Standing in the deserted, empty room for a long moment, I felt a firm sense of resolve rise up inside me. My perceptions about Polidori had been correct. He was my enemy who had worked against me. A reprehensible man. But it hardly mattered now that my relationship with Byron was over.
Once I was back in England with Mary and Shelley, I would have my baby and Geneva would be nothing but a memory.
A new chapter in my life was about to begin.
Captain Parker’s Log
April 14, 1815
Mount Tambora
We have been looking for survivors for two days now.
Once we sailed the Fortuna south of the smoke and fire of Mount Tambora, the air began to clear; a dim, watery sun appeared in the sky. We still wore cotton scarfs tied around our lower faces because of the gritty particles that lingered in the air, but we breathed more easily.
As our ship paralleled the west coast of Sumbawa toward the Bay of Saleh, we anxiously scanned the shore for any survivor who might have escaped the eruption. I wanted to close my eyes and never see such sights again, but they seemed to burn into my eyes. Dead fish floating in the water. Dead cattle on the beaches. Skeletal trees, not just stripped of bark but incinerated into ashen forms. Nothing remained.
Either the villagers who lived at the base of Mount Tambora had not escaped in time to avoid the gasses and lava flow, or they had moved into the mountainous interior beyond our vision, but we saw no living being.
My men did not speak much; they simply adjusted the sails and kept hunting the beach. We all knew that death had come to this part of the world in a violent, cataclysmic eruption, and life here would never be the same.
I would never be the same.
All these months, I had driven my crew to take on larger cargos so we could make more wealth than we had ever deemed possible, and we all stood to profit hugely from our labors. On this – our last voyage – we had expected to bring in so much money that we could all return to England as well-to-do men. The dream of wealth and power had driven us all.
And now the vanity of my own desires seemed so feeble as we beheld the Mountain of Fire’s power.
Man was nothing in the face of such destruction.
I was nothing.
Just then, I heard one of my men yell out, ‘There – I see someone!’
Shading my eyes with my hand, I squinted to make out what he was pointing at on the shore, but I could not see a shape or form in the distance. I blinked a few times to clear my vision and then I saw a woman waving her hands above her head. She wore a dirty, tattered sarong and had long, dark hair covered in gray ash. A large group of children emerged from the blasted trees beyond her, followed by elderly women, all of them screaming and motioning for us to come ashore.
‘Survivors!’ I shouted.
My first mate dashed to the Fortuna’s bow with two other crewmen. In minutes, they had lowered the anchor and dropped the sails. Once he returned, I instructed him to lower the three skiffs that we could row in close enough to pick up the women and children who were stranded on the beach.
‘Captain, we do not have room in our cargo hold for all of them,’ my first mate said, glancing back at the survivors. ‘There must be a hundred of them, and our hold is filled to capacity with the spices, silks and tea …’
The crew halted in their frantic efforts to break out the small boats and gathered into a close circle around me.
I cleared my throat. ‘You heard the first mate. We do not have room for the large number of survivors and, though we could probably take most of the children, we will have the leave the women behind.’ I paused. ‘As your captain, I could order you to bring all of them on to our ship, but I will not do that. You worked hard for this cargo, and I cannot ask you to empty out the hold and lose everything. It has to be your decision, and I will abide by it.’
They exchanged glances, faces drawn tight with uncertainty. Then my first mate pulled out a small packet of tea … and threw it into the water. One by one, the rest of the crew followed with their individual tea caches.
‘All right, men, let’s get those boats to shore … and empty out the hold, except for the food. They have probably seen no food for two days and will be close to starving by the time they arrive on board.’ I motioned for half of the crew to lower the skiffs, while the other men disappeared below deck. In a short time, the small boats headed for the beach and my crew began heaving large barrels of tea and spices into the sea. The wood split open upon impact on the water’s surface, causing a trail of green and black tea to spill out and snake out into the undercurrent.
As I watched this spectacle, something odd took place within me. I began to feel lighter – almost weightless – as if a great burden had been lifted from me.
I now had a more important task before me than making my fortune.
And I would not fail.
NINE
Florence, Italy, 1873
Opera night had arrived.
I stood in front of the full-length gilt mirror in my bedroom and looked long and hard at the image that was reflected back at me in the late-afternoon light. Long, black lace dress that fell in elegant (if slightly shabby) folds to my ankles, with my mother’s gold locket at my throat. Graying hair upswept into an elaborate style. A face that seemed (at least to me) to still hold a glimpse of my youth in the sparkle of my dark eyes. Perhaps I deceived myself, but at seventy-five it was my right to do so. I preferred to think of myself as a woman who still had one great adventure left in her life.
Maybe even my most important adventure yet.
I intended to solve the great mystery of my life: what had happened to my daughter, Allegra. For whatever reason these events had unfolded in Florence during the last week, I did not really care, except to know that I would see this journey through to the end and find the answers that I have always sought.
As I stared at the reflection of my aging face, I saw the young version of myself – so vibrant and eager, wanting to pursue love with a reckless passion. I saw the joyful mother turned grieving parent. I saw the middle-aged, restless woman who traveled incessantly to avoid having a permanent home. I saw the doting aunt who loved her relatives and finally found peace in an Italian city that had been the place of many of her happiest times.
So many memories.
And through it all, I tried never to lose my zest for life, no matter what. I would never lose that verve until the day I died, which would not be for a little while yet since I now had unfinished business in this world.
‘Aunt Claire, are you ready?’ Paula entered my room, Georgiana in hand. My niece had donned her best (and only) evening dress of soft white silk with tiny embroidered rose buds and a low-cut bodice. Her blond waves were caught up in a loose chignon threaded with fresh flowers – her favorite inexpensive adornment. In contrast, Georgiana still wore her gingham play dress and a mischievous grin.
‘You look lovely, my dear Paula.’ I extended my hands; she took one and her daughter took the other.
‘Do not leave me here,’ Georgiana whined, burying her face in my skirt. ‘I want to go, too – and see the opera.’
‘I know, but we will be out late and little girls need their sleep.’ Smoothing down her curls, I murmured some words of endearment in Italian to soothe her, even as I exchanged glances with Paula.
‘Did you send the message to Mr Rossetti?’ I whispered to Paula.
She nodded. ‘He will meet us during the intermission of Aida in the Boboli Gardens behind the Pitti Palace, near the obelisk.’
‘Perfect – there is no better place to do business than a social occasion.’ The whole of Florence would be at the palace’s performance of Verdi’s latest opera, Aida – a story set in Egypt about love and loss. It had opened to much acclaim two years before in Cairo, and the Florentines were most excited to watch their beloved Verdi’s newest music. Under any other circumstances, I would have been overjoyed to listen to his exquisite arias, but this evening held another p
urpose: I intended to query Mr Rossetti about Polidori’s journal and, I hoped, find the missing part and missing piece of information about that summer of 1816.
Perhaps that part of the journal held the key to why Byron let me leave him and why Polidori had counseled me to abort my own child. If Mr Rossetti did not possess the missing piece, so be it. Then, I would ask about the note under my teacup. It would be my last attempt to find the truth, and I could finally put my suspicions to rest.
‘Raphael will accompany us to the Pitti Palace and wait near the obelisk until Mr Rossetti appears,’ she continued in a hushed voice.
I squeezed her hand and nodded. It would be only a short distance since our rooms overlooked the Boboli Gardens and the palace was at the opposite end of the cultivated terraces and foliage. My ankle felt strong again, and I could easily walk there with Paula and Raphael.
Taking her daughter’s hand again, Paula gently drew her to the front door. ‘I will drop Georgiana at Maria’s house next door and will meet you out front, Aunt.’
I waved them off. Once they had exited, I picked up Polidori’s journal which I had left on the table, and my glance fell on that silver inkwell that Shelley had given to me all those years ago. He and Mary had been my dear and true family – or so I thought.
Slipping the journal into my bag, which already held a small stack of letters, I took one last look at the inkwell … then let myself out of our rooms.
Once downstairs, I joined Paula and Raphael – he had donned a neatly pressed white shirt and black trousers, and combed back his thick, dark hair. He made a handsome partner for my niece, and my heart swelled at the sight of them. So young and beautiful. I loved Paula dearly and would accept any man who cared deeply for her … as long as he was true to her. I now believed that Raphael was, indeed, true of heart.
We strolled down the Via Romano toward the Pitti Palace, and I noted how the crowds began to cluster at the entrance, all chattering excitedly in Italian. A new opera by Verdi was practically a national event because he was so beloved by one and all. I, too, found myself entranced by the beauty of his music and would have joined in the excitement were it not for the reason of our being here.
Situated on the south side of the Arno River, near the Ponte Vecchio, the palace had a severe and foreboding appearance, with its rusticated stonework and small Romanesque arches. The original builder, a wealthy banker named Luca Pitti, had positioned the palace on a small hill above the city but apparently rejected the fifteenth-century trend of graceful, smooth Florentine architecture and favored the rough, coarse facade. Eventually, the Medicis bought the palace and made it their residence, but little was done to alter its appearance, except for adding the Boboli Gardens.
Ah, the gardens …
Giardino di Boboli.
The exquisite complex of lovely meadows and flowing waters that unfolded behind the palace in a large triangular shape, comprising many acres. A living, breathing experience of delicate fragrances and natural beauty. My favorite places were the hidden grottos and Roman statues that ringed the fountains. And, of course, the obelisk.
A man in seventeenth-century dress appeared at the massive front doors of the palace and rang a bell. ‘Buona sera … buona sera. Entrare.’ He gestured for the crowd to enter, and they pressed forward, carrying us along in the wave of humanity. We moved through the doors and found a large temporary theater that had been set up in the cortile – the immense interior court with a high-domed ceiling that could hold hundreds of people.
Paula and Raphael quickly found chairs for us near the farthest wall which held a series of round, arched windows. The slanted early-evening light came streaming into the room, causing the temperature to feel even warmer.
‘It is stifling in here.’ I snapped open my fan and tried to cool myself as I sat down. ‘Do you see Mr Rossetti here?’ Scanning the audience as they took their seats, I nodded to a few acquaintances, both Italian and English, and received the usual polite smiles. They were all dressed in their finest, which was far more elegant than our own well-worn evening attire.
The two violinists in the small orchestra began to tune their instruments.
‘I do not see Rossetti anywhere.’ Paula remained on her feet, trying to see over the audience members’ heads.
‘Va bene,’ Raphael said, urging her to sit.
With one last look around the room, Paula took her seat.
Not long after, the first chord of Aida began and, in spite of myself, I was transfixed by the performance. The Egyptian scenery had a flat, wooden feel – this was not La Scala with its elaborate sets – but the arias soared with powerfully emotional notes. Celeste Aida. The beautiful song sung by Radames transported me into the world of their undying love:
Un regal serto sul crin posarti,
Ergerti un trono vicino al sol, ah!
I’ll place a royal wreath upon your crown,
and build you a throne close to the sun!
Closing my eyes, I let the opera lyrics swirl around me in an eddy of joy, despair and sorrow. Ah, the melodrama. Some of the audience openly wept at the moment when the Egyptian king betrothed his son, Radames, to Aida, promising that the two of them will be together forever …
Act II, Scene II ended and the intermission began. Taking our cue, Paula and I rose and headed toward the rear exit that led to the gardens. Raphael accompanied us to the door, then kissed Paula on the cheek and disappeared into the crowd.
We paused at the threshold. ‘Are you ready?’ I asked my niece.
‘Yes.’ She linked her arm through mine and, with slow and deliberate steps, we headed outside into the growing twilight. Immediately, I inhaled the scent of jasmine – a deep and pungent fragrance that seemed to grow stronger as the daylight faded.
Not knowing what would come of our meeting with Mr Rossetti, we could only trust in Providence.
Twenty minutes later, Paula and I stood in the amphitheater, near the obelisk, tapping our toes with impatience. The large, open space, ringed with oak trees and Roman sculptures, was now deserted, but Mr Rossetti still had not arrived. Surely, he could not have missed the obelisk. The huge, needle-shaped structure was unmistakable; it stretched over fifteen feet high. Brought to the Boboli Gardens in 1790 from the Medicis’ villa in Rome, the obelisk had been placed at the center of the amphitheater and remained as a symbol of the family’s power and position in Florence.
‘Do you think he had second thoughts about meeting us?’ Paula inquired, pulling her embroidered shawl over her shoulders. The sun had already dipped below the horizon and a tiny chill had entered the air.
‘Perhaps, though my note said that I wanted only to return the journal and discuss the sale of my letters – nothing more.’ I retrieved Polidori’s book of jottings from my bag and flipped through it, stopping at the place part of a page had been ripped out. ‘Rossetti will want the journal back, I am sure of it.’
‘Indeed, I do,’ a now-familiar voice said from behind us.
We both turned and I greeted Mr Rossetti, dressed in an immaculate evening suit, with pleasantries. ‘Did you see the first two acts of Aida? We could not find you in the cortile.’
‘No, I am afraid that I was detained over an Italian drawing that I wanted dearly.’ He looked up at the obelisk and gave a whistle of appreciation. ‘I have never seen this particular object before – it is remarkable. Egyptian, yes?’
‘Of course. I believe it originated from the Temple of the Sun God in 1200 B.C. The Romans brought it to Italy, and the Medicis somehow acquired it like so many other priceless artifacts,’ I mused.
He laughed. ‘Everything is for sale, is it not?’
I did not respond; instead, I held up the book. ‘Thank you for allowing me to read Polidori’s journal … it was most enlightening to remember the fine details of our life during that summer in Geneva. He had quite the eye for … minutiae.’
‘Most diplomatic, Miss Clairmont,’ he said as he traced the hieroglyphic letters carved in
to the obelisk. ‘Let us be honest: my uncle was not exactly a great chronicler of the famous people he knew, but I believe I can edit the work to make it more palatable to the English reading public. At least, I hope so.’
Smiling, I handed him the journal. ‘I did see something odd last night, though. It is as if part of a page has been deliberately torn out.’ I paused and cleared my throat, deciding to be direct. ‘Did you remove it?’
Flipping the pages, he shrugged. ‘Was there something in particular you wanted to see on that date?’
‘Not that I recollect – just curious,’ I responded, trying to keep my voice light. It felt like a game of cat and mouse. Was it possible that Mr Rossetti had nothing beyond the actual journal – no secrets about the ‘haunted summer,’ no clues as to why Polidori disliked me so much, no new revelations about Allegra? He was here simply to buy my letters.
Maybe I had let my feverish imagination take me into a realm of silly suppositions.
Foolish.
‘Miss Clairmont, have I offended you?’ He tilted his head and frowned. ‘I know I was not completely honest at first about my relationship with John Polidori, but I thought that you knew; everything else has been absolutely truthful – please believe me.’
‘I do … and I have taken no offense, sir.’
Paula slipped an arm around my shoulders and gave me a brief hug, no doubt sensing my disappointment.
The frown deepened. ‘Do you intend to sell the letters? I assumed that is why you wanted to meet with me. Do you have them with you?’
Reaching into my bag, I pulled out the small stack of letters tied with a black velvet ribbon that Shelley had written to me, but I had kept out the missives from Byron. I could not part with them. Ever. Though he had broken my heart, I could not let him go completely, even after all these years.
A wide grin spread across Mr Rossetti’s face. ‘There must be at least fifty letters there.’
‘Sixty-two,’ I replied, toying with the ribbon.
He then quoted a large sum in lire that he was willing to pay, which made Paula and me both gasp.
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