poor Claire.
George released her dress and growled. Shelley groaned louder. Their combined noise was louder and more childish than anything William could produce.
“Let the dog kiss his mistress!” exclaimed George, and before Claire knew what was happening he had pulled her down on her back, put one leg over both hers, wet breeches and all, and bestowed a passionate kiss on her lips. Understandably, as soon as she could breathe she began to scream.
If I picture George now as he was when I first saw him, my impression is of something not entirely human. Not devilish, exactly, but otherworldly, as if he were merely borrowing time on earth, and must return to some immortal abode. Physically, he was tall like Shelley, but burlier, and older than I had expected. He had a slight limp from a malformed foot, but his air of eager charm was so engaging, this deficiency went almost unnoticed. He might have been eighteen, like Claire and me.
The pretty Swiss nursemaid we had engaged came out of the house, shading her eyes against the lowering sun.
“Elise!” I called, and she approached, holding out her arms for the child. “Will you take William to bed?”
George had got up. “My dear Mrs Shelley, what a delightful domestic scene!”
He looked very tall, with the evening light stretching his shadow along the beach. Hauling Claire to her feet, he advanced towards me with one arm around her shoulders and the other in a mock salute. “And Master Shelley too!” he exclaimed. “I am a mightily privileged fellow, am I not, to be welcomed by such famous personages!”
I was amused at the heavy-handed irony of “Mrs Shelley”. He knew very well I was not married. “But surely
you
are the personage whose reputation goes before him, Lord Byron,” I said.
He let Claire go and bent towards Elise and me in an elegant bow. William reached out his dimpled fist and made an exploration of George’s dark, damp hair. As I pulled the child’s hand away, George took my own and kissed it. “I wish I could believe so, madam,” he said gravely. “But Shelley’s star is rising faster than mine.”
Hearing his name, Shelley made his way up the beach. He was no longer laughing, but his face had the abandoned expression it wore when he was at his most delighted with life. I gave William to Elise, who held him up for his father’s kiss. As she took the child into the house, I entwined my arm with Shelley’s, and he rested his cheek against my temple. He smelt as salty and sweaty as, in Claire’s words, a common oarsman.
“I love you,” I said to him matter-of-factly, as if I were indeed addressing a servant. “Never forget how much I love you, whatever happens to us.”
He raised his head and looked down at me. A dazed look came into his beautiful eyes. “But you like George too, do you not?” he asked.
It was still dark. No brilliant Swiss morning outlined the black of the shutters. Even without feeling the mattress beside me I knew I was alone
.
“Where are you?” I called
.
A candle flickered in the passageway. Shelley stood in the doorway, his gigantic shadow leaping onto the wall. The flame was weak, and threw only enough light under his chin to reveal his neck and shoulders. He looked unearthly, like a being who had rejected life and welcomed the grave. He seemed halfway between here and heaven. His eyes were in shadow; I could not see their expression
.
“Are you ill?” I asked, fighting panic
.
“No, only sleepless. Go back to sleep.”
“Have you taken anything?” I persisted. He had, I knew
.
“No. Do not alarm yourself. I will come back to bed soon. Now leave me alone.”
He reached for the door handle. As he lunged forward I saw his shirt billow in the candlelight, like a sail, his thin body the mast. Then he closed the door, and the room was in darkness once more
.
IN THE COMPANY OF SPIRITS
W e found that George’s guest was his friend Polidori, a young part-Italian doctor who innocently
George released her dress and growled. Shelley groaned louder. Their combined noise was louder and more childish than anything William could produce.
“Let the dog kiss his mistress!” exclaimed George, and before Claire knew what was happening he had pulled her down on her back, put one leg over both hers, wet breeches and all, and bestowed a passionate kiss on her lips. Understandably, as soon as she could breathe she began to scream.
If I picture George now as he was when I first saw him, my impression is of something not entirely human. Not devilish, exactly, but otherworldly, as if he were merely borrowing time on earth, and must return to some immortal abode. Physically, he was tall like Shelley, but burlier, and older than I had expected. He had a slight limp from a malformed foot, but his air of eager charm was so engaging, this deficiency went almost unnoticed. He might have been eighteen, like Claire and me.
The pretty Swiss nursemaid we had engaged came out of the house, shading her eyes against the lowering sun.
“Elise!” I called, and she approached, holding out her arms for the child. “Will you take William to bed?”
George had got up. “My dear Mrs Shelley, what a delightful domestic scene!”
He looked very tall, with the evening light stretching his shadow along the beach. Hauling Claire to her feet, he advanced towards me with one arm around her shoulders and the other in a mock salute. “And Master Shelley too!” he exclaimed. “I am a mightily privileged fellow, am I not, to be welcomed by such famous personages!”
I was amused at the heavy-handed irony of “Mrs Shelley”. He knew very well I was not married. “But surely
you
are the personage whose reputation goes before him, Lord Byron,” I said.
He let Claire go and bent towards Elise and me in an elegant bow. William reached out his dimpled fist and made an exploration of George’s dark, damp hair. As I pulled the child’s hand away, George took my own and kissed it. “I wish I could believe so, madam,” he said gravely. “But Shelley’s star is rising faster than mine.”
Hearing his name, Shelley made his way up the beach. He was no longer laughing, but his face had the abandoned expression it wore when he was at his most delighted with life. I gave William to Elise, who held him up for his father’s kiss. As she took the child into the house, I entwined my arm with Shelley’s, and he rested his cheek against my temple. He smelt as salty and sweaty as, in Claire’s words, a common oarsman.
“I love you,” I said to him matter-of-factly, as if I were indeed addressing a servant. “Never forget how much I love you, whatever happens to us.”
He raised his head and looked down at me. A dazed look came into his beautiful eyes. “But you like George too, do you not?” he asked.
It was still dark. No brilliant Swiss morning outlined the black of the shutters. Even without feeling the mattress beside me I knew I was alone
.
“Where are you?” I called
.
A candle flickered in the passageway. Shelley stood in the doorway, his gigantic shadow leaping onto the wall. The flame was weak, and threw only enough light under his chin to reveal his neck and shoulders. He looked unearthly, like a being who had rejected life and welcomed the grave. He seemed halfway between here and heaven. His eyes were in shadow; I could not see their expression
.
“Are you ill?” I asked, fighting panic
.
“No, only sleepless. Go back to sleep.”
“Have you taken anything?” I persisted. He had, I knew
.
“No. Do not alarm yourself. I will come back to bed soon. Now leave me alone.”
He reached for the door handle. As he lunged forward I saw his shirt billow in the candlelight, like a sail, his thin body the mast. Then he closed the door, and the room was in darkness once more
.
IN THE COMPANY OF SPIRITS
W e found that George’s guest was his friend Polidori, a young part-Italian doctor who innocently
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