“Indeed, Ma’am.”
“He was much loved.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Like the Prince Consort—although we do not think the nation fully understood his particular genius. But your husband spoke to them direct. To the heart.”
“Indeed he did, Ma’am. Oh, indeed he did!” I feel my eyes moisten. I hope I shan’t disgrace myself by weeping.
“You were so very fortunate to be his wife.”
“I believe that I am, Ma’am. Very fortunate.”
I dread what she may ask on this subject, but she fingers her wedding ring, seems to drift into a reverie, then turns to me suddenly. “But one feels angry as well, does one not?”
I don’t know her meaning. I make a demurring sound, eyes down, tracing the pattern on the carpet, noting it is rather worn in places.
She senses my uncertainty. “I mean, of course, angry that men of worth are taken from our midst, whilst fools and knaves continue to thrive. What is God up to in those cases, do you think?” She looks at me very directly, as if I should have my answer piping hot on a plate.
“He works in mysterious ways, Ma’am. At least so we are told.”
“Indeed. Most mysterious. What was He about in Mr. Gibson’s case, do you think? With a novel only halfway through? Could He not have spared him another year?” She trains her eyes on me again.
To my surprise, I manage a sensible answer. “My husband was ill, Ma’am. It is a wonder he lived as long as he did. Perhaps God was sparing him more pain.”
“Hmm.” She taps her fingers against the chair. “We admit he seemed a little frail when we saw him last—but very bright. Sparkling, in fact. Just as when he played the father for us in Lord Royston’s Daughter. He was excellent in that; so natural, yet so thrilling. We were very impressed.”
Lord Royston again. Always that wretched play. I want to shout Bah, humbug! and give it a good drubbing. But I must speak well of it, as everyone does. “Oh, yes. My husband never did things by halves, Ma’am. He felt he owed it to his Public—and his Sovereign—to give of his best. Even when he was ill and could hardly walk, he still went on performing.”
She nods. “Admirable, admirable.”
“And he wrote right up to the last, ma’am. He died with the pen in his hand, desperately trying to finish Ambrose Boniface.”
“But it was not to be.” She sighs and shakes her head.
“Sadly, no.”
“Do you know how he meant to end it? Did he discuss his works with you?”
“Oh, indeed, Ma’am, he did!” But I realize as I speak that this is not quite true. When we were newlyweds, sitting in front of the fire in Mrs. Quinn’s upstairs rooms with our arms around each other, he never seemed to tire of telling me about what he had seen and done, and his new ideas for Miggs’ Tales. But those intimate times did not last for long. I look down, unable to meet the Queen’s piercing blue gaze. I cannot deceive her, or myself. I give a wry smile: “But after the children came, it was difficult to find the time to talk. Alfred was so busy. Either in his study, or at the office editing his magazine. Or with Miss Brougham on some committee or other. Or rehearsing plays. Or out walking all over London till the early hours. And I was—well, I was with the children.”
“Ah, children. The cross we women have to bear.” I look up, somewhat surprised, and she raises her hand sharply: “Please do not misunderstand me, Mrs. Gibson. Children are a precious gift. But childbirth itself!” She shudders. “Again we ask, what is God thinking of? Can it all be the fault of that one silly female led astray by a reptile? Why do we, all these years later, have to go on suffering for her sins?”
“Indeed, Ma’am.” I am taken aback by her candor, and indeed at her turn of phrase. But I do not feel intimidated. There is a warmth beneath her severity, and in some ways I can see she is as emotional as I.
“One hopes you made use of the chloroform, at least?”
I know she is a great champion of the chloroform. As was Alfred. Come on, Dodo, he said. Do you want to suffer when you need not? The Queen herself recommends it. “Oh, yes. Alfred insisted,” I tell her. “And it was most efficacious.”
“Exactly. It is a boon to all women.” She looks closely at me. “You have had eight children, I think, Mrs. Gibson?”
“Yes. But sadly, we lost our youngest shortly after birth, and our daughter Ada”—my chest tightens, and I have to pause—“passed away, aged seven.” Every time I think my grief for Ada is conquered, I find it is not.
“I am sorry, Mrs. Gibson. It is difficult to understand why these things are sent. Two children lost. Most distressing.”
I want to tell her about it all, about Ada and Florence May—and the other babes that never even had a chance to breathe, infants too small and unformed even to be buried. But I fear I shall weep aloud if I speak of it.
The Queen glances at a photograph on the table next to her. “No doubt we should count ourself fortunate that our battalion of children remains brutally healthy in limb—if not always in character.” She laughs a little bitterly.
“Your Majesty’s family life is much admired by all.”
“Yes. The Prince set much store by a happy family.”
“Oh, my husband felt the same, Ma’am!”
She smiles. “Indeed. He spoke warmly of your children, of your eldest daughter in particular. He told me she had his spirit and talents. I was forced to wonder if she would have done better as a boy.”
I am so astonished that I cannot help blurting out: “It is probably better that she was not. Alfred would never have brooked a rival.”
“A rival? No, of course not. He was after all, the One and Only.” She laughs delightedly at her stroke of wit.
I smile too, and am emboldened to ask a question. “But does it not strike you as unfair, Ma’am, that a simple question of one’s sex should condemn one forever to a particular sphere? Your Majesty, so active and busy, with so much responsibility for matters of state, must understand that. You do not have to be satisfied with domestic matters alone.”
“Oh, we would willingly cede all matters of state to be a simple housewife in a crofter’s cottage!” She smiles in a far-off manner. “But when we are called to high office, it is our duty, and we cannot refuse. But we struggle, Mrs. Gibson. We struggle! Even more when we are forced, as now, to shoulder the burden alone. But we do the best we can, using what meager skills we possess.”
“I am sure Your Majesty has many skills.”
“We have developed a certain facility. But women’s true nature is not suited to high office. We are too much at the mercy of our feelings. Men, we find, have more concentration and are better able to think without the constraints of emotion. We have always agreed with the Prince that the highest role a woman can aspire to, whether she be Queen or commoner, is that of wife and mother.”
I am silent. That she—the most powerful woman in England—should hanker after nothing but domestic life seems almost absurd.
“You do not agree?” She gives me a narrow look.
“I find at this time in my life that I do not know.”
“You surprise us, Mrs. Gibson.” She looks disapproving.
I surprise myself. After all, her sentiments are Alfred’s too, and for much of my life they have been mine. But it is as if a door has been unlocked in my mind. I feel a rush of courage: “It is simply, Ma’am, that I see my daughter longing in vain for something more in life. I see her baulking at the smallness of our womanly concerns. I see her as a wild horse champing at the bit.”
The Queen draws back. I see she does not like the picture of a young woman champing at the bit. She shakes her head. “She is a little spoilt, perhaps. Young women these days seem to think they can have what they want without making any effort. She should have been with Miss Nightingale at Scutari! That would have tamed her wildness.”
I try to envisage Kitty ministering to the rows of sick and wounded, walking the wards, raising her lamp in encouragement and
benediction. I cannot conjure the image. “I fear Kitty is too impatient for nursing.”
“Well,” she says, “we are all called in different ways. She has no children?” The sharp look again.
“Alas, no.”
“Well then, she should make a serious effort at Good Works. There is much to be done by those who have energy to spare.”
“Oh, she has tried, Ma’am. But she was always convinced she knew what was best. She would not compromise and quarreled with everyone who tried to tell her different. Very like her father, I’m afraid.”
The Queen frowns. “Surely not! I myself observed his character: he was the kindest and most genial of men.”
“That was his general temperament, Ma’am. But—” I stop, afraid I shall commit a faux pas.
“But?” The piercing look again. I realize I cannot retreat now.
“But where he felt wronged, he could be implacable. Even to those closest to him.”
She looks at me more gently now. “Great men are not always kind to those who serve them at close quarters. But we have to excuse them because they embrace the Greater Good. One has only to look at those affecting scenes on Monday to know in what esteem Mr. Gibson was held by one and all! I read in The Times that women fainted, men were openly weeping—in effect, it said, the whole country was in despair at his loss. That, Mrs. Gibson, is the true measure of your husband!”
“Oh, I know the Public adored him. But their very adoration made it harder for me!” The sob that I have attempted to suppress all this time bursts forth and I try to stifle it with my handkerchief.
“Dear Mrs. Gibson!” She leans forward and extends her hand. “Do not distress yourself. Your sacrifice has been vindicated. The whole world has cause to be grateful to you. All the causes he has espoused, all the passionate words he has written against injustice and cruelty! No doubt he met with opposition—as do all who try to break old ways of thinking. The Prince Consort met with the very same when he proposed the Great Exhibition. But, like your husband, the Prince would not be dissuaded. He was determined. And what a success that proved to be!”
“Indeed. A great success.” I went with Alfred and Sissy, but the crowds and the heat under the glass made me so faint that hardly had we seen the great statues from Egypt than Alfred had had to put me into a hackney carriage and send me home. However, I do not want the Queen to know that. She, I know, has a great deal of stamina, and expects others to be the same.
But she does not question me further. She draws back, flushed with pleasure: “Such dear people from all over the Empire! So many of our loyal subjects bringing so many wonderful artifacts! And the Crystal Palace itself! Was there ever such a structure?” Her voice breaks. She has tears in her eyes, and I realize she does not want to hear about Alfred anymore. She wants to talk about her own husband. I understand her feelings. I nod while she expounds on the Prince’s achievements, his patience under travail, his devotion to his family. She continues at some length, and I am finding standing up very uncomfortable. I lean gently against a small satin chair at my side.
Eventually the Queen comes to a peroration: “And you wonder that the Queen is angry? That she does not question her Maker every day? We have to submit to our loved ones’ death, Mrs. Gibson. We have to submit. But we do not do it willingly!”
I see that she is very angry at her loss. Perhaps I should be angry, too? With God, as she is? Or with Sissy? Or with that faint figure in gray with a seductive smile on her face?
The Queen clears her throat and wipes a surreptitious tear from her eye, becoming businesslike in an instant. “Mrs. Gibson, we are remiss. Please sit down. Will you take tea?”
I remember my instructions. “Thank you, Your Majesty.” I squeeze into the nearby chair.
She rings a small bell on the table next to her. The superior gentleman appears at the door, and seconds later a liveried footman and an elderly maid bring in a silver tray and a small cake stand. I wonder how they could have known when to have it ready. It’s as neat a trick as one of Alfred’s. They dispense tea and cake with practiced efficiency and depart in the same manner. No word has been spoken. The superior gentleman closes the door and we are alone again.
The Queen smiles. “You must be used to a great variety of hospitality, Mrs. Gibson. Your husband was lionized everywhere he went, we believe?”
“Yes.” I nod, contriving not to shower myself with crumbs. “I think he must have eaten more banquets and been the subject of more toasts than any person living.”
“We had that experience ourselves, of course.” She looks rather icy, and I hasten to recover myself.
“I exclude Your Majesty, of course. Your Majesty is used to acclaim. You were born to it. But we were not, and it was a hard thing to manage.”
She seems mollified. “But you did adapt yourselves?”
“To some extent. At first it was not so difficult, when we were here in London, where fame crept on us by degrees. But when we went to America—”
“America! Ah, yes. An interesting country.” She drinks her tea, moves her cake around on its plate. “Mr. Gibson’s books are as popular over there as they are here, we think?”
“Yes, indeed, Ma’am. If not more so. During our great tour, we could hardly set foot outside our hotels without being mobbed. On one occasion, the people set up chants under our bedroom window, refusing to let us sleep until my husband had gone out to the balcony to give them a few words. And in the morning when we went out, they simply swooped around us, so I was forced against the doorpost, and Alfred had to call out to let them allow me through: Do not suffocate my wife, dear sirs! I should be obliged to think badly of this great country if you do! They were quite wild, those American crowds. Reporters asked his opinion on everything: Do you like America? Do you think it is the best country in the world? Will you set your next novel in the United States? What do you think of our womenfolk?”
“How very disconcerting.”
“Yes. But it was also quite thrilling. I suppose that was when I first realized what a Great Man he had become. It seemed as if everybody in the world wanted to shake his hand! And if they couldn’t shake his, they’d shake mine, as a kind of proxy. Mrs. Gibson, they’d say, I am Delighted!”
I stop. I fear I have spoken too much. I see Grayhead ticking me off for not keeping to protocol. The Queen nibbles daintily at her cake, thinking the while. “Mr. Gibson went there a second time, did he not?”
“He was ill, by then, though. He should not have traveled.”
“Men do these things in spite of anything we poor women say. They are driven by such impulses, such need to master challenges. Even the dear Prince Consort worked himself to death.” She pauses. “The Prince of Wales, we must admit, is not in the same mold. But now he is married, we hope he will settle down.”
I nod, but think how vain a hope it is that marriage will change people. It did not change Alfred, and it did not change me. It has not changed Kitty or Augustus, either. In marriage, we may learn to check our words, and to submerge those feelings and actions which will inevitably lead to strife, but we remain essentially the same.
The Queen breaks into my thoughts. “We are so sorry,” she is saying. “It is only a week or so since the sad event, and we have kept you talking. You must be tired.”
“I am a little.” It seems I have been here for hours.
“It has been so good to meet you, to talk to you. We have so much in common. Perhaps you will spare us a little of your time in the future?”
I nod, and she rings the bell again, and the superior gentleman enters as if he has had his ear pressed to the door expressly for the purpose of responding. “Ma’am?”
“Mrs. Gibson is leaving.”
I haul myself out of the satin chair. I am aware that the superior gentleman is eyeing my inadequate mourning with a critical eye, and I am glad that at least I gave in about the edging and the frogging. I contrive a half-bow, half-curtsy, which he clearly thinks entirely unsatisfactory
but he ushers me out of the room as if every second I am there beyond my allotted time would provoke a constitutional crisis. I am then handed back to Grayhead, who is waiting a few yards off, and I leave the Palace in exactly the reverse way from which I entered it.
13
AS WE WALK BACK ALONG THE PASSAGEWAYS, I FEEL I have acquitted myself well. But I can’t help reflecting on the Queen’s situation; and how even she was under the thumb of her prince. And I see as if for the first time how we put aside all that is strong within us, all that is particular about us, and bend to the will of our husbands. The famous opening of Richard Masterman echoes in my head and I think how Alfred, with the deep and better part of himself, seemed to understand that even before I did:
After Richard Masterman had brought his young wife home, he set about murdering her. Everything he had loved about her during their courtship—her silvery, inconsequential laugh, her girlish habit of rushing into rooms as though a fire were about to consume her, her charming tendency to enthuse about any novelty that came her way, her innocent manner of taking his arm and kissing him boldly on the lips whether anyone was looking or no—he systematically set about destroying. He did not think he was destroying her. By no means. He thought he was improving her. As a husband has a right to do. Nay, as he has a duty to do. The house in Berkeley Square which was to have been their abode of bliss became the battleground for his justified campaign. ‘She is all very well as she is,’ he reasoned, ‘but she could be better.’ It would be more becoming in a wife of Mrs. Masterman’s status, he thought, if she were a little more sober in her manner, a little more restrained in her exhibitions of affection, a little more discriminating in her tastes. Instead of clinging to his arm in her artless way and breaking off to chatter to her canary or her lap dog or her old dear nursemaid, he would have her comport herself in a dignified way, give graceful bows, and speak only when spoken to. So he set about correcting her. Day by day he corrected her. He corrected her speech, her manners, her voice, her conversation, her affections. And in her efforts to please him, she became more sober, more considered. She no longer jumped up to greet him when he entered a room. She left the canary to its own devices so it trilled away unheard and then grew silent for want of attention. The girlish roses in her cheeks faded and she became fashionably (some would say dangerously) pale. She no longer sang as she went about her duties and was reserved and stately in her conversation. She disregarded the old nursemaid, whom she banished to an attic room. In short, she was no longer Celia Masterman. Richard Masterman was pleased at what he had wrought. And rubbed his hands together with a sense of profound righteousness and went about his daily doings with his head held high.
Girl in a Blue Dress Page 17