Chapter 4: Some Questions Are Answered

July 22nd 1822. Hotel Telford, Pisa.
Arthur Wilson poured generous measures of sherry into two glasses, and then handed me one. I had brought one of the bottles of sherry given me by Charles Godfrey and presented it to Arthur, as a thank you for his hospitality during the many times I visited Pisa. He was delighted with my gift.

“The taste of sherry takes me back to England, and my early days of working with Mister Telford,” he said, after having an appreciative sup. “Mister Telford was inordinately fond of a fine amontillado, and would let me take a sip from his glass. When I was older he allowed me a glass of my own. This is excellent sherry. From where did you purchase it? Certainly not in Tuscany, as the beverage is unknown hereabouts.”

I could vouch for the truth of his statement. I had given a glass of sherry to Capitano Conti, who, not having had the experience of drinking sherry, took a mighty sup, then swiftly spat the mouthful out in disgust.

‘Santa madre di Dio, what do you call this pisello di capra?’
That was the first and last time I offered the Capitano a sherry. Actually, he had only mirrored my reaction when he gave me a glass of grappa.

“It is from an Englishman, who not only is the British Consul in Cadiz but also a sherry producer in Jerez.” I said.
Arthur was most interested to hear of a fellow British consul owning a vineyard.

“Well, when you next see the fellow please convey my respects to him, as well as my admiration for the excellent sherry he produces.” He said, after taking a drink from his glass.

“Should I visit Cadiz on my homeward trip I certainly shall.” I said, but thought it most unlikely I would see Cadiz, or Charles Godfrey, ever again.

“It is a bad business about Shelley and his crew.” Arthur put down his glass and indicated the newspaper on the table in front of him. The headline told of the discovery of the poet’s body.

Fourteen days had passed since the loss of Don Juan, and four days ago the bodies of Shelley, his friend Williams, and the young boat boy Vivian, were found washed up on a beach near Viareggio. The sinking of Don Juan was attributed to a combination of bad weather, the inexperience of Shelley and his crew in sailing the local waters, and alterations made to the arrangement of the sails, which had made the vessel faster through the water but less stable.
I nodded, thinking of how Mary Shelley must be feeling — I knew the heartache of losing a loved one, and for all his faults Percy Shelley had been truly loved by his wife. Her loss was likely all the more keenly felt because local quarantine regulations required Shelley’s corpse to be cremated on the beach, depriving her of the opportunity to solace herself by means of a funeral.

“I feel I should pay my respects to the widow, but to tell the truth the fellow was a thorn in my side when he resided here in Pisa, and frankly I shed no tears at his demise.” Arthur drained his glass and poured another measure. “In any event the Foreign Office would have a fit if I did pay a visit to Missus Shelley. Her husband was persona non grata as far as the Government was concerned, and a British official offering condolences would be frowned upon.”
Arthur shook his head sadly before taking a drink. He then gave a wide smile. “I do, however, have some good news to impart. Raise your glass to the happiness and wellbeing of the future Grafin von Ribbentrop.”
We clinked glasses, and then quaffed the contents.

“And who is the future Grafin whatever?”

“She is none other than my sister-in-law Delfina, who has snared a Pomeranian noble, and is soon to be married. I have seen the documents, all signed and sealed, and at last Serafina and I are rid of her.”
From the beginning of May Delfina had been tirelessly trawling Firenze for a protector and companion among the turisti, and had won the heart of a visiting Prussian, Rudolf von Ribbentrop.
Arthur continued with his good news. “They are to marry in two weeks’ time. It will take that long to find a Protestant minister in Tuscany to perform the ceremony, and then directly after the wedding they will travel to Stettin.”

“I thought Delfina was a Catholic?”

“She is, but my sister-in-law would become a Hottentot if she thought it would gain her a wedding band and an estate. She has achieved all she wished for, and I am happy for her, but even happier for Serafina and myself.”

“Delfina will find a difference in the climate when moving from the heat of Tuscany to the chill of Pomerania.”

He chuckled. “Delfina found ways to keep warm when she lived in Sweden, and I dare say she will employ similar methods to keep warm in Pomerania. Besides, Rudolf purchased several pillow books when visiting Naples. The newly married occupants of Schloss Ribbentrop will be well read and red hot.”

Riding back to Livorno I considered what Arthur Wilson had said about paying his respects to Mary Shelley. Although I had little liking or respect for her husband she was an English widow in a foreign country, and I saw it as my duty to express my condolences at her bereavement.
It would be a delicate meeting. She would be grieving the loss of her husband, and I would be attempting to unearth any secrets concerning my sister that Shelley took to his watery death. I had threatened him with dire consequences should harm befall Becky, and by the terror on his face when he spied me he must have been aware she had suffered harm of some sort, and was expecting me to take revenge.

I dressed in my regimentals for the meeting, making my visit appear semi-official rather than purely personal, and took passage from Livorno to Lerci in Luigi Pellegrini’s felucca.
The voyage took place with little conversation between the crew and me.

I rapped on the front door of Casa Magni, the house rented by the Shelleys in Lerici, and told the ungainly maid who answered to inform her Mistress the brother of Becky Sharpe presents his compliments, and would like to pay his respects, and offer condolences.
Mary Shelley, composed, but deathly pale, welcomed me as ‘Colonel Sharpe’; she must have forgotten I had introduced myself as ‘Greenaway’ when we first met in Marlow. I offered the sympathy of myself, and those of the British residents of Livorno, at her loss. She raised a wan smile.

“I hope the authorities in England will not take you to task for presenting your condolences in such an official way, Colonel. As you know the Establishment did not always see eye to eye with Percy.”

I made some comment about a prophet not being accepted in his own country, or at least by its leaders. Gradually she relaxed, as I shamelessly praised the poetry, and character, of her late husband – my deceit would have many a politician in London in awe at the depth of my hypocrisy.
I was awaiting an opportunity to question her about Becky, when she gave me my opening.

“I fear we lost touch with your sister, Colonel. Where is she at present?”
This was my chance, and I informed her of my worry at not hearing from Becky for some time, and not knowing of her present whereabouts.

“The last letter the family received from her was to say she was preparing to visit Naples with Lord Byron, and you and your husband.” I said, prevaricating with the practised ease of a politician.
I saw a flush of what could be guilt appear on Mary Shelley’s pallid face.

“And you have not heard from her since then, almost four years ago?”
I nodded, keeping a sad look plastered on my face. I knew Lord Byron had rejected Becky in 1819, and then entered a relationship in Ravenna with a young, married, Italian woman named Teresa Guiccioli. Becky had travelled to Ravenna, and became embroiled with Byron in an altercation outside his hotel, but I chose to keep that information to myself.

Mary Shelley was a good woman; she knew something unsavoury about Becky but was loth to tell me. However, righteousness eventually overcame her embarrassment, or guilt, and she rang a small hand bell on the table at the side of her chair. A maidservant, the same lumpy girl who had answered the door, appeared. Mary spoke to her in Italian.
“Aphrodite, please go and fetch the Master’s valise from under my bed.”

Aphrodite? The girl’s parents either possessed a sense of humour or extremely poor eyesight.

A short time later, the maid returned, and handed a battered valise to Mary, who unlocked the valise with the key she wore on a chain around her neck.
She withdrew a small packet, which I recognised at once as a wrap of White Lady. She held out the packet for my inspection.

“Do you know what this is, Colonel?”

I shook my head, of course, and she answered her own question.
“This twist of waxed paper contains a substance which saps the moral fibre of a person, and has the power to lift one’s spirits to the sky, only to then cast them into the depths. The substance is known in Naples, where this was obtained, as del paradiso bianco, white paradise. I suspect there are many other names, but, like the rider on the pale horse, the correct name of the powder is death.”
She shuddered, and then quickly composed herself.
“Many writers; Coleridge, Cowper, Leigh Hunt, Lord Byron, even Percy, to name but a few, take opium, believing the opiate unlocks hidden depths of creativity within themselves. Byron maintains he does not require opiates to unleash his genius, but nevertheless he took some, merely to judge how his writing was affected. Percy did likewise, but many others became a slave to the narcotic. When we first became acquainted with white paradise in Naples we took it to be similar to opium, but the difference is as chalk is to cheese. With opium the mind is relaxed – soporific — and thoughts come in a dream like quality — soft, vapid, and gentle. But white paradise catapults one into a higher emotional plane. Colours become more vibrant, sounds clearer and more harmonious, sights more beautiful and vivid, and emotions become sharper and deeper. Then, when the effect wears off, you are flung down into a harsh, discordant, grey world of misery.”

She removed a small lace fringed handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed her eyes.

“You took some of the substance when in Naples?”