by Lona Manning
“No, no, nothing—nothing at all, I thank you. It is only the heat. Just permit me to rest for a moment.” Mary leaned her head against the wall behind her and closed her eyes. Out of the turmoil of her mind arose certain conviction—and despair.
It was her letter—her threat—to Shelley that was the cause of his wife’s sudden departure. He wanted to avoid a confrontation between his wife and his mistress.
He would not return.
He had abandoned her.
A wave of nausea rose within her, and a new certainty flashed upon her. She rose, walked shakily to the table, and vomited in a dirty serving platter.
She was betrayed—and she was with child.
The Robinsons were alarmed and very solicitous. Mary was mortified, but had the presence of mind to blame some bad fish for her sudden attack of sickness, while her thoughts raced with horror and confusion. She was now as anxious to depart the Shelley’s home as she had been determined to linger. Mrs. Robinson insisted that her husband escort her safely back to the Casa Ciampi. Mary walked slowly down the hill, hanging on his arm, and she continued to ply him with questions: “Was Mrs. Shelley in good spirits? Does she like travelling?”
“No, indeed not, though chiefly owing to her worry over Clara.”
“Clara?”
“The baby.”
“Oh, yes, the baby. Of course, dear little Clara. Pray,” said Mary, retreating in confusion from her blunder. “Pray, how long have you been acquainted with the Shelleys?”
Mr. Robinson explained his wife was an old friend of the Godwin family back in London and had taken care of Mary as an infant after her mother died. Yes, it was a very great pity such a talented woman had died so young.
The Robinsons had lived in Italy for several years, in Livorno. That was where they had reunited, so to speak, with Mary Godwin, now Mrs. Shelley, all grown up and a mother herself. But Shelley hadn’t much cared for Livorno. Had she been to Livorno? No? Well, it suited them very well. Some people thought it was too quiet. Shelley hadn’t much cared for it.
Shelley—now there was a character! His health was a matter of some concern. Mrs. Shelley had been in hopes that the waters here at Bagni di Lucca were doing him good—he was using less laudanum now. Nasty stuff. But he hadn’t much cared for Livorno.
The effort of maintaining her part of the conversation was exceedingly trying for Mary, consumed as she was by the desperation of her new predicament. She only half-listened to Mr. Robinson—who fortunately appeared to be not so acute or intelligent as his wife. Her attention must have drifted, because she suddenly realised her companion was now talking of revolution in England.
“A revolution?’ asked Mary, in alarm. “What have you heard?”
It was Mr. Robinson’s turn to look startled. “I have heard nothing, but as I was saying, our friend Shelley is quite convinced the country is on the cusp of revolution—an uprising by the common folk against the ruling classes. We—Mrs. Robinson and I—have no small part of our savings invested in the Naval five percents. Shelley says, we shall lose everything if the government is overthrown. He is counselling us to withdraw our funds.”
“Let us hope it does not come to that,” was all Mary could think to say. Shelley, she knew, would welcome a revolution. Child-like, he would revel in the destruction, as a boy kicks down a sandcastle, demolishing in an instant what had taken much labour to build.
Mr. Robinson continued happily oblivious all the way to the door of her apartment, where he bid her a good day. Mary thanked him repeatedly and upon his assurance that Mrs. Robinson would do herself the honour of returning Mrs. Shelley’s call on the following day, expressed her delight at the prospect.
With Lucenza’s aid, she undressed and retired to bed. Defying Lt. Vannini, Mary sent Lucenza to purchase some bottles of spa water. When she returned from her errand, Mary sent her out again. For pomegranates. Bread. Lavender oil. Writing paper.
To be alone, to think and adjust herself to her new circumstances, was now Mary’s first object.
True, her first encounter with Shelley had been unplanned, but on all subsequent occasions she had not been completely imprudent—she employed little sponges fixed to short lengths of ribbon, and a bottle of vinegar. Her precautions, however, had failed her. She thought back over the weeks, and realized she had blamed her recent lack of appetite on her anxiety over Shelley, and her fatigue to the tedium of her enforced stay in this small provincial town.
She counted on her fingers, and concluded she would have a baby in early spring.
A lesser women would have despaired, but Mary Bertram was courageous and, no less usefully, she had wealth. Poor women lost their positions and were cast out to starve in the hedgerows. Rich women could disappear and then return with an adopted foundling, or the baby could be placed with foster parents and no-one the wiser. She had, in fact, already borne one child in secrecy, when estranged from her husband. Luckily, Edmund had acknowledged Thomas as his own son when they reconciled.
She heard the door to her apartment, and Lucenza came to her chamber, bearing a letter. “It is from Venice, madam.”
My love, my darling—
Have you been anxious? I was in the very act of writing to apprise you of some good news when I received your letter. Your jealousy over Miss Clairmont is unworthy of you. There is no intrigue—at least—I have nothing to reproach myself with. When we meet again, I shall explain everything.
Your faith in me, your patience, is about to be rewarded!
In Venice, I received, most unexpectedly, an offer from Lord Byron to use his villa at Este. An exquisite moment of hope, almost too wonderful to be comprehended, broke upon me. Hitherto, my straitened means prevented me from establishing a separate household for Mrs. Shelley and the children, and here was one provided! Once I have her settled at Este, I will apprise her of my new circumstances, and return to you!
Therefore, I urge you, do not attempt a meeting with my wife. For her peace of mind, it is best that she first receive my assurance that I remain her firm & constant friend, who would never wilfully injure her feelings. She will be on her way to Este by the time you receive this note.
Rejoice! We shall be united within a fortnight!
Your, Shelley
* * * * * * *
Having gone from rage, to despair, to renewed hope in the course of a few hours, Mary was excessively tired but forced herself to receive Mrs. Robinson the following day in her apartment’s little sitting room, with Lucenza clumsily serving tea.
Mary and her guest spoke in English, so Lucenza might not comprehend, but Mrs. Gibson referred, in passing, to “Paolo Foggi,” and to Mary’s vexation, the foolish, silly girl interposed— “Mi scusi, madam, did you speak of my Paolo?”
Mrs. Robinson, though rather stern in manner, was not one disposed to make unkind judgements—for indeed, she would otherwise never have befriended the Shelley household. She condescendingly informed the maid that Paolo had gone with Mrs. Shelley and was escorting her on the hazardous trip across Italy.
Tears filled Lucenza’s eyes at the news, and her lips began to wobble, and with a sigh of exasperation, Mary sent her downstairs for more refreshments, then revived the interesting subject.
“I received a letter from Miss Clairmont yesterday,” Mary lied. “She told me they are not staying with Lord Byron in Venice, but gone to Este. I have never been to Este.
“Nor have I, Mrs. Bertram, but I understand it is a very pretty place. Mr. Shelley said in his letter to Mrs. Shelley, that the expansive views are a welcome change after living amongst the hills here in Bagni di Lucca. Speaking of Shelley, Mr. Robinson tells me he alarmed you yesterday, with Shelley’s talk of an imminent revolution.”
Mary did not at first recollect what the lady was talking about.
“I—oh yes, revolution. Most alarming. And what do you think about the likelihood of revolution, Mrs. Robinson?”
Mrs. Robinson spoke, but Mary did not really attend. She allowed h
er attention to wander completely, then realised Mrs. Robinson must have moved off the topic to something more personal.
“I beg your pardon?” she said, with a little start. “Miss Clairmont’s little daughter?”
“Oh dear—have I said too much?” exclaimed Mrs. Robinson. “How careless of me. As you were corresponding with Claire, I thought you knew...”
“Knew about her daughter?” Mary hazarded. “Of course.”
Mrs. Robinson sighed in relief. “I was afraid I had betrayed a confidence. So, since Lord Byron has consented that Claire may see Allegra, I hope she will conclude she has nothing to fear. The nursemaid—but of course I doubt Claire would have told you this—Mrs. Shelley very kindly gave up her excellent nursemaid to attend Allegra. In that respect, at least, the child is in good hands.”
Mary nodded, to show her complete satisfaction that Allegra was in good hands.
Lucenza then bustled back into the room with a plate of sliced goat cheese, which she set down in front of Mary. The smell disagreed most particularly with her, and Mary’s face must have proclaimed her discomfort, for Mrs. Robinson rose from seat. “She thought Mrs. Bertram must be in need of some rest.”
Mary could not regret her guest’s departure. She retreated to her bedchamber as miserable sickness took hold of her.
Being with child had never agreed with Mary. She always felt trapped and resentful of the demands made on her body. But she had never felt so ill as she now did—the Italian heat added immeasurably to her misery.
The following day, Lieutenant Vannini returned to question and re-question Lucenza. Mary wondered at his persistence in discovering the identity of the attacker in a common street brawl over a servant girl.
“Since the valet is making a full recovery,” Mary complained, “you are not looking for a murderer. Surely the matter might be settled privately.”
“Ordinarily yes, madam,” Vannini nodded, “but it is an English man who was attacked.”
“But merely a servant, after all.”
“Nevertheless, madam, it is of the utmost importance that we find the guilty man, and bring him to justice, so all the English folk will be at ease in Bagni di Lucca.”
“Believe me, I am not at ease in Bagni di Lucca, and will be gone so soon as I—so soon as I am ready to go.”
“But madam, our investigation—your servant—”
“It is only the girl who cannot leave, am I correct?”
“Well... yes. But if you leave, and the girl is not in your custody, she will be held in the jail in Lucca, to await the hearing next month.”
Lucenza looked piteously at Mary, and Mary waved her out of the room.
“And as well, madam...” the lieutenant coughed awkwardly. “You are believed to have some acquaintance with the family of Shelley, who lived at the Casa Bertini?”
“What of it?”
“This family, madam, employed a Livornese man named Paolo Foggi. He is our chief suspect in the stabbing incident. Can you confirm that Foggi is with the Shelleys?”
“I have no idea, Lieutenant.”
“Do you know where the Shelleys are gone?”
“No, Lieutenant Vannini, I do not.”
“Not at all? I was told you were well acquainted with Mr. Shelley.”
“I can tell you nothing, Lieutenant.”
“Very well. I am sorry to have disturbed you, madam. I hope you will soon recover. Good day to you, madam.”
* * * * * * *
From her window at the Casa Ciampi, Mary watched every morning as the noisy, squeaking wooden carts carried away the luggage of the departing English guests. The young misses with their sketching books and easels, the children and the governesses, the white-haired old men, Admiral Fremantle and his detestable wife. The streets grew quiet, the evening gaieties ceased, the orchestra packed up and left for Livorno.
Mary lingered in her room, still feeling weak and tired.
Although the tree-covered mountains showed promise of the beauties of autumn, Mary began to feel buried alive in the Appenine hills, with no horizon, no future, to gaze upon. Shelley’s promised fortnight came and went with no word.
At long last, a letter from Shelley found its way to her hands.
My Marina, my beloved—
At last, my health is somewhat restored and I have sufficient self-command to send you these few lines. Fate has overturned all our plans—oh, how shall I tell you!
Our baby daughter suffered from the heat and privations of the journey here to Este. I too, was feeling exceedingly unwell, as was Miss Clairmont. Este does not have any decent medical men, so, of necessity, Miss Clairmont and I travelled to consult a noted physician in Padua. Whilst in Padua I received an urgent message from my wife—she feared Clara was growing worse—accordingly, I urged her to bring the baby and join us—then, hearing from Lord Byron that he had an excellent doctor in Venice, I proposed that we all continue on to that city.
We reached Venice, I set out urgently to summon the doctor—I returned——and found Clara dead in her mother’s arms!
My position is now a miserable one. My wife’s grief pierces my heart. I leave it to your magnanimous spirit, to judge whether now is the time to inform her that our marriage is at an end. I have been too oppressed even to write to you:
O Thou, my spirit’s mate
Who, for thou art compassionate and wise,
Wouldst pity me from thy most gentle eyes
If this sad writing thou shouldst ever see—
My secret groans must be unheard by thee,
Thou wouldst weep tears bitter as blood to know
Thy lost friend’s incommunicable woe.
We must wait, but for how long? I can hardly say.
Our villa in Este is very pleasant, with a fine view of the Euganean Hills. I have commenced a new epic poem, which I long to share with you.
Your devoted,
PBS
Mary read and re-read the note, scarcely knowing how to assign the fault; whether folly, ignorance or ill-luck were most to blame for an innocent child’s death. Sometimes she thought one predominated, then the other. Surely Mrs. Shelley’s imprudence was of a piece with her husband’s——what unthinking compliance was this, to travel with an ailing babe, on a five day carriage ride in the blazing heat, followed by another which proved fatal!
Shelley had sung to her of liberty, of throwing off all that was false and obeying only the promptings of their hearts, but now they both were hopelessly tangled in sorrow, regret and delay. He had not only compromised his own freedom, but hers as well. She carried his child, though he did not yet know it.
So soon as she could make her arrangements, Mary departed from Bagni di Lucca on the trail of Shelley. She needed to engage male servants. Fortunately the valet Roberts, although recovered from his injury had been discharged by his employers and left behind in Bagni di Luca. His Italian was poor, but sufficient to hire horses and drivers and speak to innkeepers on her behalf.
Lucenza was turned over to Lieutenant Vannini—the miserable girl howled as she had never howled before—and Madam Ciampi gravely bid her troublesome tenant farewell. At least, Madame Ciampi consoled herself, Madam Crawford paid her bills in full. She was more fortunate than her friend Signor Chiapa who had let his yellow villa to a family who disappeared one morning, without paying their rent.
Livorno was Mary’s first destination, being the nearest city where she might engage more servants and refresh her wardrobe. There, every convenience to lessen the tedium and danger of a journey across Italy was within easy reach of her purse.
She travelled slowly and rested frequently, and reached Este in the third week of October. She went to the post office to discover the whereabouts of Lord Byron’s villa there, and was almost overpowered to learn the Shelleys were gone. They had left instructions to forward their mail to the post office in Ferrara.
Mary wrote a blistering letter to Shelley, care of the post office in Ferrara.
The
road leading out of Este to Ferrara was very poor, and to avoid being knocked about inside her carriage she ordered her driver to proceed slowly. She looked listlessly out her window as she crawled past one farm after another, each with its little mountain of corn and pumpkins, and their lean and ferocious guard dogs, whose hostility was sometimes echoed by a baleful glare from a farmer or his wife.
The approach to Ferrara was more peaceful; given over to gently undulating fields of grape vines, their leaves turning tawny in the autumn sun.
After finding some good accommodation, Mary made her hopeful excursion to the post office, where several letters from Shelley were waiting along with a little ring, inscribed with the motto, “il buon tempo verra,” or “better weather is coming.”
My Marina, I pledge myself to you whole-heartedly. I am wearing the mate to this ring, a token of my eternal devotion to you. Better times will come for us, I swear it.
But, she learned, the Shelleys were gone on to Bologna.
In Bologna, a note filled as usual, with protestations of his adoration of her, advised her to visit the public gallery, where she might see some exquisite paintings by Raphael and Guido.
After Bologna, Mary moved on to Spoleto and Terni. The Shelleys were bound for Rome, where Mary did not want to follow—she had too many acquaintance there and her condition was now apparent.
Shelley had left word they intended to winter in Naples, and he implored her to wait for him there. The Appian Way was reckoned to be particularly hazardous for travellers, infested with revolutionaries and banditti. Mary kept loaded pistols beside her, and Roberts was likewise armed. While she felt she could shoot a robber in the face with no compunction, it was yet another point of resentment to add to the score against Shelley.
The long journey, fortunately, was made without incident.
In Naples, she would resolve matters one way or another—to sever Shelley from his old associations completely, or abandon him, regardless of the consequences.
Chapter 20: England, Autumn 1818