Girl in a Blue Dress

by Gaynor Arnold

  She stares at it as if to make it get up and move of its own accord. “You’d have thought That There Robert would have chosen a better place to put the thing,” she grumbles. “Not stick it down right inside the door.”

  “I’ll have it moved, I promise. After Alfie has been tomorrow, we’ll take out some of the items, then we might be able to carry it. Or Kitty can help.” Kitty! I wonder how she has got on with Augustus. I had quite forgotten her in my perusal of the notebook. There is too much excitement for me to carry everything in my head.

  Wilson hands me the cup. She stands, arms folded. “Well?”

  I take a sip. “Very good.” The delicate taste reminds me of home. “My mother always had Darjeeling tea.”

  “Very nice, I’m sure—when you don’t have to worry about the cost. But Mr. Collins’s own blend comes out more economical.”

  Mr. Collins’s own blend sometimes seems fortified with coal dust. I hate cheap tea and I see Alfred in the upstairs room at Mrs. Quinn’s, peering into the tea caddy, spoon in hand: Ah, what have we here? ‘Selected Sweepings,’ I see. The very thing! Don’t ever palm me off with Darjeeling, my dear, when there is such an excellent dusty blend to be had!

  “For tomorrow I thought I’d do some nice thin bread and butter and a few sandwiches to go with the cakes. There’s some potted meat at the back of the pantry that could do with being used up.”

  “I’m sure that will be fine. They’re not coming for the food, after all.”

  “Just as well.” She nods and goes out, giving the Box a look of profoundest disdain. I need to sort it out quickly. And I need to be thinking of what I’ll say to Alfie and Caroline—and to Kitty. But more than that I need to finish this narrative of Alfred’s. I gulp down my tea in a most unladylike fashion and open up the notebook again.

  I felt it necessary to keep my parents and the family of my future wife as separate as possible. I feared that if they met, the distressing topic of debt would be raised, and would contrive to embarrass me with those who would have no understanding of the subject. But I was glad to see my new wife take so well to her sister-in-law. They were two birds together—Lottie a bright robin, Dorothea a gentle turtle-dove. The differences between them at first seemed immaterial, if not delightful; but later, when household chaos threatened to overwhelm us, I found myself wishing that the robin would deign to scuttle about and guide the turtle-dove a little in some active management of her duties. But Lottie was adamant that such interference would be the end of all friendship between them. She took me by the arms and looked in my eyes: ‘Dear Fred, you love your wife, do you not? I hope so, for you have chosen her, and any faults that she has will have been part of her character when you courted her. She has never been a practical woman, that much was clear from the outset. But when you courted her, you did not care about that. Indeed, I think her innocence of practical matters was part of her charm. Dorothea loves you, Fred, and you must love her back. She looks to you, not to me for help, and you must be the one to give it. You have always been the strong one. You must be so again. And if I am to be practical, I would suggest a nursemaid for the child. Poor Dorothea is run ragged.’

  Oh, dear Lottie! Always so wise and kind. I never knew it was she whom I had to thank for the arrival of Bessie—Bessie who saved my life, and without whom I don’t think I would ever have survived. But I sense already from his words that there are bad things to come. Perhaps better not to read. It’s similar to eavesdropping; one never hears well of oneself. But I can’t help it; I must know.

  I have pondered Lottie’s words often—at the time she spoke them and many times since—and wondered what impulses had been at work in my heart when I chose—so mistakenly—my life’s partner. Without doubt, I chose Dorothea freely and with no other thought than that of mutual happiness. I never sought her—or married her—for financial gain. Indeed, I gave up her settlement by marrying her before our agreed time. It meant hardship, but I was used to that—and Dorothea, I have to admit, did not baulk either.

  My only excuse for such headlong and impatient behaviour must be that I was very young, and that I had already endured a number of painful attachments to young ladies, the dissolution of which had driven me near distraction. How thrown about I was, even at the age of twenty, by the ways of women! How cast down by the indifference of the dark-eyed Rosa as I waited outside the stage door night after night with lines I had penned on her talents and beauty, only to see her walk away with some coarse clod in an ill-fitting top-coat! How hopeless I felt when Miss Georgiana Mills declined three times in a row to dance with me at the Christmas party at Lincoln’s Inn Fields, although I had bought her two glasses of champagne at one-and-sixpence a time and endured for her sake the tightest boots it was possible for a man to put his foot in. But my worst chagrin by far came at the hands of Miss Catherine Bond, who sent me pretty notes and pressed her deliciously tiny hand up against mine, admiring my new lavender gloves with the pearl buttons; and who, time after time, made me sit at the piano next to her in preference to any other young man in the room. But who laughed in my face when I suggested we might become engaged. ‘Alfredo dear, what an idea! Now, don’t be cross—you are very, very charming and quite the most delightful companion—but you could hardly keep me in silk stockings, let alone maintain a house and servants and Sally’s livery costs.’ (Sally was her little Welsh cob.) ‘You must see how ridiculous it is! You do, don’t you?’ And she looked up at me in that way that always made my heart turn over, and I wanted to tell her that we could do without servants and stockings and Welsh cobs if we loved one another—but I saw she was bright and laughing and not at all cast down, and the words died on my lips. That night I think I came the closest I have ever come to putting an end to myself. I roamed up and down beside the Thames and thought dark thoughts and even—I do believe—climbed up upon the parapet and looked down into the water below. Why I did not take the plunge—whether from cowardice or good sense—I do not know, but as I walked back to my lodgings in the early dawn, I truly felt that if I did not find someone to love and marry soon, I would go mad.

  I was therefore fortunate (or unfortunate, if one takes the long view) to be introduced to my future father-in-law within weeks of this romantic disappointment. I had taken to scribbling all sorts of things—dramatic monologues, comical poems—and had been encouraged by the fellows at Webster’s to consider a full-length play. I had, for some time, been a member of a company of amateur actors who staged entertainments in any hall we could lay our hands on—provided we had the means of hiring it and also of paying for the costumes, wigs, musicians, ushers and all the other incidentals. I had read bits of my play to Tom Treadwell and Jeremiah Links as we sat in the chop-house after work, and they nearly choked on their meat pies for laughing. ‘Which part will you act, Alfred?’ they said. And I remember saying that I wished I could act them all. And Jerry laughed and said, ‘You could, Alfred. I truly believe you could.’

  I was told that Mr. Millar was the man to see; that he took many a young hopeful under his wing as a financial benefactor. I was told he was especially a man of the theatre, a veritable éminence grise behind the scenes. And so it proved. I remember with what trepidation I took my play to his offices in High Holborn and sent in my name and business. His ancient, creaking, articulated clerk came back, and begged me to wait while Mr. Millar ‘cast a look at it’, and I sat on an old Windsor chair in the anteroom, hoping he would not be too long about his casting as I had to get back to Webster and Potts for one o’clock. After a while I heard guffaws from the next room, which made me a little uncertain as to whether Mr. Millar was finding the play funny or merely ridiculous. Then he appeared in the doorway in person, saying he ‘liked it enormously’ and was prepared to advance the sum of thirty pounds in order to have it put on. He knew a theatre in Stepney that would be ideal. All I had to do was to get my actors and company together. I verily believe I could have kissed him, such was my joy. Instead I wrung his hand, rather too hard I
believe, as he kept saying: ‘Yes, yes, my dear sir, that is sufficient. That is sufficient, I beg you, sir!’

  It seemed rather grand to have a Benefactor, and I was determined to justify his faith in my writing. I got together my Thespian friends and doled out the parts with a flourish, reserving the major role for myself—which I rather self-righteously felt I was entitled to—and began rehearsals immediately. A pale young man called Tom Titmuss emerged from somewhere in Clerkenwell and wrote some capital music for the songs, and accompanied them solemnly on the tuba. I tried to persuade Lottie to sing too, but she would not appear on the stage. ‘I shall stitch the costumes if you wish,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave the public glory to you, Fred. You suit it so much better.’ However, I noted that she often liked to sit and watch the rehearsals, and I further noticed that she and Tom Titmuss often fell into each others’ company, and that if we had to walk from our place of rehearsal, he would offer her his arm—even though I was there to take it myself. ‘You may take Nellie’s arm, Alfred,’ he’d say with a twinkle in his eye. ‘She’s looking lone and lorn tonight; perhaps she’s looking for a beau.’ And Nellie would give me one of the droll, sideways looks which made her such a comical performer, and say if she hadn’t been spoken for already, she’d have been happy to give a chance to a young fellow so full of fine words and weskits.

  So there I am, balanced on the brink of Fame and Fortune. Longing for happiness. Longing to be loved. And then, as if by magic, here I am in this delightful garden with this delightful family and here comes the most enticing young girl with laughing blue eyes, who seems to be encouraging my every look and gesture; who seems, as she dances in my arms, to be made of the substance of pure heaven. Dear God, I couldn’t wait to kiss her on the lips. My nights were feverish with imagining it. And then when I had kissed her, I couldn’t wait for the ecstasy of taking her to bed. My blood ran wild; I worked like a fiend to be worthy of her, to shorten the time when we could be truly together. Had she rejected me, I think that the waters of the Thames would indeed have closed over me in my wretchedness. But she did not, and my determination to work for her enabled me to start on the course that has brought me to where I am now. However, the passion I felt for her during our courtship blinded me to what was, even then, a deep disparity of mind and purpose; a disparity that showed itself more clearly with every year—nay every day—that we were married. Too late I learnt that my wife was weak, and that she would never be any different. Our marriage would never be one of true minds. She would never be the helpmeet I craved. But I had courted her and won her, and I was determined to do my duty.

  So that was how he chose to see it: I was too young and too silly for him. I had no education, no knowledge, no wit—all I had was a blue dress which showed off my bosom to advantage. I had come upon him when he was desperate, and I had entrapped him, if not against his will, against his better judgment. And he had been thus condemned to a life of duty and regret.

  He writes convincingly—but how could Alfred, whose powers of observation were second to none, have been so easily taken in by an inexperienced girl with the most transparent of intentions? He may have been crossed in love before, but he had not lost his senses. Whatever Alfred did, he always did with determination and a clear sense of purpose—and his courtship of me was, I believe, no exception. He knew what I was; I had never hidden my ignorance from him. On the contrary, it was he who was set on marriage, and who wrote and spoke as if his heart were on fire; who never stopped looking forward to the time when we could be together; when we would have a dear little home all neat and bright, and rosy-cheeked children to tumble about in it. In the early years of our marriage, even if I disappointed him in many small ways (as is natural in all marriages), he never complained of unhappiness. After all, no one made him write so extravagantly to me; no one forced him to refer to me among his friends as the best wife that ever was.

  No, as Michael says, he is convincing himself, justifying why he did not love me at the end by saying he never loved me at the beginning and that the marital mistake was not his. He was a mere victim of circumstance: his wretched childhood; the rejections of his youth; and his fatal susceptibility to a girl in a blue dress. He is not Alfred the adulterer, the caster-off of wives, but Alfred the gentleman-hero—standing up nobly against the trials of life, bearing sadness with a smile, sacrificing himself for the sake of those weaker than himself, spreading goodness around like Abanazar spreading golden tinsel in the air: Yours Truly. The One and Only. The Great Man.

  22

  I AM IN A STATE OF DREADFUL EXCITEMENT. I’M EXPECTING Alfie and Caroline for tea at any moment and, as usual when one wants things to go well, they have a habit of doing the opposite. The chimney has been smoking all morning and Gyp has eaten something disagreeable and has vomited all over the hearthrug, which now smells of carbolic. My hair will not plait properly, and I have got very hot and red trying to pin it up. Wilson has burnt her finger on the range and can’t cut the bread thin enough for the sandwiches, so I’ve had to do it; and have got crumbs and butter all over the front of my gown.

  I am especially anxious about meeting Caroline. I wonder what tales she has heard of me, what a wreck of a woman she expects to see. And here I am, living up to my own reputation by being so flustered and unprepared. I keep poking the fire, and plumping up the cushions, and ejecting Gyp from his favorite chair, then poking the fire again, so I get even hotter and redder.

  I hear the sound of a hansom cab, the knock on the door, then the cry and high-pitched chatter of a child. They are early. I drop the poker and shove Gyp hastily into my bedroom. Wilson opens the door and announces them very formally, before disappearing sharply to attend to the making of two kinds of tea, a feat that has been preying on her mind all morning. A clutch of people comes into the room: two black figures and a child in white. The man comes towards me with an uncertain smile. It must be Alfie but I hardly know him, and I feel shy as we stare at each other. I am no doubt stouter and grayer than he imagined. He is taller, of course, but not very tall. Still pale in the face, though, with light brown hair receding a little from his forehead. And still the slight stammer as he utters my name—“M-mama!”

  I say his name in return, and he almost leaps into my arms. He is thin, like Kitty, and I feel his bones through his coat—his ribs and the ripples along his spine. He hugs me as if he never wants to let me go, as if he will smother me. And I am happy to be smothered. I hold him tighter and tighter, making up for all the embraces we have missed over the years. I haven’t realized until now how much I have missed him, how terrible it is that I have been cheated of all his growing up. He speaks into my ear, his voice muffled by my hair, but his voice is music all the same. “I’m so sorry, dear Mama. So very, very sorry.”

  I can hardly speak. “Yes,” I whisper with a little rueful squeeze to his arm. “So you should be. You absolutely should be!”

  He lets me go. There are tears in his eyes. “Oh, I promise on my life that I’ll make amends. Carrie and I both will. See, here she is …”

  The young woman comes forward. She is small and dark and bright eyed. Her mourning clothes are neat and unshowy. She holds the child in her arms, a golden-haired child who wriggles and squirms and cries out to be set down on the floor. As soon as she is, she stops grizzling and gazes solidly at me, and I see a look of Kitty in her. Carrie shakes my hand firmly, the modern fashion. “I’m so pleased to meet you. And this is Lucy. She’s just started to walk, so I’m afraid nothing is safe.” She has a quiet, low voice, full of humor. I like her immediately.

  “Goodness, I remember that time so well! My husband always used to say, Two-legged chaos is come again—pawn all the waliables! But I don’t think there is anything very ‘waliable’ here, so Lucy may wander around to her heart’s content. Wilson’s put the fireguard in place, and I’ve locked Gyp in my bedroom.”

  “Is Gyp your dog?” Carrie puts down the child but holds on to her petticoats with a firm grip.

&nbs
p; “Yes, he’s rather crotchety these days; I’m not sure how he’d take to children. He’s only used to me and Wilson—and Kitty, of course. Not like our family dogs in the old days. They were used to no end of bad treatment.”

  “Like poor old M-master,” laughs Alfie.

  “Would you believe I have his collar in that very box? Sissy was going to throw it out.”

  “Sissy? Throw it out?” A shade comes over his face and I realize I need to be careful of disparaging her in front of Alfie. She is a favorite with him, according to Kitty.

  “Oh, I’m not blaming her!” I add quickly. “Master was dead long before she came to us, so she doesn’t have all the happy memories. But—Alfie, Carrie—please sit down and let’s talk of more important things than a wretched dog collar.”

  Alfie grimaces. “More important things? I hope you’re not going to take me to task after all.”

  I look at his anxious expression, the nervous way he twists his watch chain. From earliest boyhood, he’s always expected the worst. But I cannot be angry with him; I feel full of amazing love, like an opening flower. “I should take you to task, you know. There are many things that I could say in reproach.” I look up and see his anxious eyes and cannot help forgiving him. “But as you said in your letter, water has flowed beneath the bridge. It’s time for a new start.”

  “There! I told you your mother would not be angry with you, that her joy in seeing you would overcome any other feelings.” Carrie smiles and puts her hand gently on his knee.

  He puts his own on top and smiles back. “You put me right, as always, dearest.” He turns to me. “For my part, I should have remembered how kind and forgiving my mother always was. Even when provoked most severely by others.”

  “Well, you never provoked me, Alfie.” Indeed, he was always the most obedient of my children.