Fanny could only hope that Mr. Gibson had forgiven her by now, and bore her no ill-will for deserting him. Certainly she had done him no harm, for he was now both prosperous and famous. If he had still thought her essential to his happiness, he might have spoken at any time these past years. He had not. She could still close her eyes and summon his voice, his smile, the feel of his strong hand holding hers, the warmth of his body when they had embraced. He must, by now, have forgotten.
Whereas Edmund needed her, and more than that, he valued her. He had been married to someone who could not esteem him as he deserved to be valued, and was now left to raise his little family without a wife and helpmeet.
After seeing her mother, brother and sister established in Huntingdon in respectable and secure circumstances, Fanny was at liberty to sit over her sewing and conclude that it wanted only the passage of a little more time when it would be proper to write her acceptance.
Meanwhile, as may be imagined, Edmund wrote to her frequently and affectionately but he did not allude to his wishes, out of consideration for her strong sense of propriety. He informed her, instead, that Mrs. Bellingham had accepted the post of matron with the utmost gratitude.
That unfortunate lady was amazed, she was humbled, to learn she owed this deliverance to Miss Price, whom she had so greatly wronged. She sent a long letter for Fanny, begging her pardon and expressing her remorse for conspiring with Cecilia Butters to have Fanny discharged from the sewing academy. Fanny was surprised at the degree of gratification she felt in achieving this reconciliation.
Chapter 23: Livorno
A woman whom he had known very slightly in London and who, it is said, sought him there closely veiled and declared her love for him, now reappeared in Naples and dying soon afterwards, left her infant daughter to his care. Shelley, always fated to be punished for his generous impulses, accepted the charge and placed the child with a respectable Neapolitan family.... Paolo [Foggi] made this incident the subject of blackmail.
— Shelley and Byron, Isabel C. Clarke 1934
Livorno, Italy, Autumn, 1819
Forget the dead, the past ? Oh, yet
There are ghosts that may take revenge for it!
Memories that make the heart a tomb,
Regrets which glide through the Spirit’s gloom,
And with ghostly whispers tell
That joy once lost is pain.
The day was drizzly and cool. It was not a pleasant time to brave the muddy roads, nor was a long journey on horseback a recommended activity for chronic invalids, but Percy Bysshe Shelley nevertheless rode from Pisa to Livorno to call upon Mr. and Mrs. Robinson. Mary, too grief-stricken to stir abroad, had refused to go with Shelley, for she desired no-one’s company and could barely endure her own, so deep was her misery. The Shelleys only remaining child—their lovely little boy William, was dead.
No-one would look to Shelley to converse with his usual vivacity, not after having lost his favourite child. But nonetheless the three friends were all disposed to sit up and talk politics and the state of the world far into the night.
After draining his cup several times, Mr. Robinson’s head began to nod—no-one attempted to rouse him—and before long he was snoring gently in his arm-chair.
Shelley then drew his own chair closer to his hostess and said with an earnest, confiding glance, “My dear Mrs. Robinson, I am staying overnight on account of an important appointment with the lawyer here in Livorno. I find I must bring you into my confidence, for reasons which will be evident to you—I see Signor Del Rossi tomorrow—”
“Oh yes, we told him to expect you. You intend to confront that rascally servant of yours, is that not so?”
Shelley waved his hand dismissively. “Foggi is a nuisance, but we know how to deal with him. He was most unwise to think he could slander me, when the authorities in Tuscany want to question him about the stabbing of an English servant. Del Rossi will warn him — if he does not cease threatening me, we will have him returned to Lucca. And I am much obliged to you for your recommendation for the lawyer, by the bye.”
“You are welcome, Shelley. We believe he is a very competent man and no doubt he can deal expeditiously with Foggi.”
Shelley coughed awkwardly. “I must confide in you—I have engaged him as my proxy for all matters concerning my little Neapolitan ward.”
“You have been very mysterious about that business, Percy!” Mrs. Robinson exclaimed. “Your wife told us you had taken an interest in an orphan girl in Naples last winter—wanted to adopt her, in fact. What was it all about?”
“Yes, I proposed that we adopt an orphan girl, whose situation came to my notice. My idea was that a baby girl might console my wife for the loss of Clara, but she—well, she would not countenance it. She said children could not be replaced as one replaces a saucepan. However, the circumstances—that is— I am committed to supporting this child. But certain considerations—the probability that my malady will soon be fatal, obliges me to make arrangements for the child’s welfare. I am sure you will agree with me that an English child deserves to have an English guardian, and not be left entirely to the supervision of the Italians.
