“It’s a view, sir. Of rooftops, anyway. If ya like that sort of thing.”
Dickens stood beside him and looked out. He could see the outlines of his own reflection in the dingy glass, flames awakening in the small fireplace behind him. Outside, the sky had cleared and the moon welcomed a huddle of crazy chimney stacks, gables, and peaked roofs, all leaning against each other; sleepy windows, some gaping, some broken-paned and stuffed with rags; and in the distance, through a narrow gap, the tip-top of his clock tower peeping over them. If he stood close enough and pressed his forehead against the glass, he could look down to slivers of streets and alleys that led to his little square. His world felt whole again.
“How long’ll ya be stayin’, sir?” asked the clerk.
“As long as it takes. I’m to write a Christmas book.”
“A writer. Now I see. Ya like this room fer luck!”
“I’m hoping. In fact, I wonder if you might do me the favor of the loan of a quill and some ink and paper.”
“I s’pose I could,” said the clerk, with his signature wink, “if we keeps it strictly confidential.”
Dickens smiled, grateful. The clerk started for the door, turning back with a thought.
“But if it’s a Christmas book, ya best ’urry, Mr. Scrooge.”
*
The sun rose and fell and rose again, before word got to Forster where his friend was installed. He marched to Furnival’s first thing to demand an explanation, but found an unshaven, slack-shirted Dickens hunkered happily over his old table, pen floating side to side. Forster surveyed the room, rocking on a warped floorboard. The wallpaper peeled at its seams where it wasn’t scraped away altogether or discolored with damp. The rug had faded into a dirty wash of not-quite-color, its edges more frayed than fringed.
“Are you quite sure about this place?”
“Never more sure.”
Forster stared at the “mister” chair, judging whether it was safe to sit on. Its sun-bleached gold velvet was worn to the nubbins and stained.
“I daresay, it’s much changed,” he said, choosing to stand instead.
“As am I,” said Dickens, putting down his pen. He stacked his new pages and rose from his chair, not tired in the least. “But when I stood before it, how my heart yenned for those memless, penniless, worryless days. For the writer I was then. Why, since late my first night here I’ve been smoky at work, as if this were the very thing I needed all along.”
Forster edged closer to the writing table. He cocked his chin hard to the left, trying to make out the upside-down words on the page. “The Christmas book?”
“I’ve got my steam on for it, Forster.”
“Have you a title?”
“Oh, better than a title.”
“A plot?”
Dickens buttoned his waistcoat, went to a small three-legged basin, and splashed water on his face, giving nothing else away.
“A character? A scene?” asked Forster, hope flagging. “Have mercy, Boz, and toss me a crumb to nibble on?”
“You shall know soon enough.”
“I remind you it’s to be to the printers two weeks from today. Two weeks!”
“I don’t even know what today is!” said Dickens, glad of the fact.
“Tuesday,” said Forster. “With too few Tuesdays left before Christmas.”
“It’s meant to be a short book. You know I’ve written more in less time before. And I’m writing again. That should make you happy.”
Forster looked around the rooms, waving shafts of gritty light away. “But Furnival’s Inn? This frenzy of yours?”
“A frenzy that just may finish it in time.”
“Very well. But be watchful, Boz. Word is out that Chapman and Hall have asked for a Christmas book, and there are spies everywhere, wanting to beat you to the punch.”
“Don’t worry!” he said, toweling his face with a kerchief. “No one knows my whereabouts, I assure you.”
18
The pushing, throbbing market at Covent Garden was just the place to lose himself and find inspiration there for the taking. The warm weather notwithstanding, the holiday season had begun in earnest. A brigade of holiday billstickers, armed with paste pot and brush, blinded walls with colorful broadsides promoting this tonic, that corset, a snuffbox, an ale. Costermonger baskets brimmed with holly, its shiny leaves and red berries the best advertising there was. The pilfered greens, extracted at night from the best London homes and walls, were today cheerfully sold back to the very housekeepers whose houses the coster boys had filched them from. But no one cared. Everyone was buying. Even the poor wanted their pennyworth of holly, laurel, and “mizzletoe.”
Ladies shopped, hawkers shouted, pickpockets picked pockets.
Dickens fell in with a swarm of shoppers and donkey-barrows streaming in from Long Acre to the Strand on one side, Bow to Bedford on the other. The flagstones were stained green from the tromped-on leaves underfoot, and slippery as ice. He liked the rattle of iron tires, the hawking and gossip, teasing and fun, but the bell of the muffin-and-crumpet man called to him above all else. He hadn’t eaten in two days.
He pivoted toward the smell of fresh bread, when he caught sight of a small figure shadowed in an arched doorway, peering out at him. It was a ragged boy, in a man’s clothes, sketching fast with a stump of black lead. His eyes, too big for his face, stole glances at him; the child drew quick, sharp strokes in between. Dickens was used to this, the quick-sketch artists in the street, trading on celebrity and gossip, for their fair share of not very much at all. He didn’t mind, as long as the likeness was a good one. He started for the lad, who, seeing him approach, darted into the crowd. He meant the boy no harm, was only curious to see what he’d drawn. If it was good, he might’ve even been flattered and given the child a coin for it. He stopped and looked in all directions, but the boy had disappeared.
When he turned back, a toothless old woman with a dried-plum face blocked his path. She stuck a roughly tied bundle of dried flowers under his nose. “Lavender for the missus, sir?”
“Oh, no,” said Dickens, stumbling over his words. “The missus is … away.”
“Perhaps a ‘miss,’ then,” said the woman, pumping her woolly brows and cackling like a goose.
Dickens shook his head and stepped around her. It jolted him to be reminded of Catherine’s sudden departure, to say the words aloud. She had left him, no, left him to himself, that was her point. She must have known he couldn’t bear to be at home without her. Perhaps that was to be his penance. So how propitious that Furnival’s had materialized out of the ether to shelter him. The place he’d spent his bachelor days, before Catherine, before marriage and children. It was true certain burdens of daily life now felt lessened by it, and returned him to that younger self, with only his own needs to meet. Hunger the first among them.
He followed the sound of the muffin man’s bell receding from the piazza, fixing his eyes on the white apron tied at the seller’s back and the tray on his head covered with green baize. Now that it was well past noon, he’d be lucky if a single crumpet remained, but if so, he determined to be the one to have it. He tunneled into the crowd in pursuit, when he stopped short at the sight of flowing purple velvet weaving in and out of the throng not twenty feet in front of him—the cloak of the young woman he’d met that night in the square. He nudged people out of the way to clear his view and get closer; she was grace in every step, finally settling into a small crowd of shoppers with an empty basket over her arm, inspecting a wagonload of winter cabbages. Her hood was down; she wore no bonnet. He marveled at the soft lines of her profile, the milky skin and just-right nose, the bloom of primrose on her cheek. Her light mahogany hair was braided in a wreath at the back of her head, save a loose tendril that danced against her neck. When she happened to look left and catch his eye, she blushed at the sight of him and turned quickly away. Why shouldn’t she? He was gawking at her like an infatuated schoolboy. But he seized on the serendipity. The old wom
an was still clucking close behind him.
“In fact, I will have the flowers,” he said. “They may yet brighten someone’s day.”
He exchanged a coin for them and took the lavender tight in his fist, but when he spun around to the cabbage wagon, the young woman was gone. In her stead, a buxom woman dressed in a riot of fuchsia and green was bearing down on him, blocking out everything else. It was Maria Beadnell herself.
“Is that you, Charley?” she called, elbowing her way to stand before him, in a gushing display of jewels and joie di vivre: a hat in the French style, voluminous pink ostrich feathers spouting from a brown velvet cap, earrings a dangling spray of leaves, flowers, and birds in gold, peridot, and amethyst. If her husband was indeed a bankrupt, it was as if the less money she had, the more gaudy her display.
“Fancy the two of us meeting here, of all places! How I love the low life, don’t you?”
Dickens was speechless. Despite his dismissal of her recent attentions, and Forster’s warnings about her needing money, the sight of Maria still made his heart stop. He relived the terror of first feelings and the horror of their recent reunion all at once—a dream interrupted by a nightmare. He gave her a lopsided smile and wielded the bouquet between them like a buffer. But they were no defense against her.
“Lavender for me?” she said, a hand to her ample breast. “The very symbol of love, devotion, and purity?”
“Actually, Maria, I—”
“How terribly sweet,” she said, plucking the flowers from his grasp. “Why, since our meeting I’ve been hoping against hope we might find each other again, and here we are, walking down memory lane together.”
“Indeed, I’m just now on my way—”
“Oh, don’t be silly! This is fate, plain and simple. We have years of catching up to do, Charley, years and years. Don’t you agree? Why, we’ve hardly just begun. In fact, you must come ’round for tea. I insist. I’ve a cabriolet waiting around the corner.”
Dickens was trapped like a rat. “Tea, now? In the afternoon?”
“Haven’t you heard? It’s all the rage. With dinner so late these days, we all need a light repast to sustain us. You know that terrible sinking feeling ’round midafternoon? Of course, we have the Duchess of Bedford to thank for it, but I’m told ‘afternoon tea’ will soon be enjoyed throughout the empire. Tea with scones and clotted cream! Shall we be decadent together?”
Dickens had a sinking feeling of his own. Maria wiggled her arm through his, an iron grip on his elbow. Even if she was angling for a loan, he was hungry and had no will to resist her. At the very least, he was assured of a fancy, well-baked bun and perhaps a nice glass of sherry. But he cast a glance over his shoulder as they went, hoping to catch sight once more of the young woman in the purple cloak.
She was nowhere to be seen.
19
Dickens was surprised to find, awaiting them at Artillery Place, a low table laid with a fat pink rose on the side of each cup, hearts of lettuce, thin bread, butter, and pillowy scones baked that morning. It was as if she’d been stalking him with every expectation of success. Once his hunger was sated, he’d suffered politely through the rest, learning more about “little tea,” “low tea,” “high tea,” and “handed tea” than any one person should know. If it was the rage and the thing, it was also a twaddle and a bore. But Maria prattled on.
Over the hoped-for glass of sherry, he endured the requisite false praise and flummery of him, followed by a second glass to wash down a gloating, unnecessary discursion on the merits of Mr. Winter—her beloved Henry—which Dickens felt sure was the windup to a plea for money. But the plea never came. A part of him wanted her to ask, beg even, so he could refuse her. Perhaps that’s why he’d come, or stayed so long, to exact some small crumb of revenge for the way she’d tossed him over and then pitied his misery. That memory of Maria had haunted him for years. This was torment of another variety.
If there was no satisfaction to be had over tea, the importunate Maria Beadnell was turned quickly to the service of the Christmas book. Back at Furnival’s, she inspired him late into the night. A spiteful smile played on his features as he dipped his pen and wrote.
“No sooner did his eyes fall upon the subject of his old passion—her lizard tongue darting out in search of each bite, a dollop of clotted cream clinging to the folds of her chin—than cherished memories of Christmas past were lost to him forever.”
Dickens laid down his quill, checked his watch, found it near midnight, and stood for his coat. Outside, a recent downpour had mellowed to a sprinkle, which refreshed his upturned face. He set off straight for the Folly, where he hoped, with any luck, to catch a moment with the purple-cloaked young woman, whose sighting that morning had stayed with him since then, perhaps even helped him suffer through his imprisonment at Artillery Place. He had no plan as to what he would say to her, but the mere thought of being in her presence, however briefly, softened the harder edges of his day.
He lurked near the stage door, waiting as parties of play-watchers burst out of the gallery doors—the half-price pit and box sitters footing it into the muddy street for the gin palaces and public houses, while the more haughtily dressed joggled into hackney coaches and cabriolets. To avoid detection, not only for fear of Maria, who seemed to be all but hunting him, but because he was known among the theatergoing crowd, he turned to face the brick wall and pulled his hat low. Under the wavering yellow gaslight, the playbills plastered on every square inch shouted for attention. Macready’s HAMLET was buried by advertisements from every theater in town: MONSIEUR PLEGE AND HIS LAUGHING GAS! HERR BOORN WITH HIS LIVING MARIONETTES! MADAME BARIERE WITH HER LIONS, BEARS AND DOGS DINING WITH HER AT TABLE AND TAKING FOOD FROM HER MOUTH! Working his way along, he was promised circus acts, sea battles, a grand bal masqué, and, of course, the to-be-revealed, not-to-be-missed GORGEOUS COMIC CHRISTMAS SHOW, every theater’s one assured money-spinner of the year.
At the end of the collage, he found a fresh-pasted poster shouting louder than all the others. It had bright orange type, some words as tall as a head, announcing, FOR THE FOURTH TIME, AN ENTIRELY ORIGINAL, IRONICAL BURLETTA OF MEN & MANNERS FOUNDED ON THE CELEBRATED PAPERS BY ‘BOZ!’ WRITTEN AND ADAPTED EXPRESSLY FOR THIS ESTABLISHMENT BY W. MONCRIEFF AND CALLED, NICHOLAS NICKLEBY, OR DOINGS AT DO-THE-BOYS HALL!
Dickens fumed. He could hardly count the number of theaters and playwrights who’d stolen his work and made insufferable fluff of it, at times before he’d even finished the book in question. Forster had sued the plagiarists and fought every theater manager in town, nearly to fisticuffs, to no avail. Dickens finally took the matter up on his own, wanting to make an example of Moncrieff in particular, the most relentless dramatic thief, who’d mutiliated his work time and again. He satirized him cruelly as “Mr. Crummles” in Nickleby, all unbound self-conceit and vanity. Moncrieff responded by stealing Nickleby. Apparently, on an annual basis.
“Boz!” He heard a thundering baritone, and turned to find William Macready lumbering toward him, arms outstretched, leaving his flock of fellow thespians and hangers-on to wait by the stage door. Dickens was never more glad for those flat features, irregular nose, and natural scowl, not the look of an actor at all, but eyes full of fire and warmth.
“Macready!” he said, starting with a hearty handshake and ending in a hug.
They were old friends, godfather to each other’s children—mutual admirers. It was well established in their circle that Macready, a man of high culture and wide reading, thought Dickens a genius, had sobbed openly over three of his books, and considered him one of only two amateurs with any pretension to theatrical talent. Dickens relished recalling the night Macready confided to him that his own two Macbeths put together paled next to Dickens’ public reading of Twist. He didn’t care that some found Macready a moody, ill-tempered, grumbling egotist; he had never fought with Dickens, and even called him “the one friend who really loves me.”
“Oh, Boz. I do hope you haven’t se
en my Hamlet tonight. Not quite up to snuff, you know?”
“I haven’t. Why, is something the matter?”
Macready leaned in, lowering his voice. “I am to quit the London theater.”
“Good heavens! Why?”
“All the wrong people are making the money, and none of the right ones are,” he said, sweeping his arm across the ocean of playbills.
“I know the feeling.”
“I knew you would.”
A few more actors emerged from the theater, with stagehands, a musician, a pair of ushers. Dickens was glad to see Macready, but another part of him yearned for a glimpse of purple cloth. He was determined not to miss the girl twice in one day, if only to apologize for his forwardness the night they’d met under the clock tower when he’d nearly chased her home.
Macready carried on, oblivious, eyes flaring with an idea. He grabbed Dickens’ forearm and held it hard. “In fact, Boz, do you remember, long ago as young actors together, how we dreamed of a traveling troupe?”
“I do remember, of course.”
“Well, a few of us are plotting to put on all of Shakespeare’s plays before audiences who’ve never seen them. Virgin audiences. We sail for India in the new year!”
Macready had his attention now, filled his head with color and spice: fire-breathing red, deep orange-marigold, golden turmeric, Krishna-blue, and the bright green of happiness. Queen Victoria herself had recently introduced curry powder, made of ginger, cardamom, pepper, and mace, which had opened a new world of culinary possibility. It tasted of freedom to him.
“India…”
“It is a vast, untapped market!”
“Have you room for one more?”
“Of course! Why, I’ve always said you were born to theatricals!” Macready waved vaguely to his waiting fans and fellow actors. “Come dine with us. You remember the old chophouse—”
Mr. Dickens and His Carol Page 8