Claire's Last Secret Read online

  The rest of Polidori’s entries were snippets of his disagreements with Byron over details of their life at Diodati. More yawning.

  As I turned the pages in rapid succession, skimming over the mundane and the muddled details, I halted abruptly at the dates June 23 to 26 – or lack thereof. There were no entries during the three days when I had traveled to meet Byron and Shelley at the Château de Chillon and fallen down the stairs. Why had he recorded nothing on those dates? Then, on June 27, he made no mention that I lay ill at the Villa Diodati – only that he spent time with Mary and me in pleasant conversation. Needless to say, I did not quite remember that time as ‘pleasant.’

  Was the omission deliberate?

  Mixed feelings surged through me. Why had Polidori concealed my accident? Or my pregnancy? He knew by that time, since he had told me he guessed my secret. I set the book down momentarily, letting my thoughts settle before I proceeded. All of these old memories had been buried for so long that they seemed more like echoes from an empty grave – no real form or reality aside from the fragments that I could piece together. Even without the chaotic events of the last week, I would have found them upsetting to recall.

  Raising the journal once more, I flipped the pages forward with a reluctant hand, scanning the entries to see if there was any mention of my relationship with Byron – or our child.

  ‘Aunt Claire, you must rest,’ Paula said as she strolled into the room, Georgiana in hand. My great-niece came running over and slipped her arms around me, her small hand grasping my cotton dress tightly. I stroked her fair hair, the journal immediately forgotten as I beheld Georgiana’s sweet, loving face.

  Paula took the book from me and set it on the fireplace mantle. ‘You have been reading and rereading that journal for hours – too much strain on your eyes, if you ask me. Besides, it is time for tea. I sent Raphael to the baker for biscotti, and I assume you wish to have oolong in the old blue teapot?’

  I raised one brow. ‘You need to ask?’

  She laughed and sat across from me, bidding her daughter to sit on her lap. Georgiana immediately launched herself on to Paula’s thighs and began to play with her mother’s hair, spinning the long locks into spiral curls. ‘Did you find anything surprising in the journal?’ she asked, gently pulling her tresses out of harm’s way.

  ‘Nothing too unusual – except a few omitted days from that summer of 1816. I have my suspicions as to where Polidori had gone during that time, but he does not reference anything that would confirm my hunch.’ I filled her in on the visit to Castle Chillon, including the mysterious tumble down the stairs and my feverish days afterwards. Her expression stilled, then turned grim with a deep frown.

  ‘Do you actually believe he traveled to Chillon to … harm you?’ she whispered over her daughter’s head, keeping the volume just out of the range of Georgiana’s hearing.

  I shrugged. ‘He may have followed me there and, when he found me emerging from the dungeon, saw his … opportunity. I do not know – maybe I simply did fall. That time was fraught with such emotion that I scarcely knew what I was doing. My world was starting to crumble because I knew Byron would leave me …’ I glanced deliberately at Georgiana, seeing the image of Allegra in her. ‘I had others to think about at the time, so my mind could have been clouded.’ Closing my eyes, I rubbed my forehead as a wave of weariness overcame me. Bone-tired, emotionally spent fatigue sighed through my body.

  ‘So the journal might just be the tedious recordings of a vain man, and Mr Rossetti has shown up in Florence exactly for the reason he stated. Could it be that simple?’ Paula rested her chin on Georgiana’s head with a sigh.

  ‘But what about the note that stated Allegra lived? And Father Gianni’s murder shortly after I asked him to locate the convent records about her fate?’ I shuddered. ‘That would be a huge coincidence indeed—’

  ‘Signora Clairmont?’ A booming male voice shouted outside our apartment as a fist banged on the front door. ‘It is I – Matteo.’

  I started, as did Paula, at the sudden shouting of our landlord.

  ‘Let him in – but give me the journal first, please.’ I held out my hand.

  Paula eased her daughter off of her lap and retrieved the book. ‘Do you not trust Matteo?’

  ‘No.’ Slipping the slim volume under the cushion of my wingback chair, I rearranged the folds of my dress to cover it and pasted a smile on my face. ‘But I can handle him.’

  Paula ushered Georgiana to the door and swung it open to reveal Matteo and another man – young and slim, wearing a police uniform. As Paula gestured for them to enter, both men made a small bow to her and moved in my direction.

  ‘I was just about to make tea,’ Paula said, keeping her daughter close. ‘Both of you are welcome to stay, of course.’

  ‘Grazie, Signora.’ Matteo gestured for the police officer to proceed ahead of him, and they both halted near my chair. Paula disappeared into the kitchen with Georgiana to make tea – and, no doubt, send word to Raphael that Matteo had arrived with the polizia.

  ‘Please take a seat.’ I pointed at the sofa, which Paula had just vacated. ‘How may I help you?’

  Matteo adjusted his jacket sleeves, then hooked his thumbs around the narrow lapels in a solemn yet slightly pompous manner. ‘This is our chief of police – Lieutenant Baldini. He called at my villa today to let me know that a parishioner in Father Gianni’s church has been detained for questioning over the murder – an evil man who had some long-standing vendetta with our dear priest. As soon as Lieutenant Baldini informed me, I wanted him to tell you in person; his deputies are questioning the suspect this very minute, so your mind can be at rest that the killer will be charged shortly.’

  ‘How kind to think of my well-being,’ I murmured, thinking very rapidly as my glance shifted from one man to the other. Matteo beamed in satisfaction; Baldini seemed much less pleased – almost cautious. Had there been a vendetta at the Basilica di San Lorenzo? Rather fitting that it would be connected to the church built by the Medicis, but I had never heard Father Gianni mention a blood feud with a member of his parish. Surely he would have mentioned it to me since we were such old friends. ‘May I ask the identity of this suspect?’

  Baldini shook his head. ‘I am afraid that we cannot reveal his name, except to say he is from an old Florentine family that has fallen on hard times. It may be one of the motivations of the attack – this man apparently wanted to take back a priceless gold chalice that his family donated to the church over a hundred years ago, and Father Gianni refused. From all accounts, they had several violent arguments over the request, and the suspect threatened the priest publicly.’

  ‘Very unfortunate,’ Matteo echoed.

  ‘Indeed. But I am shocked to hear this news since I heard nothing about it.’ I spoke slowly, observing the effect of my words on them. ‘I have attended mass there almost every day, and no one has ever mentioned the feud, even the most gossipy members of the basilica—’

  ‘We Florentines tend to keep this type of news quiet from expatriates who live in our city,’ Matteo said with a touch of self-righteousness in the set of his chin. ‘What is the point in sharing such things, except to confirm foreigners’ notion that we Italians are too passionate about our beliefs and personal slights?’

  Blinking in feigned dismay, I turned to Matteo. ‘I hope you are not referring to me? I consider myself, after all these years, practically a Florentine myself, and I would never be so narrow-minded as to sit in judgment over locals.’

  ‘No, no. Of course not,’ Matteo readily agreed, but I thought I detected a skeptical note in his quick assurance. ‘But not all visitors are as cosmopolitan as you, my dear Signora Clairmont.’

  I acknowledged the compliment with a small nod. ‘Let us hope that the killer is swiftly brought to justice and we can put this matter behind us.’

  Both men uttered a ‘si’ – right at the moment Paula brought in a tray with the teapot and four china cups – and our conversation
switched to an upcoming opera performance of Verdi’s Aida that would be held in the nearby Pitti Palace. As they discussed the singers and staging issues, I sat back and quietly sipped my tea. The conversation had turned congenial after the news of a suspect in Father Gianni’s death, but something felt slightly off, almost as if I were watching them in a distant reflection that distorted their images. Faces that seemed elongated. Figures that appeared too tall and thin. Flickering light and shadow.

  In my heart, I knew that Father Gianni’s death had something to do with me – a notion which caused such pain that I could scarcely think about it. I would never have brought him into this situation if I had not been desperate to find the truth. He was with God now, but that was scant consolation.

  ‘Signora, will you be attending the opera performance tomorrow evening?’ Matteo was saying.

  Blinking, I tried to clear my thoughts. ‘In spite of recent events, I would not miss it for the world. Verdi’s operas are exquisite in every way – and I expect Aida will contain his usual themes of passionate love, betrayal and conspiracy. What more could one expect in a single evening?’

  Matteo’s features tightened for an instant. ‘I hope you do not speak from experience, Signora Clairmont?’

  I set my teacup in the saucer with a tiny clatter. ‘I cannot speak to betrayal and conspiracy, but with regard to love, I can say that I have some experience, though perhaps my failing memory deceives me about my youthful indiscretions.’

  Paula stifled a giggle and Baldini erupted with a short, loud laugh. But Matteo did not seem amused.

  ‘Pardon my frankness,’ I followed up with a wink at my niece.

  ‘You are a remarkable woman,’ Matteo said as he rose to his feet. He kissed my hand, clasping my fingers with a grip that seemed unnaturally tight. ‘Be careful that you do not overtax your strength, Signora Clairmont, since some … exertions can cause unnecessary consequences for a woman of your age. You should be enjoying this stage of your life – no distressing upsets or delving into matters that can cause you further anxiety, especially with regard to this matter of Father Gianni’s death. Adopt our che sarà sarà attitude. It is much healthier in the long run.’

  ‘Excellent advice,’ I said, slowing withdrawing my hand.

  As Paula showed the two men out, I set my teacup on the tray and then used the napkin to wipe off my hand where he had touched my fingers. I would leave no trace of Matteo on my skin. His words held kindness, but perhaps an implicit threat? Was he just being cautious or hiding something about Father Gianni’s death that he did not want me to find out? Either way, his words conveyed a meaning that I did not like. I might have mellowed slightly in my old age, but I still did not like being told what to do by a man. Certainly, Florentines could be rather secretive about the long-standing vendettas that threaded through the generations, but, as Father Gianni’s friend, I deserved to know the truth.

  If I had inadvertently precipitated my old friend’s demise, I needed to know that as well – to protect Paula and Georgiana.

  And no matter what, I was still my own woman and would accomplish this task in my own way and manner.

  That evening, I resumed my reading of Polidori’s journal and found myself struggling to stay awake. Certainly, my emotional memories of those late-summer days were colored by the passage of time and knowledge of what was to come afterwards, but Polidori’s entries made our lives seem trivial. No descriptions of the powerful thunderstorms rolling in from the Alps. No recordings of the conversations at the Villa Diodati when we listened avidly to Byron and Shelley argue about politics. No comments about our ghost stories being recited late at night.

  Nothing interesting at all.

  Only details about Polidori’s interactions with gardeners or disputes with cooks over ill-prepared food at Diodati. Could he have focused on anything more trivial? I now understood why his novel, The Vampyre, never found a huge audience. I had never read it, and did not intend to after perusing this tedious narrative.

  Scanning the pages rapidly, I was ready to flip the journal shut when I spied a couple of sentences near the bottom that had been marked through with a bold stroke of the pen:

  August 2nd

  Saw Mary today with di Breme at Maison Chapuis and talked at length about L.B. and his latest predicament. Nothing to be done but eliminate the problem—it has grave consequences.

  Quickly, I sat up and read the lines over. What predicament? I did not remember Mary mentioning that she had met with Polidori on that day, nor did I recall any problem that had cropped up for Byron – aside from my pregnancy. And why was Ludovico di Breme with them? He was the Italian visitor who had dropped by the Villa Diodati to meet Byron during the previous month. I had met him only briefly and heard he had returned to Italy; I never saw him again.

  But apparently Mary had – a fact she chose not to share with me.

  August 2. That was the day that Shelley and I visited Byron at Diodati to discuss Allegra’s future. While Byron paced back and forth across the parlor, Shelley had proposed a financial and visitation plan that was surprisingly practical. Byron would provide a home for the child, along with monetary support, but I would be allowed to visit and exercise my maternal rights. Often, during the discussion, I felt tears run down my cheeks, but I said nothing as I wiped them away, deferring to Shelley in this matter.

  Byron had agreed to everything with no objections but, also, no great reluctance. I had expected more, though I knew all my passionate dreams of our having a life together had evaporated into dust. We would never have that type of permanent connection, even though I knew he had cared deeply about me. He was married. Famous. And reconciled to move on. Some of his London friends had traveled to Geneva to see him and they were now pulling his interests in other directions, away from our little group that told ghost stories by candlelight. Our time together was drawing to a close.

  But as Byron, Shelley and I had met at Diodati, Mary was entertaining Polidori and di Breme at Maison Chapuis.

  Odd that their meeting had been so secret.

  Slowly, I turned the page in Polidori’s journal to see what he had jotted down next about this secret gathering at Maison Chapuis, and I noticed the top half of the next page had been torn off. I fanned through the last twenty pages to see if it had been inserted somewhere, but nothing showed up.

  I flipped to the page with the missing piece again and scrutinized it carefully. The lower section had yet another typical Polidori entry about his horse throwing a shoe. Little help there.

  Sitting back against my pillow, I sighed deeply. The more I learned, the less I seemed to really know about that time in my life. Perhaps my memories were so misshapen at this point that I would never really know the truth. Most everyone from my youth was dead, so I had no one else to ask. I had only my recollections … and Polidori’s journal, however distorted by his depressed mental state.

  Did the missing piece hold the key to something related to Allegra? The notation about Byron’s ‘predicament’ seemed to indicate that he had been discussing my pregnancy with Mary and possibly Signor di Breme, though I still could not figure out why he was there. The only person who might be able to explain the entry was Mr Rossetti. At the very least, I needed to know if he had that section of the journal. He wanted to purchase my letters, which was a perfect pretext for setting up a meeting with him to inquire about the journal page.

  As I lowered the volume to my lap, I began to plot. I had something that Mr Rossetti wanted, and now he might have something that I wanted. More secrets?

  As the nearby candle flickered and burned into the night, I sent up a prayer to Father Gianni that I would have the strength to see this whole thing through.

  Gloria al Padre

  e al Figlio

  e allo Spirito Santo.

  I prayed to the glory of God, and the spirit of Father Gianni, and to the angelic memory of my daughter.

  For ever and ever.

  Captain Parker’s Log

/>   April 12, 1815

  Mount Tambora

  We approached Tambora from the east, carefully navigating the Fortuna along the island coast and around a reef that stretched the length of Sumbawa. High noon, but no light. Hushed and quiet, as though all hope had left this part of the world, never to return.

  The air tasted of powder and dust, and the heat had become even more intense.

  Soul-searing.

  Mountain of Fire.

  The wind kept shifting, so we constantly adjusted the sails to catch the offshore breeze, relying mostly on our mainsail to keep a westward tack. The hull creaked and groaned in the rough, heaving waves, slicing through what we thought was thick seaweed, but it turned out to be a thick, floating mass of dead fish coated with burnt cinders.

  Not a good omen.

  We left the town of Bima earlier this morning. Was it only two days ago that waves had surged on to the shore after the volcanic eruption, swamping fishing boats and flooding homes? The Kincaids’ house on the bluff had survived and, after the waters withdrew, we surveyed what was left of the town and attended to those who had lost their dwellings. People wept as they stood on the foundation of their homes, their lives forever changed.

  Before we raised anchor, I took my leave of Kincaid and his wife, knowing it would be a long time before I saw them again.

  We did not dare delay since any survivors of Mount Tambora would need our help. In spite of my crew’s nervousness, to a man they focused on keeping the Fortuna on course. No space for mistakes and no time for fear.

  As we steered around a large floating clump of ash near the westernmost tip of Sumbawa, I jerked the rudder with a hard swing to port. The Fortuna responded with an agile turn, slicing through the heavy, rolling waters with a smooth gliding movement. My men rushed to the portside of the ship to see Tambora and uttered a collective gasp at the sight as our ship drew near. I, too, could hardly take in what lay before me.