Claire's Last Secret Page 13

  ‘I have nothing to hide; then again, I do not wish to expose Paula and her daughter to any censure over my youthful indiscretions.’ Choosing my words carefully, I did not want to give Mr Rossetti any reason to think I was not being absolutely honest in my dealings with him. ‘Very few people outside of our intimate circle know about … my daughter, Allegra.’

  His expression remained unchanged – polite and bland. ‘I had heard that you had a child with Byron, but I see no reason to include that fact in my biography, should you prefer to omit it.’

  ‘I am most grateful because, as you may or may not know, Allegra died at the Convent of Bagnacavallo when she was quite young – and, though I rarely spoke of her, I do not wish for her memory to be sullied in any way whatsoever.’

  ‘I agree wholeheartedly.’

  Would he have this reaction if he had placed the note about Allegra under my teacup? Was he so impressive an actor? Or was he truly here simply to purchase the letters?

  ‘You realize that losing a daughter was the great tragedy of my life?’ I prompted, sensing Paula move to stand behind me. A sense of comfort flooded through me at my niece’s lovely gesture; I never needed to worry about her not accepting any aspect of my life. She had much of my brother Charles’s strength of character.

  ‘I can only imagine, Miss Clairmont,’ he said. ‘I do not personally have any children, nor do my brother or sisters. Sadly, we are all childless – much to our parents’ dismay. But I can imagine how you must have mourned the loss of your daughter.’

  Noting that Paula had begun tapping her toe on the wood floor with a tense and jittery staccato, I kept babbling away about the heartache of losing a child. Mr Rossetti simply nodded and said nothing. As the minutes passed, I became more and more convinced that he knew nothing about the Allegra note, which meant he was unlikely to have any connection to Father Gianni’s death.

  But I was determined to keep chattering until Raphael finally returned with the driver.

  Mr Rossetti raised his hand. ‘Miss Clairmont, if I may be so rude as to interrupt, I have something to show you before we discuss our transaction.’

  I raised my brows expectantly.

  Just then a group of Italian children ran into the room, followed by their young teacher who kept shouting, ‘Aspetta! Aspetta!’

  They ignored her and swarmed around the room like flitting birds – chattering in Italian and shrieking with delight, and they jumped up and down on another bench. The teacher clapped a hand against her forehead, and then brushed back a lock of thick, dark hair from her face.

  I tried to focus on Mr Rossetti’s words, but he was drowned out by the loud, boisterous children.

  ‘Could you speak up, please?’ I urged him, but I caught only bits of his conversation: words like ‘family’ and ‘legacy’ and ‘painting.’ My jaw clenched in frustration but, if anything, the children’s screeching grew louder.

  Standing up, I shouted, ‘Stai zitto!’

  They instantly quieted, staring at me in tearful shock.

  At that moment, Raphael appeared in the doorway with the carriage driver, who immediately pointed at Mr Rossetti and exclaimed in Italian, ‘It is him. He is the one who carried the old woman out of the cathedral.’

  I gasped.

  Old woman?

  Everyone in the room (including the children) turned to Mr Rossetti, whose face had begun to turn various shades of red.

  ‘Is that true?’ I queried. ‘Did you follow me into the Basilica di San Lorenzo yesterday?’

  He stared at the floor. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’ The word caught in my throat as Raphael rushed to our side, dragging the driver along with him. ‘I would like an explanation, please.’

  ‘We all would,’ Paula added.

  Sighing, Mr Rossetti looked up again. ‘I have been trying to tell you that I came here not only to buy your letters but also to convey something else that I discovered only recently in the papers of my deceased uncle, John Polidori.’

  ‘John Polidori was your … uncle?’ My legs gave out, and I sank back on to the bench, dropping my fan to the floor.

  Mr Rossetti retrieved it. ‘I thought Trelawny told you in his letter.’

  ‘He did not.’ Dazed, I took the fan from him.

  ‘I cannot think why he held that piece of information from you since I made no attempt to hide it from him. I would never have been so interested in writing Shelley’s biography were it not for my uncle’s association with him – and Byron.’ He paused, blinking rapidly. ‘I am somewhat dismayed at this turn of events.’

  ‘As am I, sir.’

  That past had truly come back to haunt me – and in a way that I’d never expected.

  Polidori.

  Captain Parker’s Log

  April 10, 1815

  Bima, on the island of Sumbawa (forty miles east of Mount Tambora)

  We docked the Fortuna in Sape – a port on the eastern side of Sumbawa – late this afternoon, a hot and sticky day that caused our breathing to turn heavy and labored as my men and I handled the rigging. After reassuring my nervous crew, I went ashore alone to obtain provisions before we set sail for the west side of the island tomorrow morning. Unlike our usual shore excursions, this one had my men preferring to remain at dock, tending to the ship. In truth, they had been uneasy for the last two days, knowing that we were setting out for Tambora. I had heard their murmuring on deck, which would abruptly cease the moment I approached. Then once I had passed them by, the low voices would begin mumbling the same phrase again and again:

  Mountain of Fire.

  Mountain of Fire.

  It sounded almost like a chant – or a prayer for God’s protection.

  I cannot say that I blamed my crew for their caution. Even though the volcano explosion had taken place days ago, the air still had a dank, oppressive feel. Even worse, the acrid smell that permeated the air grew stronger and stronger as we drew closer to Tambora. None of us spoke of the odor, but we all knew what it meant. The Mountain of Fire had spewed its flames into the atmosphere, perhaps even burned all life around it. There was little I could do to assuage my crew’s fears – just keep them focused on the task of trimming the sails and keeping the rudder on a steady course.

  Once we had arrived at Sape and the Fortuna was safely docked, they calmed slightly, and I went ashore to purchase supplies from a British quartermaster named Mr Kincaid who lived in nearby Bima. Making my way to his office, which was perched on a hill above the small town, I sweated and cursed for most of the climb. Rural and sparsely populated, the mountainous land around Bima held an eerily quiet feeling, as if it were waiting for the next move of nature’s chess game, though the Tambora eruptions had passed. We were all pawns, I supposed, in the face of the awesome power of the Mountain of Fire, but I was determined to stock my ship and set sail again – survivors’ lives could be at stake.

  Once I met Mr Kincaid, I found him to be a most congenial quartermaster and host. Young and energetic, he quickly arranged for my ship’s provisions and confirmed that Mount Tambora had erupted five days ago but, apparently, caused little destruction or loss of life on the east end of the island. No one had received word from the western shore, but he felt most of the villagers had time to escape the volcano’s fury. A minor hope stirred.

  After I sent word to my first mate that we would leave at dawn, Kincaid invited me to join him for dinner. I found the prospect of a meal on terra firma held a huge appeal for me after the weeks aboard ship, partaking of only the most basic foods, and he did not disappoint me.

  In his two-storied home near the supply office, he and his charming wife set a table of local fish, fresh vegetables and tropical fruits that included mangos and papaya – sweet and ripe. I ate my fill and more – enjoying the pretty features of my hostess and witty conversation of my host. It felt so civilized after the months on the Fortuna. Over post-dinner port, we all moved on to the wide veranda and gazed out over the town below in the twilight. Small ho
uses with thatched roofs dotted along the coastline, tiny dwellings adorned with thick patches of palm trees. Beyond that point, the sea barely stirred a gentle swell along the surf.

  All quiet.

  It began to drizzle and we moved under the awning, still chattering away most happily, until I noted the raindrops seemed more like tiny pebbles. Not ash, but stone. Kneeling down, I picked up a small piece of rock and frowned when I realized it was made of pumice.

  Then I heard a deafening roar like a blast of mortar fire, booming with a monstrous thunder from the west. The house shuddered violently as if the ground were shifting underneath, and the large multi-paned windows rattled.

  ‘Get inside – now!’ Kincaid shouted as his wife cried out in fear and covered her ears.

  Another blast cracked out, even louder, and I could hear screaming from the residents in Bima below as the pumice stones rained down – harder and thicker. A hail of rocks and fury. The sky darkened abruptly, turning from gray to black in seconds. More blasts followed in rapid succession … booming with a deafening roar.

  For a moment, I felt paralyzed by my fearful thoughts. Pulse racing, throat tight … I was fixed to the spot.

  Then Kincaid shouted my name and urged me inside again.

  Shaking off the panic, I followed Kincaid and his wife inside the house, feeling the floor tremble under my steps. The three of us positioned ourselves next to the interior stairway as we held on tightly to the rail. Mrs Kincaid wept silently as she leaned into her husband, who circled his arms around her in a protective embrace.

  ‘Tambora is erupting again,’ Kincaid said in grim voice as pictures that had hung on the wall shattered on to the floor.

  My ship – I needed to get to the Fortuna and see to my crew, as well as the cargo. I could not lose everything after we had come this far.

  My men depended on me.

  SIX

  Castle Chillon, Montreux, on Lake Geneva, Switzerland, June 1816

  I could not resist the lure of Castle Chillon.

  As Byron and Shelley planned their sailing trip around Lake Geneva – a literary pilgrimage to Rousseau’s novel Julie – Mary and I initially thought we would be invited to accompany them. But it rapidly became clear that the men wanted to take this expedition alone. We loved sailing just as much as they did, with the feel of the wind against our backs as we mastered the challenge of a starboard tack. So why not ask us as well?

  Silly of me, but I was jealous.

  Not over the loss of Byron’s presence; I had gradually come to accept that our relationship might not have the permanence that I had once sought so passionately. I coveted the adventure. Why should we not enjoy the beauties of the lake simply because we were women? And our exclusion was not because of my ‘delicate condition,’ since neither Mary nor – surprisingly – Polidori had revealed my pregnancy to the other members of our circle. If truth be known, it seemed as if the poets wanted to experience this trip without having to bother with ‘female vanities,’ as Byron termed it.

  Maddening.

  Undeniably brilliant, Byron could also be annoyingly conventional in some of his views regarding women.

  Of course, Mary accepted this fact with her usual grace and equanimity, but I was not so agreeable. I wanted to see the eastern part of the lake – especially the magnificence of Chillon, a medieval fortress that stood on a flat rock, its towers and battlements extending out over the water, almost as if it were floating on the surface. An island of rock and power. It had stood guard over the lake for centuries, and I wanted to see it for myself and imagine the memories of wars and lost generations that had seeped into the stones and settled into dust during the long years as time passed. And I wanted to share it with Byron before he slipped away from me, which was beginning to feel inevitable, in spite of our unborn child.

  I realized that if I made the land passage to Chillon, they would have no choice but to let me accompany them in the sailboat for the return trip. It would be worth it to risk the overland journey around the lake – and the prospect of Byron’s anger – just to have those few magic days of sailing along the lake with the men whom I most admired and loved. It might only last as long as a whisper in the wind, but I would make that moment last a lifetime.

  I told Mary that I was going to stay with a friend in Geneva for a few days and engaged passage on a public conveyance to take me around the eastern side of the lake, along the road to Montreux. Byron and Shelley had planned to be there by the end of the week, so I had time to make my overland journey, which I calculated would take two days. A simple plan for a woman with the courage to follow her heart.

  Mary accepted my proposed trip into Geneva without question because William was, once again, ailing and she was most concerned about her son’s frail health. Polidori had left us for a brief visit with Madame de Stael in Coppet (a most welcome absence), so I did not have to confront his razor-sharp curiosity about my movements.

  All of fate seemed to align positively for my journey, and I could not have been happier when I set out.

  Unfortunately, it proved to be an arduous trip. I had not counted on the rough, brutal nature of the lakeside road. It jarred every bone in my body and caused my back to ache as I absorbed the impact of the rocking carriage. There were but three of us in the vehicle – an older Swiss couple and me – and we all held on to the seats with white-knuckled grips for hours upon hours. A gentle, misting rain followed us like a shadow, cold and dreary. But I refused to turn back. When we finally drew near Lausanne, we discovered that a massive shower the night before had washed out a large section of the road, and we had to walk half a mile as the carriage went around on an alternate route that proved to be too rough for passengers.

  It had turned dark by the time we reached Lausanne – a tiny hamlet at the northernmost part of the lake. But I was so enchanted with the rolling hills and miles of vineyards that I felt somewhat restored by dinnertime at a modest hostelry, even so far as to enjoy a pleasant meal with the couple who shared my carriage. Peter and Marianne – middle-aged Swiss residents who peppered their conversation by interrupting each other good-naturedly – were heading back to their home in Zurich after a jaunt to see their daughter and grandchildren in Geneva, and we all toasted our triumph at reaching the halfway point to Chillon without a broken bone.

  After they retired, slowly moving up the stairs, hand in hand, I felt a tiny sting of sadness. Would I ever have a loving husband who looked at me the way Peter gazed at his wife? Or was I doomed to forever be struggling alone?

  I did not dare answer that question as I looked down at the slight swell in my abdomen.

  The next day, we received a lucky break in the weather and were able to cover the distance to Montreux by early evening. The driver left me at a modest lodging near the shore of Lake Geneva, and I bid my travel companions farewell as they continued on to Zurich.

  As I trudged toward the hotel entrance, carrying my own small bag, I took in the smattering of small houses along the lake and the slightly dilapidated appearance of the public house with its crooked shutters and chipped paint: the Hotel Montreux. It was the best that I could afford, even though the town boasted only one other place to stay, from what my fellow travelers had told me. Shelley often referred to villages around the lake as ‘wretched spots,’ which seemed a bit too strong, although the poverty of this area was in contrast to the relative wealth of Geneva.

  After checking in, I retreated immediately to my room, partaking of a light supper of bread and butter, then dressing for bed. The room had a slightly shabby look that matched the hotel’s exterior, but a large window overlooked the lake, and I could vaguely make out the shoreline in the growing dark. For a few brief moments, I thought I saw the sun slide out from behind the layer of clouds – a bright, jagged slash of light that faded as quickly as it appeared.

  Sighing, I leaned my head against the window frame as I felt the presence of the child inside of me, the stirring of new life. Yet it was not a sense o
f joy that came with it. Instead, doubts swirled in my mind at the sudden realization of my foolish behavior in coming to Montreux. Why could I not be temperate in my actions? Byron would probably be angry when he saw me; Shelley would be full of consternation. They would then argue, with Shelley taking my side. But I would get my desire to sail back to Geneva with them, eventually. And that is what I wanted, was it not?

  If I had not seized the opportunities that passed my way, I would still be living in my stepfather’s house, waiting for my life to begin, hoping and praying that I would partake of love’s joys.

  Should the child turn out to be a female, is that the lesson that I would teach my daughter? Jump into the volcano and never look back? Shaking my head with a laugh, I turned away from the window and lay on the narrow, lumpy mattress. Who knows? Perhaps my own child would have a wisdom that I never possessed and not need any such lessons about life. I could only conjecture at this point. All I knew was that I had no intention of ever reining back my impulsiveness, no matter what happened. I would always choose risk over restraint. Truly Byronic, in my own way.

  Closing my eyes with my hand still covering my stomach, I drifted off to a hard, dreamless sleep and awoke to the sunshine streaming across the room. My mouth curved into a sleepy smile.

  Light and love.

  A good omen.

  Quickly, I completed my toilette and donned a freshly washed dress of pretty white cotton with tiny yellow daisies embroidered on the material. Thank goodness the fashion of the day still boasted a high-cut empire bodice which hid my expanding waistline, though even I had to admit that my condition would be undeniable in a few weeks’ time. Byron needed to know the truth, and soon, before it became self-evident or Polidori told him. But I would not think of that today. The morning was too beautiful, the day too sweet for me to cast any gloom over my own happiness.