Almost Famous Women (15 page)

Mother of Mercy, our life, our sweetness, and our hope,
I mumbled.
To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve; to thee do we send up our sighs . . .

Prayers were dead songs lodged in my head, soothing, routine words that meant less to me than they should have.

That night my room—one that looked like all the others, with whitewashed walls, a cracked plaster ceiling, and a small bed—smelled damp. I went to bed with a body of glass, tired and aching for the child I'd lost. At least it was she who had abandoned me.

Across the convent, we knew what we weren't supposed to know, that Allegra was the illegitimate daughter of the notorious poet
George Gordon, Lord Byron, and his mistress, Claire Clairmont. A sister had overheard Allegra's chaperones gossiping with the abbess in her lamplit chambers. The abbess was merely a receptacle for such talk, never engaging in it herself.

He
does
believe her to be his child, one said. The likeness is there, as is the temper, and it's the temper he can no longer stand. Perhaps from that estranged, godless mother—

She's only
three
, the other chaperone said, exasperated. One can only expect so much from a child who's lived all over the country with four families in so many years.

The chaperone had tears in her eyes. We don't want to see her go, she said. She so loves her papa.

The child will be fine, the abbess assured her. She'll receive an excellent education, both spiritual and academic.

But will she be loved? one chaperone asked the other as they turned to leave.

Either the abbess did not hear her or she did not wish to speculate.

I saw Allegra a few evenings later at mealtime. I looked forward to dinner every night—the soft, solemn chatter and bowed heads, the clanking of silverware. Allegra had not touched the spaghetti on her plate, and as I walked past she raised her hand to get the attention of the sister who was manning her table.

More milk, she said. And then, with a voice that was at once sugared and wicked, added:
please
.

Allegra's manners were affected and her face did not show residual infancy like those of her peers. Now that we knew who she was, we attributed intelligence to her eyes and remarks. Early
on she wielded intimidating power over the sisters. No one wanted to instigate one of her notorious tantrums or become the object of her dislike.

I was drawn to her face, the life within it, the light underneath her skin.

The letter, Sister, she said, in a childish but articulate voice, catching my sleeve. I want to write a letter to Papa. You promised. During the bath.

The sisters had already received instructions that no one but the abbess was allowed to contact Lord Byron directly.

We'll begin tomorrow, I said. I'll find you before prayers.

I did not know if I would be permitted to send her letters, but I knew we would write them. An academic exercise, I told myself.

As I turned to leave Allegra's side, I heard one of the older boys at a neighboring table speculate on the existence of the Capuchin Crypt. The boys' eyes still sparkled; they ran down the halls when no one was looking. They did not break as quickly as the girls.

And underneath the churches in Rome, he said, there are thousands of skulls and rotting bodies of friars. Their bones are nailed to the walls, and they make chandeliers from the skulls, candles in the eye sockets.

Allegra's eyes were wide. She was leaning forward, taking in the boy's words, though how much she understood was hard to guess. At three, nearly four, she inhabited the space between a baby and a child, far more interested in the older kids than in the benign beings at her own table.

Is that what happens to our bodies if we die here? the boy asked the sister at his table. Our bones are nailed to the walls? Candles are lit inside our heads?

No one is dying here, the sister said, though we all knew it wasn't true. People were dying everywhere.

Even inside the convent walls we felt the threat of typhus and malaria, the stress and strain of political turmoil. We washed our hands raw. The last of winter was still upon us and we did not have full gardens or a lemon harvest to take our thoughts away from the unrest. Though the Carbonari insurrections and violence were worse in the south, there were revolutionaries in our hills—the Adelfia and Filadelfia. Just last month the Austrians had crossed the Po, upsetting Italy's unification advocates. One had the feeling that Italy did not yet know itself, and more blood would be shed in its quest to become whole.

Do not let strangers in, the abbess instructed, and do not leave the grounds unless absolutely necessary. The Carbonari are anticlerical, and we do not know what or whom they would use to make a point.

That afternoon, after Allegra had received her lessons, we sat together in the cafeteria, light streaming through tall, thin windows. A dinner of
ribollita
and
piselli
was being prepared. The cooks, I knew, were dumping the week's leftovers into a pot with tomatoes and bread to make a thick soup. I could smell the onions frying on the cast iron.

Tell me, I said, what you want to say to your papa.

Dear Papa, she began, her lovely face racked with concentration. There are no amaretti and I do not receive evening milk here. I want to come home now.

Allegra could not yet read. She looked at the paper—a used sheet of music I'd found with one blank side—eagerly.

She watched my hand as I wrote:
Dear Papa, I am happy here but miss you dearly. Please bring amaretti when you come.

Knowing the abbess would not be pleased with the letter's contents, I edited the text.

Allegra's blond hair was pinned into a simple knot. She was thinner, I felt, than when she had come; she had not eaten much since arriving. Her knees bounced.

Now, she said, pointing to the page, tell him that I like singing. If he visits, I will sing for him. I will sing “God the Son” and
“O Salutaris Hostia.”

I did as instructed and ended the letter:
Con affetto, Allegra
.

Now, I said, patting her small hand. Off to prayers. She trailed behind me as we walked to the chapel, the convent's bells tolling the hour of four, reverberating in our chests. As we reached the great doors, Allegra touched the back of my leg, pausing for a moment, gathering herself before she joined the other children.

I wanted to cup her small head in my hands, crouch low, kiss her worried forehead. I wanted to bring her to my hip, tell her a funny story, play with her hair. But I did not touch her, and let the girl go running down the center aisle alone, blond hair bouncing, the travertine loud underneath the soles of her feet.

In August, just as the walls of the convent began to pulse with the sun's heat, Allegra received a visit from the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, a thin man with feminine cheekbones and burning eyes.

He was immediately affectionate with her, hugging her and kissing her forehead, though her stiffness indicated that she did not
remember him. He'd come to us while we were seated in the cafeteria for our morning chat, escorted by the abbess, who receded into the background.

She's pale, he whispered to me, nodding at Allegra. What is she fed?

What everyone else is fed, I answered. Soups, bread, meat, vegetables.

Allegra was inserting spoons into stacks of cloth napkins, in a manner that was industrious and childlike at the same time.

Why doesn't she speak more? he asked.

She speaks plenty, I said, trying to reassure him. She's one of our most precocious students.

Tell your friend, the abbess boomed from the shadows at Allegra, what you learn here.

Jesus, Allegra said, prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane. His sweat became blood.

Can you recite the Apostles' Creed for your friend? the abbess said, a note of pride in her voice, as if she was eager for Shelley to report Allegra's progress to her father.

I believe in God, the Father almighty. Allegra looked up at Shelley's eyes, perhaps sensing his horror. Her voice fell flat.

That won't be necessary, Shelley said, holding up one hand in protest. I'm quite confident in Allegra's capacity for recitation.

Shelley struck me as a nervous man, constantly running his fingers through his hair, a stream of energy and inquiry enlivening his body. I could sense his discomfort and wondered if he'd pictured another life for the girl, something more worldly and secular, a life hard for me to imagine.

Come, Allegra, he said, arms out. I've known you since you
were a baby. We rolled billiard balls together once at your father's house. Do you remember?

Allegra remained coolly out of reach.

Do you see Mammina and Papa? she asked. Why have they not come for me?

The abbess took Allegra by the arm in her strong and sensible manner. It's time for prayers, she said, pulling the girl to her side. Say good-bye to your friend. Allegra moved compliantly, though she turned to stare at Shelley and me with wide brown eyes as she was led away.

Pardon the intrusive question, I said. But if you see her father, might you ask if he's open to receiving letters from his daughter? We have a rule against sending correspondence, but Allegra has written letters—

The poet nodded and was quiet for a minute, absorbing the visit.

She appears greatly tamed, Shelley said to me as the abbess and Allegra disappeared down the hall, though not for the better.