Angelmonster by Veronica Bennett Read Free Book Online

of Jane’s chamber, which lay opposite ours.
    She began to shriek in English, “Jane! Jane! I command you to see me!” Another parasol strike. “If you do not open the door, I will have this woman instruct her servant to break it down!” Two more strikes, then what sounded like a kick with a stout boot. “Open the door this minute!”
    The cacophony was enough to wake everyone in Calais. Shelley slid out of bed and looked through the keyhole. He put his finger to his lips, stifling giggles. His bare feet noiseless on the wooden floor, he mimed Mama’s shuffling gait. He tied imaginary bonnet strings and waved an invisible parasol. I stuffed the corner of the sheet into my mouth.
    Then all was quiet. I heard a door slam and the land lady’s footsteps descend the stairs. “Jane has let her in,” I whispered. “What shall we do?”
    Shelley was putting on his clothes. “
We
shall do nothing,” he told me with authority. “
I
can deal with this.”
    “But she is
my
stepmama, so –”
    “You and Jane are my responsibility.” He was bending towards the mirror, hastily brushing his hair, and the shoulders of his coat, with my hairbrush. He inspected his reflection. “But if your stepmother thinks I intend to take
her
along with my two dear girls…” He looked at me in horror. “Get dressed and meet us downstairs. She will be on the next sailing home.” He struck the hairbrush defiantly upon his other palm. “And without Jane, I give you my word.”
    He was just in time. Mama and Jane emerged from the room opposite as he opened our door. Both saw me in the instant before he closed it again. Both conveyed messages – contempt on Mama’s part, anguish on Jane’s. I did what Shelley had instructed; stepping into my travelling gown, I fairly flew down the stairs and tumbled into the public room of the inn.
    “Mama…” I began, but Shelley gestured to me to be silent.
    He was standing at the empty fireplace, his hands in his pockets, his eyes alight. Mama’s bulky form filled an armchair. Jane, her luggage at her feet, wept softly into a handkerchief.
    Poor Jane, I thought. She loves to imagine fictional dramatic scenes but is powerless to deal with a real one.
    “I insist upon it, Mr Shelley,” Mama was saying. “I must save my own daughter from the clutches of infamy while I can.” She nodded in my direction. “My stepdaughter’s fate is out of my hands, but Jane has nothing to do with you.”
    Shelley did not reply. Mama’s eyes held his face in a cold, quivering stare. “You are yourself the parent of a daughter, Mr Shelley. Would you not, in similar circumstances, do the same for her?”
    I thought Shelley would buckle under this sly thrust at his own parental responsibility. But my anxiety was unfounded.
    “You are correct, madam, in one particular,” he said. “I
am
the parent of a beloved daughter, to be sure. But my wish for Ianthe is joy greater even than that which your stepdaughter has given me. If, in willingly fleeing her family for new friends, she found the happiness lacking at home, I would give her my blessing!”
    Mama’s outrage filled the room. She stood up.
    “How dare you, sir? How dare you –
you
, of all people – accuse me of making my daughter unhappy? All you know is profligacy, adultery, seduction! And may God have mercy on you when your time comes!”
    Trembling, stumbling over the hem of her gown, she hauled Jane to her feet. “Come, Jane, let us leave this place with dignity!”
    There was no sound except Jane’s strenuous sobbing. She went with her mother to the street door. The carriage Mama had hired was waiting outside.
    My feelings were stirred. Here, in this crudely furnished inn room, I saw for the first time what it might be like to be the protector of my own child. Would Shelley, with his fierce love for his little daughter, ever fight to preserve her honour as my father had fought to preserve mine, and as Mama now fought to preserve Jane’s? I looked