June 1842
My dearest darlings
Words cannot express how much I miss you. I only wish that you could have been here to see how the crowds have applauded your Papa and how we have been greeted like royalty wherever we go. We have seen the great city of New York, have travelled to the West where there are red Indians and Papa has even been introduced to President Tyler!
It is all so different from England, though, so much empty space and wilderness. Sometimes I have felt as though I am a million miles away from you. But all of that is about to change: we shall shortly be returning to London. Your Papa has bought gifts for you all and has so many exciting stories to tell you. For now continue to be good and we will be back with you very soon.
God bless you, my dears,
Your loving Mama and Papa
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
June 1843
Devonshire Terrace
The population of London was swelling and the city was ill prepared for the numbers that had come pouring in. The streets swarmed with people: labourers seeking work, women selling old clothes, street singers, bow-legged beggars, and orphans sitting on the kerb-side – all of them drawn to the great metropolis. People squeezed into every crack and crevice that was fit to provide shelter, no matter how foul and squalid.
The Dickens’ household was growing too, but just like our great city, Charles was not coping either. Although our home was large enough to accommodate a family of six and three servants with ease, Charles was continually pressed by the additional demands of caring for his thriftless parents and honouring the habitual debts run up by his brother, Fred. His journal notes on our visit to America had not been received as well as he had hoped, and he had just lost a lawsuit and found himself responsible for the costs, so when I found out that I was pregnant again, I kept the knowledge from him for as long as I could.
Emily brushed my hair and remarked that Fred had called again. I dismissed her and limped to the bedroom door; since the accident in Scotland and twisting my ankle in America I felt a certain weakness there at times. The weight that I was gaining did not help either. I felt sure that Charles would soon notice my condition.
I heard raised voices coming from the study downstairs and my heart sank as I realized that Charles and Fred were arguing again.
‘That girl deserves better than this. How could you have treated her so shabbily? And with her own sister too!’
It seemed that Fred had not changed for the better while we had been overseas. Without Charles here to keep a watchful eye on him he had almost lost his job at the Treasury several times. Worse still, Fred was engaged to be married, but confessed to Charles that his fiancée’s sister was expecting his child; Fred had neither money nor courage to resolve the dilemma. I was dismayed by his ungentlemanly behaviour.
‘So now you have the monopoly on morals do you, Brother?’ Fred countered with sarcasm in his voice. ‘If only those who held you in such high esteem, knew how you walked the streets at night and where you went, what would they think of you then? What, indeed, would Kate think?’
I heard the sound of scuffling, and I imagined that Charles had now grasped Fred by the throat.
‘How dare you insinuate—? I have never in my life….’
I heard Fred fall to the floor with a cry. Charles continued to rage, ‘I found you a job, damn you, a good one at that – so go and work at it and pull yourself out of the filthy hole you have dug yourself into….’
I closed the door and sighed. I did not wish to hear any more. Charles had every right to be angry, I couldn’t deny it; if he wasn’t keeping his father out of trouble, then it was Fred. But none of this was helping my situation. How could I find the right time to tell Charles my news? I crossed the room to the window and looked out to the garden in search of tranquillity and inspiration. I noticed how the flowers danced gently in the breeze. I felt that I, too, was being softly lulled by their movement. My head felt hot and strangely light. One by one the flowers formed a circle and danced a ring o’ roses around me. My ears rang with the echo of angry voices. The flowers turned their faces to me and each one became the face of a new born-baby calling, ‘Mama, Mama’, over and over. Their leaves became chubby little arms that stretched out and embraced me, squeezing the breath out of me until gradually I was enveloped by darkness.
I awoke, and the familiar shapes and shadows of my bedroom came into focus. I reached out my hands in an attempt to orientate myself and felt the silky covers of the eiderdown beneath my fingertips. Over by the window Charles and Dr Bell were conversing in a low tone.
‘Charles?’ I called softly.
He turned and immediately I saw a weariness of expression that could not hide his despair at the prospect of another child.
‘Remember,’ Dr Bell cautioned, ‘she must rest.’
The doctor left and Charles knelt down at the side of the bed and took my hand. He attempted to smile, but his eyes betrayed his sadness. Then he took a breath as if he were about to say something reassuring, but for once the man of great words struggled to create a fiction for my benefit. His eyes met mine and the sadness in them turned to fear.
‘Kate,’ he whispered, gripping the bed covers, ‘I am afraid that we shall be ruined.’
Some months later, Charles decided that we would rent out our home and live in Italy for a while. He reasoned that it would be cheaper to live abroad and I would agree to anything that I thought might raise his spirits and give me some respite from his moodiness. To his friends, however, he kept up a show of bravado and boasted, ‘Of course, in Italy I shall write as I have never written before. I shall be inspired by its grandeur and beauty. I might even rent a castle!’
Upon our arrival in Genoa, we did indeed take up rooms in a small castle in the countryside, but beyond the heavy oak door the grandeur and beauty ceased. Inside, the building was crumbling, draughty and dark and it was not at all suitable for the children. Charles, however, had other concerns: deprived of warmth and light he could not find inspiration at all, and he quickly uprooted us and moved us to a villa in the city. Here at last we found light, warmth and enough room for a large family and its domestics. I felt relieved that we were settled.
Charles, however, was not at all settled. He paced about, still dissatisfied; his writing implements had not arrived from England and no other desk would suffice. He was always very particular about such matters. First he would position his desk overlooking a view, then he would take great care to lay out every item upon it in a certain way until he was satisfied. Once arranged, he would insist that he and he alone was the only one to sit at it, and that nothing on it should be touched. It seemed he believed that if anything should be altered or disturbed in any way that his whole world would disappear and the spell of his success would be broken. When the crate eventually arrived and he had personally unpacked all his things and laid out them just so, he sat in his study for the rest of the day.
‘At last he is at peace,’ I sighed with relief. ‘Now I shall be at peace too.’
But when he was called for his supper, he came out of his study ashen and trembling.
‘Charles, whatever is the matter?’ I asked with great consternation.
He threw his hands up in despair. ‘It has happened, Kate. Just as I always feared.’
‘What has happened, my love?’ I asked gently, not wanting to provoke his anger.
‘I couldn’t write a thing, Kate. Not one word.’
‘Perhaps you are tired, dearest.’
‘No, it is not that at all!’ he snapped, pacing backwards and forwards across the hallway. ‘I need the streets of London for my inspiration. Unless we return, I am finished.’
He grasped his hair in exasperation, snatched up his walking cane and went out of the front door. I watched him walk down the narrow sloped street, talking to himself and gesturing wildly.
I began to panic, Oh, dear God, no – please don’t let him move us again. I could not bear it.
&n
bsp; When evening came, and the children were all asleep, he returned. He danced up the path, whistling a tune from an Italian opera and conducted an imaginary orchestra with his cane. I came across the hall about to remonstrate with him for drinking too much and he beamed at the sight of me.
‘Kate, I’ve got it!’ He swung me around and kissed my forehead.
‘Charles, let me go,’ I laughed, relieved at his good temper.
‘Not until you listen to my idea. It can’t go wrong.’
I began to open my mouth in protest at his grip on me.
‘Shhhh!’ he whispered, putting his hand gently to my lips, ‘Listen.’
‘Listen to what?’ I implored.
‘Listen,’ he repeated, pointing outside.
The peal of the church bells rang out, becoming louder and clearer upon my recognition of them.
‘The Chimes!’ he laughed. ‘That’s my story – just like the bells of St Martin in the Fields back home. I’ve found my inspiration, Kate. I’ve found it!’ He swung me around again and again, laughing joyously.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
July 1844
Genoa, Italy
‘I feel more alive here, Kate, than anywhere else in the world.’
Charles walked out onto the bedroom balcony and stretched out his arms above his head, inhaling the sea air deep into his lungs. ‘In coming away from the familiar, I feel that every sense that I possess has taken on renewed vitality.’ He leaned upon the iron railings and looked out at the old town below. ‘My imagination is teased by what I might find when I walk along those twisting alleyways, Kate, and my eyes are delighted by all these colourful houses bathed in sunlight.’
I followed him out onto the balcony and rested my hand lightly on his shoulder. I was pleased to see him relaxed for once. ‘Are you not working today, my love?’
‘No, I thought that I might walk over to see Augusta and see how she is this morning.’
My hand fell away from his shoulder.
‘Again?’ I said with dismay.
Augusta de la Rue was the beautiful wife of a local banker in the city. She had frequently invited Charles and me to her home to dine with many of her other influential circle. Her husband, Emile, was a quiet man and it was apparent that he was utterly devoted to his vivacious wife and would do anything to find a cure for her ‘troubles’. One evening he confided to Charles, ‘You would think to look at her now, that she is as sane as you or I, but, when we are alone she imagines that we are being watched everywhere we go. By day she falls into the most terrible fits and by night she endures the most terrifying nightmares. I have consulted the best physicians in Europe, but as yet no one can find the cause of her anxiety.’
After dinner, Charles performed some of his favourite conjuring tricks and Madam de la Rue clapped her hands with enthusiasm: ‘You know, Mr Dickens, I am convinced that you really are able to work magic and I think that were you to lay your hands upon me, you could make me well again.’ She fluttered her fingers as if casting a spell and laughed.
With an inflated opinion of his own power Charles took her at her word and promised to call upon her again and do what he could to help her.
On the way home, I berated him. ‘In heaven’s name, why did you go and put such an idea in her head.’
He threw me a look of indignation. ‘I think that I could do it, Kate, I really do.’
By now he had completed The Chimes and was determined to return to England to read it to his friends – their approbation was a necessary as ever to his ego – but he remained firm in his resolve to call upon Madam de la Rue upon his return. He left me with strict instructions to touch nothing in his study and to leave everything just as it was. A week later he wrote and told of the success of his reading:
There was not a dry eye in the place, Kate. I feel that it is a marvellous thing to have such power and it has caused me to think again about the request made by Madam de la Rue. I believe more than ever that perhaps she is right and I truly do possess the power to make her well, and I confess that I cannot think of anything else….
Anyone else! I thought bitterly, crushing his letter in my hand. It was obvious to me now that he was driven by one thought and one thought alone. There was only one subject in the world to him now, and that subject was Augusta de la Rue and it bewitched and possessed him. Impelled by the obsession, he returned to Italy with great haste and called upon her the moment he set foot back in Genoa.
When he came home – without even a word of greeting – he enthused, ‘Kate, you will never believe it! I called upon Madam de la Rue just as I said I would, and all I did was to lay my hands gently upon her and she fell asleep. I spent the whole afternoon by her side and, when she awoke, she proclaimed it to be the most peaceful sleep that she had experienced in months, and that I must attend her again tomorrow.’
I bristled with resentment, ‘And what of your family? We have not seen you in weeks. Will you not attend to us?’
But he was not listening. He headed for his study, shaking his head and looking at his hands, turning them backwards and forwards. ‘Amazing!’ he muttered. ‘Simply amazing!’
Each day thereafter, Charles called upon Madam de la Rue and spent long days in her company. He wrote detailed notes of their discussions together and about the success of his ‘treatment’.
When the de la Rues next travelled to Rome, Emile insisted that we must accompany them too, lest Augusta feel unwell and need to call upon Charles at any time.
‘She is like a different woman when you are around, my friend.’
I was amazed at Emile’s acceptance of this strange charade.
One night, Charles awoke at two in the morning and leapt from the bed calling her name, ‘Augusta!’ He hopped around in the darkness, trying to put his foot into his trouser leg.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ I asked, imagining that he was dreaming.
‘I must go to her, she needs me – I can just feel it.’
He grabbed his coat and scarf from the wardrobe.
‘What do you mean she needs you? How can she need you at this time of night?’
‘I sense it. She is calling out for me – I have to go to her. I will return as soon as I can, Kate. Go back to sleep.’ He slipped on his shoes and in a moment he had gone.
I rose from the bed and went out onto the balcony, watching the nimble figure of my husband disappearing into the night. Sleep? How could I sleep when the man I loved appeared to be at the complete beck and call of another woman, whose every need he was putting ahead of my own? Why did Emile not say something? Why could he not see what was going on? But what was going on? Charles appeared convinced that he had some kind of efficacy over Madam de la Rue’s disturbed mind, but was it merely the sense of power it gave him which drove him to her side, or was there more?
The following morning over breakfast, Charles did not seem to notice my silence and talked of nothing but Augusta. I felt my fingers tighten around the handle of my tea cup.
He took a bite of his pastry, ‘Do you know, Kate, when I got to the de la Rue residence I found the poor woman curled up in a tight ball at the foot of her bed, moaning and sobbing uncontrollably.’
He took a sip of his coffee.
‘Yes, dear Emile was beside himself with despair, but when he saw me, Kate, he took me by the hand, shaking it with a gratitude pitiful to see. “My dear Charles, thank God that you are here. She has been like this for most of the night and I dared not leave her side to send word to you. What in the world is wrong with her?”
‘So I told him, Kate’ – there was another bite of his pastry – ‘allow me some time alone with her and I will do what I can.’
My fingers increased their pressure on the handle of the tea cup.
‘Well, I spent most of the night with her, and when I later emerged from the room, closing the door quietly behind me, I was able to comfort Emile, “She is sleeping now, dear fellow, but I will stay by her bedside if you will permit it, so
that I will be close at hand in case of any further distress”.’ He popped the final piece of pastry into his mouth and took his napkin from his lap to wipe his lips.
‘When I left this morning, I told him that I would return again after lunch, to see how she is faring. I reassured Emile, “No trouble, no trouble at all….”’
With a final squeeze of my finger and thumb the handle snapped and the cup clattered into the saucer, splashing tea all over my dressing-gown.
‘Kate, you really are clumsy! Whatever were you thinking of?’
When the holiday in Rome was over and we returned to Genoa, I hoped that my husband’s thoughts would turn in another direction, but still he called upon that woman without missing a day, and I began to determine that I must say something or go mad with rage. One evening, I watched him through the crack in our bedroom door. He stood in front of the mirror and was holding a piece of hair between the finger and thumb of one hand and a pair of scissors in the other, his tongue protruding from the side of his mouth in concentration.
I walked into the room unannounced. ‘What in heaven’s name are you doing?’
He jumped at my unexpected entrance, the scissors spinning from his hand.
‘Good God, Kate! You startled me. I could have done myself an injury.’
He bent down to retrieve them. I noticed an open locket on the dressing table and a surge of jealousy pulsed through my veins.
‘Who is that for?’
‘It is nothing!’ he retorted, and snatched up the trinket, snapping it shut. ‘An admirer asked for a lock of my hair. A silly token; it’s nothing more than that.’
I looked at his well-kept curls and said with derision, ‘Am I to believe that you would disturb a hair on your head in the cause of a meaningless token?’
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