“I daresay they hoped he’d fail to make his mark so they could extricate me from the engagement. Or maybe they hoped I would tire of him before the year was out. But your father was always impatient, and, as soon as I was one-and-twenty, he took out a special license and we were married in secret at St. Martin-in-the-Fields. Papa was so angry that he refused to give me my settlement. He said Alfred had betrayed him dreadfully.”
“Didn’t he care if you starved?”
“He said it was up to your father to ensure I didn’t. But then he relented and gave me twenty pounds a year so I could buy nice dresses and at least look like a lady. We’d expected two hundred pounds, so the difference was considerable, but Alfred said he wasn’t going down on bended knee to beg for anything more. Not that he needed to beg, of course; within the year he was earning twice that much.”
“You were rich, then?”
“Well, not exactly. As soon as the money came in, it seemed to go out again. So many of Papa’s family relied on him—Lottie, Muffin, and your grandparents. And you know how your grandfather was—money simply ran through his fingers.”
“Well, I don’t know, to tell the truth. He was always perfectly agreeable to me.”
“Yes,” I say, “to me, too. But he invariably contrived to enrage your father. That was amply apparent the first time we went to Dover. We were very newly married then—a little over two weeks—and I sensed he felt it was now safe to introduce me. He was still uneasy, though, as we took the coach to the coast. He was very quiet, counting the milestones with a faraway look in his eye and scribbling away in his notebook from time to time, especially when one of our fellow travelers started a comical tale about a valet and a missing pair of boots. I truly don’t know what I expected when we got out. But an impressive gentleman in coat-tails and a towering expanse of neckcloth came darting out of the crowd, waving a silver-topped cane. He had a booming voice that carried over the clatter of the horses and the shouts of the grooms and stable boys: ‘Hallo, there!’”
“Oh, yes, that was Grandpapa! How clever you are Mama! You have him to the life!”
I am flattered at her unexpected compliment, and thus encouraged, I continued my story: “Well, no sooner had he arrived than he began to take charge, to direct the porters in removing the luggage from the back, to help myself and the other ladies from inside, to assist an elderly gentleman from the top, to fasten up a dog that was rioting around, to make faces at an infant who had started to howl. He was like a ringmaster at the circus. ‘Sixpence for the coachman,’ he roared. ‘Three pence for the porter!’ I saw Alfred dig into his pocket, and the next moment his father was handing out the tips with an air of largesse to one and all.”
Kitty laughs, but I remember how my main relief was that Mr. William Gibson was not only respectable but positively charming. “And this delightful creature must be your wife!” he’d beamed, kissing my hand. “Welcome to Dover! To the South Coast! To the Gateway to Europe! To the wide, wide world! And, of course, to our humble abode, where we hope you will not be too proud to spend a few weeks with Mrs. Gibson (Senior) and myself.”
“We are here for three days only,” Alfred told him, somewhat firmly. “I have pressing work in London.”
“Ah, indeed. Yes. Pity. Perhaps Dorothea—if I may presume to address you in that way as befits your recent inclusion into the bosom of the Gibson family—perhaps you would care to stop longer? The sea air, you know? It is recommended. Alfred recommended it to us himself. Leave London, he said! Leave the smoke and grime! Leave all this—”
“Father, we are just married! Would you part us so soon?”
“My boy, I am at fault! In my enthusiasm for her company I forget the exigencies of married life, the demands of the honeymoon. I beg your pardon, Dorothea. Forgive an old man.” He chivvied us over to a dog cart where a fat boy was lazing at the reins. “Your conveyance, ma’am. A poor thing but mine own. Well, in fact not my own. Hired.” He helped me in and sat beside me. Alfred and the boy lifted the luggage into the back. As we jolted off, he leant back with an air of complete satisfaction and said, “Well, Fred. Is married life suiting you?”
“Yes, thank you, Father. We are getting along in a capital fashion. Capital. Dodo is the dearest girl in the world and an excellent wife. I only hope I can make her a good husband. A reliable husband.”
“No doubt of it, I’m sure; you have always been a reliable boy. He’s been a good son, Dorothea. A very good son. We have not always been a family blessed with pecuniary advantage, but we are as close as can be—and I would take to task any man who would deny it!” He took Alfred’s arm and pulled him toward him in an awkward embrace. Alfred raised his eyebrows at me in an expression of exasperation.
“Now, dear boy, before we enter the domestic portals, I have a proposal to put to you.” He then turned to me in a confidential manner. “You see, occasionally, dear Dorothea, I am obliged to enter into certain transactions which—as is the way of the world—do not always come to fruition. It pains me to admit it. It pains my lady wife even more—”
Alfred held out his hand with a sigh: “Give me the bills.”
“No, Fred. I cannot do it. I cannot accept such largesse. Not again. Not after all you have done. Not when you are so newly setting out on life’s adventure. A loan, a mere five pounds. To be repaid when my investments take a turn for the better.”
“The bills,” Alfred said, still holding out his hand.
His father hesitated, then nodded. “Indeed. You are very generous. Not a word to Mrs. G.” He pulled a sheaf of dog-eared bills from his top pocket. “Excellent! Nevertheless, perhaps you could run in addition to a guinea for—”
“No, Father.”
“Perhaps Dorothea, in recognition of our new relationship—?”
“By no means. Never. Ever. Do not ask her.” Alfred’s eyes were blazing.
I thought Alfred was being unduly parsimonious. “Please, Alfred,” I said. “Don’t forget I have some money.” He’d let me keep my twenty pounds to buy “finery” for the wedding, and I still had quite a sum left.
Alfred looked at us both with a steely expression. “Father—you must NEVER ask her for money. Dorothea—you must NEVER give him any. Is that understood? Any breach would end all communications between us.”
And that was the cause of the first quarrel I had with my husband.
“I’VE NEVER PROPERLY told you, have I?” I say to Kitty. “What your grandmother asked me when we first met?”
Kitty shakes her head. “I suppose she was sponging, too?”
“She was a trifle more subtle—but only a trifle. We were all out walking on the second day of our stay. The men were attempting to fly a kite on the cliff top and she and I were lagging behind because of the wind. She took my arm very tightly, telling me how delightful it had been to meet me. ‘And I hope that at some time in the near future we shall have the pleasure of meeting your Mama and Papa, too. They sound such estimable people.’ She came close and whispered to me: ‘I want you to know, Dorothea, that what you behold in me now is but a shadow of my former self. I was not always as I am now. I had Family. I had Reputation. I need not say that Mr. Gibson—I speak of my spouse, of course—I need not say that Mr. Gibson has many virtues. But an understanding of money is not one of them. I, on the other hand, can be relied upon to be both discreet and sacrificial. I do not open my mouth to complain. I do what I can. I sell my jewelry; I pawn the clothes from my back. I am as the pelican with her young. But Mr. Gibson is Inveterate. He cannot be held back. He has to Spend, as surely as water has to Run Down Hill. I have tried everything to keep us solvent. The result? Useless. The creditors are dissatisfied, the family is ruined, and our future is dependent on the goodwill of others.’”
I said I was sorry to hear this. I said Alfred had never intimated the extent of the troubles. Ruin was not a word he used. She looked frightened suddenly and begged me not to say she had told me such things: “My son is very proud.”
&nbs
p; “He is fearful of debt, certainly. When we passed the Fleet—” She gripped me tightly. “Do not speak of That Place. Never mention it—promise me.”
“I shall say nothing about it unless he does.”
“Thank you, my dear. I do not mean to intimate that he is not a good boy to his wretched parents. Any differences in the past are now resolved, any threats in the past are now removed. He sends me a half-sovereign when he can, when he has sold some piece of writing. But the cottage does not pay for itself. Visitors—though welcome I need not say—are a Cost.”
I look at Kitty. “What was I to do? I remembered what Lottie had said, what Alfred had so solemnly required with regard to his father. It seemed only right to relieve the burden of our stay, but I was fearful of your father’s anger. I said I would speak with him. ‘I am sure we can help you,’ I said.
“She clasped me tighter by the arm: ‘No, Dorothea. Let this be between us. A sovereign, that is all.’ She glanced at my brocade gown, my silk shawl, my kid gloves, my new leather boots, and I felt guilty. So I opened my purse, fearful at every second that your father would turn round and spy me. Her hand was quick though. The coin slipped into her reticule as if by magic.”
Kitty perks up. “You went against him the first week you were married? I hope he did not find out?”
“Oh, Kitty, indeed he did. It was the very first time we quarreled.”
“Oh, Mama! Did you go and confess all like a green girl?”
“Well, he asked me point blank, and I couldn’t lie to him.”
I almost wish I had, though. I remember him pacing around the cottage bedroom, his hair awry, his waistcoat unbuttoned. “How could I have been plainer, Dorothea?” he said. “Tell me, how could I have been plainer?”
I told him he could not have been, that the fault was entirely with me. “No, it is with me,” he said gloomily. “To have brought you here. To have submitted you to it all.”
I tried to mollify him: “It was only a sovereign,” I said. “And our being here is causing such extra expense.”
He whirled round and fixed me with such a withering look. “Don’t you think I have allowed for that?” he cried. “I have already given her more than enough. Please don’t interfere in what you don’t know.”
Don’t interfere in what you don’t know! The words cut me to the heart. Only two weeks into our marriage and we were quarreling! I had never quarreled with anybody before. Even as a child I was always mild mannered. I was even patient with Sissy, who was a very determined and strong willed child. So I was shocked to find myself quarreling with the person I loved most in the world. This was a new, cold Alfred, quite at odds with the man who had courted me so rapturously, who had been so tender with me on our first night together.
I cannot tell Kitty that, though. “I didn’t want to quarrel,” I tell her. “Not so soon in our married life, at any rate. So I told him I would do as he said.”
“He wins, as always.” She gets up; she is really going this time. But her eye falls on the Queen’s letter. I had forgotten it; my heart turns over to think I must make some attempt at a reply. “What’s this?”
“As you see, it’s a letter from Her Majesty.”
“The Queen? What is she writing to you for?”
“Why shouldn’t she? Why shouldn’t a widow write to a widow? She understands my feelings.”
“She’s invited you to the Palace?” She has picked up the letter, and reads it quickly, turning it over as if there is some surprise to be found in it.
“Did I never teach you about private correspondence?” I ask.
“I’m sorry.” She puts it down.
“I cannot go, of course. I must find an excuse.”
“Must you? She’s probably as lonely as you are.”
“That is very unlikely.”
But I wonder about it after Kitty has gone. I reread the letter. I listen to the echo of her words and I see that she is indeed lonely. One does not have to be living in a small apartment to be lonely. A palace is no protection. Indeed it may be worse. People criticize so much. I’ve heard the world mocking the extremity of her grief. I feel a sudden fellow feeling for her and I resolve to go after all. I pick up my pen to reply, then realize I have no mourning clothes. I cannot see the Queen without proper mourning; it would be an insult. It is not too late to order some, even now. But it is breaking faith. Never in my married life have I worn it. Not for my parents, not for our children.
I ring for Wilson. “Do you think Miss Walters would make me a black silk dress by Thursday?”
“Black?” Wilson looks puzzled. We have had words on the subject.
“Yes, black. I have an audience with the Queen.”
“The Queen?” She stares, exactly as Kitty had.
“Yes. She has written to me. I am a person of importance, in her eyes at least.”
“But you’ve always said—he always said—”
“I simply don’t wish to offend Her Majesty. And it is my choice what I do in this life.”
“Yes, madam.” She smiles. “I’ll send straight away. Silk, you say?”
“I am not wearing crepe. I draw the line there. The Queen can think what she pleases about that.”
7
“THE LIGHT’S GOING. DO YOU WANT ME TO TURN UP THE lamp?” Wilson has come back into the room and seen me reading my letters.
“No, leave it,” I tell her. “I want to think.”
“Very well.” She goes out, shutting the door behind her.
I’ve had to put on my spectacles. People write so badly these days, I can scarcely make out the signatures: Mr. and Mrs. Clarence Smiley—or Smithy; James and Mary—Whittaker, I think; Miss Angela Boot—or is it Booth? They must think I remember them so well that I can identify them immediately. But I can’t; we met so many people through all that long time we had together. And towards the end, my recollection became poor. Many days I felt as though I was walking in a kind of fog—seeing only outlines, my hearing muffled. I’d be aware of Alfred pulling at my arm, whispering in my ear, Come on, Dodo. Wake up. Show willing! Try for me, darling, please!
I did try. Of course I did. But there were times after each of my children was born when I lost whole hours out of my day. Often, I’d look down at myself and wonder how I had got dressed and who had done my hair; and I’d look up at the people around me and have no idea of the occasion that I was presiding over. The faces around me would be indistinct. I’d see black ties, white shirtfronts, necklaces sparkling on décolletages; I’d hear men’s voices booming and ladies’ voices chirping. I’d smile and hope I wouldn’t need to talk; that Alfred would carry all before him, as usual.
Yet when we were first married, I was always eager for an outing. Every week Alfred and I were to be found high in the gallery at the Lyceum, the Haymarket, or Drury Lane, watching Kean or Macready give us their Shakespeare heroes and villains. We’d applaud enthusiastically and wave our handkerchiefs till our arms ached. We saw the great clown Grimaldi, too, and the child prodigy Adele Smith dancing on points. And when we were too penniless to go out, I’d sit at the piano in the corner of the room playing Chopin. Although Alfred would listen to me for a while, he’d soon become restless; then I’d catch his eye and launch into one of the popular ballads that he loved so much: “She Was Never Mine” or “You and Your Sister.” And we’d sing them together—sentimental and comic by turns—until we were quite exhausted.
Those first few months in Mrs. Quinn’s upstairs rooms were among the happiest in my life. We had little spare money and almost no furniture, but Alfred was so affectionate and such cheery company, it didn’t seem to matter. We might only have mutton stew for dinner—and not a lot of it at that—but he’d drape the small pedestal table with a cloth, lay it with knives and forks, and pretend to be the waiter, the cook, and the diner all in such rapid succession that I ached with laughter.
My only regret was that he did not have quite as much time for me as I had hoped. I thought a new bridegroom
would want to spend every minute he could with his bride. I forgot that, to make ends meet, Alfred had to push himself to write at every opportunity, even on our honeymoon. I got used to waking up and finding an empty space next to me, his pillow already cold. He’d be at work in his nightshirt, by the window, pen moving quickly across paper. The fire would be lit and the kettle on the hob, his clothes warming on the fender, his boots polished: “Come here, Dodo,” he’d say, lifting up a page to the light. “Listen to this!” And he’d read aloud and laugh at what he had written. “You know, it’s capital stuff, though I say it myself! I should be demanding twice the price. Indeed, I think next time I will ask twice the price! There’s nothing as good as this being written in the whole of London.”
Nor was there. I was so proud of him, I’d come and put my arms around him. “You are the One and Only.”
“And you are the One and Only’s wife!” And he’d hug me close with his left arm while making amendments with his right, so that the paper shifted about and his quill spluttered. I’d feel his fingers through my shift, and my blood would leap.
“Won’t you come back to bed, Alfred? For a little while?”
“Bed?” He’d look up at me. “What a naughty creature it is! How it pouts its lips and displays its bosom! But it is half past seven already, and there is much to be done!”
And before I could set my things out for dressing, he’d have made the tea and fried some eggs and would be plunging his head into a bowl of cold water, splashing it all over his body, and drying himself vigorously with a towel.
His passion for washing surprised me. “It’s not natural,” my mother commented, when I joked to her about his twice-daily ablutions. “He’s not a navigator digging in the earth, for Heaven’s sake. He’s a gentleman, or trying to be so, at least.” But Alfred could not be distracted from his habits, and I loved the scent of clean skin and lavender that reminded me so much of that first evening together. And it wasn’t only the bathing. Soiled shirts were discarded at once, undergarments perpetually in the wash. Little Emmie was always toiling up and down stairs to the washhouse, often with a penny in her hand to make her extra special careful with the clear-starching. She’d fold his shirts with reverence, sleeves behind the back, shirt front smooth, exactly how he likes; and he’d be delighted, and give her another penny and a sweetmeat for being such a good girl.
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