Claire's Last Secret Page 2

  I knew exactly what poem lay on the marked page:

  There be none of Beauty’s daughters

  With a magic like Thee …

  Reciting the lines in my mind, I remembered when he first showed the poem to me during that haunted summer in Geneva. We had just returned to Diodati, trying to avoid a violent storm, and we dashed from his carriage though the raindrops, scrambled inside the villa with our shoes clattering on the hard stone floor. Laughing as I shook the rain out of my hair, our eyes met in passion and longing, the cold, damp drizzle forgotten in the heat of our desire.

  Afterwards, we lay in his large bed, listening to the thunder rolling down from the mountains, and he gave me a thin sheet of parchment with three stanzas of his bold handwriting scrawled across it. It had no title, but it was inscribed To Claire from Albe. That was our nickname for him because he regaled us so often about his adventures as a young man in Albania.

  We all knew that he embellished the tales of his travels, but they kept us entertained when the incessant rain drove us indoors.

  For months, I had kept the poem folded next to my heart, and I would read it again and again. It was the tangible proof of his love. Even when my feelings had later turned to hate, I could not part with the poem. It was mine, and he had been mine if only for a brief moment. He had no idea when he wrote it that I was already expecting his child.

  Snapping the book shut, Paula tossed it on the stack and clicked her tongue. ‘Too bad that you cannot pay bills with words on a page—’

  ‘Perhaps you can,’ I pointed out. ‘At least some words can be turned to gold.’

  ‘Only if you possess the type of fame of your beloved poet.’ She started to exit the room.

  ‘Or … if you were acquainted with a famous poet,’ I posed in a sweet voice.

  Paula paused, then turned slowly back in my direction. ‘What are you saying? I have seen that look on your face before, and I know it means that you have some type of scheme in mind.’

  ‘Possibly.’ I slipped the letter out from under the pile of books. ‘Trelawny’s letter had an intriguing proposition: someone is traveling here from England and wants to see me – a man who might be interested in buying some relics from the old days … my letters.’

  ‘Who wants them?’ Paula’s eyes kindled with excitement as she reached for the letter. I jerked it back, just out of her grasp.

  ‘You will know – soon.’

  ‘Stop playing games, Aunt Claire. You know we are on the edge of financial collapse. We can barely afford food from the street market, and this is the last month that we can even pay the rent on this apartment, much less any of the niceties we should be enjoying as British ladies in Italy. Do you want to see Georgiana and me starve?’ Her voice broke toward the end of the sentence, and I refrained from rolling my eyes. Obviously, I wasn’t the only one in the family with acting skills. But she was right: our time in Florence would come to an end very quickly if we did not have an influx of cash soon, and I could not allow my niece and her daughter to suffer.

  ‘The man’s name is William Michael Rossetti. I don’t know him, but Trelawny has met him in London and pleads in his letter for me to receive Mr Rossetti,’ I paused. ‘Apparently, this man Rossetti might be interested in buying some of my Shelley correspondence … among other things.’ But not the poem; he cannot have the poem. ‘I suppose people have discovered that writing about famous people can be quite lucrative – the biographies of Byron and Shelley come out every year.’ My eyes fell on the delicate silver inkwell that Shelley had given me; it was so pretty with a finely etched lid and filigreed base. It looked like the kind of writing tool that a poet would use, but he never actually used it. I did. Shelley liked to compose with an old wooden inkwell that he had owned when he was a student at Oxford – he said it brought the Muse to him when he needed it. And now the silver inkwell belonged to me. If I could bring myself to sell it, I would be parting with more than a memory; I would be surrendering a symbol of love and friendship.

  Then again, memories did not pay the rent, and I had to make certain that Paula and Georgiana had a home.

  ‘Write to Mr Rossetti immediately, and I will find out if he is in Florence yet,’ Paula exclaimed, fetching my quill and writing paper as she muttered to herself, ‘We will need to have the apartment spruced up. He cannot come here, thinking we are desperate to sell him our memorabilia at any price. No … he must see you as simply interested in sharing your memories with the world – and I as your devoted companion who wants to indulge your every whim.’ She bustled around the room twice, then turned back to me, holding up the quill and paper. ‘I think you must write to him today.’

  I glanced up at her face, now lit with glowing eyes and a hopeful upward tilt to her lips.

  It gladdened my heart, but still I hesitated, clutching Trelawny’s letter in my hand. The hard reality of selling my past hit me with a wave of desolation.

  Could I do it and not sell my soul?

  Shaking the writing paper, Paula exhaled in a short choke of impatience. ‘Please, Aunt, write the letter – if not for me, for Georgiana.’ Just then, her little girl skipped into the room, clutching her doll made of fabric scraps with a wide grin. Her fair curls bobbed as she ran in my direction and flung her arms around me in a tight embrace.

  I could not resist that appeal, and Paula knew it. Her daughter, Georgiana, reminded me too much of my long-lost Allegra.

  I must do it for all of us.

  As I nodded, someone moved in the doorway, just out of my sight. I thought I glimpsed our man Raphael’s rough cotton shirt and jet-black hair. Then I blinked, and he disappeared. Or perhaps I had imagined his hovering presence. My vision could deceive me at times … yet a warning voice whispered in my head to be cautious. Be careful.

  Paula cleared her throat with deliberate intent.

  Slowly, I took the quill from her with a deep, inward sigh and dipped it in the silver inkwell.

  There was no going back now.

  It turned out that I didn’t have to wait long to receive a response from Mr Rossetti.

  Paula had made inquiries at the British Consulate and found that he was already in Florence, staying at a palazzo near the Duomo – the magnificent medieval cathedral at the center of the oldest part of town. Paula was beside herself with breathless anticipation and personally gave my note to the direttore of his hotel; she waited for a response, which came almost instantly: Mr William Rossetti would call on us that Sunday afternoon, in two days’ time.

  Much cleaning, dusting and shopping ensued the next day.

  Raphael said little, just quietly swept the floors. I asked him – in both English and Italian – if he had been eavesdropping yesterday, but he only shrugged with indifference. Perhaps my eyes had deceived me after all.

  By late afternoon I hardly cared, so pleased we all were with our little apartment on the Via Romana; it had never looked so good, in spite of the aging furniture and cracked stone floors. Our apartment had originally been part of the Palazzo Cruciato – an elegant mansion during its heyday two hundred years ago, but now fallen on hard times since ownership had passed out of the original family. It had been subdivided into various apartments for those who enjoyed the financial state known as ‘genteel poverty.’

  Nevertheless, Paula had even bought fresh flowers – yellow roses – to adorn the tea table in my room. It was decided (because of my sprained ankle) that I would receive Mr Rossetti there, seated decorously on the bed, wearing my best gray striped silk dress (no stains or frayed hems) and lace cap. If we had planned to perform the scene on stage, it couldn’t have been more rehearsed. We even practiced our conversation until it sounded like dialog from the Teatro. By bedtime, though, fatigue had set in and my ankle throbbed.

  But Paula still blazed with energy – and endless warnings.

  Don’t scare him away, Aunt.

  I promise not to.

  Don’t agree to any sale of letters until I have reviewed the amount
.

  I promise not to.

  Don’t talk too much.

  I cannot promise that one.

  I have to confess that I, too, felt the thrill of having a British visitor in the apartment, even if he wanted nothing more than to buy relics from my past. Silly that one never completely moves past the tug of the mother country.

  And so, on the afternoon of June 14, 1873, at two p.m., Mr William Michael Rossetti appeared at our door.

  As planned, Paula greeted him and then brought our guest to my large bedroom where a pot of tea and two cups awaited on my writing desk, and the windows were thrown open to catch the late-day breeze. A soft scent of jasmine wafted through the room, and I could hear the cathedral bells in the distance ringing across the city on the hour. If I had not been in my semi-dotage, receiving a man young enough to be my son would have been almost delicious. Almost. Unfortunately, old age ruled out any thoughts of that for me.

  Beauty’s daughter had faded.

  ‘Miss Clairmont?’

  I glanced at the slim gentleman at the threshold of my room, dressed discreetly in a suit of black, with a white shirt and neatly tied cravat. He had a receding hairline and an angular face, but kind eyes. ‘May I enter?’

  Paula hovered behind him, flashing an anxious look in my direction. ‘Of course you can – my aunt has been looking forward to meeting you,’ she responded for me. ‘I shall collect you again, Mr Rossetti, after teatime.’

  He gave a small bow to my niece.

  Once Paula had vanished from the room, I gestured for him to take a seat in the flowered wingback chair near the window and commented, ‘The heat of Florence must seem quite oppressive compared with England – we are having an especially warm June.’ Of course, I opened our tête-à-tête with the weather – another tug from the mother country.

  ‘I find the Italian summer quite a refreshing change from the so-called sunny season of London, Miss Clairmont.’ Smiling, he inched the chair closer to me and sat down. ‘And I might add that Florence is especially to my liking in other ways. The city of great painters and sculptors – Giotto, Michelangelo, Botticelli … what could be more delightful? My brother is an artist, so I am viewing all of the beauties of the city for both of us.’

  ‘How lovely for you – and him.’ I rearranged the folds of my dress to cover the swollen ankle. ‘I apologize for not standing to greet you.’

  ‘It seems most wise, considering your injury.’ His pleasant features kindled with polite concern. Paula must have told him about the sprained ankle – perhaps for sympathy? I would accept those sentiments, of course. Desperate times required desperate measures.

  ‘It has been … uncomfortable,’ I admitted.

  ‘As such, I am most grateful that you agreed to see me …’ Mr Rossetti’s words trailed off as he adjusted the lapels of his jacket.

  ‘Actually, I was most happy to meet you after my old friend Edward Trelawny made a case very strongly that I should receive you.’ I lounged back against the soft pillows. ‘How can I be of help, Mr Rossetti?’

  He gave a short laugh. ‘Your directness is most refreshing … As you might know from Trelawny, I have obtained some unpublished materials written by Percy Bysshe Shelley, who was married to your sister—’

  ‘He was married to my stepsister, Mary – she and I were not related by blood, though her father, Godwin, wed my mother.’ I corrected him with an inward sigh; I had no real father. ‘Certainly, I did consider Shelley my brother-in-law after their marriage – and, even more so, I considered him my dearest friend.’ Much to Mary’s dismay, I added silently. She had always thought we were too close, and I knew the rumors that had circulated about us over the years: I had been accused of being Shelley’s lover, the mother of his illicit child and so forth. Totally false and a discredit to his memory, but people loved to gossip about us.

  ‘I misspoke,’ he added hastily. ‘I was aware of the family connections, though many probably assume since you and Mary were raised together, that she was—’

  ‘My sister? A common misconception.’ I involuntarily stiffened, remembering my precarious position in the Shelley household. ‘Indeed, we were always very affectionate in our dealings and, later, correspondence. I lived with her and Shelley for most of their married life – we were quite content in each other’s company.’ Most of the time. ‘Of course, once Shelley died and Mary moved back to England with their child, we stayed in contact mostly through letters until her death.’ A pang of sadness rang out inside of me. A deep vein of loss. No one felt Mary’s demise more keenly than I – not even her son, who did not invite me to the funeral.

  Mr Rossetti shifted in his chair, obviously discomfited by the turn of our conversation. ‘The world mourned the loss of Frankenstein’s author. Her like will never be seen again – and that goes without a doubt for Shelley, as well.’

  ‘Yes, they belong to the ages now,’ I mused, keeping my emotions under control by staring at the ceiling fresco of sweet-faced cherubs floating on fluffy white clouds in paradise. ‘Fame has a way of elevating even the most ordinary person into a rarified world of angelic perfection, but it’s a far cry from the chaos of real life.’

  ‘You speak from experience, I imagine.’ He stroked his beard, watching me quizzically as if I were a puzzle he had not quite figured out.

  ‘More from the perspective of looking back over a long life.’ Taking in a deep breath, I exhaled slowly, realizing that I had moved off the script. How much could I actually tell this man about the now-revered literary friends of my youth who complained about cold food at the breakfast table, who were short-tempered with the servants and careless about other people’s feelings? ‘I knew Byron and Shelley at their greatest – and lowest – moments; I suppose now the world sees them through the lens of their poetry, but I knew them as men … and very human ones at that. I believe Byron himself said he could not be his own hero while shaving.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Mr Rossetti settled deeper into the chair and crossed his legs. His trousers bore a neat fold at the ankles, leading to shoes that had been polished to a high shine. ‘I cannot imagine anything less heroic.’

  My mouth curved into a smile, which he echoed.

  Adjusting the pillow behind my head, I finally relaxed in his presence. ‘So back to the unpublished materials … I assume that you are interested in purchasing more?’ There. I had said it.

  He nodded vigorously. ‘Our mutual friend, Trelawny, said that you might be interested in … parting with some of the correspondence that occurred between you and members of the Byron/Shelley circle. You may or may not know that Mary and her sole remaining son, Percy, wrote a biography of her husband years ago, and it set off a flurry of works about the poet ever since. It seems that everyone wants to know about Shelley – and Byron, of course – and there is no part of his life too insignificant for our audience today.’

  ‘But not too shocking?’ I raised my brows. ‘I may be living some distance away from England, but I have read Mary’s biography of Shelley and I found it very … suitable for Victorian sensibilities.’ Actually, I hadn’t read it, but Paula told me that it seemed to have glossed over some of the more scandalous parts of our history, and minimized my role in their lives considerably.

  ‘So you did not find it entirely truthful?’ he posed.

  ‘Is anything, especially when it comes to family?’

  A long pause stretched between us like a tense band, with both of us trying to find our way beyond the social niceties to the core of honesty in each other’s character. I could not part with my letters to anyone who was not worthy of preserving the truth.

  The ormolu clock on the mantle ticked away: a steady beat of two mechanical lovebirds that mirrored each step of time one from the other – moment to moment.

  The silence stretched on.

  I glanced at his neatly pressed trousers and shiny shoes once again. Would a deceitful character have taken such pains with his attire? Still … I hesitated.

 
; ‘How well I know about those family “complications,” since we are a family of Italian immigrant eccentrics,’ he mused quietly. ‘My brother, Dante Gabriel, is the erratic painter destined to be famous, and my sister, Christina, is the serious, obsessive poet who cannot help but be the genius she was born to be. That leaves me – a writer of no great talent, and an artist of even less skill. Maybe it’s our destiny to simply be the glass through which history views their greatness.’

  My eyes met his and nothing but gentle understanding glowed from the depths. ‘It seems as if we both have had the privilege and misfortune of being “attached” to the famous,’ I murmured, half to myself.

  ‘Did you say “shackled”?’

  ‘Touché.’

  ‘So will you consider selling your correspondence to me? I would like to write my own biography of Shelley, and having your letters would fill in many of the gaps from the Geneva and Pisa years that recent biographers have perhaps distorted …’

  Rubbing my ankle, I suddenly began to find this whole conversation exhausting. ‘I expect they would. But I’m not sure that I can help you … or that it would be a good thing after all to contradict everyone’s elevated recollections of Shelley. If the world wants to see him like that, who am I to burst that fantasy? I was only a minor player in their drama—’

  ‘You are not even that,’ he said.

  Blinking in momentary confusion, I forgot all about my ankle. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘In the latest revision of Shelley’s biography by his son and his wife, at Mary’s behest apparently, you are not even mentioned by name – just a one-sentence reference as “Mary’s stepsister.”’ He cleared his throat. ‘I apologize for blurting it out, but you just said you had read the biography, and I assumed you preferred … the anonymity.’

  ‘You assumed incorrectly, sir.’ Shock hit me – hard and strong – as if I had been slapped in the face by my own family. I had been wronged. ‘But it was I who cared for Mary and Shelley’s son when he was a child. How could he? And Mary’s betrayal cuts to my heart. When she almost died from a miscarriage in La Spezia, it was I who held her in a bath of ice to stop the bleeding. I saved her life …’ My words ended on a note of outrage.