Genre: Historical
Fiction
Author:
Marty Ambrose
Website:
https://www.martyambrose.com/
Publisher:
Severn
House
Find out more on Amazon
About
the Book:
1873,
Florence. Claire Clairmont, the last survivor of the haunted summer of 1816
Lord Byron/Mary Shelley circle, is living out her final years in genteel
poverty. The appearance of British
tourist, William Michael Rossetti, brings Claire hope that she may be able to
sell some of her memorabilia to earn enough cash to support her and her niece,
Paula. But Rossetti’s presence in
Florence heralds a cycle of events that links the summer of 1816—when Claire
conceived an ill-fated child with Lord Byron, when Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein, and when four tempestuous
lives collided—to a tragic death. As Claire begins to unravel the truth, she
must go back to that summer of passion to discover the identity of her old
enemy.
EXCERPT
Florence, Italy, 1873
His
letter came just at the point when I thought death was my only option.
Poverty
had been creeping in like a shadow edging out the light, and it was only a
matter of time before it engulfed what was left of my life and snuffed out any
prospect that fate would offer another way. I could no longer envision a road
that led to some lost, yet cherished land of dreams – especially when I was too
old to pick up and start over on some adventure that would lead me into a new
dawn.
It was
too late for that.
Those
were the youthful regions where fortune bestowed some great, golden happiness
on anyone who had the courage to live with soulful purpose – hardly the reality
of my present circumstances.
Yet,
the letter brought a glimmer of hope . . . a wild fancy that I might, even at
this late stage, turn things around. What I did not realize was that it would
take me back to the early days and expose a labyrinth of deception and lies
that had altered the course of my existence.
But I
digress . . .
I
must start at the beginning because the echoes of one’s origin never fade to
silence, no matter how much it is desired. I did not know my own origin because
I never knew my father – not that I needed to learn his identity, but it would
have centered my world at the very least with a beginning point. A compass for
my life. A moment when I first became aware that I drew breath.
Sadly,
it never happened.
My
last name is Clairmont. A melodic sobriquet to be sure, but my mother simply
chose the name like someone would choose a ribbon for the bodice of a
dress: – it seemed appealing and created
just the right effect of class and respectability – but it was for show,
nonetheless, since she never married a man named Clairmont. Not that I
particularly minded her choice. I love showiness. In my opinion, modesty in a
woman is highly overrated, though no one in my family agreed with me. But I,
Clara Mary Jane Clairmont, always went my own way – even without the compass –
and I am more proud of that than anything else in my seventy-five years on this
earth.
Just
as I claimed my version of my name: Claire Clairmont.
Il mio nome.
‘Aunt
Claire, don’t overtax yourself,’ my niece, Paula, said as she strolled into the
warm, slightly stuffy room, a cup of my favorite oolong tea in her hand. It was
late morning – not terribly hot yet, but by afternoon the midsummer Florentine
temperature would soar and everyone would take refuge inside, resting and
praying to St Clare of Assisi for a breath of air. My rented apartment faced
the Boboli Gardens – a lush, open space on the outskirts of Florence, perched
on a hill – that often provided a slight breeze, whispering through the
centuries-old cypress trees and hidden grottos.
Paula
set a delicate blue-and-white patterned china cup on my tea table, already
cluttered with letters, books, and an inkwell. ‘You need to move around more,
Aunt. Your ankle is starting to swell again, and, if you cannot walk, I will
have to call in Raphael to carry you to bed.’ My niece’s voice took on that
familiar combination of love and exasperation of the young who are tethered to
the old; she cared for me deeply, but I tried her patience as well when I
refused to heed her advice, which occurred quite often. I wasn’t ready to give
up my independent ways yet.
Besides,
she would not mind calling our domestico,
Raphael; I’d seen the sweet longing in the glances that she cast at him when he
was distracted by some task in the kitchen. Paula might be the daughter of my
dearly-departed brother, Charles, but she was also my niece, after all.
Spinning romantic fantasies around a handsome face was embedded in her nature.
Certainly, I had done that a time or two in my life – sometimes finding regret
in my impulsive feelings, sometimes not. But always true to my passions.
Quickly,
I slipped the letter under the stack of books, shifting in my chair and
smoothing down my faded blue cotton dress.
I was not ready to share it with her yet.
‘Is
that the missive you received this morning?’ she asked absently, leaning down
and plumping the delicately embroidered pillow under my sprained ankle, which
was propped up on a footstool.
‘Nothing
important.’ Assuming an air of nonchalance, I shrugged. ‘Just a letter from one
of my many old friends, Edward Trelawny, inquiring as to our well-being.’
Paula
straightened with a sigh. ‘Do we have any old friends left who have not
abandoned us to our state of poverty, except Trelawny?’
‘Thank
you, my dear, for pointing that out. I am well aware of our impoverished state
of affairs since my last ill-conceived investment in that farm.’ Folding my
wrinkled hands in my lap, I echoed her sigh. Investing in my nephew’s farm in
Austria was a foolishness that I could ill- afford, but I never could resist
helping my family, even though it had pushed me to the brink of bankruptcy.
‘I
apologize – that was unkind, Aunt.’ She placed a hand on my forearm, glancing
down at me with her dark eyes clouded in guilt.
‘You
are forgiven, even though I must remind you that friendships can ebb and flow
during the years regardless of one’s financial status – even those who are
closest to us can disappoint us.’ Of course, I meant the members of the sacred
Byron/Shelley circle of my youth: Byron, the great poet who broke my heart, and
Shelley, the husband of my stepsister, Mary, whose brilliance lit my life and
whose small annuity protected me in my advanced years. I had loved them all –
especially my accomplished and beautiful stepsister, Mary. Even though Mary had
created a hideous monster in her novel, Frankenstein, she herself possessed
that kind of tranquil loveliness that made everyone gravitate to her.
Serenità, as the Italians would say.
Unlike
me.
I
could never sit still.
I
talked incessantly.
And I
never let my head rule my emotions, which caused me more heartache than I can
say. But my life was never dull.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born in St. Louis, Missouri, Marty Ambrose has been a writer most
her life, consumed with the world of literature from the time she first read
Agatha Christie mysteries and British Romantic poetry. Marty pursued her undergraduate and graduate
degrees in English, both in the U.S. and the U.K. so she could teach students
at Florida Southwestern State College about the writers that she so
admired. Three decades later, she is
still teaching and has enjoyed a writing career that has spanned almost fifteen
years, with eight published novels for Avalon Books, Kensington Books, and
Thomas & Mercer. Marty Ambrose lives in Florida with her husband, ex- news
anchor Jim McLaughlin. She plans to
travel to Italy in the Fall to research A
Shadowed Fate, the next book in the trilogy.
Links
to your site and social media:
