He hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to satisfy my curiosity, then he smoothed down his hair, reached for his hat from the hat stand and replied, ‘I am going, my dear, to a hanging.’
‘A hanging!’ I was shocked at such an idea. ‘Whatever for?’
I was aware that Charles had been caught up in the trial of Courvoisier, the Swiss-born valet who had murdered his elderly master, but to go to the gates of Newgate Prison and witness such a vile spectacle as his death, how could Charles do such a thing?
‘A little bit of research,’ he said, with a ghoulish voice, attempting to be amusing. A sharp rap at the door caused me to jump. Talk of such a macabre subject had unnerved me.
I was surprised to see William Thackeray on the doorstep and to find that he too was attired in a cheerless manner.
‘Good morning, my dear William!’ Charles chirped, shaking his friend’s hand in an enthusiastic welcome. William greeted me with a somewhat diffident smile and seemed unusually awkward and uneasy in my presence. I pondered for a moment over his appearance and hesitant manner, then all at once I understood.
‘Oh, William! Not you too?’
Charles came to his defence. ‘Kate, a writer must stay abreast of what is happening, if he is to write with any conviction, isn’t that so, William?’
William didn’t know which way to move his head, not wanting to disagree with his dear friend, whom he greatly admired, nor to offend my female sensibility. Charles snatched up his cane, put on his hat with a tap and grimaced theatrically. We shall see you later, Kate!’
The newspapers had been filled with reports about the sensational trial. The victim was Lord William Russell, brother to the Duke of Bedford, and the court had been crowded by those eager to learn more about his bloody end. François Benjamin Courvoisier had taken a knife to his master’s throat while he slept in his bed and then made it appear as though a robbery had taken place during the night. The housemaid had found the lower floor in a state of disturbance the following morning, and had scurried in various directions calling for the cook and valet to come to her aid. The furniture was upturned, the cupboards and drawers opened and emptied. It was then that a terrible thought had entered her mind: ‘What of his lordship?’ She and Courvoisier had gone upstairs and found the aged gentleman, dead, his pillow soaked with blood. The poor girl had screamed and shouted for the neighbours to come to their aid.
The paper reported that, despite the valet showing the police where the thieves had purportedly entered the premises, he found difficulty answering their other questions. When a search of the premises had been made, many articles of his lordship’s were found under the floorboards in Courvoisier’s room and under his mattress: a gold watch, a silver toothpick, a locket bearing a lock of hair belonging to his lordship’s departed wife, and a good deal of gold and silver coin too.
Courvoisier changed his story repeatedly, first blaming the housemaid and then the coachman, with whom he said the maid was in love and wished to elope. Mr Edward Flower, an experienced attorney, was employed to conduct the defence as a result of the large subscription that had been raised by the many foreign servants in London, who wanted to see the valet receive a fair trial. At first Courvoisier had been confident, almost defiant, but when the landlady of a French hotel in Leicester Square came forward with some silver candlesticks – passed to her by the defendant some weeks before Lord Russell’s murder – he confessed all. The jury found him guilty and Lord Chief Justice Tindal sentenced Courvoisier to death by hanging.
In the early hours of the morning Charles returned home. I heard him groaning and went at once to the top of the stairs, sensing that his buoyant mood of earlier had disappeared. He was slumped on the bottom step, his head in his hands.
‘Charles what has happened? Are you unwell?’
I hurried down the stairs, crouched down beside him and lifting his face, saw that his complexion was waxen – and I was suddenly repulsed by the smell of vomit upon his clothing. He groaned again.
‘It was a night with the demons, Kate, I wish that I had not witnessed it. The surging crowd were filthy and immoral, I had to rent a room with a balcony just to avoid my pockets being picked. Even the women were drunk and hurled about obscenities while jostling for a place at the front. I cannot conceive that my fellow humans could act with such barbarity.’ He shuddered. ‘Do you know that they cheered when the body swung?’ At this he rested his head on my shoulder in distress at the memory.
I shivered as the image passed before my eyes and I was lost for words to comfort him. I laid my hand upon his head and stroked his hair with sympathetic tenderness, grateful of his need for me, if only for the moment. Two days later, Charles wrote to The Times and made public his outrage at the degraded practice, stating that the law was as guilty as the criminal in carrying out such a punishment. And thus he began the campaign for the abolition of the death penalty.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
August 1840
Broadstairs, Kent
Another summer was spent at Broadstairs. The morning newspaper lay unread on the breakfast table; a review of The Old Curiosity Shop was contained within and Charles feared that his eye might chance upon it while perusing the columns. He need not have worried: although Master Humphrey’s Clock had left his readers feeling disappointed at its brevity, he had quickly set to work on The Old Curiosity Shop and had judged the mood of his audience with exactitude.
Unaware of his success, he was in a restless mood. Upon arrival at the holiday cottage he first satisfied himself that the sleeping arrangements were in all order, next he had rearranged the sitting-room furniture, moving one chair, then another, until it pleased him. Finally he took out all of the crockery and began to count the plates.
‘You never know, Kate, we are sure to have visitors.’
I begged him to come and relax in the garden, but instead he whipped up the children into a frenzy by chasing them about, roaring and growling, and the air was punctuated with the squeals of childish delight. Eventually, worn out, he sat down. He tried out several places on the lawn, but got up repeatedly to remove a twig or to stamp down a bump in the soil. At last he settled, lay down and put a handkerchief over his face. A few seconds and in time the handkerchief was drawn in and out with each gentle breath that he took.
Then in one bound, he leapt to his feet and charged into the cottage!
‘Heaven preserve us what is he doing now?’ I sighed.
Ten minutes later he emerged with an envelope in his hand and declared with satisfaction that he had invited guests to join us. Was it really so impossible for him to spend even a few days alone with just his family?
Mr and Mrs Charles Smithson, their niece Eleanor Picken and her friend Millicent Brown, arrived at the end of the week and they brought with them sunny skies. Mr Smithson grasped Charles’s hand with such zeal I thought he would fall down on his knees in an act of worship.
‘Mr Dickens! Mr Dickens! What a pleasure to see you again.’
His niece, Eleanor, was a slim, attractive girl with golden blonde hair that was ringleted in the latest fashion about her face. She was equally in awe of meeting Charles, but I watched as she very carefully appraised his appearance and noted how her face changed to one of disappointment as she took in his small stature and gaudy waistcoat. Her demeanour alternated frequently between insincere sweetness and subtle spite, with her poor companion Millie usually on the receiving end.
Millie spoke very quickly, blushed easily and always seemed to be tripping over something; here I sympathized with her, being naturally unsteady upon my own feet. She was a slightly built girl who looked no more than fourteen, although she must have been nearly twenty, and the wire glasses which rested on a homely nose, did nothing to enhance her plain features.
Eleanor inspected the cottage with an air of dissatisfaction and wrinkled up her pretty nose with distaste. ‘Had I known that Mr Dickens was holidaying in a fisherman’s cottage, I would have instructed Uncle to tak
e private rooms elsewhere, Millie.’ She then set about ordering her friend to unpack her bags, hang up her clothes and to close the windows for she could not stand the smell of the sea air.
I had not met Mr Smithson before, but learned that my husband had met the solicitor through his old colleague, Thomas Mitten, a former clerk at the courts where Charles had worked as a reporter. Mitten now worked in Mr Smithson’s chambers and had made the introduction when his employer expressed enjoyment of my husband’s work. Mr Smithson was a portly man with huge whiskers and several chins, and his spouse was equally stout. It was whispered that before they had moved to the City that she had at one time been his cook and that he had married her after the death of his first wife. If this were true, proof of her culinary talents were still in evidence: a button was missing from his tightly fitted waistcoat and those that remained were straining to retain their hold upon the material.
‘Pleased to make your h’aquintance, Mrs Dickens.’ Mrs Smithson curtsied unnecessarily, trying to adopt the airs and graces she felt were required by her new-found station in life. I took in her dress, which was patterned all over with large flowers and adorned with needless frippery and finery upon her sleeves, cuffs and collar. To my mind, a stout woman should never wear rosettes and ribbons, for they call to attention every pound of flesh a lady should want to minimize. If good taste was any indication of good sense, then I could see that a holiday spent with Mrs Smithson was not one to be relished.
Charles was to be thanked for providing all the entertainment we needed. In the evenings he organized guessing games, dancing, or walks along the beach, and when Daniel Maclise, the artist, joined us the following week, he delighted us with his clever sketches of passers-by. One evening, while walking along the beach, a look of mischief crossed my husband’s face and, without warning, he dashed towards Eleanor, falling down upon one knee before her feet.
‘Dearest Ellie’ – he took her gloved hand – ‘please say that you will treasure these few brief moments we have spent together, and never forsake me!’
Eleanor looked about her with embarrassment, and then her face formed a scowl of disapproval. ‘Please do not jest so, Mr Dickens. Get up! Get up! People are watching.’
‘I care not!’ he exclaimed dramatically, clasping her hand to his heart, ‘What are the opinions of others to me when I am bewitched by your very presence?’
A small audience had now gathered and Millie giggled with delight, glad for once to see her friend feeling awkward and embarrassed.
‘Mrs Dickens, please will you call your husband off!’ A note of hysteria had entered into Eleanor’s voice.
I, too, delighted in the spectacle, but tried my best to comply with her request.
‘Charles, come now, the young lady has had enough.’
‘Enough? I have not yet even begun.’ At which he scooped her up in his arms and ran along the beach with her until he reached the water’s edge.
Mrs Smithson forgot her propriety and squealed, ‘Lord, luv-a-duck! ’E’s goin’ to soak ’er!’ She caught the astonished glance of her husband and submitted, ‘I meant to say, her dress is silk, sir.’
‘Talk not to me of silk, madam,’ Charles shouted, dancing in the waves, ‘I am a man possessed! This is no time for prudence.’
By now Millie was pressing her handkerchief to her mouth in an effort to disguise her mirth at the sight of Eleanor kicking her legs and thrashing her arms about.
‘Uncle! Will you tell him to loose me at once.’
‘Come now, Dickens,’ Smithson cajoled, ‘put her down – there’s a good fellow.’
Charles stopped in his tracks, looked at Eleanor and, with the words, “it seems, my dear, that we are destined to be parted”, he dropped her into the water. When Eleanor surfaced, her curls in disarray, she screamed with rage. She fixed a malevolent glare upon Charles, slapped her uncle on the arm as he tried to escort her, and ordered Millie to her side at once, beginning an indignant retreat to the cottage.
‘The man’s a madman! That’s what Charles Dickens is – a complete madman!’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
May 1841
Kensal Green Cemetery, London
‘Are you not hungry this morning, madam?’ Emily asked, hovering in the doorway of my bedroom, with uncertainty.
I lay staring at the ceiling above, concentrating on the lines and curves of the coving until they blurred into one. Two triangles of toast, a hard boiled egg and a cup of milky tea sat untouched on a silver tray at my bedside. It was the fourth anniversary of Mary’s death and I earnestly wished that I could put off my visit to the cemetery. I couldn’t imagine anything that would be able to pass beyond the persistent ache in my throat.
‘Thank you, Emily, but I’m not in the least bit hungry. Can you take it away, please, and bring me a cup of lemon tea instead?’
I got out of bed and opened the window to let in the morning air. The day was bright, a pleasant breeze brushing through the trees. The street below carried the reassuring sounds that life outside these four walls was carrying on as normal: the squeaking wheels of the chimney-sweep’s cart, the hurried footsteps of a maid, two ladies each admiring the other’s hat.
Charles had already left for the City. He said that he would not be going with me to the cemetery as he had an appointment with his publishers. I experienced a mixture of surprise and relief at his words – perhaps at last his ongoing obsession with my sister was over. We never spoke of her now and he continued to hide behind the same detached façade, so who could begin to know what he felt? But his actions that morning had given me some hope.
A black crepe dress lay across the bed. For three long months after Mary’s death I had done my duty and dressed in mourning. It was a terrible burden, a daily reminder that she had gone forever. Whatever small joy that could have been found was extinguished with the putting on of those sombre vestments. It was such a relief when that obligation was over, but today I had to return to it again. I picked up the dress and a swirl of images flooded my mind: Charles cradling Mary in his arms and calling her name, the doctor shaking his head and trying to part Charles from her lifeless body, the sense of despair that had filled the room.
Emily returned with the tea and set a jug of hot water on the washstand but I have no recollection of washing, for I was lost in thought, wondering how life would have been if Mary were still here, questioning if Charles’s life with me would have been more satisfying to him – her wit and zest for life bringing to our home what I could not seem to.
Emily laced me into the dress and I held onto the back of a chair feeling light-headed.
‘Are you sure you are all right, madam? Shall I call the doctor?’
‘Please don’t fuss, Emily, I am fine. Mrs Thackeray will be here soon, I must finish dressing.’
Isabella had kindly offered to accompany me to the cemetery, and I was grateful for her support. When the doorbell rang to announce her arrival, I pinched my cheeks, trying to bring some colour to my pallid complexion and came downstairs with a brave smile. But Isabella was not fooled at all.
‘Perhaps it is best if you do not stay out too long,’ she said with concern, examining my face closely.
‘I do wish everybody would stop treating me like an invalid,’ I snapped, and then immediately regretted my hastiness.
Isabella graciously ignored my irritation and we stepped into the waiting carriage. The weather was good which helped soothe my troubled nerves and gave Isabella and I something meaningless to talk about. Leaving the fringes of the City I caught sight of children, both ragged and forlorn and I pitied their unhappy existence. I realized, once again, that I was blessed. My children had a good home, clean beds to sleep in and nourishing food each day.
Eventually the gates to the cemetery came into sight and Isabella squeezed my hand, sensing how I felt.
‘Shall I come with you?’ she asked gently.
‘No, thank you, Izzy. I would prefer to be alone.’
I stepped down from the carriage and followed the gravel path that cut across grassy, uneven ground.
As I moved the overhanging branches of an oak tree near the end of the path, I saw a familiar figure crouched at Mary’s graveside. His brown wavy hair blew about gently in the breeze and his brightly coloured waistcoat stood out amidst the scattered grey headstones. I could see his lips moving and every so often he would stop and break into an anguished sob. I was gripped by a sudden nausea and ducked back behind the branches of the tree, leaning against its rough grained trunk for a moment. When I had regained my composure I checked again to make sure of what I had seen. Charles was still crouched down and had now grasped a handful of gravel from the grave. He was holding it to his lips, his fist clenched tightly around it. He let it go and then reached out his hand, tracing the letters of Mary’s name with his forefinger. His hand trembled and, as his finger finished the final letter, he put his hands to his face and became broken with grief, his shoulders heaving with despair.
I turned and began to run, struggling in my pregnant state. He said he wasn’t going; he said he would be too busy. Why did he lie? Why did he lie? The thoughts circled round and round in my mind and I stumbled back to the coach, choking on my tears.
‘Was it really too much for you, dear Kate?’ Isabella said, as she opened the coach door, helping me in.
I could not reveal the true cause of my distress and nodded, taking a handkerchief from my purse. Isabella motioned to the perplexed driver to move on, and tried to calm me down. When the carriage drew up outside Devonshire Terrace, I hesitated, not wanting to get out. What reason did I have to be wife to a man for whom I was so obviously second choice?
Misjudging the reason for my uncertainty, Isabella placed her hand upon mine and said:
‘Shall I call for Charles to come home to you?’
‘No, please!’ I said with alarm, and then with mock composure, ‘I will be fine, really. Thank you, Izzy, you have already been so kind.’
Far Above Rubies Page 9
