Mary could not regret her guest’s departure. She retreated to her bedchamber as miserable sickness took hold of her.
Being with child had never agreed with Mary. She always felt trapped and resentful of the demands made on her body. But she had never felt so ill as she now did—the Italian heat added immeasurably to her misery.
The following day, Lieutenant Vannini returned to question and re-question Lucenza. Mary wondered at his persistence in discovering the identity of the attacker in a common street brawl over a servant girl.
“Since the valet is making a full recovery,” Mary complained, “you are not looking for a murderer. Surely the matter might be settled privately.”
“Ordinarily yes, madam,” Vannini nodded, “but it is an English man who was attacked.”
“But merely a servant, after all.”
“Nevertheless, madam, it is of the utmost importance that we find the guilty man, and bring him to justice, so all the English folk will be at ease in Bagni di Lucca.”
“Believe me, I am not at ease in Bagni di Lucca, and will be gone so soon as I—so soon as I am ready to go.”
“But madam, our investigation—your servant—”
“It is only the girl who cannot leave, am I correct?”
“Well... yes. But if you leave, and the girl is not in your custody, she will be held in the jail in Lucca, to await the hearing next month.”
Lucenza looked piteously at Mary, and Mary waved her out of the room.
“And as well, madam...” the lieutenant coughed awkwardly. “You are believed to have some acquaintance with the family of Shelley, who lived at the Casa Bertini?”
“What of it?”
“This family, madam, employed a Livornese man named Paolo Foggi. He is our chief suspect in the stabbing incident. Can you confirm that Foggi is with the Shelleys?”
“I have no idea, Lieutenant.”
“Do you know where the Shelleys are gone?”
“No, Lieutenant Vannini, I do not.”
“Not at all? I was told you were well acquainted with Mr. Shelley.”
“I can tell you nothing, Lieutenant.”
“Very well. I am sorry to have disturbed you, madam. I hope you will soon recover. Good day to you, madam.”
* * * * * * *
From her window at the Casa Ciampi, Mary watched every morning as the noisy, squeaking wooden carts carried away the luggage of the departing English guests. The young misses with their sketching books and easels, the children and the governesses, the white-haired old men, Admiral Fremantle and his detestable wife. The streets grew quiet, the evening gaieties ceased, the orchestra packed up and left for Livorno.
Mary lingered in her room, still feeling weak and tired.
Although the tree-covered mountains showed promise of the beauties of autumn, Mary began to feel buried alive in the Appenine hills, with no horizon, no future, to gaze upon. Shelley’s promised fortnight came and went with no word.
At long last, a letter from Shelley found its way to her hands.
My Marina, my beloved—
At last, my health is somewhat restored and I have sufficient self-command to send you these few lines. Fate has overturned all our plans—oh, how shall I tell you!
Our baby daughter suffered from the heat and privations of the journey here to Este. I too, was feeling exceedingly unwell, as was Miss Clairmont. Este does not have any decent medical men, so, of necessity, Miss Clairmont and I travelled to consult a noted physician in Padua. Whilst in Padua I received an urgent message from my wife—she feared Clara was growing worse—accordingly, I urged her to bring the baby and join us—then, hearing from Lord Byron that he had an excellent doctor in Venice, I proposed that we all continue on to that city.
We reached Venice, I set out urgently to summon the doctor—I returned——and found Clara dead in her mother’s arms!
My position is now a miserable one. My wife’s grief pierces my heart. I leave it to your magnanimous spirit, to judge whether now is the time to inform her that our marriage is at an end. I have been too oppressed even to write to you:
O Thou, my spirit’s mate
Who, for thou art compassionate and wise,
Wouldst pity me from thy most gentle eyes
If this sad writing thou shouldst ever see—
My secret groans must be unheard by thee,
Thou wouldst weep tears bitter as blood to know
Thy lost friend’s incommunicable woe.
We must wait, but for how long? I can hardly say.
Our villa in Este is very pleasant, with a fine view of the Euganean Hills. I have commenced a new epic poem, which I long to share with you.
Your devoted,
PBS
Mary read and re-read the note, scarcely knowing how to assign the fault; whether folly, ignorance or ill-luck were most to blame for an innocent child’s death. Sometimes she thought one predominated, then the other. Surely Mrs. Shelley’s imprudence was of a piece with her husband’s——what unthinking compliance was this, to travel with an ailing babe, on a five day carriage ride in the blazing heat, followed by another which proved fatal!
Shelley had sung to her of liberty, of throwing off all that was false and obeying only the promptings of their hearts, but now they both were hopelessly tangled in sorrow, regret and delay. He had not only compromised his own freedom, but hers as well. She carried his child, though he did not yet know it.
So soon as she could make her arrangements, Mary departed from Bagni di Lucca on the trail of Shelley. She needed to engage male servants. Fortunately the valet Roberts, although recovered from his injury had been discharged by his employers and left behind in Bagni di Luca. His Italian was poor, but sufficient to hire horses and drivers and speak to innkeepers on her behalf.
Lucenza was turned over to
