I nod. “It’s sad. Imagine all the other things he could have done. But at least he’s not forgotten.”
It’s kind of morbid to consider the upside of someone dying when they’re thirty-six. But it’s also true. Byron had the incredible good fortune of being born a titled British white man. Leila and countless others are forgotten or are only known because they happened to cross paths with famous men. That thought gives me pause.
“Hey.” I nudge Alexandre. “Like your illustrious ancestor, Byron had a lot of lovers. Let’s look at some of the other women he wrote to.”
A roguish grin sneaks across Alexandre’s face. I inadvertently lean my shoulder into his, and he pushes back ever so slightly. I reach for the book, and our hands meet. Alexandre turns to me and holds my gaze. “I meant what I told you before. Mes yeux ne brillent que pour toi.”
“Stop it,” I whisper. “That’s not part of the deal.” My face flushes. I take the book without looking at him. I study the index, pretending I don’t feel the nearness of him.
“Here’s a letter to a countess.” I point it out to Alexandre, who leans closer to me and reads over my shoulder, whispering Byron’s words in my ear:
August 25, 1819
My dearest Teresa,
. . . [Y]ou will recognize the handwriting of him who passionately loves you, and you will divine that, over a book which was yours, he could only think of love. In that word, beautiful in all languages, but most so in yours—Amor mio—is comprised my existence here and hereafter. I feel I exist here, and I fear that I shall exist hereafter, —as to what purpose you will decide; my destiny rests with you, and you are a woman, seventeen years of age, and two out of a convent. I wish that you had stayed there, with all my heart, —or, at least, that I had never met you in your married state.
But all this is too late. I love you, and you love me, —at least, you say so, and act as if you did so, which last is a great consolation in all events. But I more than love you, and cannot cease to love you.
Think of me, sometimes, when the Alps and the ocean divide us, —but they never will, unless you wish it.
I gulp. I’m not sure a love letter was the right choice at this moment.
Alexandre chuckles. “He was quite the romantic, wasn’t he?”
“He’s writing this to a married woman,” I say. “He’s a total narcissistic jerk who had no control over his passions or his ego. That’s why one of his lovers called him mad, bad, and dangerous to know—his entire life was about himself and his excesses and his incredible ability to seduce women and men.”
“He obviously couldn’t help himself when surrounded by temptation,” Alexandre says.
I roll my eyes and elbow him. He starts laughing.
“Let’s pack it in,” I say. I don’t think I can handle any more flirting in the stacks.
Alexandre and I stand up to place the book in a “to be reshelved” cart. “I’m sorry we didn’t find anything about our lady with the raven tresses,” he says.
I stop short. “Oh my God,” I nearly yell. “That’s it. It’s so obvious.”
“What? What did I say?” Alexandre asks.
I don’t reply. I’m too nervous. Please let me be right. I cradle the book in one hand and flip back through the index, quickly running my eye down the columns. All the letter recipients are listed alphabetically by last name. But what if Byron didn’t use a name but an endearment? My hands get clammy as I search for her. Maybe it’s luck. Maybe it’s destiny. But it doesn’t matter, because there she is: Lady, Raven Tresses, of the . . . page 312. Alexandre squeezes my elbow.
“Holy crap,” I whisper.
January 12, 1815
My Dearest Lady of the Raven Tresses,
Though fate, and, in truth, your own will, have distanced us since our return, know my love is a fix’d mark. Neither time nor place can alter its course. I