Hideous Love: The Story of the Girl Who Wrote Frankenstein by Stephanie Hemphill Page A

months
seems a bit of a mystery.
She stays out of touch
until she requires something of me.
Claire writes many letters
of late, and thankfully
not to my Shelley
as in the past.
She decides to correspond
with another more infamous
and yet celebrated poet,
Lord Byron.
Much gossip
surrounds Byron
and I cannot truly distill
what is truth,
but it appears he
recently legally separated
from his wife
as he had an affair
with his half-sister.
I care little for scandal
and those who spread it,
what matters to me
is that Byron’s poetry is triumphant,
faint-inducing.
I hold him in great esteem.
Still, Byron is renowned
as the most dangerous man
in Europe.
I cannot conjecture
what scheming Claire has done
to earn his favor,
but Byron asks to see
me.
I find Byron amiable, delightful even,
despite accusations to the contrary.
He is more intelligent
than are his characters
and more gentle than
his menagerie of exotic pets.
He praises Shelley’s “Queen Mab”
and speaks of how he admires
my father’s writings and philosophy.
It serves as a perfectly
convivial meeting,
and we pledge
to find another occasion
to share company.
But why Claire
insisted
that she arrange
this introduction now
I have yet to discover.

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    WHAT OF BYRON
    Spring 1816
I ask Claire to explain
what is happening,
why she bid me see Byron,
the famous man,
the Napoleon of literature.
What is her connection
to him?
She hesitates
and then insists that she sought
his literary advice
about the play she is writing
and her idea to become an actress,
but I know that is not all.
Finally she says,
“You have your Shelley
and I have my Byron.
I have found a poet
to love too and he
is celebrated throughout
Europe, dear Sister.”
Her eyes twinkle
as she awaits my response.
“Oh Claire,
what have you done?
The man’s reputation
precedes him.
He is like summer rain,
he comes and goes
as he pleases
and needs no one.
They say he loves
but one and that is his sister.
Dear Clary, what have you dug
yourself into?”
Claire fixes hard upon
my brow like she might
seer me in half.
“You and Shelley eloped
after only three months.
I have been writing
and spending time with Byron
for two. Why should you think
this would be any less
of a love affair than yours?”
She looks to stomp out
of the room, but I grasp her arm.
“No one has said that,
dear sister. I just worry for you.
Byron and Shelley
are not necessarily the same.”
“I have pledged my love
to Byron and promised
that you and Shelley and I
will visit him in Geneva.
He gave me his address.”
I shake my head.
I know not what plot
Claire has afoot, but I fear
it will not work as she expects.

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    TRAVEL ABROAD
    May 1816
Claire determines
our next adventure.
And Shelley is eager to embark
on another journey.
He excites at the prospect
like a child crawling toward
his favorite rattle.
We will go to Geneva
so that Shelley
might be acquainted with
the great Lord Byron.
I weary to take William,
only five months old,
on such an excursion,
but I also believe
there might be something
of my destiny wrapped
up in Geneva, that
perhaps travel
and another meeting
with Lord Byron
may unlock some yet
untapped secret inside of me.
Shelley and I both know
that I must live up
to the standards of my birth,
after all. And I have not
been writing as much lately
with a new baby.
And because
Shelley sets his heart
upon this journey
and I cannot bear
to be without him
for a year, I must go.
After ten days of travel
through France,
by carriage not foot,
as we learned our lesson
the last voyage, we arrive
in Switzerland.
I awe once again
over the majesty of this landscape,
by its beauty and terror
like a creature other worldly.
We arrive before Lord Byron,
but Claire pleases to note
that letters have