Far Above Rubies (16 page)

1851  

Malvern  

Abruptly I stopped reading, shocked by my husband’s insensitivity. With our own little Dora still so little, it seemed an ill-chosen name for a character so undoubtedly fated to die.  

I thought about my baby daughter and how much I missed her. Yet, in spite of this, I did not feel ready to return to the responsibilities of motherhood. I had nine children waiting at home for me, but the death of Charles’s father had been most unsettling. The stay in Malvern had done me good, the quiet surroundings of the countryside had helped to soothe my troubled nerves. Georgie was surely doing a fine job and knowing that the children were being cared for with the utmost dedication was a great comfort. In fact, I often wondered if I was being missed at all.  

Charles had written regularly and had visited twice, staying for as long as his busy schedule had allowed, and I looked forward to his correspondence. For Charles, writing was as
natural as breathing and I felt as though I enjoyed more of his company in this way than I did when I was in his presence. His thoughts and feelings were all routinely recorded and it often felt as though he were here in this very room. I laughed at the accounts of his daily comings and goings and his lively descriptions of the children’s antics, and bristled up a little with resentment at his frequent references to Georgie’s ‘capital efficiency’.

The following day I received yet another letter bearing Charles’s handwriting and I wondered what could have happened to cause him to write again so soon. More words of deserved praise for Georgie, no doubt! I sat down, sipping at my tea and began to read:

I held the letter – momentarily paralysed – then folded it and quickly replaced it in its envelope as if it were hidden then it could not really exist, nor have any power to harm. I swallowed hard in an effort to quell the rising hysteria. ‘Now, Catherine,’ I said to myself, ‘what would Charles say if he were here? Would he not say:
all will be well if only we stay strong?
Didn’t he say the
very same thing when Charley was ill? He was right on that occasion…. So why should that not be the case now?’

I felt a little calmer and decided that I must return home immediately, but did not send word of my coming lest Charles should forbid it. I took out my travelling bag and began to pack. But, despite repeated searching, I could only find one of my best travelling shoes and no matter how hard I looked I could not find the other. It was the same with my gloves; one plum coloured gauntlet lay on its own upon the bed. I searched through the drawers of the dressing table, scrutinized the empty wardrobe and carefully examined beneath the bed until I could no longer keep up the pretence of fortitude and my despair finally took hold of me. It was no good. I was not like Charles and never could be. Life was all too real for me and I knew only too well that it could be hard and cruel, no matter how hard we willed it not to be.

Upon hearing my sobs the landlady quietly knocked the door and, seeing my distress told me not to mind, she would see to the packing and would call for the cab to take me home. In her fifty or sixty years, she had no doubt aided many a tearful young woman who had come to Malvern to rest a disquieted mind, and she was not perturbed.

The journey back to London seemed interminable. I longed to return home to my little Dora, to hold her in my arms and put my hand upon her brow. The coach was crowded and I was squashed between a parson and his over-fed wife who munched on a succession of rations fetched from a basket on her lap, while her husband slept, occasionally dropping his head upon my shoulder and immediately waking with an earnest apology. Opposite sat two ladies and an elderly gentleman whom I soon learned was their brother. The sisters, as far as I could discern, were not twins and yet they seemed so very much of one mind that I nicknamed them ‘Harriet and Henrietta’. Whatever the one began to say, the other would finish or repeat for emphasis.

‘Our brother, Mr Allen, used to—’

‘—be a soldier,’ the other concluded.

Mr Allen nodded, but did not speak.

‘He was part of a regiment that fought long and hard—’

‘—at the Battle of Waterloo.’

‘Yes, the Battle of Waterloo,’ the first echoed.

The mute Mr Allen nodded agreeably once more. I did not know if he could not speak, or had given up trying through the lack of opportunity, but he did not need to say a single word during the entire journey, for it was all said quite ably on his behalf.

When my carriage finally pulled up, I realized that the relentless conversation had passed the time admirably well, but had left me exhausted. My head was throbbing.

‘I hope—’

‘—that your little daughter is soon well again.’

‘Soon well. Yes,’ they chorused together.

Mr Allen gave a mute nod and waved me goodbye.

As soon as I opened the front door I sensed the presence of despair. I ran up the stairs, stumbling and calling, ‘Georgie! Dora! Where are you?’

I heard the click of the bedroom door and, on reaching the top of the stairs, saw Charles standing guard. He wore an expression of graveness upon his face.

‘We were not expecting you, Kate. You should not have come.’

‘Where is she?’ I insisted. ‘I want to see her.’

‘I’m sorry, Kate.’ He shook his head.

I removed my bonnet and gloves. ‘You can tell her that her mama is here now. That I have come home to help her get better.’

My voice wavered, full of unease.

I placed my hand upon the doorknob and Charles covered it with his own and prevented me from turning it.

‘You must not go in, Kate.’ He tried to mask his emotion with authority. ‘She has already gone, has been gone for two days. It is best if you don’t—’

As his words took on meaning, my knees gave way and I dropped at his feet.

‘But why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me believe…? Oh, dear God, let me see her, Charles. Please! You must. You must.’

He helped me up and led me to the bedroom where he put me to bed and brought me brandy to aid my rest, leaving Emily to watch at my bedside.

Dora’s funeral took place the following morning, but I could not attend, still suffering from the disclosure of her death only the day before. Despite determined efforts to raise myself and get dressed, my mind could not command what my body could not manage. Charles was very kind and reassured me that it was quite in order for me to stay at home and that he thought it best under the circumstances. I watched from the bedroom window as Georgie took his arm and climbed into the carriage.

Suddenly my mind, which until now had been numbed by shock, became quite clear and focused upon a horrifying thought: had Georgie really done all that she could to prevent the death of my dear Dora? Had she formed a scheme to ingratiate herself further with Charles? Yes! Now I saw it all so clearly. She had had me sent away to Malvern so as to part me from Charles. She had let my baby die and then planned to be the only one there to comfort him when it happened. I banged my fist upon the window and repeatedly called to my husband, shouting his name. When at last he looked up, his eyes were full of sadness and pain. He stepped into the carriage, which pulled away and headed for the cemetery. Dora had gone and I could hardly believe it.

July 1853  

Tavistock House, London  

‘These doors here, I want them to be folding, like so. Then I can walk between my study and the drawing room; pace up and down, you know, when I’m thinking.’  

The builders had taken over the house: Charles had thought that a change of accommodation would help us all to put the past behind us, and so in 1851 we left Devonshire Terrace and moved down to Tavistock Square. I liked the house well enough, although there was much to be done in the way of decoration and repair, but I did not feel that I belonged here, or was mistress of the house at all. Georgie was increasing her authority week by week.  

‘What do you think, my dear, should the recess here in the drawing room be turned into a cupboard or a bookcase?’ Charles asked Georgie, hooking his thumbs into his waistcoat pocket.  

Young Francis held up his schoolwork for my sister to inspect, she nodded briskly with approval and then turned her attention back to Charles.  

‘A bookcase, Charles, that is what is needed. If the drawing room is to adjoin your study, then you will have the extra storage you require for your books close at hand.’  

His face lit up at her suggestion, ‘Capital! Georgie, Captital! You are right as usual.’

‘P-P-papa?’ Francis stammered, and held out his school book to Charles, in search of commendation.

Charles ruffled his hair, ‘What have we here, then, young man? Let me see.’

‘It is a m-m-map of the world, P-Papa, I have d-drawn it.’

Charles crouched down on his haunches, with all seriousness upon his face.

‘My dear fellow, geography is all very well, but we cannot have stuttering in the Dickens family. You must try to conquer it, Francis, or people will think you a fool.’

‘Yes, P-Papa.’

With an air of dejection, Francis left the room and I followed close behind.

‘Do not become down-hearted, my love, we are all different and unique. You have a genuine talent for drawing, you know, such an eye for detail.’

He lifted his boyish face and smiled. ‘Do you really think so, M-Mama?’

‘I am sure of it, my love.’

I sighed as he raced away up the stairs, cheered by my words. Charles had such high expectations for his sons, but how could they even begin to emulate their father’s achievements? I worried for them.

Upon returning to the drawing room I found Charles asking Georgie for her opinion on the curtains and the carpets. I hovered in the doorway for a moment, unsure of what to do and then turned back into the hall again; it was obvious that I was not needed.

August 1853

As the summer passed I noticed that Charles’s circle of friends was evolving and changing, and I was sorry to see that my husband was becoming increasingly irritated by Forster. They often had their arguments, which had characterized the entire
lifetime of their friendship, but of late Charles spoke of his old friend in the most disparaging terms.

‘The man bores me, Kate; he has become an old stick-in-
the-mud
since he married, and he is always interfering in my affairs.’

‘But you know, dear, that he only has your best interests at heart.’

‘Can you believe it, Kate, he had the audacity to suggest that I should not lower myself to the public reading of my books? It is the most marvellous way to make money and yet the man says with greatest presumption,
“It’s just not done, old fellow. People will think you nothing more than a strolling player; and, of course you are so much more than that
!” Pompous windbag! What does he know of such matters? Does he think that I can run a house of this size on nothing?’

Charles peered closely into the looking-glass above the sitting-room fireplace and with practised care positioned a stray curl over his receding hairline.

‘And Macready: he is nearly sixty now. Oh, don’t misunderstand me, Kate, he is a legendary performer and I have the greatest admiration for him, but I need to surround myself with men of my own age. After all I am still a young man!’

After completing his self-admiration in the glass, he began to tell me of an intriguing young author he had met by the name of Wilkie Collins.

‘The fellow has nothing excessively formal about him, Kate – spirited little chap, I like him!’

Charles then pulled at his cravat, loosening it a little, as if there was something uncomfortable he wanted to say, that would not pass beyond the knot.

‘I was thinking of going on a tour of Italy, with him actually, and taking Augustus Egg, along too. Collins and I can use the time to write, and Egg will enjoy painting the scenery, so we will all benefit in one way or another.’

He shot me a quick glance to estimate my response and then continued, ‘It will be a working holiday, of course, my dear, that
is what I am trying to say.’

Before I had any chance to comment, he looked at his pocket watch, remarked that he must get on with his work, and made a swift exit to his study.

Mr Collins was a strange looking fellow, of short stature and with a head that seemed disproportionate in size. Upon meeting him he did not appear to be the same person that Charles had spoken of at all. In fact, I found him rather serious-minded and appearing to observe everything that was said and done with the closest attention. When he shook me by the hand I felt that he was looking right into my very soul.

One evening, when Charles had invited his new friends to supper, amidst the sound of laughter and the clink of cutlery, I noticed through the French windows that someone appeared to be hiding in the bushes. I did not want to alert Charles to it for when my old worries came upon me, I often imagined things; so I excused myself from the table with the intention of making sure of what I had seen. I quietly stepped out into the garden and found that it was no fancy of my imagination at all, for there amongst the foliage was my brother-in-law, Fred.

His appearance was quite alarming: he had lost weight, his face was pale and drawn, and he had the most terrible cough.

‘Fred, what in the world has happened to you? Don’t stand out here, you will catch your death. Come in the house and join us for dinner.’

He remained fixed to the spot and shook his head resolutely.

‘Come, Fred, we must be able to do something for you, just tell me what you need and it’s yours.’

Fred snorted with derision, ‘Ah, that’s right, Kate,
young Frederick
couldn’t be here without wanting something, now, could he?’

He began to cough violently again and I took his arm to lead him into the house, and this time he did not resist. I sat him down in Charles’s study and rang for Cook to bring him something to eat and drink.

He gulped thirstily at the ale that was in a short while handed to him and then started on the beef stew, its heat hardly seeming to burn his mouth at all, so great was his hunger.

‘Kate! Where in God’s name have you got to?’

I heard Charles’s footsteps outside in the hall and urged Cook to run and tell him that I was seeing to one of the children, and would be back directly.

Fred rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘I had better go, Kate. There will only be a row if he finds me here, especially in his study.’

‘But you must tell me what has become of you. Where is your wife?’

Fred had broken off the engagement to his fiancée and married her sister instead. His father-in-law had cut them off without a penny and they had existed entirely on his earnings from his job in the Treasury.

‘We’ve been arguing again, Kate. I have lost my job; I took some money from my employer – I intended to pay it back, in truth I did – but they found out before I had the chance and I….’

He doubled up with another fit of coughing which gave me great cause for concern, but I had no money of my own to give him for a doctor, and I did not dare to search through Charles’s desk. While Cook put together a small sack of provisions for him to take away, Fred wrote out his address and I noticed how he struggled to control the strokes of the pen. He looked up at me wearily.

‘Without even trying, I have turned out to be my father’s son, Kate, haven’t I?’ His voice conveyed a sense of hopelessness that cut deep to my heart.

‘When the moment is right, Fred, I will speak to your brother. For all of his faults, he would not want to see you this way.’

I wished him well and watched his weary figure leave through the gate and I wondered, what had happened to that self-assured young boy whom I had known in days gone by?

When I returned to the dining room, the guests were drinking coffee and I noticed that Mr Collins was endeavouring to pour
into his cup with discretion, a few drops of potion from a small phial. My unexpected entrance appeared to have unnerved him and he sprinkled the liquid all over the tablecloth. He turned a bright shade of crimson and I was unsure as to whether he was afflicted by rage or shame.

‘No matter, no matter,’ he spluttered, blotting the cloth with his napkin. ‘I have neuralgia, madam, very painful it is indeed.’ He examined the remaining contents of the phial, peering at it closely through his thick-lensed glasses, and realizing that it was almost empty, he became noticeably afflicted with worry. Beads of perspiration broke out upon his rounded forehead, he stood up abruptly and made his excuses to leave. I began to feel a strange sense of unease over the habits of my husband’s new acquaintance.