PoetsandPromises Read online

  “Lady Parker, if I may, there is something I wish to ask you,” the duke continued before Elisabeth could rise. He spoke in a hesitant manner, his normal assurance lacking. “In fact, I wish to ask for your hand in marriage.”

  Elisabeth, who had slowly begun to lift her head and get up, lay back down. What should she do? She was unwittingly intruding on a most private moment. To make her presence known would embarrass all parties but to stay and hear more would not be well-done of her either. Finally deciding that the latter caused only herself embarrassment and the former would cause embarrassment to all parties, Elisabeth lay still, trying not to listen but hearing the words nonetheless.

  “Your Grace, I am truly sensible of the great honor you do me but…but I may not accept,” Lady Parker answered the duke.

  A silence descended upon the room which seemed to Elisabeth, in her awkward position, to last forever.

  “May I inquire if there is another?”

  “No, Your Grace, there is not.”

  “May I ask then if it is a matter of a lack of inclination?”

  “No, Your Grace, it is not,” Lady Parker admitted in a quiet voice.

  “Then, Lady Parker, I shall hope you may change your mind with time. No—say no more at this time. I will wish you a good day.”

  Elisabeth heard the duke leave the room, a sigh from Lady Parker and then softer steps leaving the room. Why had Lady Parker refused the duke? Elisabeth wondered as she rose from the sofa and prepared to slip up to her own bedchamber before anyone realized she had been present. It seemed such an eligible connection in every way. Elisabeth stepped quietly to the door of the drawing room and, seeing no one in the hall, slipped out and started ascending the stairs just as another step sounded.

  “Miss Ashwood, a moment if you please. You are just the one I wished to see,” Lord Sherbourne said, stopping Elisabeth mid-step.

  “Yes, Lord Sherbourne?” she inquired, going back down the stairs.

  “I have something I suspect will please you, Miss Ashwood,” Lord Sherbourne said with a smile. “We have been invited to Great Marlow to see the Shelleys on Saturday afternoon. May I assume you wish me to accept for us both?”

  “Yes, of course, Lord Sherbourne,” Elisabeth answered, albeit without quite the enthusiasm the invitation might have given her before the conversation she had overheard. “I shall look forward to it.” How true is was, Elisabeth thought fleetingly, that eavesdroppers rarely heard anything good.

  Great Marlow was located only a few miles from London and Elisabeth, Molly and Lord Sherbourne had but a short drive before reaching the Shelleys’ new home. As the carriage rolled up to the house the front door opened and Mary Shelley ran out to greet them

  “Lord Sherbourne, Miss Ashwood. I am so delighted you have come—come in, come see our new home. Percy and I have been having such fun furnishing it.”

  Molly disappeared down the hall toward the kitchen while Lord Sherbourne and Elisabeth followed Mary into the parlor, where they discovered several other guests, including Mr. Keats, Mr. and Mrs. Hunt, Mrs. Hunt’s sister Bess, Mr. Peacock and a young woman with a very young baby whom Elisabeth did not know but to whom no one seemed to think to introduce her.

  “Come through here, you must come and see our garden. I am so pleased to have a garden, for I love a garden of all things,” Mrs. Shelley continued in a happy patter to her guest. “Marianne has brought two statues for it, you must come see them.”

  Lord Sherbourne and Elisabeth accompanied Mary outside, Mr. and Mrs. Hunt and the others following behind.

  “There, see! Are they not wonderful?” Mary asked, gesturing to two statues placed in a corner of the garden. “Is not Marianne a wonderfully talented sculptress?”

  “My wife is indeed a talented sculptress,” Mr. Hunt said, putting his arm around the waist of his plump wife.

  Elisabeth, now understanding that “Marianne” was Mrs. Hunt, could not help looking at her in surprise before her glance returned to the graceful statues of Apollo and Venus that had pride of place in the garden.

  Mrs. Hunt gave a jolly laugh. “You did not expect such a one as I to be an artist, Miss Ashwood?” she asked. “Yes, plain, plump, simple Marianne Hunt is also a sculptress.”

  Blushing at having made her surprise so obvious, Elisabeth admired the sculptures.

  Mr. Hunt patted her arm. “Think nothing of it, Miss Ashwood. It is not unusual for people to expect artists to look like Shelley or his wife. But artists may have any outward appearance—we are in fact all artists or writers here. Mostly writers—Peacock there had a success with his novel Headlong Hall last year and even Mary has tried her hand at a bit of writing.

  “Now,” Mr. Hunt continued, holding out a bottle, “I brought a little libation for us to share. I know Shelley does not drink but I felt the moment deserved a toast. Marianne, my dear, find some water for Shelley,” he ordered as he began to fill glasses that had been placed on a bench.

  After the group had toasted Mrs. Hunt’s statues and the home at Marlow in general, the guests wandered about the garden, separating into smaller groups. Shelley had discovered a small mud puddle created by recent rains and persuaded Lord Sherbourne, Mr. Keats and Mr. Hunt to wager on a race with paper boats. Mr. Peacock lowered himself into a chair to watch as he consumed another glass of wine, Mrs. Hunt and Mary Shelley had vanished inside with the unknown young woman and Elisabeth found herself standing alone some distance back, watching the paper boat race.

  A few minutes later, as the gentlemen experimented with new designs for their craft, they ran low on paper and Shelley undertook to fetch more from the house.

  As Shelley walked past Elisabeth, he stopped. “Miss Ashwood,” he said, concern evident in his blue eyes, “you do not appear to be enjoying yourself. Come join us in the race.”

  “Thank you but no,” Elisabeth replied. “I am quite content to observe.”

  Shelley glanced over at the gentlemen and saw they were still engrossed in creating new styles of paper craft. “Come with me for a moment,” he said, placing a hand lightly on Elisabeth’s shoulder and steering her to a shady spot in the garden. “Clearly you are unhappy about something,” he pressed. “Tell me what it is.”

  Unsettled by his light touch on her shoulder, Elisabeth flushed and admitted, “I feel rather out of place I suppose. I believe everyone here has a gift but me.”

  “You also have a gift,” Shelley said seriously. “One that is quite necessary—the gift of enjoying the talents of others. We may speak of art for art’s sake but the truth is that we all wish our art—whether statue or poem—to be admired and enjoyed. If it were not we would lose much of our desire to create them.”

  Unexpectedly, Shelley reached up and pushed a strand of hair that had fallen over Elisabeth’s face back behind her ear, his touch gentle. His intense gaze met hers and for a brief moment Elisabeth almost felt that he meant to brush a kiss over her lips.

  A crunch of gravel on the walk behind them fractured the moment.

  “Miss Ashwood,” Lord Sherbourne said as he looked from one to the other, “I was searching for you. Mrs. Shelley asked where you had gone.”

  Feeling unaccountably guilty, given that she had done nothing of which to be ashamed, Elisabeth stepped back from Shelley. “I shall come this moment,” she said, hurrying past Lord Sherbourne.

  Mary Shelley stood near the bench where Mr. Peacock sat. Upon Elisabeth’s approach she said something to that gentleman that made him laugh aloud and then she hastened toward Elisabeth.

  “I am so sorry to have left you alone but Claire was not feeling well and Mrs. Hunt and I put her to bed to rest. Shall we stroll about the property?”

  “I should enjoy that,” Elisabeth replied, concluding that Claire must be the woman with the baby to whom she had not been introduced.

  “I can hardly believe we have our own home again,” Mary chattered on as they strolled over the long grass. “It is so delightful here at Albion House. I am immeasurab
ly grateful to Mr. Peacock for finding it for us—he is Percy’s good friend and our neighbor over there,” she finished, gesturing to a modest cottage not far distant.

  “You are truly fortunate,” Elisabeth agreed in some envy. The happiness and respect that so obviously existed between Mary and her poet husband seemed to be the most a woman could ask for in the marriage state.

  “Yes, I am,” Mary Shelley acknowledged. “It is not everyone who is fortunate enough to have the love of a great genius such as my husband. But it has not all been happiness, Miss Ashwood. Not so long ago…” Her voice faded and then in a moment she spoke with renewed strength. “Not so long ago my sister took her own life, Miss Ashwood, then so did Percy’s first wife. It has been a difficult time. I am happy to see Percy happy once more.”

  “I am sorry,” Elisabeth said, trying to hide her shock, for she realized immediately that the Harriet she had overheard the dowagers speaking about must have been Mary’s sister or Mr. Shelley’s last wife.

  “It is worth the pain,” Mary Shelley confided. “Not everyone is privileged to love and be loved as I am. Anything is worth being with Percy. Even…” she hesitated and glanced back to where the gentlemen were still sailing their paper boats in the puddle. “Some men love women, many women, Miss Ashwood, just because they are women. Sometimes that is difficult but I remember I am his wife. You must learn to accept a man’s nature for what it is.”

  Elisabeth was a bit taken aback to have Mrs. Shelley speak to her in such an open and frank manner about such personal subjects. “What did Mr. Hunt mean when he said you have written?” she asked in an attempt to find a less personal and painful topic. “Have you written poetry or some other work? I should like to read it if you have.”

  Mary laughed, accepting Elisabeth’s change of topic, the peal ringing across the untamed lawn. “Oh, Miss Ashwood, I fear you would not like it—I am penning a rather fantastic tale of what you might call, well, might even call a monster created by men of science.”

  “Of science?”

  “Yes, Percy experiments with galvanized electricity. If he brings out a box and asks you to hold a wire you must refuse, Miss Ashwood, for Percy delights in shocking the unsuspecting with his electricity. It is a most unpleasant sensation. But I wondered, what if it should shock life into one who is dead…”

  What an odd tale for such a delicate, beautiful, ethereal-looking woman to write, Elisabeth thought, but she answered politely, “How intriguing it sounds, Mrs. Shelley. I shall wish to read it if you find a publisher.”

  “Mary, please,” Mrs. Shelley corrected. “Mrs. Shelley and Miss Ashwood is too formal. I cannot abide it, especially as we are to be such close friends,” she finished, taking Elisabeth’s arm and leading her back toward the house.

  “A penny for your thoughts, Miss Ashwood,” Lord Sherbourne said as they rode home from Marlow later in the evening. The party had assembled inside for a casual meal at which, once again, dry bread, raisins and water had been the principle foodstuffs, although Mrs. Hunt had quietly added several other dishes to the table from a covered basket she had brought. Conversation had ranged wide, from politics to poetry, and Mr. Keats had been persuaded to take his attention from his plate long enough to recite a few of his shorter poems, which Elisabeth had been surprised to find quite elegantly beautiful.

  “I am not sure they are worth a penny,” Elisabeth said aloud to Lord Sherbourne. “I was just thinking how odd it is that plain, homely Mrs. Hunt creates such beautiful, classic-looking sculpture, Mrs. Shelley, who appears so delicate and refined, is writing a tale about a man brought back to life through science and Mr. Keats, who is a bit coarse-featured and seems to love his food above all else, creates the most elegant and beautiful poems. One might expect men of literature to be sober, well-spoken gentlemen but Mr. Hazlitt is irritable and impatient, Mr. Hunt argumentative and Mr. Peacock lethargic and lazy. Only Mr. Shelley—and Miss Thibeau, I suppose, although she was not present—appear and behave as I might expect them to.”

  “And how is that?”

  Elisabeth blushed, not wanting to admit that she found Miss Thibeau brazen and forward, as she might expect a woman artist to be, while Mr. Shelley, tall, thin, aristocratic-looking and gentle in manner, she found the epitome of a poet. “Oh, they are just as I would expect an artist and a poet to be.”

  “I see,” Sherbourne said briefly with a sharp look at Elisabeth’s pink-tinged cheeks. “Miss Ashwood, although I was the one who introduced you to Hunt and thereby incidentally to the Shelleys, I must caution you against developing too close an intimacy. Perhaps my sister is correct and I was in error to accept this invitation. It is one thing for us to spend an afternoon at Mr. Hunt’s but quite another for you to…”

  “To what, Lord Sherbourne?” Elisabeth asked, anger rising.

  “To develop an intimacy with Shelley,” Lord Sherbourne confronted Elisabeth. “I saw Shelley caress your cheek. He may be a married man but Shelley is known for his many conquests, as is Byron. You must be cautious, for an innocent word or action may be taken as encouragement by such men.”

  Elisabeth stiffened, offended. “My conduct was not anything for which I need be ashamed. Mr. Shelley only brushed a strand of hair from my face. While I acknowledge that is not normal conduct for an ordinary gentleman, Mr. Shelley is a poet and you—as you just admitted—you are the one responsible for my making his acquaintance, Lord Sherbourne.”

  “I meant only to please you by introducing you to Mr. Hunt, who is known for his faithfulness to his wife, because of your stated interest in Godwin’s works. I did not intend that you be seduced by a dissolute young poet, charming though he may be.”

  “You go too far, Lord Sherbourne,” Elisabeth said, taken aback by the viscount’s strongly worded reprimand. Why was Sherbourne so angry? The poet had only brushed back a strand of her hair, hardly a reason for such a setdown!

  “I beg your pardon. But even Miss Thibeau has noticed your predilection for Shelley’s society.”

  “Miss Thibeau! And by what right were you discussing me with Miss Thibeau, Lord Sherbourne?” Elisabeth asked, her bewilderment changing to a cold fury as she recalled all the slights she had felt from Lord Sherbourne due to the Frenchwoman. “Who is the one who is not behaving in a proper manner?”

  “I did not discuss you with Miss Thibeau,” Lord Sherbourne defended himself. “She happened to mention she had noticed you enjoyed Shelley’s company at the park during my sitting. If Miss Thibeau observed your preference for him during one meeting at St. James, how many others might notice it also?”

  “And were you alone with Miss Thibeau during this sitting?” Elisabeth asked, her anger unabating. “How dare you question my conduct when your own is open to reproach?”

  “I was not alone with Miss Thibeau. James accompanied me,” Sherbourne replied. “My conduct with Miss Thibeau has been as blameless as you claim yours with Shelley to be.”

  Her anger partially dissipated by the assurance that Mr. Earlywine had been present during the sitting with Miss Thibeau, Elisabeth murmured a response and settled back into the seat with a sideways glance at Molly, who sat impassively. Dismayed by the turn their conversation had taken after such a pleasant afternoon, Elisabeth wondered miserably how things could change so drastically in such short order. She had the impulse to simply ask the viscount that they cry friends but hesitated, shy, and the moment was lost. It remained uncomfortably quiet in the carriage for the remainder of the ride home.

  Lord Sherbourne left Elisabeth and Molly at his sister’s town house without coming in and Elisabeth was glad to hear from the footman that Lady Parker had gone out for a drive with the duke. She glanced through the letters in the hall and, seeing that she had one from Jane, she took it and ran upstairs to read it, glad to have contact with her home after her upsetting discussion with Lord Sherbourne.

  How she wished she had Jane here to confide in today! Elisabeth thought as she slipped a knife under the seal. But the miss
ive did not give her the pleasure that letters from her friend usually did, for it was the answer to her question about the Shelleys.

  My dear Elisabeth, John and I have discussed your developing friendship with the Shelleys several times. I know our long-standing friendship will cause you to forgive the liberty. Gossip is an evil against which we must all strive. To speak unkindly or slightingly of others, particularly in a public place where our words may be overheard, is against Christian charity. However, after much thought, Mr. Fairacre and I feel we must inform you that we are not altogether comfortable with the intimacy in which you appear to be with the Shelleys. There is no denying the great genius of people such as Mr. Hunt, Mr. Hazlitt, Mr. Keats and Mr. and Mrs. Shelley but we must question the judgment of Lady Parker and Lord Sherbourne in allowing you to be on terms of such familiarity with them. For I must inform you that there is some truth to the gossip you overheard. Mrs. Shelley’s half-sister took her own life two years past, some say because she lost the affections of Mr. Shelley to Mary Shelley. Moreover, Mr. Shelley was previously married to Harriet Westbrook, and after an intimacy developed between Mr. Shelley and Mary Shelley, the first Mrs. Shelley drowned herself. It also appears that Mr. and Mrs. Shelley have given house room to a woman who had Lord Byron’s child out of wedlock. I hope this does not distress you unduly but Mr. Fairacre and I felt we would be failing in our Christian duty, especially Mr. Fairacre in his character as your pastor, should we not convey our concerns.

  Elisabeth folded up the letter and secured it in a pocket of her letter-case, disheartened. Did genius cause unconventional behavior or unconventional behavior allow the expression of genius? She could not cease liking either the poet or his wife but neither could she condone their actions. For truly how could Mary Shelley speak of happiness that had come at the price of her own sister’s death? But were either Mary or her husband entirely responsible for the strong love that had bound them together?

  Elisabeth knew that if she were honest with herself she had to admit she enjoyed the Shelleys’ company partly because of their unconventionality and the spice of the forbidden. She enjoyed the company of Mr. Earlywine’s sister as well but it did not have the same dangerous appeal.