Far Above Rubies (15 page)

But I did not feel kind at all. I felt hopeless, unable to offer anything more meaningful. Charles was so much better at words than I and I wondered what he would have said if he had been here. Emily was waiting in the carriage and opened her mouth as if to ask how the mistress was, but closed it again after catching sight of William’s bloodied face.

On the journey home the shadows of Brompton Asylum troubled me and I pictured Isabella crouched in that dark cell. It was then that the strangest thought occurred to me: I realized that in order to survive her despair Isabella had created about her a world that she could cope with, a world where her daughter was not lost to her at all but lived again among that bundle of rags. In that world death did not exist, did not have the power to hurt nor harm. In that world Isabella was invincible against the cruelty of fate. So would it really be a kindness then to take her from such a benevolent place and bring her back to face reality where only grief and pain were waiting to greet her? Didn’t we all to some extent do what Isabella had done? Didn’t we all arrange our life in such a way that we perceived it, not as it really was, but as we wished it to be – and in this way we made
the hobble of life more bearable? I saw in my mind’s eye Isabella’s stream of white hair, but when she looked up the face was not hers at all but mine.

Terrified, I quickly brought my mind back into sharp focus, vowing that I would never repeat my thoughts to anyone – lest they think me insane also.

Spring – 1850  

St John Street, Clerkenwell  

A notice of auction had appeared in
The Times
. The scattered contents of Gore House lay like a dismembered skeleton, its bones now picked bare of flesh by the birds of prey that descended upon it the moment the news was out. Count d’Orsay and the Countess of Blessington were bankrupt; Lord Blessington’s estate had been eaten up by debt and Charles had vowed that he would never again venture near the house.  

‘I could not bear to see that beautiful salon inhabited by slavering hyenas, prowling about and pawing at all my memories. Such wonderful evenings….’ he sighed.

I heard that the lovers had crept away under the cover of darkness and escaped to France.  

Reversals of fortune, they happened all the time. For the poor, however, I supposed that there was little hope of a reversal of fortune; it seemed that providence decreed that some were destined to go through life with little means, and die in that same condition.  

While taking a ride into Town to purchase a new hat I found my thoughts strangely turned in the direction of old Mrs Rozawich. With Isabella in the asylum, I wondered about the old lady and
her
fortune. Had she been befriended by another kindly well-wisher? Was she, indeed, still alive? Moved by the impulse
of curiosity, I directed the driver to the old Jewish Quarter.

We turned into Petticoat Lane and the carriage was immediately hindered in its progress by a sea of bearded merchants and their customers. The air was filled with the sound of foreign tongues, shouts and whistles. Washing lines that hung with damp clothing, danced overhead: trousers, shirts, rags without obvious shape or form, all flapping in the wind. Men and women ran alongside the carriage and held up their goods for closer inspection, and I could not help but put a handkerchief to my nose overcome by the odour of rags and old clothes. Realizing that I had set myself a foolish and impossible quest I directed the driver to the synagogue; it seemed the only chance of finding news about the lady I sought, and a remote one at that.

Drawing up outside the place of worship, I wondered what I should do next. Were women permitted to enter and, if so, did they remove their hat, or leave it on? I had no idea of such matters and was beginning to wonder if I was causing myself unnecessary bother, but I resolved to send the driver and bid him to bring the rabbi to the carriage window. I acknowledged that I was so unlike Isabella; her thoughts were always with the needy and those outside of society. I was too caught up in my own concerns to imitate her in this respect, but I would persevere for her sake. If she were ever restored to her senses again, she would feel gladness at this little act of thoughtfulness done in her name.

In a few minutes the driver reappeared with an elderly gentleman, bearded and wearing a long black coat and wide brimmed hat, who I concluded from his appearance, could be no one other than a holy man.

‘I understand that you are seeking one of our people, my dear lady.’

I nodded in response.

His blue eyes were set deep in a face so brown and wrinkled that he could have been the patriarch, Abraham, himself.

‘We are a vast and numerous population in this fair city. I am
not at all sure if I can be of any use to you, but I will try.’ He held out his hands in a gesture of humble servitude.

‘The lady that I am seeking is named Rozawich.’

The rabbi shook his head slowly. ‘There are many by such name, dear lady. Can you tell me anything more?’

I sought the nether regions of my mind; it had been ten years or longer. ‘She had an unmarried daughter, Esther, I recall.’

‘Again, a name not at all rare for one of our people.’

If only I could remember the name of her son, and then it came in a flash. ‘Peter! His name was Peter! Mrs Rozawich was a widow; she had a daughter named Esther, and a son named Peter – he had a second-hand plate and jewellery stall.’

The rabbi hesitated, his blue eyes almost disappearing within the folds of his lids, ‘Perhaps… I’m not sure. There is a Peter Rozawich who worked very hard at such a trade and invested his money wisely. He married very well – a widow with property, you could enquire at her address in Clerkenwell.’

I thanked him sincerely and directed the driver to Aylesbury Street, where I enquired at a bank and was able to confirm the address of Mr Peter Rozawich. The carriage turned the corner and pulled up outside a smart three-storey house in St John Street. The driver jumped down and took my card to the door and while I waited, in those few short minutes I realized that I had not reflected at all on what I was going to say, should Old Mrs Rozawich be known here. I also realized that I had not prepared myself to answer questions about Isabella. If old Mrs Rozawich were still to be found in her former condition, it would not be such an awkward matter; however, if she were living here, in much improved circumstances, to refer to the asylum would be indelicate.

I was shortly escorted to the door and shown by a maid to the ornately furnished sitting room, which was occupied by three ladies. The oldest I recognized immediately as Mrs Rozawich, who appeared to be both hale and hearty, but still wearing an expression of grim misgiving upon her lips; the second I remembered as Esther, although somewhat older, and the third
was assuredly the young Mrs Rozawich. I was struck by her dark-hair and eyebrows, which framed features of an undoubtedly foreign origin. From her ears hung the most exquisite garnet ear-rings that I had ever seen, and at her throat she wore an opalescent brooch in the form of a butterfly.

We exchanged compliments: I about her jewellery, she about my hat, and then we began polite conversation about my husband’s career, as, of course, he was universally known. The young Mrs Rozawich had read many of his novels and had been so keen to receive me when she heard that I was at her door. She enquired into my opinion on all of his compositions, and I was a little ashamed to realize how small an interest I had in such details. His work took up so much of his time and attention, I saw it as something to resent rather than admire.

Old Mrs Rozawich, who had been silently inspecting me very carefully for some time, finally spoke.

‘But, Mrs Dickens, whoever would have thought it? Goodness! You have changed. I’m not one to say that a person is overweight, but my, you have grown fat!’

I looked at the faces of the other ladies present with alarm, to see if any shock had registered upon their features, but they raised their gilded cups to their lips in unison and sipped at their tea impassively.

She continued with all sincerity, ‘And I’m not one to say that a person has aged; but my, you look so old!’

I watched the garnet ear-rings swinging back and forth from young Mrs Rozawich’s ears as she lifted her cup once more to her lips, the tea drinking continuing in quiet synchronization.

When old Mrs Rozawich opened her mouth to say something else, I panicked and looked at Esther, intervening with the first thought that came into my head, ‘And you, Esther, are you married now?’

Immediately I knew that it was a clumsy choice of topic, and I coloured up in consequence.

‘No, madam, my status is just as it was.’

Esther’s response was understandably icy, but any resentment
on her part, was no doubt tempered with the satisfaction that if marriage led one to becoming old, fat and clumsy, then she could be glad that she had not entered into such an arrangement.

Young Mrs Rozawich put down her cup and saucer on the side table, and then raised the topic that I was most unprepared for, ‘And how is your friend, Mrs Thackeray? I understand that she was very kind to my mother-in-law in days gone by; I trust that she is in good health?’

I was pleased to manage a more polished response than I had hoped for. ‘I am afraid to say, that she is not, madam, but I will let her know of your family’s good wishes for her prompt return to health.’

My evasive reply indicated that no further questions should be asked, if a person did not want to appear impertinent, and thankfully old Mrs Rozawich was sensitive to it. Perhaps she had the remains of some loyalty to her friend after all.

Upon climbing into the carriage to make my return home, I noticed that the doorway seemed narrower than when we had arrived and I feared that I would become wedged in it! Strangely, my body ached with pains that I had not been aware of before, no doubt about it, I was getting older; and when I observed the hands that were folded in my ample lap, the truth was plain to see: they were undeniably plump. So much for charitable acts!

March 1851  

Russell Square, Bloomsbury  

The room was comfortable, given an air of cosiness by the
well-tended
fire in the grate. On either side of the fireplace were fitted cupboards: one stacked with china, the other in use as a bookcase. A large sash window framed by white cotton curtains overlooked the little front garden and, seated by the fire, his feet resting on a plain but highly polished fender, was my father-
in-law
. His legs were wrapped in a woollen blanket, and his large thick hands grasped at the folds at regular intervals as pain flooded through his ageing body.  

‘I ain’t afraid of a-dying, Kate, I’ll just be glad to get rid of this ’ere pain in me kidneys; and when I gets back on me feet again, I’ll take the ’ole bloomin’ family out to the tea gardens – my treat, mind, I won’t have my son puttin’ his hand in ’is pocket for me – and we’ll play skittles, and watch the fireworks light up the ’ole sky.’  

At this Mr Dickens closed his eyes as another surge of pain overwhelmed him and he clawed at the folds in the blanket again. Seated at his side on a low, padded footstool, I placed my hand upon his. He opened his eyes again as the pain subsided, and smiled his usual optimistic smile, as if he were sure that the passing spasm was the last.  

John Dickens’s history was not in any way a remarkable one
for his time. All that had been notable about my father-in-law was that in this unforgiving life he had survived – perhaps not nobly, but he had survived. As a young man an inheritance of £450 had slipped unnoticed through his prodigal fingers; he could never in any precise manner recall when or how it had happened, but it had happened, all the same. He had not been troubled by it, though, and had spent the remainder of his adult life convinced that good fortune was once again awaiting him around the proverbial corner.

If thoughts of meeting his Maker now crossed his mind, he undoubtedly had many a ready excuse as to why he had put a young boy to work in a blacking factory to pay off his own debts, forged the signature of that very same son to raise a pound or two, and unashamedly begged from his offspring’s highly esteemed friends.

My father-in-law looked wistfully out of the window.

‘Tell the guvnor I asked after ’im and that ’is old Pa knows that ’e’s a-busy makin’ ’is way in the world. Even though ’e don’t say much, ’e cares. I know ’e cares, Kate.’

‘Of course he does, Pa.’ I patted his hand reassuringly, and he grasped at it suddenly, squeezing it so tightly that I wanted to shout out in pain too.

‘There, there now, Mr Dickens; no more talking, you must save your energy for the operation.’

Mrs Davey’s soft voice betrayed no hint of the torturous ordeal that my father-in-law was about to endure, but was full of the calm reassurance that was reflected in her motherly face. I was unsure as to whether in fact she was indeed a mother, the house seemed tolerably quiet and well suited to the needs of two people grown weary of the world outside, so I concluded that she must in fact be childless. But I was convinced that the tender care she would by nature have heaped upon such children, was instead directed to those she now nursed in a different manner.

Charles’s parents had been taken into the home of Mrs Davey and her husband, a surgeon at the hospital in Whitechapel Road, and Charles was reassured that his increasingly forgetful mother
would be watched so as not to take off in the middle of the night, and that his father would have all of his ailments attended to by a qualified doctor.

My husband had always found it an uncomfortable obligation to visit his parents, being either uncharacteristically tongue-tied or impatiently censorious with them both. He had never really forgiven them for being who they were, and he always placed responsibility for any demons that he had faced in his adult life at their feet. If he was an impatient, sensitive man who wrestled with anxiety, that was his mother’s fault; if he had a morbid fear of being in debt, then that was his father’s fault. But at the terrifying thought that he might lose his father for good, he had gone about his morning business as if nothing at all untoward were about to take place that day. It was the only way that he knew how to manage such dire apprehension.

Mrs Dickens sat at the other side of the fire in an easy chair. A small dog sat curled upon her lap, preoccupied with an invisible insect upon its hind leg at which it gnawed with determination.

Mrs Dickens stared at me without an ounce of recognition in her eyes.

‘Are you the new maid?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘No, ’tis I, madam, Kate.’

Still she stared at me blankly.

‘You are too stout to be the maid – the cook then?’ She reached out a bent finger with which to poke me, and I drew back with uncertainty. I had always been rather wary of my mother-in-law and, in her present state of mind, I could not be sure of her next move.

‘No, madam, I am your daughter-in-law, Charles’s wife.’

‘Charles?’

‘Yes, your son, madam.’

Her eyes opened wide as if suddenly she saw everything clearly and her expression changed to one of revulsion.

‘Charles!’ She spat out the name with contempt. ‘That ungrateful child, always did have ideas above his station. Thought a deal too much of himself, that boy, shutting us away
here as if he is ashamed of us!’

Quick to defend my husband, I moved towards her and placed my hand on hers in all earnestness, completely forgetting my earlier caution, ‘No, madam, he has placed you here with good people, people who will care for your every need.’

At the feel of my skin upon hers, she withdrew sharply as though she had been touched by something unholy, and slapped my hand smartly.

‘Lizzie, Lizzie,’ her husband soothed, ‘the girl meant no harm….’ At another surge of pain, his voice trailed off.

The rebuke stung more than just physically. The room was hot and the thought of the terrible operation that my father-in-law was about to endure made me feel distressed and nauseous, and where was Charles in the midst of all of this? He should have been here at my side supporting me, supporting his father, not hiding his head in an imaginary world. When I had hinted that morning that he should visit his father, lest everything not turn out as expected, he had snapped, ‘The surgeon is being handsomely paid to perform well, and I expect him to do it!’ It was as though by holding such an expectation, providence could bring about only one acceptable outcome and no other!

Mrs Davey sensed my state of heightened emotion and gently ushered me out of the room. If she spoke, I had no comprehension of it for all I could hear was the fading torrent of a ceaseless monologue coming from the sitting room.

‘That boy could have been manager of that blacking factory by now, John Dickens, if I’d have had my way. But no, you had to interfere, putting ideas in his head. Books! That was the root of it all, giving him all those books to read as a child. Filled his head with ideas of grandeur, ideas above his station. Where did books ever get you, John Dickens? Aye, you’ve had your name down in a book, many a time, a
debt-collector’s
book
…
shutting us away here
….
’

Her ranting faded as I became aware of Mrs Davey’s words. ‘As soon as there is any news, madam, I will let you know. Your father-in-law will be in good hands, do not worry.’

Her kindly manner momentarily disarmed me, and I wanted
to throw myself into those motherly arms of hers and sob, but for the sake of propriety, I simply thanked her politely and replied that I would convey to my husband that she was carrying out her duties just as he had directed. Mrs Davey nodded her head, but looked upon me with sympathetic eyes as I stepped into the carriage to leave. She had not been fooled.

John Dickens never again visited the tea gardens, played skittles or watched the fireworks light up the night sky. Charles had gone to his mother as soon as he had received the news and promised her that she would never be without his assistance, but she had remained silent, looking past him as if he did not exist. He did not come home that night but walked aimlessly, wandering through dark and joyless alleyways until he came to a place that made sense of his loss and despair. A few coins had secured him a place to sleep, and if the guard had been surprised by the request he had not shown it.

Forster called the following morning and with some difficulty explained my husband’s whereabouts.

‘Perhaps, Kate, you might be able to persuade him to leave. I have done my best, you know, but a woman’s sympathetic manner of speaking and all that….’ He cleared his throat as if I knew exactly what ‘all that’ was supposed to mean and how it was to be employed in encouraging a grieving man to leave a police cell.

‘If you cannot persuade him to come home, John, then I do not see what I can do that will make any difference. But I will come, none the less.’

The tiny room was dark and although my husband was quite free to leave, he had chosen to keep the door firmly shut. I entered with Forster at my side and as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, his face emerged from it and I saw him seated upon a mattress of straw.

‘Have you come to take me home, Kate?’

His voice was weary through lack of sleep.

‘
Home
,’ he sighed. ‘Now there’s a word. But what does it mean: home?’

Forster looked at me and whispered, ‘He’s been acting this way since I saw him last.’

‘If home is where the heart is, then my home is right here, Kate, here among people who know what it is to have lost everything.’

He got up from the straw mattress and walked to the barred window that overlooked a courtyard and stared out into it.

‘Do you know, it’s a strange twist of irony, but all of my life I was waiting for my father to tell me that he was proud of me, proud to call me his own. But I did not realize until now that my father was waiting too – waiting to hear the very same words from his son. And now he will never….’