Far Above Rubies

by Anne-Marie Vukelic

  Suddenly I became aware of her presence and looked down to find that I had wound my string of pearls so tightly around my forefingers, that, lost in my thoughts, my fingers had begun to redden with constriction. I relaxed my grip and made a conscious effort to focus my attention on the anxious child looking up at me.

  ‘Have you been standing there long, my dear?’ I asked suddenly feeling very cold.

  ‘No, Mama, only a moment.’

  I looked over my shoulder and then back at Katie.

  ‘I had the strangest sensation that someone was watching me and that they stroked my cheek.’

  Her little face formed a worried frown. ‘Do you want me to call Papa or Aunt Georgie, for you, Mama?’

  ‘No, no, dear; I am quite all right. Run along and play, and do not worry yourself about Mama. I am fine.’ I ruffled her hair and she skipped away, concerned no more.

  At last the news that I had prayed for arrived and I can only give thanks to God that my eldest son survived his illness. Fanny, however, in a reversal of fortune was not so blessed. Charles wrote daily for news of her condition and when it seemed that all hope had gone, he insisted that we return to England so that “his presence in person might give her strength beyond what was normal”. Perhaps in saying this he had in mind his experiences with Madam de la Rue, as if he had the power even over life and death.

  We arrived home at Devonshire Terrace at the end of November and while I prepared for Charley’s return home for Christmas, Charles rushed immediately to Fanny’s side. For some months his presence seemed to have some miraculous effect on her after all, and temporarily she gained strength and comfort from her brother’s presence. But not even my husband’s great fame could frighten death’s dark shadow from Fanny’s side and Charles was prostrated by grief at the loss of his sister.

  As one life left the world, so another entered it. Our son Sydney was born and I was now the mother of seven children.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Autumn 1849

  Brompton Asylum, London

  William tapped the roof of the carriage and asked the driver to stop.

  ‘This will do, there’s no need for him to know where we are going,’ he whispered, twisting his wedding-ring nervously. We stepped down and William reminded him to be sure to meet us in the same place in an hour.

  ‘Right you are, guv’nor.’ He touched his cap and shook the reins.

  William Thackeray was a man of large stature, with cherubic curls and a kind and handsome face, upon which sat a slightly lopsided nose. In all the time that I had known William I had never known him raise his voice, lose his temper or speak ill of others. Some thought him false, perhaps too good to be true, but I saw him as he was – a man of good breeding who would think it ill-mannered to show anything other than a congenial nature at all times, whatever his true feelings.

  In contrast to Charles, he had experienced the privileged upbringing of a gentleman. Born in India to a wealthy father, William had enjoyed the comforts of a magnificent home: servants to wash him, dress him and wait upon him, and an exotic countryside as his own playground. But his charmed life was to come to an abrupt end. His father died suddenly and William’s mother quickly married her lover, sending William to a boarding-school. It was here, I think, that he had had his nose broken by a boy for whom he ran errands.

  The unhappy years of his youth had been marked by a lack of purpose: he gambled recklessly, and could not settle upon a career that made him happy.

  His mother – too wrapped up in her own world – denied him much needed affection and, it was whispered, that his frequent visits to houses of ill-repute had left him with a lasting legacy that still came back to trouble him at times.

  But when William met Isabella, he found the happiness that had evaded him since the death of his father and his life of aimlessness ended. His income as a fledgling journalist paid for a small cottage and lack of money did not taint the sweetness of their love for one another; he and Isabella settled down to become the happiest couple I knew. His career as a journalist was now flourishing, his skill as an illustrator was growing – he would often amuse us with his delightful caricatures drawn upon napkins – and his name as an author was becoming respected.

  So it was all the more cruel that life had looked upon him unkindly once more. Jane, the middle of their three young daughters, had died in infancy from pneumonia, and after the recent birth of another daughter, Harriet, Isabella had become lower and lower in her spirits. Perhaps she feared that she would lose dear Harriet too. William had taken his wife overseas in the hope that a change of scenery would do her health some good, but the consequences were tragic: during the crossing, Isabella had thrown herself from the boat and almost drowned.

  It was some few weeks later that I found myself seated opposite him in a carriage, with Emily, the maid, at my side. For the most part of the journey he was distracted, looking out of the window, lost in thought. From time to time he would remember his manners and turn to address me, enquiring about my comfort or making a general comment about the weather. In his vacant moments he directed his forefinger to trace a repeated hieroglyph on his thigh. I followed, watching the long stroke of an ‘I’, followed by S … A … then the remainder of his wife’s name. Over and over he traced it. Poor William, he blamed himself I knew, and yet no one could have known. Isabella had hidden her sadness so well, too well in fact, until she could hold it in no longer.

  Leaving Emily in the coach to wait for our return, we walked along a labyrinth of narrow streets: children played hopscotch, housekeepers hurried along with their baskets, workmen loaded beer barrels onto a cart, a policeman kept pace with an imaginary beat. Side by side I walked with William, talking of everything except that which we could not put into words – the fear of what we were about to do. We came at last to a partly derelict building surrounded by a high wall that was topped with spikes. Forged in iron above the gate were the words Brompton Asylum. It was manned by a guard who must have been nearer seven feet than six. He had large ears, and due to a lack of teeth his jaw sat comfortably under his nose. He looked like an enormous grey gnome guarding his mine. He eyed us suspiciously. It was rumoured that a well-dressed lunatic had once walked out of the asylum leaving his poor brother, who had come to visit, tied up in his place. Our identities satisfactorily established, he let us in and led us to the twin-towered gatehouse and entrance. Between the towers was a large oak door and chiselled above it in the stone: Nil Desperandum – Auspice Deum. William shook his cane angrily. ‘Bah! God is not in this place, I’m sure of it. Suffering – yes, pain – yes, but not God.’

  I started to say that God is everywhere if only we believed and looked hard enough, but upon entering the dark vestibule my words trailed off. Moans of torment, shrieks, insane chatter and a repetitive banging; the echoes of torment resonated throughout the building. The smell of dampness permeated the air. The draughty hall was empty of people and furniture, the only adornments being a memorial stone giving thanks to the patrons of the asylum, and on the opposite wall – a metal crucifix. We heard the sound of footsteps; a man, small and rounded, approached us. He was dressed in a rather shabby shirt, tie and waistcoat, and his sleeves were rolled up as though he had hastily left a job unfinished to greet us.

  ‘Mr Thackeray?’ he said, in a weary tone.

  William nodded.

  ‘I am Doctor Hargreaves.’

  His face was careworn and there seemed to be a line upon his brow for every patient he had ever tended.

  ‘My wife, where is she?’ William asked, taking off his hat and gloves.

  ‘Mr Thackeray,’ the doctor said, without answering William’s question, ‘would you mind if I asked you to step into the office?’

  ‘Doctor, I have not come here to talk, nor have I come to sit in your office. I have come to see my wife and I want to see her now!’ He lowered his voice and added, ‘If you please’, remembering his customary manners.

  The doctor had
witnessed this scene many times before and would see it again. He could be patient; within these walls time moved very slowly.

  ‘This won’t take a moment, sir.’ He gestured toward an open door leading off the hall. ‘If you would?’ And William, temporarily defeated, stepped into the room.

  The doctor nodded to the chairs positioned in front of a desk, and while I took mine, William declined with a frown and a shake of his head. A small bookcase held a collection of medical books, whose only purpose seemed to be to gather dust. Heavy wooden panelling added to the room’s air of darkness, the light coming in two sharp shafts from the tall windows that were barred like all the others I had seen. Doctor Hargreaves carefully rolled down his sleeves, sat himself behind the desk and began looking through each drawer, taking out a file, shaking his head and returning it to its place. A piece of thread dangled from his worn cuffs and it waved and danced as he slowly shuffled and arranged his papers causing me to want to snap it off with irritation. At last he found what he was looking for, looked over the notes and peering above his spectacles, said grimly, ‘I am afraid to tell you, Mr Thackeray, that your wife has ceased to function as the woman you once knew. The loss of the child has troubled her deeply, and she has become withdrawn, shutting out reality all together.’

  William wrung his hands and paced the room as though he himself were on the edge of insanity. He shook a finger at the doctor. ‘My wife was put here without my authority, you know that, don’t you? I came home to find that this terrible outrage had taken place and if I had thought for one moment that this was going to happen, I should never have left her unattended. She is my life, sir.’

  The doctor nodded sympathetically, ‘But I’m sure you appreciate that the police had little choice, Mr Thackeray. Your wife tried to take a child from another woman and, when questioned she held fast to the belief that the infant was her own.’ He took off his glasses and said plainly, ‘I’m afraid, sir, that your wife might not recover her senses at all. I hope that with the very best treatment, we may be able to reach her, but I cannot promise.’

  William, putting his hands on the desk, leaned forward earnestly and said, ‘Then you must let me try, and Mrs Dickens here, whom she regards so fondly.’

  ‘She will not even know you, Mr Thackeray, I am sure of it,’ the doctor insisted. ‘Seeing her will only cause you both unnecessary distress.’

  ‘I will not be dissuaded,’ William continued, ‘and I will not agree to my wife being experimented upon by some kind of … quack, and dosed with heaven knows what sort of ill potions!’

  William mopped his face and neck with his handkerchief, not at all used to losing his composure, but this was not at all a usual circumstance. Doctor Hargreaves stood up and, ignoring William’s outburst, nodded saying, ‘Very well then, it seems you must see for yourself.’

  Leaving the office we walked along a dimly lit corridor, passing strange beings who practised strange rituals. I am not sure whether it was a man or a woman, but a bald headed creature sat crossed-legged, trying to remove an imaginary speck from it’s tongue. With finger and thumb it plucked repeatedly, never giving up for a moment, to the point where I too believed that it must be there and thought that it would be a kindness on my part to help remove it. The long corridor was white tiled, windowless, and flagged along the way with heavy doors. I was terrified by the thought of what horrors lay behind them and yet, was not my dear Isabella one of these poor sick creatures? I reminded myself that I must not judge.

  At the end of the tunnel was a door with a small barred window in it. As we drew near to it the doctor raised a hand, momentarily halting us. ‘Sir, if you are really sure you want to go through with this….’

  ‘Whatever has happened to her, she will never be changed in my eyes,’ William countered with emotion.

  The doctor did not unlock the door immediately, but directed us to look through its small barred window. William stepped forward and put his face to the bars and after a moment of shock, closed his eyes with pain.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I whispered, clasping his arm and glancing over his shoulder through to the small cell beyond the window. ‘We have come this far, William, now let us see what can be done.’

  Crouched against the cell wall was Isabella. She was wearing the wine-coloured dress that I had seen her in many times before but now it was heavily stained. Her hair hung loosely about her shoulders and had turned completely white and on her left hand was a fresh wound that looked like a bite mark. She appeared to be cradling a bundle of rags in her arms and when I looked closer I could see that it was a doll to which she was quietly talking. Her voice was soft and familiar and although she looked unrecognizable she sounded like Isabella in every respect. The doctor unlocked the door and, with hope rising, I moved toward her. Immediately she bit viciously at her hand and huddled into a corner of the cell, clutching her bundle and becoming breathless with fear.

  ‘Don’t try to take her from me, you bitch, I warn you!’

  Her voice had become distorted and strange. I looked down at the doll and felt sickened to see that its eyes were merely empty sockets in a filthy face. Trying to keep my mind clear, I petitioned, ‘Izzy, William is here. Look, he has come to take you home.’

  He crouched down carefully and said tentatively, ‘My dear?’

  She looked at him blankly and then began to shriek and grasp at my skirts. ‘The baby, he’s going to take it, miss; dear God – don’t let him please. Please!’ She clawed again. ‘Make him go!’ She released my skirt and began ripping great clumps of hair from her scalp, seemingly oblivious to the pain.

  ‘Sir, you must come away, she is becoming overwrought!’ the doctor urged William. The noise that she was making was unbearable to hear, like an animal trapped in the jaws of a beast.

  ‘No! You must do something. Somebody must do something. I can’t leave her like this,’ William pleaded.

  Isabella launched herself at her husband and began tearing at his face, sinking her nails into his flesh. With an experienced hand, the doctor swiftly took a shackle from the cell wall clasped it around Isabella’s neck and herded us out, locking the door with great haste. Almost immediately Isabella fell to the floor and became quiet again, singing softly to her baby as though we had never encroached upon her world at all. William’s complexion was white and he dabbed at his marked face. Seeing the blood on his fingertips, he turned away with a violent cough and I thought that he was about to vomit. Doctor Hargreaves put a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry for you, sir, truly I am, but if you will pay her board of fifteen shillings a week, I will ensure that your wife is moved to a better part of the hospital and will employ a nurse for her who will see to it that she is washed and well fed – and of course, I will make every treatment available to hasten her cure. That is all far more than most of the poor souls here could ever hope for.’

  William nodded vaguely, but I do not think that it was in acknowledgement of the doctor’s words for he seemed too numb with shock to comprehend speech, thoughts or ideas. The nod was a nod of defeat, a nod of recognition that he had no hope of bringing his wife home; that for now, she was lost to him. I too felt sick and faint, shaken by what I had witnessed, but knew that I must not think of myself, that I must not let William down.

  The walk back to the coach along the same winding streets was desperately difficult. William bit his lip, frowned, murmured to himself abstractly. I tried to think of what I could say, but could only manage, ‘You know that Charles and I will give you and the girls aid. You only have to ask, whatever it is you need, William, you know that don’t you?’

  William nodded and swallowed hard saying, ‘You are most kind, Kate, thank you.’

  But I did not feel kind at all. I felt hopeless, unable to offer anything more meaningful. Charles was so much better at words than I and I wondered what he would have said if he had been here. Emily was waiting in the carriage and opened her mouth as if to ask how the mistress was, but closed i
t again after catching sight of William’s bloodied face.

  On the journey home the shadows of Brompton Asylum troubled me and I pictured Isabella crouched in that dark cell. It was then that the strangest thought occurred to me: I realized that in order to survive her despair Isabella had created about her a world that she could cope with, a world where her daughter was not lost to her at all but lived again among that bundle of rags. In that world death did not exist, did not have the power to hurt nor harm. In that world Isabella was invincible against the cruelty of fate. So would it really be a kindness then to take her from such a benevolent place and bring her back to face reality where only grief and pain were waiting to greet her? Didn’t we all to some extent do what Isabella had done? Didn’t we all arrange our life in such a way that we perceived it, not as it really was, but as we wished it to be – and in this way we made the hobble of life more bearable? I saw in my mind’s eye Isabella’s stream of white hair, but when she looked up the face was not hers at all but mine.

  Terrified, I quickly brought my mind back into sharp focus, vowing that I would never repeat my thoughts to anyone – lest they think me insane also.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Spring – 1850

  St John Street, Clerkenwell

  A notice of auction had appeared in The Times. The scattered contents of Gore House lay like a dismembered skeleton, its bones now picked bare of flesh by the birds of prey that descended upon it the moment the news was out. Count d’Orsay and the Countess of Blessington were bankrupt; Lord Blessington’s estate had been eaten up by debt and Charles had vowed that he would never again venture near the house.

  ‘I could not bear to see that beautiful salon inhabited by slavering hyenas, prowling about and pawing at all my memories. Such wonderful evenings….’ he sighed.