Claire's Last Secret Page 9

  I exhaled with a whisper of sad agreement.

  ‘But his affections are engaged with you, Claire – I know it. And he is not the type of man who would abandon his responsibilities to his own child, no matter what occurs between the two of you.’ She must have felt the sudden squeeze of pain in my heart because her tone took on a much lighter aspect. ‘At any rate, we are happy enough here in our magic circle, so it may all work out in the way that you hope, once he has had time to adjust to his new life.’

  ‘Yes. I believe that may be so,’ I responded quickly, grasping at the sweet possibility of happiness with every fiber of my being; I would do anything to make it happen. ‘There are certainly no two poets who find each other’s company more congenial, or who love sailing more. This is an almost perfect place for those two occupations.’

  ‘If only Shelley would remember to feed the chicken,’ Mary moaned theatrically and we both laughed, breaking the sudden blanket of melancholy that had descended over us. We had bought the chicken, whom we named Gertie, to provide fresh eggs for William, but Shelley constantly forgot to feed her and she had grown alarmingly thin. Needless to say, Gertie’s egg production had declined as well. ‘I know great men must think great thoughts, but perhaps they could also—’

  ‘Feed the chicken?’ I raised my brows, imitating Byron’s habitually sardonic expression. ‘I think not.’

  We laughed again.

  Just then, the large oak door swung open and Polidori hobbled in, causing our happy mood to dim. He had been trying to impress Mary a few days ago by jumping over a fence; unfortunately, he had landed on a rabbit hole. He’d sprained his left foot and consequently endured endless mockery from Byron, who termed him ‘the Knight Gallant.’ Of course, his injury prevented him from joining in Shelley and Byron’s ramblings, providing him cause to remain with us as he recovered.

  A most unhappy outcome for Mary and me.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Mary inquired politely, extending her hand towards him.

  ‘Somewhat better.’ He made an elaborate bow as he clasped her palm, but when he attempted to raise her fingers to his lips, she pulled back.

  ‘I am very glad to hear that.’ She cleared her throat awkwardly.

  He turned in my direction. ‘Miss Claire.’

  ‘Dr Polidori.’

  We acknowledged each other as fighters moving into a ring, readying themselves for a bare-knuckle battle. I did not welcome our usual clash of wills, but I would not back down either in the face of his distaste.

  Admittedly handsome, Polidori was barely a few years older than Mary and me, but he possessed an air of one who thought a great deal of himself, as if he had achieved a degree of success equal to that of his employer. He displayed the arrogance of an ambitious man, ever watchful of an opportunity to push himself forward.

  Personally, I did not understand why Byron even tolerated him.

  Now that he had become attached to Mary, I found Shelley’s patience with him even more disconcerting.

  ‘We expect Byron and Shelley shortly; they took the sailboat across the lake to Geneva this morning to see the old cathedral at Yvoire,’ I said, stressing the imminence of their arrival and hoping that he would not linger.

  Polidori seated himself, stretching out his injured leg.

  Drat the man.

  ‘I hear that you are copying one of Byron’s new cantos of Childe Harold,’ he began with a smile – a sly twist of his mouth that hardly reached his eyes. ‘That must be very … enlightening for you.’

  ‘And your meaning, sir?’ I responded, my eyes narrowing.

  Polidori flicked an imaginary speck of lint from his dark jacket. ‘Only that you probably find it moving to see the words of the great poet himself before anyone else’s eyes read the lines. You are his muse – his editor perhaps? Indeed, I imagine that your hand probably trembles as you write …’

  I clenched my jaw, knowing he was baiting me. But I, too, could play that game.

  ‘Yes, it does.’ Smiling sweetly, I continued, ‘Being in the presence of true brilliance can be daunting, but I find it brings out only the best in me – as opposed to others who are consumed with petty jealousy at the thought of their lesser talent.’ I stressed the last two words delicately.

  Mary stifled a giggle.

  He frowned. ‘I assume you reference me, Miss Claire?’

  ‘Indeed, no – I had no one in particular in mind. It is just a general comment.’ I rose and moved towards the fire, reaching for a log. But before I could toss it into the flames, Polidori was at my side and took the piece of wood from me.

  ‘You should let men attend the fire – it is hardly the job of women.’ He threw it into the hearth, causing deep, red flames to rise upwards in fiery spikes. A tiny spark shot out and singed my arm. I winced.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Mary exclaimed.

  ‘I am fine.’

  Polidori seized my arm and rubbed his thumb over the small, reddish spot. ‘You see, Miss Claire? When you play with fire, you can get burned.’

  Snatching my arm out of his grasp, I stepped back. ‘I have a thick skin and can take care of myself.’ But the sharp pain had caused tears to sting at my eyes. I turned away so he could not see my face, but he could probably sense that I was lying. Why did he provoke me so?

  ‘Perhaps I misjudged you,’ he said from behind me. ‘If so, you are a formidable woman.’

  In truth, I was not that type of female; I was, in fact, quite vulnerable – unmarried with a child on the way. Polidori’s very presence seemed a threat to me because I did not understand his insinuations as he hovered around us like a malevolent spirit, planting doubt and uncertainty.

  Massaging my arm, I kept my back to him as I seated myself again next to Mary.

  ‘Do not let him annoy you so, Claire; he is only trying to prove he is your superior,’ she whispered, ‘which he is not.’

  I gave a little shake of my head but did not respond. It was more than provocation; it was malice, pure and simple. But Mary did not truly see that in him. She viewed Polidori as the silly young man who constantly tried to impress her and whom she held at arm’s length, secure in Shelley’s love.

  Polidori flung himself into a chair opposite us and stared into the fire in silence for a short time. Then he finally spoke up. ‘I wonder how all of those people who died in that volcano eruption last year felt as they drew their last breath. Did they know they were going to die? Did they suffer long?’

  Mary moved her hand to her mouth briefly, her eyes widening in dismay. ‘What are you talking about?’

  He swung his face in her direction. ‘I was reading about that volcano that exploded in the Far East last summer – Mount Tambora. It buried whole villages in a matter of minutes, so the residents could not outrun the heat and lava flow. Imagine that? In the blink of an eye—’

  ‘Dear God, Polidori!’ Mary interjected. ‘What evil sprite has taken possession of you to talk about such things?’

  ‘Life and death?’ He gave a mocking laugh. ‘That is my profession, my dear Mary. I am a physician, after all.’

  She stiffened, her face turning pale and cold. ‘I would ask that you do not address me with such familiarity, sir.’

  ‘I stand corrected, Mrs Shelley, and I apologize.’ His tone sounded anything but apologetic.

  Most locals referred to Mary with the title of a married woman but, in truth, everyone knew she and Shelley were not wed.

  ‘Accepted.’ She sat back, somewhat mollified. But I was not convinced that he had the least bit of regret for his overfamiliarity. Nor had I heard him talk like that whenever Byron and Shelley were present. No, his presuming ways were confined to Mary and me when we had no male protectors present. Cowardly and rude.

  ‘You must admit that the thought of a volcano on the other side of the world creating such massive destruction is compelling,’ he continued, ‘causing us to live in perpetual darkness here in Geneva with the rain and clouds.’

  �
�I have nothing but sympathy for those who died or may have known someone who died,’ I chimed in, looking down at little William with a shudder. ‘It would cut out a woman’s heart to lose a husband or a child.’

  ‘So true.’ Mary clutched the cradle in a protective gesture. ‘To lose a loved one is torture to the soul, a pain that can cause the most resilient person to behave rashly, even to the point of wanting to cut through the veil that separates life from death.’

  ‘Bringing the dead back?’ Polidori queried. ‘Do you think that is possible?’

  ‘No,’ I blurted out.

  ‘Yes,’ Mary said simultaneously.

  He folded his arms across his chest, smiling. ‘So the sisters finally disagree on something? Who would have thought that was possible, or that it would be on the subject of resurrection?’

  I started to protest, but Mary held up a hand and proceeded to answer for us. ‘I am not saying we can play God and animate the dead – now. I agree with Claire. But in the future, who knows? Science may be showing us the way through … electricity.’

  ‘Brava.’ Polidori clapped his hands. ‘Very diplomatic, if unrealistic.’

  ‘Even if we could bring back those whom we have lost, it is not something mankind should attempt,’ I cut in. ‘The departed have left us, never to return. That is the way of nature, and we must respect it.’

  ‘You will feel differently, Claire, when you become a mother,’ Mary said, lifting William on to her lap with a soft kiss against his cheek.

  ‘You will, indeed,’ Polidori added under his breath before he exited.

  Mary did not hear him, but I did.

  He knew my secret.

  ‘Let us all tell a ghost story,’ Byron said that night after dinner as our little group convened in the huge parlor of the Villa Diodati – sans Polidori, who had a dinner engagement in Geneva. He would not be missed by me. The evening chill had crept in with its foggy dampness, so we huddled close to the immense fireplace. Byron stood near the window, staring out at the darkness relieved only by flashes of jagged lightning. ‘And as we each recite some tale of terror, we will see who is the first one of us who flees in fright—’

  ‘Oh, yes – but let me set the stage first with my new poem,’ Shelley said as he began to pace around the room, reciting lines from his new lyric. ‘I need a distraction from this “Hymn to Intellectual Beauty” – it simply will not allow me to write it.’ He flipped the notebook shut and collapsed on to the settee next to my stepsister. ‘Perhaps you should write it for me, Mary.’

  ‘I would not presume to try poetry. No, that is your forte.’ She stroked the back of his neck in a tender gesture that was usually reserved for William, who was sleeping quietly back at the cottage, watched over by a village girl. ‘The lines will come to you, never fear.’

  ‘But I do fear that I will never find the words again. Maybe I have already written all that I have inside me.’ Shelley raked a hand through his hair, causing it to stand up in wild disarray. Much as he loved roaming the area on horseback with Byron, he always returned in an agitated state, almost as if nature fed a wellspring that threatened to drown his skill to write about it. I also suspected that Byron’s brilliance tended to eclipse Shelley’s confidence.

  Byron, of course, had the opposite reaction: he would turn very genial and prolific, often composing dozens of verses in a single evening, and he became more affectionate to those around him. I took what he had to offer at those times.

  ‘Perhaps my Muse has died.’ Shelley dropped his head with a moan of despair.

  I began to protest from my seat across from them, but Byron chimed in first: ‘Nonsense. There is no better poet in Europe than you, my friend. And the world will soon discover that once my publisher, Murray, puts out a new edition of your poetry. You will find the fame you seek.’

  ‘And who would know better than Albe?’ Mary tossed a smile of gratitude at Byron.

  He bowed and began singing one of his favorite Albanian folk songs in a loud voice that rang out across the room, slightly off key. None of us knew the lyrics, but his stylized performance caused laughter to bubble up, shifting the atmosphere away from Shelley’s poetic demons.

  Once Byron had finished, he moved to his mahogany wine caddy and poured himself a glass of Madeira, downing almost the entire contents in one gulp. Then he refilled his glass and strolled over to our side of the room, dragging his clubfoot rather more heavily than usual. ‘I learned that song during my Grand Tour stop with the Ali Pasha – known as a despot and a rogue, but his hospitality was second to none.’

  ‘Was he the model for Pasha Seyd in The Corsair?’ I queried, hoping to distract him from drinking huge quantities of wine; it did not take long for him to shift into acerbity and bitter quips.

  ‘Partially, though I found him more fatherly than fearsome in my youth.’ He stood behind me and I felt his warm breath against the bare skin of my back, causing an instant wave of desire. Mary and I always wore our best (and only) silk frocks for an evening at the villa. We possessed few dresses, but dinner demanded some semblance of fashion, even in such an isolated setting. So we would don our pastel-colored frocks, with the low-cut empire necklines and billowy skirts that suited both of us, especially me with my generous curves and petite figure. The poets might dominate our conversation with their brilliance, but we wove a sensual thread through the tapestry of our evenings by always appearing to our advantage.

  Poetry and passion. An irresistible combination.

  ‘You certainly have a fondness for the country of Albania,’ Mary interjected.

  ‘It was actually quite a miserable place – horrible roads and endless heat during the summer – but the beauty of the women was unparalleled.’ More breaths against my neck, tinged with alcohol.

  My heartbeat increased to a rapid staccato as he circled my chair, trailing his fingers across my throat. I was his prey, wanting to be caught.

  ‘Some say Claire herself looks quite Mediterranean,’ Shelley said as his eyes did an inventory of my features. I felt the heat rise to my face, but I was pleased to be the center of attention in our little circle – for once. ‘Dark eyes, dusky skin, jet-black curls … just like the Ali Pasha’s daughter, protected from the world in a harem until love awakens her deepest longings—’

  ‘You seem to have found your poetic voice again,’ Mary cut in, her tone now sharp. Ever watchful that Shelley might show me too much fondness, she had little patience when his flights of fancy extended to me.

  ‘Inspired, no doubt, by the beauty around us.’ Byron raised his glass to Mary and me; the awkward moment passed like the flare of a candle in the wind. But it was there between us – always there.

  A crack of thunder split through the silence, causing me to jump and then glance at the window nervously. ‘The storms seem worse this evening now the wind has picked up; it feels as if we are in the midst of a tempest …’

  ‘A perfect night to tell ghost stories,’ Byron continued as he took a seat, completing our circle. The magic seemed to intertwine around us, charging the very air with creative energy. ‘Shall I begin?’

  ‘Please do,’ I urged.

  ‘It is not a story, but a poem that I have been working on.’ He leaned his head back against the headrest and toyed with his wine glass as he began to recite in a low voice: “I had a dream, which was not all a dream. / The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars / Did wander darkling in the eternal space, / Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth / Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air …”’

  Mary gave an anxious little cough, and the color drained from her already pale face. ‘I have had that identical dream where I wandered the earth as the last person left after a cataclysm – it was a dark and empty world without friends or family. One without hope,’ she said in a hushed tone and visibly shuddered. ‘I cannot imagine a worse fate than to be all alone … forever.’

  He nodded slowly, solemnly. ‘I call the poem “Darkness.”’

 
; Now, it was my turn to shiver. Was that to be our future? Dreadful solitude and loneliness permeating our last days?

  Surely fate could not be that unkind.

  Another crack of thunder rumbled outside – louder and stronger – causing the shutters to rattle.

  Before I lost my nerve, I spoke up. ‘I have a ghost story in mind of a woman who is so independent of character and mind that her lover rejects her. She then dies and haunts him forever … I titled it “The Idiot.”’

  ‘It sounds like Annabella, my wife.’ Byron gave a bitter guffaw. ‘For my part, I want no more of that type of woman – she certainly made our life together idiotic at best, tragic at worst.’

  A tense silence enveloped the room; no one responded.

  ‘Surely not all was bad,’ Shelley finally spoke up. ‘You have a daughter, and she is part of you, no matter what. You must remember that always.’

  Byron turned his head slowly and looked at Shelley as though he were a visitor from another world – an alien place far away from his own jaded perspective. ‘You are one of the best men that I have known in my life, and I am not worthy of your friendship. Perhaps if the world had treated me better, I would have the finer qualities of a gentleman such as you, Shelley.’

  Shelley simply smiled. ‘I, too, have my faults – as Mary can tell you.’

  Shaking her head slightly, she responded, ‘My only protest is that you become so consumed in your poetry and reading that you forget to eat.’

  Byron laughed again, but the bitterness had lightened somewhat.

  ‘Claire, you must write your story of “The Idiot,”’ Shelley enthused, ‘and promise to scare us down to our bones when you read it.’

  ‘I agree.’ Byron flashed a glance of mild interest in my direction. ‘It will certainly … entertain us.’

  A glow of delight flowed through me. In truth, I had been writing the novel since we first came to Geneva, but I did not have the courage to share it with anyone yet. Growing up in my family, one had to possess the skill to write great epics or be consigned into the oblivion of a lesser being. I would make my ghost story place myself in the first group.