“Incident?” said Mr. Robinson.
“You recall, dear, Mary mentioned it to us. A stabbing in the village,” Mrs. Robinson replied, then turning again to Mary, she added decisively, “I think not, Mrs. Bertram. Why would Mrs. Shelley risk the health of her child for a servant of no very good character? Especially if he was the culprit? And I should imagine that word of the affray had yet to reach Mr. Shelley; he must have written his letter at least five days ago. But he was most insistent that she leave immediately—immediately!”
“I see. Then—where did you say they were going?”
“Dear, remember that Mary asked us—” Mr. Robinson said.
“Oh very well, Mr. Robinson, but she meant, not to let the landlord know, and the tradespeople.”
“I—I see,” Mary said again, and for perhaps the first time in her life, words failed her. She did not know what else to say, or to ask.
“Well, then,” said Mrs. Robinson, her hand still on the door.
Mary nodded, defeated, and started to turn away, but the courtyard began to tilt and swirl around her, and she grabbed on to the door frame to support herself.
“You are unwell, I fear, Mrs. Bertram!” she heard Mr. Robinson say. “Pray, come inside, come inside.”
“I shall fetch you a glass of water,” added his wife. “Pray, sit here. Fortunately, we still have the furniture which belongs with the house.”
Mary glanced furtively about her and perceived the remains of a household in disarray—cupboard doors hanging open, a few books and papers strewn about—dirty platters on the table, a child’s hoop and stick abandoned in a corner. Everything spoke of a hasty removal.
“Do you mean to say, ma’am—is it your understanding, then, that the Shelleys have no intention of returning?” said Mary faintly.
“I hardly know. I doubt it. And at any rate, you may know enough of Mr. Shelley to be aware of his predilection for revising his plans with very little notice. They were going to settle in Pisa, then they left Pisa, they were going to live with us in Livorno, but—”
“Shelley did not care for Livorno,” Mr. Robinson interjected. “He did not think it interesting enough.”
“Here is some water. Plain boiled water, from the kettle. Do you want my smelling salts, Mrs. Bertram? You are very pale. Are you indisposed? Can I get you anything?”
“No, no, nothing—nothing at all, I thank you. It is only the heat. Just permit me to rest for a moment.” Mary leaned her head against the wall behind her and closed her eyes. Out of the turmoil of her mind arose certain conviction—and despair.
It was her letter—her threat—to Shelley that was the cause of his wife’s sudden departure. He wanted to avoid a confrontation between his wife and his mistress.
He would not return.
He had abandoned her.
A wave of nausea rose within her, and a new certainty flashed upon her. She rose, walked shakily to the table, and vomited in a dirty serving platter.
She was betrayed—and she was with child.
The Robinsons were alarmed and very solicitous. Mary was mortified, but had the presence of mind to blame some bad fish for her sudden attack of sickness, while her thoughts raced with horror and confusion. She was now as anxious to depart the Shelley’s home as she had been determined to linger. Mrs. Robinson insisted that her husband escort her safely back to the Casa Ciampi. Mary walked slowly down the hill, hanging on his arm, and she continued to ply him with questions: “Was Mrs. Shelley in good spirits? Does she like travelling?”
“No, indeed not, though chiefly owing to her worry over Clara.”
“Clara?”
“The baby.”
“Oh, yes, the baby. Of course, dear little Clara. Pray,” said Mary, retreating in confusion from her blunder. “Pray, how long have you been acquainted with the Shelleys?”
Mr. Robinson explained his wife was an old friend of the Godwin family back in London and had taken care of Mary as an infant after her mother died. Yes, it was a very great pity such a talented woman had died so young.
The Robinsons had lived in Italy for several years, in Livorno. That was where they had reunited, so to speak, with Mary Godwin, now Mrs. Shelley, all grown up and a mother herself. But Shelley hadn’t much cared for Livorno. Had she been to Livorno? No? Well, it suited them very well. Some people thought it was too quiet. Shelley hadn’t much cared for it.
Shelley—now there was a character! His health was a matter of some concern. Mrs. Shelley had been in hopes that the waters here at Bagni di Lucca were doing him good—he was using less laudanum now. Nasty stuff. But he hadn’t much cared for Livorno.
The effort of maintaining her part of the conversation was exceedingly trying for Mary, consumed as she was by the desperation of her new predicament. She only half-listened to Mr. Robinson—who fortunately appeared to be not so acute or intelligent as his wife. Her attention must have drifted, because she suddenly realised her companion was now talking of revolution in England.
“A revolution?’ asked Mary, in alarm. “What have you heard?”
It was Mr. Robinson’s turn to look startled. “I have heard nothing, but as I was saying, our friend Shelley is quite convinced the country is on the cusp of revolution—an uprising by the common folk against the ruling classes. We—Mrs. Robinson and I—have no small part of our savings invested in the Naval five percents. Shelley says, we shall lose everything if the government is overthrown. He is counselling us to withdraw our funds.”
“Let us hope it does not come to that,” was all Mary could think to say. Shelley, she knew, would welcome a revolution. Child-like, he would revel in the destruction, as a boy kicks down a sandcastle, demolishing in an
