Angelmonster (14 page)

But she never read the letter. The next day I received one from her which must have crossed mine in the post. In handwriting even worse than before she told me that she had left home and was going to a place from which she would never return.

“Let us hope she means the Antipodes!” said Claire brightly.

Shelley snatched the letter from my hand. His face had changed as I had read Fanny’s words aloud; he knew now that my fears were well founded. “It is marked Bristol,” he said. “For God’s sake, Mary, she must be found. I will go at once.”

He left the house without bidding us goodbye. Going to the window I saw him give gruff instructions to the man at the hiring stables on the corner. Coins changed hands, then Shelley mounted and galloped towards the Bristol road as if his life depended on it.

I pressed my lips together, fighting tears. He felt guilty at last. He had found his heart again. And my belief in my angel, which had been sorely tried, was restored to me tenfold.

Claire and I waited until the small hours, shivering in our ill-lit parlour after the fire had gone out. I refused to go to bed until I knew Fanny was safe, and Claire relished the drama of the situation. When we at last heard Shelley’s boots on the stairs, I stood up, my heart full of dread. But his expression told the news before he spoke.

“You did not find her!” I exclaimed.

“No.” He crossed the room and took my face in his hands. His eyes contained the look I had last seen when our baby daughter died. “Dearest…” He released my face and put his arms around me, seeking comfort for himself as much as bestowing it on me. “I fear it is the worst news.”

“Do not fear it!” advised Claire, picking up the candle-holder to light herself to bed. “She has probably returned to London by now, having led you all a merry dance.”

“No, Claire, she has not.” He released me and sank wearily into a chair. “My enquiries led me to an inn where Irish labourers drink. I heard there that a lady answering Fanny’s description had been seen boarding a coach for Swansea.”

“Swansea?” I had barely heard of this place. “Where is that?”

“It is in the south of Wales. It is the place where ferries depart for Ireland. I thought she might have tried to follow your aunts there, so I hired a carriage to take me to Swansea.”

Exhausted, he laid his head against the cushion, closing his eyes.

“What happened?” I whispered, pressing my hand to my rapidly-beating heart.

“I did not have to look for her in Swansea,” he said. “Her fate was written on a newspaper vendor’s hoarding.”

Claire sat down again quickly. She grasped my arm.

Shelley laid the Swansea newspaper on the table for us to read, and went into the bedroom.

Claire and I held the candle over the report. An unknown young woman, it said, had taken a room at an inn and been found dead there, after an overdose of laudanum. She had left a note, but there was no signature.

We clutched each other. “Oh, Mary!” whispered Claire. “It cannot be!”

It was. Fanny had hidden her identity from the Swansea authorities but she could not hide it from us. The young woman’s corset, according to the article, was embroidered with “MW”. With a rush of grief, I recognized the initials of our mother’s unmarried name. But there was further proof. Pinned to the dead woman’s gown was a new, exquisitely crafted Swiss gold watch.

When Shelley had gone to identify her body, he told me later, the authorities had offered the watch to him. But, still in debt for it though he was, he had refused.

“I told them to bury it with her,” he said. “It was the only beautiful thing she possessed.”

DEATH’S GIFT

L
audanum, a common sleeping-draught that Shelley took regularly, is dangerous in large quantities, as Fanny had been aware. Knowing that it contains opium, a narcotic which can cause hallucinations, I had been convinced for some time that it was at the root of the terror that so often gripped Shelley in the middle of the night, and that had so horrified us all as he knelt on the floor at the Villa Diodati. I wished he would not take it at all, however much he longed for peaceful sleep.

But two days after Fanny was buried, I myself resorted to the very substance which killed her. When Shelley and I retired to bed that night, he put some drops of laudanum in warm water and told me to sip it.

I did so. Then I lay down miserably upon my pillow. It was a rainy October night. There was no light from the window, but as my eyes grew used to the darkness I could make out the shape of Shelley’s head with its curling hair, and the mound made by his shoulder as he lay on his side. And I could hear his breathing. Fast, steady, attentive.

“Fanny was in love with you,” I told him. “Exactly like Claire is still.”

He did not speak. My head felt heavy, but my brain raced with thoughts.

“Have you seduced Claire?” I asked.

Still he did not speak.

“Did you tell her it was your birthday?” I taunted. “And did she, poor wretch, believe you?”

“Go to sleep, Mary,” he said calmly.

I began to sob with guilt and grief. The bitterness imprisoned in my breast for many months escaped. Jealousy rose again, the same jealousy as I had confronted when Claire had been Jane and had climbed into our bed that night in Switzerland.

I felt his arms around me. He pulled me beside him and did not speak of Claire or Fanny. He soothed me, assuring me of his love. His heartbeat was very fast, but as we lay there, my own heart’s frenzy calmed and I began to feel sleepy. The darkness seemed to be falling in on itself.

Shelley pushed the damp strands of hair away from my cheeks. “In the morning you will recollect none of this.”

He was wrong, of course. I recollect it now, perfectly well. But I also understand that he said it to spare me remorse. If we could both pretend the words had not been spoken, there would be no need for forgiveness on either side.

Claire was excited at the prospect of motherhood. She fussed over the preparations for the arrival of her baby, directing Elise, who was an excellent needle-woman, in the production of more elaborate baby gowns and bed linen than either of my children had ever owned.

“How clever Elise is!” I exclaimed, fingering the finery which Claire had laid out on her bed for my inspection. “This child will be dressed like a prince!”

“A princess, Mary,” said Claire proudly. “I feel sure I will have a girl.”

“You were wrong about my first baby.”

“Yes, but I was correct about William, if you recall.”

I did not recall. “Dear Claire,” I said, patting her shoulder.

We were interrupted by Elise, who had been to collect our post. She handed me a letter from Shelley, who was “on business” in London. “On business” was the phrase he used for his fundraising expeditions: a little from his father-in-law here, a little more from a publisher there, loans from three or four friends.

“Thank you, Elise,” I said.

I went into the parlour and sat by the fire. It was December, and even with my mittens on, my hands were cold. I warmed them, leaving the letter in my lap. Ever since I had received Fanny’s last one I had been wary of opening letters.

Shelley’s familiar seal, and my name written in his careless hand, stared at me from the folded paper. I collected my courage and broke the seal.

Can you hear me screaming, Mary?
My wife is dead
.

My head buzzed. The writing dissolved. I tore at the lace scarf around my neck. I could not breathe. “Claire!” I called.

But my voice was hoarse. She and Elise were chattering, and did not hear me. I closed my eyes, trying to compose myself. When I opened them again my vision had cleared. In disbelief I read on.

Harriet, like Fanny, had killed herself. Her body, apparently several months advanced in pregnancy, had been found in the Serpentine lake in Hyde Park.

Whose child was she carrying? If he has abandoned her, the blame must lie with him
, wrote Shelley. Then the letter took on a note of desperation.
I must be allowed to take care of my motherless children now, must I not? Dearest Mary, we shall take Ianthe and Charles away from these shores for ever. Italy will save us. We shall all live in peace there, my children and you and me and William, and Claire and her child, and George
.

George! Grief had unhinged Shelley’s mind if he thought George would have anything further to do with us.

I forced myself to read the rest of the letter. Unexpectedly, its desperate tone collapsed at the end into two of the most tender, yet most practical sentences he had ever written to me.
By surrendering herself to death, Harriet has bestowed upon us a gift more precious than any we could give each other. My darling, when will you marry me?

The events of those few weeks are as difficult to believe as the idea that a scientist could cheat death – and almost as horrific. George’s abandonment of Claire, callous though it was, seemed as nothing. The wanton self-destruction of both my sister Fanny and Shelley’s wife Harriet was an unimaginable catastrophe. He and I both suffered deeply, plunged into the pitiless darkness that only guilt can cause. Entire, all-consuming, imprisoning.

After Harriet died, Shelley began to take even more laudanum than he had taken before. I would not let myself fear for his life – madness awaited me there – but I cannot pretend I was at ease. All I could hope was that the worst of his suffering would pass quickly, and that he would come back to me, eager for love, life and poetry again.

And as he had foreseen, the dead can affect the living in unforeseen ways.

Two weeks after Harriet’s death, he and I entered together the door from which we had been unreservedly banished.

My papa stood by the drawing-room door, rigid with expectation, while Mama gushed a welcome. “My dears!” she exclaimed. “Come in, and sit down by the fire!”

I walked into my father’s waiting arms. He held me for a long time, neither moving nor speaking.

“William,” said my stepmother’s voice, a little shrilly. “Do not neglect your other guest, please.”

When I emerged from my father’s embrace I was taken, briefly, into hers. Over her shoulder I saw Shelley and Papa shake hands. Then Shelley stood by the fire, courtesy forbidding him to sit down until Mama and I did. He was wearing an expression of deep unease. It was clear we all four were remembering the last occasion we had met in that room, more than two years ago.

“Mama, I have brought you a small gift,” I announced, presenting her with one of William’s curls encased in a locket.

“My dear Mary, how delightful!” she enthused. I knew she would never wear it, but I had done my duty. “And when are we to meet the little man himself?”

“Whenever you like,” answered Shelley. “He is longing to meet his grandpapa, whose name he bears.” He glanced at Mama. “And his grandmama, of course.”

“Splendid,” said Papa with satisfaction. He had recovered his composure sufficiently to allow conversation. Holding my hand as I sat beside him on the sofa – a place I had never before been allowed to take – he began to ask us about Switzerland, and Lord Byron, and mutual acquaintances. Shelley replied amiably enough, while my attention was monopolized by Mama, who wanted to hear all about William.

Then, during a pause in Mama’s questioning, I heard a fragment of the men’s conversation. “Excuse me, Mama,” I said, and turned to Shelley. “My dear, why are you talking about John Keats?”

Shelley’s face relaxed into his warmest smile. “You see, sir,” he said to my father, “what a protégé she makes of him?”

“Who?” demanded Mama. “Who is this Keats?”

“He is a young poet,” I explained, “quite penniless, dependent upon the goodwill of others for his living. And he is
not
my protégé. If anything he is Shelley’s. I merely feel that his talent is worthy, and am interested in his progress.”

“If we go abroad again, I will prevail upon him to come and stay with us,” said Shelley. “Will that please you?”

“Not if George is there too,” I replied, smiling. I addressed my father. “Lord Byron calls him ‘Johnny Keats’, and says he is an upstart.”