by J C Briggs
‘He wants a sugar lump.’ She took some sugar from her pocket and Nero went to claim it. ‘What breeze blows you to our windswept Chelsea on a winter’s evening? Thomas is away on a visit and says he will be back by six o’clock, which means half-past, I daresay. Now, tea is an impossibility, I should think — there will be much ado in the lower regions over a fowl to be plucked. If I order tea I shall have to go down and I cannot face the fowl — or Fanny for that matter.’
‘No, indeed, I have taken tea. I will tell you where in a moment. I came with a view to speaking to your servant.’
‘I wish you joy. She is a nervous, helpless creature inclined to burst into tears at the sight of a winding sheet at the candle — fancies that a bit of dripping wax is an omen of death. She’ll die on the spot if you speak to her. You’d better tell me about it.’
‘It’s a long story, Mrs Carlyle. I have just come from your neighbours at Wisteria Lodge.’
‘Ah, the handsome sea god, Sir Neptune, with a little scrap of seaweed clinging to him like — I was going to say a barnacle, but I realise my metaphor is somewhat mixed.’
Dickens laughed. How like Jane Carlyle — the husband and wife skewered with deadly accuracy by that sharp tongue.
‘Exactly my impression.’
‘I didn’t know you knew them.’
‘I don’t, or didn’t. It is about the missing governess and the music tutor.’
‘Oh, I heard about that. Disappeared on the same moonlit night so rumour painted by many tongues has it. I rather doubt the moon.’
‘What have you heard?’
‘Just that, really. It was not even a nine days’ wonder. Sir Neptune has made no comment. One would not expect Lady Fane to talk — she hardly goes about. I heard the rumour from a gaggle of gossips I took tea with. What has it to do with you?’
Dickens told her about Jemima Curd, Anne Brown and Mrs Pout. ‘So, I felt I ought to try to find out something. I tried to find Jemima Curd, but she’s vanished, too. I rather wanted to question this Mrs Pick, who was going to find Jemima Curd a new place, but I could hardly question Sir Neptune’s servants without seeing him.’
‘What did you make of them?’
‘Hard to say — but he could not help me. He rather took the view that Violet Pout and Rolando Sabatini have eloped together, and it was not his concern. I could not speak to the daughter, who is away in the country. She’s the one who would know about a love affair, I suppose. I detected some alarm in Lady Fane when I asked about her daughter. Do you know anything about Miss Mariana Fane?’
‘Only that she is in the country. It’s understandable. They would want to protect her.’
‘Yes, Lady Fane seemed to think she had suffered, though Sir Neptune was quick to say that she would recover her spirits very quickly. Lady Fane struck me as rather a nervous type — under his thumb, I thought.’
‘Yes, she is — both, that is. I have met them a few times. Solicitous in company, plenty “my dears”, but I tend to think on how many devoted husbands are apt, from mere habit, to get devoted to other people’s wives.’
‘And has he?’
‘I have not heard so, but then he’d be careful. He’s a rising man. Lady Fane isn’t much to look at and she don’t say much — next door to a fool, I think. She had the money — daughter of a wealthy banker. He’s the son of an Irish clergyman family — well-connected but without means. He’s done well — looks and charm, Mr Dickens, go a long way these days. I need hardly say that Mr Carlyle finds him shallow.’
Dickens smiled at her. ‘You need not — all shine and no depth.’
‘I, of course, go wherever I am invited, however much I dislike the people who ask me.’
‘You do not like Sir Neptune?’
‘I am inclined to agree with Thomas, though Sir Neptune is very civil to an old thing like me. Now, don’t say anything, Charles Dickens. I am nearly fifty, and you know what a brimstone creature I am.’
Dickens grinned at her. He thought her very pleasing to look at, dark-haired and slender with large dark eyes shining with intelligence. Giuseppe Mazzini liked her and she liked him, and when she stroked Nero he saw such a tender, soft look in her eyes. But it was very true, one had to be wary. His compliment remained unsaid.
‘So, you thought my servant might know something of Jemima Curd, or about the governess?’ Jane Carlyle asked.
‘I thought you might know the Fanes and that there might be some acquaintance between the servants.’
‘Well, we shall have to go downstairs, and farewell to the old adage that a thorough lady is one who has not entered her kitchen for seven years. I am always in mine so what that makes me, I cannot say. Perhaps a gentleman is always a gentleman wherever he may be.’
‘And a lady, a lady, even in her kitchen.’
They went down, Jane making as much noise as she could on the stairs. Dickens made a clattering, too, but still the girl started as they entered the kitchen. Dickens feared for Thomas Carlyle’s supper, more or less plucked now. There were a great many feathers in the air.
Jane ignored the fowl and the feathers. ‘Fanny, dear,’ she began.
Fanny’s eyes filled. She was a short, dumpy girl but with a pretty face, a clear complexion and the look of a startled hare.
Jane became brisk and spoke loudly. ‘Mr Dickens wishes to ask you some questions about Jemima Curd, Miss Fanes’s maid.’
‘Oh, she ain’t there no more cos of Miss Mariana bein’ sent to the country after the — er — governess left.’
Dickens realised that briskness was the most efficacious manner of dealing with Fanny. Her tears seem to have dried. ‘Did Jemima tell you anything about the governess and the music tutor?’
‘Said it couldn’t be true. Music teacher was more with Miss Mariana. Jemima said Miss Mariana was sweet on ’im. I saw ’im — ’e was ’andsome. Jemima thought Miss Pout ’ad ’er own sweetheart.’
Dickens did not comment. ‘You don’t know where Jemima is, I suppose.’
‘Dunno — up an’ went all of a sudden. Gone ’ome I serpose.’
That was no more than he knew. Still the suggestions about the tutor’s and Violet’s separate love affairs were worth pondering. He thanked Fanny, told her she had been most helpful, and gave her a florin. Jane took advantage of the girl’s pleasure to tell her to try to get on with the fowl and that she would come down later to assist.
‘Well, Charles, perhaps Miss Fane’s languishing after the tutor was the reason they sent her away. Perhaps the music tutor was playing her false. It might explain Lady Fane’s talk of Miss Fane’s suffering.’
‘And Sir Neptune’s quick refuting of it. Long walks in the country, eh? What kind of girl is Miss Fane?’
‘Very pretty — a young version of her mother, I imagine. Shy, I thought, not that I paid much attention. Insipid as the white of an egg. Hardly interesting at all — to me at any rate.’
She wouldn’t be, thought Dickens. ‘But to Rolando Sabatini, perhaps?’
‘Quite. So, you need to find Miss Jemima Curd, or to find another servant to talk to. I doubt the housekeeper would tell you anything — more than her job’s worth to gossip. I daren’t set Fanny on it — she’s not clever enough to dissemble. I can only ask in a few days if she has heard anything from Wisteria Lodge. That’s the best I can do.’
‘And I am much obliged, Jane. Let me know if you hear anything. My kindest regards to Mr Carlyle — when he comes.’
Jane showed him out. She did not hold out much hope of finding out anything more, but she was intrigued. A little detective work. Perhaps she could call on Lady Fane — when Sir Neptune wasn’t there.
5: At Osnaburgh Terrace
Osnaburgh Terrace, well, well. Dickens had not been there since 1844, though it was a mere step from Devonshire Terrace. He had rented number nine for a few months before he had gone to Italy, from May to June, he remembered — the Osnaburgh encampment he had called it. And what was interesting was that Robe
rt Smirke, the artist, had lived at number three and St. George Pierce, the still life painter, had been his neighbour at number ten. Perhaps it was not surprising that Mrs Sabatini, whose husband had been a painter, lived there, too.
Smirke was dead, he knew that. He had died in 1845 at the great age of ninety-two. It was hard to imagine — he would be ninety-two in — great heavens, in 1904! Now that was unimaginable. The twentieth century. What an extraordinary thought. He didn’t suppose he would live until then. Though his grandmother, Elizabeth Dickens, had lived until she was eighty — a formidable old woman who had given him a silver watch. He would die at his desk, he thought. Better to die, doing.
But St. George Pierce was still living — he could visit there, see if he knew anything of the Sabatini family. Bound to. The father had been an artist. However, first he would visit the widow at number seven. He passed number nine and came to a house in darkness. Perhaps Mrs Sabatini had gone away, too. He looked down into the area steps. In a lighted window of what must be the kitchen he could see a woman kneading bread. Probably not Mrs Sabatini. A servant?
He went down the steps and knocked at the area door. It was opened by a white-haired woman who looked at him suspiciously.
‘I wonder if I might speak with Mrs Sabatini?’
The white-haired lady gazed at him with eyes like hard jet beads. ‘No here.’ She waved her floury hand at him. Its message was ‘Go away.’
That was definite. She sounded Italian, and she was shutting the door. He tried again. ‘Scusi signora, solo Mr Dickens, Charles Dickens —’ she didn’t close the door, but the little black eyes remained hostile — ‘prego, ecco mia carta per Signora Sabatini.’
The woman took the card without another word and the door closed. He heard the key in the lock. Perhaps she thought he was selling something. He went back up the steps and stood by the railings. He could see her through the window examining the card, turning it over. Would she throw it in that cheerful kitchen fire? But no, she put in the pocket of her apron and disappeared from view. Mrs Sabatini might get it.
He stood on the pavement. Was it too late to go to see St. George Pierce? He glanced up at the curtained window on the right side of the porch. He was sure that there was the briefest glimpse of light. Someone had twitched the curtain, he was certain, but it was gone now. A memory came to him of Italy, of Venice — that time when he had thought he had seen a light from a ruined palazzo. He had been wrong then. Probably was now.
He turned away and walked past number nine to number ten. Pierce was an artist — he wouldn’t mind a late call, surely. He knocked. A rather lovely girl answered the door. Lily, it must be, Pierce’s daughter. She knew him at once.
‘Mr Dickens — how astonishing! I saw you the other night at the theatre. You were with Mr Maclise. There was such a crush that I had not the chance to speak to you. And now you are here. Are you come to see Father? I can take you up.’
She led him upstairs to Pierce’s studio where the painter was contemplating a rather beautiful composition on his easel.
‘That’s a beauty,’ said Dickens.
‘Well, well, Charles Dickens! How long is it?’
‘Too long, I am ashamed to say.’ He looked again at the painting. ‘My word it is lovely.’
‘“Nature and Art”, I call it. It’s a commission for a wealthy brewer.’ It was a picture brimming with colour — reds and pinks, Dickens’s favourites, in roses and jewels, blood-warm rubies and pearls silvered where the light from a casement caught them, and a rich crimson carafe, chased with more silver, and deep purple grapes, so polished and bursting with juice that you could taste them.
‘The colours are wonderful and the whole thing resembling and refining upon nature — those rubies taking on and deepening the colour of the roses, and I feel as if I leaned nearer I should smell them.’
‘You’d smell varnish, I’m afraid, but I appreciate your comments, Mr Dickens. However, I take it you did not come just to look at my pictures.’
‘Alas, no — I do have an ulterior motive. I came about your neighbour, Mrs Sabatini. It’s a long tale which concerns several missing persons, one of whom, in particular, I am an under an obligation to try to find.’
‘Well, while you are telling, perhaps you will take some wine. This,’ St. George Pierce said, holding up the beautiful red glass jug chased with silver, ‘is an Italian wine, given, coincidentally, by my neighbour, Mrs Sabatini.’
Dickens took a glass. ‘With beaded bubbles winking at the brim.’
St. George Pierce smiled. ‘Did you visit Keats’s grave when you were in Rome?’
‘I did, and very moving it was. That inscription about his name being “writ in water” struck me most powerfully. If only he had known.’
‘Well, yours will not be writ in water — we know that already.’
‘Nor yours, indeed,’ Dickens answered, gesturing at the picture, ‘this is the very flask, I see. Reminds me of Venice.’
‘Where Agosto Sabatini came from, though Mrs Sabatini is Irish; what did you want her for?’
Dickens recited his tale, ending with the query about whether the lady had gone away.
‘Not that I know of. I haven’t seen Rolando at all. You say he is supposed to have eloped with this Miss Pout?’
‘That is what I have been told by Sir Neptune Fane. I had a lead to a Jemima Curd, a servant of Sir Neptune’s, but she has vanished and the young lady, Miss Mariana Fane, who might have known something, has been sent to the country.’
A barrel-organ started in the street. Pierce went to close the window. ‘I was getting rid of the smell of varnish.’
‘He was rather good, the musician — better than average. Professional, I daresay.’
‘Fallen on hard times,’ Pierce said. ‘Lily will give him something, though, that means he will be back. He’s Italian.’
‘He would be. There are so many thousands living in London that I despair of finding Rolando Sabatini. He could be playing a barrel-organ in a street somewhere.’
‘And the young lady?’ Pierce asked.
‘I honestly don’t know. Her mother has enquired of family, school friends, everyone she could think of. I don’t know that I can do more, but I should like to learn something about Rolando and his family.’
‘Agosto Sabatini, the father, came to London in 1820 as little more than a boy, I think. He was taken up by the poet Ugo Foscolo. Some family connection, I believe. Sabatini attended the Royal Academy Schools. I think Foscolo paid. Sabatini did well. He made a decent living — portraits mostly and taught Italian as well as painting.’
‘And Mrs Sabatini?’ Dickens asked.
‘A very beautiful woman. A love story, I believe. Her father was quite a comfortably off man, some kind of lawyer in Ireland. She met Sabatini over here — how, I don’t know, but her gave her the house on her marriage; however, she hasn’t a great deal of money, not enough to keep the boy without a profession. Hence the music teaching.’
‘Can you believe the story of the elopement?’
‘Depends on the girl, I suppose. Rolando is very devoted to his mother, especially after Agosto Sabatini’s death which happened five years ago when the boy was sixteen or so. I wouldn’t have thought he would risk hurting his mother. In any case, why would they elope? They could have resigned their positions, returned to their respective homes, and continued a respectable courtship.’
Dickens thought about Violet Pout. Pierce’s words were quite sensible. He thought about the respectable house at number seven, the reasonably successful father, the beautiful mother, whose father had been a lawyer. Why should Violet Pout wish to conceal that? Mrs Pout, surely, would be pleased enough, though she might have set her hopes higher. He remembered that refrain “Sir Neptune”. Unless Mrs Carlyle’s maid’s words were true, that Violet Pout had her own sweetheart.
‘You are quite right,’ he said to St. George Pierce, ‘why would they conceal their relationship? It is hardly so surprising a
situation.’
‘It certainly is not — Mrs Sabatini fell in love with her drawing teacher, married and lived happily ever after. I doubt she would have objected to her son doing the same thing.’
‘I am much obliged to you, my dear Pierce, for the information, though, if anything, matters are more obscure than they were before I stepped across your threshold. I can only wait and see —’
‘If anything turns up, as your Mr Micawber would say.’
Dickens laughed. ‘And, if not, then I must turn my attention to coals, I suppose. At this point I cannot share the sanguinary imaginings of Wilkins Micawber.’
Dickens rose to go. St. George Pierce stopped him with a motion of his hand. ‘I’ve remembered something. Rolando Sabatini told me that Miss Fane was sitting for her portrait.’
‘By whom?’
‘I don’t know. It would have been when he was here last — some months ago. There were a good many people so I suppose we must have been interrupted. It was just a passing comment. I think we were looking at the picture there.’ He pointed to the portrait of a young woman on the wall: Lily, the artist’s daughter. ‘Someone he knew, perhaps?’
‘I will have to ask Mrs Sabatini — if I get to see her. I left my card.’
‘I am sure she will want to see you. Who would not?’
‘Unless she has something to hide.’
‘I really doubt that, Mr Dickens. I know enough of her — an honest woman, who will be most anxious about her son if he is missing. He may be away with her.’
‘Of course, I never thought of that — too busy conjuring sinister plots. I should have asked the lady in the kitchen.’
‘She would not have told you, the Signora Minelli — very protective of her lady, and of Rolando. She has been with them for years.’
‘The dragon at the gate — she wasn’t very welcoming. Oh well, I shall have to possess my soul in patience and hope that the Signora Sabatini is unable to resist me.’
Dickens walked away into Albany Street and turned up to Park Square, past the Diorama. Before he had ever been, he had seen pictures from Italy there. As a very young man he had paid his shilling to see the Basilica of St. Paul near Rome; he had seen the inside of St. Peter’s, all lit up with tapers; he had even witnessed the village of Alagni in Piedmont crushed by a terrifying avalanche; he had shivered at the shimmering iciness of Mont Blanc; he had been dazzled by the waters of Lake Maggiore rippling under the effects of the clever play of light through hidden windows and skylights, light which was altered by the use of binds and shutters manipulated by lines and pulleys — not that he had known all that. He had been lost in wonder.