A Shadowed Fate Read online

  ‘No … it must have been just a dead limb that fell when we were passing underneath – nothing else.’ He placed a hand at the small of my back and nudged me forward. ‘But aside from that, there is no point in lingering here since wild animals come out at dusk and I have no firearm with me.’

  Only somewhat relieved, I did not need a second warning to hurry back to the Palazzo Fiori. The Italian animal world could be threatening, especially at night, with all types of creatures. Wild cats. Foxes. Even wild boars. Once we arrived, Trelawny escorted me to my room, taking his leave until dinner that evening. He did not seem too alarmed about the incident, but I could tell that he had not dismissed it either.

  I locked the door behind me, lit a gas lamp, and sat on the bed, staring uneasily at the decorations in my chamber: pretty silk curtains and lace doilies. A lady’s room. And yet somehow disquieting. I had wanted an adventure, but it appeared that I had, in fact, taken on much more. This journey had taken a distinct turn into the unknown … maybe even peril – all stemming from my search to know Allegra’s fate and what happened in Ravenna so long ago.

  I reached for my spectacles once more.

  Palazzo Guiccioli, Ravenna, Italy

  December 8, 1820

  Danger was all around the city.

  I could breathe it in the streets where people gathered in small groups, murmuring about revolution.

  The soldier who was shot outside the palazzo last night died in my arms.

  Tita and I had carried him inside, but I realized that it was pointless to call a doctor. He had taken two bullets to the chest. All we could do was cover him with a blanket and try to make him comfortable.

  As he lay dying in my study, I learned his name and identity: Luigi dal Pinto – the young Austrian military commandant of Ravenna. My servants grew nervous at his revelation, but I assured them that we were not in danger. Later, I told Tita to remove the rifles to a safe place outside Ravenna and post a watch along the Via Cavour. Luigi’s death had been a brutal assassination, and his family would want revenge.

  Fortunately, Teresa was staying with her father, Count Gamba, at their country estate.

  I could not say for certain that the Carbonari were responsible for the commandant’s murder, but I had my suspicions.

  The first death – on my doorstep.

  I believed in the necessity of the coming rebellion and yet, as I watched Luigi’s last gasp, I felt the weight of his violent end because he was young and scared to die. The sad reality of revolt. It would be first of many, no doubt – I understood that. But I could still mourn that some men had to die for others to be free.

  La rivoluzione.

  By afternoon, the soldiers came to remove his body and they searched the palazzo in grim-faced silence, questioning my servants with careful, pointed queries. They asked few questions of me since I was an English lord and a visitor in their country, but I knew they watched my movements because Teresa’s brother and father were known insurgents. And I had seen the posters labeling me a traitor. As the polizia inspected the palazzo, room by room, they encountered my mastiff, two cats, a hawk, and my tame crow. Smiling as I overheard them grumble, molto pazzo, I realized that my reputation as a mad Englishman worked to my advantage. An eccentric foreign poet could hardly be suspected of plotting with the Carbonari.

  After they departed, I spent the rest of the day writing letters, then ordered my carriage and instructed Tita to keep Allegra close to him until I returned. I had to see Teresa to know she was safe. He told me that three men had been stabbed in separate incidents around the city only an hour ago – and all of them had died.

  I vowed to remain alert.

  Reluctantly, he brought my greatcoat and pistols, urging caution since the public’s anger had reached a fever pitch over the murder, and my carriage – a reproduction of Napoleon’s – was instantly recognizable.

  Even my driver, Guido, kept a pistol by his side.

  As we traveled through the streets of Ravenna in the early evening, it had turned eerily quiet. The snow had melted after a sirocco blew in from the south today, causing the weather to shift into light mist mixed with African red sand – locals called it ‘blood rain’ and said it was a sign of dark times ahead.

  Once my carriage exited through the city’s centro, the tension lifted slightly as we drove through the umbrella pine forest that stretched south to Filetto. I inhaled the pungent, heady scent of the towering trees that reminded me of the thick woods around Newstead Abbey – my ancestral estate in Nottinghamshire. My home. It was barely habitable when I inherited the place, a run-down ruin of its former glory, but I still remembered it fondly and grieved that I would never see it again.

  I had accepted that fate when I left Venice and had to choose between returning to England or joining Teresa and her family here.

  I chose Ravenna.

  As the carriage drew up to Count Gamba’s country home – a three-storied Baroque-style villa – Teresa’s brother, Pietro, rushed out of the entrance to inform me that the Austrian government meant to strike back after the commandant’s murder: the cardinal had issued arrest warrants for any suspected Carbonari involved in the shooting, including Pietro.

  He admitted to being involved.

  Then he asked me what could be done if they came tonight to arrest him. I handed him one of my pistols and told him I would ready my turba. ‘We must fight – defend ourselves as long as possible. There is no other way now that the die has been cast.’

  Nodding, he shoved the pistol inside his coat.

  We made a quick plan for an escape route should we be overrun and then joined Teresa and her father inside. She sat playing at the pianoforte while Count Gamba read a copy of Machiavelli’s The Prince. A blazing fire warmed the room, casting a golden light around the richly appointed parlor. When I entered, she stopped mid-note and smiled for me alone. The Count greeted me with his usual kind pleasantries, and she kissed both my cheeks in love and affection. It was almost as if they were the family I never had. My own mother had disliked me because of my club foot; my father, ‘Mad Jack’ Byron, deserted us when I was an infant. I had no one.

  But now I did.

  With Teresa present, we did not speak of the commandant’s assassination or the murderous aftermath, but I noted that the count’s glance flicked between the mantle clock and Pietro, keeping track as the minutes ticked by. When the polizia did not appear, we shared a light supper and the Gambas left me alone with Teresa for an hour while they checked on the horses; she and I made love and promised each other eternal loyalty.

  At eleven p.m., we heard a loud pounding on the front door, and I reached for my pistol as the Count and Pietro hurried in, both with weapons in hand. Sensing danger, Teresa blew out the candles and we stood in the firelight, ready for what would come. The parlor door slowly creaked open, and one of the servants poked his head in and said in Italian, ‘There was no arrest order for Count Pietro – he is safe for the time being.’

  Teresa gave an exclamation of joy as she embraced her brother. We lit the candles and poured some wine. All was well – at least for now – but the Gambas decided to remain at their country estate outside Ravenna; it was too dangerous to return.

  I took my leave at midnight.

  As my carriage moved through the forest on the way back to Ravenna, a damp, hard freeze took hold, turning the road icy and perilous. At one point, when the wheels slipped on an outcropping of stone, Guido asked whether we should turn back, but I told him to journey on – I could not leave Allegra alone with only Tita at the palazzo any longer.

  Even though I kept the glass window closed tightly, I felt the biting cold of the wind through the thin carriage walls. A frigid chill that seeped into my bones. Hunching deeper into my coat’s high collar to stay warm, I felt my club foot begin to ache as the temperature dropped lower.

  To distract myself, I began to chant an Albanian war song that I had learned on my Grand Tour fresh out of Cambridge. Later, I sang i
t quite often, especially during that Geneva summer of 1816 – so much so that Shelley and Mary bestowed the moniker Albe on me. They still referred to me by that nickname in their letters. Albe.

  I liked it.

  Then, the carriage halted, and I opened the window to inquire as to why we had stopped.

  ‘My lord, please lower your voice,’ Guido urged in a low tone. ‘Your song was molto rumorosa and could be heard all around. There are government spies everywhere who may be waiting for a chance to strike while you are isolated and alone outside of the city.’

  ‘Scusi.’

  I closed the window and he moved forward again.

  As we approached the Porta Adriana gateway where I had first entered Ravenna last Christmas, the clouds cleared and a bright half-moon appeared. A bit of good fortune since the light would make it difficult to hide the Austrians’ movements in the city.

  All at once, a cracking sound pierced the air and something thumped against the side of the carriage. I realized that a bullet had hit the door. Another shot rang out, and Guido tipped over, hitting the ground with a thud. Reaching for my firearm, a bullet shattered the window, and I crouched down.

  I was under attack.

  FIVE

  ‘What is there wanting then to set thee free,

  And show thy beauty in its fullest light?’

  The Prophecy of Dante, II, 142–143

  Bagni di Lucca, Italy

  July 1873

  A loud pounding sound echoed inside my mind, forceful and relentless. It halted, then began once more with even greater insistence. Struggling to awareness, I could not tell if I was hearing my own heartbeat or if it was some unknown knocking outside my own psyche.

  Go away – I want to sleep.

  More hammering.

  Groaning, I reluctantly opened my eyes to warm sunlight streaming through the window and across my bed. I had slept through supper and the rest of the evening. Sitting up, I realized that I still wore my spectacles and the white dress from the previous evening. Byron’s confessione lay at my side. How could I have fallen asleep while reading about his encounter with a would-be assassin in the woods of Filetto? The danger and intrigue had been riveting, but I suppose fatigue from the long journey to Bagni di Lucca had overcome me. I was fully awake now, though. Reaching quickly for the memoir, I flipped through page after page to find the point where I had stopped reading – but was interrupted by the knocking again.

  ‘Aunt Claire! Are you awake?’ Paula exclaimed from outside.

  ‘Just a moment, please,’ I called out. I skimmed over his writing as I tried to find the passage when he encountered the shooter, but stopped abruptly at the section when he and Teresa shared an interlude at the Villa Gamba. Slamming the memoir shut, I tossed it on to the bed. Damn him anyway.

  I rose and moved toward the door, taking a few calming breaths before I let Paula in. When I saw her face, drawn tight with worry, I instantly regretted my slow response. ‘I am so sorry, my dear. I did not hear your knocking at the door. All I can say is yesterday’s travel wore me down more than I knew, and I was still in a deep slumber.’ Offering an apologetic smile, I then asked about Georgiana’s cold.

  ‘I took her to the terme last night, and she is much improved – no lingering fever at all.’ Paula’s frown lessened. ‘Trelawny told us not to disturb you, so we dined early and turned in, but I was growing worried.’

  ‘I shall be down directly.’

  ‘There is no need to hurry. Trelawny said the carriage has a broken wheel, which he is having repaired, and we are not likely to leave until noon. He thought we might visit the grotto with Georgiana in the meantime to let the steam clear the last of the infection from her lungs.’

  The Grotto Paolina – named after Napoleon’s sister.

  I remembered it well.

  ‘Do you think it would help her?’ Paula queried.

  Nodding, I assured her that it would be a perfect treatment for Georgiana. ‘We can walk there since it is in the same resort as the terme – just tucked away on its lowest level.’

  ‘Splendid.’ She gave me a brief hug and left.

  I closed the door and leaned my forehead against the jamb. I had not planned to visit the Grotto Paolina – though I wanted to make peace with this part of my life. Too many emotional connections. It was the cave where Mary and I spent many an afternoon enjoying the hot steam – and the place where I saw Mary’s daughter, Clara, for the last time before she died of influenza in Venice. The loss of the child always casts a shadow over even the brightest of days – not always visible, but always there, nonetheless.

  Then again, perhaps seeing Georgiana in the grotto would bring the focus on to her sweet buoyancy.

  A new memory in this time and place.

  Locals said the Grotto Paolina’s heat came from a volcano that existed underneath the cave, but I never quite believed that explanation. Still, who could say? Certainly, the thought of fire and lava just waiting to erupt made for a good story to attract tourists – and distract me from my own tense situation.

  Raising my head, I glanced over at the bed where Byron’s memoir lay, gauging whether I had time to read a few more pages about the assassin in the woods. But I knew better. It would have to wait.

  I slipped on a fresh cotton dress, completed a hasty toilette, and reached the dining room with scant time to spare for more than a few nibbles of bread and a cup of tea before Paula appeared. Georgiana trailed in her wake with slow steps and a sleepy-eyed silence. When she saw me, she perked up and quickened her gait.

  She reached for my hand eagerly. ‘Mama said we are going somewhere special today.’

  Leaning down, I kissed her forehead, happily noting that her temperature seemed normal again. ‘Yes … a grotto.’

  She looked up at me with a puzzled expression as I straightened again.

  ‘It is a very old cave where people have gone for centuries to feel better – you will see, trust me.’ I squeezed her fingers. ‘It will bring the bloom back into your cheeks, my dear, and a lively spark into your spirits—’

  ‘No! I can barely keep up with her now,’ Paula cut in with mock alarm.

  Laughing, we drew Georgiana out of the dining room and through the busy lobby toward the front entrance. ‘Is Raphael going to join us?’ I asked as we emerged into the cool morning air.

  ‘No, he is helping Trelawny.’

  ‘Then we shall enjoy this glorious moment together – just the three of us,’ I said, feeling a surge of contentment in the company of the two people I loved most in the world. The shadows already felt as if they were fading as we strolled along the very public pathway – perfectly safe. I answered Georgiana’s many questions about the grotto – she was particularly curious about the volcano folk legend – and assured her that it was safe.

  Walking under a brick archway, we halted in front of the terme resort that had been Paolina Buonaparte’s vision – a large, rambling building that stood perched on the side of the mountain above the Val di Lima. With stately, classic lines, the fashionable health spa had been built around the simple structure used during Roman times. No ornate pillars or opulent gilt trim – just clean, elegant angles designed to merge with the beech trees and blackberry bushes that surrounded the grounds.

  Once we entered, a young woman greeted us with a smile, showed us where to change into thin chemises, then led us down several levels to the Grotto Paolina. Once we entered the small cave, the hot steam enveloped us with a heavy, moist feel to the air. A smallish space, the cave’s walls were not much more than the width of a carriage, with rocky outcroppings jutting in from the sides. But the base had seats carved from stone, and we huddled together, breathing in deeply.

  I sat in this very spot almost five decades ago.

  Oddly, nothing had really changed.

  The grotto had been here for centuries, and although visitors changed with each generation, the cave remained exactly how I remembered it – except that those who had been with me
were no longer here. Was that not the irony of human thought? We believed so strongly in our own power, but the earth paid us little heed beyond allowing us a temporary stay. Dictators and dreamers had stopped here, but time was the great equalizer of all ambition, keeping the world turning beyond one man’s dream.

  ‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings;

  Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’

  Nothing beside remains.

  Shelley had written those lines about the vanity of a pharaoh, and they were no less true today. But as I glanced around the grotto, something of the past still lingered – perhaps only in my own mind, but I could see Mary and her daughter, Clara, as if they were in the very places where Paula and Georgiana now sat. Mother and daughter. Fair-haired and full of love. So dear to me.

  ‘Aunt Claire, is the heat too strong?’ Paula asked as she dabbed at Georgiana’s face with a towel.

  Shaking my head, I pushed the images of those long gone out of my mind and focused on my niece’s sweet face. ‘Actually, I find it quite comfortable since I have grown more sensitive to the cold from my years in Italy. But being in the grotto has caused some old memories to come back, things that I have not thought of in many years. I suppose some part of me wanted to recall them when I urged Trelawny to stop at Bagni di Lucca, but all the old conflicts and rivalries seem undiminished – and still as painful. No matter how many times I recollect the events, I cannot undo what happened to Mary’s daughter. I was partly to blame …’ My voice trailed off into a whisper. I did not need to say more since I had told Paula many times about Clara’s death in Venice.

  ‘You could not have known that Clara would sicken on the trip,’ Paula said as she stroked Georgiana’s hair. ‘Age and wisdom can transform us, but we cannot possess those qualities when young. We have to learn from the lessons of life.’

  ‘Indeed.’ I leaned my head back against the stony wall. ‘You have become quite philosophical.’

  ‘It must be the steam – it has expanded my lungs and my mind.’