‘Yes, of course, my love. I will speak to Mama immediately and see if she will allow me to borrow Alice for the evening.’
Pleased at getting his own way, he forgot his sulkiness, drew me towards him and kissed my forehead.
Miss Burdett-Coutts, escorted by Mr Marjoribanks, arrived half an hour later than expected. She held out her hand and greeted me with an apology.
‘Please, will you excuse my tardiness, Mrs Dickens? I was detained at my lawyer’s office. He is handling the purchase of a property for me, a little project that I have in mind to discuss with your husband later.’
I examined her face carefully as she spoke. It was long and narrow, the features being not in the least bit beautiful, except for her eyes, which were full of kindness and shone with sincerity. She wore a deep cream-silk evening dress with short puffed sleeves and, as she moved from the hall to the dining room, I caught the light scent of jasmine and lavender.
Over dinner she and Charles engaged in animated conversation and I could see why Charles was taken with her. She was intelligent, witty and possessed an enthusiasm for life that matched his own. She nodded as she listened to his lively discourse. Earlier in the year, Charles had visited Yorkshire and been most distressed at the terrible conditions that existed in the schools there. The pupils were ill-treated, malnourished and were subjected to the most cruel punishments. Miss Burdett-Coutts was fascinated by Charles’s yearning to cover the subject in his writing.
‘What a wonderful idea, Mr Dickens, that is just what is needed – a greater awareness of such matters.’
She, in turn, quietly confided her own plans to open a hostel for fallen women. Mr Marjoribanks, who had appeared to be absorbed in conversing with John Forster about investments, turned his head quickly and, with a disapproving frown, interjected, ‘I am not sure that the partners at the bank would approve of you using your allowance to fund such a project, miss.’
But it seemed that Angela Burdett-Coutts was not a woman to be held back by the opinion of any man and she laughed good-naturedly. ‘Those elderly gentleman have quickly given up telling me how I should use my money, my dear Mr M, and I hope that you will soon tire of it too.’
I marvelled at her words and could not help but envy her a little: she did not seem to be bound at all by the conventions that governed most women, but appeared to be completely independent in both mind and action.
As the evening progressed, laughter filled the candlelit dining room. Charles dropped into his chair, exhausted from recounting a humorous sketch in which he had taken all the parts.
‘My dear boy, what a marvellous actor you are!’ Forster whooped, clapping his hands.
Mr Marjoribanks enthused with wonder, ‘You are outshone by no other, sir!’
Miss Burdett-Coutts nodded, joining in the applause and Forster raised his glass in a toast.
‘There is little chance that you will ever return to the blacking factory now, dear fellow, you can be sure of that.’
His ever-ready lips were pursed to take another swig of wine but above the rim he saw an unexplained fierceness enter into Charles’s eyes. My husband leaned across the table and fixed Forster with a glare.
‘That,’ he hissed, ‘is a part of my life that I wish never to be mentioned.’
The room fell silent. Forster cleared his throat and attempted a gay little laugh to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Come now, Dickens, no offence intended. It was the wine, you know, loosened my tongue, old chap.’
I looked from one to the other.
‘What is he talking about, Charles? When did you ever work in such an awful place?’
Charles brought down his fist upon the table, jolting the cutlery to life.
‘Never to be mentioned, I said!’
In an effort to calm the situation, I stood up and said with a nervous smile, ‘Gentlemen, whatever secrets have passed between you, let us not spoil a delightful evening. Allow me to call in the dessert.’
Forster leaned to one side and hiccupped into Marjoribank’s ear, ‘I mean, I’m his dearest friend, so what is there to be ashamed of?’
Charles pushed back his chair and roared, pointing his finger at the door, ‘Out! I want you out of this house. How dare you come here and humiliate me?’
‘But, Dickens—’ Forster began.
‘I said out, and I mean out, sir. Do I have to remove you by my own hand in order to make myself clear?’
At this Forster took exception and, holding onto the table to steady himself, he stood to his feet, swaying slightly. His unsteady grasp on the table tore at the cloth, bringing plates and cutlery crashing to the floor.
‘Have you come so far in this world, Dickens, that you cannot take a joke at your own expense?’
Charles stood up and made towards Forster in an attempt to carry out his word to remove him, but Edward Marjoribanks, fearing that blows were about to be exchanged, stood between them. ‘Gentlemen, please!’
Unable to witness any more, I ran from the room in tears: the best of friends at war and a wonderful dinner party ruined! Still, the voices grew louder until the angry words reached a climax and were abruptly silenced by a loud bang and the smashing of glass. I came from the sitting room where I had been pacing up and down in tearful agitation, and found the hallway littered with fragments of glass and a broken pane in the front door. Forster had left. Whether voluntarily or aided by my husband I did not know.
Mr Marjoribanks and Miss Burdett-Coutts hovered by the door, not at all sure what to say in the way of a farewell. A strained smile passed between the three of us.
‘I’m so very sorry….’ I apologized.
Miss Burdett-Coutts moved towards me awkwardly as if to demonstrate a gesture of condolence, but thought the better of it and, clearing her throat, dropped her hand saying, ‘Well, goodnight then, madam,’ and hastily departed with Marjoribanks at her side.
Cook came into the hallway and, upon seeing the glass, whispered, ‘I will fetch a pan and brush, madam.’
I glanced anxiously at the dining-room door.
‘Please, Cook, no. Wait until the master has gone to bed.’
Hearing the door open, Cook and I darted back into the sitting room, knowing only too well to keep out of Charles’s way when he was angry. However, he did not ascend the stairs to bed as I had expected, but instead opened the front door, snatched up his cane and went out into the foggy night without hat, scarf or coat. It was not at all unusual for him to walk in the darkness of the city, ruminating and creating his works of fiction, but tonight was different; tonight he was angry and the night was shrouded in a heavy mist, a hiding place for danger. I prayed that no one would confront him for in this mood he was certainly ready to cause injury. Where was he going? He was surely not off to finish his argument with Forster?
What fools men were. Forster might be loud and irritating, I acknowledged that, but the sincerity of his friendship with my husband could not be called into question by anyone. They had first met through a journalist friend of my father’s and had quickly found out how many interests they shared: a love of literature and the arts, a passion for political reform and an inclination towards tomfoolery. When it came to matters of business, however, Forster had a sound mind and quickly set about giving my husband valuable advice and representing him in legal concerns. From that first meeting they had become inseparable and, although at times I found Forster boorish and overbearing, I could never have wished such an awful argument to come between them.
Charles had still not returned long after midnight and I lay in bed, drifting in and out of a restless sleep, imagining him lying in a gutter somewhere, his throat slit and his pockets emptied. The click of the bedroom door startled me and I awoke. Charles had returned. I thanked God that he was safe and yet something held me back from embracing him or speaking. He undressed in the darkness and slipped into the bed next to me without a word. He turned on his side, buried his head in his pillow and to my alarm began to weep.
‘
What have I done? Forster will never forgive me. Never. I have lost the dearest friend I ever had. And Miss Burdett-Coutts, she will think me completely ill-bred.’
I resisted the temptation to reach out my hand to him, knowing that he would not want me to see him this way. Despite his terrible anger, his regret was now plain to see.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
September 1838
The Thames, London
In the weeks that followed, Charles suffered with a bad cold, the result of his night-time excursion. He was plagued by facial spasms and was in a terrible mood: either completely silent, not speaking at all, or anxious and irritable. I did not dare to ask him a word about Forster. It was the arrival of a letter requesting his help that at last lifted him out of his gloom. After reading it carefully, he folded it in two and hurried to his study to make a reply.
My Dear Miss Burdett-Coutts
I am honoured to place myself at your disposal, and will do all that you ask of me and more, if I can, to assist the young woman in question. I will gladly arrange the passage as you have asked and take the ticket to her.
Your sister shows the same charitable spirit as yourself in what she does for these young women. You are right when you say that we must not sit in judgement, but that those of us that have the means to help, must do so.
I await your further instructions.
Your sincere friend,
Charles Dickens
Within our huge City there were often unmarried women who found themselves with child. Cast out, their only refuge was the workhouse, which was often a sure passage to death for mother or child, sometimes both. Angela Burdett-Coutts, I learned, had a sister who had emigrated to Australia and had set up a hostel for these poor unfortunates. Here they could start a new life, away from a hypocritical society, and find hope of a better future.
Charles later told me how he had wandered down to the docks.
‘Do you know, Kate, I passed children as young as two years old, picking their way through stinking rubbish in the hope of finding food. It was heartbreaking to see.’
In the loft of a dilapidated boathouse he had found the girl. She was no more than sixteen and was huddled beneath a fraying sackcloth. Her fair hair hung about her delicate face like rats’ tails.
‘Who told you I was ’ere?’ she had called fearfully. ‘Keep away from me, or I’ll skin you wiv’ me knife.’ She shuffled back into the corner and flashed the blade in warning.
‘I won’t harm you, little miss,’ Charles had reassured. ‘I’ve come to help. I heard what happened to you.’
The girl held up a lantern, seeking sincerity in her visitor’s eyes.
‘I know that you had a good position until your master’s son brought these circumstances upon you.’
The girl nodded cautiously, ‘Sir Robert Bradbury-Kent’s son, up at the big house on Upper Thames Street.’
Charles knew the family. Generations of money had not instilled good character in any of them, it had only robbed them of morals and filled them with arrogance instead.
‘I have something for you,’ said Charles, crouching down and moving a little closer. He had held out a ticket and a small purse of money. The girl eyed him suspiciously.
‘A lady will meet you at the railway station tomorrow at eight, under the station clock. You must not speak to her or appear to accompany her, but she will be your silent chaperon on the train journey. She will be wearing a green velvet bonnet. When you arrive at the docks a ship will be waiting, bound for Australia. Here is your passage.’ Charles had said, holding out the ticket.
The girl held back, not convinced, ‘Why are you doin’ this? Wot’s in it for you? You don’t know me at all. I could run away wiv that money and sell the ticket for a good price, you know that don’t ya?’ She rubbed a dirty hand back and forth across her nose.
‘That is your choice of course, little miss, but there will be small chance for you here in London.’
The girl had hesitated for a moment, not at all sure if she could ever trust another man, then cautiously got to her feet and took a step towards Charles. The fragile creature did not have any idea at all that she stood before a famous author, but looked into his kind eyes and recognized that they swam with tears of pity. She snatched the ticket and the bag of coins from Charles’s hand and then made a quick retreat to her bed of sacking.
Charles bid her goodbye and then turned to leave. She whispered softly, ‘Mister? If I should survive, then I will always remember your kindness, but if I should die, then I will ask God in person to bless you for what you have done.’
‘It is the lady and her sister that you have to thank, I am just their errand boy.’ He smiled. ‘But all that will become known to you when you reach the other side of the world.’ He shook her tiny hand and they said goodbye.
Walking past the little children by the docks once more, he resolved to see what could be done for them. He would speak to Miss Burdett-Coutts about it. Charles had seen the letter from her as a sign of her continued good will, and that she had not forsaken him after all. This was the first of many occasions when he worked with Angela Burdett-Coutts in her acts of charity. Sometimes he would receive word of how the lives of the young women he helped her to support, had turned out and it would always lift his mood, knowing that he had been able to make a small difference by doing some social good.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
October 1839
Devonshire Terrace, The Regent’s Park
Before the wheels of the carriage had hardly stopped turning, Charles threw open the door and jumped down onto the road, gesturing excitedly at the large town house before us.
‘This is it, Kate! This is it! The very house that I have told you so much about.’
We had driven west of Doughty Street leaving behind us the courts and alley-ways of Holborn, the muddy thoroughfares that echoed with the shouts of street vendors selling dog collars, birds, books, sticks, tracts, herbs, spices, crockery – in fact every manner of wares that a person might want or need – until the street became a little less dusty and we turned into the Tottenham Court Road with its well-dressed shop windows and recently swept pavements. Presently we arrived in a newly developed and respectable part of town close to The Regent’s Park.
‘Wait until you see inside, it is truly magnificent.’ Charles said breathlessly. With only a few weeks to go until the arrival of our third child, I was a little slower about my step and, with the help of the driver, I made a wary descent from the carriage. Charles had already run up the steps and was remonstrating with the keys to the front door, which appeared to be rather stiff and unyielding in the lock.
‘Will – you – turn!’ Charles gritted his teeth, determined not to be mastered.
‘Charles, if you force it, the key will break.’
‘Yes, I am very well aware of that, my dear, thank you!’
With a sharp upward exhalation he blew a curl away from his perspiring brow, and tried once more, this time with success.
‘There!’
The door swung open to reveal a large hall with black-and-white tiling.
‘It’s very grand, Charles,’ I acknowledged, with a little awe.
‘Just so! Just so! Am I not a famous author now? Macready has a place not far from here, you know, but not as big as this, Kate. Nowhere near as big as this.’
Our family was growing and our current home was undoubtedly becoming too small for us, but Charles felt the need to prove himself an equal among his contemporaries, and there was little doubt that this mansion would enable him to do just that. He had been hunting for a new home for weeks and had precise requirements in mind: a street not too wide or too narrow and free of traders and street entertainers, and a house well lit by sunshine with plenty of large windows. He had consulted a surveyor to ensure that the basement was not damp and a lawyer to ensure that there were no unpaid bills attached to the property. With all these requirements satisfied, he had settled upon Devonshire Terrace.
Charles took me by the hand and led me into one of the rooms.
‘Close your eyes, Kate, I have something to show you. Now, open!’
I opened my eyes with great expectation and was instantly disappointed to see before me a large, dusty, empty room; but with eyes full of imagination, Charles saw so much more.
‘This, Kate, will be the library.’ he said with pride. He walked the length of the extensive room, his footsteps echoing upon the wooden floor, his mind running ahead to the finished project. ‘I will have the walls fitted from floor to ceiling with oak shelves, and I will have the works of Shakespeare here, the Greek poets there; Wordsworth, Shelley and Keats.’ He pointed as if slotting each book into place, ‘Don Quixote, Robinson Crusoe, Gulliver’s Travels – all of them Kate, all of them! Including every damn book that my father ever took from me. It will be a library to envy.’
‘Well, if it will make you happy, my love,’ I demurred.
His face changed to one of earnestness, ‘But are you happy, Kate?’
Disappointed by my muted response he muttered under his breath, ‘I suppose that it is too much to expect that we should both be happy at the same time!’
‘Charles, I only….’
But he had gone, bounding up the stairs to inspect the bedrooms. He didn’t seem to understand that I lived my life quietly, not one to be excited by strong emotion nor unduly moved by the routine changes that life brought.
That night Charles was late at his desk and I drifted in and out of a shallow sleep, aware that at that very desk he was not writing with ease and enjoyment, but was sweating, striving, struggling, wrestling to give birth to every word he inscribed. He was fidgety, flustered, restless and irritable and when at last he came to bed the restlessness crept into his dreams and prodded and plagued him, until he awoke with a start.
‘Where is she? Where has she gone?’
Far Above Rubies Page 7