I Will Be Mary Shelley

#4--Arrival

Stepping inside the large, spacious house, I pause in the warmth of Dr. Kitchener’s foyer long enough to remove my cloak and gloves and hand them to an awaiting servant girl. The clock strikes seven. The echoing can be heard where I stand and before the last chime has rung, a tall man servant with a stern face, slips behind and twists the key in the front door lock.

Now we are all in this together. There is no escaping until the clock strikes eleven.

Entering the grand room, quite hesitantly I must admit, for before me I gage at least fifty guests milling about, splitting themselves off into small groups of three or four, engaged in conversation. For a moment, among the crowd, I lose sight of Miss Isabella Robinson, but then spot her trailing behind her father as the two make their way to greet Dr. Kitchener. It is the young woman’s elegant dress and Sienna-colored scarf that catches my eye. Isabella pauses briefly to curtsey pertly or give a demure nod to someone she has met previously before moving on.
Two servants circle the room with trays of small sandwiches and tea. Leave it to Dr. Kitchener. Never shall a guest of his go hungry. I smile to myself remembering his stalwart motto. I move about the room, privy to conversations on art, politics and our government. Seems that everyone in each category is constantly and consistently getting it wrong. A sharp pain strikes the center of my chest as Percy’s voice resounds in my head. Oh how he would have enjoyed such an evening and jumped at the chance to join the heated conversations on art and politics. I have only just begun to descend into a fit of reverie, when I spot Dr. Kitchener leaning on the grand piano. He is smiling and gesturing in my direction. It isn’t difficult to spot this host in his shiny black suit with long stockings buttoned to the knee and his waist-length jacket. Though styles have changed, there are to be no high-collared shirts or coat tails for him. And thankfully, Dr. Kitchener’s tastes have always run to the conservative. Most of the women are clad in appealing dresses with long sleeves, open at the neck, draped to the floor. For once, I do not feel as though I stick out like a sore thumb in my mourning black.
Strolling past the guests to the awaiting Dr. Kitchener, I am surprised and pleased to find that the host has been engaged in conversation with Mister Joshua Robinson. Dr. Kitchener takes my hand and kisses my check, but before the dear man is allowed to introduce us, my father-in-law, Timothy Shelley arrives. Dr. Kitchener, bless his soul, tries to intervene by rushing an introduction to Mister Robinson. ‘Please make the acquaintance of Missus Percy Shelley.’
Mister Robinson bows slightly. ‘An honor, Madame,’ the gentleman says. ‘An honor indeed to meet the distinguished author of Frankenstein.’
My father-in-law scoffs openly and interjects, ‘Why, of course,’ he booms, ‘who does not know Frankenstein?’ He turns to face Mister Robinson. ‘But, my good sir, do you not know that the distinguished author is also the illegitimate daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft?’
Mister Robinson clearly embarrassed coughs into his fist. He turns towards Timothy, pauses to eye the man briefly before saying, ‘My dear sir, the parentage of so great a writer is of little consequence as it the author herself.’
At this, Timothy snorts dismissively. He turns his glare to me. ‘And how is your father fairing, Mrs. Shelley? Well, I assume?’
My eyes glance over at Dr. Kitchener. I see his lips have turned pale and are beginning to quiver. Mister Robinson, bored with the whole display is looking over our heads, searching for calmer waters, I presume. When I look at Timothy, I feel my own anger rising, the tensing of my jaw, the narrowing of my eyes, for my father-in-law knows very well of William’s repeated financial struggles. I glance down at my hands folded before me, determined that this man will not gain the best of me. I look up. ‘Father-in-law, how kind of you to ask after my own father’s good health. I will relay to him that you did indeed inquire after his well-being.’
Irked by my clever rebuff, Timothy straightens his spine and comes directly to the point. ‘Have you or have you not re-considered my offer regarding the boy?’
At this point, and who can blame him, Mister Robinson makes his excuses and departs. Quite rapidly, I might say, fleeing as any sensible man would the inappropriateness of my father-in-law’s question. A thinly disguised attempt to force my hand in front of such learned gentleman.
Upon my return to London, Timothy Shelley has not only refused to relinquish the sizable funds bequeathed me by my husband’s will, but he also sent a letter suggesting that he take Percy Florence off my hands and raise him as his own. Of course, I sent an immediate reply firmly declining such an offer.
I bow considerately. ‘Thank you, kind sir,’ I say, ‘for your most generous offer, but as I expressed in my return letter, Percy Florence is my son and so shall he remain with me.’
My father-in-law’s face reddened fiercely. ‘Then you are damning the boy to a life of abject poverty,’ he shouts.
‘I believe not,’ I say, struggling with all my might to remain steady in his presence, ‘I believe the inheritance left me by your son will be adequate in providing for Percy Florence’s needs.’
‘For the boy, yes, but understand this Mrs. Shelley, you’ll not see one farthing of my son’s money.’ And he left us but not before every eye in the room has turned to watch the man’s dramatic departure.

I Will Be Mary Shelley

#3--A Carriage Ride

The front door stands wide open.
Annie, our maid, is down on the damp pavement, pacing nervously while on the look-out for the coach.
I take one step out into the cold, drizzling January evening. ‘Pacing about like a wild turkey won’t make it arrive any sooner, Annie,’ I call to her.
She turns, her pale blue eyes large with worry. ‘But ‘tis half-past already, M’am,’ she says, twisting her fingers.
‘Yes, I know,’ I say, ever mindful of Dr. Kitchener’s absolute rule of punctuality. A minute, even thirty seconds late and the doors are locked tight.
I sigh. ‘It will be all right. Come inside,’ I tell the girl, ‘before you catch your death.’
Annie nods and just as she lifts her skirt to ascend the steps, the sound of horses hooves striking the cobblestone lane echoes in the distance. Breathing a noticeable sigh of relief, Annie winks and then smiles. ‘There we are M’am,’ she says, taking my elbow.
The coachman pauses the carriage at the front steps. The bays exhale violently and dip their heads. Annie reaches up and opens the carriage door.
‘An extra shilling,’ I call up to the driver, ‘if you manage to deposit me at 43 Warren Street before seven p.m.’
An unpleasant grin breaks across the man’s sallow face. The normal fare from Franklin Court to Totteringham Road to the final destination of Warren Street is two shillings six. The driver, old before his time, turns and tips his black hat in mock reverence as I settle inside the carriage. The man’s insolence angers Annie, but not I, for as the author of what has now become the notorious, Frankenstein, demonstrations such as these, usually by men of a certain age, have become the rule of the day.
I catch sight of our maid’s face darkening. ‘See that she arrives on time, you lazy blighter,’ Annie says upon slamming the carriage door.

The carriage races over the cobblestones turning onto Totteringham Road tossing me about so that I am reminded of the fateful day when Percy and Edward drowned attempting to return home. Their little boat, caught in a storm on Lake Livorno, must have been ravaged by the rain and high winds, capsizing their very efforts to reach land.
I have lain awake many nights wondering if it was my own demanding letter that compelled Percy to risk his life returning to Villa Magni on such a unsettled day. And in the days that followed, I did my best to comfort dear Jane, after all, she did lose her husband, too, in the accident. So haggard and distraught was she and my own calmness, my own clarity of mind was perceived as cold-hearted. I am not without emotions I told her and anyone within earshot, but no one seemed to sympathise with me. Then Jane, in her despair, spreading vicious gossip as to my failings before leaving the Villa for England. I have not seen her since.
A sharp pain invades my chest so that I bend forward. ‘Oh Percy,’ I whisper, ‘were you not with me in spirit, some days would be utterly unbearable.’
The carriage turns off Totteringham Road and onto Warren Street. Up ahead, the brightness from Dr. Kitchener’s open door, spills onto the street. As I draw near, I have half a mind to bang on the roof of the coach and bring it to a halt, foregoing my attendance and returning home without a word. But no, I decide quickly, for I know there is value in attending the good doctor’s soirees. His hospitality is legendary, inviting numerous London businessmen, several wealthy publishers, who I will attempt to impress, every kind of artist, and a lord and lady or two. An introduction to the men who wield the power over literature, music, art, could prove advantageous as my quarterly 220 pound allowance given by Percy’s father is hardly enough to keep Percy Florence in short trousers.
The coach slows. I peer out the window and see that a carriage ahead has stopped and Mister Joshua Robinson is emerging. The gentleman glances at his pocket watch and flips a heavy gold coin at the coachman before he descends to the pavement. I lean forward to open my own carriage door when I catch sight of a young woman dressed impeccably with dark flowing hair leave the same coach as Mister Robinson. I pull back out of sight, but keep my eye centered on the slender beauty as she pauses to adjust her bonnet and pinch her cheeks until a rosy glow comes to them.
‘Isabella Robinson,’ I murmur quietly into the interior of the carriage. ‘Of course.’
Her father greets her with a broad smile and offers his hand as she descends to the pavement, careful to avoid the fetid ditchwater from soiling her petticoats.
I exit the carriage on my own, but not before laying the fare, plus the extra shilling, in the coachman’s palm. His face remains passive his eyes dully staring. He drops the coins in his pocket and turns away. I pause for a moment before stepping down, watching him knowing that the extra shilling will feel this man’s family for a week. He’s not grateful in the slightest because a woman’s given it him. A woman like me, who has, at various times, maintained her own career and secured her own income, simply by selling a story under her own name.

I Will Be, Mary Shelley

#2--A Note

From the other side of the door comes the whistling, the infernal whistling of the postman and then his footsteps up the steps to the front door. I hold myself very still in the foyer, perhaps I am holding my breath, as the whistling of some unfamiliar melody grows louder and then pauses. The metal flap opens and along with a flurry of white envelopes from several debt collectors, all crying out for my husband’s money, a light blue, square envelope drops to the floor. For a moment I do nothing but stare at it, wondering at its odd little, square shape and distinctive color as it lies face up atop the pile. A dark, masculine script has written brashly across the front, To: Mrs. Percy Shelley, followed by the correct address of our dim, little flat. Immediately questioning thoughts race in my mind, ‘But who in the world should know that I am here?’ I sent no notices, made no proper formalities announcing my return to London from Italy.

A sound behind me, a boy’s running feet on uncarpeted floor from the hall and a calling out so sharp it startles me from my reverie. ‘Mummy,’ the voice says and rushes past to the front door, grazing my arm in his excitement. Percy Florence, now eight, scoops the day’s post from the floor, scrutinizing each envelope until coming across the one he truly wants. ‘There’s one from Grandfather,’ my son exclaims with delighted eyes. But I am less delighted though I do not let him see for I can already guess what my father’s letter contains. I hold out my hand, ‘Let’s have all correspondence, please,’
His face falls slightly. ‘Yes, Mother,’ he says and coming forward, places the small stack of letters gently into my palm. Just then, in that moment, how much he reminds me of his father. His little gesture of kindness done completely on his own, reminding me of the early days with Percy when I was but a girl of sixteen. The moisture quite suddenly springs to my eyes. ‘Run and play, now,’ I tell my son, wiping the tears away, ‘if there is anything for you from Grandfather, you shall read it later.’ His face brightens and he is off again, running down the hall towards the kitchen.

In the library, the room is aglow with warmth, as Frances, our maid, has remembered to light the fire. I sit as close to the flames as possible to warm myself, having yet to adjust to the damp London chill, a far cry from the bright warm days of Livorno. It is to the blue envelope my eyes settle upon. I lift it into my hand and once again stare at the bold, black ink lettering written swiftly across the paper. Mrs. Percy Shelley. Turning it over, I find nothing to reveal its sender. Holding just under my nose, the slight scent of tobacco fills my nostril. A man. But which man? And what man, other than my own father, who is as desperate for money as any man can be, would have any concern that I have returned to London? I slide my finger beneath the flap and lift until it gives. Inside I discover a one page note of the same shade as the envelope and a message: My dear Mrs. Shelley, may I be the first to welcome you home. And your arrival is, by its very nature, most fortuitous, as your presence is required, Tuesday evening, 18 January at 43 Warren St. for conversation, music and culinary amusements, as it shall be. Arrive at seven, go at eleven.

It is signed: Dr. William Kitchener.

My eyes float to the very bottom of the page where my dear friend has written in tiny lettering, Do arrive on time, my dear, as there are several guests who have requested an introduction to the famous authoress of Frankenstein.

I sigh and set the note aside feeling my face grow aflame with indignation. Frankenstein, indeed, a fantastical novel, which I wrote on a dare when I was nineteen and Percy was still alive. I have written another more decidedly mature novel, Valperga, but not many readers seem to be clamouring for it. I sigh again and stare at the unopened white envelop sent from my father, the one letter I know I don’t need to read. For it shall be a plea for a loan, ten pounds perhaps, maybe five, whatever I can spare, he’ll say politely, kindly. As it is, I do not have even one pound to spare, having barely enough income from my writings to keep Percy Florence healthy and happy. But I shall send whatever I manage to scrape together for Father because he is my father. William Godwin, complete and utter failure.

I Will Be, Mary Shelley

****This is for Niki

#1--Prologue

At the age of twenty-five, I found myself to be both young and old.

If only my husband hadn’t run off to Italy on a whim. And in the following months, as was his way, growing tired of the place, so that in his repeated correspondence, he turned to begging me to join him, the children might never have died in the crossing. And Percy might never have drowned near Livorno, leaving me alone to care for our son, Percy Florence with only my own meager income. And if Jane, my dearest Jane, my last stronghold, my tether to this life hadn’t betrayed me after Percy’s death to that awful man, I might never have met Isabella or Mary Diana.

No, I am quite sure of it now. I would never have come to know them and most certainly would never have allowed myself to grow so close in friendship to either of them, but grief and financial ruin has a way of making even the strongest among us vulnerable, wanting nothing but for the sadness to be gone. At certain times in life, one cannot help but put oneself at the mercy of other people.

Alone, widowed and with no means of support readily at hand, I wanted them to like me.

That was my first mistake.

summer silences

These final days of summer with their warm mornings and hot afternoons where everything smells of dust and heat, I am reminded of the days I spent at my grandparent’s house in the country. Sometimes the temperatures would climb very high in the mid-August afternoon, but their three-story yellow house would always stay cool inside.
My grandmother, a slight woman full of simple kindness and patience, would attend to her daily chores which were listed by the day of the week. Monday was always wash day. We would hang the clothes on the line to dry after they were washed and as they dried they’d absorb the odor of the wood, the pine and oak trees, the rosemary and lavender plants that grew wild behind and along side their house. I would help my grandmother by holding the clothes pins in my small hands while she hung the shirts and trousers first then the under things, and finally, one by one, the socks.
It was here, in the country, that I first learned to listen. For the most part we were continually surrounded by open air silence. When there was the occasional sound, a car or truck passing along the road, a dog barking from over the hill or the train, which stopped in a town some forty miles to the north, blowing its whistle if the wind were right. In the silences that took up most of my waking hours, I learned to hear the small sounds; the singing of the pine needles, the mockingbird’s call, the footsteps of the deer approaching from several yards away.
In these beautiful and long summer days with my grandparents, sitting alone in the silence taught me to listen attentively and more importantly to hear everything. There’s a subtle shift in the voice’s timbre when someone is lying and a flatness when a cruel person is attempting to be charming. A shy person’s voice is too loud as she tries to hide the sweetness underneath. The insecure person will snap or bark his words at you covering the shame he really feels.
Next time you are somewhere pleasant, either indoors or out, pause and actively listen. Then list the first five sounds that you hear in the space of one minute. I think you’ll be surprised and perhaps delighted. Some of these sounds may spark your imagination and lead to the start of story.

Christmas Day

Thunderstorms throughout the day

6 a.m. The Christmas lights go on the tree as the rest of the house stays asleep. A raging rainstorm outside. I tuck bare feet beneath me on the sofa, and to keep warm, I wrap myself in a small, red, light weight astronaut blanket my partner purchased online. 'Ave Maria' is sung on the radio. I shut my eyes against the future of a very busy day and breathe in deep the singing, knowing without Maria, there would be no today.
12:25 p.m. A Chinese Christmas lunch of roasted eel, veggie fried rice, bird's nests that I make and my partner says is very good down to the tea. 'Nutcracker' music played by the guitar playing Romero family (from Spain) streams from the radio. Doesn't matter that the composer of the ballet was Russian.
2:30 p.m. Brief sunlight gives way to dark thunder clouds. Time to dress and prepare for Christmas dinner. A prayer to all: May we be well. May we be happy. May we be free from suffering. (May we not lose power). Thank you.

3rd Day of Winter

90 percent possibility of precipitation

1. 8:30 a.m. Due to a foot injury I have not gone running for a very long time. This morning while the dark, ominous clouds overhead are making up their minds and my dear partner is swamped with a tidal wave of sorrowful memories of Christmases ago, I laugh at the weather and go running. To my delight, in the silence of damp streets, I run like someone escaping from prison. Amazed at my strength and lung capacity, I run, run, run. Can my legs really go that fast? And then I run home. My foot aches and shouts up at me but O happiness. O joy.
2. 12:30 p.m. No one is talking. Christmas carols play on the radio. Continuously, while I make two pumpkin pies the easy way. Pre-made crusts. Pre-made cooked pumpkin puree. Add the spices, stir thoroughly (I am tempted to add several drops of Bourbon, but then know how it would be wasted on my family so I nix the idea) and pour mixture into crusts. Bake for 50 or so minutes. Fingers crossed the oven works.
3. 1:30 p.m. It is nearly Christmas morning in some places around the world. I wonder how everyone is doing. Are they happy? Are they getting along this time? I close my eyes and picture everyone, everywhere loved and forgiven.