Hideous Love: The Story of the Girl Who Wrote Frankenstein (5 page)

I will trap all eyes

upon her now.

I grow weary of this travel

as a threesome.

And I often fall ill

for some reason.

But my lover holds me dear

on my seventeenth birthday

and reads to me

from my mother’s book.

I soon forget my woes.

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THE TROUBLE WITH JANE

August 1814

At first I believed

that Jane accompanied

us just to escape

the tyranny of the household.

I thought that she longed to see

the world, expand her mind

and be liberated from

the society into which we

were so assuredly to enter,

and as women, be forced

into the roles of wife and mother.

Her design may have been

larger than that.

I notice when she bats

her lashes at Shelley

as though she holidays

with him alone.

I do not believe I have ever

wanted to throw

anyone out of a carriage more.

Perhaps we should have

brought my sister Fanny

along instead.

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HOMEWARD BOUND

September 1814

Shelley and I religiously record

our journal

of European travel.

We voyage far enough

to see Lake Lucerne

where my father’s book

Fleetwood
was set.

Father looked to escape

materialism in his book,

but unfortunately we find

it too expensive to remain.

We continue our practice

of daily reading and writing.

Lord Byron’s
Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage

fills us with the same delight

as does a vivid painting.

Shelley writes his novel
The Assassins

and I compose my story “Hate,”

while Jane works on “The Ideot.”

When we arrive in

Rotterdam all our money

has been spent.

Shelley persuades the captain

to return us to England

on the condition

that he will be paid

once we arrive.

We have traveled forty-two days

and slept in forty-one different locales.

We reach England

by morning’s cry

nearly drowned

by the storm’s brutal winds,

tossed about like seaweed

on the waves.

When we approach London,

we row up the Thames

in a little boat

while Shelley desperately

attempts to find funds

to pay the captain

for our crossing.

Finally he stops

on Chapel Street

at Harriet’s father’s door.

He emerges not with

his wife but with finance.

He says, “I told Harriet that

I am united to another.

And that she is no longer my wife.”

He clutches my hand and says,

“I spoke of your courage

and told her you had resigned

all for me.”

And my love is correct.

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MY LOVE

September 1814

My love nurtures me

like rain

cultivates a field.

My love astonishes me

like light

amazes a moth.

My love enlightens me

like language

imparts meaning.

My love changes me

like time

transforms a mountain.

My love strengthens me

like a double stitch

reinforces a seam.

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RETURN TO ENGLAND

September 1814

I did not expect

open arms, I suppose.

But when I live

according to my father’s

philosophy of love and friendship,

his idea that it ought be measured singly

by what we know of its worth,

and he refuses to see me,

worse, disallows

my sister and brothers

any contact with me,

I see his patriarchy

somewhat as an attack

on the principles

set forth by my mother.

I cry into my pillow

like I did when I was a child,

sob myself to sleep.

I cannot make sense

of his rejection

of me when I choose

to live my life

in the exact manner

he has written

that one should live.

Father expects

Shelley to support him

financially, as the rich man

should help his poor brethren.

Harriet requires funds, as well,

and yet we starve, change

our lodgings nearly nightly.

I write to my dearest friend,

Isabella Baxter,

and I receive a cold letter

from her husband

who forbids her contact with me.

It appears that to live out

my parents’ ideals

comes at heavy cost.

I am now as notorious

as was my mother

and therefore chastised.

No one comes to call

except for Thomas Love Peacock,

the poet and novelist

who advocates for Harriet,

and Thomas Hookham,

Shelley’s publisher.

Jane nags at me

night and day,

a gnat about my neck.

And there seems

to be no doubt

at this point

that I am pregnant.

My child will likely be born

while my Shelley

is married to another.

My fear swells

as does my belly.

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SUNDAY

October 1814

I tire, sleepy

as an old cat.

Shelley’s creditors

set the bailiffs

on him, and he can no longer

live with me and Jane.

He resides with Thomas Love Peacock

when he can, or at some

flea-infested hotel.

He tries like a gentleman

to arrange further loans

to pay off his debts,

but they often treat him

as a beggar.

He writes letters

to make me sick

with love for him

and lonelier than a bird

without wings.

He says he feels

in my absence degraded

to the level of the vulgar and impure.

I promise my enduring

love and that I will

never vex him.

We steal conversations

on the steps of St. Paul’s,

but the only time I own

with my Shelley

is Sunday,

when the bailiffs

are not allowed to make arrests.

We spend all day in bed,

reading and talking,

scheming his next move.

Sundays I am alive.

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SISTERLY LOVE

Autumn 1814

Jane skulks about the house

we can now sometimes share

while Shelley and I

stay in bed

and read and write together—

always

her pouty little complaints

like a child’s smudge

on a pristine canvas.

I do not trouble

Shelley with my every ailment.

But Jane pesters Shelley

with her night traumas.

Her pillow mystically

moves from the bed to the chair.

She acts so terrified

that Shelley is forced to give up

his spot in bed

so that Jane might

have me as companion

while she sleeps.

Shelley loves to scare her

and it sometimes frightens

me how well they get on,

especially when I am too sick

to take a walk

and they gad about town

together

without me.

Jane has now adapted

her first name

and wants to be called

Claire Clairmont,

as she thinks

this makes her sound

more literary.

I fear my stepsister

is not very sisterly to me

where Shelley is concerned.

Shelley assures me

that Claire

has a sincere affection

for me.

I respond that I

“have a very sincere

affection for my own

Shelley.”

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OUR CHILD TOGETHER

Autumn 1814

Shelley twists a strand

of my hair around his finger,

“I hope our child

has your fire of intellect

and your fine red hair.”

I smile and slip