Girl in a Blue Dress

by Gaynor Arnold

  My pleasure? My heart was pounding so much I was astonished that my voice came out so coolly. “I should like you to be still and sensible for a moment, Mr. Gibson. Before you wear yourself out.”

  “Miss Millar puts us right! A man cannot always be capering about with the ladies. A man must be still and sensible.” He sat down next to Mama and affected a pose of thoughtfulness, chin on hand. Everyone laughed. I felt foolish and struggled to think of a witty response, but it was not (and still is not) my forte. Anyway, on this occasion, I was too excited to think.

  At supper (where he was placed across the table from me, wedged in between Sissy and Papa) I asked him how his new play was coming along. He told us it was almost finished, and that in the manner of Shakespeare it was “comical-tragical-historical-pastoral.”

  “What is it about?” said Mama as she helped us to ham and cabbage.

  “Love, Mrs. Millar.” He spoke airily as he passed the plates around in an accommodating manner. “It’s the only subject for a young man. Young men, you see, are so apt to be struggling in the throes of the same-said mortal passion.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “Surely,” I said, my eyes fixed on a watercolor behind his head, “you are not struggling in the throes of mortal passion yourself, Mr. Gibson?”

  “Every day, every minute, every second. Can you doubt it, Miss Millar?” He laughed delightedly.

  “Indeed I can.” I allowed my eyes to rest on his. “I doubt, Mr. Gibson, that you are serious about anything.”

  He looked at me steadily: “Then you are very wrong, Miss Millar. I am the most serious man on earth.”

  I was in such turmoil after that, I could hardly eat my supper. I could hardly hold my knife and fork to eat it with. Indeed, I hardly knew I had a knife and fork. Or a plate. Or a glass. I could only see the vivid face, the shining eyes. I could only hear the thrilling voice. It seemed as though all at the table were silent save him. And that we were content for it to be that way; captivated, enthralled.

  KITTY IS AWAKE now, shaken into life by Augustus. She stares at him, at the room, at me; tries to make sense of it all. Then a look of pain crosses her face. She has remembered. Then: “Augustus, what are you doing here?”

  “I was got up, for my sins. You’re needed, apparently. The will’s being read. Eleven o’clock sharp at Park House. They are all going, the whole pack of ’em. We need to be there, to protect your interests.”

  “I don’t want anything!” She stares defiantly from the pillow. Augustus responds by pulling the sheets away, exposing her naked legs and the dark smudge of hair beneath the rucked-up nightgown. He sees it and hesitates. A look passes between them. I push him aside: “I’ll dress her, Augustus. You can sit in the parlor. We shan’t be long.”

  “No, I’ll wait.” He stations himself on the ottoman and grins. “A man can watch his own wife en deshabille, I hope, Ma? I’ve got nothing else to pass the time.”

  I fumble Kitty out of bed and sit her in front of the washstand. The water in the jug is tepid now, but I help her wash her face and arms. She sits doll-like, letting me move her at will. Augustus leans back and watches as if we are at a play, or something worse. Kitty said he has brought back paintings from Paris—women in their underwear, at their toilette. I think of that now as I watch him sitting and smiling.

  We haul the stiff mourning clothes back over her thin body. Wilson has brushed them, but they still reek of black dye, some of which comes off on my hands as I lace her up. She ties on her bonnet and veil and turns to Augustus. “I’m ready.”

  He takes her arm with exaggerated courtesy. “Farewell, Ma. We’ll let you know if the Great Man has left you his second-best bed.”

  “Augustus!” Kitty turns sharply to him. I am grateful for her concern for my feelings, although I do not want or expect that anything material has been left to me. My memories are far more precious.

  AFTER KITTY HAS gone, I sit and gaze at Alfred’s photograph. They say he aged badly at the end, ravaged by hard work; but in this picture he is still youthful looking, still wavy haired and handsome, though he stares at the camera in a curiously lifeless way so at odds with his natural manner. I tilt the frame towards the light. He’s wearing his velvet smoking jacket and has his cheek resting on one hand, a pen in the other. It makes him look full of gravitas; whereas in reality he was high-spirited and animated, and liked nothing better than to don a turban and a length of embroidered cloth in order to become the Amazing Abanazar at our Christmas festivities. He would rig up a crimson curtain halfway across the drawing room and after supper he’d appear from behind it in a cloud of green smoke—Abracadabra!—making us all jump, even though we’d been expecting it all along. Then he’d show us his top hat—empty—and he’d get Louisa and Eddie to hold it, one each side, and he’d draw out oranges, lemons, bonbons, and tiny trinkets with amazing speed. Then he’d make silk scarves change color as he pulled them from his pockets and flung them into the air. And he’d find pennies in the boys’ shirt collars and in the girls’ pinafore pockets that they absolutely knew hadn’t been there before. And at the end he’d disappear in a golden shower of confetti that would sparkle so in the candlelight that we’d really think we were back in the Arabian Nights.

  I never knew how he did the magic, although he said his father had taught him tricks, standing him on a table in alehouses when he could barely walk. But Alfred was so quick and slick he might have done it as a profession. If the writing dries up, Dodo, I may take to the street corners after all. And you may take the plate round in a Punchinella skirt and high-laced boots, and collect the takings! He adored the applause, the laughter, and was good nature itself. And the children adored him back. They couldn’t have enough of him. After the magic was over, they’d sit on his lap and cluster around his chair as he made up wilder and wilder stories. And they’d hang on his arms three or four at a time as he polka’d around the room. And they’d laugh, just as Alice and Sissy had laughed, when he played blind man’s bluff and caught their sashes and coat sleeves as they circled around him, bumping and shrieking.

  I shall never forget those wonderful Christmases.

  I sit on the bed and open one of my caskets. I take out a letter and unwrap it from its silken ribbon. His first one. I cherish it above all else, and it’s become fragile with rereading. I look at the dashing script and remember my feelings when Alice had first given it to me, taking it from her pocket with exaggerated secrecy: “From him, for you.”

  “For me?”

  “Of course.” She’d stood gravely, holding it out. “He put it in my hand when we were dancing. Don’t you want it?”

  “Of course.” I’d snatched it from her and ran up to my room, my heart in my mouth.

  It was a single page, folded into eight.

  My Dearest Miss M,

  I hope you’ll pardon this unconventional method of relaying correspondence, but your dear Papa has intimated that should I be so bold as to initiate any communication of any kind with his beloved daughter (written or unwritten, verbal and oral) he would be obliged to sever all transactional bonds with Yours Truly—in short, he’d give me no more money.

  However, much as I revere your father, I cannot comply with his wishes. Because some things take precedence. Things of the heart take precedence. And my heart is in a state of mortal dread. Dread that I shall lose sight of your lovely eyes, and the sound of your sweet voice. Dread that you will be taken from me or will give your heart to another. Dread (the worst) that you may not care for me at all.

  O, Dorothea, you are already more dear to me than I can say. I lie awake and think of you in your blue silk gown and wish only that you were in my arms. I am very forward, I know; maybe you do not care for a legal clerk with no money and only Hope to offer you—but I do not think so. I think I have felt your pulse race as mine has done; I think I have seen your colour rise. In short, I am confident enough to believe my feelings are returned and to write in a way which, if I were not so confident, might c
ause us both embarrassment and pain. If I am wrong, I will drown myself in the Thames and feed fishes for ever and a day. But say I’m right. Say I’m right, sweet Dorothea. Whisper it on the night air. Tell it to your pillow. Write it in your reply.

  Yours in agony,

  Alfred Gibson

  Should you be minded to reply, there is a loose brick in the garden wall, near the postern gate, where a letter may be snugly accommodated. I shall walk out from London every day this week to see whether I am a condemned man or a blessed spirit.

  I could hardly believe he was serious. I thought I might be deluding myself, mistaking his meaning, taking as truth something only intended as fun. I read it over and over, and then over again. It was a love letter. It deserved—it needed—a reply. I hardly cared if I was making a fool of myself. Better to be a fool than to be regretful forever. So I wrote that very night to tell him how much I returned his affection. I probably said too much. I feared, once it had left my possession and was sitting under its damp brick, that I had indeed said too much. But he replied the day after that in a frenzy of jubilation, exclamation marks all over the page, and I knew I had done the right thing.

  Over the following weeks, our lovers’ letter box was much in use. Only Alice knew of our correspondence and sometimes I had to entrust her with the letters, as Mama, seeming to sense something in the air, was forever finding complicated tasks for me at home, listing every item of silverware in the pantry, tidying the china cupboard from top to bottom, or picking and drying great quantities of herbs for the kitchen.

  Alice took her responsibility seriously, swearing never to tell a soul, not even Sissy, who was as sharp as a case of knives. She kept a lookout as best she could, contriving to slip through the gate at least once every day without Sissy noticing. She always placed the letters deep in her apron pocket and never gave them to me until we were safely in my room. She would blow the brick dust off them and give them to me solemnly with a little curtsy. Sometimes I would read bits to her. She was very young, but I so wanted to talk about him, to have him admired the way I admired him. She’d listen, then say things such as: “You’re so lucky, Dodo, to have such an ardent lover. And he’s so funny, too. Do you think you will get married, or be star-crossed for ever? Do you think Papa will change his mind? Or will you elope to Scotland and live in romantic penury?” Once, she told me she’d met Alfred marching along the roadside, swinging his cane, muttering to himself “in funny voices.” Once she’d encountered him by the wall as he exchanged the letters—“and he pretended to be a pirate and to capture me for my treasure. He held me so tight I thought I’d scream and Mama would hear us, but I didn’t scream, Dodo, and he said I was ever so good and gave me a penny.”

  I always hoped I would catch sight of him too, and once or twice I imagined I saw a flash of colored waistcoat among the trees, but I was probably mistaken. When I read his letters, though, it was almost as good as being with him. His life seemed extraordinarily full—the “daily grind” at Webster and Potts where he was compelled to write out in a fair hand things that had nothing else fair about them—bills and contracts, codicils and wills. Wills! Let me not talk of wills! Such injustices are perpetrated there, my love. Let you and I have nothing to do with them. He spent his evenings at the theater with the other clerks, Tom Treadwell and Jeremiah Links, booing or cheering from the gallery; and the rest of the time he was at his lodgings scribbling away in the worst draught there ever was—that keeps my candle guttering so much I can hardly see to write. But write I must. The Muse is demanding. And so is my need for cash. A romance, a tale of horror, and a humorous sketch so far this week. He wrote to me every day, page upon page, and I wondered often at his capacity to keep up the correspondence. It was a long walk to Chiswick—and although he often got a ride with the carter, he seemed to walk it once a week. I jestingly asked him what it was all costing him in shoe leather. He replied that he was “never happier” than when out walking, had an excellent cobbler who heeled and soled boots for sixpence a pair, and to top it all he had earned five shillings for selling a story to a gentlemen’s magazine. Five shillings! he wrote.

  This is the start, my love. The opener. I am scribbling so hard my fingers are blue to the knuckles and my face is adorned with ink blots as if I have a gloomy kind of chickenpox. But if I am recognised, then the time is only round the corner when I shall be independent and we can declare our intentions! Your parents will come round, I am sure. They are the dearest people and cannot—will not—stand in our way. Jack shall have Jill; nought shall go ill! Believe that, dearest, won’t you?

  I was not so sure. Papa in particular had been adamant that Mr. Gibson and I should have no further connection, but as the days went past, he and Mama seemed to relax their vigil. One day, at breakfast, reading out a review of Mr. Macready’s Hamlet, and getting into general conversation about theatrical matters, he favored me with one of his old, fond looks: “Well, Dodo, it seems our Thespian friend Mr. Gibson has not troubled us any more with his attentions. It seems he is a young man whose affections are inconstant in the extreme. No doubt he is courting some other young lady even as we speak. You understand why I cautioned you in the matter.”

  I, too, feared the extravagance of Alfred’s declarations. In spite of the devotion that gushed from his letters, I could not rid myself of the fear that somehow he was trifling with me. It might suit him to believe himself in love now, but what of the future? What true attraction could I, Dorothea Millar, have for such a man? I was ordinary, timid, and only middling pretty even when decked out in pearls, feathers, and an immodest dress. As I read his letters I became even more aware that I was indeed only one among many young women who seemed to fascinate him. He was not secretive about them. Indeed he seemed anxious that I should know all about them. There was Maria the Spanish dancer he had once half-fallen in love with, her face is so severe and her limbs so damnably active in every direction, and Madeleine the seamstress who lived downstairs at his lodgings and, it would seem, shared the deepest confidences of her heart. She was jilted, you see, Dodo, and every mention of love or marriage sends her into a positive tempest of tears which Yours Truly does his best to stem, but how many handkerchiefs can a man give away and still satisfy the needs of his nose? And there was Nellie, the aspiring actress who had played the lead in Stepney, and was the most excellent young lady with the blackest of eyes and most rosy of cheeks and such a sweet voice that I must write a whole prologue for her to show it off. And Flora the pie-shop cook, who bakes the very best meat pies in the world and who goes about it with such neatness and with such a smile that some of the deliciousness of her person must surely get into the pies. Every time he wrote there seemed to be new companions, new objects of his interest. I hated them all. They could smile at him with their eyes, hold on to his arm in the street, or dance tightly clasped in his arms. I was a blue silk Rapunzel locked up in my Chiswick tower. I contemplated running away to London and throwing myself on his mercy, but I had no money and no idea of where to go. I’d never gone to town unchaperoned, and every day the newspapers gave accounts of riots and mayhem in the streets. So I didn’t dare.

  4

  THEN CAME THE TERRIBLE TIME WHEN ONE OF MY letters was not collected, and no letters arrived from him in return. Two, three, four weeks went by. “Perhaps he is ill,” said Alice, sensibly. But I didn’t believe her. I thought it was as I had feared; he had fallen out of love with me as quickly as he had fallen into it. I had to know.

  “Have you received the manuscript of Mr. Gibson’s new play, yet?” I ventured to ask Papa.

  “Indeed, no. In fact I’ve heard nothing of Mr. Gibson at all. Once he was on my doorstep every day; now he has disappeared into thin air. You see, Dodo, the man is not to be relied upon.”

  “Yet you said he would do great things. Now, because I admire him, you have changed your mind!”

  “A man is entitled to change his mind—as much as a woman!” He laughed. “If the play is good, however—if i
t is ever finished, indeed—I am prepared to help him. I have helped many a young artist, as you know; I feel it behooves me as a man of business to pass on a little of my good fortune for the general betterment and so forth. But such benevolence does not extend to letting him pay court to my dearest of girls.”

  My mother stopped pouring the tea, paused with the pot in midair. “I think you exaggerate, Oliver. The young man has done nothing more than be a little attentive.”

  “It’s the thin end of the wedge, my dear. Dodo is not at all worldly. She doesn’t understand flirtation. When she gives her heart, she does it completely. A young man of that sort is best kept out of her life. I was foolish to bring him to our house, and now I must try to put things right.”

  Poor Papa! His idea of putting things right was to distract me into a new love. He had no idea how appalling such an idea was to me, how my whole soul revolted at the thought of another lover. But he would not be dissuaded. Enter my cousin George. “Such a nice young man,” said my mother, admiring a miniature portrait he had sent from Coventry in advance of his real self. “Come, Dodo, do look. Don’t pretend indifference—you know you liked him a good deal when you were both children.” So I looked, and duly admired his even features, remembering that he had been kind to me in the long summers we had spent together in his father’s house, and how he had climbed trees to show me birds’ nests, and had taught me how to blow snatch-grass and catch tadpoles. But I told Mama I had no interest in marrying him—or any other man who was paraded before me. I said I was not ready to marry. “You must at least be courteous,” she said. “And you may find once you meet him that you will change your mind.” I knew I would not, but I had no wish to be rude to my cousin. So I was courteous in the extreme. We strolled along the riverbank and remarked upon the weather and the changing landscape, and the fine quality of the houses being built on the road into London. We said “please” and “thank you” as we passed the dishes at supper, and smiled nicely at each other as we sang duets in the drawing room afterwards. It was all very dull compared to the frantic dancing and laughing with Alfred. Even Alice and Sissy could observe the difference as they lolled about the cushions, watching us closely for any sign of a kiss.