PoetsandPromises (10 page)

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 missive 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.

No wonder Lady Parker had been against the acquaintance,
Elisabeth thought ruefully as she put her letter-case away. And she had to
admit to herself that Lady Parker may have had the right of it, for not only
had it placed her in positions of dubious morality, it had also been the cause
of the first serious argument she had had with Lord Sherbourne. And although
she was relieved to have voiced her suspicions of Miss Thibeau, the viscount’s
assurance of not being alone for his sittings with Miss Thibeau had not
entirely resolved Elisabeth’s concerns about the artist’s effect on Lord
Sherbourne. Is this what love is, Elisabeth wondered with a sigh. Was it
insecurities and fears, always worrying what the other was thinking and
wondering if one were losing one’s betrothed to another?

“Was it bad news, miss?” Molly asked as she laid out a fresh
gown for her mistress. “You look unhappy. Would you like to lie down for a
while?”

“No, thank you, Molly. I am only fatigued. I am certain a
tisane will revive me.”

“I’ll fetch one immediately, miss,” Molly replied, clearly
pleased there was something she could do to relieve her mistress’s unhappiness.

Reminded by his conversation with Miss Ashwood that he had
not returned for another sitting, Lord Sherbourne directed his horse to the
Earlywine residence to see if his friend would accompany him to the artist’s
studio again. Upon finding Earlywine was out and not expected to return for
some time, Sherbourne hesitated. He disliked going to a sitting by himself when
it was clear that it was something that would upset Miss Ashwood, if she knew
of it, but at the same time he had been used to directing his own affairs for
many years and disliked the thought of having his actions constrained by
another.

Giving way to the lesser impulse, Sherbourne directed his
mount toward the Comtesse de Fleurille’s town house. When he entered the hall
the footman informed him that the artist had another gentleman who was sitting.
Lord Sherbourne took out a card to leave, almost relieved that chance was
keeping him from remaining, when the door to the studio opened and Miss Thibeau
stepped into the hall.

“Lord Sherbourne, if you would not object to waiting a
quarter hour I shall be finished with Mr. Penrose and will have time for you.”

Sherbourne apologized for coming without arranging a time in
advance and agreed to wait in the drawing room. Ten minutes later Miss Thibeau
appeared in the doorway.

“I am sorry I was unable to take you when you arrived,” Miss
Thibeau greeted him. “Please, Lord Sherbourne, come with me now.”

“It was my error to come without an appointment,” Lord
Sherbourne reiterated as he followed her into her studio. The same artist’s
clutter of paints, brushes, canvases and oils was scattered about and a soft
crunching sound came from the rabbit’s cage where it sat munching on hay.

“Please, take the chair as before,” Miss Thibeau instructed
him as she busied herself with her paints. She picked up her palette and a
brush and then put the brush back down.

“No, you have not the same angle to the head. You must hold
it thus,” she said, advancing and once again putting her fingers under his chin
to guide his head to the correct tilt. As she turned his head she allowed her
fingers to slide lightly down his neck.

Despite himself, Lord Sherbourne felt tinglingly aware of
Miss Thibeau’s touch and as his eyes met hers she gave him a long knowing look.

“There,” she said, abruptly releasing him and going back to
her easel.

“Today you come without the friend Monsieur Earlywine,” she
said conversationally as she selected a brush from the vase at her feet and
began to apply paint to the canvas. “You and Monsieur Earlywine you have known
each other long, yes?”

“Earlywine and I have known each other since we were at Eton
together,” Lord Sherbourne verified

“Ah, the schoolboys together. But then you went to India,
yes?”

“Yes, I thought my older brother would inherit and I needed
some occupation,” Sherbourne said, a shade crossing his face at the mention of
his brother.

“I have heard much of the India,” Miss Thibeau said, deftly
steering the conversation in a happier direction. “The jungles, the elephants.
What is it like?”

“Hot, sometimes hot and wet when the rains poured down and
sometimes hot and relentlessly dry,” Sherbourne said reminiscently. “Everything
there seemed brighter—there were no shades and gradations as there are here.”

“I should like to see it someday—to paint. And the people,
how are they?”

“The women wear brightly colored clothes that drape about
them in graceful folds,” Lord Sherbourne described, thinking that Miss Thibeau
reminded him very much of some of the
ranees,
bold, beautiful,
instinctively seductive and, he suspected, very passionate.