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Others may scorn the idea that what we see in life we see in our dreams, horribly twisted out of recognizable shape. But I believe it .

LOVER
    H ow strange. However much we plan, and hope, and map things in our minds, life never reads the same script as we have prepared. It tears up our predictions and laughs at us for presuming to make them.
    As spring became summer and the foliage in the churchyard thickened, Shelley and I spent countless hours alone there. He had no profession, no superiors to call him to task, no family commitments to tempt him away. Although he was, by his own and my father’s account, an ambitious young man with the future at his feet, he always seemed to have a great deal of spare time to devote to recreation and courtship.
    We never went into society. He never took me to the theatre or a ball, or even to dine with his friends. I was far too perfect, he would say, to be shown off to people whose admiration of his “heart’s echo”, as he called me, would make him jealous.
    Privately I suspected this shunning of social events to be due more to his very public estrangement from his wife, and his consciousness that I was the daughter of infamous parents, than jealousy. But I kept my counsel, and went willingly with him to the churchyard whenever the opportunity presented itself.
    I was, of course, supposed to be chaperoned. Fanny refused this appointment, so Mama had to rely on Jane. Dear, sly, untrustworthy Jane.
    She was our ally. She would pretend to Mama that she was accompanying us, but would walk with us only as far as the end of the street, which Mama could see from her lace-curtained window. Once round the corner Jane would set off to enjoy her own unchaperoned time, having arranged to meet us an hour later in order to walk back with us to the house. A simple deception, but parents, as every sixteen-year-old knows, are simple.
    One brilliant June day, when Jane had left us as usual, Shelley and I sought our favourite spot, a clearing in the churchyard shaded by yew trees and hidden from passers-by. Careless of my white gown I sat on the grass among the fragrant trees, my skin warmed by the shadow-dappled sun, my bonnet and parasol discarded beside me.
    Shelley dropped his jacket, but remained standing. His face looked troubled. He scanned the view, his hand resting on the back of his neck under his shirt collar. In his other hand was a folded piece of paper.
    “You are nervous,” I observed.
    He did not sit down. “I am not nervous.”
    “What is the matter, then?”
    “I have written a poem.”
    “Indeed?” This was not unusual. I waited to hear his explanation.
    “It is a poem addressed to … to Mary someone.”
    “Ah.”
    “Do you wish me to read it to you?”
    “Of course, if you will sit down and stop fidgeting.”
    He sat beside me. On his face was a look of tenderness so clear and youthful, it compelled me to embrace him. I propelled myself into his arms like a spaniel. “I am the Mary someone, am I not?” I demanded.
    When he laughed his habit was to open his mouth only slightly, sometimes biting his lower lip, as if he were trying to stifle the laughter. Far from being melancholy, as poets are popularly supposed to be, he was capable of behaving like a spaniel too. “Of course you are. And I hope you know what an honour you receive.”
    He unfolded the paper. The poem was, indeed, about me. But it did not merely tell of his love. It revealed how deeply he desired me to love him . As he read, his voice softened; he was scarcely speaking above a whisper by the time he read,
“Gentle and good and mild thou art ,
Nor can I live if thou appear
Aught but thyself, or turn thine heart
Away from me…”
    When he finished I was so moved that I could not control my tears, which dripped off the end of my nose in an unladylike stream. I had no handkerchief. Shelley did not laugh, but grinned with such profound affection that I forgot how ridiculous I must look and accepted his