Another Heartbeat in the House (35 page)

I visited the glover and the bootmaker to be fitted (here I pounced upon some little embroidered morocco slippers), and in the milliner's I chose a bonnet trimmed with a cockade of Argus feathers, and another trimmed with purple velvet pansies.

I took coffee among the
flâneurs
in Mitchell's coffee house, and visited the hairdresser. I bought a pigskin writing case and a mother-of-pearl blotting book at the fancy stationer's, and white almond soap at the perfumer's, and a box of Cuban cigars for St Leger at the tobacconist's. All these spoils were bought with his money, and with his blessing. When I discovered I had forgotten my
mouchoirs
he bought me a dozen, lace-trimmed; when I complained that my hands were cold, he bought me a doeskin muff, and when it came on to rain he bought me an umbrella with a carved jade handle.

Finally, I visited a bookshop and helped myself to a dozen novels, among them
Barnaby Rudge
by Charles Dickens and
Catherine
, by William Thackeray.

What an enigma was William, for he had been uncharacteristically circumspect on the subject of this novel! However, upon settling down to read it, I understood why. Compiled from instalments that had appeared in
Fraser's Magazine
two years previously,
Catherine
was a rambling and gory tale of a murderous wife. It was based on a true account that had been published by the more sensational pamphlets, and was quite unworthy of William's talent.

And yet, and yet … there was something about the eponymous heroine that I found oddly likeable. She was a spirited, impudent minx who, despite being treated ill by a drunk and brutish husband, gads off to become a captain's lady, sporting a red riding coat trimmed with silver lace, and with a blue feather in her cap.

I set William's hodgepodge aside, then reached for
Barnaby Rudge
, whose heroine, the colourless Emma Haredale, soon sent me off to sleep.

I slept often during my time in Dublin, for sleep was my ultimate luxury. When Maria told me that all her babies had slept through the night at six or seven months old, I had thought she was jesting, for Clara Venus seemed to feign sleep, springing to life like a jack-in-the-box the moment she knew I was dropping with fatigue. She had been teething the week before I embarked for Dublin, exacerbating my exhaustion: nor had I slept a wink in the jouncing coach that had taken the best part of a day to reach the capital, so I spent most of my time in the city gorging on sleep as though it was ambrosia and I was a glutton.

One evening, when he was to dine with some cronies at the Kildare Street Club, St Leger delivered me to the house of the writer Mr Lever, with whom William and I were to dine, with the assurance that he would send a chaise for me before midnight.

William had wangled me an invitation to what he assured me was an informal supper party. He had met Mr Lever back in July, and was anxious to be reacquainted with him, for he was a rising figure in the Irish literary world. He would, he said, have preferred to have invited me to dine with him at the Shelbourne or at Morrison's hotel on Dawson Street, a lively, fashionable place frequented by visiting artists, but I knew that St Leger would not tolerate the notion of William and I dining
à deux
. Unfortunately, when we arrived at Mr Lever's house in Templeogue, we realised to our mutual discomfort that it was a gentlemen-only soirée.

‘I regret that my wife is not here,' Mr Lever told me, after his maid had divested me of bonnet and pelisse. ‘She has gone to her sister. If I had known that Thackeray was bringing a lady this evening, I would have commanded her to stay, for then you might have spent your time more fruitfully, consulting on bonnets and ball dresses. As it is, you will be obliged to listen to us gentlemen discoursing on subjects that I am sure will be very tedious to you.'

‘Oh, pray do not concern yourself on that account,' I told him, with a brilliant smile. ‘I am merely here to act as a foil to your erudition and superior intellect.'

‘Good, very good. Ha ha. I love a sense of humour in a woman.'

I smiled smoothly and took a seat on the low slipper chair that he drew up for me by the fire.

Beyond the double doors that opened onto the dining room, the maid was touching a taper to the candlesticks. The candlelight enhanced the dewy rosiness of her cheeks, and cast the declivity between her breasts into tantalizing shadow. A gentleman lounging by the fireplace was ogling her through a horn-rimmed quizzing-glass.

‘Allow me to introduce my friend, Mr Butler,' Mr Lever said, and then he backed off hastily, leaving Mr Butler to tear his attention away from the embonpoint of the maidservant and take up the conversational baton. He looked so discomfited by my presence that I felt obliged to set him at ease by essaying another little joke.

‘I have come this evening to catechize all here upon the vital question of the relation between mind and matter,' I said good-naturedly, ‘and to outline the drinking rules as laid down in Plato's
Symposium
.'

‘Goodness.
You
have read Plato's
Symposium
?'

‘Yes. And his
Apology
, too.'

‘Ha ha ha. Joking aside, I am delighted to know that literacy is on the increase amongst women.'

‘I am all in favour of an educated woman, you know,' put in a gentleman wearing a clerical collar, ‘as long as she makes some use of that education.'

‘How do you propose she does that?' I asked.

‘There are boundless opportunities in the field of private philanthropic endeavour.'

‘And if a woman cannot afford the luxury of philanthropy?'

‘Why, then, she might seek employment as a governess or a schoolteacher,' suggested Mr Butler.

‘That is something that only the most desperate or hardy would contemplate,' said the dog-collared dolt. ‘I have heard of women who are gainfully employed in the safe environs of their own homes, thus obviating the necessity of having to venture abroad.'

‘What kind of gainful employment might keep them at home?' I asked.

‘I believe there is a growing demand for the hand colouring of prints, flower paintings, silhouettes, and so forth.'

‘Might they not employ themselves in writing?'

The reverend gentleman tittered behind his hand.

‘Don't scoff, Hayman,' said Mr Butler. ‘My publisher tells me that there is a new category of literature emerging, directed at and written by women. Books of advice on household management, fashion, cookery and such ephemera.'

At last I heard William speak up. ‘Fiction is a department of literature in which women can equal men,' he said. ‘One great name in particular stands as evidence that women can pen novels that have a precious speciality of their own.'

I favoured William with a warm look.

‘If her career had been longer,' he continued, ‘I dare say Miss Austen would have inspired many more women to follow her example.'

Mr Butler curled his lip. ‘I would hardly say that she wrote books to confound philosophers.'

‘Perhaps because she chose to write books to delight them,' I said, smiling sweetly.

‘Where there is one woman who writes elegantly,' opined the reverend gentleman, ‘I believe there are dozens who are moved only by the foolish vanity of wishing to appear in print.'

‘Yes, yes!' concurred Mr Butler. ‘And they are encouraged, don't you know, by the impression that to be able to spell words of more than one syllable is a proof of ability.'

Mr Hayman tittered again.

‘Aha!' said Mr Lever, breezing into the conversation. ‘And so we have again the old story of La Fontaine's ass, who puts his nose to the flute, and, finding that he elicits some sound, exclaims, “Oh! I can play the flute, too!”'

‘Ha ha ha!'

‘Any novels I have read that were written by ladies tend to mistake vagueness for depth, bombast for eloquence and affectation for originality.'

‘Full of drivelling dialogue and drivelling narrative.'

‘Such scribblings are less the result of labour than of busy idleness.'

‘I just wish the products of their “busy idleness” did not find their way into print!'

‘Confiscate their pens and substitute crochet hooks, say I!'

‘Ha ha!'

‘Ha ha ha!'

I could bear it no longer.

‘That is because a deliberate male conspiracy has contorted women into trivial and worthless beings,' I said loudly.

The men started. I think they had forgotten that I was there.

‘Give girls the same educational fare as boys, and provide them with jobs which would allow them to live independently, and they would emerge as rational and as strong as men.'

‘Hear hear!' said William robustly.

There was silence as the other gentlemen looked at him. Then they all busied themselves with masculine rituals of stroking their moustaches, examining their fobs, tapping their pipes, etc.

‘I hope you are not one of those women who has such a feverish consciousness of her education that you will spoil the taste of my roast beef by harping on polemics,' said Lever, eventually.

‘Educated? Alas, my nature is too shallow and feeble a soil to bear much tillage; it is fit for only the very lightest of crops,' I smiled. ‘I spent this afternoon on my chaise longue, munching macaroons and reading a wonderfully silly novel by the name of
Catherine
. But bear in mind, Mr Lever, that from most silly novels we can at least extract a laugh.'

The men looked sulky and crestfallen, like small boys who have been caught tormenting kittens.

I might have said more, had not the maidservant chosen that moment to reappear.

‘Dinner is served, if it please you, gentlemen,' she said, bobbing a little curtsey, and keeping her eyes respectfully downcast.

‘Excellent! Shall we go through to the dining room?'

‘
Catherine?
' Mr Butler said, raising the eyebrow that wasn't clamped over his monocle. ‘One of Miss Burney's novelettes, was it?'

‘I cannot recall who wrote it. It was, as I say, incomparably silly.'

As I laid my hand upon the arm that Mr Lever extended to me, and passed between the dividing doors, I slid an oblique look at William. He was looking gratifyingly sheepish.

‘What a crowd of ill-mannered boors!' I remarked some hours later. William and I were heading to Rutland Square, ensconced in the carriage that St Leger had sent for me.

‘Boors or bores?' he asked, removing his eye-glasses and polishing them on the sleeve of his jacket.

‘Both. They were the most insufferable men with whom it has ever been my misfortune to dine. As our host led me in to supper I saw him give a wink to his cronies as much as to say, “Now look out for some sport!”'

‘He was put out of countenance rather when he realized you were poking fun at him.' William hooked his spectacles back on, and peered at me through them. ‘You know you are at your most dangerous, Eliza, when you adopt that demure, ingénue air.'

‘It is a weapon favoured amongst the more resourceful of us women,' I said. ‘I have had recourse to it on numerous occasions. By the way, I thought your novel
Catherine
not at all bad. I was teasing when I called it silly.'

‘It was intended as a parody, but the critics could not see that.'

‘I dare say they thought it immoral.'

‘That's why I was not keen to admit authorship. Although I confess I developed a sneaking fondness for my heroine as I penned the thing.'

‘I could tell. That is just the sort of heroine – or anti-heroine – you want, you know. A character who breeds controversy.'

He gave me a sceptical look. ‘One can't have an out-and-out criminal as a heroine, Eliza. If I've learned nothing, I have at least learned that.'

‘You're right,' I said, after a moment's contemplation. ‘Nothing so low as a murderess will do as a protagonist. But you want a clever woman, one who will appeal to other clever women, like me, who love to read. Such women are legion, despite what Lever and his cronies may believe. Balance your narrative with a virtuous, milk-and-water martyr to please the critics and the clerics, and you have it.'

William smiled. ‘What name do you suggest for my heroine?'

‘It goes without saying that it should be memorable. A name that will make the reader realize at once that she is a character to contend with; one that conjures a quick wit.'

We were traversing a crossroads, where a ramshackle inn squatted. The proprietor's name on the board read, ‘P. Keane, Esq.'

‘Keane,' suggested Thackeray.

‘Too Irish.'

‘Sharp?'

‘That's better. Sharp. Rebecca Sharp.'

He gave me a quizzical look. ‘Rebecca. Why Rebecca?'

‘For Becky. Because she's like a little bird, peck peck pecking away at the social order. And call your milk-and-water heroine Millie.'

‘Millie is a mill worker's name!' said William disdainfully.

‘Oh, don't be so pernickety! Why shouldn't you have a mill worker for a heroine?'

He looked dubious.

‘Oh, make her Millie, for Amelia, then,' I said impatiently. ‘Sedate, biddable Amelia Sedley, of the middling merchant class. There!' I sat back against the upholstery, triumphant. ‘You have your characters, now go and write your novel. And do stop prevaricating.'

William was looking at me curiously. ‘Will you help me?'

‘Will I help you what?'

‘Will you help me write it?'

‘Don't be stupid.'

‘I am in earnest, Eliza. You are so clever, and you write so well – your letters are a delight – and you have such excellent ideas!'

‘What excellent ideas have I?'

‘You've had two there, in the blink of an eye. I have spent a year hemming and hawing over names for my heroines, and you – you have conjured them in no time at all! Becky Sharp and Amelia Sedley!'