Far Above Rubies (13 page)

June 1845

London, England

‘London has not changed one bit,’ Charles complained bitterly within days of returning to England. ‘I miss the sunshine, the beauty of the Italian countryside and already I’m bored!’

He sniffed miserably into his handkerchief. He had come down with a heavy cold and not even the decoration that he had ordered for the house while we had been away could cheer his mood. As for me, I had begun to notice that I did not feel myself at all and that I carried with me a great sense of unease wherever I went. However, I did not attempt to voice my worries to Charles; I was with child again and he looked upon me scornfully as if it were entirely my fault, so there was little use in asking for his sympathy.

He wandered over to the drawing-room window and looked out wearily at a view he had seen a hundred times before. ‘This house has no life in it – it needs brightening: noise, visitors, anything to take away this dreary monotony.’

‘I say, you there, old fellow, what is your business here?’ Charles called suddenly.

A vagabond carrying a bundle had hurried past the house, fearful that, having slipped by the porter at the gates, his presence would soon be discovered. The man looked up with supplication in his eyes, and opened his coat, revealing the
bundle to be a child. Hearing that Charles Dickens lived in this street, the man had hoped that he might discover the whereabouts of the great author and that he might be pitied, and a coin dropped in his hand. The spirit of charity, so often in the centre of my husband’s heart, whispered to his conscience that he should do something; and Charles threw the man a coin and a wish for God’s blessing upon him and his child. My husband closed the window and I watched as his face grew pale and he visibly shuddered; it was not with repulsion, but with fear, as if he had seen a vision of how life might have turned out for him, and how life might still turn out if he let his hand rest for even a moment.

He began to wring his hands and said, with agitation in his voice, ‘I must work, Kate, I need a project, a new idea – I have to work. I must!’

And so he shut himself away and began writing, sketching out ideas, creating an imaginary world that only he controlled.

Unbeknown to me he had also begun making domestic plans.

The doorbell rang and Charles’s face brightened. He looked at his watch.

‘Ten o’clock precisely,’ he beamed. ‘Capital!’

I wondered who Charles could be expecting so early in the morning. Perhaps it was the artist, Daniel Maclise. He had recently lost his mother and had become a changed man; no longer dashing about London pursuing unsuitable women. He had become depressed, withdrawn, refusing to paint or draw. Charles had taken a brotherly interest in him and had told him to call anytime night or day. Charles also planned to produce a series of benefit performances with a view to raising funds for artists who had fallen on hard times, and thought that Mr Maclise might be aided by such a fund.

I looked in the mirror, wondering if I was presentable enough to receive an unexpected guest, but with disappointment I found a stranger looking back at me: dark shadows lay in the deepening creases beneath my eyes and I pinched my cheeks
trying to bring some colour to my pale complexion. A tendril of grey hung down from my temple and I hurriedly attempted to blend it in with the darker strands, tucking it behind my ear.

Leaving the bedroom, I paused for a moment at the top of the staircase. I could hear Charles talking with great excitement and the voice of a woman laughing in response.

‘Charles, you are too kind. What beautiful flowers!’

‘And you, young miss, are every bit as fresh and as lovely as they are. In fact, I do declare that you are lovelier than when I last set eyes upon you!’

I stepped quietly down the stairs and found Charles in the hallway, his eyes shining, holding onto both hands of my young sister, Georgie, who was by now quite the young woman. He looked up at me saying, ‘Kate, I have a surprise for you. I told you that the house needed cheering up, so I have invited Georgie to come to stay with us.’

I smiled. ‘Well, we will be very pleased to have you, dear, and the children will enjoy having you with us for a few weeks, won’t they, Charles?’

Charles blinked for a second. ‘Kate, you have completely misunderstood: your sister will be staying with us for good.’

With a flood of disquiet, memories came rushing back at me as if the years had fallen away, and all my old fears surrounded me once more. I took hold of the string of pearls that hung around my neck and began to twist them around my fingers with great agitation.

‘No, no … it cannot be…. What do you mean, for good? I’m really not sure—’

‘Not sure? What is wrong with you, Kate? You are not making sense at all. It is very simple: now that Georgie has completed her schooling, she will be a great aid to the children in their own studies, can’t you see? And with you, er … well, in your customary condition, you will be glad of the help,
won’t you
?’ His final two words were more like a direct instruction.

Georgie, who had become preoccupied with rearranging some flowers that I had set in a vase upon the hall table, seemed
completely untroubled by my cool reception, as if she had not an ounce of sensitivity in her bones at all.

‘Now, where were we, ah, yes….’ Charles nodded at Georgie’s floral artistry with approval and then linked arms with her and strolled across the hall. ‘Wait ‘til you see my growing library. Your knowledge of the world is only just beginning, young lady, but I myself shall teach you everything else you will ever need to know.’ Charles sighed with contentment and patted her hand, ‘Do you realize, Georgie, all my dreams that have lain unfulfilled will now be fulfilled by you? Now come, tell me, which room would you like? And when you have unpacked we will go for a long walk.’

Remembering my presence in the hall, Charles turned back for a moment and said in wonder, ‘Do you know, Kate, I don’t think that there is a man who can match me stride for stride like your sister can.’

He turned back again to Georgie. ‘Ah, yes, now that you are here, everything will be in order again, Mary….’

He faltered, realizing his mistake.

‘Yes,’ I whispered inaudibly. ‘Back from the dead!’

June 1846

Devonshire Terrace, London

Our sixth child was another son – Alfred d’Orsay Tennyson Dickens. Tennyson so named for my husband’s favourite poet, and d’Orsay after the charming French count.

A summer ball was to be held at the count’s place of residence, Gore House, and although I felt less than fit to attend, I did so as a means of staying close to my husband’s side. After all, who would he meet there? I would have no way of knowing. The experience with Madam de la Rue in Genoa had been unnerving, and left me with a lasting feeling of vulnerability.

Charles stood before the cheval glass and, in turn, held in front of him a red waistcoat and then a purple.

‘Which do you think, Kate? The red brocade or the purple silk?’

‘The red, my dear?’ I ventured.

He held the brocade waistcoat against him and his features condensed into a frown. Shaking his head, he tossed the garment onto the bed and began putting on the purple one with a nod of satisfaction. I was in my customary condition, once again, and was very conscious that my gown strained noticeably around my ever-expanding waistline. There was nothing for it, I would have to keep my mantle on all evening.

When we arrived at Gore House, I felt my anxiety heighten,
observing through the carriage window the large crowd of guests streaming through the Palladian pillars and into the grand hall. I began to twist at my pearls, but Count d’Orsay was as charming as ever and managed to put me at my ease immediately.

‘You are looking very radiant this evening, madam, if your husband will allow me to say so.’

‘You are always so kind, Alfred, thank you.’

‘And how are…?’

His unaffected small talk came to an abrupt end at the entrance of the hostess into the ballroom: a woman of beautiful form, so ethereal that she appeared to be a fancy of one’s imagination. His face took on a look of complete contentment and a smile played about his lips.

‘You love her very much, don’t you?’ I whispered.

He opened up his heart without a moment’s hesitation. ‘With my very being.’

Lady Blessington, had been born Miss Margaret Power, in County Wicklow, Ireland. The child of a harsh man who, without a thought for his poor daughter’s feelings, had handed her over in marriage at the age of fifteen to a captain in the army. The young girl’s circumstances were not at all improved for she found that her worthless husband drank heavily and had run up many debts. Her relief can only be imagined when his dissolute life came to an end during a drunken brawl, and she fled to England, where she met the recently widowed Earl of Blessington. Captivated by Margaret’s natural beauty, and deciding that his daughter was in need of a maternal figure, he quickly married her and bestowed upon his new wife the title Marguerite, Lady Blessington.

Lord Blessington not only had an eye for beauty but also a taste for luxury and enjoyed purchasing exotic items. Marguerite adapted to her new life with great ease and enthusiasm and accompanied her husband and stepdaughter all over Europe. It was in France where they were all to meet Count d’Orsay, and
no woman could deny that the young count was handsome, kind and intelligent; but more than that he had the ability to make the oldest dowager feel like a young girl again. Lady Blessington fell hopelessly in love. But what complicated relations were to ensue: Lord Blessington settled a dowry of £40,000 upon his daughter, if the dashing Frenchman were to marry her. The count, who in turn had fallen in love with Marguerite, could not bear to be parted from her, and felt compelled to agree, as a means of staying at her side.

Just two years later the elderly Lord Blessington died, his daughter abandoned the count, and went to Europe, and d’Orsay was subsequently left in the family home with his widowed stepmother.

‘Have you plans to travel this summer, d’Orsay?’ My husband had now joined us in the ballroom.

‘Marguerite wishes us to travel to Italy, and of course, whatever Marguerite wishes….’ the count smiled fondly. ‘And you, sir?’

Charles looked at me somewhat resentfully. ‘Well, I had wanted to return to Genoa myself, but Kate has requested that we go to Switzerland, instead.’

He lowered his voice as if I could not hear him. ‘My wife is a little unsettled in her mind at present, so I have to indulge her wishes, d’Orsay, you know how it is with women.’

July 1846

Lausanne, Switzerland

Charles looked at his pocket watch and beamed. His eyes sparkled with approval as Georgie stood in the hall next to a row of spotless children and a neat stack of luggage.

‘Eight a.m. on the dot. Capital, Georgie! Capital!’

He threw a look of despair my way, casting a glance at a large bump above my eye. In my haste to be ready, I had tripped on
the bedroom rug and caught my head on the corner of the dressing table. Charles raised his eyebrows and enquired in a sarcastic tone, ‘Kate, do you think that you might actually manage to board the coach without bruising, twisting or spraining anything?’

The children suppressed a chorus of muffled giggles, and Georgie hurried them along out of the door.

Charley was not among our travelling party as he was now at boarding school, hard at his education. Miss Burdett-Coutts had persuaded Charles to allow her to pay for Charley’s schooling, she being aware of the unpredictable nature of my husband’s earnings.

‘Think of it as a loan, if you wish, my dear Dickens, but I would prefer to think of it as a thank you for the giving of yourself unceasingly to my charity work.’

Charles reluctantly acquiesced, swallowing his pride in order to give to his son the education that he himself had been denied. The knowledge of this had helped me to understand the great drive for work that propelled my husband through life. However, that great drive now dragged along with it myself and the children. Although I resented Georgie’s intrusion into my life, I was glad that she was to accompany us on our travels, I was tired of it all.

I found Lausanne to be a clean little city, the hillsides dotted with pretty wooden cottages and the mountains intersected by streams. As a family we settled very well there. Not long after we had arrived, however, we received a letter from home bearing bad news. Fanny was failing in health. She had developed consumption and was not rallying at all.

‘I must return at once to see her,’ Charles said in distress, pushing the letter into his waistcoat pocket.

I hesitated, uncertain if I was expected to accompany him, but thankfully Charles did not mention it, and within the morning he had packed and was gone.

The following month, when Charles returned, he wore an
expression of controlled fear.

‘Is it really so very bad, my dear?’ I enquired sensitively.

My husband took me gently but purposefully by the arm and led me to a chair.

‘Charles…?’

He cleared his throat several times, ‘Kate, you must be very brave. I have something very serious to tell you.’

A mixture of fear and confusion swept over me. He knew how I felt about Fanny, so what could be so awful? I sat down, glad of the chair beneath me.

‘Kate, it’s Charley … no, don’t give way; remember, I said that you must be very brave.’ He gripped my hands tightly. ‘He has scarlet fever and the doctor says … you must be brave, Kate, the doctor says that … that … he may not recover.’

I got up and began wringing my hands in despair. ‘Oh, dear lord, we must go to him, Charles, before it is too late.’

‘It is impossible, Kate; you will never survive the journey in such a state of distress. If you cannot think of yourself, think of the child that you are carrying. It is too great a risk to both of you.’

How could he remain so impassive? ‘But this is our son, Charles, our own flesh and blood. This is not a character from one of your books, you cannot control his fate with a stroke of your pen. This is real and we must face the truth with feelings. You cannot escape from what is happening any more that I can.’ I had made him angry now.

‘That is enough, Kate! I have made my decision. We will stay here and trust that Dr Bell will employ every means necessary to aid Charley’s recovery.’

After this he forbade me to speak further on the subject and would not bend at all, only saying that everything would be well if we stayed strong. But my spirit was broken and I withdrew into a dark, shadowy world where sun did not break through and pain lay upon my heart like a biting frost. As Charles remained firm in his refusal to talk about Charley, the days and weeks that followed were unbearably lonely with only terror as
my constant companion. I was unreasonably fearful for the safety of my other children and unable to sleep or eat. Every letter that came was both a feared enemy and a welcome friend.

I sat now in the drawing room and was disturbed in my reverie by young Katie who looked at me with some perplexity upon her rounded face.

‘Mama, are you quite all right?’ I had not heard her enter the room at all, and so she repeated her question. ‘Mama?’

Suddenly I became aware of her presence and looked down to find that I had wound my string of pearls so tightly around my forefingers, that, lost in my thoughts, my fingers had begun to redden with constriction. I relaxed my grip and made a conscious effort to focus my attention on the anxious child looking up at me.

‘Have you been standing there long, my dear?’ I asked suddenly feeling very cold.

‘No, Mama, only a moment.’

I looked over my shoulder and then back at Katie.

‘I had the strangest sensation that someone was watching me and that they stroked my cheek.’

Her little face formed a worried frown. ‘Do you want me to call Papa or Aunt Georgie, for you, Mama?’

‘No, no, dear; I am quite all right. Run along and play, and do not worry yourself about Mama. I am fine.’ I ruffled her hair and she skipped away, concerned no more.

At last the news that I had prayed for arrived and I can only give thanks to God that my eldest son survived his illness. Fanny, however, in a reversal of fortune was not so blessed. Charles wrote daily for news of her condition and when it seemed that all hope had gone, he insisted that we return to England so that “his presence in person might give her strength beyond what was normal”. Perhaps in saying this he had in mind his experiences with Madam de la Rue, as if he had the power even over life and death.

We arrived home at Devonshire Terrace at the end of November and while I prepared for Charley’s return home for
Christmas, Charles rushed immediately to Fanny’s side. For some months his presence seemed to have some miraculous effect on her after all, and temporarily she gained strength and comfort from her brother’s presence. But not even my husband’s great fame could frighten death’s dark shadow from Fanny’s side and Charles was prostrated by grief at the loss of his sister.

As one life left the world, so another entered it. Our son Sydney was born and I was now the mother of seven children.