Claire's Last Secret Read online

  Shelley beamed, which caused Mary to frown again.

  ‘I want to join in the competition,’ Polidori said in a slurred voice as he ambled into the room, with only a slight limp from his injured ankle and an unsteady gait, probably from opium or alcohol. His face looked flushed, his eyes wild. I instantly stiffened in discomfort.

  ‘Polidori, have you been taking too much laudanum again?’ Byron asked.

  ‘Perhaps.’ He snickered and narrowed his eyes. ‘Did you want it for yourself, my lord?’

  Mary and I exchanged glances of alarm, waiting for Byron to explode in a tirade against his tedious young doctor.

  Surprisingly, Byron tilted back his head and stared at the ceiling with a groan of impatience. ‘Don’t be a bore, Polidori. If I wanted laudanum, I would simply take it from you. By all means, join the competition, but you had better write something beyond the drivel that you have already shown to me. Better yet, I will give you a story and you can expand on it for us – as long as you promise to make our blood run cold.’

  ‘I promise.’ Polidori held up his hand as if taking a solemn oath.

  I choked back a cry of protest. Do not encourage him.

  ‘An excellent idea,’ Shelley enthused. ‘And now we have to hear only from Mary. Will you write a ghostly narrative to terrify one and all, my love?’

  All eyes riveted on Mary – especially Polidori’s. He stood next to her, swaying slightly like a sailor on a pitching deck.

  ‘I … I have nothing in mind at the moment, but I will try to write something.’ She reached out to Shelley, threading her fingers through his. ‘Though I cannot believe that my words could strike terror into any reader—’

  ‘Fear assumes many disguises,’ Polidori interjected with a note of sarcasm. ‘I am unnerved by everything that you say, and I would be a happy man if you tried to terrify me …’ As he leaned towards Mary, he lost his balance and began to fall on her. But I instantly rose and shoved him to the side, causing him to tumble on to the floor with a hard thud. He shouted in pain, and we all rushed to his side as he clutched his boot, except for Byron, who merely shook his head, muttering, ‘Foolish boy.’

  Shelley knelt down and gently lifted Polidori’s leg, turning it to one side and then the other.

  Polidori whimpered.

  ‘We had better take him to his room and put a poultice on the sprain,’ Shelley suggested as he helped Polidori to his feet. Then he shifted the young doctor’s arm around his own thin shoulders and walked him out of the room, followed by Mary.

  When they had exited, I confronted Byron. ‘Why do you encourage him? He is rude, obnoxious and childish. He is supposed to be your doctor, but he spends his days consumed with drink and opium and constantly provokes Mary with his disrespectful overtures. He cannot be allowed to continue with this appalling behavior.’

  Byron averted his head and drained the last of his wine. ‘I shall speak to him.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I touched his cheek and he flinched.

  Turning away from him, my heart squeezed in disappointment. ‘Why will you not let me love you? I do, you know. More than I can say. Yet you seem only to trifle with me as if I were but a meaningless speck of dust in your life. I thought things would be different in Geneva, but it seems that I was wrong. You want me, but you do not want to be with me.’

  He sighed deeply. ‘I made no vow, no pledge beyond what I could give to you, Claire. I have no such feelings anymore. That part of me is dead – as dead as the withered branches of a lifeless tree. I wish I could have your optimism and passion for life, but that time is over for me. I am not the man I was …’

  ‘It does not have to be like that.’ I struggled to keep myself composed, but it was all that I could do not to blurt out that new life stirred inside of me. ‘Does it?’

  ‘Perhaps … not.’

  Was there a flicker of hope in his tone?

  ‘I know we can never marry since you still have a wife, but I could make you happy.’ I bit my lip, trying to find the right words that might inspire him to find faith in the future. Our future. ‘You have enjoyed our time in Geneva, have you not? You get on well with Shelley and Mary? We could remain here or go to Italy – wherever, as long as we are together. The four of us … our charmed circle.’ Without Polidori.

  I heard him take in a sharp breath, but he said nothing.

  A heaviness came over me at his mute response. It was pointless to keep trying to resurrect the man that I had once known; he was gone forever. With a deep sigh, I began to move away, but he seized my hand.

  ‘No – wait.’

  I paused and turned slowly.

  ‘Do not leave me.’ His eyes melted into my soul, full of entreaty and desire. ‘I cannot be alone with my thoughts – they are haunting me tonight. The ghosts of my past. Images of people whom I have wronged … I did not mean to hurt any of them, least of all you, Claire.’

  The rain began to fall outside in a hard, loud torrent, beating against the windows.

  Slipping my arms around his shoulders, I held him tightly in a fierce embrace. ‘I knew the risks.’ Except to my heart. I never thought he would break my heart. ‘It was my choice.’

  He sought my lips, his kiss punishing and angry, almost as if I had to be chastised for giving in to him. I would be hurt yet again, perhaps even more deeply – I knew it. He would never love me … but I could live in the moment, for now, and forget about the consequences. It would all crash down in the end, and I would pay dearly for my indiscretion, but tonight was ours.

  A week later, the storms had abated somewhat, so we decided to embrace the day and lounge under the striped awning at the villa overlooking the lake. By late afternoon, the sun peeped out just before it began to drop below the horizon, a sliver of red and gold stretching across the lower sky in jagged streaks of color and light.

  Shelley lounged on a chaise, reading an excerpt of Rousseau’s novel Julie to Mary and me: ‘Listen to this passage: “Virtue is a state of war, and to live in it means one always has some battle to wage against oneself.” So poetic and so true. Rousseau never avoided the truth, however painful. We all do battle with ourselves.’

  ‘But does that not give us even more appreciation of the victories?’ I countered from my perch on the top step where I sat, hugging my knees to my chest.

  ‘For some – and for others it leads to melancholy self-doubt,’ Mary agreed as she finished her latest sketch of the lake, shading in the pine trees that dotted the coastline. She had been trying to perfect her drawing skills as a distraction from not being able to pen a ghost story. Shelley and I had spent much of the week babbling away about our own gothic tales, but she took no part in the conversations, just drifted around the cottage with a distracted expression.

  ‘Rousseau teaches us that love is the way to counter this sad reality,’ he posed, resting the open book on his leg. ‘That is the one virtue in the world: to always follow the truth of our feelings, no matter where it leads us.’

  ‘And you speak from experience?’ I teased.

  ‘Indeed, yes.’ He snapped the book shut with a short chuckle. ‘I am a soldier of many campaigns on the field of love.’

  Acknowledging his witticism, I inclined my head. ‘And to the victor go the spoils.’

  ‘Claire, do not encourage him in this talk,’ Mary warned as she took one last critical scan of her sketch, adding a few strokes near the edges of the paper. ‘It is foolish.’

  ‘You are most unkind, my dear.’ He gazed at the clear blue color of the water reflecting the shimmering rays of the waning sun. ‘I have half a mind to propose that Byron and I play the tourist and take the boat to every spot where Rousseau set a scene in Julie – from the castle at Chillon to Vevey. Indeed, we can take our own literary pilgrimage.’

  Mary sighed. ‘Men only, I presume?’

  ‘Do you really want to take a boat trip with Albe and … his quirks?’ he whispered.

  We did not respond, knowing Byron’s maddening trav
el eccentricities only too well, from his odd sleeping habits to the enormous amount of luggage he transported. It would no doubt require a great deal of patience (and courage) to embark on an expedition with him. Much as I found his presence unbearably exciting, I preferred being with him on terra firma.

  ‘You two must go – alone,’ Mary hastened to add.

  ‘Go where?’ Byron emerged from inside the villa, Polidori in tow, along with another man whom I had not met. Slightly older than Polidori, the newcomer was of medium stature, with classically Italian features and somewhat romantic attire: open-collared shirt and breeches. He held back until Byron introduced him. ‘This is Ludovico di Breme, recently arrived from Italy. I met him at Madame de Stael’s yesterday and persuaded him to come by.’

  ‘Buongiorno,’ he murmured as he bowed to us.

  Mary and I murmured polite greetings. We did not attend de Stael’s salon gatherings that attracted many of the local expatriates. The middle-aged, French aristocratic exile pretended to espouse social liberalism and revolutionary politics, but she disapproved of Mary and me, and our open living arrangements with married men. Byron, of course, suffered none of this condemnation – he was too famous, too handsome.

  Shelley stood and shook hands with di Breme, then they immediately drew off to the side and began talking about Italian politics. Mary resumed her sketching as I pretended to contemplate the lake’s translucent surface, though I listened intently to snatches of their discussion, catching words like ‘carbonari’ and ‘Risorgimento.’

  Who was this di Breme? An Italian revolutionary?

  All of a sudden, I felt him studying me with a secret, sidelong glance. Shifting uncomfortably, I pretended not to notice and engaged Mary in some talk about William’s teething problems, but I sensed his regard continued.

  I picked up Shelley’s book and tried to focus on Rousseau’s novel.

  ‘Signorina Clairmont?’ I heard him say as he reached out his hand. ‘The stone steps must be growing cold. May I assist you to stand?’

  Looking up, I gave him a polite smile. Then, as he helped me to my feet, I noted that an odd expression flitted over his face akin to … curiosity. My mouth tightened. He must have heard gossip about us at de Stael’s. I hated that. It made me feel like some type of trapped, exotic animal in a circus.

  Mentally shrugging off my reaction, I welcomed him in Italian, which instantly caused his face to brighten as he shifted into his native language and explained that he was spending the summer in nearby Coppet to escape the Mediterranean heat.

  ‘You certainly have come to the right place to avoid the sultry Italian climate,’ I pointed out. ‘It has been decidedly cool in Geneva.’ We continued the pleasantries for a few minutes in Italian, and I found myself gradually warming to his open, frank manners, even as he warmed to mine.

  ‘Claire, do not monopolize our guest,’ Byron said in a sharp tone. ‘Especially when he was just about to leave.’

  ‘Are you not staying to dinner?’ I queried, now in English.

  He took a brief, backward glimpse at Byron, then said in Italian, ‘I am afraid that I cannot stay, but perhaps we can chat another time?’

  ‘Si.’ I extended my hand to him. ‘I would like that.’

  He disappeared into the villa with Byron, and I never saw him again.

  It was only much later that evening, when we had all taken refuge indoors again, that Mary asked about di Breme.

  Byron was eagerly surveying a map with Shelley for their proposed sailing trip and did not glance up. ‘Madame de Stael gave him letters of introduction to me. A pleasing-enough young man who, by her account, was once an abbé and, then, abandoned religion for literature; she thought I might offer him some advice about his poetry.’

  ‘And did you?’ I prompted, more puzzled than ever about our recent guest.

  ‘It is hardly worth my time to contemplate since I daresay I shall not encounter him again,’ Byron commented absently, then focused on the map once more. ‘Shelley, we must see the Château de Chillon; it is at the farthest northern point of the lake and, from what I have heard, quite magnificent – if you like old ruins.’

  ‘I have heard the castle once housed François Bonivard – a political prisoner who was chained to a pillar in one of the lower levels for seven long years.’ Mary stood behind them, peering over Shelley’s shoulder. ‘You must sketch the dungeon for me.’

  ‘How could a man endure that type of imprisonment for so long?’ Byron touched the spot on the map where it said Chillon. ‘I would have gone mad.’

  ‘Anyone would have lost his sanity,’ Polidori echoed. He seemed to be interested in their trip, but I could tell from the straight, tight line of his lips that he was annoyed not to be invited to join them.

  ‘Perhaps it is just a legend,’ Shelley said, ‘but we must stop there and see for ourselves. And I want see “Julie’s bower” at Clarens, where she and her lover shared their first kiss in the novel. To tread that ground would be a tribute to Rousseau and all of those who find their soulmate in this harsh reality of ours.’

  ‘Indeed, yes,’ Byron agreed.

  After another hour, they had their route planned, and we celebrated over a glass of wine with our spirits high – even Polidori, who seemed quite congenial.

  Not long afterwards, the thunderstorms rolled in and we were yet again subjected to the most violent rain and wind which set my nerves on edge as the lightning flashed in the windows with explosive intensity. Blindingly bright. Illuminating the room in a weird, distorted glow. Shelley’s face grew more and more agitated with each separate flare, causing us to cluster near the fireplace around him. Once the thunder abated somewhat, he calmed down.

  ‘Perhaps we should read our ghost stories now,’ Byron proposed as he refilled his glass. ‘It seems fitting that we voyage to strange new lands of the imagination on the eve of our actual voyage around the lake.’

  ‘I have not finished my tale,’ Shelley chimed in, ‘but Mary told me this morning that she finally had an idea for her story—’

  ‘No, it was just a fragment,’ she protested.

  ‘We must hear it,’ Polidori exclaimed.

  With a quick appeal for reassurance to Shelley and me, Mary cleared her throat. ‘When I went to sleep a fortnight ago, I had a waking dream and saw a student kneeling beside the form of a creature he had pieced together from various body parts stolen from dead bodies that he had dug up. A hideous phantasm of a man. Then the student worked on a … machine that produced electricity and jolted the creature into showing signs of life. He stirred with an uneasy, half-vital motion … and was alive.’

  A loud clap of thunder exploded outside.

  I dropped my glass and it shattered on the stone floor. Then Shelley began to scream, pointing at Mary, exclaiming that he saw spirits rising from her chest. He dashed out of the room – still shrieking in a high-pitched tone that reverberated throughout the thick walls of the villa. Calling out his name, Mary hastened after him, along with Byron.

  I began to follow them, but Polidori quickly moved to block my exit.

  ‘Please stand aside – I need to attend to Shelley,’ I said in a firm voice, but he did not alter his stance.

  ‘By all means, but you should know that I have guessed your secret.’ His face drew in close to mine. ‘You think to tie Byron to you with his child, but it will only push him away. If I were you, I would rid myself of the burden.’ He paused. ‘Just say the word, and I will provide you with the medical means to do it.’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘You see me as your enemy, but I am not.’ His eyes captured mine and, for a brief moment, I almost believed him. Then I shoved past him and stumbled out of the room.

  As I reached the front entrance hall, I did not know where to turn next.

  Miss Eliza’s Weekly Fashion and Gossip Pamphlet

  June 10, 1816, Geneva

  The Ladies’ Page

  I promised to give all of you an update on the new beau m
onde residents at the Villa Diodati, and here it is, dear readers.

  The rumors are true!

  Lord Byron is presently living at Diodati and has befriended fellow British poet, Percy Bysshe Shelley. The two gentlemen have been spied taking horseback rides through the countryside of Cologny, and they are now rumored to be on an extended sailing trip around Lake Geneva. (Too bad for the curious who have hoped for a glimpse of the handsome young aristocrats.)

  But who are the two young ladies with our fair poets? After some detective work, yours truly has learned their identities: Miss Mary Godwin and her stepsister, Miss Claire Clairmont – both recently from the London home of their father, William Godwin, noted writer and anarchist. Miss Godwin is also rumored to have a child with her, and there is some speculation that the father is none other than Shelley himself.

  Could it be true?

  Remember, ladies, Miss Godwin is also the daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft – an avowed advocate of free love – so it is entirely possible that she is following her mother’s scandalous views. I shall have more news on this tittle-tattle soon …

  Miss Clairmont is traveling as Miss Godwin’s companion.

  FIVE

  Florence, Italy, 1873

  ‘Aunt Claire, can you hear me? Are you all right?’ A disembodied voice drifted through the fog of my own mind and it sounded familiar. As my eyelids fluttered open, I saw the anxious faces of Paula and Raphael hovering above me and, gradually, I became aware that my niece was stroking my forehead with a damp cloth.

  ‘I … I think so.’ Struggling to focus on my surroundings, I noted the familiar crooked crystal chandelier hanging from the frescoed ceiling of my bedroom. I exhaled in relief. Home. In all of its shabby splendor.

  She dipped the cloth in a bowl of water, wrung it out and placed it over my forehead. ‘You fainted at the Basilica di San Lorenzo … Do you remember what happened?’

  My eyes widened as the memories came flooding back.