“Have you met my sister’s husband, Mrs. Bertram? Have you met Mr. Shelley?”
Mary pushed her pasta about on her plate. “I have made no acquaintance in Bagni di Lucca, save you. I may have seen him. I am not certain.”
“If you had seen him, you would be in no doubt of it. He is that sort of person.”
“This chicken is not very tender, is it?” remarked Mary with a careless air. Then, “what sort of person is he?”
Claire looked off into the distance, struggling for the words. “He is like no other man. When he first came to our house to meet Mr. Godwin, I thought he was some kind of angel. There is something unearthly about his countenance, his address—or rather, he is completely a part of nature, as though he shares the same spirit with the trees and the sky. He is consumed with the world of his ideas, so much so, that we fear he will forget to eat, or even to breathe. He is a poet.”
“A poet! Just fancy! And have I read any of his works? Is he published?”
Claire took another long sip of her wine. “He is published, yes, but scarcely read—not by anyone. But, oh my lord, he is most awfully clever. You should hear him, when he is in conversation with Lord Byron.”
Mary knew that as an Englishwoman, she was obliged to say, “Lord Byron!” with great interest, or it would be thought odd. “Are you acquainted with Lord Byron? Pray, what is he like?”
Claire tossed her head. “I was dazzled by him, briefly, as most girls are.” She bit her lip and laughed. “At Como, we were guests at Lord Byron’s villa, you know, and the landlord of the inn across the lake kept a telescope, so that his guests could spy on Byron and watch his comings and goings. His maid hung some tablecloths out to dry, and it was given out that they were Mary’s and my petticoats, and that we were part of his harem.”
“Ah yes, our fellow-countrymen have the most vicious and censorious minds. They delight in being scandalized.”
“And yet, you know, Byron did use to say terrible things about women,” Claire scowled. “He was fond of saying women ought to be shut up in seraglios. I am sorry to disabuse you, Mrs. Bertram, if you are an admirer of Byron, but if you knew him as I do, you would understand he is utterly arrogant, vain and cruel.”
“Oh, dear.” Mary could not feign interest in Byron any longer. “Well then, Miss Clairmont, how long will you stay here at Bagni di Lucca?”
“It is nothing to do with me,” answered Claire with a touch of resentment, as she speared another piece of chicken from the platter. “I shall have no say whether we come or we go. Oh my lord, this town is most dreadfully dull. I should far rather be in Rome or even Livorno.” She sighed. “It is no matter. Shelley is always restless. I would lay odds that within a month he will be ready to move again. We have changed houses and cities ever so many times!”
“I hope that Mr. and Mrs. Shelley are not unhappy in Bagni di Lucca?”
“Oh, they like it tolerably well, I suppose. They intend to take many more excursions on horseback.” This thought brought fresh effusions of self-pity and resentment at being left behind.
As Claire complained of her ill-treatment, Mary became aware of a dignified, grey-haired man of military bearing, arm-in-arm with a well-dressed lady, who had paused nearby and was looking at her most intently. She met his eye, he drew closer and addressed her thus: “I beg your pardon madam, but do I not behold Admiral Crawford’s pretty little niece?”
“I am niece to Admiral Crawford, yes, sir,” answered Mary.
“I thought so! I never forget a pretty face! And such eyes! When did I last meet you? More than ten years ago, I fancy, when I was in visiting your uncle, and he called you into the parlour to play on your harp for us. Betty, my dear,” he said, turning to his lady, “this is Admiral Crawford’s niece.”
“And you, sir, I think, are Admiral Fremantle?” Mary replied.
“I am delighted you remember me!” the Admiral cried. “Indeed, what an unexpected pleasure to meet with you again. Your uncle, you will be pleased to hear, was in tolerable health and spirits when I last saw him—not two months ago—in London—as lively as ever he was—has it really been twenty years gone since we served in the Mediterranean together!” The old sailor shook his head. “Well, Miss Crawford, upon my word, but it is most extraordinary seeing you here, of all places! But of course you are no longer Miss Crawford? I did enquire of you to the admiral and he said you were married.”
Obviously her uncle had been unwilling to name Mary’s husband, whom he detested, to his old friend. Mary supplied the information, that she was the wife of “Edmund Bertram, son of Sir Thomas Bertram.”
“Mr. Bertram?” Admiral Fremantle laughed, “Not ‘captain’ or ‘admiral’? I would have thought Admiral Crawford’s pretty niece could have had her pick of the Navy, eh?”
“We cannot all have your wife’s good fortune, sir.”
“And when may my wife and I have the pleasure of making Mr. Bertram’s acquaintance?” The admiral looked about him, as if expecting to see a husband appear from behind the potted palms.
“Mr. Bertram is in England at present—” Mary began, feeling a flutter of anxiety, but speaking very calmly, as though there were nothing out of the ordinary in travelling without one’s husband. But Mrs. Fremantle gasped in surprise.
“Gracious!” she exclaimed solicitously. “And you are left here alone, Mrs. Bertram?”
“That is,” Mary added hastily, “family business has called him back to Northamptonshire—”
“The Bertrams of Northamptonshire! Ah! Yes, now I
