Outcasts (9 page)

“No, you must not insist. I beg of you, no arguments tonight, Polly. The thunder alone is enough to induce the headache.”

Fletcher appeared at the door and bowed. “My lord.”

“It appears dinner has been laid,” Byron said jovially. “Naturally, since you have just got the fire going so splendidly, we will
leave this room and dine in a colder one. Shall we?”

Claire laughed. “Oh, let us be mad, and eat in here. Can the table not be moved into this room, and dinner laid?”

“Rather unusual,” Polidori said stiffly. “But if it means there will be meat—”

“Most unusual,” Shelley said, laughing. “Rather, let us eat on the terrace!”

“In the rain?” Claire said, eyes dancing.

“If we eat on the terrace, half of Geneva will take to the water to watch the most notorious Englishmen on the continent eat beets,” Byron said. “No, we shall be only slightly unconventional tonight. Come.”

Shelley helped Mary to rise, but carried the mantel book in one hand. Claire clung to Byron's arm, glowing, a half-smile on her face. Polidori followed, alone and aloof.

“You will appreciate this, Shelley, my democratic friend,” Byron said as he led the way into the dining room. “Behold, a Table Round, suitable for an Arthur or a Lancelot.”

And indeed, the heavy rectangular table of yesterday had been replaced by a round one, now bearing soup tureens, platters and a central candelabra.

“But where shall we sit?” Claire said. “Where do you sit if there is no head of the table?”

Byron strode to a high backed chair and flung out an arm dramatically. “Sit where you like. This is an exercise in democracy, no, anarchy. Call it an expression of utilitarian principle!”

With a quick, light laugh, Claire said, “Wherever you sit, Albé, I shall sit at your right hand.”

“What, so conventional?” Byron cried. “No, no. In this brave new world of social anarchy, I must have my philosophical guide at my right hand. Shelley, if you will.” Byron indicated a chair facing the window. Fletcher nodded to a footman, who stepped forward and pulled out the chair. Shelley bowed but stepped to hand Mary into the chair to Byron's left. Only then did he allow himself to be seated. Fletcher held the chair for his master. This left Polidori and Claire standing rather awkwardly, until Claire
put her hand on the chair next to Shelley.

Polidori sprang forward to pull it out for her. “Allow me, Miss Clairmont.”

“Thank you.” Looking troubled, Claire sat and Polidori adjusted her chair. He then took the one next to her, sending a fulminating look at his employer.

Byron, so far from noticing, was staring at Shelley. “You have brought a book to my table, sir?”

Shelley glanced down. “Yes. I found this copy of Coleridge above your fireplace.
Christabel; Kubla Khan: A Vision; The Pains of Sleep
. Leigh Hunt has given it a good review, you know.”

“Ah, yes,” Byron said lightly. “Murray, the publisher, sent it to me in the post recently. It is only out since May. Most intriguing.”

“We must have a reading after dinner,” Mary said politely. She wished Shelley would put the book down, but he paid no attention to the company, his nose buried in the pages.

Byron signaled to the servants to begin serving. Mary smiled at him. “We are indebted once again to your lordship. I have no notion where I am to replace my cook.”

“I do not envy you the task,” Byron said. His smile was as dazzling as sunlight. “A cook who can accommodate so varied a menu will be a rare find, indeed. Fletcher, do make sure that the good doctor has his fair share of the entree.” This last remark was in the nature of an irony, as Polidori was known to hold vegetables in distaste.

Fletcher served Byron, but a single footman served the rest of the diners. The fare was as unusual as the seating arrangements: no mutton, no turbot, no poultry dishes. Rather, in respect of his guests' principles, his lordship had decreed a vegetable repast. The soup was followed by asparagus and peas rather than a meat dish, and that was succeeded by mounds of boiled potatoes, along with a dish of beets prepared with mustard.

“I do hope that this conforms to your politics,” Byron said, leaning towards Mary. “I believe I have covered your avoidance of meat, sugar and celery. Unless in the last hour you have also
forsworn root vegetables? If so, the kitchen will be sorely taxed, but we shall make some effort to oblige.”

“Your lordship is very kind,” Mary said primly. “You set a very fine table. Thank you.”

“More than kind, he is wise,” Shelley said, looking up from the book. “Our diet should be that of the earliest men, I am persuaded. The depravity of the moral and physical nature of man originates in his unnatural life and diet. The sooner we return to eating as nature decrees, the sooner we will turn from vice to folly.”

“Surely meat is the natural food of man,” Polidori said. “We are hunters, after all.”

“By design, not at all,” Shelley said sternly. “Where are your fangs, doctor? Your claws? With what weapons do you kill and rend your meat? None at all. Indeed, you cannot even eat meat as nature presents it.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It is only by softening and disguising dead flesh by culinary preparation that it is rendered susceptible of mastication or digestion, and that the sight of its bloody juices and raw horror does not excite intolerable loathing and disgust.” Shelley took a roll from the footman and began to butter it. “No, doctor, our natural diet is clean, honest, and devoid of that violence that must attend on the destruction of our fellow creatures for food.”

“What would you have us eat, then?” said Polidori stiffly.

“Vegetables, with as little cooking as possible, and bread.” Shelley flourished his roll.

Polidori admonished his patron. “My lord, you really should eat more than a mouthful of potatoes,” he said to Byron as his lordship passed up the
soup de bonne femme
. “It is unwise of you to tax your strength in this manner.”

Byron cocked an eyebrow. “I have said, I am on a reducing diet. I can hardly fit into my waistcoat.”

Claire laughed. “And how long will you continue to eat nothing but biscuits and soda-water?”

“And wine,” murmured Mary, as she watched Fletcher refill Byron's glass.

“Only as long as you continue to notice it, my little fiend,” Byron said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. For a moment, some warmth shimmered between Claire and Byron. Mary began to hope there might be some substance to their feelings, despite Byron's careless rejection of her earlier that day.

“Oh, nonsense,” Claire said.”You are looking positively underweight, Albé. The doctor is right, you should have some bread, at least.” She patted his lordship's hand. Byron frowned and drew his hand away.

“I cannot, Shelley has eaten all of it. I say, Shelley, leave a crumb for us.” Byron gestured for Fletcher to fill his wineglass again. “Shelley? Oh, someone poke him.”

Shelley, absorbed in the book, heard none of this until Claire leaned over and touched his arm. “I beg your pardon?”

“You interest me, Shelley,” Byron said, pushing a potato onto his fork. “I abjure most meat to keep my figure trim. You, however, reject it through principle. Tell me, which approach is more likely to find favor with our fellow beings?”

“Surely the principle of mercy outweighs even vanity,” Shelley said, smiling.

“And where shall our fellow-beings learn this principle? You will have to shout rather loudly to be heard over the butchers and cooks of the world.” Byron took a tiny bite of potato and washed it down with a healthy swig of wine.

“Our Shelley is the new Prometheus,” Claire said, raising her glass to Shelley. “Like the godling, he will use his gifts to persuade mankind. Surely you have read
Queen Mab,
my love?”

Byron shrugged. “I have. The notes bid fair to outweigh the poem. Good my Shelley, next time pray confine your notes to a separate volume, so that I may more easily avoid them.” His cheek dimpled in a disarming grin.

Shelley flushed but returned the grin.

“I was quite in earnest. Shelley-Shelley, my Shelley-savior, what Madonna will bring forth this Messiah who will lead the masses to enlightenment? Shall it be my Claire, here, virgin when I first took her?”

Polidori gasped and swung round to stare at Byron, who paid him no mind. “Or shall it be fair Mary and her son, another Christ? Or even you yourself, Shelley? Perhaps you are our new Shiloh.”

Claire cocked her head to one side. “Shiloh?”

Byron put his elbows on the table and rested his chin in his hands. “Ah, I forget. I am among the heathen, here. Have you none of you followed the news of Mistress Southcott, of Exeter? She who claimed to be a prophet, and to be bearing the new Messiah?”

At their blank stares, he shook his head. “And here, Shelley, was your golden opportunity, had you but known it. She prophesied that her son would be the new savior, and would be named Shiloh. You could have stepped up and claimed the title! You would be honored! Feted! Followers would flock to you, and your harem could expand fivefold!”

Shelley laughed. “What fantasy is this, my lord? A Shiloh?”

Polidori coughed. “'Tis true, Mr. Shelley. Two years ago, I believe. She was a lay preacher who claimed to be bearing the new, er, Messiah. Instead, she died, I recall.”

“Or was taken up in a whirlwind,” said Byron gaily. “Or swallowed by the earth! Either way, as I say, Shelley, you should take up her now-bereft followers as your own! Be the new Messiah, and lead us all to a paradise of free love, reason and virtue!”

Shelley's expression had faded from amusement to stone. “Your lordship will have his jest,” he said formally. “But you know I am an atheist, and would never try to deceive men into virtue by reference to that which does not exist.”

His tone sobered Byron, and Mary caught a fleeting glimpse of a hurt, embarrassed schoolboy under the Satanic brows. Then Byron looked down and shifted his feet. “Ah, Shelley, don't be offended. My Shiloh, my own savior, you are more like to be the new Prometheus than the new god. More like to be torn by a vengeful god, than ascend to his throne.”

Any reply Shelley might have made was cut short by the servant who removed his empty plate. Byron threw down his napkin and rose. “I propose that we dispense with the formalities—”

Claire laughed gaily. “What formalities have we observed so far?”

“—And retire, all of us, not just the ladies, to the fire our Prometheus has so lately brought to life. Come, Claire.” Byron extended a hand to Claire, who rose and took his arm. Gazing merrily up at him, she allowed him to lead her away into the parlor.

Polidori coughed into his hand. “Well. It seems we are to amuse ourselves. Mrs. Shelley, may I have the honor?”

Mary allowed him to raise her from the chair. Shelley sat staring absently into space, toying with a biscuit. “My love?”

“Ah.” He came to himself with a start, and rose from his chair. “Of course. I shall join you directly.” He shoved the biscuit into a pocket, picked up the Coleridge book and wandered through the door to the hallway. Mary started to call him back, but shrugged.

Polidori drew her hand through the crook of his arm. “We shall have to excuse him. He will come back.”

He will come back.

As she allowed Polidori to lead her away from Shelley, the words echoed coldly in her mind.

Our family was not scientifical, and I had not attended any of the lectures given at the schools of Geneva. My dreams were therefore undisturbed by reality; and I entered with the greatest diligence into the search of the philosopher's stone and the elixir of life. But the latter obtained my undivided attention: wealth was an inferior object; but what glory would attend the discovery, if I could banish disease from the human frame, and render man invulnerable to any but a violent death!

—Frankenstein,
Volume II,
Chapter I

T
he fire
had died down only a little, but the parlor had not warmed appreciably during their dinner. Rain hit the windows fitfully, in a sullen rhythm. Cold fingers of wind played with the drawing room curtains. Their heavy velvet surfaces were damp here and there with rain that had been driven in through cracks in the window jambs, evidence of some neglect.

Polidori bowed Mary into a chair and then, at Byron's order, went to fetch the mail and a newspaper from the library. Claire whispered with Byron, who seemed in a playful, if sardonic mood.

Mary drew her chair closer to the fire, but still a shiver went through her. She wished she had been able to find her shawl. It worried her that she was so distraught lately that she may have mislaid something so precious to her. She picked up her reticule and drew out her embroidery.

“Ah, Shelley,” Byron said, hailing his friend. Shelley had managed to find his way back to the parlor, still clutching the volume of Coleridge.

“I say, Albé, this is a remarkable poem, this
Christabel
. We must have a reading.”

“And we shall, but not at this instant. Come, I've had a letter from Leigh Hunt. Let us see what he has to say about my
Parisina
.” The two men leaned over the missive, searching the crabbed
handwriting for mention of Byron's latest poem.

“More light, Sister?” Claire leaned close with a candle in a silver holder. Without waiting for Mary's answer, she touched the flame to a candelabra on the table beside Mary, lighting all six candles.

“Surely I do not need so much light,” Mary said, half smiling. It disturbed her that Claire assumed so many of the duties of a hostess in Byron's house. Yet, what could she say? It was for Byron to object, if he did.

His lordship, however, was across the room, deep in conversation with Shelley. Polidori lounged carefully just to Shelley's left, clearly hoping to join the conversation. He was, however, ignored as always.