Angelmonster (8 page)

The presence of his child inside me was both wondrous and frightening. I placed my palms on my belly and tried to imagine how it would feel to hold the child in my arms, as my own mother had held me for such a short time before she died. My heartbeat quickened. Was I going to die too, when my own baby was born? What would happen to me if my baby proved my murderer? Would I go to heaven, or hell? For Shelley, of course, neither existed. But he was a man, and could never die in childbirth
.

Dark thoughts. I pressed my hands to my temples, but there was no escape. My thoughts darkened further. They turned to the alchemist. The pathetic story of his ambition and disappointment played upon my too-ready emotions, and my eyes filled with tears
.

But I did not weep. I lay there open-eyed, my limbs rigid with the shock of a sudden, unspeakable thought
.

Why, since Shelley insisted that it was not God who had fashioned the child I carried, should a modern scientist not make a figure of human dimensions? Then, why should he not infuse it with the spark which would breathe life into its heart?

My brain whirling, I was both fascinated and repelled. Surely, if such a living creature should be created, the experiment would be a lesson to us all in over-reaching ambition. The forces of nature, so much more powerful than those of man, should not be meddled with. The scientist would inevitably discover that if we try to interfere with life, we court that very death we are trying to cheat
.

He would die insane, like the unfortunate alchemist
.

The very thought was enough to bring delirium, but I could not retreat from the idea now it had taken hold of me. If the scientist toiled for many, many years, what, in the end, would he produce? A man, or … something else? A being more hideous than the human brain can fathom, and more powerful than human ingenuity can contain? In short, a monster?

There were shadows in the room I had not seen before. My heart pumped fast. I felt perspiration on my face. Was this the delirium I feared, or fear itself?

The early morning river sounds were beginning. I listened to the swishing and sucking of the water against the bows, and the boatmen calling to one other, and Shelley’s voice wishing them good morning in German
.

Not a monster; an angel
.

My angel. My own, perfect angel. And soon, his perfect child
.

STREETWALKER OR PRINCESS

W
hat had started out as a glorious adventure ended in poverty and low spirits. Our Channel crossing was stormy. We were all sick. My body convulsed so violently I feared for the precious cargo in my belly. Shelley wrapped me in a blanket and comforted me, though he was unwell himself. Jane lay on our pile of baggage and groaned.

“I wish I had never agreed to come with you!” she cried accusingly. “You have used me ill, both of you. I have suffered fatigue and hunger. Why did you not tell me how little money you had, Shelley? And you,
you
…” Her miserable glance pierced me. “You always hated me.”

I had not the energy to argue. And I, too, was miserable. I feared what would greet us when we arrived in England. My infamous elopement would by now be all over London, to the shame of Fanny and Mama and the despair of my poor father. As the ship rolled I lay in the blanket, with Shelley’s arms around me, silent, pale and sick. In my imagination I saw Papa’s distress. But I was helpless against his hardened heart.

Two days later, when Jane and I rang the doorbell of our parents’ house, Mama’s face appeared between the lace curtains of the upstairs drawing-room. We heard her shriek. Then the curtains closed.

Nothing happened for a few minutes. Jane looked away from me, tapping her foot on the boot-scraper. I stared at the familiar black door with its brass lion’s head knocker.

“They will not let us in,” declared Jane. Her impatience had become nervousness. She spun her parasol this way and that. “They will never speak to us again.”

Back in this well-known place I resumed my role of bolder, more worldly sister. I gave an exaggerated sigh. “You and I are girls of sixteen, Jane. We have caused our parents pain, but we are still their daughters. They love us, and will forgive us.”

“My mama may forgive
me
,” retorted Jane, “but your papa will never forgive
you
.”

I was perfectly ready to believe these cruel words, but I could not betray this to Jane. “Your fatuousness astonishes me,” I told her mercilessly. “My papa’s love for my poor mama was as strong as Shelley’s for me, and their situation was equally unorthodox. How can he not forgive me?”

“Those facts made no difference at all to Papa’s banishment of Shelley from this house, and his fury when we ran away,” she reminded me. She stopped spinning her parasol. I felt her hand on my elbow, and turned to meet the look I knew she would be bestowing on me. There it was: arch, triumphant. “It is not
I
, my dear Mary, who holds a fatuous belief!”

The door opened. The housemaid, Anne, bobbed a bashful curtsy. “Master says Miss Jane is to come up.”

“Alone?” enquired Jane, shutting her parasol.

“Yes, Miss.”

Jane did not look at me again. She swept past Anne into the hallway and began to climb the stairs.

“Am I not to go upstairs too?” I asked the maid.

She raised troubled eyes to my face. “No, Miss Mary, I believe not.”

“Thank you, Anne.”

When she had shut the door I pressed my face against the shop window. The shop was empty, though the “Closed” sign was not on the door. I tried the handle. The door was locked.

Trembling with frustration, tinged with the self-pity of one whose secret pessimism has been proved correct, I walked back to the lodgings Shelley had found for us.

He was sitting in a too-small chair, his long legs folded inelegantly beneath him, writing furiously. When I came in he did not look up.

“It is exactly as I said it would be,” I announced. “My father will not see me.”

He still did not cease from his task, nor did he look at me. His eyes had the glossy look of inspiration flowing faster than the ink. I doubted he even heard my words.

Going into the bedroom, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

Women in my condition were supposed to look plumper than usual. But I was so thin that when I had dressed to visit Mama and Papa that morning, I had had to tie a sash under my bosom to pull in the excess material of my gown. Women in my condition were supposed to look radiant, and expectant in every sense of the word. But my face looked stricken. Pale, shadowed, bony.

I sank on my knees beside the bed, clutching the bed covers in my fists, refusing to cry. The truth was, I had been dealt a blow more painful than any physical injury. My beloved father, on whose selfless affection I had depended for my entire motherless life, had banished me from his house.

How alone I felt, kneeling there on that threadbare carpet. Jane had been welcomed back into the arms of her mama. Shelley, lost in poetry, was careless of the fact that the man he had hoped would be his patron was now implacably opposed to him. I would have to face this calamity without his help.

“Mary, what is the matter?” came his voice from the doorway. “Are you unwell?”

“No.” I tried to rise, but my foot caught on my gown. “I am quite well.”

He helped me from my knees to the bed. He sat down on its edge and embedded his fingers energetically in his hair. “I have been composing,” he said.

“Yes, I know.”

“I am writing of Prometheus.”

“Prometheus?”

“In Greek mythology, the demigod who created mankind out of clay and stole fire from Zeus to enable them to live. I cannot stop thinking about the alchemist Herr Keffner spoke of, who wanted to create a living man. My poem is about the triumph of freedom over oppression, to show that mankind –”

He stopped, his curls still tangled around his hands. He had at last remembered where I had been. “Where is Jane?” he asked.

I answered with a shrug.

“Was she admitted to your father’s house, while you were not?” he asked, horror-struck.

I nodded miserably.

The mattress juddered as Shelley slapped his palms down on it in frustration. After a moment’s thought, he jumped up and walked about the room. “Mary,” he exclaimed, “the man is a scoundrel! You are better off away from him.”

“My father is not a scoundrel,” I told him calmly.

He sat down again. “Deluded, then.”

“Yes, deluded.”

His eyes were pensive, looking at nothing. After a long pause, he said, “Perhaps we should go back to Europe. Perhaps we should never have come home.”

There was a weary edge to his voice. My despair began to trickle away, and I embraced him. He responded immediately, as if he had been starved of physical contact for years. He was indeed a child, or an animal. He did what came naturally to him. To his cost, perhaps.

I let him kiss me and put his hands on me as much as he wanted. When he next spoke, his voice was calm again. “This reminds me of that day in the churchyard, when I took you for the first time. The grass stains on my shirt never came out.”

“No matter! No one would notice them among all the other stains.”

“Why do you scold me so?” he asked.

“Because
someone
has to scold you, or you would be even worse than you are.”

He kissed me again. “And do you remember that I told you it was my birthday?”

“Of course. How could I forget? You told me I was giving you a beautiful present.” I touched his cheek. “You are a very good seducer.”

“Better than you know!” he said mischievously.

“What do you mean?”

He began to laugh. “My real birthday fell some weeks after that day, when we were in Switzerland!”

I stared at him. “And you never told me?”

“It was hardly prudent to do so, was it?” I could hardly make out his words through his laughter. “After you had already given me such a beautiful present for my imaginary birthday! How do you like that for a seducer’s trick?”

I did
not
like it. I pushed him away. “It was not a trick, it was a lie! What other lies did you tell me, in order to dishonour me?”

“Dishonour you!” he repeated mockingly. “You did not consider it dishonourable at the time!”

“How do you know what I considered it?”

He stopped laughing. “Mary…” he began, but I would not let him go on.

“You are the father of Harriet’s child, are you not?” I asked. “
You
, not her imaginary lover!”

Shelley bowed his head to avoid my gaze. My anger rose. I pushed him again, harder this time. “You see, I have grown up since those days in the churchyard! You are exactly as Papa said!”

His head came up quickly. “What did he say?”

“That you are not an honourable man. I defended you, but I wish I had not.”

“Your father can go to the devil.”

“The devil you don’t believe—”

“Mary, do not persist in taunting me with my beliefs!”

I was bewildered. Why was he so sensitive about beliefs for which he had been prepared to give up his university career and risk his inheritance? Did he not, after all, have the courage of his convictions? Was my lover, like my father, unprepared to put his principles to the test?

“I will not do so again,” I agreed. “But I must insist that you do not curse my father. He is not our enemy.”

My voice broke on this last word. I could not bear to think of my father as an enemy. And the thought of the pain my elopement had caused him, so invisible to me three months ago, now caused me equal pain.

Shelley’s countenance filled instantly with compassion. He tugged me towards him. The ease with which his feelings rushed to his face was one of the things I loved best about him. All resentment, lies and worldweariness dissolved, and we entered our lovers’ world again.

“You are my trophy,” he murmured. “You are a prize, awarded to the one man worthy of it. And I am that man.”

These words delighted me, but I now knew better than to believe Shelley unquestioningly. “A prize!” I said playfully. “Surely you prize me not for myself, but for my father and mother, whose work you profess to admire so much.”

“Oh, shocking!” he protested.

“You chose me over Fanny and Jane, did you not, because I am the only daughter whose veins actually contain their mingled blood?”

“Shocking, shocking!”

“Do you deny it?”

“Not at all, you too-intelligent female.” He held me very tightly. “I confess, I began with high expectations of the product of this illustrious parentage, but…” He paused, uncertain what to say next.

“But?” I prompted.

“But … before I had spent five minutes in your company I fell in love with you regardless. You could have been anybody – a streetwalker or a princess. You would still have been my prize.”

CLAIRE

J
ane, for all her accusations on the Channel crossing, could recognize the lesser of two evils. Later that day she returned to our lodgings near the Thames.