Claire's Last Secret Page 12

  ‘Do not be embarrassed, Paula,’ I urged. ‘Love is not something that should be hidden or cause one to feel ashamed. I never did and would not ask you to, either.’

  ‘I did not think that I could care for anyone again after Georgiana’s father left us – without even a proposal of marriage or a backward glance. My feelings had turned to stone, but then Raphael came into our lives, and I realized that I had never truly experienced love.’ She paused as a glow lit her delicate face. ‘I suppose even the most hardened heart can melt under the light of true love. Raphael told me he feels the same, so what harm is there in that?’

  ‘None at all – he has proven himself to be loyal in the last few days.’ I now believed in him, although I had had some initial doubts. He would always be there for Paula – a protector. Sadly, that was something I never had in my journey through life. No father and no husband to care for me in the dark times. I was always alone, but that would not be Paula’s fate.

  My glance fell on the book of poetry that I had perused only a day or two before. Yet it felt almost a lifetime ago when my thoughts had absently drifted back to the words that Byron had written about me during the Geneva summer. My poem. My precious poem. More valuable than anything that had been given to me because it immortalized our love and what he had felt for me during that brief time when we shared our lives together.

  So the spirit bows before thee / To listen and adore thee …

  I had been adored; what more was there in life?

  ‘Not to bring up unpleasantness again, but what do you really think about Father Gianni’s murder?’ Paula posed. ‘It could be a coincidence, of course, that he was killed on the morning that you met with him. After all, Italy is a country full of passionate people who often pursue the vendetta – and it can turn deadly. Perhaps one of his parishioners became enraged about a perceived slight and decided to take matters into his own hands.’

  ‘A murderous wrath against Father Gianni?’ I said in disbelief. ‘No – he was incapable of eliciting that kind of emotion. Trust me, he possessed the soul of a truly religious man, and the whole of Florentine society idolized him, including me. It could not have been a crime of anger.’

  ‘Then it was a planned killing,’ she finished for me. ‘Carefully thought out and executed without mercy.’

  Oh, my poor, dear friend.

  ‘An assassin.’ Blinking back the tears, I struggled to find the words to continue. ‘Father Gianni must have possessed some piece of information that put his life at risk, whether it was connected with Allegra or not. He heard many confessions during the course of his life as a parish priest; perhaps a guilty secret had been revealed to him that he should not have known. Yet I feel his death must be connected with Allegra and Mr Rossetti’s visit …’

  ‘As do I.’ Paula squeezed my hand. ‘Shall we have tea? That old blue teapot still has some life in it, I think, and Georgiana should be back shortly.’

  I nodded as a knock at the door caused us to turn our heads simultaneously.

  ‘Ah, that should be her with Maria’s mother.’ Paula headed for the door, and before I could smooth down the folds of my dress, Georgiana skipped into the room carrying her doll and humming under her breath.

  I held out my arms and Georgiana climbed on to my lap. My sweet great-niece. She so reminded me of my own daughter.

  As I cuddled Georgiana in my arms, she began to sing ‘Maria Lavava’ – ‘Mary Busy with the Washing’ – a nursery rhyme that I had taught her by singing it first in Italian, then in English. It was one that I had sung to Mary and Shelley’s children many times during my early years in Italy when I took care of William and then little Percy, who was born in Pisa. I wanted them to know the regional filastrocche – children’s songs so they had a sense of the beauty of the Italian language.

  My memories took a sad turn as I recalled that, after William died and Allegra was lost to me, I had only Percy to teach the traditional Italian songs. A fair-skinned boy with sandy-colored hair, he possessed the sweetest temperament when he was young – so like Shelley himself.

  Stai zitto mio figlio,

  Che adesso ti piglio

  Hush my son, my little one

  In a moment I’ll have done …

  It was Percy’s favorite song … and he sang it over and over.

  My thoughts drifted back to that time when we were living at Le Spezia, a coastal town on the Adriatic Sea, in a mystical, dreamy seaside villa that was the last shared home for Mary, Shelley and me. Unfortunately, those final bittersweet days lasted only a short time before Shelley was drowned at sea, and our little group scattered to the winds as if fate had deliberately chosen to rip apart the thread that tied us together.

  So many years had passed since then and so many people had passed out of my life that it sometimes folded the present into the past, and I felt the shadows creeping around me again – ready to engulf my senses if I did not keep myself rooted in the lives around me. The here and now. Still, the music of Percy’s song never left me.

  Le neve sui monti

  Cadeva dal cielo,

  Maria col suo velo

  Copriva Gesù.

  As snow from the heavens

  Fell over the mountains

  With her mantle of blue

  Mary covered Jesu.

  My voice caught on those last lyrics, even though Georgiana seemed blissfully unware of my reaction. The ‘snow from the heavens’ had a melancholy tinge in spite of being a child’s song, and it made me remember that even a joyous pastime could turn tragic with a blink in time.

  Like Shelley’s death.

  He had been sailing with Edward Williams on his dearly beloved sailboat, the Don Juan, and was swamped in a storm. We knew when they did not return that we would never see them again. But we could do nothing but wait until their bodies washed ashore – which they did ten days later. Both Shelley and Edward had to be cremated instantly on the beach to the south where they lay, a funeral pyre that neither Mary nor I could watch. But the black smoke rose up so high we could see it from our villa – and smell the acrid, sour odor of charred flesh.

  Trelawny had organized the whole thing and, supposedly, reached into the fire to grasp Shelley’s heart for Mary to keep forever.

  I never saw the heart, but Trelawny had repeated the story to me many times.

  That is when the tragedy takes on a mythic shade of eternal loss.

  A poet’s life snuffed out before his time – yet also the loss of a husband, father and friend.

  Georgiana dropped her doll and screeched, jolting me back to the present. Easing her off my lap, I retrieved the doll and gave it back to her. She hugged the little moppet closely and danced off to her room after giving me a hug.

  The sweet joy of youth – I would protect it with my life for as long as the innocence could last.

  Paula strolled back with a tray and set it on the tea table. ‘I hope Georgiana did not wear you out too much after your horrendous morning. You must not overdo it, Aunt. You have experienced a major trauma.’

  ‘I promise to pace myself, but being with Georgiana infuses me with energy. I never feel tired after being in her presence. Never.’ My eye flicked over the blue teapot as Paula poured the steaming, dark liquid into china cups. ‘Indeed, she gives me the courage to take on our meeting with Mr Rossetti.’

  ‘Do you think he will agree to meet us?’ she inquired. ‘Perhaps he will want a more private meeting place, especially if his motives are not honest, though I can scarcely believe he would have anything to do with Father Gianni’s death.’

  ‘Nor I.’ Picking up the cup, I held it up for a few moments in contemplation. ‘Then again, we know little about him. Outwardly, he seemed most interested in my letters from Byron and Shelley, and anxious to see my rightful place in their history restored. In truth, our conversation was pleasant enough until I became upset over having been omitted from Shelley’s latest biography.’ Slowly, I drank my tea. ‘He never caused me to believe h
e had a sinister motive, but men can hide their true natures behind the social niceties.’

  ‘We must be very careful how we proceed, for all of our sakes.’ She briefly looked over her shoulder in the direction of her daughter’s room, and I noted the tremor in her hand as she poured another cup of tea. ‘We must protect Georgiana at all costs.’

  ‘Do not worry, my dear. We will triumph – I promise.’

  After resting in the late afternoon, I had an early dinner and then went to bed just after sunset. Surprisingly, my slumber was deep and restful, and I awakened feeling quite invigorated and ready to take on the day’s adventure. I had half expected to be haunted by nightmares of Father Gianni’s sad final moments, but that did not happen. Instead, I had only sweet dreams of Allegra running toward me, laughing and holding out her arms.

  And I was not the only member of the household energized by a good night’s sleep.

  By the time I completed my toilette, Raphael had already called for my carriage driver of the previous day and Paula had taken Georgiana to her friend Maria’s house once more. Then the three of us set off for the Uffizi Gallery an hour before we were due to meet Mr Rossetti. Although we spoke little, I sensed that both of them felt the same combination of fear and excitement that had stirred inside of me. My world had changed from the boring dreariness of living in genteel poverty to the anxious hope of grasping for a lost dream. I accepted all of it gladly, since it meant I would finally know the truth about Allegra’s fate.

  And now I also wanted to know who had killed Father Gianni.

  Glancing up, I said a brief prayer for my old friend as the sun beamed down with a hot, bright intensity. I did not know how the day would end – I could only hope for some type of reckoning that would bring the truth to light.

  I felt a soft hand on my arm.

  ‘Aunt, we have arrived,’ Paula said gently. ‘Are you certain that you want to go inside? Raphael and I can do this alone—’

  ‘Nonsense. I am perfectly capable of doing what needs to be done.’ My chin went up in stubborn refusal to give in to any weakness. ‘I have traveled half the world on my own; I can handle one Englishman in a public setting.’

  Paula laughed and gave me a quick pat. ‘I forgot whose presence I am in today – you are not the type of woman to ever give in, and I love you for that.’

  I kissed her cheek. ‘Let us go inside then.’

  Raphael helped us both out of the carriage and we stood there for a moment, admiring the beauty of the building before us. I had strolled through the gallery countless times during my life in Florence, and it always took my breath away when I beheld the long, narrow courtyard lined by rows of columns that stretched toward the Doric screen, and then the Arno River behind it. Symmetry and beauty. A sixteenth-century monument to both the practicality of politics (it originally housed Florentine magistrates) and the wealth of the Medici family. Many far-reaching laws had been decided within the Uffizi walls, ones that affected the lives of people who lived here.

  Now it was known for its magnificent gallery, which contained the extraordinary genius of the many artists who had walked these streets. The stunning altarpieces of Giotto, painted with all the religious reverence of his soul. The elegant Madonnas of Filippo Lippi. And the mythological allegories of Botticelli. I knew them all so well.

  But I chose to meet Mr Rossetti near Titian’s Venus of Urbino – the sensual, vivid odalisque that had charmed me in my youth. It was one of Shelley’s favorite paintings because he always said it celebrated the beauty of the female body in a pagan manner. Venus lying on the soft chaise, her gaze direct and sensual, ready for surrender yet demanding respect for her sexual power. A woman for the ages.

  Pondering my choice, I could not resist an inward smile as we made our way up the stairs to the second floor of the gallery. Venus, indeed.

  We strolled down the corridor, lined with artwork and magnificent Roman statues, passing the occasional tourist who appeared to be transfixed by a particular painting. No one spoke very loudly in the presence of such visual brilliance, but I still caught the occasional comment in English about a ‘stunning brushstroke’ or ‘shadow and light’ – in homage to the artists who created such beauty.

  Reaching room twenty-eight, we peered inside and found the space empty of tourists – and of Mr Rossetti. Perfect. Paula and I could position ourselves in front of the Titian painting and send Raphael back down to fetch the driver. We could engage Mr Rossetti in conversation, and then let the driver identify him (or not) as the man who had carried me out of the church yesterday.

  That was our plan.

  It could not fail.

  Once Paula and I moved to the far end of the room, near the Venus painting, we told Raphael to bring up the driver in half an hour. His young face grew tight with worry, but Paula urged him on, whispering, ‘You must do this – for me.’

  He nodded, then left, with a last glance at us before he disappeared.

  ‘Are you ready?’ she asked me.

  ‘Yes.’ Clutching my purse to keep my hands from trembling, I would not allow my niece to see my anxiety. ‘It is nearly ten o’clock. If Mr Rossetti is on time, we will have to engage him in conversation until Raphael comes back with the driver.’

  ‘That should not be a problem, considering the beautiful art that surrounds us.’ She swept a hand across the room, ending with the Venus. ‘Your choice of this painting was deliberate, I assume?’

  I glanced up again at the sensual depiction of femininity and smiled. ‘Of course. We will have the advantage in our deliberations with Mr Rossetti since he cannot help but be somewhat distracted by Titian’s … artistic skill in depicting the female form.’

  We both laughed, but it had a high-pitched, nervous sound even to my own ears.

  The nearby church bells rang out, and I realized the hour had come. I would know the real reason for Mr Rossetti’s visit. Glancing at the doorway, I could feel my heart beating against my chest and, for a moment, I had a mad desire to run from the room. I longed to know why he had come to Florence, but I also could not bear to hear that it was not connected to Allegra at all. Only a mother’s unlikely fantasy.

  Just then, Mr Rossetti strolled into the room, and I reached for Paula’s hand. She gave my fingers a squeeze of encouragement, and I took in a deep breath.

  He approached us with a few quick, easy strides and a friendly greeting. ‘I am delighted that you consented to see me again, Miss Clairmont.’ He gave a brief bow. ‘I must apologize again for upsetting you during our first meeting; it was certainly not my intention. Your ankle is much better, then?’

  ‘Yes, thank you for asking.’ With a critical eye, I watched him carefully as Paula chatted with him about the beauties of the gallery. Certainly, his first impression appeared confirmed: a pleasant, typical British tourist. Impeccable black coat and trousers with a carefully tied cravat. Neatly combed hair and trimmed beard. Relaxed demeanor.

  Nothing about him bespoke anything but the most open intentions.

  I listened intently as their discussion switched to the paintings, especially the lovely Titian behind us. More pleasantries and, surprisingly, he did not seem unduly diverted by the Venus. All of a sudden, it felt as if the room was shrinking inward, the walls closing in on the three of us … the paintings murmuring secrets from the past.

  ‘Miss Clairmont?’ he was saying.

  ‘Pardon me, I was lost in thought – the infirmities of old age.’ I pulled a small fan out of my purse and opened it, fanning my face. ‘I tire more easily, even in the presence of such masterpieces.’

  ‘It is my fault – I should not have kept you standing this long.’ He ushered me to a small bench, and I eased on to the seat with a sigh of relief. Unfortunately, our plans for the encounter with Mr Rossetti this morning had not taken my aging bones into account. Or the time it would take for Raphael to return with the carriage driver.

  ‘I am happy to continue our chat from this lovely bench.’ I patted th
e space next to me, and he seated himself on the bench. Paula remained standing nearby, keeping a watchful eye on the door for Raphael. She appeared calm, but I noted her flushed cheeks and the slight tremor in her hands, mirrored by my own. I managed to continue in a quiet tone, ‘The Titian Venus was one of Shelley’s favorite paintings; he was most inspired by the beauties of art – especially those that depicted ancient myths.’

  ‘Ah, yes. His reputation as a scholar of antiquities has certainly become widely known from the latest biographies …’ He halted awkwardly, no doubt realizing that he had moved on to the subject that had thrown me into such distress the last time we met. ‘I … uh … did not mean to broach the subject again—’

  ‘There is no need to be so tentative, Mr Rossetti. In spite of my age, I am not such a frail flower that I cannot hear the truth,’ I assured him. ‘In the last few days, I have come to accept that I am gradually being relegated to a bit player in the dramas of my youth. Biographers worship the famous and snub the obscure. That is the way of the world, is it not? But that in no way alters my financial situation. I need to sell my letters, and you want to buy them. So we are bonded by mutual need.’

  He gave a slight inclination of his head. ‘Miss Clairmont, you amaze me with your openness and honesty. I cannot imagine there is another woman alive who has such a direct manner.’

  ‘Well, I suppose there are few women who have achieved the seventh decade of life at all. Once women no longer resemble the deliciously decadent Venus, we must take on other qualities that make us … fascinating. Besides, there is nothing unfeminine about plain money talk.’

  ‘You have my attention,’ he said, glancing up at the Venus. As he did so, I locked eyes with Paula, who gave a slight grimace as she pointed at the door.

  ‘Since we seem to understand each other, Mr Rossetti, shall we move on to business?’ I prompted, still fanning myself.

  ‘Indeed.’ He turned slightly, so that he faced me, still seated on the bench. ‘As I stated a few days ago, I am interested in any letters that Shelley or Byron wrote to you as part of the research for the Shelley biography that I am currently writing. I can pay handsomely for the letters – and I promise to avoid any … delicate subjects, shall I say?’