“Why did you not tell me you were going away?” Lucenza cried, “I didn’t know what happened to you! Where have you been? Why did not you say goodbye to me?”
“Sweetheart, I am back now—and look at me, how quickly I have been hurrying back to you, I have not washed or eaten. I have been thinking of my sweet brown-eyed girl all this while.”
“But I was afraid you were gone forever!”
“My sweet, what was I to do? Signor Shelley was in such a great hurry to be gone, I had not an extra moment of time, and he needed me to make all the arrangements for the journey, and so much bother over what to pack and not to pack, and what books to take and what to leave behind, and all of Signora Claire’s baggage as well...”
This last fell distinctly on Mary’s ears as she reached the couple. “Signora Claire? What is this about Miss Clairmont?” she demanded, too shocked to be discreet about questioning a servant in the middle of the street. At least they conversed in Italian, which many of the passing English tourists could not understand.
Paolo pulled off his hat and gave her a graceful bow. “Good afternoon, Signora. Yes, the young lady, Miss Clairmont, she went to Venice with Mr. Shelley. They will be in Venice by tomorrow.”
Mary felt the blood drain from her head and a wave of dizziness passed over her. She turned her head—the deep brim of her bonnet shaded her face, but only partially, and the violence of her reaction was evident to the two servants, who exchanged interested glances.
At last, Mary said, “Why—why did Miss Clairmont—where did they go?”
“To Venice, madam. I escort them part of the way to Venice. I make the arrangements for the—
“Never mind what you did. Why are they gone to Venice? Why has she gone with him?”
“I heard them speak of By-ron this, By-ron that.” He nodded wisely. “They go to see Lord By-ron.”
“When will they return?”
Paolo bobbed his head deferentially, “I do not know, madam, but when they need my help, Signor Shelley will write me.”
“He will inform Mrs. Shelley, rather than you, I should think.”
“Oh, certainly, madam. In fact, I have a letter from Signor Shelley for the Signora, I am taking it to her now.”
Mary would have given a hundred pounds to know the contents of that letter, but she managed to contain herself and said only: “How will Mrs. Shelley write back to him? What directions did Mr. Shelley give?”
“He is in Venice, just as I said, madam. Signora Shelley is to write him in care of the post office there.”
Mary handed him all the money in her pocket, saying, “There is no need to mention this conversation to Mrs. Shelley, do you understand?”
“Of course!” Foggi winked and smoothed his moustaches. “What conversation, madam? It is already forgotten.” He shrugged his shoulders dramatically. “I had no conversation. Who would I have a conversation with? Of course I have no—”
“Enough!” she waved him away. “Go home, now.”
With an elaborate bow for Mary and a dramatic sigh of repressed devotion for Lucenza, the servant took his leave, and Lucenza for once had the good sense to say nothing to her mistress.
Mary’s first conviction, which froze her blood, was that Claire had run away with Shelley, or rather that Shelley had run away with Claire. But this could only mean Shelley, who had protested his adoration of her, who had named her ‘the partner of his soul,’ was an utter liar and dissembler, and she had been completely taken in. Could it be possible? Could Shelley prefer Claire to herself? And could both Claire and Shelley have practised so entire a deception upon her, and upon the other Mary, who waited for her husband at the far end of the village with their two children?
Mary tottered forward, but her legs felt like wood beneath her. She tried to keep walking, and breathing, and forcing herself to look at the facts calmly and rationally.
No—no—it was impossible that Claire could be preferred. Claire Clairmont was just a silly child. There must be was some connection between Claire Clairmont and Lord Byron. She had heard a great deal about Lord Byron’s appetites from her friends in London, and in fact the stories were so shocking, so beyond the bounds of propriety, involving acts and behaviours which scarcely had a name in English, that she regarded them with some scepticism.
But what other construction could be put on the matter? Shelley had taken Claire with him to Venice—they were both entirely careless of appearances—and now they had not even the chaperonage of their manservant. Foggi must know a great deal more. He knew they spoke of Lord Byron—what else had he seen and heard? Did Shelley and Claire take separate bedrooms at the end of the day’s journey? Did they sit apart in the carriage? Or did they hold hands, did he stroke her dark curls, did he kiss those pink lips, or cause those sparkling dark eyes to light up with laughter?
With a start, Mary realised that Lucenza might now be a useful source of information. She resolved to no longer restrict her comings and goings—let the foolish chit have as many rendezvous with Shelley’s manservant as she pleased, let him ruin her. Mary would reward her for any information she could bring back.
“Madam? Madam?” She became aware of Lucenza’s voice calling her.
Mary stopped and looked about her, and saw she had been so abstracted of mind, she had walked past the post office.
“We shall walk as far as the bridge today, Lucenza. And call at the post office on the way back.”
