Claire's Last Secret Read online

  Ladies, I must remind you: the steep and crooked steps to reach the historic section of Geneva proved to be quite challenging, especially in the cold and rain, but I was determined to see the man who has set all of England ablaze with his scandals. And I made a promise to you, dear readers, that I would do everything in my power to catch a glimpse of His Poetic Greatness.

  And here is how it unfolded:

  After loitering on La Vieille Ville for an hour, I took refuge in a tearoom near St Peter’s Cathedral, with nothing to show for my efforts but rain-splattered clothing and sore feet. Ready to admit defeat, I began to make my way to the fashionable Rue de l’Hôtel-de-Ville when, en route, I tripped over the hem of my dress. (Yes, Miss Eliza has her clumsy moments.) As I pitched forward on the slippery cobblestones, I would have fallen except for a handsome man who reached out and seized my arm.

  ‘Careful or you might twist an ankle,’ the stranger said in a deep voice as I righted myself again.

  Murmuring a quick and slightly embarrassed thank you, I realized with a touch of awe that my benefactor was none other than Lord Byron himself. Quelle surprise!

  He disappeared quickly around the corner before I could pose any of the questions that you have been asking. Oh, the lack of quick thought! You can be sure, though, that I checked back and forth across the square with anxious eyes, hoping against hope that he might reappear.

  But no such luck, ladies (sigh).

  There you have it – the full and unvarnished truth of my encounter with Lord Byron.

  It did not provide the results that I had hoped, but what in life does, dear readers?

  But never fear that Geneva will become a bore … I have heard a famous English actress may grace our midst next week, and you can be sure I will have all the latest gossip!

  SEVEN

  Piazza della Signoria, Florence, Italy, 1873

  We sat in a small outdoor café across from the Uffizi Gallery – Paula, Raphael, Mr Rossetti and I, quietly sipping a late-morning coffee as we all digested Mr Rossetti’s revelation. He was John Polidori’s nephew. I confess I was still rattled by the news.

  When Polidori had died in 1821, I’d drawn a breath of relief, knowing I would never have to see him again.

  I was safe – or so I thought.

  As I sipped my coffee in silence, Mr Rossetti carefully placed a brown leather journal on the table. He fingered the embossed gold trim on the cover and smoothed out the curling corners with a reverent stroke of his fingers. Then he produced a silk handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabbed it against his dome-like forehead. He seemed duly agitated by his own deception. Or perhaps it was something more?

  I trusted him no more than I did his uncle.

  He coughed lightly. ‘Miss Clairmont, I should have revealed my connection to John Polidori when we first met a few days ago – my apologies. But Trelawny said he was going to inform you about the relationship. I cannot imagine why he did not say so in his letter unless he believed that you might not agree to see me, since you and my uncle had not parted on the best of terms, from what I heard.’

  ‘When did you discuss this with Trelawny?’ I queried, puzzled over my old friend’s omission.

  ‘In London – I had requested a meeting with him before I left for Florence.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I deeply apologize, Miss Clairmont, but let me explain my kinship to Polidori. This is his journal.’ Flipping open the volume, he pointed at an ink-drawn family tree on the first page. ‘You see, here is John Polidori and his sister, Frances; she is my mother. She married my father, Gabriele Rossetti – an exiled Dante scholar from Italy – and they had four children: my brother, the poet, Dante Gabriel, and my two sisters, Christina and Maria. So all of what I told you about my siblings is true. We never really knew our uncle, except through the stories that my mother would tell about him, because I was born eight years after he died. And the family connection at the time of his death was not exactly friendly – he was quite erratic at that point in his life from all accounts – and my mother grew even more detached from his memory when she learned that his cause of death was probably suicide.’

  I cast down my glance briefly. ‘I had heard the same thing, and it distressed me.’ Indeed, in spite of Polidori’s possibly malicious actions toward me, I had felt a pang of regret when I found out that he had ended his own life. A sad last moment for anyone.

  ‘When I told my mother that I wanted to write a biography about Shelley and the circle of friends from my uncle’s youth, she gave me his journal, which she had kept hidden since his death.’ Mr Rossetti stretched out his hands across the table in appeal. ‘I did not know how you would react to any of this information, so I asked Trelawny to contact you first. My declared intention for being here is honest: I came to purchase your Byron/Shelley correspondence, which I need for my research.’

  ‘What exactly do you know about your uncle since he was not discussed much, by your own admission? He was not kind to my aunt.’ Paula drew Polidori’s journal across the table towards her and flipped through the yellowed pages. The jagged writing scrawled across the pages had faded over time into a faint echo of the original words.

  ‘For that I am sorry, but I know very little except the barest details of his life as Lord Byron’s physician and, later, as a man of literary aspirations.’ A ghost of a smile touched his features. ‘It’s been said that I slightly resemble him.’

  Scanning Mr Rossetti’s middle-aged features, I tried to see past the veil of time: the Polidori that I knew was a young man. I saw little of his classically Italian comeliness in his nephew, except perhaps the eyes. Dark and smoldering. Polidori’s stare could harden like bits of stone when he felt slighted, whereas Mr Rossetti’s gaze had none of that type of arrogance.

  ‘Nothing more?’ Raphael added to Paula’s question.

  ‘Only what I have been able to find out myself from his friends and enemies who are still alive – and the journal.’ Mr Rossetti’s mouth curved into a slight smile. ‘My mother is a very devout Catholic who did not approve of her brother’s life – or death. It was, for her, an unpleasant subject that she rarely touched upon, so I have nothing from her. She still refuses to speak about him, though she might to her priest.’

  ‘I understand.’ And I did. As a converted Catholic, I knew only too well that my adopted religion allowed only for minor infractions, though I could hardly cast stones at anyone else’s sins.

  Raphael signaled for the waiter to bring us fette biscottate, though Mr Rossetti brushed off the biscuit-like hard bread when it arrived shortly. I broke off a large chuck and nibbled on it gratefully to ward off the lightheadedness that was overtaking me at every new revelation about our British visitor.

  I needed time to grasp the impact of these details.

  My gaze drifted across the Piazza della Signoria towards the beautifully symmetrical arches of the colonnade that stretched in front of the Uffizi. So beautiful and solid and enduring. How could anything be amiss when beholding the stunning Renaissance architecture of Florence? But, of course, the history that surrounded this piazza was anything but dull and routine – filled with years of conspiracies, as well as long-standing vendettas.

  Tourists had begun to gather in small groups outside the gallery, eagerly chatting and gesturing at Michelangelo’s sculpture of David that stood in the middle of the square. Graceful and elegant. A testament to art and liberty. Rumor had it that the original statue would be moved indoors shortly; for now, though, it stood proudly in all of its glory.

  Unfortunately, I could not say the same for myself. Still reeling inside, I could barely sort through all of these recent revelations. ‘For some reason, Trelawny withheld information from me and, while I believe your intent was honorable, given the family connection to Polidori, I am not sure that I can have any future dealings with you,’ I began, choosing my words as if I were stepping over sharp stones on an unfamiliar path.

  ‘Indeed, yes.’ Paula’s del
icate features were drawn tight with caution.

  ‘In my fervor to gain your confidence, I may have behaved thoughtlessly.’ He cast down his glance, murmuring apologies in both English and Italian. The latter made little impression on Raphael, who now held Paula’s hand very tightly in his own grasp, as if he were afraid to let her go.

  ‘Apparently, you had even followed me to the Basilica di San Lorenzo when I met my priest—’

  ‘No!’ he exclaimed, his face turning up again with forceful denial. ‘Yesterday morning, I had arranged to meet an acquaintance at the basilica to look at the frescoes, when people came rushing out, saying that an Englishwoman had fainted inside. I ran in and found you – the polizia had already arrived and were examining the priest’s body. I swear on the life of my mother that is the truth. I carried you out and conveyed you back to your residence out of only the purest motives. Truly.’

  Paula and I exchanged glances of doubt but, after his recent revelations, I was inclined to believe him about this part of his story. Giving a slight nod, I gestured for him to continue.

  ‘I appreciate your forbearance, Miss Clairmont,’ he said, folding his hands on the table. ‘Granted, I should have remained with you and your driver, but the sight of the dead priest had shaken me greatly, and I returned to my rooms quite agitated. The sight of a stab wound will not be easily forgotten.’

  Shuddering inside, I echoed his sentiment. Nor by me.

  ‘You should have stayed, Mr Rossetti.’ Paula wagged her finger at him with a jerking motion. ‘My aunt was almost delirious at that point; we were fortunate that the driver stayed with her until Raphael could go down to the carriage and assist her upstairs. Poorly done, sir.’

  ‘My behavior was unforgivable. I can only hope to make it up to all of you.’ The sincerity in his voice rang true, though my own ability to discern anyone’s true motives was in question after the events of this week. His presence at the basilica could have been a coincidence – the Medici church was, after all, one of the most visited sites in Florence. Then again … he wanted my letters more than anything.

  Could I trust him?

  Could I afford not to try – especially when he might have been the one to put the note about Allegra under my teacup? I dared not ask him about that yet.

  ‘Our association with you, Mr Rossetti, is shaken, if not finished,’ Paula blurted out as she shoved back her chair, but I placed a restraining hand on her arm.

  She paused.

  ‘My niece speaks impulsively, Mr Rossetti, because she cares for me so deeply,’ I said, keeping my tone even. ‘Perhaps you could earn our trust again – by being totally and completely honest about the scope of your research thus far.’

  His face brightened considerably. ‘It is more than I deserve, and thank you.’

  Releasing my niece, she settled into her chair warily, and I did the same. ‘I know you wish to purchase my letters – especially those written during the summer of 1816 – and you have Polidori’s journal here.’ I slid it back across the table toward him. ‘What else have you acquired?’

  ‘I have a few of Mary’s and Shelley’s letters that I already bought from Trelawny, along with interview notes from the younger Percy Shelley about his mother. As for research on my uncle, I have recorded some of his old friends’ recollections about him – quite sad really. He was apparently overcome by depressive thoughts for many years and, I fear, made very little sense before he committed suicide. He talked much of his lost literary ambitions and how his novel, The Vampyre, was actually published under Byron’s name, even though my uncle wrote the story—’

  ‘Truthfully, Byron wrote the fragment after he proposed we all write a ghost story,’ I interjected. ‘He then gave it to Polidori to finish since he became too preoccupied with his poetry to compose a work of prose.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Mr Rossetti enthused. ‘I know Byron’s poems well from that time – The Prisoner of Chillon and the third canto of Childe Harold; they are magnificent.’

  Inclining my head, I agreed. ‘But Polidori did write the novel, although Byron had the idea first – inspired by his reading of Coleridge’s Christobel. I even remember the particular evening at the Villa Diodati when Byron recited a few paragraphs from the tale.’ Flashes of his melodious voice floated thought my mind – a song from the past that I had never forgotten – as he described a creature who sucked the lifeblood from his victims. ‘I assume the publisher thought to trade on Byron’s more famous name …’

  A smile touched Mr Rossetti’s face. ‘Fame can cause people to behave in unsavory ways – as you and I have already discussed, Miss Clairmont.’

  ‘How true. Fame can become an elusive dream, or a nagging intrusion into one’s life. But what I find most disturbing is how it can cause a distortion of reality when it is manipulated by those who want to change the facts.’ I drained the last of my coffee and slowly set the china cup on the saucer. ‘If I decide to proceed with a sale of my correspondence to you, Mr Rossetti, I would like an assurance that the content will not be altered in any manner to place me in an unfavorable light.’

  ‘Che cosa?’ Raphael’s face kindled in confusion. ‘You would still consider doing business with him?’

  ‘I agree with Raphael.’ Paula regarded the older man across the table with a skeptical squint. ‘With all due respect, sir, you seem quite rash; I do not believe that you will use my Aunt Claire’s letters with fairness and impartiality. She has been much maligned in the past and does not need any further damage to her reputation.’

  ‘You see how they protect me?’ I smiled, quite warmed by the love of my niece – and Raphael. ‘I would be quite lost without them, and I do, in fact, share their caution about any “editing” of my letters. I do not want to be erased from history as seems the case in the new biographies.’

  ‘I vow to be truthful in all of my dealings with you, as you are with me.’ He placed a hand over his heart with a solemn expression. ‘If you would consider selling your Byron/Shelley correspondence, I promise not to let my connection to John Polidori affect how I write my own biography of Shelley, including your role in his literary circle. I also intend to edit my uncle’s journal – honestly and frankly with no bias against you.’

  Weighing his words, I took a quick glance at Polidori’s journal. Was it possible there was something in there about Allegra that even Mr Rossetti missed? ‘I must consider this matter carefully but, as a gesture of goodwill, perhaps you could lend the journal to me – only for a day or two, I assure you.’ Noting his hesitation, I continued, ‘Trust goes both ways, does it not?’

  Mr Rossetti picked up the journal and held it for a few moments in a tight grasp. He handed it to me. ‘Yes, it does, Miss Clairmont. I am entrusting you with my legacy. And I will add that when I found you at the basilica, I also found a letter from Byron. I placed it in the back of my uncle’s journal for safekeeping.’

  ‘Grazie.’ Sighing in relief, I slipped out Byron’s letter – the one that I had given to Father Gianni. It was mine again.

  Then my fingers closed around the journal and a tiny thrill shot through me: I held the book that was penned by the man who had haunted my thoughts for decades. Perhaps I would learn the story behind Polidori’s dislike of me, and maybe even find a clue to Allegra’s fate. It struck me as ironic that Polidori was there in the early days of my relationship with Byron, and now his presence had appeared again near the end of my life.

  Strange, but somehow fitting.

  ‘I will send word to you tomorrow when I have reached a final decision about the sale,’ I said, clutching the journal against my chest. ‘That will provide me ample time to read the journal.’

  And perhaps learn the secrets that Polidori took to his grave.

  ‘Is there anything else you need from me, Miss Clairmont?’ Mr Rossetti asked.

  I stared at him for a few long moments. ‘No.’

  Mr Rossetti gave a nod of assent, then took his leave.

  We remained in th
e café for another hour as Paula and Raphael tried to talk me out of any future dealings with him. But I remained firm, adamant in my course of action. I would have my way in this business, no matter what came of it.

  It was time to learn the truth.

  As I lounged in our sitting room at the Palazzo Cruciato that afternoon, I barely suppressed a yawn as I adjusted my spectacles. Paging through Polidori’s journal entries from 1816 had turned out to be a surprisingly boring narrative of his self-inflated ego and petulance – typical of the man I knew fifty years ago. Every line somehow defeated the beauty of his subject by inserting his own sarcastic quips. A poor showing as a writer, indeed.

  His rambling account of Byron and his journey from England to Switzerland in late spring had no sense of awe at the landscape. Just tedious details. Dull observations about a church in Antwerp. Monotonous descriptions of a play he attended in Brussels, complete with snide remarks about the acting and run-down theater of peeling paint and dirty floors. Even a place as poetic and evocative as the Waterloo Battlefield sounded as if it were a potato farmer’s plot.

  Not surprisingly, his jealousy of Byron also came through in almost every sentence, as when he referred to himself as ‘a tassel to the purse of merit’ (presumably, Byron was the ‘purse,’ though I did not want to pursue the meaning of the ‘tassel’). Poor Polidori. He wanted so desperately to be famous.

  He hated Byron, yet loved him – as did we all.

  My mouth tightened as I reread Polidori’s entry upon our first meeting in Geneva and his rather unflattering portrait of Mary, Shelley, and me: P.S., the author of Queen Mab, came; bashful, shy, consumptive; twenty-four; separated from his wife; keeps the two daughters of Godwin, who practice his theories; one LB’s.

  Damn him.

  Shelley did not ‘keep’ us, nor were he and I lovers, although I knew it had been rumored during the time (and later). Shelley was my dearest friend, my confidante, but never my amour. I would have to discuss this passage with Mr Rossetti – if he published the journal – so it was not taken as the ‘truth’ of our relationship during that summer. I could not allow the distorted ramblings of Polidori to be uncontested.