Claire's Last Secret

by Marty Ambrose

  With one last glance through the window at the shimmering lake that stretched below, I began to climb the steep steps that led out of the dungeon, careful not to slip on the uneven surface. Reaching the top, I attempted to clasp the wall to steady myself and touched … someone who stood in the recess. ‘Byron?’

  I swiveled my head in his direction, but before I could say any more, I felt myself tipping backwards, desperately clutching at the figure who remained in shadows.

  Screaming for help, I tumbled down the stairs, feeling the hard impact of each rocky step before I slipped into the dungeon’s abyss.

  I felt a tap against my cheek. Then another – and another.

  Stop it, I wanted to protest. But I could not manage to utter the words; something was preventing me from speaking. Or opening my eyes. It felt like a heavy, suffocating blanket covering my face, muffling my senses, pinning me down. Panic spurted through me, racing through my veins with dread. Was I being suffocated?

  My eyelids fluttered open, but as I beheld Mary’s familiar worried expression, I relaxed again. She was touching my cheeks lightly with the back of her hand as she eased down the blankets that had been covering me.

  ‘Where am I?’ I managed a whisper, realizing that I was lying in a vaguely familiar large bed.

  ‘At the Villa Diodati. Shelley and Byron brought you here two days ago.’ She sat next to me on the bed. ‘You had a high fever from your fall. Do you remember anything?’

  I closed my eyes briefly and registered images of being jostled in a carriage, vaguely aware of the mountains and pine trees flitting past. Everything seemed hazy, as if I had dreamed it. ‘Why was I brought here?’

  ‘Byron insisted.’

  ‘Was I with him?’

  ‘You tumbled down the stairs at the Castle Chillon where you had secretly traveled to meet Byron and Shelley – a fact that you omitted to relate to me.’ I heard the irony in her voice and felt a twinge of guilt.

  ‘I apologize, Mary.’ Rolling my head on the pillow away from her, I glanced at the huge tapestry of a medieval scene woven in gold and black on the wall. Byron’s bedroom. I knew it well. ‘It was impulsive and stupid of me to lie to you.’

  ‘Do not distress yourself further, Claire. You have suffered enough.’ She touched my arm, and I winced. Checking the source of my pain, I noted that my skin now had blotches of various shades of purple.

  ‘You had some bruises and a deep gash where you must have hit a sharp rock on your fall,’ she explained. ‘They found you in the dungeon, barely conscious, raving that someone had pushed you down the stairs.’

  I sat up abruptly, alarm flooding through me. Then my head pounded as if a thunderclap had struck the inside of my brain and I collapsed back on to the pillow. ‘What about … the child?’ Clutching the sleeve of her gown, I prayed that my baby was unharmed.

  ‘Hush, now,’ she urged. ‘Byron called in a doctor from Geneva when you first arrived at Diodati, since Polidori is still at Madame de Stael’s. The baby is fine.’

  ‘Thank God. I could never forgive myself if I had killed the child with my foolishness. I will never again take a risk like that now that I am responsible for another life – I have to live for my offspring now,’ I vowed, half to myself. ‘I never truly understood your feelings over William’s delicate health until this moment. Forgive me.’

  She kissed my forehead. ‘There is nothing to forgive.’

  The world had righted itself again, if only for a short interlude.

  ‘It was necessary for the doctor to know about your condition, which means Shelley and Byron also know,’ she continued in a hesitant voice. ‘I could see no other way to ensure that both you and the child were healthy.’

  ‘Byron had already guessed.’ The memories of what occurred at Chillon came rushing back: the eerie darkness of the dungeon, with its odor of stagnant water and sound of lapping waves. And the moments with Byron as he carved his name into the pillar … followed by my own chiseling of stone into immortality.

  ‘The stairs must have been slippery from the dampness,’ Mary said. ‘It is not surprising that you slipped—’

  ‘No.’ I gasped. ‘The stairs were steep, but that is not why I fell.’

  An image of a figure stepping out from the shadows flitted through my brain. Then a sense of falling backwards. Then nothing.

  ‘What are you suggesting?’ Mary started, her eyes wide.

  ‘I … I think someone might have pushed me down the stairs at Chillon—’

  ‘Surely that cannot be,’ she protested in disbelief. ‘You are letting your imagination run wild again, Claire.’

  ‘Indeed, I am not.’ Grasping her arm, I struggled to make sense of the snippets of flashbacks. ‘Byron and I were in the dungeon alone after Shelley had made his way to one of the high towers. After we talked, Byron followed him. I left soon after, climbing the steps that led into the main courtyard. But when I reached the landing, I caught sight of someone out of the corner of my eye. A figure hidden in some dark recess who reached toward me. Then I fell.’

  Mary drew back, her face twisted in shock. ‘But why would anyone want to do harm to you? Are you certain this phantom meant to shove you backwards? I can scarcely believe that a person could be so evil as to do something like that. But if it is true, then someone wanted to k–k—’ She broke off.

  ‘Kill me?’ I managed to utter the words in a low tone. ‘Why else would someone hide in the shadows and shove me?’

  ‘Oh, Claire, an accusation like this against a local could have huge consequences for us since we live in Geneva under the protection of a suspicious Swiss government. Byron has publicly supported revolutionary causes, and there are spies everywhere who would be delighted to have a reason to expel us from Geneva. We must tread cautiously.’

  ‘But I have no enemies here—’

  ‘Perhaps you do if we are tainted by association. Your relationship with Byron is an open secret in Geneva … and remember when someone broke into your room at the Hotel d’Angleterre and smashed your locket?’ Rubbing her forehead, Mary let out a long, audible breath. ‘I do not know what to think at this point.’

  ‘Nor I.’ A disturbing thought drifted into my consciousness. ‘What if my attacker was someone I know?’

  ‘A member of our magic circle? Who?’

  Steeling my nerves, I said the name aloud: ‘Polidori.’

  Mary shook her head. ‘I know you and he have often argued, but that would hardly be cause for him to take such a rash and horrible action. Do you really believe he would stoop to murder you?’

  I paused, realizing the accusation sounded absurd even to my own ears. Still … ‘Who else could it be? I hardly know anyone else in the area, aside from our little group, since we keep to ourselves.’

  ‘True, yet you may have inadvertently angered a servant or a tradesman,’ she posed. ‘An inner fury can be aroused by the most mundane of slights.’

  Glancing nervously around the room, I searched my thoughts for some memory of a harsh exchange with a passing acquaintance, but I could find none. ‘It has to be Polidori – I can think of no other person who has aroused my suspicions.’

  ‘For God’s sake, do not repeat those fancies,’ she hissed. ‘It will seem like hysteria to the men.’

  Of course, she was right.

  At that moment, Shelley appeared at the door like a beam of sunlight, practically glowing with the warmth of kindness. ‘You are finally awake, sweet Claire. We were all most worried about you.’

  Managing a smile, I motioned for him to join us. ‘I am sorry for causing such a stir – truly, I did not mean to create havoc by showing up at Chillon and then … tumbling down the stairs. I must have slipped in agitation as I came out of the dungeon – such a gloomy spot. But I am fine now. Quite well, really.’

  I could hear Mary exhale in relief.

  ‘Chillon is a dreadful place, like a tomb that houses the lost souls of those who were imprisoned and hanged there. I could almost fe
el them around me as they took their last breaths when the noose tightened around their necks. The snap of bone and muscle.’ Shelley’s voice rose an octave as he pantomimed the process of being executed by a rope.

  ‘Shelley, please stop,’ Mary pleaded with him.

  ‘Sorry, my dear.’ Remaining on his feet, he took a place behind her and dropped a light kiss on her neck. ‘I was simply agreeing with Claire that her fall was not her fault. It is a wonder that any of us emerged uninjured. She is to be only admired for being so brave.’

  Mary’s mouth tightened, but only I could see it. ‘Some might say rash for making a journey there without any of us knowing—’

  ‘Oh, no, it was irresistibly daring to want to see the castle that so entranced Rousseau,’ he admonished her gently. ‘There was a time when you would have done the same and thrown caution to the wind …’

  ‘That was before we had a son,’ she murmured under her breath, but I caught the words and understood only too well now. A mother’s love was consuming.

  ‘It was a foolish thing to do, and I would not risk it again,’ I said in a firm voice.

  ‘No matter the reason or outcome,’ Shelley said, ‘the important thing is that you are in good spirits, Claire – and none the worse for falling on the stairs. Although I will admit that we had grave misgivings when we found you on the floor of the dungeon.’

  ‘Mary said that you and Byron conveyed me back here—’

  ‘Yes.’ Byron’s voice wafted into the room as he appeared, leaning against the doorjamb with a casual posture. But his eyes looked strained and tired. ‘We thought, at first, that you must have fainted in the damp air of the dungeon, but then we saw the scratches on your arms and guessed that you must have fallen down the stairs. It was a frightening realization. Then you developed a fever within a few hours, and we hired a carriage to bring you back to Diodati as quickly as possible. We did not know if you would survive the journey—’

  ‘And the whole time, Byron never left your side,’ Shelley added with wink in my direction.

  Byron made a dismissive gesture. ‘I could hardly leave you in the care of the caretaker at Chillon or a public carriage driver.’

  ‘I am most obliged to you.’ Turning my head, I extended my hand to him … and then saw Polidori next to Byron. Instantly, I drew back.

  ‘We are all happy that you have recovered, Miss Claire,’ Polidori joined in with a seeming note of sincerity that did not match his hard stare.

  ‘Indeed,’ Shelley enthused. ‘And to celebrate, we must all convene in the drawing room tonight and have Mary entertain us with her ghost story—’

  ‘No,’ she protested. ‘That is the last thing Claire will wish to hear in her weakened state.’

  ‘Not at all – it would be a welcome distraction,’ I assured her with a nod.

  Shelley clapped. ‘It is agreed, then: we shall meet this evening and Mary will read from her book – Frankenstein.’

  I tried to summon a smile, but just then the rain began to pound against the windowpanes and the wind howled with a jarring, plaintive sound.

  Was it the promise of things to come tonight?

  Hours later, after I had rested in the afternoon, Byron returned and, without speaking, carried me down to the drawing room, bearing my weight with his muscular upper body. As we entered the drawing room, I noticed a roaring fire already blazing away, with Mary and Shelley huddled over some sheets of paper. Byron settled me on the sofa, then stepped back.

  ‘You are comfortable, then?’ He scanned me with a speculative gleam as if he were seeing me for the first time. Had my fall caused feelings of remorse in him? Was he thinking about our relationship differently now that he knew I was with child?

  ‘I am.’ Arranging the folds of my cotton dress, I took a quick glance around the room for Polidori. Thankfully, he was not in attendance.

  Shelley brought me a small glass of sherry. ‘You must keep the sparkle in your eyes, Claire. And no more secret trips out of our sight – it would not be safe for someone in your condition.’

  I stiffened.

  It had been spoken aloud and confirmed: the entire room knew that I was pregnant.

  Shelley must have seen my reaction because he immediately glanced at Mary, who aimed a pointed stare at him.

  ‘I … I apologize if I spoke out of turn,’ Shelley stammered. ‘It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable.’

  An awkward silence fell upon us, and poor Shelley looked stricken by his own loose tongue, yet I did not blame him.

  ‘Mary, are you still sharing your novel with us tonight?’ Byron queried, helping himself to a glass of deep red wine. ‘Shelley has told me of your powerfully evocative descriptions of nature – told by a monster who is brought back to life through the unholy scientific arts. Personally, when I am dead, I would prefer to stay dead. I do not want to experience more of the same wretched heartaches.’ He threw himself into a wingback chair, crossing his boots at the ankle and staring down at his wine glass. ‘One life is quite enough.’

  ‘I cannot agree less, my lord,’ Shelley interposed. ‘I would be glad to enjoy ten lifetimes if it meant I could turn the world to goodness and light, especially with my poetry. It is the highest calling of human nature to be a poet … the unacknowledged legislators of humanity.’

  Byron made a scoffing sound low in his throat. ‘If only it were so. I fear no matter when I put my pen to paper, I feel only the darkest emotions erupt and I must get them out of my mind or I should go mad. Of course, it is possible that I am already mad like poor François Bonivard.’ He paused. ‘What do you think, Claire? Am I insane, as my wife and her lawyers seem to think?’

  ‘Hardly. You have kindness in your deepest being. I know it and the world would know it, too, if only you would let them see the Albe who has been our host and benefactor this summer. You are far from a lost soul, believe me.’ The words came spilling out before I could stop myself, hating to see him in this type of foul and black mood. He must have had a letter from Annabella’s attorneys today – they always drove him into a fury.

  ‘Perhaps we are all in Bedlam and simply not aware of it,’ Mary reflected, her eyes growing clouded and troubled. ‘I have long thought all creative endeavors have the possibility of leading us into such unknown lands of the imagination that we may never return to sanity and reality. It is the danger that all authors face.’

  ‘Mary, you are the sanest person I know – a writer, a companion and a mother,’ Shelley assured her, and then turned to Byron. ‘As for Albe, I cannot vouch for him.’

  We all broke into a loud laughter that seemed to lighten the mood, as if Shelley had lit a candle in the darkness.

  Byron inclined his head. ‘I would not expect you to, Shelley.’

  Just as he spoke, a loud clap of thunder announced that yet another violent storm was sweeping in off the mountains to the east. Flashes of lightning. Rumblings in the sky. It would soon follow. Then the rain would start up again in heavy, pounding waves against the windows.

  Shelley glanced toward the large glass panes, his face kindling with excitement. ‘You must read now, Mary, while the storm provides a perfect backdrop. Bring us into the world that you created – that of the living dead.’

  ‘By all means, we must hear it,’ Byron urged.

  My own heartbeat turned into a rapid staccato in anticipation.

  Slowly, she strolled toward the fireplace, parchment sheets in hand. Tilting them toward the fire’s illumination, she cleared her voice and began to read. ‘I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful! – Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing; his teeth of pearly whiteness, but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the same color as the dun-white sockets in which they were set, his shriveled complexion and straight black lips.’ She paused, with a tremor in her hands, then glanced up. ‘Shall I continu
e?’

  ‘Yes, please!’ Polidori entreated. I froze. He must have entered the room while we were all raptly focused on Mary’s narrative, sliding into our company as if he were a snake slithering into paradise with every intent on bringing about the fall of humanity. He wished me harm – I knew it. But I had no proof that he had, in fact, pushed me down the stairs at Castle Chillon. None at all.

  I had to remain quiet and calm.

  My time to expose him would come.

  Mary resumed reading in a thin, shaky voice. ‘I saw his face bring on emotion … and he was alive!’

  A huge gust of wind blew open the doors and every candle in the room immediately went out, along with the fire. The room was plunged into darkness. Byron instructed everyone to remain still as he went for a servant. His boots made a scuffling sound on the hard, stone floor and then echoed out of the room.

  Moments later, I felt a hand around my throat – a gentle clasp caressing my neck, but it was not Byron’s touch.

  I froze.

  ‘You are fortunate to have survived the fall,’ Polidori murmured into my ear. ‘You must protect yourself at all costs so nothing like that occurs again.’

  A match was struck and light filled the room again as Shelley lit a candle. He clapped enthusiastically over Mary’s narrative, exclaiming it to be a work of considerable brilliance that would create a stir in the literary world. Blushing with pride, she made all the appropriate protestations, but her buoyant joy at Shelley’s stream of compliments beamed out from her essence.

  I, too, clapped – but kept a wary eye on Polidori.

  His words held a warning, and I would heed it.

  Miss Eliza’s Weekly Fashion and Gossip Pamphlet

  August 2, 1816, Geneva

  The Ladies’ Page

  Tragic news, dear readers: rumors have been swirling around Geneva that Lord Byron and his companions are soon to depart. It is all too true. Their time in our fair city is drawing to a close and, tragically, I have yet to catch a glimpse of the great poet himself.

  Oh, the unfair twist of fate!

  But never fear! After some scheming, yours truly decided upon a desperate move: to take an afternoon stroll through La Vieille Ville where Lord Byron often consults with his attorney (or so I have heard!).