“The child is English, then? I thought she was an Neapolitan foundling. That is what your wife evidently believes, for she told me as much.”
Shelley stirred uncomfortably in his seat. “That is to say, her mother was English—a well-bred Englishwoman, actually, of good family.”
“Then, pray, why isn’t the child in the care of this Englishwoman’s family?” Mrs. Robinson asked.
“The circumstances are such…” Percy began awkwardly, then fell silent.
Mrs. Robinson frowned and took up the poker to stir the fire. “This is all very curious. Percy, I am your wife’s oldest friend in this world. I held her in my arms while her poor mother lay dying. You are asking me to keep a secret from her, for perhaps the rest of her life and mine. You must give me a reason. Why must she remain in ignorance of your sponsorship of this child?”
Shelley grimaced. “The most sacred considerations require me to conceal the details of my delicate situation from Mary, but I will confide in you, and no other. The truth is, I knew the infant’s mother, and she is dead.”
“You knew the mother? Are you the—”
“It is an unusual tale, Mrs. Robinson, and I must enjoin you to secrecy. Were there no child in the case, no word of this history would pass my lips. Strangely enough, the story begins three years ago, in London. A lady—handsome, rich, but disguising her identity—came to me, and expressed her utmost admiration for my writing, and her complete adoration of me, in consequence.”
“Really! How extraordinary!”
“I thanked her, but told her I was pledged to another. This occurred on the eve of our departure for Europe, you understand, so I never expected to see the lady again.” Shelley wrung his hands together, and kept his eyes on the dwindling flames of the fire. “Conceive of my amazement when I encountered her at Bagni di Lucca. She confessed she had left her husband on my account, and had been following me throughout Europe, staying at the places where I stayed, but incognito. At our accidental meeting she again threw herself at my feet, begging to be allowed to love me.”
“What was this lady’s name?” asked Mrs. Robinson, suspicion plainly written upon her countenance. “Who is her family?”
“Her name—I must beg you to permit me to conceal it. As to what became of her—I rely entirely upon your goodness and understanding. This lady, as I said, was so devoted to me that wheresoever I went, she followed. She pursued me throughout Italy, after I left Bagni di Lucca. We met again in Naples, and I discovered she was with child. But alas!” Shelley buried his face in his hands. “Alas, in Naples—she died!”
Through his quiet sobs, Shelley told of a dangerous, protracted labour, the grave expressions of the midwife, the unspeakable relief of the successful delivery, his brief but false conviction of the mother’s safety. The best doctor in Naples had attended her assiduously, she had been bled every day, and given purgatives, but she was exhausted by her travails, and the flame of life struggled, flickered, and died!
“How very tragic. And the child is yours?”
Shelley looked away. “Why should you suspect me of such a thing? The birth certificate attests that she was born on the 27th of December, Mrs. Robinson. If you count on your fingers, then you will know she must have been with child when we met at Bagni di Lucca.”
“Babies are sometimes born before their time. Your wife, for example...”
Shelley looked down into his empty wine glass. “Yes, our first child was born early—and perished. But little Elena is well enough, or so I am told. She is living with a respectable family of cheese-mongers in Naples.”
Mrs. Robinson looked at Shelley for a long moment, then said, “I should have thought that either the lady was entirely devoted to you, and you alone, as you describe—or she wasn’t. This mysterious lady—was her name Bertram, by any chance?”
Shelley looked surprised. “What? How would you—”
“We went to Bagni di Lucca, you may recall, Mr. Shelley. Mrs. Bertram called at your villa.”
Shelley started. “When? When was that?”
“The day after your wife left to join you in Este.”
“Ah. I see.”
“It may interest you to know,” Mrs. Robinson observed coolly, “that Mrs. Bertram was very discreet. She gave no hint of any special connection betwixt you.”
Shelley sighed and wrung his hands. “How she suffered, for she declared that all her happiness in this world was in my hands! And I, helpless to return her fond devotion!”
“What a curious history! I am very grieved for you, Shelley, but equally am I dismayed at the deceit which you have practised upon your wife. This little orphan girl—you presented the child to her as an unfortunate local orphan. Poor Mary has no idea there is a much closer connection.”
Shelley drew himself up indignantly. “Insofar as I have hidden the anguish of my soul, and have kept up a cheerful countenance, insofar as I have not complained of the pains which wrack my body, insofar as I have kept Mary in ignorance of the torments which, were I not answerable to her as a husband and father, I would have ended with a bullet to my head, I plead guilty—to withholding information in a fashion which, to small-minded men, appears as prevarication. I have always been the apostle of Truth, and the servant of Beauty.”
“Hush, you’ll awaken Mr. Robinson. How old is the little girl now, Shelley?”
“Almost... six months, I believe.”
“A little older than that, surely? If she was born in December?”
“Ah, yes. That’s right.”
Mrs. Robinson looked solemn. “I cannot feel sanguine about your request, Mr. Shelley, and I only give
