Outcasts by Sarah Stegall

wearing?”
    Claire went pale. “Albé has invited us to dine? Today? I must change.” She turned, one hand on the banister.
    â€œNot to dinner, to supper. At eight. And that is my mother’s shawl, Jane! Give it back.”
    Claire stared at her, a storm in her eyes. “You will not lend me one moment’s comfort? Not one moment’s warmth?” Her pale fingers clutched the shawl around her. “Oh, cruel, Sister!”
    From the nursery above, a fretful wail started. Mary felt thetingling in her breasts, the milk letting down in automatic response. Anxiety prickled her all over.
    â€œJane. Claire, rather. Please, I cannot manage this now. William needs me—”
    â€œYes,” Claire sneered. “William needs you. Shelley needs you. Even Byron needs you. But I, I am supposed to need nobody. I mean nothing to anyone. Not to you, to Shelley, to Albé.” She turned suddenly and fled up the stairs.
    At that moment, Elise opened the door at the far end of the hall, leading to the kitchen. “Madame, the baker’s boy is here. What shall I tell him?”
    The wail from upstairs arced across Mary’s nerves. The pressure in her breasts increased, and she felt the sudden wet surge of milk. She suddenly felt very young, very unsure of herself. No cook, Claire in one of her moods, and now William waked early from his nap. “Tell him I will come directly,” Mary said. Elise ducked back into the kitchen.
    Mary ran lightly up the stairs to the second floor nursery. William lay in his cot, cheeks red and wet, sobbing. Mary lifted him quickly in one arm, unfastening her dress with the other. The child’s mouth was open, pink and howling; she lifted him to her left breast and he immediately latched on. The silence was broken only by the sounds of contented suckling. Mary sagged as the feeling of peace and love flowed over her, the feeling that always infused her when nursing little William. How could anyone not love this, she thought. She lowered herself into the flowered chair next to the cot.
    Rocking back and forth, she hummed a little tune. William’s baby fist curled around a lock of her hair. Eyes closed, he tugged on it, and she smiled.
    Shouting from below stairs, a crash of crockery. Claire no doubt taking command of the kitchen, Mary thought. She imagined the angry baker’s boy, the insulted Elise, the sulks and sullens that would pervade the atmosphere of the house. She should go down and sort it all out, as she always did, in her quiet, calm way. But who, she wondered, would be quiet and calm for her?
    She looked down at her son, now drowsy and content. Here in this cocoon of mother and son she was safe, she was able to love and give love without distress or restraint. This was how it should be, she thought. She herself had never known her mother’s breast, had never known the soft comfort of a mother’s arms. She ached within, eager to be to William what no one had been to her—a source of love and care.
    And then she thought of Claire, pleading with Byron in the garden only an hour ago, and she clutched her son more tightly to her bosom. And Byron’s cruel words:
a mistress never is nor can be a friend.
    Not true, she thought. Shelley was her dearest friend, and she was his. “And in any event,” she said, gazing down at her son. “I refuse the title of mistress. Companion. Yes, I will be friend and companion.”
    She thought of Claire, of the child growing inside her. Mary remembered Shelley’s joy and delight on learning of her pregnancy. She did not think Byron would react the same way to Claire’s news.
    Mary hugged her son more tightly to her, rocking, thinking.

Chapter VI - Mary Writes to Her Father
    I waited for my letters with feverish impatience: if they were delayed, I was miserable, and overcome by a thousand fears; and when they arrived, and I saw the superscription of Elizabeth or my father, I