Mr. Robinson continued happily oblivious all the way to the door of her apartment, where he bid her a good day. Mary thanked him repeatedly and upon his assurance that Mrs. Robinson would do herself the honour of returning Mrs. Shelley’s call on the following day, expressed her delight at the prospect.
With Lucenza’s aid, she undressed and retired to bed. Defying Lt. Vannini, Mary sent Lucenza to purchase some bottles of spa water. When she returned from her errand, Mary sent her out again. For pomegranates. Bread. Lavender oil. Writing paper.
To be alone, to think and adjust herself to her new circumstances, was now Mary’s first object.
True, her first encounter with Shelley had been unplanned, but on all subsequent occasions she had not been completely imprudent—she employed little sponges fixed to short lengths of ribbon, and a bottle of vinegar. Her precautions, however, had failed her. She thought back over the weeks, and realized she had blamed her recent lack of appetite on her anxiety over Shelley, and her fatigue to the tedium of her enforced stay in this small provincial town.
She counted on her fingers, and concluded she would have a baby in early spring.
A lesser women would have despaired, but Mary Bertram was courageous and, no less usefully, she had wealth. Poor women lost their positions and were cast out to starve in the hedgerows. Rich women could disappear and then return with an adopted foundling, or the baby could be placed with foster parents and no-one the wiser. She had, in fact, already borne one child in secrecy, when estranged from her husband. Luckily, Edmund had acknowledged Thomas as his own son when they reconciled.
She heard the door to her apartment, and Lucenza came to her chamber, bearing a letter. “It is from Venice, madam.”
My love, my darling—
Have you been anxious? I was in the very act of writing to apprise you of some good news when I received your letter. Your jealousy over Miss Clairmont is unworthy of you. There is no intrigue—at least—I have nothing to reproach myself with. When we meet again, I shall explain everything.
Your faith in me, your patience, is about to be rewarded!
In Venice, I received, most unexpectedly, an offer from Lord Byron to use his villa at Este. An exquisite moment of hope, almost too wonderful to be comprehended, broke upon me. Hitherto, my straitened means prevented me from establishing a separate household for Mrs. Shelley and the children, and here was one provided! Once I have her settled at Este, I will apprise her of my new circumstances, and return to you!
Therefore, I urge you, do not attempt a meeting with my wife. For her peace of mind, it is best that she first receive my assurance that I remain her firm & constant friend, who would never wilfully injure her feelings. She will be on her way to Este by the time you receive this note.
Rejoice! We shall be united within a fortnight!
Your, Shelley
* * * * * * *
Having gone from rage, to despair, to renewed hope in the course of a few hours, Mary was excessively tired but forced herself to receive Mrs. Robinson the following day in her apartment’s little sitting room, with Lucenza clumsily serving tea.
Mary and her guest spoke in English, so Lucenza might not comprehend, but Mrs. Gibson referred, in passing, to “Paolo Foggi,” and to Mary’s vexation, the foolish, silly girl interposed— “Mi scusi, madam, did you speak of my Paolo?”
Mrs. Robinson, though rather stern in manner, was not one disposed to make unkind judgements—for indeed, she would otherwise never have befriended the Shelley household. She condescendingly informed the maid that Paolo had gone with Mrs. Shelley and was escorting her on the hazardous trip across Italy.
Tears filled Lucenza’s eyes at the news, and her lips began to wobble, and with a sigh of exasperation, Mary sent her downstairs for more refreshments, then revived the interesting subject.
“I received a letter from Miss Clairmont yesterday,” Mary lied. “She told me they are not staying with Lord Byron in Venice, but gone to Este. I have never been to Este.
“Nor have I, Mrs. Bertram, but I understand it is a very pretty place. Mr. Shelley said in his letter to Mrs. Shelley, that the expansive views are a welcome change after living amongst the hills here in Bagni di Lucca. Speaking of Shelley, Mr. Robinson tells me he alarmed you yesterday, with Shelley’s talk of an imminent revolution.”
Mary did not at first recollect what the lady was talking about.
“I—oh yes, revolution. Most alarming. And what do you think about the likelihood of revolution, Mrs. Robinson?”
Mrs. Robinson spoke, but Mary did not really attend. She allowed her attention to wander completely, then realised Mrs. Robinson must have moved off the topic to something more personal.
“I beg your pardon?” she said, with a little start. “Miss Clairmont’s little daughter?”
“Oh dear—have I said too much?” exclaimed Mrs. Robinson. “How careless of me. As you were corresponding with Claire, I thought you knew...”
“Knew about her daughter?” Mary hazarded. “Of course.”
Mrs. Robinson sighed in relief. “I was afraid I had betrayed a confidence. So, since Lord Byron has consented that Claire may see Allegra, I hope she will conclude she has nothing to fear. The nursemaid—but of course I doubt Claire would have told you this—Mrs. Shelley very kindly gave up her excellent nursemaid to attend Allegra. In that respect, at least, the child is in good hands.”
Mary nodded, to show her complete satisfaction that Allegra was in good hands.
Lucenza then bustled back into the room with a plate of sliced goat cheese, which she set down in front of Mary. The smell disagreed most particularly with her, and Mary’s face must have proclaimed her discomfort, for Mrs. Robinson rose from
