I Will Be Mary Shelley

#9--The Suitor

Annie enters the sitting room carrying the morning post in her hand and not on a tray as Ada and I have repeatedly tried to teach her. But it is no matter, for this morning the young maid’s eyes are so bright with delight and mischief that I cannot withhold a smile or summon the strength to scold her once again.
I fix my eyes on the envelopes held out before me. My heart awakens in her yearning. ‘Is there one from Jane, today?’ I ask, too hopefully, all the while knowing how this happy attachment like all dear friendships which sees its end, leaves a void that nothing can fill up.
Annie’s eyes fall to the floor, her face grows somber. ‘I didn’t see one, Ma’am,’ she says and then after making a quick study of the ardent emotions playing out across my face, she adds, so tenderly that I am tempted to cry out, ‘Not today. Maybe tomorrow.’
But we both know there is no tomorrow where Jane is concerned, since the start of her silly fondness for Jefferson Hogg. I don’t think I shall ever forgive Marianne Hunt for introducing this most presumptuous and disquieting man to my Jane.
‘But there is another,’ the maid says, her cheerful voice pulling me from the depths of angry reveries which, in truth, I am helpless to rectify. I focus my gaze on the top envelope which Annie has slid forward, detaching it part way from the others. Taking it most delicately between my finger. John Howard Payne, London is written in the upper left-hand corner. ‘Oh dear,’ I utter before I can stop myself and rest the envelope in my lap. I sigh softly at the actor’s persistence and loyalty. Since the death of my husband, John Payne has been nothing but generous, ever-ready to act the suitor on any outing of my choosing. He is merry, amusing, and reliant company has earned him a place at my own father’s dinner table. While indeed flattered by Mister Payne’s attention, I am simply not devoted to his affections. I cannot be what I do not feel.
Annie notices my stare and lowers the remaining post to the table. ‘Shall I stoke up the fire, Missus?’ she asks.
I nod and the maid proceeds to the grate. ‘No, leave it just now,’ I say and she returns to my side. I hand her Mister Payne’s envelope. ‘If you please, Annie, will you open it for me.’
Her eyes grow wide in wonder. ‘You want me to, my Missus?’
‘Yes, please, Annie and would you read to me what it says.’
Annie slides her forefinger beneath the sealed flap. As she withdraws the letter two tickets escape the folds and flutter to the floor. Tickets to the opera, of course, I half expected as much. Mister Payne is generous to a fault.
With a nod of encouragement, Annie unfolds the letter. When the maid hesitates without any intention of continuing I look up at her. ‘Continue, please, Annie.’
I glance up at her and it is only then that I notice the pages she holds in her hand are trembling violently. ‘Annie?’
‘Yes, my Missus?’
‘Whatever is the matter?’
To my surprise, tears sprung from her eyes and rolled down her youthful cheeks. ‘O, Missus,’ Annie cries, ‘please. I beg your forgiveness.’
‘Whatever for? You haven’t done anything.’
Still weeping, the poor thing spits out, ‘I cannot read. I’ve never learned. I’ve gone right into service soon as my head grew as tall as my mother’s hip.’
I rise out of my chair and taking her elbow lead her to the fire. I remove the pages and rub Annie’s hands with my own. She is nearly frozen but not from the chill experienced in the sitting room but from fright. ‘You rest, now,’ I say, picking up the pages again. ‘I shall read Mister Payne’s letter.’
‘I would have done it if I could have. You believe me, don’t you, Missus?’
I smile at Annie and for a brief moment she is relieved. ‘Of course,’ I say and settle in my chair. ‘Shall I do the honors?’
Annie nods.
I inhale deeply, ‘My dear Missus Shelly,’ I begin aloud. ‘It has come to my attention that some two have passed since your last outing. Please do not assume that my interest is, in anyway, waning. You, my fair lady, are perpetually in my presence and if I close my eyes you are forever with me, by my side, in my thoughts and--‘
Annie gasps and covers her hand with her palm.
I fold the letter and return it to its envelope. The two tickets remain in my hand. I stare down at them. ‘These tickets are a lovely gesture, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, my Missus. Quite lovely if you ask me.’
‘A woman thusly presented should act upon such a kindness by attending the Opera. To do otherwise would be to respond with rudeness.’
‘Ada would say it were so.’
I turn and look at Annie. I nearly laugh but check myself in time. Ada would have a word or two to express regarding The Opera, a widow’s manners and Mister Payne himself, I am sure. ‘I shall have to think of an escort. Jane, undoubtedly will be preoccupied with Mister Hogg.’
‘I think Mister Payne is wanting to be your escort.’
‘Of course, he is,’ I say. ‘Perhaps Father would enjoy a night out.’
Annie looks disappointed. ‘Yes, Missus,’ she says and rises from the chair, ‘shall I send Master Percy Florence round to express your wishes?’
‘Yes, I suppose that will do,’ I tell her but when Annie turns to leave the room, another more pressing, more imaginative thought enters my mind. ‘Wait,’ I call out and the maid returns. ‘Fetch pen and paper.’
Annie brings them in from the study. ‘But your father won’t need a formal note, Ma’am.’
I am writing so hurriedly I barely look up to answer. ‘This isn’t for my father,’ I say lifting the pen and folding the paper into thirds. I hand the note to Annie who takes it from my hand without glancing at it. ‘Please take this to Miss Mary Diana Dods.’
A quiver of a smile forms on Annie’s lips.
‘And wait for an answer, won’t you, Annie?’

I Will Be, Mary Shelley

#9--The Suitor

Annie enters the sitting room carrying the morning post in her hand and not on a tray as Ada and I have repeatedly tried to teach her. But it is no matter, for this morning the young maid’s eyes are so bright with delight and mischief that I cannot withhold a smile or summon the strength to scold her once again.
I fix my eyes on the envelopes held out before me. My heart awakens in her yearning. ‘Is there one from Jane, today?’ I ask, too hopefully, all the while knowing how this happy attachment like all dear friendships which sees its end, leaves a void that nothing can fill up.
Annie’s eyes fall to the floor, her face grows somber. ‘I didn’t see one, Ma’am,’ she says and then after making a quick study of the ardent emotions playing out across my face, she adds, so tenderly that I am tempted to cry out, ‘Not today. Maybe tomorrow.’
But we both know there is no tomorrow where Jane is concerned, since the start of her silly fondness for Jefferson Hogg. I don’t think I shall ever forgive Marianne Hunt for introducing this most presumptuous and disquieting man to my Jane.
‘But there is another,’ the maid says, her cheerful voice pulling me from the depths of angry reveries which, in truth, I am helpless to rectify. I focus my gaze on the top envelope which Annie has slid forward, detaching it part way from the others. Taking it most delicately between my fingers, I discover John Howard Payne, London written in the upper left-hand corner. ‘Oh dear,’ I utter before I can stop myself and rest the envelope in my lap. I sigh softly at the actor’s persistence and loyalty. Since the death of my husband, John Payne has been nothing but generous, ever-ready to act the suitor on any outing of my choosing. He is merry, amusing, and reliant company has earned him a place at my own father’s dinner table. While indeed flattered by Mister Payne’s attention, I am simply not devoted to his affections. I cannot be what I do not feel.
Annie notices my stare and lowers the remaining post to the table. ‘Shall I stoke up the fire, Missus?’ she asks.
I nod and the maid proceeds to the grate. ‘No, leave it just now,’ I say and she returns to my side. I hand her Mister Payne’s envelope. ‘If you please, Annie, will you open it for me.’
Her eyes grow wide in wonder. ‘You want me to, my Missus?’
‘Yes, please, Annie and would you read to me what it says.’
Annie slides her forefinger beneath the sealed flap. As she withdraws the letter two tickets escape the folds and flutter to the floor. Tickets to the opera, of course, I half expected as much. Mister Payne is generous to a fault.
With a nod of encouragement, Annie unfolds the letter. When the maid hesitates without any intention of continuing I look up at her. ‘Continue, please, Annie.’
I glance up at her and it is only then that I notice the pages she holds in her hand are trembling violently. ‘Annie?’
‘Yes, my Missus?’
‘Whatever is the matter?’
To my surprise, tears sprung from her eyes and rolled down her youthful cheeks. ‘O, Missus,’ Annie cries, ‘please. I beg your forgiveness.’
‘Whatever for? You haven’t done anything.’
Still weeping, the poor thing spits out, ‘I cannot read. I’ve never learned. I’ve gone right into service soon as my head grew as tall as my mother’s hip.’
I rise out of my chair and taking her elbow lead her to the fire. I remove the pages and rub Annie’s hands with my own. She is nearly frozen but not from the chill experienced in the sitting room but from fright. ‘You rest, now,’ I say, picking up the pages again. ‘I shall read Mister Payne’s letter.’
‘I would have done it if I could have. You believe me, don’t you, Missus?’
I smile at Annie and for a brief moment she is relieved. ‘Of course,’ I say and settle in my chair. ‘Shall I do the honors?’
Annie nods.
I inhale deeply, ‘My dear Missus Shelly,’ I begin aloud. ‘It has come to my attention that some two have passed since your last outing. Please do not assume that my interest is, in anyway, waning. You, my fair lady, are perpetually in my presence and if I close my eyes you are forever with me, by my side, in my thoughts and--‘
Annie gasps and covers her hand with her palm.
I fold the letter and return it to its envelope. The two tickets remain in my hand. I stare down at them. ‘These tickets are a lovely gesture, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, my Missus. Quite lovely if you ask me.’
‘A woman thusly presented should act upon such a kindness by attending the Opera. To do otherwise would be to respond with rudeness.’
‘Ada would say it were so.’
I turn and look at Annie. I nearly laugh but check myself in time. Ada would have a word or two to express regarding The Opera, a widow’s manners and Mister Payne himself, I am sure. ‘I shall have to think of an escort. Jane, undoubtedly will be preoccupied with Mister Hogg.’
‘I think Mister Payne is wanting to be your escort.’
‘Of course, he is,’ I say. ‘Perhaps Father would enjoy a night out.’
Annie looks disappointed. ‘Yes, Missus,’ she says and rises from the chair, ‘shall I send Master Percy Florence round to express your wishes?’
‘Yes, I suppose that will do,’ I tell her but when Annie turns to leave the room, another more pressing, more imaginative thought enters my mind. ‘Wait,’ I call out and the maid returns. ‘Fetch pen and paper.’
Annie brings them in from the study. ‘But your father won’t need a formal note, Ma’am.’
I am writing so hurriedly I barely look up to answer. ‘This isn’t for my father,’ I say lifting the pen and folding the paper into thirds. I hand the note to Annie who takes it from my hand without glancing at it. ‘Please take this to Miss Mary Diana Dods.’
A quiver of a smile forms on Annie’s lips.
‘And wait for an answer, won’t you, Annie?’

I Will Be Mary Shelley

#8--Decision

I lie awake in the bed, darkness surrounds every inch of my being.
The warm milk laced with brandy Ada prepared and which Annie brought up has yet to work its affects. Instead of sleep, I am remembering how we three woman sat together in Ada’s kitchen and how they looked at me, mouths agape, eyes wide with fright when I so rightly declared, “I have no other counsel to rely upon.”
I wanted to weep as I said it. My celestial spirit being lost forever, his integrity, his sweetness of disposition. . .O, how I do try, but know very well that such glowing words belong only to the poet himself. Never have I heard such praise sung to me in these past few years. Do dear friends forget that at the time of Percy and Edward’s death someone had to maintain decorum? Think of the consequences had we all succumbed to grief. Someone had to stand as protector! But, how the role has cost me dearly.
When the cook glanced upon my slumping shoulders, she leaned across the table and covered my own trembling hands with her thick, rough palms. Her large hands, worn by years of decent, caring labor, are so unlike my own smooth, delicate ones. Ada, for once, forgoing propriety, said, ‘Of course, Miss Mary, you must never be afraid to come to us.’
I weak smile I gave to Ada for so obviously the word has traveled through the servants grapevine what desperate straits I am in. The disparaging words Jane Williams spoke seemingly in private, forgetting all the while the presence of her cook, who is cousin to my own. It had been no surprise to Ada nor Annie, for that matter, as to the reason why Jane ceased coming for tea. Only a surprise to me.
‘I am not given to tears,’ I told the two women at the table, ‘and though I am perceived as ill-tempered and cold-hearted, I am not without feeling.’
Annie coughed into her fist and cowered under Ada’s sharp gaze. I sighed. Perhaps I have been unkind to the poor girl whose devotion to myself and Percy Florence is so evidently clear. ‘It is all right, Annie,’ I told her and the forgiveness in her dark eyes reminds me of my own Allegra’s. For but a flash, I observe in Annie’s gentle nature the woman my daughter may have become had she survived. ‘I fear I have fallen to the level of my father--‘
‘Never,’ Ada said, cheeks flushing pink. ‘I’ll not listen to such rubbish. You are a long way from falling that far, Miss Mary.’
‘I’ll second that,’ Annie sang out, nearly sending her cup to the floor, ‘you are the most courageous woman I know.’
‘The day you turn you back on anyone asking for your help, is the day they’ll carry me out of your kitchen feet first,’ Ada said.
‘You are the writer of Frankenstein, for goodness sake,’ Annie said, triumphantly, ‘and other things.’
I heard a swift kick go onto Annie’s shin. The young maid suddenly lurched forward and held back her scream by pressing her lips together so tightly the color drained from them. I leaned back in the chair. ‘My life has not been an uneventful one,’ I said and folded my hands in my lap. My eyes washed over the woman’s eager faces. ‘Since I have already explained what was proposed to me at Dr. Kitchener’s,’ I said, they nodded excitedly.‘I suppose the only question remains, Shall I accept?’
The nodding stopped. Filled with wonder at their thoughts, their silent deliberations, it occurred to me, would I truly accept their answer as final?
Ada set her jaw and dusted the front of her apron. ‘Not without a plan, I wouldn’t.’
‘Yes, a plan.’ Annie echoed. ‘What plan?’
Ada eyed her, then turned her solemn gaze upon me. ‘But before we start, let it be known that we’d like this to come out all right, if you know what I mean by it, Miss Mary,’ Ada said.

I sit straight up in the bed, Ada’s words echoing in my mind. I do know, Ada, as well as I know my own life. I light the lamp and raise the flame, watching the strange darkness scatter into shadows upon the far wall. I don my robe and fold it closely around my body as I make swiftly for the door. With lamp in hand, I proceed down the hall, descend the stairs to Ada’s room just off the kitchen. You are as ruthless and cunning as you are honest and direct. My father told me stories of how you delivered my mother from the hands of the authorities by pretending to be her wealthy, aristocratic sister. The charade was a success as long as Ada didn’t reveal her true manner of speech.
The cook is lying on her side facing the wall sound to sleep. Of all the people I could have chosen to mold this plan, I could not have discovered another living soul willing to be so brave. When I touch her shoulder she sits straight up and blinks against the light. ‘Miss Mary, what is it? Are you ill?’
I shake my head. No, dear Ada, I am not ill. I have not felt better in my life. ‘We must go and wake Annie.’
‘The plan?’
‘Yes,’ I say, feeling the liveliness of my own heart return as if by lightening striking it. ‘We shall swear upon it and to one another our utmost secrecy.’
Ada swings her feet to the floor. She stands. ‘To the grave with it, then?’
I smile, remembering my mother. ‘Yes,’ I say softly, ‘unto our deaths.

Incidents of the Day

In my business, I go to a lot of funerals.

This past Monday I attended a memorial service for an older woman who passed from this life after a battle with cancer.
Life is short. People die. We know this, right?
Wrong. That is only the half of the story.
Here’s the other half, the truth I learned last Monday. ‘Knowing life is short, let us not cease using our lives to benefit others.’
That’s how Jane lived up until her last breath.

At the funeral, her life was told in memories of those who knew her best. Her family and her life-long friends and her more recent friends. In story after story, people said the same thing, ‘Jane worked tirelessly for others, never judged another living soul, and used her talent, energy, vision to better the world.

For example.
Shortly after the end of WWII, Jane, who was just out of graduate school and living in Berlin, was working with those trying to piece a war weary city together again. She found herself head of the food distribution center. A pilot who knew Jane in Berlin, said she didn’t rest until everyone in Berlin had enough to eat.

A month before her death, she was meeting with heads of certain charities, planning how specific projects (which she had begun years ago) would proceed in her absence and on to their completion. She understood how she would not be here to see the finished product, but she trusted that those in charge to finish the job. And finish it well.

One week prior to her death, Jane was making sure her Christmas cards were written and sent, phoning dear friends, encouraging everybody, asking about their lives, their children.

Hours before her final good-bye, a friend brought over a cherished dessert. When Jane was a young woman she had traveled to Italy, and there she came upon a luscious dessert, caramel custard. A this time, Jane was weak and without appetite, but when the woman presented the caramel custard, Jane raised herself up in bed, accepted a few delicate mouthfuls, savoring each bite. When I heard that story, I thought, how lucky we should all be to go out of this world eating our favorite desserts. But that’s not the whole of what happened. Jane ate the custard not for herself but because she knew how happy her friend would be seeing her enjoy it.

Not everyone can live this way, but it certainly is an inspiring way to try to live. And love.

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone.
May you be happy, enjoying the roots of happiness.

I Will Be Mary Shelley

#7--Tea

Snow flurries greet me as I exit the Robinson’s carriage.
Isabella Robinson flashes a brilliant smile. Mary Diana Dods gives a solemn, yet not altogether dismissive nod, as the trio is driven off into the night towards Totteringham Road. I pause long enough to wave casually after the carriage, then, most hurriedly, I make my way to the kitchen door in the hopes of coaxing Ada into preparing something warm.
Just inside the door, I am greeted by the kitchen’s warmth and the smell of roasted lamb in mint sauce lingering on the air. I stand stock still. A peculiar sensation has invaded my normally placid mind. The undeniable feeling that I have met Mary Diana Dods elsewhere, but the time and place and under what circumstances, alludes me. Oh how frustrating to have a clear sense but absolutely no recollection to support such a feeling.
I stamp my feet against the stone floor, knocking the cold and bits of snow from my shoes. Ada, enters carrying a crate filled with drooping vegetables. She sets the crate beside the stove, has one look at me and frowns. ‘Miss Mary,’ she says, ‘you gave me a terrible fright. Have you, now, taken to the habit of entering by the servants door?’
I cannot help but smile and laugh softly to myself. Dear Ada, ever the fervent guardian of proprieties. This stout Irish woman was my mother’s cook years before I was born, then my father’s until he married again, and his new wife unceremoniously dismissed Ada from his household. I was only four when I lost her the first time.
‘It is so much warmer down here than in the rooms upstairs,’ I tell her, which is only part of the truth. The other half, which I keep to myself, is that I desire familial company of a sort tonight.
‘All right-y, then,’ Ada says, pushing up the door to the dumbwaiter and shouting for Annie. ‘The girl’ll see to your things,’ she says, ‘you just come over here, have yourself a sit down and I’ll fix you a nice hot cocoa.’
‘I’d rather have tea, if you don’t mind, Ada,’ I say, thinking how cocoa is for children.
I remove my gloves, untie the string holding my cloak around my shoulders. Annie descends the back stairs and enters the kitchen. She gives a little cry when she sees me sitting at the table. She glances confusedly at Ada.
‘Well,’ Ada says, ‘go and take her things.’
Annie comes to the table. I see that she has been at the fireplace upstairs by the black smudges streaked across her chin and above her right eye. I place my gloves in her hand and my long cloak over her arm. She curtseys. As she passes Ada, the cook says, ‘Be sure to hang them where they can dry properly, girl.’
Annie curtsey’s again and starts for the stairs.
‘And then be sure you come down, Annie, I want to speak with you,’ I say, avoiding Ada’s eyes.
Annie freezes. She turns. A look of terror passes over her face. For a moment she cannot speak. When she does find her voice, it is trembling. She squeaks like a mouse. ‘Oh, Missus,’ the girl pleads, ‘please Missus, whatever I’ve done to displease you, surely I can make it up, please, Missus, just tell me what I’ve done.’
‘Quiet,’ Ada scolds. ‘That’ll be enough out of you.’
My eyes settle on the maid. She is bent slightly at the waist, eyes bulging, mouth twisted as if in agony. To my horror, I realise, poor, sweet Annie assumes she is being given the sack.
‘Annie,’ I say, reassuringly, ‘I want you to go upstairs and rid yourself of my wet things and then return for a cup of tea.’
Annie’s eyes grow larger. An uneasy silence settles in the kitchen. Though I am not looking in her direction, I know Ada, who adored my mother but not all her radical ways, fears the same have been instilled in me, and so is displeased by my suggestion that a mere maid join her mistress for tea.
‘Please,’ I say to Annie, ‘Ada is just about to put the kettle on.’
Annie’s eyes slide towards Ada. The cook sighs abruptly and glowers towards the table. After a moment, she says, ‘Do as your Missus tells you.’
‘Much obliged, Missus,’ Annie says, ‘won’t be a tick.’
I stare down at the table. I hear Ada move to the stove. The kettle goes hard and heavy onto it. I ignore Ada’s silent fuming. What I cherish in this world rests within the walls of this rented dwelling.
My beloved Shelley is gone.
Italy is gone.
Jane has, I fear, betrayed me.
Even my father, who, for so many months, offered comfort and closeness, is absent.
I look up as Ada approaches the table. ‘Is it not enough that you show yourself in public accompanied by not a man or a child or a servant? You seem to think you can just walk down the street however you like or go off to parties alone in a carriage,’ Ada’s fists go up on her amble hips. ‘It just ain’t done, I tell you. It just ain’t done.’
I nudge the chair opposite away from the table, indicating that she should join me. Ada shakes her head, ‘Your mother tried the same trick and not once did I accept, so I’m not about to start sitting at the table with you, Miss Mary.’
‘Ada,’ I say and reach for her hand, ‘you of all people keep the memory of my mother alive.’
Color comes into the cook’s cheeks. Her eyes soften. ‘Terrible thing that happened to you, growing up with no mother. Your father, God bless him, did what he could, but I think you never got over the loneliness of it,’ she says and adds quickly, ‘if you pardon the liberty, Miss.’
Annie returns. I see that she has combed her fair tresses and painted her lips. Ada wipes her eyes quickly and says, ‘You’re going to no party.’ Annie slumps and lowers her eyes. She waits.
Ada barks, ‘Well, don’t keep your Mistress waiting, take your place at the table and sit quietly while I fix the tea.’
Annie approaches the table and sits down so excitedly she nearly topples over. Her cheeks redden. She catches her breath and we wait in companionable silence until Ada comes with the tea on tray. I am glad to see she has brought a small plate filled with vanilla biscuits. Annie’s hand reaches in the air. ‘Not you,’ Ada says, ‘we’ve to wait ‘til it steeps properly. If you’re to be in my kitchen, you’ve to do things as they are to be done.’ The tray goes down in the center of the table. And to my utter shock, Ada pulls out a chair and sits down. She glares openly at Annie, ‘You will not be speaking of this to anyone beyond these four walls,’ Ada warns, then adds, ‘on point of death.’
Annie, barely disguising a smile, nods. ‘Yes, Ada,’ she says.
I lean forward and cover these women’s hands with my own, feeling their chapped, rough skin from years of service, rub against my own smooth, tender palms.
‘What has occurred this evening,’ I begin, watching their tired eyes, worn faces. ‘I have been handed an intriguing and rather daring proposition.’
Ada slips out from beneath my hands and begins pouring the tea.
‘Daring,’ Annie says and giggles. ‘I wish someone would ask me to do something daring.’
‘Hush,’ Ada scolds and passes the plate of biscuits.
‘I am afraid I am uncertain how to proceed,’ I lean back in the chair.
Ada returns the pot to the tray, hands me a cup of steaming, pekote tea and then one is placed before Annie. ‘Why ask us? I’ve lived a normal life,’ she glances at Annie, ‘seen more of the world that this one here, but still neither of us runs in society.’
‘We won’t know how to help you, Missus,’ Annie says, pausing the biscuit in mid-air.
‘On the contrary,' I say, raising the cup from its saucer, 'I am certain that you are the only ones who will.’

I Will Be Mary Shelley

#6 --Departure

The clocks strike eleven.
The lilting piano playing ceases. All conversation abruptly halts and without delay the guests bid good-bye to their evening companions and retreat their retreat from the grand room.
At the foyer, retrieving my cloak and gloves, Mister Joshua Robinson appears, takes his daughter’s arm and blithely suggests that I share the carriage ride home.
I couldn’t possibly accept such a generous offer from a man I just met, but the fervent pleading in young Isabella’s eyes makes it impossible for me to refuse.
I look to Mister Robinson and say, ‘Seeing how I am without an escort this evening and without present means of arriving home safely, I accept your kind offer.’
The man smiles cautiously and says plainly, ‘Marvelous,’ he squeezes his daughter’s arm, who smiles openly, daringly, at the very least, without caution.
The front door to number 43 Warren Street is opened by the same man-servant who locked it no less than four hours previous. I give a sweeping glance across the grand room, but there is no opportunity to bid good night to Dr. Kitchener. The learned gentleman has already withdrawn to his observatory on the top floor to gaze at the night sky.
The horses are brought to a stop and the carriage pauses long enough for Mister Robinson to assist Miss Mary Diana Dods, who quite obviously needs no assistance, into the carriage, then offers me his arm, then his daughter’s and finally, with three extra shillings to the coachman, we are whisked away from 43 Warren Street, drawing another Tuesday night soiree to a close.
In the jostling of the carriage as we make our way onto Totteringham Road, I attempt to avoid the constant stare of Miss Isabella Robinson, who sits opposite beside her father, but her furtive smile coerces a glance from me now and again. Each time our eyes meet, albeit for only a fraction of a second, her dark blue eyes jump with delight. With nowhere else to look with the exception of the coach’s floor, which I refuse to do, I focus my attention on Mister Robinson. The man, attempting to enjoy his evening smoke, has pulled a cigar from his breast pocket and is attempting to light it. Isabella glares at her father and frowns. She shakes her head and the poor man folds his large hand around his matches and returns the cigar to his pocket. He sighs, ‘You must come to Park Place for tea,’ Mister Robinson suggests, ‘the both of you,’ he adds with a nod to Miss Mary Diana Dods.
‘Yes,’ Isabella nearly shouts, ‘do come very soon,’ and adds with a high, nervous laugh.
I hesitate. Since returning to London from Italy, I have not been invited anywhere, even to the houses of people I consider dear friends. Jane, for all her goodness, has been positively silent, except for her one note admonishing me for returning. You would fair better to remain where you have been. Do think of someone other than yourself for once. I am quite aware of how Jane’s concern for my son’s well-being can come across as harsh, but I also must admit how her words still bite as I recall them.
I clear my throat, look to Mister Robinson again. ‘My dear sir,’ I say, ‘your kindness is extraordinary. You see, few people are prepared to have me in their homes. Dr. Kitchener, thankfully, is indifferent to social disgrace.’
‘Dr. Kitchener cares little what others think of him,’ Miss Dods says, adjusting the sleeves of her tight green jacket.
‘And what is fair by the good doctor so is fair by me,’ Mister Robinson says, looking at his daughter from the corner of his eye.
Isabella, in turn clapped wildly and leaned towards me, a small, delicate hand resting on my knee, ‘You’ll come, then? Oh, do say, you’ll come, please.’
When the three of us were huddled together in the corner of Dr. Kitchener’s grand room, shielded from the inquisitive expressions and prying eyes of the other guests, Miss Isabella Robinson told me the entire story of her life, followed by the detailed plan of her future. Of course, I immediately declined all involvement, explaining how I could never be so treacherous. But then the young woman turned and without hesitation said, ‘Are you not the daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft, celebrated authoress of the Rights of Women?’ The look of pride in her expression momentarily confused me, for the mention of my mother’s name almost always brought with it a vicious damning of one sort or the other. I didn’t know what to say. The boldness of this woman, not yet twenty, clearly had me flummoxed. Her eyes were still and steady upon my face. And with cheeks flushing turned to her. Yes, I am Mary Wollstonecraft’s daughter and yes, more than anything in these last years I have put my trust in the intelligence of my own sex.
‘May we send the carriage for you this coming Saturday, Missus Shelley?’ Mister Robinson asks.
I depart from my reverie. ‘Yes,’ I say, too mesmerized by Isabella’s affection and beauty to refuse, ‘of course. I shall be delighted.’
And thus my fate is sealed.

I Will Be Mary Shelley

#5--The Meeting

Dr. Kitchener wraps his hand protectively around my forearm. ‘Steady,’ he warns, knowing of my stubborn nature and my propensity to seek retaliation. ‘The entire room is watching us.’
I nod towards the gaping faces and release my breath. Then I inhale even slower to regain my balance. ‘Of course,’ I say and smile.
He leans in and the old devoted codger pecks my cheek with a kiss. ‘Forgive me my dear,’ he says in a low, confidential voice, ‘but there was no time to warn you of Timothy’s arrival. It must be said that I did not invite the man, but he has been coming to my Tuesday night soirees for years, and most likely assumed he was welcome.’
I let go of a laugh and embrace the doctor.
‘Come,’ he says, jovially, ‘there is someone I wish you to meet.’
We push through the crowd, hurrying towards two women who are almost hiding in the corner of the grand room, their backs to the curtains. So similar are they in features and mold that I can only guess they are sisters.
‘Good evening,’ Dr. Kitchener says and the women halt their conversation and turn to face us. ‘Missus Georgiana Carter and Miss Mary Diana Dods,’ the doctor states formally, ‘let it be my great pleasure to introduce you to someone of literary reputation and someone I believe you will very much like, Missus Percy Shelley.’
Silently, both women nod in my direction as Dr. Kitchener departs to visit with his other guests. How odd that there is no gasping, no throwing open of the eyes or mouths in recognition, no references to Frankenstein or to my husband’s poetry. The woman to my immediate right, Miss Dods, with her short, dark curly hair and gnome-like shape smiles and extends her hand. As I take it, I utter for the first time since Percy’s death, ‘Please,’ I say, seeing her dark eyes pore into mine, ‘I am Mary Shelley,’ and feel the warmth and strength of the woman’s fingers tighten against my own.
Then there is the gasp coming from Missus Carter who stands directly before me. She reaches a hand to her mouth and covers it. Her cheeks flush pink. She reproves me with her eyes that are as dark as her sister’s but without the charm or intelligence.
‘And of course,’ her sister says, ‘you must call me Mary Diana.’
Before Missus Carter manages to openly rebuke her sister, we are joined by Miss Isabella Robinson whose youthful beauty overwhelms us all. She turns and gives Missus Carter a perfunctory nod and then reaches a hand out to Mary Diana, smiling. Missus Carter may not be a woman of superior intellect but she is wise enough to know when she has been dismissed.
Missus Carter sighs loud enough for all to hear, even those who have gathered by the piano and have started to plunk out the first few notes of a famous concerto. The woman straightens her spine. ‘Shall I leave you to your friends, then?’ she asks her sister, who turns and nods in return barely concealing a smile.
‘May I introduce--‘ Mary Diana says but is cut off.
In her youthful exuberance, Isabella says, ‘I know who you are,’ she says and smiles with a mouth so full of daring that I do believe she think she’s made a conquest of me.
I smile slightly in return, thoroughly enjoying every moment and thoroughly chagrined knowing that I, too, was once eighteen, but am no longer. ‘I am Mary Shelley,’ I say.
The girl positively squeals and squeezes my hand and with the other she takes hold Mary Diana’s. ‘Good,’ she whispers, her glance alternating between our faces. Her smile suddenly fades and as we lean forward, she says even softer still, ‘I’ve come to tell you my story.’