“You thought it unlikely, then?” I interrupt her.
“I thought it impossible. In fact, I began to wonder if Mr. O’Rourke were not making fun of me. But I could see in a moment he was not. ‘Why, sir?’ I asked. ‘Surely they have the happiest of lives? What has gone wrong?’ And Mr. O’Rourke said, ‘They cannot be reconciled. Don’t ask me any more.’”
“So what did you think—in your heart of hearts?” I’m eager to know.
She drops her eyes. “Well, there’s sometimes a lady in these cases, I believe.”
“And did you think there was one in mine?”
“I didn’t know what to think. It wasn’t my place to speculate.”
“But I’m asking you to speculate.”
“A lady was mentioned. Mr. Gibson mentioned her hisself, as I recall. But only to say it was untrue, and wicked to think so.”
“At the same time that he declared me a bad mother and a worse wife. Two untrue statements together.”
“I couldn’t account for it, I admit. Not as how he said it had been going on so long—you being a bad wife and mother, I mean. After all, you’d borne him a child only eighteen months before.”
“Exactly. He could not have found me cold and indifferent then, could he? We’d had our differences, of course—who does not? I know I wasn’t the wife he had set his heart on, the ideal woman he wrote about. But family men don’t cast off their wives of twenty years because they are not perfect. There is almost always another lady in the case.”
“I don’t think you should be telling me this, madam. It’s not my business. My business is to look after you. What I think of Mr. Gibson is neither here nor there.”
“I want to know what ordinary people thought. What the great Public thought.”
“They believed him, of course. When he said as he was honorable and had behaved himself, they took it as the Truth.”
“Thank you, Wilson,” I say. She is right. Of course they believed him. Anything else would be out of the question.
“It’s cold veal and ham pie for supper, when you’re ready,” she says. “And that mourning silk will be ready for a fitting first thing.”
8
I HAVE ALWAYS FELT THAT MUCH OF THE UNHAPPINESS THAT later arose between Alfred and myself started in some ways with the birth of Kitty. Perhaps the poor girl senses it; and our failure to develop proper mother-and-daughter feelings stems from some barely understood instinct on her part that I hold her to blame. I do not blame her, of course—any more than I blame Alice for her unwitting part in it. Alice was completely innocent of any ill intention, yet when I look back, I wish with all my heart that she had never set her dainty foot in our matrimonial home.
I had so looked forward to having a companion who would approve of Alfred as much as I did, and allow me to talk about him as much as I wanted; so when Alice first arrived at Channon Street with her new cloak and bonnet and three boxes of belongings, I rushed down the stairs and embraced her as heartily as any sister embraced another. I could not wait to show her the bedroom I had prepared for her, with its Nottingham lace curtains and extensive view over the chimney tops. She was delighted with everything, especially the vase of roses I had placed beside her bed and the two volumes of Sir Walter Scott that Alfred had put out for her perusal. She took them in her hands, trembling with anticipation. “Oh, he is the best and kindest brother-in-law in the world!”
At first it was delightful. Alice and I were more than pleased to renew our sisterly affection, and Alfred seemed doubly delighted to find two young ladies ready to attend to his comfort when he finished work in the evenings. During the day, Alice and I had much opportunity to talk as we stitched the dozens of smocked gowns and tiny caps the new baby would need. We’d sit in the downstairs parlor so I could keep a weather eye on the servants and see to any tradesmen, and laugh about the days—not so far distant—when Alice had acted as our lovers’ go-between. “He used to frighten me, Dodo—in a delicious sort of way. I never knew when he would bob out from behind a bush or jump down from a tree, and what kind of person he would contrive to be when he did! But he was so in love with you, I could not understand why Mama and Papa did not simply shower you with gold and silver and send you off with their blessings!”
I knew why, of course. But I did not want to spoil Alice’s innocent enjoyment of what she termed the most romantic engagement ever by explaining our parents’ doubts and impediments. Alice never seemed to think ill of anybody and could never imagine that other people might not share her pure and charitable view of life.
But as time went on, and Kitty was born, I couldn’t help noticing what a very firm favorite Alice had become with Alfred. He always spoke warmly of her, and looked at her with such soft affection whenever she came into a room: Here she is, the little angel of the house—so quiet and cheerful and modest. And I could not disagree with him even as I felt the pricking of jealousy within my bosom. Alice had the quick imagination he admired, and she was as eager to learn as Alfred was to teach. He’d lend her his favorite books and she would sit at his elbow and take notes very earnestly while he expounded on Hamlet’s madness, or the character of Richard Crook-back. They’d sit together for hours while I sat half-dozing in the armchair, listening for Kitty’s cry; or pacing about the landings while she lolled red-faced and milky—and determinedly awake—in my arms.
Then he began to ask Alice to sit with him as he wrote, to hold his pens and sharpen his quills, as I had once done. You know, Dodo, he said, seemingly unaware of the criticism implicit in his words, there is no one in the world who can be so still as Alice, no one so unlikely to disturb me with her presence! And his fondness for her company extended beyond the domestic sphere. While I was obliged to rest at home, he began to take her out for walks and they would return with stories of what they had seen, laughing together as if they had a soul in common. Occasionally he took her to the theater, saying, Dodo is too fragile for tragedy, and liable to fall asleep by the second act and disgrace us!—and she’d take his arm so proudly, and he’d take hers so gently as they set out in their finery. And I’d think of my trip to Stepney in my blue silk dress and want to weep.
One night, as we undressed for bed, I felt I had to speak. “You spend a great deal of time with Alice. Anyone would think you preferred her to me.”
He paused in the act of unbuttoning his shirt. “Dodo, have you gone quite out of your mind?”
I said nothing.
“I cannot tell you what a very wicked idea you have allowed yourself to have. Wicked in the extreme.” He spoke in that very low, compelling way he had when acting a part. “How can you even suggest such a thing? How can you even make such a comparison? Alice is a mere child—”
“No, she is not, Alfred. That is precisely the point. She has grown up. You can’t play and flirt with her as you used to.”
He stared at me, his expression unreadable. “Flirt! What do you mean by that? Do you mean that I joke with her, that I pay her attention, that I admire her good nature and her beauty? I do all those things, I freely admit. But I do it all openly, as a brother would to a sister. Indeed she trusts me as one, and that trust is one of the most dear and precious things I have. How can you even suggest that I would toy with her in any way, that I would put her innocence in jeopardy? Alice of all people! Our own dear messenger who was so loyal and trustworthy through all those months of our separation!”
I felt myself redden with shame. And yet the sickening turmoil inside me had not diminished. I had expressed myself badly, as I always seemed to do when there was something important I wanted to tell him. What I had intended as a simple plea for him to pay me more attention had by some alchemy turned into an accusation against the sister I loved and the man I adored. Had he deliberately misunderstood me? Was there some unspoken fault he was guilty of and needed to defend? “I don’t mean to suggest anything wicked or wrong, Alfred,” I replied. “It is simply that when I see you with her, you seem, well, you seem so happy. And w
hen you are with me, you seem impatient. Not so happy.”
“Not so happy? How can you say that?”
I shrugged, unwilling to admit the seemingly foolish occasions of my jealousy. “It’s simply a feeling. I am mistaken, of course. I see that now.”
He softened then. He ran his hand through his wayward hair, seeming to reconsider: “I am, I admit, a little overworked, a little distracted. Since I gave up at Webster’s and have to rely on my pen for the whole of our livelihood, I have not given you as much attention as I should. But that you should assume from this that I am unhappy—and, moreover, that I am turning my attentions elsewhere—no, you are quite wrong.”
“But you are never too busy for her!”
“Alice makes so few demands, Dodo. Do you not see that?” He took both my hands and made me look into his eyes. “She would fade into the background if we let her. And she so much likes to have books recommended to her, and to talk with me about them and ask my opinion. And I take on such tasks as a loving brother would, as I have done for my own dear Lottie in the past. That cannot be wrong, can it, Dodo? Even you must see that.”
I nodded.
“Good. Good. We are in agreement then.” He paused; then a thought seemed to strike him. “I suppose it’s understandable that you are somewhat inclined to strange fancies at the present, with the infant and so many new responsibilities. But never forget that you are my wife, Dodo. And the mother of my darling little Kitty. How could I not be happy with you? You have given me everything a man could want.”
“Have I? Have I, Alfred?” My heart almost burst for love of him.
“Oh, indeed you have. Oh, you silly little pussy, how can you doubt it?” He threw his shirt studs on the dressing table and came to embrace me, his face full of tenderness.
I began to sob upon his open shirt. “I have doubted it, Alfred. I have felt so ugly and clumsy. I feared that you have fallen out of love with me, and I have been so very, very miserable!”
He put his arms round me. “There is foolish jealousy at work here, Dodo. And there is no reason for it.”
“You do not love Alice more than me, then?”
He stroked my hair. “How can you even ask that question?”
“But you are very fond of her, are you not?”
“Of course I am! She is delightful company. And so gentle and good. Who could not be fond of her?”
“Perhaps you could not show it quite so openly, or with quite so much preference. And be a little nicer to me instead.”
“Am I not nice to you, Dodo?” He began to stroke my neck, my bosom. My heart jumped. It had been many weeks since he’d touched me in that way.
“Sometimes.” I could hardly speak for quivering.
“Only sometimes? Come to bed, Dodo. And I shall be extremely nice to you.”
I hesitated. “What about …?”
“Oh, I’m a reformed man. I adore babies. Let’s have a whole houseful!” He began to undo my nightgown.
I stayed his hand. “But I don’t want to be stout and clumsy again. Not so soon.”
He stopped. “How are we to manage, then? I am not made of ice. Nor, it seems, are you.”
“Promise you’ll go on loving me however I look. Then I shan’t care about anything else.”
“Of course I shall!” He laughed, and tickled me so that I laughed, too. “I promise I’ll love you even when you are as fat as butter and crotchety as the devil. And imagining things that are not there.” He caught hold of me and pulled me down upon the bed. And I longed for him so much that I put aside any consequences and thought only of how lucky I was to have such a husband.
AND INDEED, ONLY days after my foolish admission, he looked up over the tea things and announced, “I’ve decided we need a nursemaid to help with Kitty. You are with her too much, I can see that. You need more time with other people, more time for enjoying society. Mary Evans was only yesterday asking why you did not come with me to Mr. Marshall’s supper in Gough Row. ‘We hardly see Dorothea,’ she said. ‘Is she still unwell?’”
“She thinks me unwell?”
“Well, dearest, I have to say something when you are absent from every gathering. It seems insufficient to say that you are merely ‘tired.’”
“You have never had a baby, Alfred, so you don’t know how tired it’s possible to be.”
“Don’t I?” He raised his eyebrows and I realized that Alfred was, of course, quite as tired as I was. Shatteringly tired, with a novel coming out in numbers, and more and more articles in magazines and newspapers, and plans afoot to start a publication of his own. He sometimes fell asleep at his desk and woke up two hours later only to continue where he had left off. He was never at rest. Every day he drove himself with more work, more things to do. But somehow Alfred could transform himself and be fresh as a daisy in seconds, whereas I could only creep around with slow steps and heavy eyes, unable to imagine I’d ever be sociable again. “You know, our Alfred’s a bit of a Puritan where work is concerned,” said O’Rourke, who enjoyed an indolent morning as much as I did, sitting around in the upstairs parlor, talking about nothing in particular. “If he were in Heaven, he’d be licking God’s angels into shape right now.”
Having decided on a nursemaid, Alfred advertised and interviewed in short order; and a young lady called Bessie Jorkins was engaged to help me. She was tall and red cheeked, and had brought up nine brothers and sisters in Kilburn. Alfred said she was exactly the kind of sensible girl we needed, and in no time she had organized the nursery and organized Kitty as well. The child had never slept through the night for me, but she slept for Bessie. Every morning by eight, the bedclothes were out airing and Bessie was getting Kitty ready for her walk in the park. At nine they departed, Kitty all clean and neat in the whitest of garments, and Bessie with her hair scraped back under her cap and a warm gray cloak over her ample shoulders: “It’s the fresh air what tires them, ma’am. And I’ll see she gets plenty! There’ll be no more nonsense waking up all hours, I’ll see to that!” The house was suddenly quiet from Kitty’s mewling, and I could lie down and sleep all morning without interruption. And Alfred could work.
Gradually, I recovered. Alice and I began to go for short walks, and then longer ones; and she’d point out with excitement the inn where Boodles cheated an extra chop out of the melancholy waiter, and the street corner by the ballad monger’s where Mr. Mustard took a pistol to poor Miggs. If it rained, we played bezique and dominoes and she read to me from The Vicar of Wakefield, Tom Jones, or Northanger Abbey. We talked about new gowns and bonnets, and planned trips to the theater for when I was stronger. She was unfailingly kind and good humored and said over and over again how lucky she was to be living with her “dearest sister” and the “cleverest, most amusing brother in the world.”
“He thinks we are fortunate, too. He is always praising you to me.”
“Is he? I can’t imagine why. I’m so ignorant and tongue-tied.” She looked pleased, however.
“Well, you won’t be ignorant for long. With all the education he’s giving you, you should soon be able to write your own books. Do you find he’s a good teacher?”
“Oh, Dodo, the best—the very best. Time flies past when he’s talking. He’s so different from Miss Prowse with her dull old verbs and gerunds.”
“And as for being tongue-tied, well … Mr. O’Rourke says that last week you actually spoke to him without being addressed. He was quite astounded.”
She blushed. “I hope he did not think me forward. He is the kindest man I have ever met. Next to Alfred, of course.”
“He is, indeed.” I paused, looking down at my sewing, wondering if I could hint at such a subject. “He’d make someone a very good husband—now that he is making his way in the City.”
She looked startled. “I hope you don’t mean me, Dodo.”
“Well, would that be such a dreadful thought?” I looked up, teasingly. “Or is there someone else you like better?”
She colored. “No,
of course not. I’m far too young.”
HAVING BEEN RELEASED from nursery duties, my first venture into society was a soirée at Mr. and Mrs. Hemmings’ house in Chelsea. Mr. Hemmings was Alfred’s new publisher. O’Rourke told me he had “pretensions to grandeur,” inviting all kinds of up-and-coming people to sup at his expense.
“Who will be there, Alfred? Anyone I am acquainted with?” I asked him as we dressed.
“Mr. Carlyle, the historian, is to be there, I believe, and Mr. Leigh Hunt, the poet, and Miss Amelia Brougham, the heiress,” said Alfred, tying an especially fancy neckcloth underneath his chin.
“Oh, dear. I shan’t know what to say to any of them.” I knew I would be separated from him at supper and that I would be forced to make my own conversation with these impressive strangers. In my anxiety I dropped my necklace and Alfred had to retrieve it from under the bedstead.
“The trick is to make them talk. Persuade Mr. Carlyle into talking about the French Revolution, or Miss Brougham on the need for charities among the poor. Then sit back and smile your beautiful smile.” He fixed the pearls around my neck with a flourish. “There!”
I laughed. “I don’t believe it is that easy, Alfred. They may ask me questions, then I’ll have to say something or they will think me a simpleton.”
“Ask them what they think is the best answer. They’ll be too flattered to notice you haven’t said a word. In fact, they’ll consider you the queen of conversationalists!”
I was surprised to find that Alfred was right. Luckily I did not have to speak to Mr. Carlyle, sitting sternly across the table behind a mass of glass and flowers. But Mr. Hunt was most amusing, and never at a loss for words, talking mainly, I have to say, about himself, and helping himself liberally to wine. Miss Brougham, addressing me across the corner of the table, was more serious. “I must speak to your husband about my plans, Mrs. Gibson,” she said. “I feel he is the kind of man who could give me disinterested advice.”
Girl in a Blue Dress Page 11
