Her Lost Words

Description

From A Vindication of the Rights of Woman to Frankenstein, a tale of two literary legends—a mother and daughter—discovering each other and finding themselves along the way, from USA Today bestselling author Stephanie Marie Thornton.
 
1792. As a child, Mary Wollstonecraft longed to disappear during her father’s violent rages. Instead, she transforms herself into the radical author of the landmark volume A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, in which she dares to propose that women are equal to men. From conservative England to the blood-drenched streets of revolutionary France, Mary refuses to bow to society’s conventions and instead supports herself with her pen until an illicit love affair challenges her every belief about romance and marriage. When she gives birth to a daughter and is stricken with childbed fever, Mary fears it will be her many critics who recount her life’s extraordinary odyssey…
 
1818. The daughter of infamous political philosopher Mary Wollstonecraft, passionate Mary Shelley learned to read by tracing the letters of her mother’s tombstone. As a young woman, she desperately misses her mother’s guidance, especially following her scandalous elopement with dashing poet Percy Bysshe Shelley. Mary struggles to balance an ever-complicated marriage with motherhood while nursing twin hopes that she might write something of her own one day and also discover the truth of her mother’s unconventional life. Mary’s journey will unlock her mother’s secrets, all while leading to her own destiny as the groundbreaking author of Frankenstein.
 
A riveting and inspiring novel about a firebrand feminist, her visionary daughter, and the many ways their words transformed our world.“A stunning homage to two legendary women writers—Mary Wollstonecraft and Mary Shelley—Her Lost Words is a poignant and page-turning work of historical fiction. Stephanie Marie Thornton’s ability to bring historical women to life for the reader is unparalleled as she chronicles their passions, struggles, and legacy with impeccable research and emotional resonance. An extraordinary read!”
—Chanel Cleeton, New York Times bestselling author of Our Last Days in Barcelona

“A  beautifully crafted, spellbinding, heartbreaking tale of a mother and daughter whose paths tragically cross for only a handful of days—but who share the same passion, creativity, and thirst for understanding the depths of the human heart. This novel is a masterpiece I won’t forget, an ode to motherhood, to love, and to two brilliant women who changed the world with their words. One of the best historical fiction books of the year, and one that I’ll be thinking about for a long time to come.”
—Kristin Harmel, New York Times bestselling author of The Forest of Vanishing Stars

“Stephanie Thornton delivers a stunning historical fiction with lyrical prose and vivid description that reveals the lives of Mary Shelley and her mother, Mary Wollstonecraft – both women of talent and intellect who seek equal rights in a world dominated by men. Set amid a cast of literary names we all recognize and love, Her Lost Words, is sure to be a reader favorite.”
—Madeline Martin, New York Times bestselling author of The Librarian Spy

“I could not turn these pages fast enough! The dual tales of Mary Wollstonecraft and Mary Shelley are brilliantly interwoven by Thornton, whose prose sparkles with wit and wisdom about literature, romance, and family. The Marys are heroines for their time and ours, remarkable women with independent hearts and minds, true inspirations to anyone who dreams of making the world a better place.”
—Kerri Maher, national bestselling author of The Paris Bookseller

“As passionate and fiercely intelligent as its protagonists, Her Lost Words is a fitting tribute to two women whose literary achievements reshaped the world….Brilliant.”
—Shelf Awareness

“Thornton deftly maneuvers through her subjects’ lives in alternating chapters, highlighting the ways both women defy expectations regarding marriage, motherhood, and women’s roles in society. Readers who enjoy sweeping, emotional biographical fiction about iconoclastic women will be hooked.”
—Booklist

“Stephanie Thornton once again delivers a compelling story of two women ahead of their time, bound by their words and their blood. Though Mary Shelley lost her mother Mary Wollstonecraft at birth, she had her feminist writings to sustain and shape her. One would be hard pressed to find two stronger or more significant female writers and both are brought back to life with elegant prose and wisdom under Thornton’s skillful hand, making her one of my favorite historical novelists.”  
—Renée Rosen, USA Today bestselling author of The Social Graces

“Immersive, elegant, engaging–readers will savor the details of this fascinating account of the making of two brave, brilliant women–mother and daughter–who defy the odds as authors and early feminists.”
—Heather Webb, USA Today bestselling author of Strangers in the Night

“What a vibrant, immersive portrait of two brilliant women! Both highlights as well as humanizes the Marys’ extraordinary achievements. A timely inspiration.”
—Evie Dunmore, USA Today bestselling author of Portrait of a Scotsman

“A novel that explores the relationship between mothers and daughters and the human condition, Thornton grips our hearts with prose on love and loss, grief and survival, and the power of art and expression to heal our very souls. An extremely moving and enlightening novel that is an absolute must read!” 
—Eliza Knight, USA Today bestselling author of The Mayfair Bookshop

“Thornton brings a sense of urgency to the women’s inner lives, as well as a fair amount of insight into their work. Much has been written about the authors, but Thornton does justice to their singular lives.”
—Publishers Weekly

“Thornton writes lyrically about the two Marys, and readers will sympathize, deeply, with their struggles to find their own paths.”
—Library Journal

“While Mary Wollstonecraft and Mary Shelley each stand alone for their contributions to feminism and fiction respectively, there’s something about their being mother and daughter that makes each woman’s story just that little bit more captivating. Add the fact that Wollstonecraft died eleven days after giving birth to her daughter, and you have a story crying out for a novelist to take it on. In Her Lost Words, Thornton does so with aplomb.”
—Historical Novels Review

“An extraordinary work of historical fiction, weaving together the journeys of two brilliant thinkers and writers who lived and wrote with a daring that was centuries ahead of their time…. Thornton never disappoints, with that perfect blend of fine scholarship and creative flair that brings her characters, their work, their loves, and their losses vividly to life.”
—Christine Wells, author of Sisters of the Resistance

“A powerful and sympathetic account of two extraordinary women who fought to influence how 18th century politics and society regarded the roles of women. Stephanie Thornton doesn’t merely breathe life into Mary Wollstonecraft and her daughter Mary Shelley, she brings them blazing onto the page with all their ideals, flaws, and passions. No matter where the chapters are set – in England, Italy, or the terrors of the French Revolution — this masterful narrative is hard to put down.”
—Janie Chang, bestselling author of Dragon Springs Road and The Library of Legends

“Her Lost Words is a fun and informative read, grabbing at your heart and mind at once and giving greater worth to the idea that someday we all could find a way to support and celebrate each other in whatever partnership we wish to have.”
—Bookreporter.com

“A stunning novel about two towering real-life heroines, mother and daughter. Thornton brings Mary Wollstonecraft and Mary Shelley to vibrant life as women of searing intelligence and creative power, who make mistakes, take terrible risks, defy society and love immoderately. I feared for them, cried for them, admired them, and will be haunted by them. Thornton’s research is meticulous, and her writing is a delight. I loved it and recommend it most highly.”
—Maggie Brookes, author of Acts of Love and War

Praise for the novels of Stephanie Marie Thornton

“Thornton is a rare talent who always pairs fast-pace writing with excellent research, and A Most Clever Girl is a fascinating true Cold War story by a gifted storyteller.”
—Stephanie Dray, New York Times bestselling author of The Women of Chateau Lafayette

“Take a firecracker of a plot and add to it the true story of a female double agent and the result is one explosive and unforgettable story. Elizabeth Bentley is a complicated and absorbing woman and her life as a spy for both the Russians and the Americans makes for a fascinating tale, told with immense skill by Stephanie Marie Thornton.”
—Natasha Lester, New York Times bestselling author of The Paris Seamstress

“Twisty and well plotted, A Most Clever Girl…unravels the threads of love, espionage and complicated friendships in postwar New York.”
—Shelf Awareness

“And They Called It Camelot is the book club pick of the year. Stephanie Marie Thornton brings an American icon to life: Jackie the debutante, the First Lady, the survivor who at last becomes the heroine of her own story.”
—Kate Quinn, New York Times bestselling author of The Huntress

“Stephanie Thornton has compellingly and sympathetically humanized an American icon. Well researched and beautifully written, And They Called It Camelot is compulsively readable historical fiction!”
—Laura Kamoie, New York Times bestselling co-author of My Dear Hamilton

“In her rich, fascinating account of Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis’ life, author Stephanie Marie Thornton effortlessly transports us back in time….A powerful and uplifting portrayal.”
—Woman’s World

“As juicy and enlightening as a page in Meghan Markle’s diary.”
—InStyleStephanie Marie Thornton is a high school history teacher and lives in Alaska with her husband and daughter.Reader’s Guide
Her Lost Words by Stephanie Marie Thorton 
Discussion Questions:

1.   Mary Wollstonecraft styles herself as a revolutionary, even traveling to Paris to witness the French Revolution firsthand while others are fleeing. How did her early life experiences shape her character and bring her to that point?

2.   Mary Shelley—then Godwin—is so young when she decides to elope with Percy Shelley. Why do you think she made this fateful decision? Was it the right choice for her to make?

3.   Mary Wollstonecraft and William Godwin experienced the opposite of love at first sight—loathing at first sight—when they met at Johnson’s dinner party before Mary’s departure to Paris. What experiences most changed them in the intervening years so they could become friends and then lovers after Mary’s return to London?

4.   Claire Clairmont and Percy Shelley reputedly had a very close relationship, which often caused friction between Claire and Mary. What did you think of their unique living arrangement, both before and after Claire met Lord Byron?

5.   Mary Wollstonecraft railed against women losing themselves to love in A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, but then finds herself in the same situation with Gilbert Imlay. What lessons did she learn from that relationship, and how did they guide her relationship with William Godwin?

6.   William Godwin—a liberal philosopher in his own right—plays a huge role in Mary Wollstonecraft’s later life. How did her death shape his relationship with Mary Shelley?

7.   Lord Byron is an example of the type of man Mary Wollstonecraft warned about in A Vindication of the Rights of Woman—the domineering sort who saw women only as trinkets and who was protected by the law when it came to property rights, divorce, and custody of children. How did Percy and Mary Shelley try to circumvent him? Was there anything they should have done differently?

8.   While Mary Wollstonecraft and Mary Shelley take center stage in this novel, other women from history had important roles as well. How would the story—and both Mary Wollstonecraft’s and Mary Shelley’s lives—have been different without Théroigne de Méricourt, Maria Reveley, and Jane and Claire Clairmont?

9.   The title of the novel is Her Lost Words. Whom do you think this applies to more: Mary Wollstonecraft or Mary Shelley?CHAPTER 1

March 1814

MARY GODWIN

Mary tugged closer the tartan shawl that still smelled of Dundee’s wild heaths, wondering if she was ready to shed the final lonely moments of her journey home from Scotland-that eyry of freedom where her father had sent her to be educated by an old radical friend so she might be brought up a philosopher like her mother.

At nearly seventeen years old, Mary understood her education was now considered complete even as she tucked into her reticule the well-loved volume of her mother’s most celebrated-and vilified-book, A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. Mary had read every book written by or about her mother, save the one that her father had strictly forbidden her, but this was her most beloved, and she’d been rereading its fabric-soft pages since the Osnaburgh had begun its traverse of the murky Thames.

Live each day as if it were your last.

For a woman with no intention of living beyond the age of thirty-eight-the age her mother died-Mary reasoned, at best, she had only twenty-two years left to live. Truly live.

Ahead of her, London bustled beneath soot-filled skies, and with the motion of the city came a return to her old life. Whether she wished it or not.

Standing on the deck, Mary rocked on her heels-London’s frenetic energy was catching even from this distance-until she spotted her father’s ramrod posture among the crowd milling about the wharf, a standout in his eccentric emerald waistcoat. Decorum forgotten, Mary waved wildly to catch his attention while burly sailors sprang to action to secure the Osnaburgh. Oh, how she had missed her father!

He had been her sole family for so many years. And it had been enough, at least for her. Her father had obviously needed something more.

Scotland’s heather-speckled hills and the white-capped waves of the North Sea-the same that had caused Mary a week of seasickness and now made her striped cambric carriage dress hang looser on her bones-may never have existed as the weary Osnaburgh passengers jostled her forward onto the pier. Mary’s sudden joy evaporated the moment she spied the gray-garbed wardress of a woman standing next to William Godwin. Mary wanted her father to be happy-truly, she did-but it was near impossible to find solace in her father’s remarriage, to dour Jane Clairmont.

The noise and sun-rotten stench of the docks closed around her like a fist as her father and termagant of a stepmother approached.

“Grata domum, Mary.” William Godwin kept both hands on his mahogany walking stick like a philosopher of old. The image was marred only by that eye-numbing emerald waistcoat.

“Gratias tibi,” she responded in flawless Latin, preening at the pride reflected in her father’s warm gray eyes. It was an old game of theirs, conversing in Latin. Once she’d mastered the ancient language of the classics, they’d moved to French until Mary could converse just as easily in both languages. She’d learned early how to capture her father’s praise-through the accumulation of knowledge.

Jane-who also understood Latin-merely ignored their exchange. Mary recalled her stepmother responding once in the dead language during a dinnertime conversation. It was shortly after she’d joined the Godwin household, but Mary’s father had ignored her, and Jane never again partook of their forays into Latin.

William Godwin rubbed the bend in his nose and appraised Mary with an approving nod-her stoic father abhorred tender embraces, especially in public, but his eyes had taken on an extra mistiness that made Mary hope he might embrace her, just this once. Instead, he gruffly cleared his throat before directing arrangements for the delivery of her portmanteau.

“You should have arrived an hour ago,” Jane tutted under her breath, replacing the polished timepiece in her pocket. “Supper will be late and there’s nothing to be done about it.”

“My apologies. I learned much in Scotland, but not how to control the winds.” Baiting her stepmother had been a favorite pastime before Scotland-like a tattered bear in a ring, Jane usually responded with growls and much gnashing of her pointed little teeth. Now that Mary was older, she had promised herself to try harder with Jane upon her return. In less than a minute, she was back to old habits.

Be kind, Mary, her father had implored when he’d first informed her of his upcoming marriage. For me.

More than ten years later and she was still trying.

“Please forgive me.” Mary wished her father had come alone to meet her. “It’s been a difficult journey and I’m out of sorts.”

Jane scowled but didn’t scold further, which Mary took as a small measure of progress.

“The porter assures me your trunk will arrive this afternoon.” Her father gestured with his walking stick away from the Osnaburgh. “Shall we?”

“Indeed. If we hurry, I might still salvage the chestnut soup.” Jane was already marching through the crowd in the direction of Skinner Street, leaving Mary and her father to trail behind like unruly attendants.

“It is good to see you, corculum.” At that moment, with the salt of the North Sea in her hair and the ground still pitching beneath her feet like the decks of the Osnaburgh, her father’s words were a safe harbor. “I hope you don’t mind the walk. I thought to hire a coach, but my wife reminded me that we must economize. And so . . . we walk.”

Mary strolled alongside her father, hearing the hum under his breath and knowing it was because she was back home. However, she wasn’t quite as content. London’s cramped streets were a far cry from Dundee’s wild heaths, and the city closed in on her, the ramshackle buildings blocking out the spring sunshine, the refuse and turgid brown waters gurgling down the uneven gutters. Even the poisonous black snake of the river Fleet was so different from the sparkling creeks she’d left behind in Scotland. London’s grit settled on her like the finest ash as they passed first Newgate Prison, with its wagon of pallid inmates bound for the gallows at Tyburn Square, and then Newgate Market, where a forest of waxy hog carcasses with unseeing eyes hung on racks outside the butcher shops.

Mary heaved a sigh of relief when they finally arrived at 41 Skinner Street, the ground-level bookshop that had also been the Godwin family home in recent years. Her father opened the door to the accompaniment of the shrill yapping of Jane’s three russet turnspit hounds. Mary ignored them because by then her eyes had landed on the best treasure of all.

Books.

The tiny shop and even tinier press of M. J. Godwin & Co. sold stationery, maps, and games. An avid reader, Mary’s stepmother had named the entire enterprise after herself, although no one called her M. J. or Mary Jane any longer. The shop was a way to make ends meet, but the real prizes inside these four brick walls were the scores of glorious books stacked on every space that would hold them. Much of the shop was dedicated to the lucrative new business of selling children’s books, but familiar names beckoned: Descartes, Locke, and Voltaire, along with the works of Erasmus Darwin, Thomas Paine, and so many others Mary’s father had placed in her hands from the moment she could read.

It was Mary’s first memory, her father teaching her to read amid the musty scent of spindle mushrooms and autumn’s final decay at the St. Pancras cemetery. Seated on her father’s lap atop her mother’s grave, she’d shivered against the damp while a crow rooted among piles of decomposing oak leaves and William Godwin guided her tiny finger over the chiseled letters of the tombstone.

“M-A-R-Y.” William Godwin’s voice had caught on each letter. “Your mother’s name was the same as yours, corculum.”

“What does that mean,” she’d asked with a wrinkle of her nose. “Cor-, cor-cul . . .”

“Corculum,” he’d repeated. “It means little heart. For you’re an offshoot of your mother, and I loved her very dearly.”

She remembered watching her father remove an embroidered handkerchief from his hellfire-red waistcoat and blow his nose, this staid man who was greater and wiser to her than any other being on earth. Given his tender feelings for her mother, Mary still didn’t understand how her father had developed any affection for Jane Clairmont, since her stepmother was the least sentimental-or kind-person she knew.

“Mary! You’re back!” Ignoring the yapping dogs, Mary’s stepsister Claire bounded down the stairs in a riot of shiny chocolate-hued ringlets and pink muslin ruffles. Less than a year her junior, Claire moved about the world like a shimmering hummingbird. A nearsighted, very loud hummingbird, who was still somehow endearing to everyone she met. “You’ll never guess tonight’s dinner guest!” She turned to her mother-Claire ignored William Godwin as much as Mary ignored Jane-and wrinkled her nose. “You didn’t tell her, did you?”

Alas, the books-and any semblance of quiet-would have to be postponed.

“Where is Fanny?” Mary cared little for dinner guests but deeply for her half sister, who was conveniently missing from the melee.

“Mother had to pack her off to the country to visit our aunts.” Claire’s voice dropped. “One of Fanny’s moods, you know.”

A heaviness settled upon Mary’s shoulders, for Fanny was prone to sweeping depressions and terrible crying jags. Suddenly Mary missed her eldest sister’s tallow-scented embraces and thought of the solemn manner in which Fanny showed off her collection of pinned butterflies and other insects. That was Fanny’s way-always quiet and deferential. Whereas Claire . . .

“Guess who is coming to dinner tonight, Mary?” Claire insisted. Her enthusiasm was catching. “Guess!”

“Hmm . . .” Smiling, Mary tapped a finger to her chin before removing her gloves. She couldn’t help herself; her attempt not to needle her stepmother didn’t extend to Claire. “Is it Mr. Burr again? I did enjoy performing speeches last time he came to visit.”

Claire narrowed her gimlet eyes. Mary had won that particular speech competition with Aaron Burr and outshone her stepsister’s efforts to impress the former American vice president with an ill-rehearsed song. “Don’t be an addle-plot.” Claire poked Mary in the ribs with a roll of her doll-like eyes. “Not Mr. Burr.”

Mary removed her bedraggled travel bonnet and barely suppressed a fresh smile as her father switched into his sharp-toed crimson Moroccan slippers. Some things never changed. “Then who?”

“Percy Bysshe Shelley,” Claire exclaimed, but only sighed at Mary’s blank stare. “The poet?”

“You girls will be your most charming tonight”-Jane shook a stern finger-“no talk of politics or philosophy, only the weather and the state of the roads.” Her long nose verily twitched with disdain as she placed a stern matron’s mobcap-no frills, only one row of sensible English bobbin lace-atop her head. Mary’s stepmother need never worry about being driven from the throne of beauty, given that she’d never had a place there to begin with. With one barked command, Jane shooed her precious dogs upstairs. “Percy Shelley is currently your father’s best hope for solvency.”

Mary turned to her father in alarm and watched in dismay as his ears turned the same color as his outlandish slippers. Money had always been in short supply in the Godwin household, especially since her father had taken on Jane and Claire, but things had improved somewhat after her stepmother had wrangled him into opening the bookshop instead of relying solely on his pen. (It seemed more prescient to sell other authors’ works, considering that few cared to purchase William Godwin’s writings in the salacious aftermath of Mary Wollstonecraft’s death.) But what Jane was insinuating . . .

“Surely things aren’t so dire that you’re planning to marry off one of us to salvage your accounts?” The idea was anathema to Mary-her father’s perpetual lack of funds had always meant there would be no dowry for the girls, and thus marriage was unlikely. The very thought of trying to pair one of them into a match somehow advantageous to the family finances would have been entirely out of character for a man who claimed to want nothing more for his daughters than education and independence.

Although, given the narrow scope of suitable positions for young women-most notably those of wife and mother-Mary had often pondered what options her future held. A paid companion or governess? Spinster caretaker of her father and stepmother into their dotage?

Fortunately, her stepmother was quick to assuage the first of Mary’s fears, only to replace it with another. “Percy Shelley is already married with an infant daughter and a second babe on the way. However, if your father did arrange a marriage for you, you’d say your vows and be a dutiful wife. Jaws will flap if you’re still unwed by your twentieth year. Four years may seem ages away, but they’ll pass sooner than you think.”

Mary ground her teeth so hard they nearly fractured. “I care little about the opinions of small-minded people, and furthermore, I plan to make my own choice when it comes to marriage, if I ever marry. Anything less is oppression.”

“Of course you’ll choose your husband, if and when you decide to marry.” Ever the peacekeeper, Godwin cleared his throat even as Jane threw her hands in the air. “Addressing the problem at hand, Percy Bysshe Shelley is an ardent admirer of my early work and is in a financial position to help moth-eaten radicals such as myself.”

“He’s a baronet’s son,” Claire gushed as she sashayed up the stairs. “Just wait until you see him, Mary. He’s so terribly noble.”

“He may be nobility,” Jane groused, “but his boots are filthy. He tracked a mess into the dining room both times he’s come to call.”

“Mud on the carpets is a worthy price to pay if Shelley will lower the ebb waters of my accounts.” Mary was struck by the deep furrows between her father’s brows. His expression softened once Claire had disappeared upstairs and Jane marched toward the kitchen, nattering under her breath about wayward daughters and chestnut soup. “Be forewarned,” he said to Mary, “your sisters are both quite taken with Percy Shelley. Claire turns quite addlepated when he’s in the same room, and Fanny falls ever more silent, if you can imagine such a thing.”

The floorboards creaked overhead, and Claire started singing “Sweet William’s Farewell to Black-Eyed Susan” upstairs. The songbird sound of the broadside ballad made Mary smile, albeit briefly.

“How bad is it?” Mary asked quietly while her father unlocked the glass case that held the shop’s most priceless volumes alongside her mother’s first edition works. There were so many of them-it boggled the mind to think that one person could write so many important works over the course of so short a life. “The accounts, I mean. Surely you have something set aside?”US

Additional information

Dimensions	0.9300 × 5.1400 × 7.9500 in
Imprint	Berkley
ISBN-13	09780593198421
ISBN-10	0593198425
Author	Stephanie Marie Thornton
Audience	General / adult
BISAC	FIC014000, FIC044000
Subjects	books fiction, Writers, british history, mothers day gifts, literary fiction, books for women, english literature, gifts for her, Mary Shelley, fiction books, historical fiction, women gifts, historical novels, historical fiction books, books historical fiction, historical fiction novels, mom gifts, stephanie marie thornton, mary wollstonecraft, Friendship, women, feminist, feminism, historical, frankenstein, romance, motherhood, fiction, england, families, gifts for mom, FIC044000, novels, FIC014000, art, women's fiction, gifts for women