A Shadowed Fate Page 2

  ‘When do I ever not think of him?’ Sighing, I gazed out over the Boboli Gardens’ gently unfolding terraces, flowering trees, and Roman statues. Its lush beauty had been my consolation for many years … and the scene of my greatest pain.

  ‘There has never been anyone like him before or since – brilliant and brave, yet stubborn and foolhardy. When he said he hardly knew himself to be more than a chameleon, it was true. He was my friend and later my comrade-in-arms but, at times, something about his nature remained elusive.’ Trelawny spoke slowly, as if he was working out pieces to a puzzle. ‘Byron was always the shadow between us, was he not, Claire? How could I ever compete with a ghost?’

  Turning from the window, I regarded him with a thoughtful gaze. ‘Perhaps the ghost was not him, but Allegra.’

  ‘Or both.’

  ‘Possibly … I think he was somewhat jealous of you,’ I added in a slightly lighter tone. ‘How often is it that a poet sees the living embodiment of his own poetic creations? When you suddenly appeared in Pisa after fighting in the Napoleonic Wars, seemingly more of a Byronic hero than Byron himself, he must have been quite chagrined. Or so I have heard.’

  ‘He was courageous, Claire,’ he said with quiet emphasis. ‘Never doubt it.’

  ‘If you say so.’ I shrugged. Still smarting over this conspiracy that Byron had engineered, I was in no mood to hear anything favorable about him. ‘But here we are, speaking of him again when we should be focused on what happened to Allegra—’

  Just then, Paula entered, carrying the tea tray, complete with my beloved antique china teapot, three cups and saucers, and a little tin that housed my favorite oolong tea. I never lost my taste for its deep and bitter flavor. ‘You two seem rather engrossed in your conversation,’ she observed in a cool voice.

  Trelawny immediately rose and took the tray from her, setting it on the small table in front of me and carefully placing the sketch to the side.

  ‘Grazie.’ She slid on to the settee opposite our chairs and began the ritual of measuring out the black tea, her delicate, cameo-like features bent over her task. Scooping out one spoon at a time into the teapot, she then poured in the hot water with efficient motions born of long practice. ‘I hope that I did not miss anything important.’

  Trelawny shook his head. ‘I was just about to tell your aunt everything I knew about Allegra.’

  ‘Indeed?’ She kept her focus on the tea ritual, brushing back a stray blond hair. ‘I, for one, would like to hear why you lied to Aunt Claire for so long – she has been distressed for days over your actions. It does not seem like the behavior of someone who cares about her, knowing how much she grieved her daughter’s supposed death. Certainly, we intend to hear you out, but do not expect approval—’

  ‘Or forgiveness,’ I added.

  ‘Once you hear the entire story, I am hoping that you will understand why I remained silent for so long.’ He seated himself again, watching Paula with a slight smile. ‘You are very much like your aunt – spirited and independent.’

  ‘We have both had to fend for ourselves.’ Paula strained the dark liquid into one of the cups. ‘Milk and sugar?’

  ‘Neither – thank you.’

  She handed it to him.

  As Trelawny made more small talk while Paula poured the other two cups, I watched him try to work his magic on my niece. At once both deferential and masculine, he was an unusual blend of gentleman and outlaw. It was an attractive combination, but what truly drew me to him was the kindness that I discovered lay behind his swagger. Never a man to trifle with, Trelawny always protected those he cared about. Except this time …

  Paula and I sipped our tea, waiting for him to begin. Time seemed to pause in that hushed room in spite of the ormolu clock on the fireplace mantle ticking with a steady rhythm, the pendulum swinging back and forth with a staccato clicking sound – each tap signaling a chance for Trelawny to render his tale.

  Eventually, he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his thighs. ‘As you know, when Byron left Genoa for Greece in the autumn of 1823 to join in the War of Independence against the Turks, he asked me to join him. Of course, I could not turn him down. What man would not welcome the chance for honor and glory, especially for the Greek cause? I set sail the same day that I received his note and joined him in Cephalonia. Pietro Gamba had already made the crossing from Italy—’

  ‘Ah, yes. Pietro – the brother of Byron’s last mistress, Teresa,’ I could not resist interjecting, a slight edge in my tone.

  ‘He was a fine young man – loyal and strong-minded. He fought on in Greece after Byron’s demise but, sadly, also died quite young.’ A brief melancholy shadow crossed Trelawny’s face. Then he continued, ‘But I digress … When I arrived in Cephalonia, the situation was dire. Military factions fighting each other, no clear battle plans, and little money to finance an army. Byron’s presence was most welcome since he showed surprising diplomatic skill at bringing the men together – and he also brought a huge war chest of gold to finance the first campaign.’

  ‘Byron? A diplomat?’ Paula said, her brow furrowed with puzzlement as she swung her glance in my direction. ‘But that is nothing like the man you have told me about, Aunt Claire. The poetic genius who treated people so carelessly and roamed around Europe without clear purpose. How could he have been such a hero?’

  ‘I suppose my view of him has been somewhat colored by his treatment of our daughter – perhaps unfairly when that image is placed next to the man he might have become in Greece,’ I admitted reluctantly. But I was not ready to forgive Byron – even if he had found a late-life redemption.

  ‘Perhaps somewhat,’ Paula murmured.

  If there was a tinge of reproach in her words, I did not hear it, though my heart beat a little faster, anticipating what Trelawny was about to say.

  ‘I would have laid down my life for Byron – we all would have because we fought for a just cause and we trusted him.’ He stared off into the distance at some memory that I could not share … a lost horizon of a soldier’s world where men took on hardships that tested their mettle and power. ‘Byron and I drilled the troops in the morning and found ourselves dining alone in the evenings. Pietro would fall asleep, but Byron seemed oddly energized by the constant sense of danger. He thrived on it. He was not writing then, but his conversations flowed richly about politics, his life in England, his loves—’

  ‘You wrote about much of that in your memoir,’ I cut in with some impatience. Trelawny had published his Recollections of the Last Days of Shelley and Byron about fifteen years earlier; it gave some military details of the Greek conflict, but little of the emotional details that I wanted to hear – or the facts about my daughter. I had but skimmed it, feeling that Trelawny had exaggerated their exploits, but perhaps he had not done so.

  ‘Yes, but of course I omitted Byron’s comments about you, Claire, and the guilt he felt about Allegra. He mentioned it night after night. I heard the stories of how you met in England and found each other again in Geneva with Mary and Shelley at the Villa Diodati, sailed the lake in between the storms, gathered in the evenings to philosophize on life … and, later, how he learned that you were going to bear his child.’

  I sighed. ‘It was a … remarkable time. We were so young and so full of optimism that it seems difficult even to remember who I was then, except that I never wanted the summer to end.’

  ‘Nor did he – apparently,’ Trelawny added with a half-smile. ‘Unfortunately, life never stands still, does it?’

  I shook my head.

  He drained his teacup in one long, deep swallow. ‘Events in Cephalonia moved rather quickly once we began training the Souliotes for the first big offensive against the Turks; at first, we had only minor skirmishes but made plans eventually to attack the fortress at Lepanto. I believe it was in February that Byron traveled to Missolonghi to bring the military factions together, while he sent me to the north for meetings with envoys from the London Greek Committee. All went well for m
e, but not so for him. Missolonghi was a depressing place – a town built on a marsh, full of mosquitoes and malaria, where the sea and sky seemed to blend into one surreal, cloudy landscape. Sieges had become commonplace and none of the commanders could agree how to attack the Turks.’ His voice shook slightly. ‘Frustrated with the constant squabbles around him, Byron rode out from the town on horseback and was caught in a rainstorm. Not long afterwards, he grew feverish, then weakened quickly, with only his servant Fletcher to attend to him at first …’

  As Trelawny’s voice trailed off, I found myself unable to speak. Certainly, I had read his account of Byron’s death in Greece in Trelawny’s Recollections, but absorbing the details of my lost lover’s final days ignited a new spark of compassion within me. Taking on the role of a warrior-leader, Byron had isolated himself. And he had been so long out of England that he lost contact – except through occasional letters – with those who were, at one time, so much a part of his life. I knew the latter part only too well. Much as I loved my adopted country, there is a loneliness in being in a foreign land that never really goes away. A bittersweet longing for one’s native soil. I could imagine his staring out over the Adriatic Sea, thinking of his dear Newstead Abbey and wondering if all of his English friends had forgotten him.

  I cleared my throat. ‘He must have known that he would not survive Greece.’

  Trelawny nodded with a grim twist to his mouth.

  ‘It sounds as if that was the way he wanted to die.’ Paula solemnly refilled Trelawny’s cup. ‘Perhaps it redeemed him – if only in his own mind.’

  Reaching out, I touched my niece’s cheek. ‘Your kind nature shames me, my dear. I have been pitiless in my own behavior and held malice in my heart toward Byron. But now, when I hear about his valor, I must admit that he became a different man to the one whom I recall.’ I smiled at her blink of surprise. ‘Don’t look so shocked. I have been reflecting for the last couple of days and realized that my lingering rancor against him will not change what happened.’

  ‘You may even find forgiveness … for both of us when you hear the rest of my narrative,’ Trelawny added as he held up the obelisk sketch. ‘Before Byron left for Missolonghi, he showed this drawing to me and said he kept it with him at all times. Then he told me what was hidden at the obelisk’s base in the Boboli Gardens: a box with Allegra’s lock of hair that you placed there together.’

  The enamel box.

  We buried it there.

  Now it was Paula’s turn to offer me a touch of reassurance, since she had learned about it only recently. ‘It must have been difficult for you to keep that secret for so long, but I understand why you kept it hidden. It held such a personal sentiment for you.’

  ‘No one knew about it – or at least I thought that to be the case.’ I bit my lip to keep it from trembling. ‘Byron had come to Florence with the box, six months after Allegra supposedly died, and we placed it there so something of her would survive. I suppose I wanted to keep those precious moments to myself because it was a private moment and the last time I ever saw Byron.’ Sighing, I remembered his parting words of love and guilt; he had looked weary beyond his years – a man who had experienced too much in life. ‘I had no idea until I dug it up at the Boboli Gardens a few nights ago that he had left a message in the box saying our daughter had not died, but had been hidden for her own safety.’

  With dawning realization, Paula said slowly, ‘He never meant for you to read it, did he?’

  ‘No.’ I could still feel his cold cheek against mine when he kissed me farewell and extracted a promise that I would never look at the contents of the box again.

  ‘I am so sorry, Aunt.’

  Leveling a glare at Trelawny, I continued, ‘But you knew.’ It was not a question.

  ‘Byron told me in our last conversation – along with his confession that Allegra survived her days in the convent school—’

  ‘Why did you deceive me?’ I demanded as a surge of ire rose up inside of me. ‘I trusted you after those early years in Pisa when you said how much I meant to you – and, later, when I returned from Russia and you asked me to marry you. If I had agreed to become your wife, would you have hidden the secret from me even then?’

  I heard Paula take in a quick breath.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied.

  I slammed my cup in the saucer and it broke apart, the fragile china cracking into several jagged sections that fell to the carpet. Instantly, Trelawny knelt, scooped up the fragments, and set them on the tea table. He then took my hands and checked them over, tracing my palm with a light touch. ‘No cuts – thank goodness.’

  ‘It is hardly your concern.’ Pulling back, I searched his face for the honest and true man that I had once known. ‘It seems as if I was gravely mistaken to place my faith in you, Edward.’

  ‘Please … I am not finished.’ Trelawny stiffened at my indictment of his deception. ‘You must know all of it now, though you may not want to hear it. Byron had me swear an oath not to tell you about Allegra because he said that it would have endangered both of your lives. When he lived in Ravenna, talk of revolution was in the air and someone tried to shoot him when he went riding in the pine forests near Filetto – the gunman missed. Afterwards, Byron became concerned – not for himself but for Allegra. He placed her in the Convent of Bagnacavello for her protection but, only months later, an assassin tried to kill her. She escaped death only because the Abbess caught the intruder by surprise: he had appeared in Allegra’s room with a knife while she lay sleeping. The nun shouted for help, but he escaped; he seemed to fit the description of a man who worked in the household of Ludovico di Breme. Afterwards, Byron knew it was no longer safe for your daughter to remain there.’

  ‘Di Breme? The man who came to visit Byron when we were in Geneva? You told me only recently in the Boboli Gardens that Byron was alarmed by his appearance – especially after my suspicious fall at Castle Chillon.’ I simply stared at him, trying to make sense of his story. It was as if I could grasp only echoes of this bizarre retelling of the past – nothing seemed to fit together, now or then. ‘But why?’

  ‘Byron came to know di Breme later in Italy – as a poet and revolutionary – but he chose not to share that part of the story with me, except that di Breme had a servant named Stefano who he thought had tried to harm Allegra. So when the typhus epidemic swept through the convent a few months later, he faked Allegra’s death and sent her into hiding.’ Trelawny paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.

  ‘Can it be true?’ Paula said, her hand shaking as she set the teacup down. ‘Why would anyone want to kill a child?’

  My breathing grew labored as I struggled with my emotions. I had longed to know the whole truth behind my daughter’s supposed death, but this revelation was hardly what I had expected. A potential killer at the convent? It was almost too terrible to believe, but Trelawny’s clear and direct gaze told me everything I needed to know about the veracity of his story. It explained much about his part in Byron’s subterfuge, and the reason for the two of them to have created such a scheme.

  ‘It was chaotic in Italy at the time – the country was on the brink of war against its Austrian oppressors – and Byron was caught up in the midst of it in Ravenna because of his association with Teresa and her family,’ Trelawny explained to Paula as he struggled to his feet, a bit more slowly than I remembered from the last time I saw him. ‘They were heavily involved in a secret and ancient society …’

  A realization began to stir inside of me. ‘The Carbonari?’

  ‘You knew?’ He touched my shoulder gently.

  ‘Only recently.’ I recounted how Father Gianni had noticed a Carbonari charcoal burner symbol drawn on the page of one of Byron’s letters, and told me what it meant. ‘He is the one who explained that they were a secret society, built around the trade of charcoal, and that Byron had likely become a member.’

  ‘So the priest guessed about the Carbonari connection to Byron.’ Trelawny frowned as
he rubbed the back of his neck in an absent gesture. ‘It may be a coincidence that he discovered it at the same time that Matteo confronted him at the basilica, but it does seem to add another element to Father Gianni’s death.’

  ‘Indeed.’ My anger had dissipated somewhat, but I had even more concerns about what had happened. Was Father Gianni’s death more than a simple murder and, if so, how did it link to Byron’s role with the Carbonari?

  Perhaps nothing was as it seemed … and never would be again.

  ‘Can you see why I never dared to write about this part of my days with Byron or tell you about Allegra?’ he pressed me with a note of urgency in his voice. ‘I gave him my word and believed that, in doing so, it would save Allegra from another potential threat to her life. Many people wanted Byron dead, both in Italy and, later, Greece; he had made many enemies, and they would have done anything to kill him or anyone related to him.’

  Stubbornly, I averted my head. ‘He could have sent Allegra to live with me in Pisa, where I was staying with Mary and Shelley; we were far from Ravenna.’

  ‘Surely you realize that option would have been rife with danger. Shelley was known as an atheist with revolutionary ideas; he was watched by the police. Bringing your daughter into that situation would have made her safety – and yours – even more fraught with peril.’

  ‘What about later, after Byron had died?’ I pressed him as I swung my glance back in his direction. ‘Why did you not tell me then?’

  ‘I did not know if the danger was over,’ he said simply. ‘Nor do I even now.’

  In my heart I knew he was right, but I could not say it. Not yet.

  Paula pressed her hands to her cheeks, grown even paler. ‘This whole story is all so utterly unbelievable, with talk of secret societies and assassins – and even more so because of the events of the last two or so weeks. Murderous landlords. Secrets and lies. I feel that our tranquil life in Florence is gone forever—’