My current WIP is a gothic horror novel built on the foundation of the real life of Mary Godwin Shelley. This chapter happens when Mary is 15 years old, a few months before she met Percy Shelley. She’s visiting the home of one of her father’s pen pals, a Scotsman named Baxter, who has a daughter of his own, Isabella–Mary’s first true love.
Fair warning: this gets a little spicy.
Chapter 5
Isabella Baxter
Scotland
June 1813
Isabel sat by the bedroom window, watching the street below. How many hours had she spent in this window seat last summer with Mary, their hands clasped tight? Now Mary was coming back. She was excited, thrilled beyond measure. Mary was her best friend in the world, more dear to her than her own sister, Margaret, whose death she was meant to be mourning. No other soul had ever known her so completely or loved her so well as Mary. So why was she so scared?
“I’m different,” she said, addressing her reflection in the window’s glass. A serious young woman who pinned up her hair now and kept her cuffs and collar clean. “Everything is different now.”
The light outside was failing when the carriage finally arrived. Father got down first, helped by the driver—poor darling, he looked so tired. He offered his hand, and a familiar figure crept out, swaddled in a hooded cloak. She stepped down into the yard and immediately looked up at the window. Her hood fell back, revealing her loose cascade of strawberry blonde hair—fairy hair, Isabella called it. Their eyes met, and suddenly it was as if no time had passed at all. Isabella leapt up and ran downstairs.
“Mary!” Mother was taking Mary’s cloak, offering tea. But when Mary heard Isabella’s voice, she broke free and ran to her arms.
“Bella.” She clung to her, tears streaming from her eyes, kissing Isabella’s cheeks. “I’ve missed you so much.”
“Miss Mary had a difficult passage, I think,” Father said. “Is there coffee, Mother?”
“I’ll fetch some,” Mother said. “Dinner will be soon.”
“I’m sorry,” Mary said. “I don’t know why I’m behaving so badly.”
“No need to apologize, sweeting,” Mother said. “You look worn to the bone.” She patted Mary’s cheek. “So thin—haven’t you eaten a morsel since you left us?”
“I don’t think I have,” Mary said. “I haven’t done anything.” She was still holding Isabella’s hand, and she was trembling all over.
“We’ll soon fatten her up again, Mother,” Father said, sinking into a chair by the fire.
Isabella let go of Mary’s hand to go to him. “Let me help you,” she said, pulling off his boots.
“Come with me, sweeting,” Mother said to Mary. “Help me with the coffee.”
Mary’s eyes were wide, obviously near tears, but she nodded. Mother put an arm around her shoulders and led her to the kitchen.
“Poor bairn,” Father said. “Godwin is a great man, but he’s got no more business bringing up a daughter than a barn cat.” He stretched his stocking feet toward the fire and let out a deep sigh of satisfaction. “And that wife of his is worse. Or so I’ve been told.”
“Mary says she is a horror,” Isabella said, settling on the hearthrug at his feet.
“Be kind to her, my love,” Father said. “She is still a child, much more than you are. She didn’t have a good mam or a fine sister like our Margaret.” His voice broke as it still did any time he mentioned Maggie’s name.
“I will, my love,” Isabella said, patting his bony knee. “I will take good care of her, I promise.”
By the time they returned from the kitchen, Mother had Mary smiling, and she seemed cheerful all through dinner. She made them laugh with droll tales of the wild scholars and students who came to the family’s bookshop—her impressions of her stepmother, simpering one moment and screeching the next, had them all in stitches.
But later when they went to bed, the truth came out. As soon as Isabella closed the door and set down the candle, Mary threw herself into her arms. Isabella hugged her close, a sisterly embrace, but Mary’s mouth sought hers, and after a moment’s hesitation, she allowed it.
“Bella mia,” Mary said, nuzzling her cheek. “My beautiful love … I’ve missed you so much.” She was crying again; Isabella tasted the salty tears on her cheeks.
“Peace, sweeting,” Isabella said, stroking her hair. “What can be so wrong?”
“Me,” Mary said, the word a sob. “I am wicked, Bella. So horribly wicked.”
“Of course you aren’t.”
“You don’t know!” She drew back, and her eyes glowed with wild desperation in the candlelight. “I shouldn’t have come back here,” she said, touching Isabella’s cheek. “I should run away.”
“Stop this.” Isabella took her hand in both of hers and squeezed it. “You are not wicked.”
“I am,” Mary said. She was looking at the wall behind Isabella’s head as if she saw some horror there. But when Isabella turned to look, all she was were shadows dancing against the candle’s flickering light.
“You’re home now.” She sat down on the bed and pulled Mary into her arms. “You’re safe.” She kissed her again, a lover’s kiss this time with no hesitation. She framed Mary’s face in her hands. “I will keep you safe.”
Mary’s smile was like an angel’s, too beautiful to be real. “You do love me, don’t you?”
“Silly girl.” Isabella drew her down to the pillows. “Of course I do.”
She fell asleep soon after with Mary’s head pillowed on her breast, peaceful and content. Sometime in the witching hours, she half-woke to the sound of her lover’s tearful voice pleading, “Show yourself if you’re still here. Why should you torture me?” But before she could rouse herself enough to intervene, the tears had stopped, and Mary was sleeping again.
The next morning as soon as breakfast and their chores were done, Mary was eager to be outside on a ramble. Her face was barely washed; her hair was barely combed; she was the same wild hoyden she had always been. But Isabella took great care with her toilet these days. Her black mourning gown was crisp and perfectly pressed, accented with a jet brooch at her throat and a fringed silk shawl that had belonged to her sister. She washed her face carefully, first with soap and water, then with milk, and even dared a dusting of powder on her forehead and cheeks. She arranged her hair in knots on either side of her head with careful curls in front.
“You’re so beautiful and grown up,” Mary said. “I hope you will not be ashamed to be seen with such as me.”
Isabella smiled. “Never, my love,” she promised, taking her hand.
The day was overcast but warm with a blustery breeze that caught their skirts and ruffled their hair. Mary wanted to race up onto the cliffs overlooking the lake at once. But Isabella resisted to linger in the village, perusing the wares in the bookshop. And when they emerged, she was rewarded. Her sister’s widower, David, was just coming out of the post office, carrying a picnic basket.
“Miss Godwin,” he said, tipping his hat to Mary. “Good morning, Isabella.”
“Good morning.” The year before, she and Mary had shared a delicious forbidden passion for Maggie’s handsome husband. The young radical with his wide, dark eyes and fiery speeches had seemed to both of them the pinnacle of romantic possibility. His imagined phantom presence had played the hero in all their games of make believe. But they weren’t children any more. And Margaret was dead.
“Good morning, David,” Mary said. “Who is this Miss Godwin you speak of? Aren’t we friends any more?”
“Of course with are,” he said, smiling with a flash of even white teeth. “It is good to see you again.”
“And you.” Mary took David’s hand and pressed it, charming and natural and sweet. “I was so sad to hear of Margaret’s passing.”
“Thank you,” he said, obviously moved. “I am fortunate to have her family still so close to comfort me.”
“It is our family that is fortunate to have you,” Isabella said. “I know Papa could never have survived the loss without you.”
“You are kind to say so,” he said, smiling at her. “But Mary has only just arrived. You two should be celebrating.”
“We’re on our way up to the cliffs,” Mary said. “I have missed them horribly. I feel like I’ve been shut up in a dirty cage since the day I left.”
“Then you must go breath free air at once,” he said.
“And you as well,” Isabella said. “Mary, I think David should come with us.”
“Come with us?” Mary said.
“As it happens, I do have a lunch packed,” David said. “A new book came to me in the post yesterday—German folk tales. I thought I would find some quiet spot to read them where they might best be appreciated.”
“How lovely,” Isabella said. “You can read them aloud to us.”
“You don’t understand German, Bella,” Mary said. “And besides, it looks like rain.”
“My book is a translation,” David said. “But if the two of you would rather be alone, I completely understand.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Why should we prefer to be alone?” Isabella said. “And Mary, you and Father were both saying just now it’s not likely to rain before night.” She put a hand on David’s arm. “Please come with us.”
“Yes,” Mary said with her angelic smile. “Please come.”
Mary kept up pleasant chatter as they walked through town headed for the hills. David seemed as fascinated by her as he had been the year before, hanging on her every childish pronouncement as if she were some great sage in a young girl’s shape. If Isabella had not been so sure of his affections, she might have been jealous. As it was, she could hardly blame him. Even with her hair barely contained under her unflattering bonnet and a smudge of ink on her chin, Mary was a bewitching creature. The light in her eyes when she spoke passionately about anything, be it poetry or the ripples on the lake, made her beautiful. David offered the arm not occupied with his picnic basket to Isabella. But his gaze was all for Mary.
They climbed to a lovely spot overlooking the lake under a massive oak tree, and Isabella spread the blanket. David opened his book and began to read aloud. Isabella listened with her legs folded demurely beneath her, her skirts spread so they almost touched David’s knee. When he raised his eyes from the book, he met her gaze and smiled. Mary sprawled flat on her back in the grass, arms spread wide, toes pointed to the sky.
David read a story of a miller’s daughter who became a queen with the help of an imp who spun straw into gold. Isabella thought Mary had fallen asleep. Btu suddenly her eyes snapped open.
“What a stupid woman!” she said. “Why should she want to marry a man who kept her locked up in a dungeon to make him rich? And why should she care what becomes of his stupid child?”
“The baby belongs to her, too,” Isabella said. “Surely she must love it.”
“I don’t think that’s assured at all,” Mary said. “The thing probably looks just like his wretched father. Let the imp have it and welcome.”
“Mary!” Isabella said. “You can’t mean that!”
“Can’t I?” Mary said.
“Let’s see how the story ends,” David said. He didn’t seem put off by Mary’s outburst. Instead, the fond smile he gave her showed he found her even more intriguing than he had before. “Perhaps the miller’s daughter will come to her senses.”
But of course she didn’t. The imp was vanquished, and the miller’s daughter kept her baby and remained her greedy husband’s queen. “Oh dear,” David teased. “Apologies, Mistress Mary.”
“You laugh, but think on it for a moment,” Mary said. “What can that poor fool’s life have been like once Rumpelstiltskin was gone? I can’t imagine her horrible husband would stop demanding she do miracles for profit. What will happen to her when he wants more straw spun into gold?”
“But in the end, the king has come to love her,” Isabella said.
“So he says,” Mary said. “Do you imagine that will make a difference?”
“What would you have the miller’s daughter do, Mary?” David said. “What would you do in her place?”
“Forget about the king and his dungeon full of straw,” Mary said. “When Rumpelstiltskin turned up and offered to help me for a price, I’d make him help me escape. In fact, I believe I should be far more likely to fall in love with Rumpelstiltskin than I would that horrible king.”
“Now you’re just being perverse, you wicked thing,” Isabella said, laughing.
“You doubt me?” Mary said.
“Indeed I do,” Isabella said. “The king is handsome and young. Rumpelstiltskin is an ugly, dwarfish monster.”
“They never say the king was handsome,” Mary said. “He’s just a king. He might have had a hunchback and warts on his nose.”
“Kings sometimes do,” David said.
“Rumpelstiltskin could do magic,” Mary said. “If he could spin straw into gold, he could surely change his own shape if he wanted.”
“And why would he want to do that?” Isabella said.
“To please me, of course,” Mary said. “Because he knew I loved him whether he was handsome or not.”
“Alas, child, I fear you put too much faith in Rumpelstiltskin,” David said. “’Tis a rare man who will change his shape for love, even if he can do magic.”
Mary whipped around to look at him, and after a moment, she smiled. “I think you are wise, sir,” she said.
Something passed between them. Isabella could see it. But she couldn’t be sure what it was. She just knew she didn’t like it. “We should eat something,” she said, opening the basket.
Mary said, “I’m not hungry.” She stood up, brushing grass from her skirt. “I think I shall climb higher.”
“Wait,” David said, setting aside his book. “I’ll come with you.”
“Please don’t,” she said. “Stay here with Isabella. I will be back soon.”
David watched Mary climb the slope and disappear among the trees. Isabella watched David. Blinking back jealous tears, she laid out the picnic in silence. She had sliced the whole loaf and poured out two cups of tepid tea before he stopped watching the empty hillside and remembered she was there.
“’Bella, what is it?” he asked.
“What is what?” She buttered bread like it was her life’s sole purpose.
“What troubles you, child?” He plucked at the hem of her skirt. “You were so happy just a moment ago.”
“Was I?” she said. “I can’t imagine that is true. My sister is dead.”
“Aye, lass, so she is.” He lay down on his side. “Do you think I have forgotten her?” he twined a finger in the lacing of her boot.
“Not for me, you haven’t.” She raised her eyes from the bread and let her gaze meet his. “But I suppose Mary is a different thing.”
“She is a queer little thing, no question,” he said. “I pity her, poor child.”
“Is that what you’d call it?” she said, turning away. “Pity?”
“Bella Baxter!” He was laughing. “I believe you’re jealous!”
“And why shouldn’t I be?” she said, rounding on him in fury. “Go to her, why don’t you? I know you’d prefer it to waiting here with me.” His hand cupped her ankle over the boot. She ought to pull away, but she didn’t. “I’m sure Mary would prefer it, too,” she said, a single tear spilling down her cheek. “Whatever she might say.”
“Bella.” He took her hand. “Silly lass, come here to me.” She stiffened and he kissed her hand through her glove. “Come here,” he repeated. His jaw was set hard, but his eyes were soft and warm. She leaned a bit closer, barely yielding, and he kissed the bare inch of skin on her wrist between her glove and her sleeve. Shock waves trembled through her, making her feel wicked and weak. This time when he pulled her closer, she lay down beside him. She reclined against his thighs, and he lay his head down on her knee, the two of them curled together like a pair of baby foxes in their den. “My sweet, silly love,” he said, stroking her calf under her skirt but over her stocking. “Don’t be jealous.”
“Don’t make calf eyes at my friend, then,” she said. Her tone was sharp, but she nuzzled her cheek against his hip and smiled to feel him shudder.
“As if I could,” he said. His touched trailed upward over her knee; his fingertips slip under her garter. “Pray to Christ for the man who falls in love with Mary Godwin.”
She giggled. “Don’t be mean.” She unbuttoned his trousers and reached for a napkin.
“No, I don’t mean it unkindly.” His breath had caught short, and his words were slurred. “Shall we speak more about Mary?” His fingers slipped through the slit in her knickers, and she gasped.
“No,” she said, pressing her cheek to his bare stomach, drunk on the scent of him. She cried out, pressing into his touch. As she peaked, she shifted closer and wrapped her arms around his hips, taking him into her mouth.
When he was done, he fell back prone on the blanket, eyes closed, and she smiled. She tidied herself up with a second napkin and smoothed her rumpled skirt.
“My darling,” he murmured, taking her hand.
“All yours,” she promised. She was about to lie back down when she saw Mary.
Her friend was standing halfway down the slope, out of hearing but close enough to see. She looked stricken, frozen, shocked. But when Isabella saw her, she flinched away, angry. Fists clenched, she stalked down the slop but not toward them. She stumbled once but found her footing and kept going, staying away from them until she passed.
“Bella?” David said, almost asleep.
“It’s nothing.” She lay down beside him, her head on his shoulder. His arm curled around her, and Mary was forgotten.
She got home as her mother was supervising the preparation of Father’s afternoon tea. “Where is Mary?” Mother asked as Isabella came through the kitchen door alone.
“Isn’t she here?” Isabella said. “I thought she came home.”
“I don’t think so,” Mother said. “I’ve been here and in the parlor all day, and I haven’t seen her. Did the two of you quarrel?”
“Not example.” She should have been worried about her friend, but all she felt was annoyed. “She still such a child,” she said. “It’s like she hasn’t grown up at all since last summer.”
Mother smiled over the tea tray. “I remember our Margaret saying much the same about you not so long ago,” she said.
“What did you say to her?” Isabella said. The pang of guilt she felt was so familiar, she barely noticed it. She had given up wondering what her sister would say to her now.
“I told her you would catch up soon enough,” Mother said. “And so you have.” She went to the window and peered out. “Where can she have gone to? It looks like rain.”
“I’ll find her,” Isabella said. “I’ll just get my cloak.”
The curtains in the bedroom were drawn, so the room was dark. She opened one set and found Mary sitting on the bed. “You scared me!” she said, pressing a hand to her heart.
“Sorry.” Her friend was dressed, but her feet were bare, and her face was blotchy and swollen like she’d been crying. “You should have told me.”
“Told you what?” Isabella said, forcing her tone to stay light.
“Told me you’d become your brother’s whore.”
“Mary!” She was genuinely shocked. Tears rose in her eyes, and her cheeks burned with a blush. “What a nasty thing to say!” Mary didn’t answer, just stared at her with those beautiful, horrible eyes that opened a gash in her soul. “David is not my brother.”
“He was your sister’s husband,” Mary said. “Your Scottish preacher made them one flesh, did he not? What else should I call him?”
“Mary Godwin, stop it,” Isabella said. God, I sound like Margaret, she thought. Am I possessed by her ghost? “Don’t be such a child.”
“I am not a child!” Mary said, jumping up from the bed like some wild, feline thing. “I love you! With all my soul, above all other living souls, I love you! Does that mean nothing?”
“Of course it doesn’t,” Isabella said. “I love you, too. You know I do.” Could Mother hear them shouting? “But Mary, darling, surely you realize …” Everything in the other girl’s face and posture showed how much she didn’t realize, how little she understood. “You are my dearest, darling friend,” Isabella began again. “But we must grow up, must we not? Become women. Make a home.” She took Mary’s hand. “Make a life for ourselves.”
“With David,” Mary said. “Your sister’s husband.”
“With a man who will love us,” Isabella said, refusing to be baited. “Take care of us.”
“Make slaves of us,” Mary said. “Fill our bellies with a brat who will murder us from the inside out.”
“Stop it,” Isabella said. “You mustn’t say such horrible things.”
“Why must I not, if they’re true?” The wind had picked up outside. It rushed through the windows, twisting the curtains and rattling the shutters in their frames. “Bella, what of all our plans for freedom?” Mary said. She had been the first to call Isabella by this nickname; David had picked it up from her. “What about Paris?”
“Those were games, beloved,” Isabella said. “Childish fancies that could never be real.”
“They were real for my mother,” Mary said. Clouds must have gathered outside. The room had gone dark but for the single candle on the bureau. Shadows danced around the walls and spread across the ceiling like the branches of a ruined tree. “My mother went to Paris.”
“She did.” Isabella agreed. When they first met, Isabella had admired Wollstonecraft more than Mary, her own daughter, did. Isabella was the one who had committed the dead woman’s writings to memory. This dream Mary spoke of had been hers. But she had been a child then. Margaret had still be alive, and David was out of reach. Everything was different now. Why couldn’t Mary see it?
“We could follow in her footsteps,” Mary said. “We would have one another; we could learn from her mistakes. Finish what she tried to start.” Her grip tightened on Isabella’s hand. “We don’t need a man. We could love one another.” The air felt heavy around them, electric with the coming storm.
“It was a game,” Isabella said, letting go of Mary’s hand. “I don’t want to play any more.”
She heard an unearthly scream, but Mary’s mouth hadn’t moved. The house shook as with thunder, and a crack ran up the plaster wall. “No!” Mary cried, but not to Isabella. She was looking around the room at the shadows dancing on the walls.
Something raked across Isabella’s face, making her cry out in pain. She touched her cheek and found blood.
“I said no!” Mary said. She grabbed Isabella and hugged her close as if to shelter her from something in her arms. “You will not speak for me!” She grabbed the coverlet from the bed, and something seemed to be fighting her for it, trying to snatch it away. For a split second, Isabella thought she saw a shape, a black, spindly, skeletal form that clutched the coverlet with razor-sharp claws. “Let go!” Mary ordered, yanking back with all her weight and Isabella’s, too. “Don’t touch her!”
The thing let go, and they fell together to the bed. Mary pulled the coverlet over their heads and pressed her hand to Isabella’s bloody cheek. “I’m not angry,” she said softly, like a prayer. “Not angry . . . not angry. I’m so sorry. I’ll be good.”
After what felt like an eternity of terror, the storm began to subside. Isabella fought free of the bed and the other girl’s embrace.
The shadows were gone; the candle had gone out. The curtains were hanging limp and still. Outside, a soft, steady rain began to fall.
“I’m sorry,” Mary repeated. Her cheeks were smeared with tears and streaks of Isabella’s blood, but her witch’s eyes were calm. “I’ll be good.”
Lucy Blue Writes 