“Yes, dearest, the tale of Prometheus.” Shelley pulled himself across the floor and laid his head on her lap.
“Yes, I recall now. He was punished by the gods for giving the gift of fire to Man.”
“The gift of fire,” said Shelley quietly. “The divine illumination. I would suffer as I do, every day, and willingly, if I could enlighten the world.”
“You can’t enlighten the world from Naples, Shelley.” Mary pushed him aside and crossed to her little desk where she wrote out a generous bank draft and handed it to him. “If you really mean what you say, you will not let any consideration prevent you from fulfilling your calling. Quickly! What if it is true—what if you have only a little time left on this earth. Before it is too late! Do not call this a loan, Shelley, since you lack the means of repaying me. But if you take this paper from my hand, understand that it means we shall be boarding a ship to England so soon as I am able to travel. Without your wife. Without her sister.”
Shelley kissed her hand fervently, then took the paper and looked at it, puzzled. “Bertram? I thought your name was Crawford.”
Mary explained and Shelley laughed, “Oh, that we could all throw off our past lives so easily!”
“It will be that easy, Shelley. Let us talk about what we shall do when we are back in England.” She took her seat again and Shelley lay his head on her lap once more. He spoke charmingly of their future life—of London, of walking together in Hyde Park, of going to the theatre, grandly dressed, or riding in a carriage with four horses to Richmond. Yes, perhaps it would be better to live in Richmond. So long as they lived near the river. They would get a little boat and go sailing together.
They would have a handsome library, and a study, and he would read aloud to her in the evening.
“We will be so happy—forever,” said Shelley, before drifting asleep, his head still in her lap.
* * * * * * *
Mary saw Shelley only irregularly during the month of December. Two days after Christmas, he appeared at her door, looking anxious and contrite, with a ball of soft Italian cheese. “There is an excellent family of cheese-mongers near our street, my dear,” he began. “And they actually speak a little English, to my amazement. They most particularly recommended—”
“I do not care to talk about cheese-mongers, Shelley.” Mary leaned her head on her hand and closed her eyes. She had a headache.
“My dearest, my Marina, of course not. But let us be merry—please, please, my dear. All is gloom at home, and gloom is everywhere, and I cannot bear it.”
Mary walked away and looked out the window across the bay, to where Vesuvius sat smoking. At night, she could often see small eruptions of red fire, liquid rock. She thought the mountain was no bad illustration of her temper—if she released all of the resentment she had been holding inside, she might scald Shelley with the force of it. He would be astonished that one woman could contain such rage. Or would he?
Instead, she turned back to him and said, “Thank you for the cheese.”
“Let me toast some for you by the fire,” Shelley offered, and he rang the bell for bread and some plates. “My friend Hogg and I, we used to sit up all night in my rooms in Oxford, talking. We would forget to eat our suppers and we would suddenly discover how hungry we were by about two or three in the morning. I became very good at toasting cheese,” and indeed, he sat cross-legged down by the fire, for all the world like a carefree school-boy, as though he was not now half way across the world, without funds, and with three women competing for his love and his attention.
Mary looked at him—at the intensity and absorption which he brought to everything he did, at his lanky form, his elfin face lit up by the flickering flames. Perhaps, only a year from now, they would be in their own household in London, —it would be only she and Shelley, and it would be Christmas, and he would toast cheese for her by the fire.
Oh. There would be their baby as well, in the nursery. And servants to make everything comfortable and pleasant, but mostly, it would be her and Shelley. And they would be celebrating the wild success of his travel book about Italy, or his translation of Plato, or his love poems.
And her head would not be throbbing, as it was now. Shelley looked up, and wonder of wonders, actually noticed that she was in pain. He set down the poker with the sizzling cheese, crossed to the table, and poured her a glass of wine mixed with water.
“Thank you, Shelley,” Mary murmured.
“Lie back, dearest,” said Shelley, and he tenderly arranged the pillows behind her head, and tucked a blanket around her, and sat down by her side, holding her hand. “How beautiful you look in the firelight! I wish I were better at drawing—I should love to take your portrait. We must find an artist to have it done.”
He leaned forward and kissed her gently, then ardently.
A sound, a movement caught their attention just at that moment. They both looked up to see Paolo Foggi standing in the doorway. He was bowing with his usual deference, his cap was in his hand, but there was no servility in his eyes. In vain did the servant attempt to hide his sly smile with a false coughing fit.
“Signor Shelley, please forgive me. I come running from home.”
“What is it, Paolo?”
