Packing up my belongings, I paid my bill and set out to stroll the short distance to Chillon along the lake, noting how the brilliant blue of the water reflected a matching sapphire tint in the sky on this sunny morning, so refreshing after the unrelenting weeks of rain. I had almost forgotten how vividly colorful the lake’s surface could appear on a clear day.
I nodded at the occasional passer-by, but it was the many natural charms of this rural part of the lake that absorbed most of my interest: wildflowers blooming in profusion along the path – pink and yellow and purple, all with varying balmy scents – stirred by the light breeze rustling through the tall pine trees with a soft, hushed echo.
Every step brought a new sensation of delight.
Dreamily, my mind drifted like a feather in the wind until I arrived at Chillon – a graceful, powerful testament to the Middle Ages. Walls of white stone. Towers of varying heights that soared above the ramparts. Tiny, slit-like windows on every level. It thrilled and beckoned from where it had stood guard since antiquity between the Great Saint Bernard Pass and Lake Geneva.
I was enthralled not only by its majestic beauty but by my own audacity.
This place was perfect. I will tell Byron about our child – here and today. The castle’s walls had seen much history and witnessed many secrets, so my revelation would be but a link in the long chain of human drama that had occurred in this place. But it was my moment. I had become a prisoner of the heart, rather than the body – not chained to my famous lover but tied to him, nonetheless.
Today, the truth would be out.
I did not know what would come thereafter, but I could not hold this secret for another day.
As I moved through the entrance into the open-air courtyard, I gazed around for a gendarme, but the place seemed empty. I called out to announce my presence but received no answer. Although the castle had long been abandoned as an actual fortress or a prison, surely it still drew visitors because of its history and association with Rousseau?
‘Allo? Allo?’ I exclaimed.
A door slammed behind me, and I started. Then I glanced over my shoulder and spied an elderly man slowly descending the stairs from the watchtower.
‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle,’ he said.
‘Monsieur.’ I shielded my face from the sun overhead, but still had to squint to see him in the bright midday light.
‘You are English?’ he switched to my native language with an ease borne of long practice.
I nodded.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he motioned for me to follow him. ‘I assume you want to see the dungeon. Everyone who comes here wants to see the pillar where Bonivard was chained.’
‘Indeed, I do.’
‘Bien.’ He moved toward a small stone archway, motioning for me to follow. ‘François Bonivard was the prior of Saint-Victor in Geneva. He would not renounce his Protestant beliefs when the Catholic Counts of Savoy ruled this area, so he was imprisoned within the dungeon walls below for years, chained to a pillar, until the Bernese liberated him. His captors would have freed him instantly if he had only declared his allegiance to the Pope, but he refused. And so he remained in his chains.’
A captive of his faith.
I shuddered, following him with reluctant steps, realizing that when Rousseau referenced Bonivard’s name in his book Julie, I had simply read it as a historical note. I never truly understood the extent of the prisoner’s sufferings.
After we entered the archway, I groaned inwardly when I spied the steep descent of narrow stairs. I could not take a chance on slipping and possibly hurting my child, but as I beheld my aging tour guide easily maneuver the steps, I felt somewhat heartened. I wanted to see this dungeon more than ever now.
Gripping the uneven wall, I turned sideways and eased down the stairs. ‘Are you the lone caretaker?’
He nodded. ‘I spend most of my days showing tourists the dungeon and making minor repairs so the castle does not fall into complete decay. You see, there is no one who will commit the funds to keep this old building from crumbling into the lake.’ He ambled past the rows of Gothic pillars that arched upwards to support the soaring, vaulted ceiling. ‘It was once a fortress, then a prison; now it is largely abandoned, used only for storage of wine and grain. A sad fate for this grand old castle …’
As we reached the lower floor, the air took on a distinct chill; I pulled my shawl tighter around me and wrapped my arms around my waist.
Carefully negotiating the interior cobblestones, then strolling past the barrels and grain sacks, I came to a halt next to my guide in front of a massive pillar at the end of the long row of seven columns. A rusty iron hook, embedded in the stone, stuck out from one side – and my eyes widened as I touched it.
‘Was this where he was chained?’ I whispered.
‘Peut-être.’ He pointed at the long, narrow window carved out in the upper wall with a grate affixed to it. ‘Bonivard said he could look out of the window when he was a prisoner and see the waters below. Apparently, the sound of the waves lapping constantly against the castle walls almost drove him mad.’
All of a sudden, I noticed the steady beat of the waves: soft and rhythmic, the rolling surf had a soothing quality to me because I could climb out of the dungeon at will. If I had been imprisoned and forced to listen to the lapping waves, I might have been driven to madness myself.
‘How did he finally escape?’ I inquired.
‘The Bernese forces captured the castle and set him free – a happy ending for him, at least, though he had a brother who did not survive. He had to watch him die.’
Tears stung at my eyes as I swung my glance back to the iron hook, imagining the horror of Bonivard’s captivity. The iron chains that bound him. The days and nights of despair. The moment when his brother took his last breath. My breathing grew ragged as these images flashed through my mind … and I slid awkwardly on to a large piece of rock.
‘Mademoiselle, are you all right?’ He extended a hand in my direction, but I waved him off.
‘I am fine – just need a few minutes to compose myself. This is a most distressing place, and I was expecting something more …’
‘Romantic?’ A wry smile touched his aging face.
‘Mais oui.’
He shrugged in a typically Gallic manner. ‘We often want our stories to be tied up neatly with the good rewarded and the evil punished, but I fear that in life that happens all too rarely. Even though Bonivard was released, nothing could ever erase the years and years of his suffering, or the loss of his brother.’
‘You are a philosopher, monsieur.’
‘No. I am merely an old man. I have seen much of life and learned to accept what comes, no matter what.’
Glancing around the dungeon, I could feel the weight of centuries of living and breathing men who never saw the light of dawn again. ‘I wish I could claim your equanimity to the vagaries of life, but I fear I, too, am a prisoner – of my own passions. But perhaps that is simply my nature, and I must be true to it.’
‘Experience has a way of taming our youthful waywardness.’ He extended his hand again and I took it, allowed him to help me stand. His eyes moved over my stomach, then met mine in gentle understanding as he continued, ‘But perhaps you already know that.’
Did he discern that I was expecting a child?
‘Hello? Is anyone here?’ A familiar male voice rang out from the courtyard above. Shelley. He and Byron must have arrived in their sailboat.
Finally.
My tears and melancholy mood instantly vanished, replaced by a beaming smile – a fact not lost on my tour guide, no doubt.
‘Un moment,’ the old man shouted back, though he kept his glance on me. Then he squeezed my fingers in reassurance. ‘Come up when you feel like it; there is much to see here at the castle, and I shall have a light refreshment for you before you leave.’
‘Merci.’ I kissed him on both cheeks.
Turning on his heel, he climbed the stairs and exi
ted the dungeon. I strained my ears to hear what he was saying to Byron and Shelley, but I could make out only Bonivard’s name and not much else. Of course, they would want to see the prison cell first. But I was not ready to reveal myself yet. Looking around for a place to hide, I tucked myself behind several of the large wine barrels stacked in the corner of the prison room.
I heard their voices touched with a sense of awe as they descended into this dank, gloomy chamber; the caretaker had not accompanied them.
‘How could anyone keep a sense of humanity in this depressing prison?’ Shelley was saying in a hushed tone. I could hear his light footsteps in a rapid staccato on the stairs.
‘I believe I already know the answer to that question,’ Byron responded, his gait much slower due to his clubfoot. ‘I have been shackled to the darkness of my own mind for as long as I can remember – and that is no place for the faint of heart, I can assure you.’
‘I am assured of nothing, except you are a better man than you portray to the rest of the world – or to yourself.’
Byron laughed. ‘If only everyone had your kindness of spirit, my dear Shelley, we would not have oppression or prisons, such as poor Bonivard suffered at Chillon. But I do not expect that I shall see humanity take on such merciful qualities in my lifetime.’
‘You may be pleasantly surprised yet.’
‘I shall await that day with much anticipation, my friend.’ Byron’s words held a note of indulgence. ‘Which pillar was he chained to?’
‘The one, I believe, at the far end of the dungeon, or so the old man just told me,’ Shelley responded as their voices trailed across the dungeon, becoming fainter as they moved further away from my hiding place. ‘Seven pillars, seven years …’
I could not make out the rest of Shelley’s words.
From my kneeling position, I craned my head around the wine barrels in an effort to eavesdrop on the rest of their conversation, but I could catch only random phrases that made no sense to me. Easing back again, I crouched down, my weight on my heels. As the minutes passed, my legs began to grow painful and stiff, causing the muscles to contract with tiny spasms. I had to reveal myself – soon. I did not completely understand my reluctance, but I felt caution … for the first time in my life.
Perhaps I had been rash to come here after all.
‘I want to see the upper levels of the castle,’ Shelley was saying as their voices moved in my direction again. ‘That is where Rousseau wrote about Julie’s son falling into the lake—’
‘Did she not plunge in after him in the novel?’ Byron queried.
‘Indeed, yes. She saves her child, but then catches a chill and dies. A life for a life, I suppose – the ultimate dilemma. My lord, would you risk all for your own child?’
Awaiting Byron’s response, my hand moved to my stomach as if it were a protective shield. I did not need to ask myself that question; I already knew the answer.
‘We must all eventually die, my dear Shelley, but we must go and stand in the place where Julie dived into the lake and pay honor to her sacrifice, as well as to Rousseau’s novel that has so inspired us.’ Byron mumbled something else under his breath that I could not hear, but I heard Shelley respond that he would meet him in the south tower. Then I heard footsteps on the stairs.
Byron had remained in the dungeon – alone.
After listening to the lapping waves in silence, I heard an odd scraping sound. Peering around the grain sacks again, I saw Byron chipping away at one of the pillars with a pocketknife. His head tilted down, frowning in concentration, he jabbed the blade at the pillar repeatedly. Stone chips flicked to the floor as he chiseled away.
‘Why are you here, Claire?’ he asked, without turning away from his task.
Slowly, I rose to my feet.
Byron kept chipping at the pillar. ‘Did you really think that I could not smell your fragrance from the moment I entered the dungeon? Roses do not grow in this dank, dark place – only moss and dandelions.’
Of course. He had often remarked on the cologne that I wore and said it reminded him of the English roses that grew around his ancestral home and filled the air with sweetness. I moved toward him, and still he did not face me.
Coming to a halt behind him, I surveyed his work. He was carving his name on the pillar: Byron. Only that – and nothing more. ‘Do you think this pillar will give you the immortality of Bonivard?’ I queried.
He gave a short laugh. ‘He endured more suffering than any one man should ever face in one lifetime; I do not think I could ever equal that. No … Bonivard’s name will linger through the ages, and I do not expect that I will be known much past my own lifetime.’ His tone turned sharp and bitter as if he were chipping away at his own immortality.
Leaning my forehead against his back, I remained motionless until Byron finished his task.
Then I straightened and surveyed the jagged lettering now etched forever on the pillar – the letters slanted downwards and diminishing in size, but his name was clearly visible as an homage to Bonivard. ‘Perhaps there is another type of immortality.’
He finally turned to me, his eyes bleak as he slipped the knife in his pants pocket and allowed his glance to slip to my abdomen.
He knew.
Biting my lip, I glanced down to hide the tears. ‘So you guessed?’
‘Claire, I am not so stupid as not to sense when a woman is expecting a child. I suppose it is mine?’
Jerking my head up, I blurted out, ‘How can you even ask that? I have been only with you.’
‘My apologies, my dear, but our relationship in London was brief, ephemeral even – almost as if we were passing each other on the way to a new life – and I never asked for you to be exclusively mine.’
‘But I have been faithful to you.’ Searching his features, I could not find the truth of his heart. ‘Were you not to me?’
He averted his glance. ‘I must remind you again that I was … and am married, though Annabella and I have been separated many months. As for other women … I have no desire to establish another permanent connection at present.’ He twisted a lock of my hair around his index finger, then brushed it behind my ear with a gentle stroke of hand. ‘I wish I could give you a promise of love and a vision of the future together, but that would not be honest. Those feelings seem dead to me, and whether they can be resurrected or not remains to be seen. All I can say is that I cannot give you what you seek now, only assure you that you are my one attachment—’
A cry of relief broke from my lips before I could stop myself. ‘That is all I ask for now. That no other woman will supplant me in your affections while we remain in Geneva, or convince you not to accept our unborn child.’
He stiffened slightly.
‘Albe?’ I pressed.
Byron hesitated, then took my hands and folded them in front of me, covering them with his own. ‘You know my reputation is in tatters; it will never recover. I am beyond redemption in the public’s eyes. But you are still young and have a chance of a respectable life, in spite of our connection here. You are William Godwin’s stepdaughter and could manage to re-establish yourself in his household should you decide to return home without Mary and Shelley or a child …’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Give birth in secret and leave the child with some local family. You can then return to England and beg to be back on good terms with your mother. She could arrange for a match with a man of good standing—’
‘No!’ Pulling my hands away, I stepped back. ‘I do not feel the least bit of remorse about anything that I have done. My life is my own. What kind of existence would I have in a marriage to a man I do not love? Modest and decorous. Those are not words that have any appeal for me,’ I scoffed. ‘Mary and I know we are already ruined, and we chose this path.’
A shadow of concern flitted across his pale, handsome face. ‘There is no going back if you keep the child.’
‘I know.’
He turned silent.
More silence.
Then Byron finally spoke. ‘So be it.’
He reached into his pocket and retrieved the knife. ‘You might as well carve your name beneath mine because you have made your choice. At the very least, I suppose Bonivard would be proud.’ He offered me the blade with a ghost of a smile in his eyes – sad and proud and lost. All of a sudden, I saw my future reflected in his gaze.
I would never be accepted by society.
I would never marry.
I would never have security.
Freedom would cost me dearly.
Taking the knife from him, I kissed him lightly on the lips. ‘I’ll join you and Shelley directly.’
‘We will await you in the courtyard.’ He pivoted on his good foot and limped toward the stairs.
After he made his way out of the dungeon, I swung my attention back to the pillar and angled the knife under Byron’s name. Grinding the blade’s edge against stone, I carved my first name boldly, each letter carefully etched into the pillar: Claire.
Surveying my work with a grunt of satisfaction, I realized that something had happened to me today. What started out as yet another impulsive action – traveling miles and miles over rough terrain to confront my lover in a wildly romantic castle – had somehow been transmuted into a journey toward maturity and motherhood. Hereafter, all of my decisions would be made with my child uppermost in my mind, but as an independent woman.
I slipped the knife in my bag, knowing it would be a cherished memory, long after these days had passed. A forever moment.
Claire's Last Secret Page 14