PoetsandPromises Read online

  When the day of the excursion finally arrived, Elisabeth was in a state of mixed pleasurable anticipation and anxiety, looking forward to meeting Mr. Hunt but also fearing that her scholarly accomplishments would appear few indeed in such company.

  “Lady Parker, what gown would be appropriate to wear to a literary gathering?” Elisabeth asked as she entered the drawing room on the morning of the promised Saturday excursion.

  “I believe that any of your afternoon gowns would do,” Lady Parker said, raising her head from a book with an indulgent smile at Elisabeth’s eagerness. “I doubt the company there will place as much attention on attire as the ton, given they are at pains to disagree with society on most particulars.

  “I am pleased you are looking forward to your outing this afternoon,” she added slowly, “but I should perhaps confess I was not in favor of it.”

  “Why is that?” Elisabeth asked curiously, sitting next to the cat at the other end of the sofa and automatically stroking Revati’s long silky fur.

  “The literary set is considered fast,” Lady Parker explained, closing her book and setting it aside in order to give Elisabeth her full attention. “Several of their members are not received by polite company, although some are,” she added fairly. “I am responsible for you and your reputation while you reside in my home and there is a danger, however small, of your reputation being damaged by being introduced to Mr. Hunt and his friends. For that reason I must ask that you not to mention this outing to anyone in London outside our immediate family and Mr. Earlywine, of course, who already knows of it. And I trust your maid’s discretion is to be relied upon?”

  “I shall do as you request, Lady Parker,” Elisabeth agreed, glad the prohibition would not prevent her writing to Jane about it, as writing to her friend about the meeting was something she anticipated withalmost as much pleasure as the visit to Hampstead itself. “And Molly will not speak of it to anyone if I so request.”

  “I should caution you also,” Lady Parker added, “not to take offense at any quirks of behavior you might meet with there. My brother has told me that Mr. Hunt, and Mr. Hazlitt as well, should he chance to be present, may at times be rather prickly and rude.”

  “That surprises me,” Elisabeth confessed. “One would think those of a literary turn of mind would be serious, sober and thoughtful in their speech and actions.”

  “I believe it to be quite the opposite from what my brother has told me,” Lady Parker said dryly. “Were it as you imagine, no doubt the members of the literary set would be entirely accepted in society.”

  “That is true,” Elisabeth acknowledged, much struck, but on the whole Lady Parker’s warnings and cautions increased rather than deterred her interest.

  “I must go and dress now or I shall not be ready when Lord Sherbourne arrives,” Elisabeth added with a glance at the ornate ormolu mantel clock.

  Later that afternoon Elisabeth at last found herself seated in Lord Sherbourne’s carriage passing the rolling hills of Hampstead. Molly sat quietly next to her mistress, apparently unaffected by the outing, but Elisabeth’s nervousness increased with each turn of the carriage wheels. She hoped that she had at least selected a proper gown to wear. After much internal debate Elisabeth had chosen a fawn-colored afternoon dress topped with a brown pelisse and matching hat, both trimmed in a darker brown, hoping the ensemble was an acceptable compromise between the extremes of too casual and too elaborate a toilette.

  “I must confess that I am quite at a loss what to expect this afternoon,” Elisabeth ventured.

  “I do not believe anyone ever knows exactly what to expect at one of Hunt’s literary afternoons,” Lord Sherbourne answered dryly. “Hunt is rarely alone, for he delights in gathering the most acute minds around him. One never knows who one will meet at his home—Charles Lamb, Thomas Peacock, Hazlitt, Wordsworth. But he is also rather argumentative, and you must not mind if discussions become rather heated.”

  “Lady Parker warned me their behavior might be rather unconventional,” Elisabeth confided, her interest growing.

  “Not everyone is difficult,” Lord Sherbourne added. Mrs. Hunt is a very hospitable, comfortable woman, and their home is always open to their friends.”

  The carriage began to slow and Elisabeth looked out the window with interest. The house and grounds of the residence they were approaching appeared rather shabby, as though their state of repair was not of the highest importance in the lives of the owners. Yet the house had a comfortable country look, as though it was well lived in.

  The carriage stopped and the driver clambered down and opened the carriage door before going to attend to the horses. Lord Sherbourne helped Elisabeth alight, as no servant came to assist them. Nor was the house door opened at their approach. Lord Sherbourne knocked upon it with his stick and a few moments later the door was flung open to reveal a short, motherly looking woman with a large smile and two young children hanging at her skirts.

  “Sherbourne, welcome to our home. We have seen you too little since your return. Do come in,” she said in welcoming tones that matched her smile. She turned her attention to Elisabeth. “And this is the young lady you spoke of?”

  “Miss Ashwood, may I present Mrs. Hunt.”

  “Welcome to our home, Miss Ashwood. Come in, come in. We are sufficiently rural to provide the peace and quiet necessary for reflection but not too far from the few benefits of town such as music and conversation.”

  “Your maid must come with me to the kitchen,” Mrs. Hunt continued as she turned to lead them down the hall, “the cat has new kittens that are so very sweet and she will enjoy visiting with my Polly. Sherbourne, you and Miss Ashwood may join our other guests in the parlor.”

  Mrs. Hunt waved her new guests into a large chamber opening off the small hall and bustled on down the hall with Molly trailing behind. Elisabeth and Sherbourne entered a rather messy room where papers and books were strewn about everywhere. There was no order to the furniture and everything but the books and papers was covered with a heavy layer of dust. A short gentleman with sideburns came striding into the room from another doorway at the far side.

  “Sherbourne, the very person I need to take my side in my discussion with Hazlitt and Peacock on the future of the Company in India. Your presence determined our topic of the day but we could not wait for your arrival to begin.” He turned to Elisabeth. “You must be Miss Ashwood, the admirer of Godwin? She is a little brown wren, Sherbourne. Small, brown and sweet. Charming. She can stay here with the Shelleys, Shelley is also an admirer of Godwin.”

  Hunt spoke so rapidly that Elisabeth had no opportunity to reply. Remembering Lady Parker’s warnings of possible unconventional behavior, Elisabeth stayed silent and tried to appear unsurprised at his manner.

  “Shelley is a poet,” Hunt continued, turning to Elisabeth. “In my mind he bids fair to outlast Byron, although Society is not yet of my opinion. Come and meet him and decide for yourself,” he ordered, striding from the room.

  Lord Sherbourne and Elisabeth obediently followed their host into a smaller sitting room on the other side of the hall. It contained less clutter than the larger room but equal amounts of dust. Elisabeth noticed two people sitting on a sofa near a fire and a stout young gentleman sat in a corner reading a book. Hunt ushered them toward the stout young man. “You must meet my newest protégé. Sherbourne, John Keats. John, the Earl of Sherbourne and his brown wren—excuse me, my dear, I forgot your name,” Hunt said to Elisabeth, surprising her by pausing and waiting for a response.

  “Miss Ashwood,” Elisabeth repeated, not sure whether she should bob her head or shake hands with the unprepossessing young gentleman. Conventional manners did not appear to be observed in this house.

  “Keats is a medical student but not for much longer. I am determined to persuade him to answer his muse and I predict he will become the very first of poets in time,” Hunt proclaimed.

  In the dim light Elisabeth could see the young man blush painfully at the p
raise, although a half-smile of pleasure touched his thick lips.

  “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Keats,” Elisabeth said politely, opting for common courtesy. She was unable to make out Mr. Keats’ mumbled reply but it was of no importance as Hunt was already striding across the room, motioning impatiently for them to follow. He stopped at the sofa upon which a young man and woman sat in quiet conversation.

  “Mary, my love,” Hunt said to the woman seated on the sofa. “I have someone here who is a great admirer of your father. Miss Ashwood, John Godwin’s daughter Mary Shelley, and her husband Percy Shelley. Entertain Miss Ashwood, my dears, until I am finished with Sherbourne.” With that, Hunt turned and strode out of the room, waving for Sherbourne to follow.

  Elisabeth, a bit disconcerted, smiled uncertainly at Mary Shelley, who smiled back. Mrs. Shelley looked to be around twenty years of age, Elisabeth decided. Abundant fair hair framed a heart-shaped face set with earnest hazel eyes and a high, wide forehead hinted at intelligence. Her husband, who had not stood at the introductions, lounged coatless on the sofa, his arm extended along the sofa back behind his wife’s shoulders. Long, soft curls of brown hair fell over a face with features that could almost have been termed delicate. He fixed Elisabeth with an intense gaze from mesmerizing eyes.

  “You chose well, Miss Ashwood,” he spoke in an unexpectedly high but melodious voice, “to base your education upon Godwin’s Political Justice. It formed the basis of my own intellectual searches. Although of late,” he said with a sideways glance at his wife, “Godwin has fallen from the practice of his highest ideals and one must look to the writings and not the man for inspiration.”

  Confused and uncertain, Elisabeth smiled but did not answer. She glanced around looking for a place to sit, since she was apparently expected to stay with the Shelleys. But other than the sofa there was nowhere but the floor to sit. Mary Shelley noticed Elisabeth’s hesitation and moved to her left, patting the sofa between herself and her husband.

  “Come sit with us, Miss Ashwood. It is too fatiguing to stand and the floor is chill in February.”

  Elisabeth did as Mrs. Shelley requested, feeling a blush rise in her cheeks at the thought of sitting so close to a man who was not wearing a coat. A gentleman simply did not appear coatless before unrelated females. It was evident that the members of the literary set were as careless of convention as Lady Parker had warned. However, Elisabeth did not wish to appear missish before her new acquaintances, so she took a seat between the two as requested.

  “Are you an admirer of my mother’s works as well as my father’s, Miss Ashwood?” Mary Shelley asked, turning her great hazel eyes on Elisabeth.

  “Your mother?” Elisabeth asked, confused.

  “Mary’s mother was Mary Wollestonecraft,” Shelley elucidated.

  “I am sorry—I had not made the connection,” Elisabeth answered. “But yes, I have read Mrs. Wollestonecraft’s works and found them very instructive.”

  “You are unusual, for her works have fallen out of favor these years since her death. Truthfully I did not fully appreciate my mother’s contributions myself until Shelley instructed me,” Mary Shelley admitted, reaching across Elisabeth’s lap to take her husband’s hand and press it. The Shelleys were obviously much attached and Elisabeth envied their obvious care for each other.

  “Tell me, Miss Ashwood,” Mr. Shelley suddenly addressed Elisabeth, “I assume that as an admirer of Godwin you would agree on the importance of education, but what is your opinion on education for women? Do your views match Wollestonecraft’s?”

  Elisabeth turned her head to face Mr. Shelley before she answered him and was again aware of the singular aura of intensity that surrounded the poet.

  “I agree that women are too often treated as children,” Elisabeth began after a short hesitation in which to marshal her thoughts, “and that we are taught our ultimate goal is marriage, which many women are led to believe they may reach through judicious flattering of men and dressing to catch their eyes. And I do believe women should receive a more useful education that would prepare them to be good partners to their husbands, or to make their living should they not marry.”

  Shelley listened with flattering attention while Elisabeth spoke. When she finished he suddenly stood up and began pacing before the sofa.

  “Yes, it is true that along with the injustice to the laborer, the greatest injustice in this society is to its women,” he said. “Women who are cut off from their natural talents and understanding at a young age to be taught to deny their intellectual gifts.” Shelley’s voice became increasingly impassioned and his arms swung wildly as he paced back and forth beforethe sofa, expounding his views of education and marriage for women. Mary Shelley watched her husband with rapt attention, although Elisabeth felt quite certain it was not the first time she had heard his views. Clearly Mr. Shelley was a man who felt most deeply about perceived societal injustices.

  “Tea is served,” Mrs. Hunt called from doorway, interrupting Shelly’s speech midstream. “Have you seen my children? No? I have lost them again. No telling what mischief they are up to,” she said with a sigh and bustled off.

  Shelley had broken off at Mrs. Hunt’s interruption and stood still, holding his hand out to his wife. Mary stood and held out her hand to Elisabeth. “Come, I shall show you the way to the dining room. You must not mind our informal ways, you know. We are all of us of artistic and literary temperaments here and refuse to be bound by conventions,” she finished, giving a delightful laugh. She placed her arm around Elisabeth and guided her down a short hallway.

  As the three entered the dining room together Elisabeth saw a table heavily laden with bread, cheese and fruits, although no one was yet sitting at it. Mr. Keats entered the room behind them and Elisabeth saw his countenance light up at the sight of the table.

  “Sit here by me, Miss Ashwood,” Mary urged, pulling Elisabeth forward. “Sherbourne will sit with Hunt at the end, as he is the honored guest this day.”

  Elisabeth took the chair between Mary and Mr. Keats while Shelley lounged into the chair at the head of the table. The other gentlemen entered soon afterward, Hunt taking his seat at the foot of the table, Sherbourne on his left, another gentleman at his right. Mrs. Hunt was the last to sit down, in the place remaining across from Elisabeth. Elisabeth was introduced to Mr. Hazlitt, whose frown appeared ingrained, and to Mr. Peacock, whose countenance was more congenial.

  “We do not stand on ceremony here,” Mrs. Hunt said to Elisabeth. “Please begin. Help yourself to whatever takes your fancy.”

  As the guests ate Hunt began talking, speaking to the table in general. “I’ve been picking Sherbourne’s brain. He tells me the East India Company’s expansions over so much land is too great. That the army cannot keep control and hold sovereignty over such a vast area. I agree it is a situation that cannot continue. One must fault the former governor, I believe.”

  “But it was Richard Wellesley who left the foundations for such an empire,” Sherbourne countered. “He was the indirect ruler clear up to the Punjab by the time I went out in ‘05.”

  “Ah yes,” Hunt agreed. “Let us not forget where Arthur Wellesley had his start. The three Wellesley brothers of India—Henry and Arthur and Richard. A place where unbridled ambition might reach its zenith. Hazlitt?” he queried, speaking to the gentleman Elisabeth had not recognized.

  “It is true the Company has been ruler of India in all but name,” Hazlitt responded, “but the government is now taking back control, or endeavoring to do so. The East India Company was intended to be in trade, not territory and rule.”

  “It appears to me that those duties were thrust upon the Company,” Mr. Peacock commented.

  Elisabeth’s attention wandered from the discussion as she watched the other guests at the table. Mr. Keats applied himself to his plate with the focus of a born trencherman, Mrs. Hunt passed food from one end of the table to the other so that everyone had an opportunity to take some of ea
ch dish, Mary Shelley’s wide eyes seemed to take in everything that passed as she dined on bread and fruit and Shelley sat silent, staring at the ceiling in an unfocused manner as he tore off pieces of dry bread and nibbled on them.

  “But we are boring our brown wren, who has clearly become an admirer of poetry,” Hunt said suddenly. “Are you also an admirer of Lord Byron? Every young woman must be admirer of Byron, although Byron himself felt women were not fit to eat at the same table.” Having tossed out a potentially divisive topic, Hunt leaned back in chair to see what would happen.

  “Byron created his own cult so that all the women would hear of him,” Hazlitt commented dryly. “He knows well how to court fame and fashion.”

  “You are too hard upon him,” Mary Shelley protested.

  “Fie, Mary, you must admit he is hard upon your sex.”

  “He likes to say things that shock one and cause him to be remembered.”

  “How is he?” Mrs. Hunt asked. “I quite miss his presence myself. Whatever Lord Byron thinks of women, one must admit few have written such lines to celebrate the sex. ‘She walks in beauty like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies, and all that is best of dark and light meet in her aspect and in her eyes.’ I defy anyone to produce such fine lines about a woman’s beauty.”

  “Twaddle,” Hazlitt pronounced irritably.

  “Byron is doing well and pleads for us to join him in Italy,” Mary answered Mrs. Hunt’s inquiry, ignoring Hazlitt’s comment. “He attempts to persuade us with promises of fine sailing weather.”

  “He is a good sailor, our Foul Weather Jack, that I will admit,” Hunt pronounced, reentering the discussion. “That is what we call him because of his preference for sailing in a strong sea, Miss Ashwood. Have you ever sailed?”