Outcasts (11 page)

Claire giggled. “Like the time in London when we went out in the thunderstorm, do you remember? And your hair was standing out around your head like a halo! I called you Saint Shelley!”

“Yes, of course,” Shelley said excitedly.

“And a saint you will surely be, or at least the first martyr to science,” Byron said. “You cannot be serious, Shiloh! I will not have you struck dead on my very lawn!”

“Nothing of the kind. I have worked with these substances many times. Come, Polidori! Surely, as a man of science, you will help me in this! Let us read the heavens in their own light!”

Polidori drew back. “I have … I have seen men who were killed by lightning. In Edinburgh, at my medical studies. I would not see that again.”

Mary rose to her feet, her embroidery falling to the floor. “Shelley, no!”

Shelley looked from one to another. “None of you are wise enough, or brave enough, to look your Dame Nature in the face?”

“I will,” said Claire. “I know where the Leyden jar is. I will send Fletcher for it.” Without waiting for an answer, she darted out of the room.

I eagerly inquired of my father the nature and origin of thunder and lightning. He replied, “Electricity;” describing at the same time the various effects of that power. He constructed a small electrical machine, and exhibited a few experiments; he made also a kite, with a wire and string, which drew down that fluid from the clouds.

—Frankenstein,
Volume I,
Chapter I

M
ary put
a restraining hand on Shelley's arm, but he shook it off, gently. “Come, my Mary. There is nothing to fear.”

Byron chuckled. “Indeed, I begin to think not. Consider it, my dear Mary. Should Shelley, the notorious atheist, be struck down by fire from heaven, thus giving triumph to his enemies? That would require Heaven to have a sardonic sense of humor, and I am persuaded that God does not know how to laugh. Shelley, what will you require of us?”

Too afraid to speak, Mary stood trembling as the men readied their experiment.

“We must have a kite, some silken string—Mary, we shall commandeer your embroidery threads. Oh, and a kite. Oh, damn, where shall we find a kite?”

Byron's face went slightly pink, and he looked down at the fire. Mary was startled—he almost looked shy. Byron cleared his throat. “I am … tolerably good at making kites.” His glance slid sideways to Mary. “Mayhap I can press some silk petticoats into service—”

Shelley laughed. “Famous! Yes, we must have some silk. Mary? You will oblige?”

Mary's first instinct was to slap Byron for his impudence. She made fists of her hands and put them behind her. “I think not, dearest. And I must urge you against this course.”

Shelley was not listening. “I have it! A shirt, your lordship. Mine is muslin, it will hold too much water.”

“Albé's shirt is silk,” Claire said, and giggled.

“Ah!” Shelley cried. “Come, Byron. Sacrifice your tailor to the needs of science!”

Byron, reluctantly, unbuttoned his waistcoat. “If I am to sacrifice my wardrobe, I absolutely require lightning in a bottle. I shall toast you in it.”

“To be sure!” Shelley cried. Helplessly, Mary watched as her lover stripped the feathery plumes from an array of dried reeds, then tied the stems into a large X. “Polidori, please hold this.”

Polidori held the X shaped frame, and Byron quickly tied the thin shirt onto it. Soon he held a clumsy but functional kite.

As he worked, Mary noted that Byron's chest was pale but well-muscled. Most of all, she noted the goosebumps on his skin. Byron looked at the kite carefully, then drained his brandy glass. “It might fly,” he said. “It is nearly as elegant as a pregnant camel, but perhaps it can become airborne. Indeed, in this wind, the pregnant camel might fly.”

Claire returned at that moment, followed by a panting, dripping Fletcher. Fletcher carried a two foot high cylinder of glass. The inside of the lower third of the glass was lined with copper foil; a cork stopper closed its throat and a long wire ending in a ball of lead emerged from the cork. He set it down carefully on the small sideboard and stepped quickly away.

Polidori caught up the water carafe from the sideboard. “You will need this, or so I am told.”

Shelley shook his head. “Not at all. That is an outmoded conceit, thoroughly discredited by Dr. Franklin in his researches.”

Looking offended, Polidori backed away, still holding the carafe.

Byron cocked his head as he regarded Shelley. “You do not need water to contain the electrical fluid?”

“On the contrary. The fluid is captured in the metal of the inner lining, I believe.” Shelley busied himself with the jar, tightening the lid, rattling it to hear the chain inside tinkle against the glass. “Yes, all is in order.”

Mary caught Shelley's hand in hers. He looked at her, startled, then his smile softened his face. “I cannot allow myself to fear,” he said softly to her. “How will Dame Nature respect me, if I let her bully me? You will see; all will be well.”

“I cannot lose you!” she said. Images of his burned, blackened body danced in her imagination. Without him, where would she go? How would she and William live? “Have you thought about what it will mean if something goes wrong? If there is some accident, how will I live without you? I cannot bear the thought!”

His fingers tightened around hers, and he raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them. “My love, I go out on the lake every day. That is far more dangerous. More men drown than die from the lightning-strike. Would you have me cower?”

Before she could answer, he was turning away. Claire was ahead of him, flinging open the French doors with a laugh. The rain struck him in the face as he stepped through, and Shelley laughed.

“This is madness,” said Polidori angrily. “I will have no part of it, my lord. It is detrimental to your health.”

“Then if I am struck by the fire of heaven, I shall not owe you this month's salary,” Byron said testily.

“Albé …” Mary said. “Can you not stop him?”

He caught her look, held it, and shook his head. “Too late, my dear,” he murmured. Byron stayed long enough to catch up the Leyden jar into his arms, then he limped out after Shelley.

Thunder cannonaded through the mountains on the other side of the lake, their peaks outlined by the flicker of lightning. As the party descended the terrace and crossed onto the sodden lawn, the wind whirled through the vineyard, causing the leaves to dance in a satanic frenzy. Ahead of Mary, Shelley's tall form strode along, with Byron hobbling behind as fast as he could. Ahead of them both, Claire laughed and twirled down the aisles between the vines, her dark hair haloing around her head. Lightning strobed, illuminating her as if she were in a theatrical show—the light now starkly blue-white, so bright that Mary squinted, now black as a windowless dungeon.

And always, the singing of the wind. Mary clutched her arms around herself. Here, near the shore, it was beating the waves to a froth, but overhead she heard the deep groan of high altitude tempests shaped by the peaks of Mont Blanc and Jura. Rain beaten to mist by the blast gusted in her face and then was flung elsewhere, so that she was alternately ignored and taunted by the rain.

Ahead of her, the trio halted near the little beach. She could see them only by intermittent flashes; torches or lanterns were out of the question in this cyclone. As she approached, placing her feet carefully on the slippery grass, she saw them as a series of images caught in succession: Shelley taking the Leyden jar from Byron, the two of them placing it on the sand, Shelley uncoiling the silk, and Claire dancing about with the kite in her arms, laughing in near-hysteria.

“… need a key, such as Franklin used?” Byron was asking. Coming close, Mary could see water running off his bare back and shoulders.

“No,” Shelley said. He was tying her embroidery silk to the wire leading from the Leyden jar, his movements quick and expert. He tossed his limp, wet hair impatiently over his shoulder. “I have a refinement on that technique. We must set a wire from the jar's outside metal band into the ground. This will draw off the more dangerous electrical vapors. What we must avoid at all costs is contact with the silk, once the kite is in the air.”

“Oh, no, Shelley!” cried Claire. “I want to hold it! I want to feel the wind tugging at it, begging it to fly from my fingers!”

“More likely it will strike you dead,” Shelley said prosaically. “Once the kite is launched and the silken cord is wet, it will suck the electrical fluid from the sky. If you are touching the silk at that moment, you will be killed.”

“Oh, Shelley, this is too dangerous!” cried Mary.

He looked up at her just as the levin flared again, and she caught his impish grin. “Not at all, my dear, if we follow some simple precautions. You will see. The rain will wet the silk line so that it can freely conduct the electrical fluid into the Leyden jar,
capturing it. Then we can take the electrical fluid indoors, where we may kindle other electrical fires, or—”

A white-hot bolt of lightning zigzagged across the sky, and at the same moment, Claire tossed the kite heavenward. The wind sucked it out of her hands, carrying it aloft in seconds. Thunder cracked overhead. Byron shouted something, but Mary could not make out the words. Shelley stepped quickly away from the jar at his feet, pulling Byron with him. “Don't stand too close!” he shouted. “Claire, come away!”

The skies opened up with an angry hiss, and suddenly Mary was drenched with icy rain. The wind slapped her sodden hair into her face. “Shelley!” she cried. “Come out of this!” Lightning flared again, winked out, and blue circles danced before her eyes in pitch darkness.

When her sight cleared, she saw Byron with his face turned to the sky, laughing, his mouth open. Water ran off his chest and hair. Beside him, Shelley crouched down to stare at the Leyden jar, then craned his neck to follow the string up into the darkness.

Somewhere in the night, Claire shrieked and laughed. “Come dance with me! LB, come and dance!”

This was madness, Mary thought. Her heart pounded. Were they all to be killed out here, dancing with the lightning? She shivered, and felt hot tears on her cold cheeks.

Across the water, lightning flickered again and again. By its light, she saw Claire run up to embrace Byron, who pushed her away, eyes intent on the jar. Shelley pointed to the kite string, which now glowed with a dim and unearthly blue glow. She followed the glow upwards, along the kite string. Far above her head, eyes squinting in the rain, she could just make out the blue outline of the kite, bobbing madly in the gale. Then it plummeted suddenly, dipped, plummeted again, and fell into the heaving lake. The blue glow snuffed out.

Shelley clapped his hands. “Famous! Come, Byron, help me get it back into the house.”

“Don't touch it!” Mary cried, but already Shelley was lifting it in his arms.

Byron helped, laughing. “It weighs no more than it did before. You are hoaxing us!”

As they carried the jar past her, Shelley winked and said to Byron, “Indeed not. Bring the good doctor, and I will show you a miracle!”

Claire danced past Mary, her soaked gown clinging so closely to her skin that she looked as if she were dancing naked. Her dark hair hung dripping around her face, and her eyes flashed with dark fire. “Is it not wonderful, Mary?” she cried as she followed Byron and Shelley. “Is it not the very pinnacle of feeling? To have captured lightning!”

The trio disappeared into the house. Mary turned to follow, shivering and unhappy. Surely nothing good could come of this.

… my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs.

—Frankenstein,
Volume I,
Chapter IV

W
hen she
returned to the drawing room of the Villa, Mary found Shelley and Byron lifting and carrying tables about. Claire stood in front of the fire, wringing out her hair and her gown. The fire shone through the thin, sodden fabric, showing dark nipples underneath. Claire seemed completely unconcerned.

Mary shut the door behind herself and immediately the sound and fury of the storm abated. She drew a deep breath, shivering. At that moment, Dr. Polidori appeared in the doorway carrying Claire's shawl. He stopped when he saw Mary. “Mrs. Shelley! You are also soaked! This is most unwise. I pray you come by the fire. I have asked Fletcher to make up a toddy for Miss Clairmont; I shall ask for one for you. My lord, will you not put on a shirt or jacket? Mr. Shelley?”

Shelley and Byron ignored him, intent on re-arranging their table near the fire. Claire twisted a handful of her skirt, scattering drops on the floor.

“There,” Shelley said, standing back from the table. On it the jar sat looking exactly as it had before the fires of heaven had touched it. Mary sighed inwardly. Perhaps Shelley's experiment had failed. Perhaps there was no danger in the ordinary glass and metal contraption before her. Still, she noted that Shelley was careful to keep everyone away from it.

In short order, candles had been placed around the room, a space had been cleared next to the jar, and Fletcher had arrived with a round of hot toddies for everyone. Mary sipped hers gratefully, feeling the warmth curl through her. Shelley refused his drink, murmuring comments to Byron as they discussed the
upcoming demonstration. Mary sat in front of the fire, spreading her skirt out to catch its warmth. Beside her, Claire tossed her half-dried hair across her shoulder to allow it to fall down her back in a black waterfall. “I declare, this is the most exciting evening we have had at Villa Diodati,” she said to Mary.