Mary felt herself swaying, as though she might faint, at the urgency of his pleas, which seemed to bore through her very being. With an effort, she pushed him away; she rose, intending to walk away, but he followed her and grabbed her arm, and pulled her onto his lap.
“My love, my soul, have I ever blamed you, or reproached you, for being attracted to some other person, before we came together? What is the past, compared to the future?”
“But you never told me about her!” To her humiliation, Mary began to weep, and Shelley gathered her in his arms, and she laid her head on his shoulder, and wept for a while.
Finally, Shelley sighed. “The matter is complicated, my love. Do you not wish to be with your children?”
“Of course I do!”
“No less than I, you may be certain. And will not your longing for your children keep you tethered in some respect to your husband? My dearest one, can you be so unjust and ungenerous as to reproach me for doing the same? I love my children. And,” he added, with a look of conscious nobility, “I will always protect their mother. She became a social outcast—for me. I shall always treat her with the consideration she deserves.”
“What will you do, then?” Mary demanded. “What circumstance did you foresee, which would enable you to free yourself?”
“I must move by gradual degrees to acquaint my wife—and Claire—with my new situation, and to persuade them, if I can, that we could all be friends together.”
“All be friends together?” cried Mary. “I need to understand your definition of the word ‘friends’ and the word ‘together.’ Pray explain.”
He sighed. “Ah, if only you and she could love one another as sisters.”
Mary shook her head in incredulity, but Shelley persisted.
“My regard for her in no way diminishes my love for you, do you not see that? Love is like a candle flame, it grows, love does not divide like gold or clay. We could all live together, in mutual respect and love.”
Mary gasped and jumped to her feet. “You are talking about Free Love! You want to set up a harem for yourself! And you believe your wife will befriend me, after receiving this explanation? She will be content, once she understands that your love for me exceeds your love for her? You are mad. Pray,” Mary said coldly. “Assist me to mount my horse.”
Silently, and with the mien of a child who has been unjustly scolded, Shelley helped Mary into her saddle, then stepped back, with a final plea: “And if I am destroyed, Marina, what becomes of my work? Think of our duty to the future ages which will come after you and I are mouldering in the dust! I am mankind’s servant, but I cannot survive this desolation of loneliness! My soul cries out to thine—my love, canst thou not pity me?”
And Mary did hesitate, at the loss of everything she had ever wanted. But pride, pride carried it. And she rode away, intending never to speak to Percy Bysshe Shelley again.
Chapter 14: England,
Summer 1818
Fanny was surprised when Mrs. Butters announced a visit to London, given her indifferent state of health, but she wished to consult a solicitor. Of course there were solicitors in Bristol, and in London her own son was in fact a solicitor, but Mrs. Butters wanted to engage someone new, and Fanny did not enquire into her reasons.
“There is my cousin Maria’s husband, Mr. Orme,” Fanny had suggested. “I believe his reputation is very good.”
Mrs. Butters agreed that Fanny might write to her cousin and arrange an appointment with Mr. Orme, and, when all was set in motion, Mrs. Butters prepared to leave for London along with Madame Orly, now Madame Duchesne, and her husband, to see them established in town. Mrs. Butters’ friend, Mr. Meriwether—that same Mr. Meriwether who was the husband of Margaret—had resumed his wine trade and opened a warehouse in London. Thanks to the intervention of Fanny and Mrs. Butters, he had taken Captain Duchesne as his agent, and the business was prospering well. “In good times or bad, Fanny,” Mrs. Butters remarked, as she stood by her carriage, tugging her glove on her hand, “gentlemen will find the funds for wine.”
Fanny had wanted to be of the party going to London for more than one reason. She had recently received one of her brother John’s brief notes, which he sent in response to her longer ones. Lately, someone named Prudence had been mentioned in his letters. Fanny was very curious, but hardly knew how to question her taciturn brother by return of post.
In addition, Fanny wanted to be in constant attendance upon her benefactress, given her poor health. But Mrs. Butters made it clear that Fanny was to remain behind in Bristol. Their ladies’ bazaar had become such a successful enterprise, it now made considerable demands upon Fanny’s time and ingenuity—she was needed in Bristol.
Old Mr. McIntosh climbed up into his seat and took up the reins, but Madame Duchesne had not descended from her old room. Fanny volunteered to go up and find her. Her knock on the door was answered with a quiet, “entrez.” Fanny came in and found the Frenchwoman sitting by the window, dressed for her journey, gazing at a miniature in her hand. She looked up and smiled at Fanny, but it was a wistful smile.
“I am just talking to Jean-Phillipe,” she said. Fanny drew closer and Madame Duchesne held up the miniature so that she could examine it.
“Is this—is this your fiancée, from when you were a girl in France?” Fanny asked.
Madame nodded. “Yes, this is he. It is strange, but I felt I needed to say au revoir to him
