Their parents’ bedroom is dark, with a dressing room at either end and an empty fireplace. A mirrored lowboy with a lady’s chair. Hairbrush and pins lie upon it. The stopper of a bottle is flung there, fresh black drops on the doily as if someone had scurried away suddenly. An odor of nutmeg lingers in the air.
Downstairs, at the table, Mrs. Dickens is already pouring tea.
“So exciting for our boys to meet an actress. We often perform plays at Tavistock. Our children love to watch and memorize parts.”
As if on cue, Plorn, the youngest, asks, “Are you a real actress?”
“It didn’t take them long.” Mrs. Dickens smiles between bites of fruitcake. “Our boys are not at all shy with strangers.”
“Well, Miss Jane isn’t a stranger!” Walter exclaims. “She always pays attention to our questions.”
Miss Jane smiles at him. “Indeed I do. You boys have such inquisitive minds, I enjoy hearing what you have to say. Last time, we spent hours discussing your favorite books.”
I turn to the youngest. “I was an actress in training once, yes, when I was very young like you. Both my parents acted.”
“Our father acts.” Plorn grins. “But not Mother.”
“Indeed he does.” His father laughs. “Most of the time, in fact!”
The parlor warms with laughter.
“Do you act in plays now?” Walter wonders.
“Well, I…do remember some speeches.”
“Please! Give us one now!” begs Plorn, popping up in his chair.
“Let her enjoy her tea—” admonishes their mother.
Her husband cuts in. “How do we treat our guests, boys?”
“Politely, Father,” Sydney, the quietest, answers. “We inquire of their health and their journey here. And don’t bother them.”
Mr. Dickens tilts his head back and roars. “Perhaps if you finish your tea, Miss Wood might treat you to a speech during playtime.”
Silence spreads around the table. Plorn, yawning, soon gets up and cuddles in his mother’s lap.
“Sweet boy!” She pets his head. In an instant, he falls asleep.
After our meal, Harry guides me out open glass doors to a balcony that feels like a stage. Walter hands me what he calls a disguise: a long white nightshirt. As it drapes over me, billowing in the breeze and lifting like wings, it is clear what speech I must perform. If I dare.
Perhaps I’ve buried my voice so deep, it might never speak again. But if I could practice here, safely among these children, it might be coaxed out of hiding. In the parlor, they won’t even notice. Their father, head bowed, silently scribbles notes while Miss Jane embroiders in a world of her own, eyes downcast. Catherine slumps, chin to chest, as if she lived elsewhere.
Releasing my bun from its clip and mussing it with my fingers, I lean on the balcony and lift my voice.
And I, of ladies most deject and wretched,
That sucked the honey of his music vows,
Now see that noble and most sovereign reason
Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh;
That unmatched form and feature of blown youth
Blasted with ecstasy. Oh, woe is me,
To have seen what I have seen, see what I see!
“O-phel-i-a!” Walter shouts.
That name echoes from each boy’s lips.
“Ophelia! I knew it. She’s playing Hamlet’s betrothed.”
Plorn awakens with a shout, running out to the balcony. “Do it again!”
I repeat Ophelia’s speech and follow it with another. That speech is like a door creaking wide open. Beyond it, hundreds of speeches line up, all shouting to be heard. I recite Hamlet’s soliloquies next, known by heart, listened to over and over, as a child hidden in the wings: parts I never knew I had memorized; speeches that never passed my lips before. Words fill me to the brim and illuminate the balcony. They even still the wild boys, who sit rapt and quiet before loudly applauding when I finish.
Across the room, Mr. Dickens’s head shoots up and our eyes meet in a kind of conspiracy. Ophelia! He’s heard me recite before, but never has he watched a character live and breathe through me. My whole body flushes. What I am, I always was. It never left me! He sees it too!
We stay until evening while the light still lingers soft and yellow, brightening the streets leading back to Urania. Miss Jane talks on and on, telling stories of the boys, but I am wrapped in my own thoughts. Of Tavistock, I wonder how Mr. Dickens gets any writing done amid his lively boys. Of his marriage, I sense great distance. It is as if Mr. Dickens sits in his own cell at Tothill and his wife in hers.
And of myself, I know at last that my voice has no boundaries. It can fly equally across a theater or a room, awakening the hearts of the young and old. It’s the truest part of me. Didn’t my pa always say so?
Dear George,
Much can be known about a person from just listening to their voice. Today, from where I write to you at Tavistock, I hear Miss Wood playacting for the amusement of our children. Her sure voice shoots across the summer breeze, each word delivered like a punch. I hear such Grieving in it.
Ophelia is aptly named.
My hope is that she will Endure even in this Heartless city where, every day, at every hour, girls are thrown away.
For you see, it is not statistics we should worry about, but the possibility of the Transformation of even one lost soul.
Sincerely,
Charles Dickens
“What a fine speech you made of Ophelia!” Mr. Dickens compliments me in Urania’s parlor the following week. “Perhaps now we should discuss if you’ve given thought to other work Dr. Brown suggests you are best suited for?”
“A governess, sir? I’ve never been around children.”
“Any child would listen to you, easily. Indeed, my own children were completely captivated. They keep begging me to invite you back.”
My sigh fills the space between us.
“If you could be anything”—he tilts his head—“what would it be?”
“I once hoped to be an actress, sir.”
Now Mr. Dickens’s sigh is heard. “It’s not easy to be one in London. I know of an acting family here, the Ternans, a widowed mother with three girls, careful of their reputation, always traveling together, taking only conservative roles in plays.”
“Why should that be, sir?”
“A woman must be sheltered by a man’s name or else her standing could be ruined by one misstep. Especially if she is an actress. In England, an actress is viewed suspiciously—just as if she were a fallen woman!”
“Does the whole world think like London?”
“Paris admires its artists and survivors. That city forgives women who drift into prostitution. When destitute, women have few choices to support themselves. Yet many are capable of improving their lives if given another chance.”
“Surely Mrs. Dickens has freedom? She is married!”
He laughs. “Heaven forbid! There must be a chaperone or footman and carriage with her at all times. And her dress plain, not attracting attention.”
Marriage alone offers shelter for women; it turns us into statues upon a shelf, like Mrs. Dickens. Yet Mr. Dickens goes where he pleases and does what he wishes.
“What if I…if I could possibly become a writer like you, sir?”
He shakes his head at once. “Society will never accept writing from a fallen girl. If you used your real name, you’d be traced to Tothill. That would be scandalous.”
“But, sir, women novelists sell their work in London!” I protest. “Elizabeth Gaskell, the novelist, wrote a story of prostitution in your own magazine, Household Words. I’ve read it in Urania’s library.”
“Such a woman is deemed respectable—meaning she has a name, family, and money. And a husband too!”
&
nbsp; I meet his answer with a scowl. I will never have those things.
Instead, my destiny is to be a governess, a kind of servant. Mistress of nothing. Unless I marry and lose myself altogether. Perhaps that’s why Sesina longs for a fancy dress, one of taffeta and ruffles—the first thing she’ll get once she leaves here, she tells us, “to make my mark.”
At the end of our interview, Mr. Dickens and I stand shoulder to shoulder at the open window admiring the summer roses, whose myrrh perfume wafts into the room. Side by side, we are of equal height. Yet we are not equal, nor could we ever be.
I think of the young girls he might pass tonight, walking the midnight streets with bold legs and bare heads, the sort that end up at Tothill. Yet for Mr. Dickens, the night is an adventure, his “magic lantern,” as he calls it, to roam freely and alone. How I wish I could be him!
* * *
Miss Coutts appears in crisp pale linens, wide-brimmed bonnet, and thin white boots, an outfit that looks as though it could outsmart this day, the hottest day of the summer. She waves a letter like a fan in the air.
“We are applying overseas for positions for you and Ivy,” she says.
“Ivy! Did you hear from her?”
“Not only have I heard from her, but she has heard from us. It’s all been arranged. Your friend arrives at Urania tomorrow.”
It is impossible to stay in my seat after that. As Miss Coutts tells me the details—the letters back and forth, the interview, the approval of the committee, and the final say both she and Mr. Dickens had—my feet dance around her just as Fanny might, not ladylike at all.
“You did this because I asked after Ivy?”
“Ivy is a good candidate. Mr. Dickens believes she is very forthright and will make her way anywhere if given a chance. And, besides that, we both feel strongly that friendship will help you develop trust and feel safer when you emigrate together. Your concern for Ivy’s future impressed us both.”
The urge is to hug her. Instead, I curtsy low as I would at the theater.
“I am delighted that you are so pleased, Orpha!” Her usually serious face lights up. “Ivy has delayed writing you about this, she told me. She was fearful we’d reject her. But, I assure you, she is coming!”
I run outside to my chores. All the way out to the garden, the hot oven exhales the scent of baking bread. How sweet it is then to pluck red globes of beets, and carrots like plump orange fingers out of the earth. Tomorrow, Ivy will sit beside me at the table—beets, carrots, and bread delighting her mouth.
* * *
The next day is heavy with heat, sun blaring, when Ivy steps into the parlor. She stumbles on a rug, so busy she is, scanning the polished room. She’s smaller and paler than I remember. A halo of black curls frames her tiny face.
“They told me Orpha would be here,” Ivy says. “Where is she?”
“She’s right here,” I say quietly.
Ivy immediately turns, her eyes lingering on my hair.
“It’s you!” she gasps. “I never imagined your hair so thick and brown. You look healthy and happy. Not like at Tothill.”
Hannah roars. “Most of us looked like we cracked straight out of an egg when we first came here from prison!”
The girls giggle and point at one another. Beside me, Sesina mutters, “Thought we were your best friends, but now there’s another.”
“You’re here.” I reach out my hands, stepping toward Ivy.
We entwine our fingers and swing our arms back and forth like children, teasing a shy smile from Ivy. Her eyes are so wide, they light up her whole face.
* * *
At bedtime, in Fanny’s hushed room, the windows are still closed against the heat of the day. Fanny opens the windows wide, letting in the evening breeze. The curtains lift and twirl and dance.
Ivy turns her head to watch, taking a deep breath. “Oh!”
I point out her side of the room, where a white nightgown is laid on the newly crocheted bedspread. Tears slide down Ivy’s face.
“Why, it’s all made up, just for me,” she cries. “A real bed!”
“I’ll help you get ready for sleep. Lights out soon.”
Ivy grabs my hand. “Don’t leave me, Orpha. Stay!”
Fanny shrugs. “Fine with me. Been awfully quiet since my last roommate got booted out.”
Ivy changes into the nightgown, her back turned. Suddenly I am not at Urania anymore. Tothill’s stone walls slam between us with a chill, all that silence and separation. There were only her eyes to tell me, like a flame, that I was still alive.
She turns around then, reaching out, pulling me close, without a word. Together, we lie on the narrow bed, my arm encircling her thin waist, my stomach flat to her back, as if we had both just hatched.
“I’ll stay, Ivy. Soon, we’ll talk about everything.”
Ivy closes her eyes. My breath falls in time with hers. I don’t feel my body anymore, only hers. She’s here. She’s safe. The chant sighs back and forth between us like a sleeping potion.
* * *
In the middle of our arithmetic lesson the next day, all heads turn toward Ivy. Everyone’s mouths drop open. All except Sesina’s. Her eyes glitter hard as flint.
Fanny gasps. “Ain’t she something? She can add piles of sixpence and shillings in her head without using her fingers!”
“She could be a banker, that one!” Hannah says.
“Or a coiner.” Sesina smiles slyly.
Hannah blurts out, “She’s a counterfeiter?”
Ivy reddens from all the attention.
SEPTEMBER 1857
·• THIRTEEN •·
Mr. Dickens arrives late in the afternoon, wiping his neck with a handkerchief. His shirt billows at his waist and he’s forgotten to comb his hair. He carries an odor of violets into the house, sweet and somehow sickly.
“Why, Mr. Dickens, don’t tell me you walked all the way here!” Miss Jane exclaims. “On such a hot day too!”
He brushes past her. “If I couldn’t walk this far, I should just explode!”
In the parlor, I notice it immediately: fingers tapping on the desk; eyes staring blankly at the floor; and his breathlessness. He’s elsewhere!
“Where were we?” He clears his throat at the start of our interview.
“You were about to…tell me…how…to write, sir? You said I should take notes. I am doing so.”
He turns to me then as if awakened from a dream.
“Not many yearn to know how it’s done. Or are as curious as you, Ophelia.”
He does not hear my nickname drop from his lips.
“An educated girl should also keep a journal. Remind me next time to speak of that. Tell me what else you have been doing.”
“The readings are going well, sir,” I tell him. “The girls hang on every word you wrote. You capture people and make them real.”
His head lowered, his quill circling the Case Book without landing. “Perhaps it is your speaking voice that charms them most!”
“Who could not love Oliver and hate the Artful Dodger, even as we admire his tricks? How do you make them come alive on the page?”
“Hmm…they have to set foot in your own mind first and dwell there. Do you know someone who does that for you?”
Many, I want to answer him.
He lifts his head. “Can you hear their voice inside you? Hearing someone speak gives clues to their character.”
Mr. Dickens’s voice is as crisp as his fine suits. But Rose’s voice shrank as she sickened; she stopped singing.
He narrows his eyes. “Whom did you think of just now?”
“Rose…I can’t get her out of my thoughts.”
Mr. Dickens shuts his eyes. “Begin like a painter. Small brushstrokes. Then come in closer with telltale details that reveal a whole story. Broken nails. Collar a
skew. Stains on the bodice. Drips of pus and blood. Eyes wide and startled.”
Between us, he is conjuring Rose.
“Do you mean I must see first before writing?”
“Exactly. Allow your character to come alive before you commit to one word.”
I gasp. “If I could set Rose on a page, maybe she’d stop haunting me.”
“Let me warn you.” He sighs. “Writing is both cure and curse. It never lets you be. If you wish to become a writer, you must press yourself into it, body and soul.”
“Body and soul, I already gave away, sir.”
It happens quickly the moment those words are said—Luther’s face forms. His broad nose flattened by tavern fights. The tiny black spokes of his pupils sharpening when I was cornered. The glittering blade squeezed tight in his fist. My hands fly to cover my face.
I never told anyone about the Valentin, with its sleek, double-edged blade. “Slices through a stomach and grinds it around,” Luther boasted. “Yanks out your innards in a minute.”
“You are a story within a story, Miss Wood.” Mr. Dickens leans forward. “Someday soon, I hope, you will tell me all of it.”
A whole hour passes and not one word of my story has he written down. Instead, his chin cupped in his hands, his gaze straight on me, we talk endlessly about how he writes his books. He does not guess I am memorizing his ways. Not clay to mold; but a sponge to absorb.
DICKENS’S CASE BOOK: NUMBER 98
Orpha is Ice and Fire. Somewhere between the two, she must land. So many girls let the fire consume them. We have had more than our share at Urania. Many were shown the door as Jemima was.
Sesina has such a fire that we must constantly keep her in check. But some never break through their frozenness either. Leah and Alice are such girls, in Constant need of Mrs. Marchmont to prop them up.
Orpha’s fire is deep; her ice melting. She has only to use that spark and not let it consume her.
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