“I told you to hire two men, Lucenza.”
“I met this man in front of the casino, signora. He says he is the manservant of Mr. Shelley.”
“Tell Mr. Shelley you got this trunk at the post office, do you hear?” Mary said, holding out some coins.
The man smiled, revealing a row of brilliant white teeth. “At the post office. Of course, Signora.” He bowed, and with a humble expression, added, “Excuse me, Signora, with your gracious permission, I appear in my shirt in your presence.” He slowly removed his jacket, evidently taking no small pride in the display of his muscular form, and handed the jacket to Lucenza, who goggled.
He advanced confidently upon the trunk. Mary hid a smile as he made a first effort to lift it—and such was the vanity of the servant, preening himself under Lucenza’s admiring gaze, that he somehow managed to lift the trunk on his second attempt and stagger through the door. How he proposed to get his burden up the hill to Shelley’s house, Mary hardly knew or cared. Lucenza, not daring to meet her mistress’s eye, murmured, “I shall follow him, Signora, and return his jacket to him.”
“What of your Englishman, Lucenza?” Mary demanded irritably. “Have you forgotten him already?”
Lucenza giggled and simpered, and Mary wanted to give her a good slap. Instead, she let her go, so she could be alone.
She knew she should order Lucenza to pack up her trunks, she knew she should leave Bagni di Lucca, but curiosity, pride and spite kept her locked in place. To retreat would be to admit how deeply she had allowed Shelley to wound her.
A few days later, Mary was seated at her preferred table near the promenade at the al fresco café. While she declined to speak to anyone in town, her lively mind still demanded a place where she could watch her fellow Englishmen as they passed up and down the street. She was waiting for her dinner to be brought when she noticed the dark-haired girl known as Claire being carried down from the upper village in a sedan chair. Knowing the poverty of the Shelley household, Mary wondered that the girl had even a few scuttis to spare for such an indulgence, but the question was answered when Claire called for the bearers to stop. As they handed her out of the chair, it became apparent she had sustained some injury, for she limped slowly toward the cafe, wincing and grimacing as she came. She then paused and looked about her, no doubt desiring to find an unoccupied table in the remotest corner where she might dine on meat without being observed.
Seized by the impulse of the moment, Mary rose and saluted her cordially: “Excuse me. You would be doing me a very great kindness if you consented to join me at my table. When dining alone, a lady is always the prey of impertinent men, and is unkindly remarked upon by the ladies as well. Let us defend each other from the malicious tongues of those who are disposed to find fault, whether we eat too much or too little. Please, say you will help me dispatch some fowl and a dish of gnocchi.”
The promise of a good meal was irresistible to the impoverished Englishwoman. She introduced herself as ‘Claire Clairmont.’ Her sister and Mr. Shelley, her sister’s husband, were gone riding in the mountains, but she had tumbled from her horse the previous evening, and she was resentful the excursion had not been postponed until her knee was better.
Mary felt a fierce wave of jealousy and anger wash over her at the thought of Shelley enjoying the countryside without her, but she expressed only solicitude. “You must bathe your limb frequently, Miss Clairmont. I am certain the hot baths will be efficacious.”
It was very easy to draw Miss Clairmont into conversation, for she had made no new acquaintance in Bagni di Lucca. When the ladies discovered they both spoke French, they turned to that language.
“You say you are here with your sister and her husband. I believe I saw your sister the other day, out walking with a little boy. A handsome woman with beautiful hair, is that not so?”
“And they have a baby girl also,” said Claire, passing over the opportunity to pay tribute to her sister’s beauty.
Mary motioned the waiter to pour out another glass of wine for her guest and ventured, “Mrs. Shelley must be very obliged to you, when she is so far from home, and with two small children to watch over!”
“She is not even my half-sister,” said Claire, with a harsh, unladylike laugh, and Mary watched, amused, as discretion struggled with the urge to unburden herself to a stranger. “That is to say, my mother is married to her father, but Mr. Godwin is not my father.” This explained, thought Mary, how the sisters could be so different in form, colouring, hair, eyes, and temperament. Miss Clairmont’s skin was even browner than Mary’s own; her eyes and hair were black and but for her dress, she might have been taken for a native of the region.
Mary leaned forward and said confidingly: “We have this in common, Miss Clairmont. I too have a half-sister, rather older than I, but we are very close. I lived with Anna and her husband for a time, before my own marriage. It is not always desirable to be a captive spectator of someone else’s union, do you not agree? If the marriage is unhappy, one is awkwardly situated—if happy, then one is perhaps a
