Then I shall push you into the river when we get there, Mary thought to herself.
* * * * * * *
Upon her return to her rooms, Mary could no longer contain her fury, and she wrote a letter to Shelley, despite the chance the letter might be opened and examined as it passed between here and Venice.
What am I to suppose, what would any woman suppose, upon learning you travelled with your sister-in-law, unescorted, across Italy? How dare you undertake this journey without informing me she was to be your companion? Only a guilty conscience could explain your silence.
You always pleaded your tender consideration for your wife. Now, she will be exposed to the scorn of the world!
This letter should take no more than five days to reach you—within ten days I expect your reply, and if I do not receive it, I shall call upon Casa Bertini and inform your wife that your marriage is at an end. If you will not, I will. Pray, rely upon what I say.
You have only yourself to blame. Mrs. Shelley may be accustomed to being treated in this fashion, but no woman of spirit endures this usage.
Her anger had by no means subsided by nightfall, and Mary lay awake for hours, tossing and turning. Sometime before dawn she must have fallen asleep, for she was sleeping soundly when a shrill female cry arose from the courtyard below her window. At first she muttered, rolled over and cursed the Italians, but the screaming and wailing continued, along with cries of Roberto! Roberto! Ah, mio adorato! Non morire, amore mio! and Mary recognized the voice of her maid, Lucenza.
She heard voices, footsteps, window shutters being flung open, angry shouting.
Whatever was about to happen next would undoubtedly require that she be awake and dressed to confront it. Indeed, she scarcely had time to arise and pull a dressing gown over her shift, when she heard someone hammering loudly on her door. She looked closely at her mirror, her eyes adjusting to the dim light of moonlight. Curl-papers covered her head—she seized one of Lucenza’s mob caps and put it on, and snatched up a large shawl as the pounding on the door continued. “Signora! Signora! Apri la porta! Signora!”
Summoning her most British glare of reproof, Mary opened the door and beheld an Italian officer, his too-small uniform smothered in braid and buttons straining across his pot belly. One of Madame Ciampi’s maidservants stood behind, holding up a lamp with one hand and rubbing the sleep out of her eyes with the other.
“Madam,” the man announced as though bringing tidings of the Apocalypse. “I am Lieutenant Vannini of the Palazzo Communale. There has been an incident.”
The lieutenant insisted she go downstairs with him. The dining room was half-filled with tourists and local citizens, with more arriving every moment, most of them like Mary in night attire. Everyone was talking at once. Madame Ciampi’s excited tones rose above the general hub-bub, but she spoke with such vehemence that Mary, whose Italian was tolerably good, could not understand her.
Someone, in all the din, was sobbing hysterically. Mary realized it was Lucenza, squatting down in abject misery on the floor.
“Be quiet, you miserable creature,” Madame Ciampi scolded. “Hold your tongue!”
“Speak! You must tell us! You must tell us who attacked the Englishman.” Lt. Vannini began shaking Lucenza’s shoulder.
It was some time before Mary was able to gather the essential facts—Lucenza had left her chamber and gone downstairs in the middle of the night to meet with her English suitor, the valet. They were talking together—”Huh! Talking! Tell us some more lies!” exclaimed Madame Ciampi— when a man came up behind her and cried, “do not touch our women, you English dog!” In the blink of an eye, he sunk a dagger into the valet’s shoulder, and disappeared into the night. This much the lieutenant managed to extract from Lucenza, between her wails and sniffles, but she swore she did not recognise the voice of the attacker, and had seen nothing in the darkness.
The English valet had been carried off to receive medical attention; hopes were entertained that his wound was not fatal, and Lucenza, judging by the expression on Madame Ciampi’s face, was just as guilty as the man wielding the knife.
“She refuses to say if she knew the attacker,” said the gendarme, turning to Mary. “You must command her to confess, madam.”
“Of course, but what if she truly does not know?” asked Mary. “It is dark outside, and if the assassin approached from behind her, how can she be certain?”
“How many lovers does this girl have?” demanded Madame Ciampi. “This little Lombardy whore has been slipping out every night, and you—you have permitted it, madam!”
“How dare you! I shall be leaving this establishment in the morning!”
“I’m afraid not, madam,” Lieutenant Vannini put in. “While this affair is under investigation, you are on no account to leave our jurisdiction until you are given leave.”
Mary bit back an angry retort. She thought of naming Paolo Foggi; it seemed likely to her he might be the culprit. But to do so would bring Shelley’s wife into the situation, which she still hesitated to do.
It was very late, and Mary much disliked appearing in front of her fellow Englishmen while in an ugly mob cap. Summoning up all her self-control, she managed to choke out an apology to Madame Ciampi, regretting that such an untoward incident had occurred outside her respectable establishment. She assured Lieutenant Vannini she would press her wayward maid to confess.
Mary ordered a bottle of brandy to be brought up to her room, and she poured a glassful down the throat of her whimpering servant, before sending her to bed.
* * * * * * *
Mary picked at her breakfast, then walked out to
