“How can I ever believe what you tell me? Why should I not suspect you and Claire of having an intrigue?”
Shelley played with her hand and gently kissed each of her fingers, one after the other. “That is nothing more or less than what the world says of me, my love, ever since Claire ran away with us.” He sighed. “Ah, I have lived a hundred years since then!” He looked at her earnestly. “But, as you have learned by this that I guarded her secrets, can you not repose the same trust in me, and believe I will never betray you?”
“I do not understand why you undertook to support her and give her a home in the first place.”
“Well, whatever has occurred in the past, the fact is, Claire does not have the means to live independently, and surely you see we must restore her to health, before she can find work.”
“If there is any prospect of ridding yourself of her, draw on me for the doctor’s funds,” Mary sighed.
Shelley added with some evident hesitation, “And, also, there is a villa on the Riviera di Chiaia I wish to let for the winter, but the landlord insists upon payment in advance.”
“Why have you chosen a house on the most expensive street in town?” Mary cried in exasperation.
Shelley looked surprised. “The view, of course. Why would you stay in Naples without a view of the entire bay, and the gardens?”
Mary rolled her eyes. “But surely now is the time to establish a separate household. The beautiful view will console your wife. Now is the time to announce your intentions.”
Shelley’s eyes again filled with tears. “I long to, oh... how I long to be with you. You have no idea. But I cannot, Marina, I cannot.”
“Why? Why, in heaven’s name, why not?” Mary gestured to her growing belly. “Haven’t you waited long enough?”
He rubbed his face in his hands. “Mary. Mary is—I cannot leave her now, my love. Her entire family is prone to melancholy. Her mother—well, you know. Her older sister killed herself. If I broke with her now, Mary would just... walk into the sea.”
“Does she reproach herself for the death of your daughter?”
“Yes,” answered Shelley shortly. “But mostly, she blames me.”
“If she blames you, then perhaps it were better for you to separate,” said Mary coolly.
Shelley began to pace up and down the room. “Who is to say—had you not threatened exposure, had I not, in consequence, urged her to leave Bagni di Lucca so precipitously—which forced her to travel in the heat of summer—”
“Oh, now you seek to blame me?”
Shelley shook his head. “Marina, for pity’s sake, consider my unfortunate history. My first wife drowned herself. Sometimes I close my eyes and I can see—as clearly as though I had been there—Harriet’s pretty face with her hair flowing about her like Ophelia and her blue eyes, staring up through the water. And it was I—” he pounded his narrow chest— “I was the last family member to talk to Mary’s sister—before she poisoned herself. I knew her heart was breaking. I could hear it in her voice as we parted. No, no, I cannot endure another suicide! I cannot!”
He sat down, hiding his face in his hands, and wept softly.
A wave of the most intense vexation washed over Mary, and she sprang to her feet. “You are telling me, that if I insist upon you leaving your wife, she will kill herself. You hold this over my head to ensure my silence? How long can you expect—”
“Two weeks—three weeks,” Shelley exclaimed, clutching at her hand. “Grant me that much time. In the new year, I swear to you, I will resolve our quandary. I vow it, my love.”
Mary struggled with herself for a long moment. “It is indeed my misfortune that the first time you decide to behave nobly, it is at my expense.”
Shelley promised he would come and visit her frequently, and he was kissing her hand to bid her adieu, when he suddenly gave a sharp cry of pain—he grimaced—he fell to the floor, clutching his side, his face contorted with agony.
“What is it? Shelley, what can I do?” asked Mary, in the greatest alarm. She feared he was dying before her eyes. “Shall I ring for the servant? Shall we send for a doctor?”
“Pray—my love—do not be alarmed,” Shelley gasped, “This occurs from time to time—and I must bear it. There is a bottle in my jacket pocket—pray, tell the servant to fetch a glass of wine.”
The writhing man’s pleas were answered with alacrity. The vial in his pocket proved to be laudanum which Mary promptly administered to him, mixed in a glass of wine, but some moments of anxious suspense passed before she could perceive that the drug must be taking its effect. After a quarter of an hour, Shelley exhaled, a long slow trembling breath, and he lay exhausted, limp and unmoving, his eyes closed and a sheen of perspiration on his face.
“It has been worse lately. I have been sleep-walking again, too. I trust I will feel better soon,” he murmured. “I know I shall, now that I am reunited with you.”
“Hadn’t you better return to England, for proper medical care?” asked Mary anxiously.
Shelley laughed weakly. “The doctors in England sent me here! Please, Marina. Do not distress yourself. I know I am destined to die young—sometimes I even welcome it.” He rolled over and propped himself up on his forearms, smiling. “Think of Thomas Chatterton. Dying was the best thing he did for his poetical career.”
“Must you jest about such a thing?” cried Mary. “At least spare a thought for me. What is to become of me?”
“I am sorry, my love. You are not accustomed to this, as I am. I have suffered these torments for years.”
“Isn’t
