‘Hush, my love, you are dreaming, you are just dreaming.’
‘The midwife.’ he explained, gripping his hair. ‘I was dreaming that she had gone to the wrong house….’
‘But the baby is not here yet, Charles.’
I stroked his hair, trying to soothe away his terrors and he took my hand and held his lips against it for a moment.
‘I must go and work, Kate, my mind is awake.’
‘No, Charles, please. You are overtired, you need to rest.’
But he had already swung his legs out of bed and was pulling his dressing-gown about him. His publisher was pressing him to finish his current novel, but poor Charles was struggling to keep up, as he was writing and editing for a weekly magazine too, and in agonies deliberating over the illustrations for his novel. I worried that he was doing too much.
Conscious of my husband’s heavy workload, I dedicated my time to organizing the house move. The days were filled with packing, sorting, discarding, gathering and parcelling up. But one thought gnawed at my mind, bit by bit eating away at my equanimity until I could bear it no longer: what should I do about Mary’s room? Not one possession of hers had been moved since the day of her death, not one item of clothing, knick-knack or ornament. Her room had become a shrine, so how would Charles react if I touched anything? I was prepared for his anger, but what about his grief? Could I bear that again? But I could not allow these unruly thoughts to paralyse me. With a decisive tone I called to Emily, my hand resting upon the door handle to Mary’s room. She responded to my call quickly and came up the stairs at once, but when she saw my intentions, a look of consternation crossed her face.
‘But Mr Dickens, ma’am….’
‘I know, Emily, please don’t worry. I will take full responsibility.’
‘Well, if you are sure, madam.’
I took a deep breath and opened the door.
A single white sheet covered the bed like a shroud and the headboard stood guard above it like a tombstone. I shuddered at the image and quickly pushed it from my mind, knowing that if I lingered over the task that lay ahead that I would not see it through. The ornamental fan that Mary had taken to the theatre the night that she died, lay just where she had left it upon the dusty dressing table. Oh, how I wished that she would take it in her hand once more, and laugh and chatter as she did. Dresses, shoes and hats were quickly packed into a chest and when we closed the lid, it felt like I was losing her all over again.
When Charles returned I came up the stairs to find him standing at the open door of the empty room, staring into it. What did he feel? What would he say? He turned to face me and I was startled to note that his eyes were completely empty of all emotion, it was as if he himself were a corpse. Then I understood: he had willed himself to feel nothing, nothing at all. The veil had come down again.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Christmas 1839
Devonshire Terrace
The branches were covered with a glittering frost. Charles walked carefully so as not to slip on the hard-packed snow on the garden path. He looked about furtively for a moment and then disappeared into the garden outbuilding. I watched him with curiosity through the drawing-room window.
‘I have no idea what your father is up to, my dears, but I think that we are in for a surprise.’
Charley and Mary ran to the window and pressed their noses to the glass, their hot breath momentarily obscuring the view. Charles reappeared carrying a large dome-shaped object covered with a blanket. He looked at the ground beneath his feet with suspicion and tested it warily. With his first step secure he began a cautious return to the house. When the children heard the front door open and the sound of their father stamping the snow and ice from his feet, they ran with excitement to greet him.
‘Papa! Papa!’
From the hallway came a blood-curdling screech.
‘Helloa, old girl!’
The children froze with fear and returned to my side, hiding their faces in my skirt. I was just about to reprimand their father for scaring them with one of his silly voices when he entered the room and, with a theatrical flourish, unveiled a cage containing a large black raven. It reminded me somewhat of Charles’s mother, the way in which it eyed up the room as if it would descend upon anything that took its delight and carry it away with lightning speed. The children forgot their fear and pulled at their father’s jacket excitedly.
‘Let it out, Papa! Let it out! We want to see it fly.’
Charles opened the cage and the bird hopped out, whereupon it flew to the curtain pole and much to my horror began pecking the fringes of the curtains.
‘Charles! Get it down. What on earth possessed you to purchase such a vile creature? Why couldn’t you have bought a dove or a canary? At least they are pretty to look at.’
The unwelcome visitor immediately took offence and began to flap its wings angrily, screeching and squawking about the drawing room. ‘Canaries and doves are ordinary,’ Charles said defensively, ‘but this is a bird with character. This is Grip.’
In recognition of a soul mate, the bird settled on Charles’s shoulder and fixed his eye upon me with satisfaction.
‘I suspect that you did not know, Kate, that ravens were highly prized by the Romans; they were the pets of Caesars, you know. Now don’t be scared, come and stroke him a little. He won’t hurt you.’
The children, who were already fussing the bird, chorused in agreement, ‘Yes, Mama, do come, he is really rather sweet.’
Full of doubt and reluctance I lifted my hand and, as I did so, in the blink of an eye, he sharply nipped at my finger. The bird let out a throaty laugh and a look of mischief crossed my husband’s face, which he quickly disguised with a cough. From that day on their existed a mutual dislike between myself and that vile creature!
The snow melted and was followed by a new year, but it brought with it grievous news that caused Charles great bitterness.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
February 1840
Devonshire Terrace
In the parish of St George’s, Southwark, on the south side of Angel Court and Angel Alley stands the Marshalsea Prison. To the right is the Dog and Bear Inn, frequented by watermen and sailors on leave and next door a brew house that supplies the same. The air, depending on the wind’s direction, alternately hangs with the smell of hops or the stench from the choked drains of the prison.
There are only two kinds of prisoner, although their crimes are much the same, the one has faith that liberty will soon be his and this hope colours his cheeks and shines in his eyes; the other is as sallow as a corpse, hope has long since faded, the light in his eyes obscured. Although the prison is surrounded by high external walls, the debtors’ families are at liberty to move freely in and out of the jail if they so wish. But almost all prefer the security of those prison walls to the sound to the bailiff’s insistent hammer upon the front door of their homestead.
Mr John Dickens was as softly rounded as his wife was sharp and with his cheery smile, he wore about him a permanently optimistic air as if he expected news of his good fortune at any moment. That many years ago he had resided at that very prison in Marshalsea, had not in anyway dismayed him nor swayed him from the conviction that the worst of circumstances could not but be endured if only one remained buoyant. He had been one of the lucky ones.
At this time in our marriage, Charles had remained silent about that period in his family’s history and the whole chapter remained shrouded in mystery. But I was to learn more about the horror with which Charles associated it when amongst his morning mail, an unwelcome letter from his publishers arrived.
12 February 1840
Dear Sir
Although it is the most delicate of subjects, we feel it incumbent upon ourselves to inform you of our concerns for your father’s financial affairs.
In August of last year, Mr Dickens asked for our help over some trifling difficulty, and we felt that we could not refuse such a small sum of assistance to a relative
of our most distinguished client. Three months later, he called upon us again, this time to loan him another fifteen pounds. He earnestly promised to repay it the following month but instead, in December, he asked for a further thirty-five pounds and Mr Hall said that we should let you know; but your father was so sincere in his apology for not paying us back before, that I could not refuse him.
Yesterday, however, he visited our offices as we were closing up for the day and with great distress, revealed to us the full extent of his worries. He told us that he had other creditors, besides ourselves, who were pressing him for payment in the most threatening manner and so in desperation he begged that we allow him to insure his life in our favour for one hundred pounds. He said that if we did not agree by one o’clock today, he would face the most dire circumstances.
We assure you that we have been most discreet about this matter, but as both your publishers and the guardians of your reputation, we feel that we must inform you of our concern.
We await your advice and remain yours most humbly,
Messrs. Chapman and Hall
Charles’s fingers curled around the letter and he raised his hands to his face, shaking his head in disbelief.
‘No, no. Not again, not again!’
Just as I thought he was about to weep with despair, he brought his fists down upon the breakfast table with great force and shouted, ‘That man will bring ruination to this family!’
He pushed his chair back from the table forcefully and made his way into the hall. I trotted behind him anxious to know what had happened.
‘What is it, my love?’
‘Give him half a chance, and he will be rounding up our possessions to take them to the pawnbrokers,’ Charles growled under his breath. ‘I will not tolerate it again!’
‘Tolerate what, my love? Who is it that has angered you so?’
Charles snatched up his hat and cane from the hat stand.
‘Charles! Will you please tell me what is going on?’
But the only reply I received was the decisive bang of the front door.
A week later, to my surprise, Mr and Mrs Dickens were moved with utmost swiftness to Exeter with strict instructions not to return to London under any circumstances. I dared not ask Charles a word about it for, all week whenever I tried to engage him in conversation, he exploded over the smallest matter. It was Fred who told me all.
When Charles had been just twelve years old, his father had been imprisoned in the Marshalsea for unpaid debts and Charles had been sent to work at Warren’s Blacking Factory. His father had sold the household belongings and pawned Charles’s books, but this was not enough to pay off the creditors. I was appalled to learn that Charles had spent twelve hours a day, pasting labels onto jars and enduring the taunts of the other children, who saw him as ‘the little gentleman’. It was only his determination and hard work that had enabled his family to finally return to their home. I was filled with sympathy.
‘It must have been terrible for you all, Fred. Do you remember much of it?’
Fred got up from the couch and poured himself a brandy from the decanter on the bureau.
‘Not really, I was very young, but I recall the narrow wooden staircase leading to our room … and the stench’ – he took a gulp of the golden brown liquid – ‘the stench was terrible.’
I stood up and placed a comforting hand upon Fred’s arm and he was quiet for a moment, before taking two of Charles’s cigars from the bureau drawer. One he lit, the other he tucked into his waistcoat pocket for later.
‘Now the old chap has been up to his tricks again, Kate. He has borrowed extensively against Charles’s name and has received a note of eviction from the landlord. He was a moment away from arrest when my learned brother intervened.’
Fred’s voice took on a lighter note. ‘But the parents have landed on their feet from what I have heard.’ He puffed heartily on his cigar and strolled about the room, giving each piece of furniture a playful tap as he passed it. ‘A little cottage with an orchard and a vegetable garden, according to Mother, so they have not come out of it too badly, by all accounts.’
Emily entered the room with a tray and began to lay the table for dinner.
‘Any room for one more?’ Fred queried, patting his stomach. He winked at Emily, and then nearly choked upon his cigar at the abrupt opening of the door as Charles’s brooding presence entered the room.
He threw his younger brother a dark look. ‘What are you doing here? I am surprised that you dare to show your face at my table. In point of fact, I’m sick of the sight of all of you!’ Fred glanced guiltily at his empty brandy glass on the table and tucked his thumb self-consciously into his waistcoat pocket lest the spare cigar fall out.
‘Did it not occur to you, that you should be out working to help pay off our father’s debts? Must I alone be always held responsible for bailing him out? In fact, must I alone be responsible for all of you?’ His voice was gaining volume now.
Fred chanced a defence, but I quickly interposed, knowing that Charles was not in any mood to be challenged.
‘Well, as we are all together,’ I began tentatively, ‘shall we enjoy Cook’s sirloin of beef? I know it’s your favourite, dear.’
Charles looked at the table with disgust. ‘I’ve lost my appetite. I’m going to my study to work. After all, someone has to keep a roof over this family’s head.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
April 1840
Devonshire Terrace, London
Charles was irritable: he had finished writing the final instalment of Nicholas Nickleby and without a project on hand to engage him, he was restless. He had made several false starts upon another novel but could not seem to settle on an idea which excited him, or that he thought would excite his readers. He paced about the sitting room, drumming his fingertips together, his brow furrowed as if he were struggling to think of a specific word that was eluding him. He huffed and sighed, fretted and frowned, voiced an ‘aha!’ then shook his head vigorously with anger and frustration.
I had seen him like this on many occasions before and knew that when he found what he was searching for the mystery would be unlocked, he would focus his mind upon it with singular determination and hurry away to his study to fix it in ink before it escaped him. But today was not one of those moments and sensing his mounting agitation, I sought to make an exit before he noticed me. Poised to move from my chair, I unwittingly caught his attention.
‘Kate,’ he sighed, ‘must you always wear that grey dress? It makes you look quite a fright.’
I placed a protective hand on my lace collar and brooch.
‘I’m sorry, Charles, I thought the collar and brooch relieved its plainness. But I will change, if it pleases you.’
He looked me up and down with distaste. ‘Yes, it would please me greatly.’
‘Very well, my love, but is anything wrong? You seem—’
Charles turned, his eyes blazing, ‘What? What do I seem? Come along, Kate, let me hear your customary perceptiveness.’
My face fell at his biting sarcasm. I knew the cause of it only too well. A royal wedding had taken place some weeks before. Queen Victoria had married her cousin, Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha and Charles had joked that he was completely broken-hearted. At first I had taken his comments in good spirit and when at the dinner parties we attended in the ensuing weeks, he would drink to her health and pronounce himself distressed that she had forsaken him, I would laugh along with the other guests and try to be a good sport. After all, I saw it for what it was, a distraction from his frustration at not being able to write.
Everyone would cheer at the charade and urge him on to greater tomfoolery, and I would endeavour to smile graciously and enter into the fun. But as the weeks went on, Charles did not cease in the masquerade even when it became obvious that his friends had tired of it; and I found it all the more embarrassing when I overheard hushed whispers from around the dinner table and received nods of sympathy. It seemed that
Charles had convinced himself the joke was true. Why shouldn’t the Queen return his admiration, he reasoned? Wasn’t he every bit her equal in fame and in popularity? Didn’t he deserve a woman of title and renown as his companion? In consequence, he became increasingly cold and distant towards me.
One evening, he lay in bed and, staring up at the ceiling, he addressed me.
‘You wouldn’t understand what it is, Kate, to know greatness. She was born to it: I have had it thrust upon me. We would have so much in common.’ He sighed deeply. ‘If only we could meet. I have heard that she admires me greatly; oh yes, it is true that she has copies of my work within the very walls of Windsor Castle.’
He paused for a moment as if struck by a new thought. ‘Perhaps I should go to Windsor and seek an introduction. She will know I am sincere in my admiration then!’
He punched his pillow, and turned his back upon me in a gesture of indifference. All that I could do was to endure it. Surely it must pass soon. But which woman has ever had a queen as her rival in love?
July 1840
Newgate Prison, London
At last my husband put pen assuredly to paper, his fanciful infatuation with the Queen faded and his good humour, for a time, restored.
He stood in front of the hall mirror, tying his cravat and whistling cheerfully, He was dressed in a sober fashion, which was for him unusual, and was wearing a black armband. Not being aware of the death of any of our acquaintances, I was puzzled.
‘Has someone who we know died, dear?’
‘No, no one we know.’ He was humming to himself now.
‘Then one of your colleagues?’
‘No, not one of my colleagues,’ he responded unhelpfully, and continued to hum.
‘Then where are you going?’ I persisted.
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