Girl in a Blue Dress

by Gaynor Arnold

  Augustus.

  He’s up to no good, I’ll be bound. Why else is he seeking a confidential appointment? I sense desperation; I suspect he cannot wait to get his hands on Alfred’s hard-earned cash. If only the law permitted Kitty to have control over her own money! It’s monstrous that it will all go to Augustus. Perhaps if they were separated, maybe the lawyers could set up something to her advantage. (As they did for you? I hear Kitty ask, sardonically.) And then again, I don’t know her mind. Maybe she loves Augustus, after all. She is loyal to him, certainly. Right from the time they first met.

  I suppose that meeting marked the beginning of the end, although I had no idea of it at the time. We were living at Park House and Sissy had been our “little housekeeper” barely six months. Kitty, I suppose, was about fourteen, and I was expecting Fanny. On the surface, our life was enviable. Alfred was more successful than any writer had ever been before, and our new house was very grand, with steps and porticos, and velvet curtains and tasseled blinds and acres of crimson carpets. Yet, under the surface, matters were rather less agreeable. I had been sick every morning for months and Alfred himself was not in good spirits. He complained of feeling claustrophobic, had headaches to shame the sorest of bears, and insisted his seasonal colic was due for a rampant return. I suspected that the real problem was his new book. “The English scenes are boiling up nicely,” he said to O’Rourke over supper one night, “but the French scenes drag; there is no life in them. I need to hear the language around me, see the faces of the people, walk the city streets. In short, Yours Truly needs a trip to Paris!” And the next day, he suited action to word and began to make plans for an early departure.

  He asked me (in a rather lukewarm way) if I wanted to accompany him; but although I loved Paris, I felt disinclined to be crushed for hours in a railway carriage and then the steamboat—and I certainly had no wish to languish alone in the salon of a French hotel while he tramped about in narrow alleys for hours on end. So I declined—and he immediately set about persuading O’Rourke and Charley to go instead: “It’ll be a lark, you’ll see; three poor English innocents set loose among the enchanting demoiselles de Paris. The monde awaits—and the demi-monde, too!” I confess I felt a little uneasy then, knowing his jokes were never without a measure of truth. Indeed, he seemed so conspicuously glad to be deserting the domestic hearth that I wondered if it were politic to leave him so entirely to himself. Even in my condition, I was capable of strolling gently along the banks of the Seine, admiring the fashions of the ladies in the Tuileries or the rue de Rivoli. But then I realized that my need for copious amounts of luggage, extra stops along the way, and the services of a hired maid would render him even more irritable. So I let him go without me, hoping that a change of air and companionship would revive his spirits and make him glad to see me when he returned. With such solid and trustworthy souls as O’Rourke and Charley at his side, I thought he could not go far astray.

  While Alfred was in Paris, the children were not idle. I could hear their voices as they rushed excitedly about the house trying to solve a series of riddles that Alfred had left them, and following a treasure trail in order to earn the half-crowns he had promised. Too old for such diversions, Kitty was devising a musical entertainment for his return. It had only two parts, and she’d made Alfie take the role of the wandering knight (which he did not relish) on the grounds that “Papa will be so pleased with us for using our time to useful purpose”—a prospect she knew Alfie would not be able to resist. She’d found an old-fashioned silk dress from somewhere, and had made a costume for Alfie out of some workbox pieces and a pair of my old stockings. They often woke me up with their arguments as they rehearsed in the empty schoolroom above me.

  On the day of his return, Alfred telegraphed us from Calais to say the company was taking the express train to London and should be arriving about four—“So prepare the fatted cup of tea!” I was on tenterhooks all afternoon, Kitty at my feet, singing the words from her song so repeatedly that I soon knew them all by heart myself. The moment we heard the wheels of the carriage stop outside, Kitty rushed from the drawing room and bounded down the stairs to greet him. I eased myself forward to peer from the window, and there he was, bandbox fresh, leaping down to the pavement, and executing a little dance there, his hat at a rakish angle, looking as though he could accomplish a ten-mile walk without breaking a sweat. I had almost forgotten why I loved him so much, but the sight of him doing that dance warmed my heart. Charley and O’Rourke seemed to be moving at half his speed as they bumbled around in the carriage, impeding the descent of a fourth figure. Someone much younger. Someone tall, and slim, dressed in a fashionable jacket with a large soft hat. Someone with the certain knowledge that he was handsome, and taking pleasure in it.

  I watched the three alight, stretching and brushing down their clothes as John the coachman unloaded the luggage and was almost knocked over as Kitty came galloping down the steps. I saw her stop short. She had noticed the stranger, who gave her a brief and languid bow. Alfred laughed and made a pantomime of introducing her. And Kitty curtsied. And the stranger bowed, in the cool manner of a man-about-town when faced with a pretty child.

  My spirits rose immediately to see Alfred looking so cheerful. But I wished that he’d come alone. I knew that Kitty wanted him to herself, too. She had devised her entertainment for his eyes and, much as she loved an audience, I knew she would be nervous of going wrong in front of strangers. But being Kitty, she couldn’t bide her time. As they came up the stairs, I could hear her talking about it in her loud and excited way: “It’s called Isabella and her Lover.”

  “Her lover, eh? Un Vrai Amant?” Alfred’s voice, laughing. “It all sounds far too grown up for my dearest Kittiwake.”

  “I’m not a child, Papa. I may write a love story if I choose.”

  Alfred laughed. “Incontrovertibly! Everyone loves a love story! And you, my dear, especially, being a young wooman with her eyes and ears in all the right places—and an art to match to’em. But come, child, don’t keep your papa and his guests on the landing. Having spent a Sultan’s fortune on the gilt and splendor of my drawing room, I am under an obligation to sit in it from time to time, and gloat extravagantly. No doubt your mama is already ensconced; I think I glimpsed her at the window looking agreeably ecstatic at the return of the One and Only. Shall we go in?”

  And then there was the bang of an upstairs door, and a sudden noise and rush of feet, and I could hear the other children come flooding down the stairs: Papa! Papa! Seconds later, they all erupted into the drawing room, Alfred still in his coat with the children hanging on his arms, demanding their half-crowns for solving the riddles. He shook them off good-humoredly, saying he would deal with them all once he’d had a moment to change his boots and comb his hair and go upstairs to Ada—for whom he had a doll such as had not been seen in the streets of Paris since the time of Charlemagne. But he hoped in the meantime that they had been good for their aunt Sissy. “Like little cherubim?” he asked. “Like little seraphim!” they shouted in unison. And he turned and kissed Sissy on her smooth, unblemished cheek—and she blushed, as usual. Then he came and kissed me, too.

  “Dodo dear, this is my new friend, Augustus Norris. Augustus, may I introduce Dorothea, my wife?”

  The stranger came up, and I saw his eyes flicker across my body, noting my thick girth, my unmistakable condition. I saw a ghost of surprise on his handsome features. Alfred saw it too, and said sheepishly: “As you see, Dodo is doing her best to populate the world, regardless of expense. Charming though my children are”—he waved his hand at the maelstrom surging about in the middle of the room—“I could wish there were not quite so many of’em. No doubt you will come to feel the same once you are a family man. There’s nothing to compare with it for taking the wind out of one’s sails!”

  “I daresay. But I have no plans in that direction.” Augustus Norris smiled. “There are too many lovely women in the world to restrict myself to one.”
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br />   I smiled too. “All in good time, Mr. Norris. Wait until you fall in love.”

  Alfred laughed, looking uneasy. “Ah, yes. Love. Ha, ha! Is that the cause of it all? If only I’d known.” Then he turned suddenly, taking out his pocket watch: “Fifteen minutes after four, I wager! Let the trays be brought forth! Let us slake ourselves with the lambent liquid!”

  Sissy, of course, had it ready. In came the trays and cake stands, the teapots and hot-water pots, the milk jugs and sugar basins—all gleaming and neatly arranged. Alfred darted about, passing bread-and-butter and fruit cake to his guests and sometimes to me. He fidgeted a good deal, poking the fire, straightening pictures, talking about his meeting with Victor Hugo and other French writers whom he admired, peppering his conversation with French phrases. (He spoke French well by then, with a good accent, and it seemed odd to remember that once he had known hardly a word, and it was I who had had to instruct him in the use of verbs and nouns, testing him from Wentworth’s Primer until far into the night. But he had made himself more than proficient now, having taken pains over the years to fall into conversation with every French peasant, shopkeeper, and passerby he ever met.)

  Kitty could not keep still either, but followed him around, full of the entertainment to come. “It’s quite short, Papa. I’ve only got two actors—Alfie and myself—so I’ve had to cut it down.”

  “Very sensible,” said Alfred. “If you can’t write to your audience, write to your cast! I take it you will be the eponymous Isabella?”

  “Of course!”

  “And what is she, this delightful creature of your imagination?”

  “You should really wait and see, Papa.” Kitty smiled, and put her arm through his. “But to whet your appetite, I can tell you that she’s a lonely maiden who dwells in the very heart of the forest—”

  He laughed. “Deuced inconvenient place to dwell. No wonder she’s lonely!”

  “But she’s enchanted, Papa. That’s the tragedy. She’s there against her will. And every day she sings from her high window, longing for a lover.”

  “A lover? The devil she does!” He eyed Charley, and laughed more heartily.

  Kitty reached up and put her fingers playfully over his mouth, now covered with a fashionable growth of beard and whiskers. “Papa, stop laughing or I won’t tell you at all!”

  He made a grave face. “I beg pardon. I shall be mute.”

  “I hope so. You are so very distracting! Where was I? Oh, yes—night after night Isabella sings to the night air in her distress, but of course there is no one to hear her. However, Rodrigo—”

  “Ah, now we come to it! The Romance.”

  “You said you would be mute, Papa!”

  “I am. I shall be. Perceive.” He took out his handkerchief and tied it across his mouth.

  She laughed. “At last! The One and Only is silent. Now, I can continue.”

  Alfred made some muffled expostulation, looking as if he were about to choke, and we all laughed.

  “I shall ignore you, Papa. I shall tell the story in spite of you. Now—Rodrigo is a knight sans peur et sans reproche. By magic, he hears her song from afar, and he falls in love with the sound of her voice—”

  “Merely her voice! A disinterested man, then!” Charley piped up.

  The men all laughed and Kitty’s voice rose above them all: “If you’re all going to laugh, I shan’t play it for you! It’s very—discouraging—after all the trouble I have taken!”

  “It is, y’know. We should be applauding the efforts of such a fine young author—and actress.” I noted Augustus Norris had the sort of flat, languid voice that was becoming fashionable.

  “Ah, you have a champion, Kitty!” said Alfred, putting his arm on the shoulder of his new friend. “But be aware, dear sir. I will kill any man who comes between me and my daughter.”

  “I will risk all to have the chance of seeing Isabella and her Lover,” Augustus replied, with a sardonic laugh.

  So after tea, we repaired to the schoolroom, Kitty having relented once the men had promised faithfully not to laugh; and Alfred saying he would personally horsewhip any who did. The men sat clustered together, hands in pockets, leaning against the wall or rocking back on their chairs and eyeing each other jovially. When Kitty came on in a trailing dress and with rouged cheeks, Augustus muttered something in a tone I did not care for. And when she addressed the night from the high elevation of a broken chair, Charley became very red in the face with suppressed amusement. Even O’Rourke chuckled when Alfie came out from behind the book cupboard astride a hobbyhorse, holding a riding crop in his hand, and feigning ignorance of the fair maiden only a foot away. But all laughter suddenly ceased when she lifted her head and sang. She had such a sweet voice, such excellent phrasing. Everyone clapped tremendously when she had finished, Alfred most of all.

  “There’s more to come,” I called out, trying to quiet them so Alfie could make his speech.

  “More?” murmured Augustus. “Even more? Can a man bear it?”

  Poor Alfie, overcome by the noisiness of the audience and a sense of his own ridiculousness, forgot his lines almost straightaway. I tried to prompt him from the scribbled copy Kitty had given me to hold, but he wouldn’t listen and strode off towards the door saying he wouldn’t be laughed at—especially for such a stupid play.

  “Come and finish it!” Kitty hissed. “Rodrigo must declare his love! It’s the essential part.”

  “I’ll be Rodrigo!” Augustus was on his feet. “If Mrs. Gibson will be so good as to give me the script.”

  So I gave it to him, and he immediately began to speak. They were foolish, hackneyed words, but he looked very fine, and knelt and bowed and walked about in a very elegant way, and Kitty was so glad to have a real man—a handsome man, moreover—making his declaration of love, that she forgot to be angry, and accepted his vows with relish. They took a bow together at the end and Kitty was pink with delight.

  “Charmed,” he said, as the applause subsided. “Now I’m afraid I must bid you delightful people good night.” And he shook hands with Alfred and sauntered away, taking out a small cheroot which I saw him light before he left the room.

  “WHERE DID YOU meet him?” I asked Alfred that night. He was busy in his dressing room, rebrushing the clothes Mary-Ellen had already brushed, and setting his boots straighter than she had left them.

  “In Paris, naturellement. He is something of an habitué.”

  “Do you like him?”

  He stopped what he was doing. “Of course I like him! Why else would I be inviting him to my house?”

  “He seems different from your other friends.”

  “Well, he’s more adventurous, by a long chalk. Michael can be a stick-in-the-mud at times, you know. And Charley the same. All they wanted to do was look at paintings all day and tuck great napkins under their chins at night. I mean, pictures and statues are all very fine, homard à la normande is all very fine—but a man wants a little gaiety: theater, opera, ballet-dancing. Augustus was ready for that.”

  I felt myself grow hot. “I thought your intention was to see the people, the streets, ordinary life.”

  “And I did! I have a whole bookful of notes!” He held up one of his little notepads. “But do I sense a tone of reproof? Is my lady wife afraid I would be tempted to run off with a pink-and-white ballet girl with roses in her hair and an ability to spin round on one toe like a veritable Dervish?”

  “And were you tempted, Alfred?” I smiled, to make the question seem of no importance.

  He laughed. “All those silk stockings and white bosoms! Oh, a man was certainly tempted.”

  I could see him—backstage, perhaps—or in a private supper room. Laughing. Flirting. Turning his luminous eyes on every woman there. But I knew better than to dwell on foolish (he would say fevered) imaginings. What mattered was that he was back with me, and seemingly in so much better spirits. I was even so bold as to think that perhaps he would take me into his confidence once more. “An
d so your petit congé has helped you with your book, Alfred?”

  “Inestimably.” He pulled off his tie. “Augustus is more intimate with the streets of Paris—and places under the streets, for that matter—than un vrai Parisien. We left the other two gorging in the rue Saint Martin and took off into the night like black bats. One moment, we’re in a gloomy old cemetery with graves sinking as if they were ships at sea; next we’re in a curious courtyard where our two sets of footsteps seem to echo around as if we were a whole regiment. In the corner, there’s an ill-looking tavern with an even worse-looking landlord, who I swear gave us the Evil Eye. And then, when we were least expecting it, we come upon the most delightful little theater, crammed between an ironmonger’s and a tobacco shop, offering seating for at least twenty underemployed gentlemen and one or two ladies who have seen better days!” He laughed. “And, dear Dodo, having seen them all, I have—hey presto!—transferred them into my notepad and thence into my head.”

  He seemed so much his old self that I dared to reach up and kiss him on the lips. I knew then how my whole happiness depended on his presence; and once more I made the resolution that I would stop thinking of myself and my little jealousies and annoyances. Everything I did from then on would be done with Alfred’s pleasure in mind. “I am so very glad you are home, Alfred!” I said. “I have missed you so very, very much.”

  He patted my arm and smiled.

  I LOOK AT Augustus’s note again, and then put it aside. I need be in no hurry to reply. There is nothing Augustus can possibly want to say to me that cannot wait. I do not have to accede to every request that is made of me. I am, after all, an independent woman. Then Wilson comes in to tell me supper is ready. “It’s brown soup first,” she says. “Then boiled ham and cabbage. Then a nice rice pudding. I reckon that should warm up an elderly party as has been gallivanting in a gig.”

  15

  WILSON IS TAKING DOWN MY HAIR AND BRUSHING it carefully. She always says my hair is quite the finest she has ever known. Fine as thistledown. Although when it is let out, the gray strands show themselves thick and wiry, reminding me that their glory days are done. “Will we be seeing Mr. Norris again soon?” she says, plaiting it into a long braid. “He was most insistent about speaking to you.”