Far Above Rubies (5 page)

January 1837

Furnival’s Inn, London

‘Yes, it is true, the wife of a writer needs the patience of a saint!’ Isabella laughed.

With the growth of Charles’s fame in the City, there was an increase in the number of visitors who called at our door. Some came merely out of curiosity to see where the ‘Inimitable Boz’ was living out his life. Others formed part of our close circle of friends – among these was Isabella Thackeray. Since our first meeting she and I had quickly found that there was much that we had in common and she had become a regular visitor to our home. When I described how Charles would work late into the night and then grunt with irritation the following morning, she would nod and laugh with understanding. It was such a blessing to have someone who could comprehend what I had thought to be my unique position.

Isabella had been born the eldest of twelve children and long before she became a mother herself, she had wiped sticky hands and faces, calmed boisterous siblings and spoon-fed fidgety babies. She was a neat-handed seamstress, a competent cook and, if she had not been the most kind-hearted friend that a woman could wish for, I should have been envious of her talents. Instead I counted myself lucky to have found her companionship.

Her benevolence also extended to those whom others would not have welcomed so freely. She had befriended a widowed Jewess, old Mrs Rozawich, and her daughter Esther, and occasionally they would accompany Isabella on her visits to Furnival’s Inn. Old Mrs Rozawich did not smile a great deal and her lips were permanently set in a thin line of animosity. But I supposed that it was hardly surprising. Despite the presentation of the Bill of Emancipation, the Jews were still viewed with suspicion and prejudice by many. Isabella, however, looked beyond these things and saw only another human being in need of charity. I was sure that beneath her hostile exterior, Mrs Rozawich was touched by Isabella’s kindness, but having been rejected and moved along so often in her life, her trust and thanks were not easily won. Her husband, Saul, had been dead for fifteen years. He had left Russia with few belongings and it was the money which their son, Peter, earned from his second-hand plate and jewellery stall, that kept Esther and her mother with a home to call their own.

Esther was unmarried, and whenever she visited she had the curious habit of scrutinizing me over her spectacles, as though she were trying to fathom out what it was that had qualified me to achieve what she had not: namely, entrance into the holy estate of matrimony. I could almost hear her thinking, ‘How could such an unremarkable woman have married a man like Mr Dickens?’

‘Perhaps he thought that her father had money,’ I overheard Mrs Rozawich whisper in explanation to her daughter, as they were leaving one day.

On 6 January, 1837 my first child, Charles Culliford Dickens, was born. Yet despite his being the sweetest child that a mother could wish for, I could not seem to feel close to him and the walls of Furnival’s Inn pressed in on me more than ever. Mary and Mama were my constant companions and I do not think that I would have survived my confinement without them. It seemed as though I was blessed with neither physical
nor emotional strength.

One evening, a few weeks after the arrival of baby Charles, my husband came home earlier than expected. He bounded up the stairs calling me with great excitement in his voice.

‘Kate! Kate! Where are you? I have some good news for you.’

Charles opened the bedroom door and, seeing Mama, his expression changed.

‘Oh, Mrs Hogarth. I didn’t think that you would still be here.’

‘Well is this no’ a mother’s place, to be with her daughter at such a time?’

‘Yes, of course. I thank you kindly.’ He bowed his head in a polite gesture which belied his wish that she leave immediately. ‘But I have something that I would like to speak to Kate about.’

‘Well don’t mind me. Go ahead, laddie, go ahead.’

Charles cleared his throat. ‘I meant for us to be alone, ma’am.’

Mama took umbrage at this and immediately began gathering her things to leave.

‘Well! Never let it be said that I outstay m’welcome!’

‘Please. Mrs Hogarth, I didn’t mean—’

But Mama was not to be placated and left with the words, ‘I shall no’ come again until
Catherine
invites me.’

Charles was not unduly worried by the thought that he might not see Mama again for a while. He did not possess the same spirit of calmness and patience that Papa had, and found that too much time spent in Mama’s company made him irritable. He sat down on the bed at my side and took my hand.

‘Kate, I am sorry if I upset your mama, but I have some wonderful news for you: I think that I have found a new home for us.’

This certainly was good news and I forgot all about my dejection and sat upright in bed.

‘Listen to this, Kate. It is near to the parks and theatres that you so enjoy, and it is in a private road with a porter at the gate, so we will have no more busybodies enquiring at our door. And as for its size, it has twelve rooms over four floors.’

He laughed with excitement and clasped my hand tighter.
‘Did you hear that? Twelve rooms!’

‘Charles, slow down, I cannot take in all that you are saying.’ I did not yet dare to hope that what he was telling me was true. ‘Are you sure that we will be able to afford such a place?’

Disappointed at my lukewarm response, his countenance fell for a moment. ‘Do you not want to move, Kate? I thought that you were unhappy here. I thought that that was what you wanted.’

‘Of course I want to move, my love, but I know how you worry about money, and I just want to be sure that my happiness will not be at the expense of your own.’

‘Then if that is your only concern, worry no more. I have received an advance from the publishers on my next novel and it will more than cover the rent. I have taken the lease for six months, and if we are happy there then I shall extend it.’

So it was really true. At last we would be leaving this place and moving to our own home.

‘There is much to be done, Kate, furniture to buy, staff to employ. How do you feel about having a cook and a maid?’

‘But, Charles—’

He raised his hand to quiet my doubts. ‘A cook and a maid I said we need and a cook and a maid it shall be.’

He reached into his waistcoat pocket and took out a crumpled piece of paper. He smoothed it out and began reading:

He looked up, explaining, ‘I have placed it in
The Times
this morning.

I nodded with approval. ‘It is very good, Charles.’

‘As for a maid, I think for now she will have to be a maid-
of-all-work
and then perhaps in time we can find a scullery maid to help out too.’

Our own maid. I could hardly believe it – and a cook too! I would need some advice, I knew that, and I immediately thought of Mama.

‘Mary, will be delighted when she hears of this,’ I enthused.

Charles coloured a little and said with a cough, ‘I think you will find that Mary already knows. You see, I took her with me to see the house.’ His voice quickened a little in hasty explanation. ‘You have not been well, Kate, and have not felt like venturing out, so, of course, I knew that you could not come with me.’

I tried to hide my disappointment behind a gracious nod. ‘I see. Then I’m sure that if Mary likes it, it will be fine for me too.’

Among the responses to Charles’s advertisement was one from a cook who had worked for a clergyman. Her letter explained that her former employer had had only a small parish and, consequently, they had learned to live frugally. Charles had not wanted to interview her at Furnival’s Inn, so he arranged a meeting at York Place where Mama would also help me to choose a maid.

Mrs Knapman arrived at three o’ clock prompt and, as Charles could not abide lateness, this immediately went in her favour. She waited in the sitting room, while Charles momentarily paced backward and forward in the hallway rehearsing a few questions. When he entered the room with a confident greeting, and began to outline his wishes, no one would have believed that he was a young man of twenty-five who had never before employed a servant.

‘I am sure you appreciate, Mrs Knapman, that I am becoming very well known in the City and will have all sorts of enquiries into my business when you are out and about. But you understand exactly what will be required of you, I hope?’

‘Yes, Mr Dickens, you can rely on me, sir – discretion will be my watch word. And I can reassure you that I will not be wasteful; in my last position I learned to cook on a budget. “Waste not, want not”, was the motto of my previous master, sir,
and I have learned to live by it. Yes I have.’

And that is how Mrs Knapman came to be our cook. As for a maid, Mama’s butcher recommended his niece from Yorkshire. She was aged just sixteen and looking for her first position. Mama had thought that as she was younger than me, I would not feel awkward giving her instruction and that I could train her up to suit Charles and myself. With Mama’s help I drew up a list of duties.

I was pleased to see that Mary Williams was a strong-looking girl who looked as though she would handle her work in a capable manner. She arrived with her mother and listened carefully as I outlined the list of tasks. She nodded and said very quietly, ‘Yes, madam, I can do all of those things.’

‘Well then, I am happy with your uncle’s recommendation and will write to let you know when we shall require you to start.’

As a final point, Mama suggested that Mary change her name to Emily so that there would not be any confusion with our own Mary and, as neither Mary nor her mother seemed perturbed by it, Emily she became.

In the weeks that followed, we began to make arrangements to move into 48 Doughty Street. While Georgina circled the room and rocked the baby in her arms, Mary began packing up our clothing and putting it in a trunk. Other than the ornamental table, there was no other furniture of our own to be moved. I took down the miniature of Charles from above my bedside, wrapped it in a shawl and placed it in the trunk. Charles, however, would not allow anyone to touch his desk. He personally emptied each of the drawers, packing every item away with the greatest care.

When the driver arrived to transport our belongings, Charles raced down the stairs to instruct him that everything should be loaded in an orderly fashion. I lingered for a moment and took one last look at the room. The framed faces upon the wall looked down upon me kindly and wished me well. They smiled in
anticipation of the new occupants, and they were smiling still when I turned and closed the door on my life at Furnival’s Inn, forever.

April 1837

48 Doughty Street, London

The delivery of furniture, rugs, curtains and paintings was announced daily by the frequent ring of the doorbell. Some days these items seemed to arrive faster than they could be put away or arranged and Charles would complain upon his return home that the house looked like a pawnbroker’s shop. To my mind it was not a thing to be rushed, the placing of furniture, the hanging of curtains the positioning of paintings, but Charles could not abide disorder; it appeared to distress him deeply and he would complain repeatedly.

‘Kate, I thought I had told you yesterday where I wanted the table and chairs.’ Or, ‘Didn’t I say, Kate, that that picture would look well above the fireplace in the sitting room?’

‘But, my love,’ I would argue, ‘it is a huge task to arrange a house, especially with a young child to see to.’

Narrowly avoiding a collision with a potted plant, Charles exploded.

‘For heaven’s sake, Kate! There are to be no more excuses. You have Cook and Emily to assist you now and you could call upon that young brother of mine. He cannot seem to find gainful employment. Surely he could do some of the lifting and moving for you?’

Young Fred Dickens had become such a regular visitor to our
home, that I had set aside a bedroom especially for him.

‘You should not encourage him, Kate. He should be out seeking work, not idling his hours away at my expense.’

I defended Fred saying that as we did not have a male servant, he was such a help to us, sharpening knives, seeing to the garden. But, in truth, Fred spent his days teasing Cook and Emily, smoking Charles’s cigars and drinking his brandy. I often had to send out to replenish supplies before his irascible brother returned from work. But how could one reprove him? Fred filled the house with laughter and mischief and was such good company when Charles was away all day.

In sharp contrast to the trail of impedimenta littered over the three storeys was Charles’s study. He had spent hours positioning and repositioning his desk, setting out his writing implements and arranging his growing library of books. Within two days of our arrival at Doughty Street, the room shone as a very model of good order and was now strictly out of bounds to the servants. Even I had taken to knocking tentatively before going in there.

Cook and Emily had been a real blessing. Cook, sensing that I was not organized by nature, instinctively knew where a tactful suggestion would be welcomed, and yet, it was always offered with the utmost respect and humility. Emily had taken to her duties well, thankfully with little direction needed from me. Cook put her right when necessary and had no doubt taken on the role of a maternal figure to the young girl.

Sensing the return of my own equanimity, baby Charles had become a contented little soul and had settled down into a healthy pattern of feeding and sleeping. Georgina loved him like her own little doll and walked him about the garden whenever she visited. I had become more used to Charles’s mercurial temperament and as for Mary, well, Mary continued to bless everything and everyone with her gentle air of calmness. Life in the Dickens household was good.

One evening in May, Charles returned home and announced that he was taking us all to the theatre. Fred who had been on the
verge of making a hasty exit due to the fact that he had smoked Charles’s last cigar, suddenly decided that his misdemeanour might not be discovered after all and concluded that he too would enjoy an evening’s entertainment if his brother were paying. We strolled across the City passing a dingy collection of pie shops, butchers and old book stalls. The smell of cooked beef emanated from a coaching inn and Charles noticed a small boy who was being carried over his father’s shoulder and the look of hunger which was etched into his features. Charles glanced down at the bag of ripe cherries which he held in his hand and, all at once, a look of compassion crossed his face. He followed behind and began to offer the cherries to the child, one by one, to the complete ignorance of the parent.

Coming to the better part of town, we walked past Billington’s London Warehouse, where Mary and I had spent many a happy hour looking at fans, gloves, bonnets, jewellery and the large selection of muslins. It had now closed for the day but Mary and I admired the display in the large square windows through which we could see a young woman polishing the oak counters. We continued along the busy streets until at last we came to King Street.

The St James’s theatre was newly built at the expense of a Mr John Branham. Mr Branham managed the theatre and performed there often himself, being a very fine singer. He had asked Charles to write and direct some comedy sketches and he frequently conferred with Charles for advice on a variety of stage productions. Charles delighted in the theatre and his favourite actor was William Charles Macready who had recently performed Shakespeare to critical acclaim. Charles admired his work greatly and soon the two had become friends. I had met Mrs Macready and liked her a good deal, although I always felt a little timid in her husband’s company. His sonorous voice was quite alarming!

After the performance, the four of us crossed the town once more and took a leisurely walk home. I recalled a similar occasion only two years before, when I had been short-tempered
with Mary and felt jealous of her. How foolish I had been to misinterpret Charles’s feelings for her. I smiled at the recollection, feeling glad that I had left such childishness behind and was now a grown woman with better sense. Fred and Mary walked side by side and laughed together, and I wondered if perhaps one day there might ever be more to their friendship. When we arrived home, Fred was still making jokes, but Mary had become unusually quiet. She politely excused herself, saying that she was tired and bade us all goodnight. Her slender figure alighted the stairs and, as she ascended, I had no idea that it was the last vision I would have of her alive.

A few moments later, we heard a loud crash in her room and Charles and Fred bounded up the stairs in fright, calling her name. I followed behind less nimbly but what I saw upon reaching the bedroom door stilled my heart. Charles was kneeling on the floor and holding Mary in his arms. He whispered softly to her, his tears falling upon her face. One of her shoes dangled from her foot and Charles gently replaced it and stroked her cheek.

‘Dearest Mary, don’t worry, I am here. I shall not leave you.’

Fred paced the room and wrung his hands, not at all sure what to do until I implored him to quickly go for Dr Bell. When he returned, Charles was still cradling Mary in his arms. The doctor retrieved his stethoscope from his bag and encouraged Charles to lay Mary upon the bed so that he might examine her. But Charles refused and held onto her more than ever. A moment later, after a brief examination, the doctor put his stethoscope away and placed a hand upon Charles’s shoulder.

‘I am sorry, sir, it is too late. She has already gone. You must put her down now, there’s a good fellow.’

‘No!’ Charles cried. ‘You are wrong. She is only sleeping. She took a little brandy from my own hand, not a few moments before you came.’

‘Believe me, sir, it is of no use. We can do no more.’

Doctor Bell tried to coax him into releasing her, but to no avail. Charles began to sob and called her name over and over, until
his voice became a hoarse whisper, ‘Mary, oh Mary, please do not leave me. I shall not be able to face the world if you are not in it.’

Her countenance was as beautiful as it had ever been and it held a look of sad apology upon it. As in life, so in death, Mary had not wanted to cause distress to anyone. The delicate hands that had always been quick to come to the aid of others, hung at her side in limp inactivity. But it was her eyes that were the most painful to behold. They were vacant, the laughter and joy which had animated her spirit, completely absent. She looked past us all: we had faded from her life and she from ours.

When Mama arrived, she went into hysterics, Fred had hidden himself away unable to see his brother in such a state of despair and I had no time to think of my own grief being in complete shock at all that was happening around me. Papa remained courageous and strong. He ordered the printing of funeral cards to be distributed to family and friends and purchased mourning clothes and gloves for Mama and me.

On the day of the funeral the sun was clear and bright, the birds rejoiced and every flower in the garden bloomed. It was as though nature was mirroring Mary’s own joy at living. But Mary lay still and lifeless in her coffin and it was more than flesh and blood could bear to see her so. As she was lowered into her grave, Charles bowed his head, his frame broken with grief.

The journey home from the cemetery was wordless as there seemed nothing to own that had any meaning. When we entered Doughty Street and closed the door behind us, Charles broke the silence. He carefully removed his gloves, finger by finger as if numbering off each of the things he had to say.

‘Catherine’ – his manner was aloof – ‘under no circumstance should anything in Mary’s room be removed. Do you understand? Nothing at all.’

‘Yes, Charles, but—’

‘And I shall be going into the City later to see my lawyer. I have decided to alter my will. I want it known that upon my death I wish to be buried beside Mary.’

‘Your lawyer…?’

‘Yes, my lawyer, now I have nothing further to say on the matter, Catherine. Please leave, I wish to be left alone.’

‘But Charles, I—’

‘Alone I said!’

In the days that followed he did not eat, or work, but sat in a fireside chair staring into space, not speaking at all. I noticed that he was wearing upon his little finger a ring which he had taken from Mary’s hand, and he twisted it unconsciously back and forth, lost in his thoughts. Rumours abounded that Charles had gone mad, hence his absence in print and, as I could not seem to bring him comfort nor consolation, Papa, in a bid to restore him to his senses, arranged for us to return to the cottage in Chalk. At first Charles was reluctant, but Papa encouraged him to go saying that it would do him good. In my own despair, I miscarried a child, but I spoke nothing of it to Charles, fearing that his sanity could bear no further loss.