Claire's Last Secret Read online

  If I had been relegated to a mere side note, no doubt my daughter, Allegra, had been deleted completely from our history.

  Tears stung my eyes, and I blinked them back. ‘I must apologize, Mr Rossetti, but I find myself growing quite fatigued. If you would like to stay and share a refreshment with my niece, Paula, I certainly don’t mind, but I need to rest.’ All pleasant words and good manners – yet, inside, I felt as if I were fading miles and miles away from the bedroom into a dream world between the past and the present where no firm, steady reality was to be found. Lies, all lies. They lied by omission.

  ‘I’m sorry to have upset you, Miss Clairmont, with my lack of sensitivity. It was certainly not my intention. In fact, I believe the Shelley family—’

  ‘If you please, I must insist that you leave.’ My voice was firm, final. I could not bear to hear another word today.

  Maybe not ever.

  He rose to his feet and gave a small bow. ‘Perhaps we could continue our conversation at a later time?’

  I did not respond, just motioned for him to leave – which he did, eventually, after pouring me a cup of tea and pleading with me to hear him out regarding one last point.

  No. I would not listen to another word.

  My shock had turned to anger: pure rage at the ‘sister’ who could never accept that her husband found me a companion when he was at his darkest moments. The sister who found her steps dogged by bleak periods of depression and longed to have my buoyant outlook on life. The sister who craved to give birth to a daughter like my little Allegra. And she had passed that envy on to her son, so he could expunge me from their lives for all time and the world would know less and less of my role.

  It would be as if I never had existed – or I had never borne a daughter.

  Swiping the tears away, I reached for the teacup Mr Rossetti had set next to my bed, but my hands shook so badly that some of the dark liquid spilled on my satin coverlet. I grasped the rim of the cup with my other hand to steady it as I downed the pungent tea; it trickled down my throat and spread through my body in a soothing wave. In a few minutes, I felt my heartbeat quieten somewhat, though my right hand still had a small tremor as I clasped the empty cup.

  How dare she? How dare any of them? They had tried to purge me from the past as if I were a piece of forgotten furniture to be discarded. Perhaps Trelawny was even in on the conspiracy and had contacted Mr Rossetti to buy my Shelley correspondence so he could destroy it. Then there would be even less of me that would survive.

  I would not let that happen.

  Setting the teacup back on the saucer, it caught the edge and both pieces tipped to the floor, splashing the cup’s contents on to the rug. As I watched the stain spread, I dropped my head in my hands, finally giving in to the tears – weeping with a deep sense of lost dreams and endless trials. What was the use of fighting for a place in history when everyone was determined to erase my very existence?

  Maybe invisibility was my destiny.

  I eased off the bed to retrieve the broken china and blot up the tea splotch. Then I noticed a small, folded note of marbleized paper lying next to the saucer. It must have been under the cup and fallen out when the china tipped on to the floor.

  Reaching down, I picked up the note and slowly unfolded it and scanned the lone sentence scrawled on the paper.

  I gasped as I read the words: Your daughter lives.

  My hand went to the silver cross pendant at my chest, covering it with my fingers as I read the words over and over again.

  What did it mean? Allegra had died long ago when she was but five years old.

  Had Mr Rossetti placed the note there? Why?

  Heart pounding, I felt as if my world had begun to tilt off its axis, altering my beliefs about the past and the people I loved. Hearing about Mary’s heartless treachery was bad enough, but now someone was stirring up the ghost of hope about my long-departed daughter, Allegra.

  Am I going mad?

  I started to call out for Paula, but I paused. She and Georgiana were vulnerable, and if Mr Rossetti had come here to trick or swindle us, they could be placed in the path of an unscrupulous man.

  Was he an ally or an enemy? I did not know.

  Surely it was not a coincidence that the note appeared the day of his visit.

  Looking at the words once more, I searched my mind for a fragment of memory that would make it true, but I could summon no such recollections.

  Unless Shelley and Mary lied about Allegra’s fate when they told me she died of typhus at the convent school in Bagnacavallo.

  Was that possible? I could scarcely entertain the notion.

  I thought I knew the truth of what happened all those years ago, but perhaps they had all conspired against me. Closing my eyes, I felt the present slip away into the past. The summer of dreams and passion. Love and light. And that wretched volcano, Tambora. When it erupted, it set a chain of events into motion that stretched beyond its physical boundaries into a timeless reality.

  It turned the world to fire and ash.

  Captain Parker’s Log

  April 5, 1815

  Makassar (240 miles north-east of Mount Tambora)

  When I heard the loud boom, I thought it was cannon fire – a blast of sound that awakened me from my deep-sea slumber. Heart pounding, I rose from my bunk just at the moment that I heard another thunderous crack and then another, so many that my ship, the Fortuna, shuddered in the water. Dear God … pirates had found us and were attacking. Fear flooded through me as I pulled on my breeches, grabbed a pistol and raced up the stairs.

  We had been docked at Makassar, on the southwest coast on the Sulawesi Island, for a fortnight, ready to set sail for England with our rich cargo of exotic spices, teas, and oils; but corsairs had been sighted throughout the Indian Ocean and I decided to delay our departure. Perhaps that had been a mistake. As I took the steps two at a time, my breath coming in gasps, I realized that we may have stayed too long.

  More blasts echoed through the night air as I arrived on deck, my crew scrambling to the rails to scan the waters, anxiously murmuring among themselves.

  ‘Stay calm, men,’ I ordered in a firm voice. ‘We are a sturdy ship and can meet any challenges.’ In truth, the Fortuna was a forty-foot merchant vessel with a crew of fewer than eighty men, all of whom were sailors, not soldiers. We were most vulnerable to pirates, especially since our cruiser carried a storage of silks, teas and opium for the British East India Company. A rich prize.

  If they began to fire their cannons at us, we would be easily taken, for we carried no artillery and few weapons. Our best strategy would be to head out to sea and try to outrun any rogue pirates.

  The ship rocked violently with the next blast, and a few of my men shouted in fear.

  ‘Courage! We will protect our ship at all costs,’ I exclaimed. I would never allow pirates to take my cargo. This was my chance to achieve wealth and fame, which was denied me as a younger son of an upper-class English family. I had spent two years in this godforsaken part of the world to earn my fortune, and I would not give up even one jar of precious oil. Never.

  Just then, the booms ceased, the Fortuna stilled and the air turned eerily quiet.

  Taking advantage of the moment, I raced to the bow and scanned the waters off to the north, squinting in the moonless, black night, trying to catch sight of a pirate ship. But I saw nothing. I heard only the quiet lap of waves against the hull of my ship, steady and rhythmic.

  Then I glanced at the smaller vessels docked nearby. They showed no sign of activity, most likely because their crews were on shore leave.

  The men joined me one by one, but we said nothing more.

  Damp, humid air seemed to grow even heavier as I waited and watched with my crew. Clutching the pistol, I struggled to keep my dread at bay as the minutes passed slowly, and still we heard no more cannon fire.

  ‘Maybe it was thunder,’ one of my crew whispered in an anxious voice.

  I was not convin
ced.

  Gazing upward, I searched in vain for a break in the clouds to allow the moon an instant to beam its light upon us. Instead, I felt a droplet against my face. Then another … and another. The soft sprinkle of rainfall had begun. Perhaps it had been thunder after all, heralding a tropical storm.

  Blinking rapidly, I felt the drizzle grow stronger, coming down in heavy waves. But it felt oddly dry and powdery and tasted like grains of sand dropping from the sky. It was not a storm. It was not rain.

  It was volcanic ash.

  Without conscious intention, I began to pray. Pray to God. Pray to Fate. Pray for redemption of my sins.

  Was this the end of the world?

  TWO

  Geneva, Switzerland, May 1816

  ‘Byron is going to be here soon – I can feel it,’ I exclaimed, my eyes darting back and forth between Mary and Shelley. She had a piece of needlework in her hand, as always – some bit of white muslin with embroidered flowers on it – but I couldn’t sit long enough to hold a needle, much less sew with it. Shelley had his favorite volume of some Greek playwright in hand. He looked up; she did not.

  ‘I heard his cortege made a procession from the coast of France almost as if he were royalty: several carts, animals, servants – and his own carriage, which is a replica of the one that Napoleon traveled in,’ Shelley commented, an ironic twist to his mouth. ‘I think he may find us distressingly simple.’

  ‘More like impoverished,’ Mary murmured as she leaned over and adjusted the blanket that covered her infant son, William, in his hand-carved wooden cradle. He slept during this delicate maneuver, never uttering a peep, even as Mary stroked his cheek. The temperatures were unseasonably cool for summer, and she was quite nervous over the state of William’s health.

  ‘I will not let either of you dampen my enthusiasm for seeing Byron again. I have longed for him to be here with us. It seems as if a lifetime has passed since I last saw him, even though it has only been a few months.’ Glancing around the modest little sitting area of our rooms at the Hotel d’Angleterre, I felt a pang of uncertainty that he would ever show up.

  Byron was the one who had wanted to meet in Geneva, and had become all the more eager when he knew I traveled with Shelley – a poet almost as notorious as he. His letters, while hardly passionate (could I blame him with his life in shambles?), had been encouraging that we would be together again. But he made no mention as to his arrival date, even when I playfully accused him of being an old man for all the lack of speed he had displayed in arriving in Geneva. Surely he would be happy to see me again?

  Yes, he would. I knew it in my heart and soul. I was not just a passing fancy.

  Shelley and Mary exchanged a cautious glance, and it caused a flare of irritation inside of me. Who were they to judge and be cautious? A married man and his mistress? Even though Mary traveled as ‘Mrs Shelley,’ his wife, Harriet, still lived and resided in England with their two children. Could anything be more hypocritical than to disapprove of my actions? Mary had her great poet – why should I not have mine?

  I had even introduced Mary to Byron in London, and she remarked repeatedly afterwards that he was so ‘mild and mannerly.’ So why was she now urging me to be more temperate in my feelings?

  Byron had left England a week before we did; he should have reached us already, even if he had altered his travel plans en route and chosen another hotel.

  No, that could not be. Every traveling British tourist stayed at the Hotel d’Angleterre since it was a stop on the Grand Tour for people with the money to journey in style. The best hostelry in Geneva, it was located in the suburb of Sécheron, at the southernmost tip of the lake, just outside the walls of the city to avoid the ten o’clock curfew when the gates closed on all evening soirees. Luxury and revelry. Byron would not be able to resist stopping here.

  Perhaps it was not wise that I had been haunting the hotel’s lobby for a sight of him, but I could not restrain myself. When he did arrive, he would no doubt be given luxury quarters with a private entrance, so I had to keep my watch for the moment he appeared; otherwise, it could be days before we actually met again.

  How unfortunate that all we could afford was this cheap set of rooms on the upper floor, far from the grand entrance. Needless to say, aside from the view of the lake and streets below, our quarters had modest appointments – tiny spaces and bare floors, along with outdated wallpaper with its scenes of the Napoleonic Wars. Hardly the type of residence for Shelley; after all, he was the son of an earl. But then again, the three of us were living in a type of limbo – not servants yet not respectable. Our families had disowned us and the creditors had hounded us out of London, but we somehow managed to survive.

  Still, who could not be happy when pursuing love to its natural end, even if the whole world shunned us?

  ‘Where is he?’ With dragging steps, I moved to the window, almost willing him to appear below. But only a young boy ambled along the rainy street, his shoes slipping on the wet, uneven cobblestones. He snatched a rose from the flower cart, and an old woman clad in black yelled after him, shaking her hand as she spat on the ground. As the rain began to fall in heavy sheets, she pushed the cart slowly down the street, leaving only gray emptiness.

  I sighed and turned away from the window.

  ‘When is this incessant rain going to stop?’ Mary moaned as she focused once more on her needlework and rubbed her forehead. She probably had a headache again; she had had one every couple of days since the baby’s birth. ‘I don’t think we have had one clear day—’

  ‘It’s all the fault of that volcano – Mount Tambora,’ Shelley said, setting one book on the floor next to his chair and picking up another that had been tucked in the side of his chair cushion. ‘I read it in the paper today. A volcano erupted on the other side of the world late last year; it consumed whole villages in liquid fire and blasted a cloud of thick and dusky ashes into the sky. Just imagine the power of that explosion.’

  Intrigued, I drew closer to them. ‘How does that affect us?’

  ‘The ash cloud will be drifting over Europe for the next few months, and it is so large that the sun will hardly be able to penetrate it.’ Shelley paused for dramatic effect. ‘I think the rain and cold are likely to be with us for the entire summer – a fitting veil between us and the divine light of the heavens.’

  ‘Surely not.’ Mary’s delicate features drew together in a frown. ‘That is terribly depressing.’

  ‘Stop trying to frighten us, Shelley. Who cares about the gray skies?’ I shrugged, rising from the widow seat. ‘It rains most of the time in England, so we are used to it. Every day is dreary in London. At least here we have the possibility of sunshine.’

  ‘Ever the optimist, Claire,’ my sister commented with a twist to her lips that could never have been taken for a smile.

  ‘No, she is simply a woman in love,’ Shelley chimed in, reaching for my hand. I clasped his slender fingers briefly, the skin smooth and soft as befitting a lord’s son who had never done a day’s worth of manual labor. Mary noted my gesture and frowned.

  She had no reason to be jealous, but I could tell that she found my presence intrusive at times. An interloper in their relationship.

  ‘Claire has found her poet, her inspiration – the man who will spend his days writing verse to her fine, dark eyes.’ Shelley made a gesture of appeal toward Mary. ‘We want her to have what we share together, do we not, my love?’

  She smiled, her forehead tranquil once more. ‘Of course.’

  I leaned down and hugged her, stroking her fine hair. ‘I may never have a connection as powerful as yours, but I shall never tire of looking for it.’

  Mary submitted to my embrace but turned her head away from me – she had eyes only for Shelley.

  I watched the two of them exchange another glance – this time of deep rapture – and I felt a twinge of uncertainty again at my own attachment. Unlike Mary and Shelley, my love and I had not found an instantaneous connection of he
art and mind – the type of passion that made everything in life pale by comparison. In truth, I had pursued Byron shamelessly in London. I admit it. Knowing that he was at the Drury Lane Theater, I had arranged for an audition with him on the pretext that I wanted to become an actress. I didn’t really want to act on the stage, though; I wanted to be his leading lady, and I made certain that he noticed me. He protested that our age gap was too great: he had turned twenty-eight and I was but seventeen. But I would not be deterred. I showed him some of my poetry, then I sang for him and he was captivated; he said my voice could make the angels weep.

  I don’t know that it was true love, but after we made love, I knew he would be mine. Forever.

  Glancing at the mirror across the room, I checked my reflection with a saucy tilt of my head: dark curls, deep brown eyes and smooth olive skin from my unknown father. Almost Italian. Nothing like Mary with her pale, refined features and serious expression. But I had an eager animation that I knew how to work to my advantage, even if I was not a great beauty like my stepsister.

  Byron said I possessed the fire and ice of a Mediterranean temperament, not quite tamed by a British upbringing. Perhaps it was true. My father may have been one of the rebels that he wrote about in his poetry and my mother was certainly English and tried every way she could to make me rein in my emotions. Alas, to no avail.

  ‘Perhaps we should go to the quay to hire a boat for the evening. If Byron arrives, he will already be on the lake,’ I suggested as I drifted around the room, my fingers trailing the furniture edges. He had told me about his celebrated swim of Hellespont when he was a young man in Greece, recounting how he felt the equal of any man when mastering a powerful wave with stroke after stroke, his clubfoot out of sight. It also soothed his fiery imagination to be near an expanse of water, either swimming or boating.

  Mary opened her mouth, and I knew she would urge caution, but Shelley cut in quickly as he took a quick glance out the window, ‘I see nothing wrong with strolling to the lake and hiring a boat – if the rain lets up. Perhaps we shall make our way to Yvoire this time to see the medieval castle, and if we happen to catch a glimpse of the great man himself, well, then, would that not be a prize indeed?’