“It is my health—my nephritic complaint,” answered Shelley, and his hand went protectively to his side. “For some time, I have been convinced that my life was closing—but what did that matter? What had I to live for? Now, I want to live, and live for you, Marina. A correspondent has told me of an excellent physician in Venice. I intend to go and put myself under his care—perhaps my case is not fatal, after all. But I must leave you for the time being.”
“But Shelley!” Mary protested, “Quite obviously, I can accompany you! We can be together at last, and your wife will remain here! Let us go at once!”
Shelley’s face briefly lit up, then he shook his head slowly, looking troubled. “Believe me, the notoriety attached to my name will cling to yours, if you are my travelling companion. For your sake, we must be more circumspect, at least for now.”
Mary was irked at this reminder, but she, no less than Shelley, feared the consequences should news of their alliance reach England. If Edmund knew she was the mistress of a radical poet, he would undoubtedly forbid her to make contact with their children.
Mary rose, and began pacing back and forth in agitation. “You are leaving me here? And how are you going to pay for the services of this eminent physician?”
Shelley looked awkward. “Indeed, my pecuniary condition is a very difficult one.” Mary fetched her wallet, and extracted a handful of bank notes. As she handed them to him, she added, “And when you return, I insist that you inform your wife of the change in your affections.”
“Of course! But I must beg you to withhold from making any approach to her whilst I am away. She has published two books, she has admirers and supporters in London, and who knows, one of them might seek to misrepresent matters and turn our friends against me. I must untangle my affairs. And, in fact, unless you are able to advance me some more funds, I will be leaving my family with insufficient monies. Might I borrow another ten pounds—for my children?”
Thus fortified for the journey, Shelley took an ardent leave of her. Tears trembled in his eyes as he kissed and caressed her again and again. He went to Mary’s writing desk, snatched up a piece of paper and a quill and scrawled a few lines.
“For you, my beloved. You are all I live and breathe for. Do not lose hope, nor faith in me.”
And he was gone.
Mary read and re-read the effusion that had just poured from Shelley’s hand and heart. They confirmed her judgement in allying herself with his genius.
Is it that in some brighter sphere
We part from friends we meet with here?
Or do we see the Future pass
Over the Present’s dusky glass?
Or what is that that makes us seem
To patch up fragments of a dream,
Part of which comes true, and part
Beats and trembles in the heart?
Chapter 18: England, August 1818
Mrs. Butters returned from her brief visit to London, much wearied by the demands of travel. Fanny observed her state with alarm. Impatient with all medics and medicine, she quarrelled with her doctor, and asked only for more pillows for her bed, more strong tea and Mrs. McIntosh’s good baking. Fanny needed no doctor to perceive that Mrs. Butters was badly afflicted with dropsy, and the tendency of her condition was grave.
Her cousins the Blodgetts, and her niece Honoria Smallridge were frequent visitors to her bedside. Madame Orly—now Madame Duchesne—returned from London immediately upon receipt of Fanny’s letter. She, Fanny and Mrs. McIntosh together did all that human agency could accomplish in making Mrs. Butters comfortable, Having arranged her affairs in London to her satisfaction, she appeared to relax her hold upon life and her illness became a rapid sinking into death.
And what of her son and daughter-in-law? Attendance at such a time could not be expected of them—Cecilia Butters pleaded her many obligations, her children, her horses, her dogs, which kept her tethered to Stoke Newington. But upon her mother-in-law’s demise, she and her husband travelled to Bristol as if on wings to take inventory of everything in the house. While Mr. Butters followed his mother’s coffin to the churchyard, his wife was counting the teaspoons and measuring the curtains.
Fanny, Madame Duchesne, and Mrs. McIntosh together formed a trio of bland complaisance and courtesy toward a woman whose conduct they all privately deplored. Fanny kept herself busy with superintending the bazaar, though her eyes were sometimes red-rimmed with furtively shed tears. Fanny had always been exceedingly uncomfortable at the thought of anyone’s disapproval—the stern tones of her uncle, the censure of her Aunt Norris—but she found to her surprise that she was able to endure Cecilia Butter’s dislike of her, tolerably well.
After the funeral, and the reception at the house, George Butters revealed the contents of his mother’s last will and testament to his wife. The purpose of that final visit to London was then revealed. Mrs. Butters had deputized Mr. Orme to meet with her son, and directly enquire into his financial affairs. They were, as Mrs. Butters suspected, in a bad state. Debts threatened to engulf him.
Mrs. Butters had authorized Mr. Orme to proffer immediate relief from these debts, in lieu of waiting for an inheritance. As it happened, only two months separated his acceptance of the offer, from the death of his mother. Accordingly, when the will came to be read, there was nothing reserved for George and Cecilia Butters save for the silver, the plate and the household furnishings.
The old lady’s chief beneficiaries were her three granddaughters, who would acquire five thousand pounds apiece upon attaining the age of twenty-five. To Captain Duchesne and his wife, she left her share of her investment in the wine enterprise. Her
