Forever past, p.1
Forever Past, page 1
Contents
Cover
Also by Marty Ambrose
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Author’s Note
Also by Marty Ambrose
The Claire Clairmont mysteries
CLAIRE’S LAST SECRET *
A SHADOWED FATE *
The Mango Bay mystery series
PERIL IN PARADISE
ISLAND INTRIGUE
MURDER IN THE MANGROVES
KILLER KOOL
COASTAL CORPSE
Other titles
ENGAGING
HEAT WAVE
* available from Severn House
FOREVER PAST
Marty Ambrose
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First world edition published in Great Britain and the USA in 2022
by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,
14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.
Trade paperback edition first published in Great Britain and the USA in 2022
by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.
This eBook edition first published in 2022 by Severn House,
an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.
severnhouse.com
Copyright © Marty Ambrose, 2022
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of Marty Ambrose to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0857-6 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0883-5 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0884-2 (e-book)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I wrote this book during the shadow of shifting world events that profoundly changed our lives; however, the people who helped me realize my dream of finishing Claire’s story were constant in their support, as always. My husband and forever friend, Jim, accompanied me on research trips to Italy and became equally absorbed in the Italian haunts of the Romantic poets; we shared an adventure of a lifetime – and there’s more to come. T’amo! Also, I extend my love and gratitude to my mom and sister, E.A., who listened to my endless talk about the Byron/Shelley circle as I wrote the manuscript. And a special thank-you to my writing buddy, Lynn Hallberg, who cheered me along every step of the way as we shared endless cups of coffee over Zoom sessions.
Additionally, I’d like to pay homage to all of the amazing nineteenth-century British literature scholars who paved the way for me to find new ways to create narratives around these amazing Romantic writers. It’s exciting to see a new generation discover these complicated, brilliant literati.
On the publishing side, I am ever-grateful for the presence of my amazing agent, Nicole Resciniti, in my life, as well as the support of the lovely people at Severn House, especially my editor, Sara Porter. They push me to new heights as a writer, while always encouraging my creative vision. You are all gems!
Lastly, it’s been an emotional ride to finish my trilogy about Claire Clairmont. She has become part of my life and inspired me with her audacious, brave, and fearless spirit; and I shall miss spending time in her world. I truly hope I have done justice to her legacy.
‘We do not belong entirely to this world … my own firm conviction after years and years of reflection is that our Home is beyond the Stars, not beneath them.’
Claire Clairmont’s Letter to Edward Trelawny
Florence, Italy
26 December 1870
ONE
‘They say that Hope is happiness,
But genuine Love must prize the past …’
Byron, ‘They Say That Hope Is Happiness,’ 1–2
En route to Bagnacavallo, Italy
July 1873
All of my instincts told me I was moving closer to the truth, an unknown land that seemed to lurk just beyond life’s next momentous turn … and I could not stop now. I had already risked everything at this late stage of my life, seen men killed before my eyes, journeyed across Italy from Florence to Ravenna – asked so much of those who loved me. And I refused to allow myself to doubt the purpose of my quest or dishonor the sacrifices of my dearest ones after all these perils and pitfalls. No, I would go forward and never look back.
At least I would know the whole story once and for all.
I would learn everything that had been hidden behind a veil of deception.
I, Claire Clairmont, the almost-famous member of the Byron/Shelley quartet, could not allow myself the luxury of changing course when I was on the verge of knowing whether my daughter conceived with the infamous poet, Lord Byron, had survived the typhus epidemic that supposedly took her life in 1822. Byron had been my greatest love and my most enduring torment, but I never regretted giving birth to our daughter, even when I lost her. To have my beautiful little girl, even for a short time, had been like reaching for a flower and having it bloom in my hand, only to wither away. A forever moment, so brief and poignant.
Allegrina.
The child whom I loved more than life itself.
Was it possible that she still lived?
After the revelations of the last three weeks, I now dared to hope so. In this short space of time, I had seen my safe little world in Florence turned upside down and many of my longstanding beliefs turned inside out when a British tourist, Michael Rossetti, had presented himself to me, desiring to buy my letters from Byron and Shelley. His appearance had set into motion a complex web of events that drew me into an unexpected struggle between the forces of the past and the greedy desires of the present. It brought my old friend Edward Trelawny back into my orbit and revealed the treachery of those closest to me. A tumultuous series of events that propelled me ever closer to learning the fate of my little girl.
And the odyssey was not over, as my companions knew only too well …
On this sultry day, our carriage rolled along the flat, narrow lane from Ravenna to the Convent of San Giovanni at Bagnacavallo where Allegra supposedly died. Fanning myself, I glanced at the familiar faces within the carriage’s interior: my niece, Paula, and her little girl, Georgiana, both with delicate features and fair coloring, hiding deceptively strong-willed natures. They had come to live with me in Italy after Georgiana’s father left them and, far from being a burden to me, they had brought a lively new energy into my daily existence. Love and laughter. Yes, we squabbled at times, but I cared not because I had a family again in this seventh decade of my life. Next to them sat Raphael, our one-time domestico in Florence, who had become our protector on this quest – and Paula’s steadfast lover. With his dark hair and boldly handsome face, he could not embody more of a contrast to my niece, yet his outwardly tough appearance masked a loyal and loving nature. It gladdened my heart to watch them huddled together as Raphael read a book of fables to Georgiana in Italian.
My dear niece deserved such a man.
‘Young love is quite inspiring, is it not?’ the fourth adult in our band of travelers murmured with a tinge of irony in his voice – for my ears alone. I smiled inwardly. Ever the cynic, Edward Trelawny had changed little from the man I first met during the early days in Pisa, when I lived with my celebrated stepsister, Mary, and her equally acclaimed husband, Percy Bysshe Shelley – poet and visionary. All of our lives had been entwined like snarled threads from a half-finished tapestry, and their growing celebrity, even in death, made it impossible ever to fully disentangle from them. I would always be the shadow figure in their light, just out of focus but never obscured completely. Yet Trelawny had carved out his own way, not giving in to anonymity or old age. Although his hair was streaked with gray and his skin etched with deep lines, he still had the air of a daring adventurer that charmed Mary and me.
Only recently, he journeyed to Florence to reveal finally the secret he had kept from me for decades: during Byron’s last days in Greece, he confessed that he had arranged for Allegra to be smuggled out of the convent for her own safety and hidden her in the Italian countryside – then made Trelawny vow to never speak of it to anyone. I was furious with both of them. A deep and burning rage. But, much as in the past, Trelawny justified his behavior and, ultimately, redeemed himself by being my champion in the face of danger and hardship. Over the course of my life, he appeared time and time again when I most needed him. When I lost Allegra. When Shelley drowned at sea near the bay of La Spezia. When I drifted, alone and friendless, around Europe, trying to recreate the magic of my youth. In my darkest hour, he would remind me that ‘many love you and you owe us your love.’ And I would recall the ideals that once inspired me – then carry on. I wished that I could have opened my heart to him fully, but Byron always had it, forever.
Oh, my wayward emotions.
If only I could have tamed them.
Then again, steadfastness was never one of Trelawny’s qualities, and he had had three wives as well as various amours to prove it. He had asked me to marry him many times, but I knew better than to expect Trelawny would ever change. Nor would I.
We were destined to travel parallel paths, only intersecting for brief interludes before restlessly moving on, unlike Paula and Raphael.
‘They possess a bond that is much to be admired,’ I responded in a low undertone. ‘I vaguely recall what it feels like to believe nothing on heaven or earth can part me from the one I love, but events always conspired to prove otherwise.’
‘Perhaps that is the way you wanted it,’ he quipped.
Paula glanced up, her eyes shifting between Trelawny and me. ‘What are you two whispering about?’
‘Nothing, except that I am relieved we have … recovered from the traumatic events that occurred on this trip.’ I sidestepped her query smoothly. ‘Though it is still hard to accept that Matteo, our landlord whom I once thought so kind, revealed himself to be a murderous villain who faked his own death, stole my priceless Cades sketch from my apartment in Florence, and followed us to Ravenna to take my Byron/Shelley letters as well. Even now, his villainy takes my breath away. He actually intended to kill us and sell all of my possessions to the highest bidder so he could regain the luxurious life that he had squandered away. Matteo Ricci. I had once considered him a generous benefactor, but he only pretended to be a friend while secretly plotting against us.’
It had all unfolded at Teresa Guiccioli’s villa, the country home of Byron’s last mistress. She had become known to me only for a few days – just long enough for me to realize how much I had misjudged her.
‘And he would have succeeded if Trelawny and Lieutenant Baldini had not overpowered him,’ Paula observed. ‘I am not sorry Matteo fell on his own knife.’
The memory of Matteo holding a knife to Baldini’s throat flashed through my mind. I shuddered. The chief of police from Florence had followed us here on a tip about my stolen artwork and almost lost his life trying to help us. A loyal and honest man in contrast to Matteo’s treacherous soul. Even at the brink of death, after Trelawny wrestled over the knife with him, Matteo remained defiant. In those final moments, he had managed to gasp out that Father Gianni, my dear friend and confessor from Florence, had lied to me about his true identity and was connected somehow to a plot against Allegra.
Non è vero – I refused to believe it.
‘Matteo deserved his fate,’ Trelawny grated out, his words flat and steely. ‘Indeed, let him rot in—’
Nudging him quickly, I gestured toward Georgiana.
‘My apologies,’ he acknowledged. ‘I have spent too many years occupied with the art of war, and it has been a long time since I have been around young ones as my own children are long grown. Even so, I would not want even an adult offspring to hear my opinion of that blackguard.’
Raphael nodded in silent agreement.
‘Matteo was a formidable enemy – and merciless,’ I added. Luckily, Trelawny had learned to fight in resistance skirmishes around the world; it gave him an advantage when confronting someone like Matteo, whose criminal network respected nothing and no one, least of all the codes of battle. ‘He would never have simply disappeared from our lives without attaining his goal.’
‘In the end, he achieved nothing.’ Trelawny gave a diffident shrug and then began to discuss the sweltering Mediterranean weather this summer, a much-needed diversion from this dreary topic.
Granted, the air had taken on a heavy feel over the last month, dry and hot.
The Italians had an expression for it: un caldo brutale – a brutal heat.
It was all of that, and more. As if on cue, the carriage bumped over a pothole in the road, and a puff of dust flew in the open window, causing all of us to cough. I held up a lace handkerchief to block my face from the gritty blasts; it provided only a slight filter.
To distract myself, I reached for the well-worn leather volume of Byron’s poetry that Trelawny had set between us on the seat; he never traveled without it. As I flipped the book open, the pages seemed to part of their own volition to The Dream, Byron’s melancholy exploration of his life – as an innocent boy, an ambitious young man, and a weary middle-aged pessimist.
Our life is twofold: Sleep hath its own world,
A boundary between the things misnamed
Death and existence …
I snapped it shut again.
Too dreary again.
It was better to focus on the better times ahead. In spite of the discomfort of the trip, every mile was at least one step closer to the convent of San Giovanni at Bagnacavallo. When we had stopped at the convent only a few days ago, the abbess had agreed to meet with me to discuss Allegra’s time there as a student. At my behest, she had checked the nunnery’s records and found Allegra’s name on the list of young girls who died in the typhus epidemic. She expressed her condolences and sent us on our way. But the abbess’s kind overture hid a stunning omission, according to Teresa Guiccioli, whom we met shortly afterwards. The nun had been the young novice in charge of Allegra: Sister Anna.
‘You have turned very thoughtful, Aunt,’ Paula said quietly.
Sighing, I lowered the handkerchief. ‘Do you think the abbess deliberately misled us, believing we would never learn the truth?’
She and Raphael both nodded.
‘But why?’ I exclaimed. ‘She had nothing to gain—’
‘Except to preserve her reputation from ill deeds of the past,’ Trelawny cut in.
‘It was not her fault that the convent students fell ill,’ I pressed. ‘Typhus was a common scourge of schools then.’
Paula’s brows knitted together in a thin, questioning line. ‘I cannot pretend to understand her motivation; it is hard to imagine that a nun, of all people, would have left out such an important detail.’
I turned toward Trelawny. ‘What do you think?’
‘The saint can lie as well as the sinner.’ He stroked his beard meditatively. ‘It opens up possibilities, though, about what she was not willing to reveal.’
It does indeed.
Leaning my head back against the padded silk cushion, I began to speculate about her likely sinister intents: had the abbess been in league with Byron’s enemies? Did she wish harm on Allegra? And was she intent on making sure we learned nothing further? When I could take the speculations no longer, I closed my eyes and tried to calm my thoughts with happier visions of days gone by with family and friends. Mary. Shelley. Byron. Always with me in my heart and mind. Eventually, I began to drift into that space between reality and sweet memories – my own version of The Dream …
I saw myself in Switzerland during that ‘haunted summer’ of 1816 as a young woman of eighteen with the saucy recklessness of one who longed for adventure, already in love with Byron, wanting so desperately for him to adore me in the same manner that Shelley idolized Mary. We sailed Lake Geneva on sparkling days when the clouds cleared; then, in the evenings, Mary and I listened as Byron and Shelley debated about poetry and science. They all penned brilliant works, and I wrote my own novel – long lost, but my best attempt at a literary jewel. We lived for love. And I was already pregnant with Alba (later named Allegra) by the time those halcyon months ended.
I saw myself at Bagni di Lucca, near Florence, a few years after I bore Allegra and had given her up – soaking in the hot waters of the terme with Mary and Shelley as I tried to heal from the wreckage of my life. While we sat near the warm pool, she read reviews of her brilliant novel, Frankenstein, and he recited passages from his poem, ‘The Cloud.’ I found a measure of peace again.
