The Stress of Her Regard (57 page)

Hobhouse stared at Crawford. "Yes, I do remember," he said quietly. "You fired him for talking about living stones, St. Michael, eh?" To Crawford he said, "I'm glad you're here."

Both Byron and Crawford looked at him in surprise.

"You . . . said something about brandy," Hobhouse remarked to Byron.

The lord nodded. "Upstairs," he said, pointing the way with the pistol he still carried. He noticed it and set it down on one of the crates.

"No, bring it along," said Hobhouse, "and your physician too."

Byron was still frowning, but smiling now too. "He's no longer my—"

Hobhouse was already making his way through the angling corridor between the crates. "Whatever he is," he called back over his shoulder, "bring him along."

Byron shrugged and waved toward the stairs. "After you, doctor."

* * *

The paintings had been taken down from the walls of Byron's dining room, and faint white squares on the plaster marked where they had been. Hobhouse closed the windows while Byron poured brandy.

Hobhouse sat down and took a sip. "I talked to your half sister Augusta recently," he said to Byron. "She showed me some stones you sent her, that summer when we toured the Alps. Little crystals, from Mont Blanc. And she showed me some of your letters."

"I was drunk that whole summer," Byron protested, "those letters are probably just—"

"Tell me about your involvement with this Carbonari crowd."

"I—" Byron cocked an eyebrow at his old friend. "I could tell you I'm helping them overthrow their new Austrian masters, couldn't I?"

"Of course you could. But I was there when you met Margarita Cogni, remember?" Hobhouse turned to Crawford. "It was in Venice in the summer of 1818; we were out riding one evening, and met two peasant girls, and Byron set about impressing one, and I the other."

He looked back to Byron. "When I got mine alone," Hobhouse went on, "it developed that she wanted to
bite
me. And she led me to believe that the Cogni woman had the same interests. I've always had to save you from . . . inappropriate women, and you recall I tried to talk you into ridding yourself of her too. But at the
time
I thought I was simply trying to rescue you from a mistress with perverted tastes."

Byron looked shaken. "Christ, man, I'm glad you didn't let her bite you." He sighed and took a long sip of the brandy. "The Carbonari
are
trying to drive out the Austrians, you know—and I
do
think that's a good cause."

He held up his hand to stop Hobhouse from saying more.
"But,"
Byron went on, "you're right, there's more to my association with them than just that. In the eyes of the Carbonari, the species of which Margarita was a member is much more specifically the enemy than is the literal category of
Austrians
. The Carbonari have methods of keeping such creatures at bay, and I've been making use of those methods. You'll have noticed that Teresa is entirely human, and unharmed—and so are Augusta and her child, and my ex-wife and her child."

" 'At bay,' " said Hobhouse. "Is there a way to
free
yourself and your dependents from her—from her species—entirely?"

"Yes," said Crawford.

Hobhouse looked at him, then back at Byron. "And do you intend to
do
it?"

"Just out of curiosity," said Byron stiffly, "do you know what
doing
it will mean? The most . . .
trivial
consequence is that I'll dry up, poetically." Crawford noted with admiration that Byron did seem to be honestly trying to regard it as trivial. "I will have written my last line."

Hobhouse leaned forward, and Crawford was surprised at how stern the man's round, mild face could look. "And your children won't become vampires."

"They probably wouldn't anyway," said Byron irritably. "But yes, Aickman and I are going to do the trick shortly. And then I'll be going to Greece, where I shall no doubt encounter
another
consequence before very long."

Hobhouse glanced at Crawford, who shrugged slightly. Don't look at
me
, Crawford thought,
I
can't tell his sincerity from his posturing.

"You almost sound," said Hobhouse carefully, "as if you believe that freeing yourself from this thing, from these things, will cause your death."

Byron emptied his brandy glass and refilled it. His hand was shaking, and the decanter lip rattled on the edge of his glass. "I do believe that," he said defiantly.

Crawford shook his head in puzzlement. "But people live
longer
, free from these creatures. You've been able to avoid the worst of the emaciation and anemia and fevers that their victims usually suffer, but it's cost you a lot of effort, and even so hasn't been entirely effective. Free of your vampire, you'd be
really
healthy, and with no necessity for your Carbonari measures."

"You certainly haven't lost your doctory tone, Aickman," Byron said. "Hell, I'm sure what you say is true in most cases, but . . ."

After a moment's silence Crawford lifted a hand inquiringly.

Byron sighed. "In my case, the creature has preserved me. I know I wouldn't have lived as long as I have without its . . . its watching over me. Even though I insulted Lord Grey after he had come into my bedroom at Newstead Abbey when I was fifteen, and though I abandoned Margarita Cogni for Teresa, the thing . . ." He smiled. "It loved me, and loves me still."

Crawford caught Hobhouse's eye, and shook his head slightly. Their regard for us, he thought, is
why
they're so destructive of us.

"And you," said Hobhouse softly, "love
it
still."

Byron shrugged. "I could love any creature that appeared to wish it."

Hobhouse shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "But you . . .
will
do it, right, this . . . exorcism?"

"Yes, I said I would and I will."

"Is there any way I can help?"

"No," said Byron, "it's—"

"Yes," interrupted Crawford.

Both men looked at him, Byron a little warily.

To Hobhouse, Crawford said, "Make him promise you—promise
you
, his oldest friend, schoolmate at Trinity and all that—that he won't publish any more poetry. That would eliminate one of the strongest attractions the nephelim hold for him." He turned to Byron. "In spite of your manner of seeming to despise poetry, I think it's a huge part of how you, I don't know,
define
yourself. As long as it's still available out there, I can't imagine you really wanting to abandon your vampire."

Byron had been sputtering while Crawford spoke, and now burst out, "That's ludicrous, Aickman, for a dozen reasons! For one thing, would you trust me to keep my promise?"

"A promise you made to Hobhouse—yes. Even more than your poetry, I think your honor is central to your definition of yourself. "

Byron seemed to flinch. "Well, what would there be to stop me from writing just
for
myself, for no audience but me and the monkeys? Or publishing under a pseudonym?"

"On the one hand it wouldn't be read by the world, and on the other it wouldn't be perceived as being Byron. For you, there'd be no
point
in it."

Byron was looking hunted. "So you figure that this will eliminate any hesitancies I may have—that since I would have abdicated the poetry
anyway
, I'd have no reason not to do this."

"Right."

Byron looked up at Crawford with hatred. "I'll . . . do it." He raised his eyebrows sarcastically. "I presume it would be acceptable if I publish the stuff I've
already
written? There's quite a bit of it."

"Sure," said Crawford. "Over the next few years you can . . . bleed it out."

Byron barked one harsh syllable of laughter, then turned to Hobhouse. "I promise," he said.

Hobhouse reached across the table and squeezed his old friend's hand, "Thank you," he said.

Quaff while thou canst: another race,
When thou and thine, like me, are sped,
May rescue thee from Earth's embrace,
And rhyme and revel with the dead.

—Lord Byron,

"Lines Inscribed upon a Cup Formed from a Skull"

Hobhouse left six days later.

The Casa Lanfranchi by this time was in chaos. The Hunts were staying at a nearby inn until Byron should have got all his belongings packed for the trip to Genoa, but Byron's dogs and monkeys had been moved into a couple of emptied rooms in the house while their cages and kennels were disassembled and packed, and the animals made up for the racket of the vacated Hunt children. Byron occasionally pretended to have forgotten that the children had left, and interpreted the barking and chattering as idiot demands and complaints in Cockney voices.

Byron was drinking wine all day and gin all night, and he alternated from moment to moment between giddy cheer and resentful gloom. He told Crawford that on the same day that he had rescued Crawford from the
nefando
den he had made arrangements to see a notary and get his will drawn up, but that Teresa had become so upset at the very idea of his ever dying that he had had to cancel the appointment. She had made him promise to forget the idea, and Byron liked to imply that he was sure to die in this upcoming enterprise, and that it would be Crawford's fault that Teresa would get none of his money.

At last, on the twenty-seventh of September, Byron was ready to leave. Most of his servants and possessions were being shipped north aboard a felucca out of Livorno, while he and Teresa and Crawford would travel by land in the Napoleonic coach; the animals had been noisily confined in temporary cages and packed into and on top of two carriages that would accompany their master's.

Shelley's heart was in an under-seat cabinet in Byron's carriage, still wrapped in butcher paper.

Byron was irritable at having had to get up early, and he curtly ordered Crawford to ride up on the bench with the coachman. Teresa was accompanying them only as far as Lerici, and would complete the journey to Genoa with Trelawny, and Byron told Crawford that he wanted as much time alone with her as he might have left.

The three carriages got under way at ten, but it took half an hour for them to move a hundred yards down the Lung'Arno: the horses of other carriages were panicked by the screeching of the monkeys and parrots, and children and dogs crowded up around the wheels, and women in second and third floor windows leaned out to throw flowers and handkerchiefs. Crawford took off his hat and waved it at them all cheerfully.

The festival mood dissipated when they turned north on a broader street—mounted Austrian soldiers rode ahead and behind, emphasizing the government's approval of Byron's departure, and Crawford could see, off to his left, the buildings of the University, where he and Josephine had worked together so peacefully for a year.

The famous Leaning Tower was tilted away from them, making it seem that they were travelling downhill.

Byron insisted on stopping a number of times throughout the day's drive, to eat, and drink, and reassure the animals, and walk around in the roadside grass with Teresa. Crawford hid his impatience, and didn't even look northward if Byron was watching him, for he was sure that the lord would interpret the intensity of his gaze as a protest against the delays, and out of spite insist on even more of them.

It was dusk when the three carriages finally turned west on a seaward road, crossed the bridge over the Vara River and rolled into Lerici. The carriage the Hunts had travelled in was empty behind the inn, and the
Bolivar
rode at anchor in the little harbor, but when Crawford and Byron and Teresa got out and went into the hotel, they learned that Hunt and Trelawny had set out to walk south along the coast to the Casa Magni. Crawford and Byron went back outside.

"They'll be composing sonnets to Shelley," Byron said as he watched his coachman unstrapping the luggage from the top of his carriage. A chilly wind blew in from off the sea, and he shivered and buttoned up his jacket, though his face shone with sweat in the light from the inn's windows. "No point in going down there ourselves."

Crawford looked south longingly. "Shouldn't we . . . reconnoiter? Josephine is down there somewhere. . . ."

Byron coughed. "Tomorrow, Aickman. If she sees you sooner, she might simply flee, mightn't she? Inland to Carrara, drawn by the marble they make all the statues out of, or across the gulf to Portovenere. If you can't—" He began coughing again, then swore and pushed open the inn's door.

Crawford followed him back inside. "Are you . . . well?" he asked nervously.

"No, I'm not
well
, doctor—do I
look
well?" Byron took a flask from his pocket, unscrewed the cap with trembling fingers, and took a long sip. The fumes of Dutch gin roused nausea in Crawford. "I'm vulnerable here," Byron went on. "My Carbonari measures are getting less effective
anyway
, but in this cursed gulf they're tenuous indeed." He looked toward the stairs. "I was mad to have brought Teresa here at all."

"Do you think," began Crawford; then he considered how he'd been about to finish the question—
that you'll be able to go with Josephine and me?
—and he stopped, not wanting to let Byron think the issue might be in doubt. "Do you think you should get some sleep then?"

"Brilliant prescription. Yes." Byron screwed the cap back onto the flask and pocketed it. "Don't get me up early tomorrow."

Byron limped away toward the stairs, shivering visibly, and as Crawford watched him recede he wondered if Byron
would
be able to go, or, if so, would be able to survive the trip to Venice and the exertions they'd be in for there.

For that matter, he thought, will
any
of us survive it.

Not wanting to meet Hunt and Trelawny when they returned, Crawford went upstairs to his own room.

His room was narrow and windowless, and the bed's mattress seemed to be blankets wrapped around dried bushes, but he fell asleep as soon as he lay down, and dreamed all night that Josephine had already died, and been buried; and, a cold, silver-eyed vampire now, had clawed her way back up to the air and was giving solitary birth beside the erupted grave. Toward dawn the baby's scalp began to be visible between the inhuman mother's thighs, and Crawford forced himself to awaken rather than see its face.