The Gaslight Journal

by Carla René

  “Dearest,” he would say with yellowed-teeth clinched round its stem, “you and I are only involved in this most unholy of unions, because your father lacked a goat in his barn during our betrothal.” Then his face would shake with his self-made mirth while the smoke encircled it in ghostly patterns, as if mocking his dim-wittedness. I cannot say with any certainty that I loved my husband, for what truly is love? My supposition is this: it is nothing more than an accepted persuasion with too much import on the seeking of its end, like that of Pyrite—fools clamoring away at the imagination of the element, happy in their own ignorance, while the real gold remained illusive. Nay, I had made peace long ago that love did not exist—no, not for demimondaine like me.

  This time pain was swallowed down with the amber liquid in my glass, and I made motion for the steward to return for another round. At that instant, I was espied by the prying eyes of Millie Willingham and heard myself pray that invisibility would strike me quickly, but not before she had me trapped on my right. She had news of the latest social confabulations, which, no matter their inherent subject matter (and tonight's just happened to center around everyone from the barmaid and the latest secret she shielded, to Mr. Jackson Grant and the results of his good fortune at the track), always seemed to hold within their address an urgency of conveyance that could never wait until the dessert course. After all, if one were bidden to a banquet such as this with its keen eye on etiquette and grand opulence, then should it also not hold that one be allowed to savor their pineapple cream without the possibility of interrupting one's own digestion?

  To my left, conversations and speculations of the following spring's hunt, for the season depended upon Parliament, and Parliament depended upon sport, for sessions could not be held until the frost was out of the ground, and the foxes began to breed.

  With my apologies accomplished, I took a turn round the room without my escort, which was received behavior for one succeeding the marriage market. In one of the side drawing rooms, a rubber of Whist was just ending, each participant sporting their surety of winning, and quite loudly, too, which raised a smile to my lips.

  Back in the main ballroom, the Beau Monde were in rare form while attempting the steps of the Quadrille. As was customary, it opened each ball, but was a tedious chore to be got through while you were waiting for the waltz to begin, and a gentleman was advised to lay in a half hour's conversation while the figures were gone through. Even before my own coming out, I carried not the patience for it. I did, however, enjoy the waltz which always followed and was never reserved for only those familiar to one another. It is, in fact, how I met many of London's most affluent without raising suspicious eyes, which was, after all, the entire point of the social season—to better one's connections.

  Before I could turn to make my way back to my escort, the waltz had begun, and Mr. Arthur Crawley pulled me into the constant, swirling movement of Beethoven's Waltz for Piano in E flat major: "Hoffnungswalzer", and I remembered how passionately fond of dancing I had been. I seemed to give myself up to it now as though the old days had come back to me.

  Mr. Arthur Crawley had long been one of London's most sought-after bachelors, owing that, in part, to his purported seventy-thousand a year. I would not particularly ascribe the descriptive of "handsome" to him, but he had definite charm and charisma, which, in my opinion, were qualities quite capable of covering a multitude of sins.

  "To still move with such grace of spirit as to make a gently sweeping flower in the wind jealous is a feat of which you should be proud, milady," he said.

  I smiled coyly, for I knew how to play the ballroom games well. I confess, his sweet words of flattery charmed me (disingenuous as they were) for even in my days of courtship, I had never met with such attentions from one so distinguished and worldly. For you see, I was not any more winsome than my soot-stained husband; my lids were heavy with worry, last season's clothing tattered and drab which betrayed our slip in status—of which we worked very hard to conceal—and I had lost much weight from the taking of spirits. Verily, I reveal this with much shame, but it had become so necessary an evil for my survival that I found myself resorting to the unspeakable to afford its wont.

  Which returns me again to Mr. Arthur Crawley. He plays a most important role in the events that transpired next, reader, for without even trying, he proved not only to be the knife, but the wound as well.

  Immediately following the waltz, I turned to make my quick exit and return to my husband, who I am sure scarcely knew I was missing, but Mr. Crawley's behest to escort him to the other end of the ballroom was too accented to easily refuse, so I consented to avoid a scene.

  "I will not say from whom I received the information," he whispered in my ear, once we were safely in the cloakroom alone, "but I will say the source was most reliable and one not given to feral facts."

  I avoided his eyes, the familiarity with which this conversation was heading foremost in my brain. And while I cannot say that I was pleased with it, I can say in all honesty that it was a bed I made long ago, and now the only thing needing to be done was the lying in it.

  With his left arm aside my head and the cloakroom wall to my right, I found escape impossible. As he began slowly moving his hand up my skirts, I felt the old pang of feverish hopes and fears die with each inch that his scaly fingers climbed. He avoided, most prudently, kissing me on the mouth (in case we were spotted) as he found his way quickly to my secret place and began working magic that I both welcomed and repulsed simultaneously.

  It did not take long, and before I knew it, we had switched positions and I was now being forced to return the favor, his hand firmly and gruffly on the top of my head so that I could not move until the end result was finally achieved. This, too, did not take long.

  With the act over and done, I stood to straighten my appearance, and as he handed me the usual expenditure of £2, I heard someone behind me. Turning, I found myself face to face with the self-same barmaid I had spotted earlier. She looked as if she had seen a ghost.

  "Arthur? Wha… ? I don't underst… "

  After uttering these words, she then realized the severe impertinence of addressing Mr. Crawley in the familiar and what that implied, so she bowed her head in shame and awaited his response.

  Before he could give it, however, all suddenly came into clarity for me; everything Millie Willingham had been twittering in my ear earlier in the evening; the flash of recognition on the girl's face when our eyes met across the bar, and now the uncomfortable silence that hung between her and Mr. Crawley. I was no scholar, but it was apparent that the impromptu encounter between Mr. Crawley and myself came not only as a complete surprise, but obviously put the barmaid in a much uncomfortable and unexpected position, catching her completely off her guard. From her surprise, it was apparent that she had laboured under the misapprehension that there had been a previous agreement between the two.

  I confess I suddenly became anxious and a bit amused at the anticipation of Mr. Crawley's response.

  However, instead of remaining, as a true gentleman, to repair any damage that had been done to his social standing, he promptly bowed to me, brushed past the barmaid without so much as a look, and left me to clean up his mess.

  For a long moment, she paced round me like a wild animal, unsure of how best to attack its prey, but remained silent.

  I now found myself at an impasse: should I attempt to salvage what might be left of my social standing or admit my evil by confronting it head-on, thus ensuring my official ousting from London's top circles? On one hand, if I stacked the deck in my favor, I could almost assuredly ensure this commoner's silence in exchange for the remains of my reputation. On the other, however, I knew that my luck was not going to remain forever, and one unsuspecting day, my turpitude would surely find me out and properly chastise me. I wanted to make sure that today, however, would not be that day.

  I sized up the mere child in front of me. Innocent eyes, common demeanour, no real future prospects
for vocation or standing—as I knew Arthur Crawley would never give up being disinherited for a mere menial, since his own standing was more important to him than a maid, even if he were to find true love with her—so really, I knew I was the advantageous, and I proceeded thus.

  "He does not love you."

  Her look was of genuine surprise. "You may have seen the most intimate parts of his body, but you have no intimation of his heart."

  "Pity—you almost sound as if you believe what you are saying," I said.

  "What interest is it of yours?"

  "You may have caught me in a disadvantageous position earlier, but remember your station—I am still your better."

  She looked at the floor. "Yes, madam."

  Now it was I that paced round her. "How will you support it on a mere chambermaid's wages?"

  "What? How did you… "

  "Dearest, news of this magnitude is hard to curb. You know how tongues do love to wag in this town."

  Her face was now bright crimson and she steadied herself against a chair.

  I walked in front of her and gently lifted her chin so she could meet my eyes. "Did you really think he would risk being disowned and the life he knows just to raise an illegitimate with a common servant?"

  Tears streamed down her face. My first impulse was to reach for her with comfort, then I remembered that she knew of my own indiscretion, and that to show any signs of weakness would be death, and right at this moment, I needed to keep the upper hand. Quickly I devised a plan.

  "I have a proposal that I am sure will catch your interest. Shall I share it with you?"

  Drying her tears, she sat and nodded.

  I knelt in front of her and put on the best face of concern that I could muster, and began to spin my web. "I think I have a solution. Forgive the directness of my question, but what wages do you draw from your current employer?"

  "£4 per week, and I get room and board."

  "Do you have any other family elsewhere?"

  "No, madam, I am alone."

  "Good. Here is what I propose. You leave your written notice with your current family, and come to my employ. We currently are in need of a good chambermaid," I lied, "so I will offer you £6 per week, room and board, and you may keep the baby. How does that sound?"

  If I had not been fighting for my own survival at that very moment, I would have melted into a puddle by the sheer look of gratitude, relief and ebullience on that innocent face.

  "You mean it, madam? I can keep my baby?"

  "Most assuredly. Now, how far along are you?"

  "Four months; my clothes are beginning to tighten."

  "Yes, we haven't much time—you will be beginning to show soon, so we must act quickly to secure your seclusion."

  She thought for a moment. "I can be out by next week's end if that is convenient."

  "It is. But now I must ask one thing of you in return for my most magnanimous generosity."

  "But name it."

  "You must reveal to no one what you have seen here tonight. Is this agreed?"

  She nodded. "Madam, with all due respect, I am in no position to be adjudicating another's erroneous judgment. Your secret is safe with me."

  "I am so happy. For now we can be as sisters," I said, and feigned more concern as I sealed our pact with an embrace.

  One week later, as I had hoped, she moved into our servants' quarters and joined the above the stairs staff, and began work. Since the matter of our home were my primary concerns, my husband dared or cared not interfere, so he scarcely noticed. And as she promised, she did not reveal my secret. Things were contained and life was back to normal.

  Or, so I thought.

  One night I could not sleep after a nightmare so I decided a visit to my husband's private bedchambers, for solace, was in order, but upon entering his room, I found him to be not there, his sheets unslept, and his grate empty of fire.

  Deciding he had possibly stayed downstairs to read, I took my candlestick to guide my way to the study, only to find it empty.

  I then made my way to the kitchen in the basement, thinking a snack may calm my nerves, but I was distracted by a noise coming from the maids' quarters, so I decided to seek out the source of the disturbance. As I drew closer, I noticed moaning coming from the new barmaid's room, and surmised at once that there must be trouble with the pregnancy. Perhaps she was at that very moment in the midst of a miscarriage!

  I threw open the door, ready to help, and was met with the most horrifying spectacle: my husband was lying naked on top of the barmaid and both turned to me upon my entrance. But instead of remorse, both began laughing—not the laughter of the embarrassed, but laughter of mockery.

  In my horror, I blurted out, "What is the meaning of this?"

  My husband was now getting dressed, but the barmaid continued to linger in her nakedness in the bed, with a smile still on her lustful lips. "Do not deign to command an answer from me, you whore," she said.

  I stood still, shock filling my body, unable to respond. I was unable to fathom what she was telling me.

  She continued. "You thought yourself so clever that night in the cloakroom, devising a plan you were sure would serve a two-fold purpose: one, to protect your little secret, and two, to keep me under your thumb. What you did not know was that dear old Arthur Crawley owed me a favor That spectacle in the cloakroom was completely for your benefit, and as I predicted, produced the desired results. Knowing you were desperate to contain your blood stain, I surmised you would propose such a plan to protect one secret in exchange for another, and so you did. And oh, it was timely, for it was pure coincidence that my employers had, just that day, given me notice from my position when they had learned of my impending event. They did not want to be bothered with the shame about to befall their family."

  I found my voice. "So, Arthur wasn't the father, as Millie Willingham reported?"

  She laughed a chilling laugh. "Millie is a wonderful toy—she can never be bothered to check her facts before running to repeat them."

  I began to gain understanding and became sick to my stomach. I looked to my husband for confirmation as my tears started.

  "You could never give me what I wanted, dearest, and now I have a progeny on the way," he said.

  At that moment I fainted, and when I came to, found myself in the local sanatorium. They had conspired against me to get me away so she could step into my place as mistress of all that had once belonged to me, and now they have left me here to die.

  I am making record of these events on the slight chance and hope that after my demise someone will read and learn the truth.

  I suppose, in looking back on all of it now, I should have heeded Margaret's words with more sobriety, for it appears that she was right, and I pass it along to you, again, dear reader: Beware, for secrets will be your demise.

  A SLEEP TO STARTLE US

  "Do go on, mama!" said Monica, clapping her hands. "You never finish your stories."

  "Very well," said Mrs. Dickens. She tucked the blanket tighter around her daughter's rosy cheeks, for their old chambers, while the envy of many, carried winter's drafts in its cracks and sills. "Do you remember where I left off?"

  "You were about to tell me the manner in which grandfather happened upon the idea for his now famous story."

  "Ah yes, and here we go. Mind! This is the way it was relayed to me by my father, and you, should you have need, shall, hand it down by rote with much the same façon de parler.

  "By the year of our Lord,1843, your grandfather's fame had spread throughout Europe and the Americas, his articles and essays appearing weekly in London's periodicals. He was never in want of a story idea, for he loved to take long walks through the city streets, and one would never need ask what it was his eyes saw during those walks, for the details would appear in print in his next work.

  "However, just before putting his pen to paper to write his now famous story, a period of time in which no ideas came almost finished him. Nothing flowed;
nothing sparked inspiration; no muse touched his shoulder lightly in honour of a fresh scheme. For many months this artistic vacuum continued, nearly sending your poor grandmother to take spirits, which, she could never do since the Dickens family had long been people of temperance… "

  "Mama! Please! Do not torture me further by prolonging the tale!"

  "Alright, done. It began on an unusually frigid night in November … ."

  *****

  Charles Dickens sat alone in his drawing room, staring transfixed into the flames, as if, by sheer force of his gaze, maintaining eye contact could draw the warmth from the grate. So caught up in his own thoughts, was he, that his wife's entry behind him went unnoticed.

  "Will you spend yet another evening in thought," she asked, "deserting your one true passion, which is to write?"

  He said nothing, but continued to stare.

  "It happens to everyone, I am sure," she continued.

  "Never to me," he said, with much melancholy. "I have made a decision: I will never put pen to paper again for as long as my days on this Earth remain."

  Catherine had never heard such lecture from him before, and this news, while possibly nothing more than a plea for sympathy—even though her husband was not prone to it—rattled each sense to her marrow, and she decided it serious.

  "I am sure you do not mean this, Charles. It will pass. You must give yourself time."

  "Time? One word I have written not these past eight months. I feel as if the well of my very soul has been emptied, for I have nothing left. I have stood idly by, helpless as a newborn, watching the hearts of the thousands of homeless children, wanting for shelter as well as mercy, while many of them remain disabled from ordinary life, who seem to drift across the landscape of the nineteenth century, discarded and forgotten."