‘Truly?’ Disbelief threaded through my niece’s voice.
‘I have never been more certain of anything.’ He tucked the journal under his arm and took the letters from me as if I had given him a precious gift. ‘I will include them in my biography of Shelley and restore you to your rightful place in his circle – then, down the road, I will edit my uncle’s journal. Your reputation will be in safe hands; make no mistake. I shall not mention your daughter.’
‘You would do that for me?’
‘Indeed, yes.’
Now, it was time for me to agree to his terms. Accept the money, put the past behind me and ensure that Paula had a secure future. It was the wise decision.
‘And now I have something more to tell you,’ he began. ‘The torn page—’
‘I believe you all have something that belongs to me.’ Matteo strolled forward from the other side of the obelisk with a small pistol in his hand.
‘Matteo? What are you doing here?’ I demanded. ‘And what exactly do you think you own of mine?’
He jerked his head in the direction of the letters and then snatched them out of Mr Rossetti’s unresisting grasp. ‘These lettere are mine.’
‘They are not!’ I protested.
‘Ah, Signora, I disagree.’ He leveled the gun at Paula and I froze. ‘Do you think I rented those rooms to you so cheaply out of kindness? Or made sure you had enough food not to starve? Or put up with that whining bambina—’
‘Georgiana does not whine,’ Paula cut in with some indignation.
‘Silencio,’ he hissed. ‘I had heard rumours about the famous English poets who wrote to you, and realized those letters would fetch many lire on the open market. I waited for you to offer them to me in payment for my many kindnesses, and when that did not happen, I decided to steal them. But you always had them locked away, and I could never gain access to your apartment long enough to rifle through your belongings. In desperation, I was even going to persuade Raphael to pilfer the letters, but he fell in love with your niece, so I dropped that plan.’ He pivoted toward Mr Rossetti. ‘Until this Englishman appeared, I had lost hope that I would ever obtain them. But when it was rumored around Firenze that you were going to sell the letters to him, I waited for my opportunity to step in …’
‘You are despicable,’ I spat out.
He just laughed.
‘I beg of you to leave the ladies alone.’ Mr Rossetti spoke up in a calm voice. ‘You and I can come to some agreement over the letters and make certain that Miss Clairmont is duly compensated—’
‘The noble Englishman? I have no intention of paying her, or you, anything. What you do not know is that my family is bankrupt … I have no money left because of my gambling, even if I did want to pay for the lettere. I have nothing left to lose.’ Matteo waved the gun for emphasis, and we all drew back.
‘Do you intend to kill us over some letters?’ I tried to nudge Paula behind me, but she refused to move.
‘Like poor Father Gianni?’ he grated out in a harsh tone.
‘You murdered him?’ I cried out in disbelief. ‘That cannot be true.’
‘It was an accident.’ Matteo bared his teeth in snarl. ‘When I was at the basilica, praying for divine intervention over my debts, I saw you hand the priest a letter; I saw that you were trying to enlist his help in obtaining a good price from the Englishman. Father Gianni knew of my desperate financial situation, but when I confronted him the next day in the Old Sacristy, he refused to help me. I tried to take that lettera you had given him. We struggled and he fell against the altar …’ Matteo broke off with a catch in his throat. ‘I blame you, Signora. It was your fault. You are obsessed with your daughter – the one that died in the convent. I overheard your conversation with Father Gianni about her, but you cannot bring her back, or the parroco now. You killed him with your delusions.’
‘Not true. I never would have seen him if not for that note about Allegra under my teacup—’
‘Non è vero, Signora.’
Dear God. I closed my eyes briefly, realizing how wrong I had been about everything, including Father Gianni’s death. ‘Take the letters then, and go!’
‘Aunt Claire, they are yours!’ Paula protested.
I touched her cheek. ‘I do not care anymore … they have caused too much grief, my dear.’
Mr Rossetti stepped in front of us. ‘We will call the police, you understand.’
‘I shall be long gone.’ He pocketed the letters and tipped the pistol in a salute. ‘Addio.’
As he turned, Raphael emerged from his position in the hidden grotto and wrestled him to the ground. The pistol fell to the side and Paula immediately snatched it up, screaming for the polizia as Raphael and Matteo rolled over and over toward the sharp edge of the obelisk. Paula aimed the pistol upwards and fired at the sky and the fight ceased, as did the music inside the palace.
Two members of the polizia raced outside; once they reached us, they pulled Matteo and Raphael apart.
Pointing at Matteo with a shaky hand, I exclaimed, ‘Thief! Murderer!’
Paula dropped the pistol and fell to her knees as Mr Rossetti explained in Italian what had happened. By that time, everyone had rushed out of the palace and stood at the courtyard rail, peering at us through the darkness and murmuring in hushed tones.
I bent down and hugged Paula close, both of us trembling.
The nightmare had finally ended – not exactly a last act in the way that I had anticipated, but a finale nonetheless.
I could put all my doubts to rest about Father Gianni’s death – and perhaps those about my long-lost daughter, Allegra.
They were both gone.
TEN
‘Are you all right, Miss Clairmont?’ Mr Rossetti asked me as we stood next to the obelisk. Darkness had fallen, but the polizia had left a lantern which provided a tiny glow of light.
‘Yes – and no.’ I could barely take in that my landlord had just confessed to attempted theft and accidental murder – but, in an odd way, it seemed almost a relief to end the bizarre twist of events over the last week.
And a sad realization that none of it had to do with Allegra’s death.
She had died more than fifty years ago. I grieved it then, and I would grieve it now. But I had to accept it.
And poor Father Gianni’s death, as well.
Mr Rossetti gave me the letters. ‘You never really wanted to sell them, did you?’
‘What do you think? Would you barter your past?’ I slipped them back into my bag. ‘Our poverty drove me to consider it. But I cannot part with them – not now, not ever. I apologize, sir.’
‘You have nothing to be sorry for,’ he hastened to reassure me. ‘I have never experienced such an … eventful trip to Italy. And no matter what, I will include you in my biography of Shelley – truthfully and discreetly.’
‘You are most generous. I will, of course, allow you to read them.’
‘Grazie.’ He glanced at the obelisk. ‘It really is a magnificent structure – I can see why you chose to live nearby.’
‘Indeed.’
It was time to go home. Paula and I would have to start planning for the recent downturn of our financial aspirations. At least we knew for certain where Raphael’s allegiance lay – if he married Paula, perhaps the three of us, with Georgiana, could find cheaper lodgings.
Sighing, I reached for the lantern to make my way back.
‘You know … I also find it interesting that a missing part of my uncle’s journal was attached to a drawing of this obelisk,’ he added.
I halted.
Mr Rossetti reached into his jacket and pulled out a small scroll of parchment. As he unfurled it to reveal an artist’s rendering of the obelisk, I noticed the half page from Polidori’s journal – with its jagged edge – attached to the back of the drawing.
‘You have the missing piece of the page,’ I said quietly.
‘I was going to tell you when Matteo appeared,’ he said. ‘I did not rip i
t out of the journal – someone else did. When my mother finally agreed to give Polidori’s journal to me last year, I noted part of a page had been torn. She recalled that it had been sent to her a few years after his death – attached to this sketch.’ He grasped the lantern and held it up to the pen and ink drawing of the obelisk with the words For Claire – There be none of Beauty’s daughters, 1822, scrawled across one corner.
‘That is Byron’s writing – I would recognize it anywhere,’ I said breathlessly. ‘But is it possible that he had the missing part of Polidori’s journal?’
‘I cannot say for certain, except that it, along with the drawing, was sent to my mother anonymously in 1824.’
A sudden realization dawned upon me. ‘That was the year Byron died fighting for Greek independence in Missolonghi.’
He nodded. ‘My mother recognized the journal entry as belonging to Polidori, so when she had the sketch framed, she simply left it on the back. Eventually, she forgot all about it – until I asked her about the missing section … The artist is Giuseppe Cades and his work is quite valuable. I was arranging for it to be sent to you through Trelawny, but he suggested that I travel here to give it to you personally when I inquired about the sale of your correspondence. He also instructed me to place the note under your teacup the day we first met, but made me vow not to read it – I did as he wished.’
‘I … I do not know what to say.’ My thoughts began to spin in a vortex of dazed confusion. Could it be that Byron and Polidori had been in collusion over some nameless deceit? ‘From what I could tell last night, the lost entry was from the summer of 1816 when I was already pregnant with Byron’s child. I cannot decipher it in this dim light, but does it contain anything startling?’
‘That depends on your perspective, I suppose.’ He paused as he flipped over the sketch and traced a few lines on the journal fragment. ‘A notation, such as this one, that states Byron and Shelley were settling an illegitimate child’s future might be seen as scandalous to some. Not to me, of course.’ Smiling, he gave me the drawing and missing part of the page. ‘Perhaps we could talk about it over tea tomorrow? You could explain what all of this means and, if you are inclined to sell the Cades sketch, I could locate a buyer.’
‘I would like to have tea together, but as to selling the artwork, I must consider that carefully.’ My gratitude toward him soared. Although the journal entry had provided no great revelations about Allegra, the pen and ink sketch could fetch many lire and signal the end of our poverty – should I choose to sell it. It would support Paula and Georgiana in comfort during my last days, and beyond. Perhaps …
He remained motionless, then gave a little bow. ‘You are truly remarkable, Miss Clairmont. If you would like a few minutes alone, I need to give the police my statement – and will return shortly to see you home. Raphael has already escorted Paula back to your apartment.’
‘Thank you.’ I clasped the drawing to my chest and nodded.
Once he had left, I glanced down at Giuseppe Cades’ rendition of the obelisk again – spear straight – with the lovely, graceful foliage of the Boboli Gardens framing it in bold strokes.
Who had sent this drawing to Mr Rossetti’s mother?
Most puzzling.
But I knew why Byron had kept this image of the obelisk and inscribed it to me. It was part of our past; it was the reason I had chosen to spend my later years near the Boboli Gardens – because this place held a secret, a stolen moment that I had kept hidden from everyone, including Paula.
Setting the lantern to the side of the obelisk, I knelt down and began to dig at the ground with my bare hands. Feeling the dirt beneath my fingers gave me a demonic energy. I kept digging and digging, knowing what lay underneath the earth.
I knew because I had placed it there when I met Byron here, a few months after Allegra’s death.
About ten inches under the surface, I felt a box – small and rectangular. Scooping it out, I held it close, remembering the last time I had seen it.
In 1822, six months after Allegra had died, Byron had ridden all night to see me in Florence, and we agreed to meet by the obelisk at sunset …
When I saw him limp down the courtyard stairs, I realized that it had been almost seven years since we parted in Geneva. His hair was heavily threaded with gray; he had grown quite thin and pale, dragging his clubfoot with a hard, stiff gait as he leaned on a walking stick.
As he drew near, I felt overcome by emotion – all that we had shared together, and lost.
‘My dear Claire.’ He kissed my hand, then stood back and surveyed me. ‘You look well.’
‘As do you,’ I lied.
He gave a short laugh. ‘Hardly.’
An awkward silence fell over us, then I cleared my throat. ‘Shelley told me that you were about to leave Ravenna.’
‘Soon.’
‘Where do you go next?’
He stared up at the tip of the obelisk and shook his head. ‘I do not know. My days rarely seem my own now—’
‘With Teresa?’ I could not help but mention his Italian mistress; everyone had talked about them since she left her husband for Byron.
‘That’s over.’ He shrugged. ‘Mostly, I spend a great deal of time alone or in activities that I should know better than to indulge in … but there you have it: I am what I am.’
‘Indeed.’
‘In truth, I sail for Greece soon to aid the freedom fighters against the Ottomans. Who knows? Perhaps I shall redeem myself by becoming one of my own heroes. But would you believe me if I said how much I cherished that summer in Geneva? Shelley, Mary, you and me – it was a charmed circle.’
‘And the most wonderful time of my life,’ I murmured.
He leaned in close. ‘Truly, I am so sorry for what happened to Allegra. I have been tormented by her loss and by what you must feel. I would not blame you if you hated me.’
Tears spilled down my cheeks. ‘I do not hate you.’
‘I have something to give you.’ He held out a gold and enamel box and opened the lid to reveal a lock of hair attached to a tiny piece of paper with the name Allegra Byron written on it. ‘The nuns at Bagnacavallo gave it to me after she … died. I thought we could bury it here and put our past to rest. We can bury our daughter together.’
I touched the lock and her lovely face rose up in my mind. My sweet daughter.
I turned away and heard him snap the lid shut.
He thumped at the ground with his walking stick, digging at the dirt until he had made a small hole. Then he bent down and placed the box in the little recess and I covered it with the loose soil.
The task was done.
We then stood up and faced each other.
‘Promise me, Claire, that you will never look at the box again – or grieve for our daughter endlessly,’ he said quietly. ‘You have many years ahead of you, I think, and you must not lose that love of life that so entranced me.’
‘I will honor your first request, but as to not grieving for the rest of my years, I cannot vow to that.’
‘I will not forget you.’ He touched his cheek to mine; his was cold. ‘When I am gone, remember what we buried here.’
The words caught in my throat, and I could not answer him – just watch him leave me for the second time in my life.
‘Goodbye, my love,’ I whispered before he disappeared into the shadows …
Blinking back the tears, I came back into the present.
My hands shook as I eased open the ornately gilded enamel lid. Inside still lay the lock of Allegra’s hair – a tiny blonde curl that made me smile.
My beloved daughter.
I would carry it with me now. There was no need to keep those memories buried any longer. Carefully, plucking the little curl from the box, it stuck to the paper – and both came out. As I detached the lock of hair, I spied a few words scribbled on the back of the yellowed note. Had Byron written a poem to Allegra?
Slowly turning it over, I saw it was not a poem. It was a
confession.
Forgive me, Claire. Our daughter lives … I could not tell you, but she survived the typhus and remains hidden for her safety.
You will never see these words, or know that I truly loved you.
B.
My body stiffened in shock as I read the lines once more, then again.
Allegra was still alive.
‘So now you know what happened,’ a deep, masculine voice said from behind.
I took in a quick, sharp breath. Slowly, I rose to my feet and turned to see Edward Trelawny standing before me. Gray-haired, with a hard-planed face, he still retained that handsome aura of the man I once knew in my youth.
My shock yielded to anger. ‘Why did you send Rossetti and not come yourself?’
‘I meant to arrive shortly after him, but my passage from England was delayed by rough seas.’ He extended his hand toward me. ‘Claire, I do not seek to justify my past behavior, but I want to explain my dishonesty—’
‘You mean your lies about the past – or at least omissions.’
‘Yes, I had secrets from you, but I am ready to confess – and I vow to remain in Italy as your protector until this web of deceit has been untangled.’ He bowed his head briefly. ‘But understand this … when I visited Byron in Greece, he showed me the obelisk sketch and related the whole story, including the part when he tore those lines out of Polidori’s journal about your child – to protect you and Allegra. Byron did not think you fell down the stairs at Castle Chillon – he suspected that Ludovico di Breme pushed you.’
‘Dear God.’ Shock flew through me. ‘I remember him. He came to visit Byron at Diodati during that summer in Geneva – and seemed nothing but a pleasant man, but Polidori’s journal recorded a secret meeting with di Breme that Mary never mentioned to me. What could it mean?’
‘All I know is the Italian’s appearance caused Byron to be alarmed because di Breme seemed fixated on you … so much so, Byron asked him to leave. Byron made me promise that I would never share this knowledge with anyone, including you. After he died, the missing lines and obelisk drawing disappeared and I kept my vow, until Rossetti contacted me to say he had them both and wanted to buy your letters. I knew that I could no longer stay silent, so I asked Rossetti to come to Florence himself – and place that note under your teacup to warn you – until I could reach Italy and right this wrong from the past. I did not anticipate that his arrival would set such tragic events in motion so quickly. I know forgiveness is not possible, but will you at least hear my story?’
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