as good a place as any other to create a circle of cordiality with expatriates. I’ve sorely missed it.’
As he and Shelley chattered away as if long-lost acquaintances, my spirits soared ever higher.
What luck, indeed.
That afternoon, the rain continued steadily, with thick, gray clouds hovering overhead in unrelenting gloom, but nothing could dampen our enthusiasm. We practically floated back to our rooms, after having made a promise to join Byron and Polidori for supper in a private room at the hotel the next evening. He wanted to dine with his physician and Shelley tonight in an exclusive male-only gathering. I didn’t care where we all came together again, as long as I would have the chance to resume the relationship of my heart’s desire. Still, I barely slept after Shelley left to join him, wondering if the poets would find shared interests.
The next morning, our little trio convened early for breakfast in our sitting room, Mary and I consumed with curiosity while little William dozed peacefully in his cradle.
Shelley’s good-humored smile told me everything that I needed to know about their conversation last night, and I could finally relax in the knowledge that the two men had found common ground.
Then, as he related the details of their congenial gathering the previous evening, my spirits soared.
‘I don’t believe any of the rumors about him,’ Mary commented as she set out the delicate china for tea, lovingly handling the teapot that had belonged to her mother – one of the few items she had packed for her elopement. Fitting, since her bold adventure bore the stamp of her parents’ behavior when they had first met and become lovers. ‘Byron is as fine a gentleman as I have ever met – quite amiable, really.’
‘I agree.’ Shelley had already resumed his position in his chair, book in hand. ‘We found we had much in common – our politics are quite similar, though our poetic tastes diverge. He has quite a distressing affinity for the Roman poets, not Greek.’
Seating myself next to Mary, I carefully scooped out the precious exotic tea from a small wooden caddy we had brought with us. Unbeknownst to my mother, I had nipped some of her favorite black oolong tea before we left London – just enough for a few more months if we were frugal in our portions. ‘You are both English gentlemen, though Byron went to Cambridge and you attended Oxford. A connection in birth and upbringing,’ I pointed out.
‘Guilty as charged – not that I believe in any of that rubbish,’ he added, absently flipping the pages of his book. ‘One day, we will live in a classless society where all men are judged on merit alone, not ancestry or connections.’
‘And women, as well, I trust,’ Mary spoke up.
‘Indeed, yes, my love,’ Shelley enthused. ‘We would not honor the memory of your great mother if we did not acknowledge the superior minds of your sex—’
‘I agree: women are superior to men in every way.’ I waved my hand with a flourish. ‘Why is it women cannot work as men do, making their own way in the world? I want to travel and take in all of life, whether it seems becoming to do so as a woman or not – just as Mary’s mother did. She was in France during the great Revolution and she roamed Europe as a gypsy, taking lovers and bearing her children on her own terms.’ I felt a kindling passion inside of me as I remembered the early days of my meetings with Byron. I had been the sexual aggressor in our relationship – not that he was unreceptive, by any means. But I saw no reason not to arrange matters so we could have private meetings and explore all manner of physical expression of that love.
Why should I not have pursued my desires just because I was a woman?
I shared none of this information with Mary, though, since I suspected that she might not approve. I had learned to hold my tongue on such matters with my stepsister. It seemed odd that she could be quite conservative in her social views of the behavior of others, but I had already learned that people often disapproved of the very thing they themselves did regularly. Byron called it ‘cant’ and railed against it; I called it ‘human nature’ and accepted it.
‘Why, Claire, you sound like a revolutionary yourself. Next, you will be penning your own version of the rights of women.’ Shelley cheered me on, then continued, ‘And I do agree with you on several counts: all men and women should be free to love at will. Marriage is a restriction of the heart and mind – a trap that binds people legally, sometimes long after the affection has disappeared.’
Mary turned paler, if such a thing were possible. As she poured the tea into chipped china cups, her hand trembled. ‘I know you mean dear Harriet – and I can honestly say that I feel nothing but guilt when I meditate on the pain that I must have caused her.’
‘Do not distress yourself, my dear. I still have high hopes that she will decide to join us at some point and live with us as a sister, so we can all share in the joys of true and deep connection.’
Everyone in the group fell silent. Harriet. Shelley’s wife. Sweet and delicate, she was the ghost in the room, always between Mary and Shelley, even though he had invited her to join us and live with him as brother and sister. He was amazed that she did not take him up on the offer, so they could all reside together as one happy family.
Mary was baffled at his suggestion, but I was amused.
As much as Shelley knew about poetry and philosophy, he seemed quite naive about the workings of the human heart. For a woman like Harriet – of a more advanced age (by scarcely five years) and lower class – to be supplanted by a brilliant beauty like Mary was the greatest insult of all, and not one she would like to be reminded of on a daily basis. Even worse, when the object of one’s love is no longer interested in the pleasures of her body, it had to cut deeper than the stab of a blade.
And then there were Harriet and Shelley’s children. Who would be their mother in this proposed ménage à trois?
‘If Harriet agreed to this scheme, would you then divorce her?’ Mary asked in a quiet voice. And wed me? She did not speak the words, but I knew she was thinking them.
At this point in our lives, Mary (and I) had no male protector except Shelley; without the embrace of father or husband, we were adrift in a world that was still controlled by men. And society did not look kindly on women who eloped with married men or supported causes that were perceived as ‘unfeminine.’
In short, Mary and I were ruined, and we both knew it. William’s birth had added another element: what would be his status with his father still married to another woman? Quite the tangled web.
Shelley’s features grew somber, and I realized that he had never really considered the details of his ‘proposal’ that we all live together as one loving family. I almost laughed. It was a quality of his that was so endearing, yet maddening. Truly, the idealist lives in a world that has little to do with us mere mortals, and Shelley was a man of lofty principles inside and out. From his constant philosophizing on his beloved Greek poets to his strict vegetarian diet, he lived what he preached, almost to a fault. That was the maddening part: he didn’t understand how these practices could harm those around him.
But who was I to question following one’s passion? I had ruined myself with England’s most notorious poet and gloried in every moment of my fall.
Mary sniffed. She expected an answer from him.
Still he seemed reluctant. ‘Yes, I would divorce Harriet and ask you to be my wife,’ he finally said with a tender light in his eyes. ‘Even though such formalities insult the true and profound nature of our feelings, I want to make you happy in all ways.’
Mary exhaled in relief – just a tiny sigh, but I heard it. She lo
nged for some degree of respectability in her relationship with Shelley, but she would never have it in the way she longed for, even if Harriet divorced Shelley and they were able to wed. Mary would always be known as the ‘other woman’ – now and in the future. Her own brand of idealism often expected the best of people, whereas I expected the worst, but it didn’t bother me. Perhaps, again, it stemmed from the lack of a father; I knew how cruel public opinion could be for those individuals who did not follow conventions. It took the wings of an angel to fly above the fray of criticism. Shelley had those wings, but Mary did not.
I sipped my tea, glancing from one to the other – Shelley had resumed reading Antigone, one of his favorite plays, and Mary preoccupied herself with fitting a quilted warmer over the teapot – but something in the room had shifted as if we were in a painting and the artist had taken his brush to alter the canvas. We were all still there, filling our usual places in our usual spots, but the emotional threads that formed the background color had darkened imperceptibly. Just a shade, but we all felt it.
‘Lord Byron told me that he has begun a new poem,’ Shelley said, somewhat oblivious to the awkward pause in conversation.
‘Indeed?’ My interest kindled as I handed him a plate with thin slices of bread and butter.
‘Not another one of those Turkish Tales – they are unworthy productions of his genius.’ Mary passed on the refreshment since her appetite seemed to come and go during the day, but she poured herself a cup of tea. ‘The Corsair was written in less than a week – not the kind of work one expects from the author of Childe Harold—’
‘It sold ten thousand copies in one day,’ I protested, glaring at her. ‘So it cannot be all bad.’
Mary shrugged. ‘Sales are not always an indicator of quality. Why, look at the novels of Maria Edgeworth – such drivel.’
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