by J C Briggs
‘When did she come here?’
‘Couple of weeks ago then she went back to see this Mrs Pick, ’opin’ fer a new place. I ain’t seen ’er since. Took ’er box o’ things so I thought she mighta got a new place.’
‘Did she tell you anything about the Fane household — the tutor or governess, for example?’ Mrs Link’s sympathetic face prompted him to tell her more than he had told Mrs Gambol.
But she could tell him no more than Martha had. Jemima had said nothing about where the Italian or the governess had gone.
Dickens thanked her and gave her two shillings and asked her to send to Mr Wills at Wellington Street if she heard anything at all of Jemima or her family. He had more hope of Mrs Link than Mrs Gambol, though he thought Mrs Gambol might act if she thought there might be more money forthcoming.
And, as for his next step, he would have to speak to Sir Neptune Fane in whose house at Chelsea Jemima Curd had been employed. Charles Dickens could hardly question the housekeeper, Mrs Pick, without seeing Sir Neptune first. He knew of the man — a Member of Parliament and a powerful one, an ally of Disraeli in the Conservative party.
Home now, though. He ought to tell Anne Brown, his wife’s maid, what progress he had made. She had asked him to help her find the elusive governess, Violet Pout. Violet was the daughter of Anne’s old friend, Amelia Pout, who had married a prosperous grocer. Mrs Pout still ran the shops with her son. Violet had been sent to school and had done well enough to secure her position as companion to Miss Mariana Fane and governess to her younger siblings. And now, she was missing and Mrs Pout did not believe that her daughter would have eloped with a music master.
He thought about Violet Pout’s pretty looks. He had met her with Anne and Mrs Pout, and had thought her rather confident of her own charms, not the least of which was her very pale blonde hair which shone under her little grey bonnet. She had been demure, but there was a knowing light in her pale blue eyes which he had seen as she looked at him. Something calculating there, he had thought, as she had looked down modestly when her mother spoke proudly of her appointment at the house of Sir Neptune Fane.
Mrs Pout had given the impression that such a post was certainly more to be envied than Anne’s position as lady’s maid in Charles Dickens’s house. Sir Neptune, Mrs Pout had repeated, and Dickens had wondered how the cherished Violet would find the position of governess — that in-between role, not a servant exactly, but not a family member either. It could be a lonely existence.
He had thought of Ruth Pinch whom, in his Martin Chuzzlewit, he had placed in a wealthy brass and copper founder’s house. He had hoped that Miss Mariana Fane would be a gentler, more amenable girl than the brass founder’s Sophia, and Sir Neptune might be a more refined man than Ruth Pinch’s employer. Though he suspected that Violet Pout could look after herself.
Anne Brown was not entirely at one with Mrs Pout over the matter of the tutor. Such things happened, she had observed. So they did, Dickens had thought, all too often. Why should she not fall in love with a no doubt handsome Italian music master? And run away with him. Such things happened, too. But Anne had begged him for her old friend’s sake. He was fond of her. She had loyally accompanied them to America and to Italy, looking after Catherine, patiently enduring the long, uncomfortable journeys and the heat. He could not say no so had agreed to try to find Jemima Curd to find out what she might know about Violet and the tutor. Chelsea then — at least he could tell Anne he had tried.
3: To Chelsea
In the afternoon, after he had finished his work for Household Words at the Wellington Street office, Dickens took a steamer to Cadogan Pier at Chelsea. Sir Neptune Fane lived at Wisteria Lodge in Upper Church Street. Not far from Cheyne Row where his friends, the Carlyles, lived. Now that was a thought. Did Thomas or Jane know the Fane family? Jane might know something, or her servant might. Servants talked. Jane’s housemaid or cook might know Jemima Curd. He would call on her if he found out nothing useful.
It was cold on the river under a grim steel sky and a keen wind blowing, but he stood on the deck, gazing at the passing traffic, steamers going in the opposite direction, the wherries, the luff-boats, and a lone skiff. The steamer passed under Westminster Bridge, past the Houses of Parliament, then the great Penitentiary at Millbank into Lambeth Reach, then Vauxhall Bridge and into Chelsea Reach.
He supposed that eventually he would have to persuade Anne that if Violet could not be found then Violet’s mother would have to report the matter to the police. He knew that his friend, Superintendent Sam Jones, would tell him that it should be reported to the police at Chelsea. But he also knew that Mrs Pout would be very reluctant to have the police involved.
From Cadogan pier he went along Cheyne Walk towards Battersea Bridge and the right turn by Chelsea Old Church. Wisteria Lodge was one of several large detached houses at the top of Upper Church Street, the gardens of which backed onto Chelsea Park. The carriage drive led to an imposing brick house, built at the beginning of the century, Dickens guessed. It spoke of wealth and had what he thought was a satisfied air of comfort, though the wisteria which gave it its name was leafless as yet. It was about the same size as his own house in Devonshire Terrace — perhaps that, too, had a look of complacency. Perhaps all large, comfortable houses had it, knowing they would outlive their occupants. But what secrets, he wondered, were to be found behind those windows and that smart black door with its heavy knocker? Every house, every room, every heart had it secrets, including his own. Dangerous things, secrets, they had a habit of being told.
In a window to the right of the colonnaded porch there was an impression of firelight flickering. He saw that there was a bell beside the door. He took off his top hat and smoothed his hair and put on his hat again. He felt nervous as if he were some importunate poor relative from whom the silver spoons would be hidden. It was the nature of his errand, he supposed. What, really, was he to say to Sir Neptune? He feared that his enquiries might suggest that he thought Sir Neptune knew more about the governess and the tutor than he had told Mrs Pout. He thought about Anne Brown’s worried face. He rang and waited.
A liveried and powdered footman opened the door and looked down from a great height at the visitor.
‘Mr Charles Dickens to see Sir Neptune, if he might spare me some time.’ Dickens offered his card.
The footman’s haughty demeanour changed in an instant. ‘Mr Dickens. Oh, come in, I am sure Sir Neptune will see you. My word, I am. We all read your books, sir, and Lady Fane and Miss — er — well, all of us.’
Dickens stepped into a large hall out of which a marble staircase ascended in icy magnificence from the black and white chequered floor. A great gas-lit lamp descended on a golden chain from the high ceiling. There was a gilded mirror above an ebony console table upon which there were two rather sepulchral urns. The footman took his hat and gloves and placed them on the table and then with the card on a silver salver, he made his stately way up the stairs.
Dickens looked at himself in the mirror, straightened his collar, and smoothed his hair again. There you are in the looking glass. He grinned at himself. And who are you, sir? his reflection asked. That’s a secret. He heard voices, arranged his face into an expression of becoming seriousness and turned to see the footman returning, followed by Sir Neptune Fane, almost as tall as his footman — footmen were engaged for their height — though not quite as exquisitely dressed. His dark hair shone in the light. He came down, smiling. He was a very handsome man, and familiar somehow — Dickens must have seen him at some event or other.
‘Mr Dickens, this is an unexpected honour. I am very glad to see you.’ He offered a well-manicured hand which Dickens took. It was a firm handshake, the hand of a man sure of his place in the world. Dickens saw that his eyes were warm brown and very genial.
‘I am much obliged, Sir Neptune. I have come to speak to you on a matter of some delicacy.’
The brown eyes did not falter. They did not show any surprise, eithe
r. A man of supreme self-control, Dickens thought. Sir Neptune looked straight at him, raising a dark eyebrow. ‘Then you must come into the library. There is a fire. Pryor, organise some tea, if you will.’
Dickens followed Sir Neptune into the library which was everything one might expect: a mahogany table scattered with books and papers, glass fronted bookcases containing formidable leather-bound tomes — the library of an important and busy man. Meant to impress. It suggested authority, but Sir Neptune’s expression was still genial as he motioned Dickens to a comfortable armchair by the fire.
‘A glass of sherry, perhaps, my dear sir, while we wait for the tea?’
Dickens assented and they sat opposite each other, glasses in hand.
‘Now, Mr Dickens, what on earth is this delicate matter?’
‘I am in the way of an emissary from Mrs Pout.’ Was it the flickering fire or was there just the ghost of a shadow across the genial face?
‘This is about Miss Violet Pout. May I ask what is your interest?’
‘Mrs Dickens’s personal maid, Miss Brown, is Violet Pout’s godmother and, of course, a close friend of Mrs Pout. Mrs Pout is much distressed by her daughter’s absence. They thought you might see me.’
‘But I have spoken to Mrs Pout. I am very sorry for her. I told her what I know — that Miss Pout and our music tutor, Mr Sabatini, disappeared on the same day. I am afraid that I believe that there must have been —’
The door opened. A lady stood there. A thin, rather tremulous looking lady who hovered at the door.
‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Sir Neptune, I wondered…’ She made to retreat.
Dickens stood as did Sir Neptune, who said, ‘Ah, my dear, come in and meet Mr Charles Dickens.’
Dickens bowed as Lady Fane came towards him. She looked anxious. She would have been pretty and delicate as a girl, but she had faded, he thought, a dried flower of a woman, insignificant beside her handsome, vigorous husband. Under her lace cap, he could see that her hair had faded, too — it had once been golden, he surmised. He felt rather sorry for her.
She said how glad she was to meet him, praised his books, so enjoyed David Copperfield — ‘That poor child,’ she said, ‘such hardship in the bottle factory and poor little…’ she blushed. He wondered if she was going to say Little Em’ly, the girl who had been seduced by Steerforth. Perhaps she thought of her erstwhile music tutor. She stood uncertainly after he had thanked her, and looked at her husband as a servant might look at her master of whose temper she was never sure.
‘Well, my dear, sit with us. We are waiting for tea.’
A silent maid glided in with the tea and glided out again. A well-oiled household — except for the recent affair. Lady Fane arranged the cups, which tinkled slightly as if her hands trembled. Dickens felt a tension in the air and darted a glance at Sir Neptune. He looked irritated — because of wife’s nervousness or because he did not want her there? However, he received his cup with an amiable smile at his wife. Dickens took his cup. Lady Fane picked up a cup and saucer and put it down again. She looked at her husband.
Sir Neptune addressed her. ‘Mary, my dear, Mr Dickens has come about Miss Pout.’ He looked at Dickens. ‘My wife’s maid, Miss Brown, is the close friend of Mrs Pout, who is most anxious about —’
‘Oh, has she not returned home? We thought — that is — I thought that Miss Pout would be sure to…’ Lady Fane’s fingers worked under their lace mittens.
Sir Neptune picked up her unfinished sentence. ‘Apparently not, my dear, and I have told him what I told Mrs Pout, that we have no idea where she has gone.’
That seemed final, thought Dickens, but he resolved go on — he did not want to go back to Anne with exactly the same information that Mrs Pout had received. Lady Fane must have some opinion that was not just her husband’s.
‘Lady Fane, I realise that the matter is a delicate one, but I do wonder if you believe that Miss Pout has gone away with Mr Sabatini?’
The red stained her pale cheeks again, deeper and ugly somehow. One hand gripped the other. Her mouth opened and closed and he heard her take little, shaky breaths. He wondered if she might faint and cursed himself for misjudging the situation. Too eager. He should have been more careful. She looked at him and there was definitely alarm in her eyes. He did not dare look at Sir Neptune, but as he expected, Sir Neptune took the matter in hand.
‘It is very delicate, Mr Dickens, and, of course, we are upset. We placed our trust in our governess and music teacher. We are very disappointed. Before my wife came in, I was about to tell you that we can think of no other explanation for their disappearance than the obvious one. I am very sorry for Mrs Pout, but I do not know what I can do.’
‘I do see that, Sir Neptune, and I am much obliged for your time. I do not suppose that your elder daughter —’ Now, he felt it. A tremor in the air — something like a telegraph message sent along an invisible wire between Sir Neptune and his wife. The daughter did know something. He waited, feeling his heart beating faster.
Sir Neptune turned his frank gaze upon Dickens. ‘I think not, Mr Dickens. Our daughter, Mariana, is visiting relatives in the country. You can imagine that we are most anxious to shield her from any unpleasantness. She is young — a mere seventeen years. I do not know what gossip she may have heard from the servants —’ Had Jemima Curd gossiped, Dickens wondered, and been dismissed? Sir Neptune went smoothly on — ‘but that both the governess to her younger brother and sister and her own music master have departed simultaneously has naturally upset her — has upset us all.’ He looked at his wife, giving her the cue to speak.
The hands worked again. Lady Fane looked at her husband, not at Dickens. ‘It has — most distressing, a young girl like Mariana to suffer so —’
‘Not suffer, my dear Mary, I will not go as far as that. The healthy country air will do her good. Mariana is young — she will recover from this upset, with her lively cousins, long walks, and some parties, I daresay. Now, Mr Dickens, I am sorry that we cannot be of more help.’ He stood up and went to ring a bell at the fireside.
It was a dismissal, courteously and smoothly done, but the tone said ‘enough’.
Dickens rose. In for a penny, he thought. He looked at Lady Fane. ‘I wonder if you have information about Mr Sabatini. Where his family might be?’ They must know. They would hardly employ a strolling vagabond with a hurdy-gurdy.
Lady Fane’s eyes went to her husband, who answered, ‘Of course, of course. Sabatini lived with his mother. She is Irish. His father was an Italian painter of some repute, I am told.’ Sir Neptune sounded as if he did not quite believe it. ‘He is dead now. They live in Osnaburgh Terrace — number seven.’
Sir Neptune escorted Dickens to the door where the footman waited. The library door did not close. Sir Neptune would be listening. Dickens could not therefore speak to the footman. He wanted to ask about Jemima Curd; he had realised that it would have been impossible to ask Sir Neptune or his wife. What business was it of his that they had dismissed a servant? In any case, the footman would not be willing to answer, he was sure. The man had his job to think of.
Dickens went out of the front door, merely bidding the footman a courteous farewell. He walked swiftly down the drive and onto Upper Church Street again. What now?
Had Jemima Curd shared the speculation about Violet Pout and Rolando Sabatini with her seventeen-year-old mistress? Had Mariana told her mother, and had that resulted in Jemima’s dismissal? Had she found her rackety family again? It was a pity that she could not be discovered. He dared not seek out Mrs Pick who had promised to try to find a position for Jemima. Sir Neptune had made it clear that he could do nothing.
He thought about Lady Fane. What a bundle of nerves she was, and that use of the word ‘suffer’ which Sir Neptune had rather quickly dismissed, why was that important? He said Mariana had been upset — no doubt she had been. Any sheltered young girl would be. Lady Fane’s word was “suffer”. There was a difference, he thought. Sir Neptun
e obviously thought so. It implied, perhaps, a closeness between Mariana and Violet and then a betrayal of that friendship.
Mrs Pout had not been able to talk to the young lady. Mariana Fane did know something and had been packed off to the country. Not that his speculations helped. He certainly would not be able to talk to her even if he knew where she was. So, two people who had information were not to be found. Sir Neptune’s servants were off-limits — and the footman, he had stumbled over the word ‘Miss’. What did he know? Well, he could ask at the Carlyle house. And then he would have to go to see Rolando Sabatini’s mother. Perhaps she knew something.
4: At Mrs Carlyle’s
Dickens walked down to Cheyne Row and stopped at the tall narrow house. He went up the steps and gave a double knock. No one came, but there was a light upstairs. He knocked again and heard hurried footsteps. A harassed looking Mrs Carlyle opened the door.
‘Charles Dickens!’
‘The same. No servant?’
Mrs Carlyle’s troubles with her servants were the stuff of legend — a series of comic interludes, unless you were the recipient of half-plucked fowls, stale fish, burnt soup, or a drunken cook, insensible on the kitchen floor. No wonder Thomas Carlyle suffered agonies of dyspepsia.
‘Deaf,’ said Jane as she led him up the stairs, ‘it came upon her of a sudden and she says she’ll die of grief listening for bells and never hearing them.’
They sat down in the parlour. Nero, the little white dog, came to put a friendly paw on Dickens’s knee and looked at him with longing black eyes. Jane loved her little dog — more than any human, he sometimes thought.