Free Outcasts by Sarah Stegall Page A

He took it as his due that he should be well dressed, as a gentleman. Mary had never bothered to point out to him the incongruity of his fashionable wardrobe in contrast to his egalitarian principles. At least he made up for it, she thought, by the way he dressed so casually, so carelessly in those fine clothes. “Must I really change into a claw hammer coat and breeches?” he mused. “Byron does not even wear a cravat.”
    â€œHe out-Brummels the Beau himself,” Mary said. She came forward, flicking pine needles off the shoulder of his coat. “Come upstairs and I will have Elise brush your coat. And pray remember, do not let on to Claire that I have told you her news.”
    He dropped a kiss on her head and drew her hand into the crook of his arm. Mary glanced around and said, “What has become of my shawl?”
    But Shelley tugged at her, and she gathered her skirt and went out with him into the hallway. Time enough to find her mother’s shawl later.

Chapter VIII - Dinner at Byron’s
    My food is not that of man; I do not destroy the lamb and the kid to glut my appetite. Acorns and berries afford me sufficient nourishment. My appetite shall be of the same nature as myself and will be content with the same fate.
    â€”Frankenstein,
Volume II, Chapter IX
    R ain clouds were smothering the sun when Fletcher opened the front door of the Villa Diodati to Mary, Shelley and Claire. The stolid servant accepted Shelley’s great-coat and flung Mary’s cloak over one arm. “His lordship be in the parlor, sir,” he said. Fletcher always preferred to address Shelley, and avoiding speaking to the women when he could. “Dinner will be served forthwith.”
    Mary wondered, a little fearfully, what manner of collation an eccentric like Byron would serve them on short notice.
    Byron stood in front of the parlor fire, jabbing at it with a poker. He wore a dark blue coat of superfine, cream colored buckskins, and well-polished Hessians. As always, his shirt lay open at the collar, revealing his strong neck and giving him an air of studied simplicity. Carefully disordered, his curls fell over his forehead in the manner he had made fashionable two years before. He frowned at the fireplace. “I cannot get this cursed chimney to draw properly. Is there no one in Switzerland who can build a reliable chimney? Shelley, good Shelley, come and fix my fire.”
    With a nod, Shelley strode over and seized the tongs next to the fireplace, while Mary sought out an armchair and collapsed into it, without waiting for an invitation. Even a few days in his lordship’s company had taught her that Byron’s manners were as informal as his dress.
    Claire strode quickly over to Byron and took his arm. He frowned, and for a moment Mary thought he would cast her arm from his. Then he sighed as she laid her head to his chest. He murmured something and a half-smile appeared on his handsomeface. Perhaps they will come to agreement, Mary thought. Her heart misdoubted her.
    John Polidori strode into the room, formally dressed as always. His cravat was neatly and modestly tied, his broadcloth coat well cut, his waistcoat a sober burgundy with a single watch chain. His high collar was well starched, rigid and immaculately white. He suddenly turned his head and his eyes met hers: dark, so different from her Shelley’s sky-blue, open gaze. She felt a slow flush of embarrassment climbing her cheeks, at the same time that she realized that it was more than just embarrassment. Young Polidori was a very handsome man.
    Then Polidori stopped next to Byron, and it was as though the sun had gone into eclipse. Against the classic features, lively eyes and carefully disordered nonchalance of his lordship, the young doctor almost disappeared. There were few men on earth who could hold a woman’s gaze when Lord Byron was in the room, Mary thought.
    The flame in the fireplace roared to life, and Claire