Far Above Rubies (10 page)

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.’

I wished that the driver of that carriage would pull away with me inside and keep driving, but I remembered my children: Charley, serious and shy, Mary gentle as a lamb, Katie restless and bright-eyed and baby Walter. With a deep sigh I squeezed Isabella’s hand, stepped down from the carriage and crossed over the threshold of Devonshire Terrace once more.

It was late, I lay in bed, waiting for him to return, feeling that there was so much that I wanted to say. I recognized his
quick-footed
gait upon the footpath below and heard the front door open. I hoped that he would not take to his study tonight for I could hold my tongue no longer and I did not want to go downstairs and speak to him in the hearing of the servants. The bedroom door opened and a look of surprise crossed my husband’s face.

‘Oh, I did not expect you to still be awake, my dear, it’s late.’

He went to the wash stand, splashed his face and towelled himself dry. I harnessed courage, sat up and began quietly, ‘I saw you today.’

‘Kate,’ he sighed, ‘would you please make your meaning clear. I am tired and not at all interested in guessing games.’

‘I saw you at the cemetery. At Mary’s graveside. You said that you would not be going.’ My voice wavered.

‘I said that I would not be going with
you
.’ he replied, pulling his shirt over his head. ‘That is not the same thing at all.’

He threw the covers back, climbed into bed and turned on his side. But I was not about to give up.

‘I know why you lied, Charles, why you didn’t want me there with you. You feared that I would guess the truth, didn’t you? The truth about how you really felt about Mary.’ My heart hammered on my chest. ‘Why don’t you be honest with me? Why don’t you tell me that it was my sister that you loved all along?’

He punched at his pillow and sat upright. ‘For the love of God, woman! My feelings for Mary are something that you could never understand in a lifetime. They have become something impure in your mind, something twisted and polluted by your jealousy.
That
is the reason that I did not go to the cemetery with you, and that reason alone.’

He swung his legs out of bed, reached for his shirt and began dressing himself angrily.

Was it true? Were my old insecurities clouding my judgement again?

‘But where are you going?’

‘Now, I am too cross to sleep. Now I have to go out again and calm myself down!’

‘Charles! Please, I just—’

But he left the room with a bang of the door and I sat alone in the candlelight, wondering which one of us it was had been in the wrong after all.

June 1841

Edinburgh, Scotland

The incident at the graveside was not mentioned again, and Charles continued to be cordial in all his dealings with me and so I realized that some things were best left unspoken.

At the repeated invitation of Lord Jeffrey, Charles agreed to pay a visit to Edinburgh and asked me to accompany him. Not usually an enthusiastic traveller, on this occasion, however, I was keen to go. I thought Edinburgh was a beautiful city and it was especially close to my heart, being the place of my birth.

Upon our arrival at The Royal Hotel we were informed that Lord Jeffrey was unwell and that he had nominated Sir George Robertson to act as our escort and guide in his stead. The elderly judge was a great admirer of my husband’s work and welcomed him with the words, ‘Ye’ve the mind of a genius, young sir, there’s no doubt about it. And all of Edinburgh will be there tonight to welcome ye.’

Our rooms were splendid and Charles declared that he would have our bedroom at home painted the same delicate pink that adorned the walls of our suite. Sir George had talked of there being 300 at dinner and I felt a great sense of unease at the thought of it. Charles shone brilliantly on such occasions, but I preferred to stay in the background knowing that I did not sparkle in the way of great beauty or wit at all. As eight o’ clock
approached, the uneasiness had moved to my stomach and I felt so sure that I would pass out at the dinner table that I begged to be excused. Charles looked greatly displeased, asking why I had not said something sooner.

‘Now you have made me nervous too!’ he snapped, struggling to button his collar.

We were driven to the Halls of the Courts of Law and arrived to a rapturous reception. Sir George introduced us to all the waiting dignitaries and I thought that he was going to burst with the pride of doing so. Sometimes I really marvelled at the spell which my husband seemed to cast over people. At dinner I was seated next to Sir George’s wife and was surprised to note that although the elderly lady had a glass of soda water in front of her, she did not touch it at all, preferring instead to take an occasional sip of whisky from a hip flask hidden in her bag.

Over the days that followed we toured the length and breadth of the city. Its architecture was breathtaking and Charles wanted to see it all. Lord Jeffrey recovered his spirits and was keen to accompany us to Princes Street where we admired the Greek inspired Royal Institution, along with Register House and its magnificent central dome designed by Robert Adam. In Charlotte Square we inspected Bute House and marvelled at its many decorative sash windows and palace-like façade. Looking up through the eternally spiralling staircase in the grand hall, I felt quite giddy!

Although the early days of our holiday had been an exhausting round of breakfasts, banquets and tours of the city I endured them all with one clear goal in mind: to visit the house where I had been born. I had often dreamt of being there again, imagining I had returned to my childhood, but to see it once more in reality filled me with great excitement and now at last the opportunity had presented itself. Charles, however – to my great disappointment – was reluctant to accompany me.

‘I am tired out, Kate. Besides, a man has no interest in plate, silver or linen. I have a chapter to finish and dispatch, I really do not have the time.’

But I begged him, saying that as I had accompanied him all around Edinburgh surely he could do the one thing that I desired most. He looked upon me sternly and then consulted his watch.

‘One hour, Kate, and no longer. You really must not put me under obligation you know.’

I thanked him earnestly and promised that I would be quiet on the journey should he wish to work.

When the coach turned into the driveway, I peered intently out of the window to catch the first glimpse of my childhood home. I was filled with delight when I saw that the front of the house had not changed at all, except for the two large conifers either side of the front door, which must have been planted not long after my family moved. There was also a cobbled courtyard leading to a newly built coach house at the back. At one time this had been a vegetable patch where the gardener had wheeled his barrowful of greens across to the kitchen window.

We knocked at the door and waited a few minutes without any reply. Charles took out his watch again and sighed before returning it to his waistcoat pocket.

‘There is no one here, Kate, we might as well go.’

I was just about to knock once more when the door was opened by a rather dour butler. He looked as though we had awoken him from a very deep sleep and that he was quite put out about it. We learned that the owners were abroad and that the house was unoccupied, but when my husband introduced himself as Mr Charles Dickens the butler’s manner changed completely and he welcomed us in with great haste.

The hallway echoed with our footsteps and I noticed through a half open door that the old kitchen had gone and a morning room was in its place.

‘The kitchen is now in the basement, madam,’ the butler said, reading my thoughts.

I knew my mother would have approved of that, having never liked the smells that sometimes crept into the rest of the house.

‘May I see it?’ I enquired.

He nodded and motioned that I should follow him. Charles, however, had lost interest already but had noticed a bookcase in the study to which he was immediately drawn.

I made my way down a stone staircase to the basement. A large pine table dominated the room, blanched pale through scrubbing. The range was unlit and consequently the room was dark and chilly, and I noticed the cobwebs in the corners of the adjoining scullery and judged that there was no housekeeper here at present. I remembered the irascible cook who had worked for my parents, her hands red raw from work, her large bunch of keys jangling at her waist. There was little chance of any food escaping unnoticed from her larder! I could almost hear the crisp crackle of roasting chicken on the spit and her stern words not to get too close to the range. But this lifeless space showed little signs of activity other than a spinning spider in the scullery and with no cook to offer hospitality or a recipe tip, I followed the butler back into the main house where I found Charles engrossed in a book.

‘Charles, why don’t you come and see the nursery where Mary and I used to sleep?’

Grudgingly he put down the novel and accompanied me and, as I held the banister to go up the stairs, an image flitted across my mind: I was a child again, peering through the spindles and watching Mama and Papa leave for the theatre. I heard the imagined echo of their voices, ‘
George! We are going to be late
.’

‘
Hush, my dear, we will make it in good time, don’t worry, now
.’

And I smiled at the memory.

We continued up the stairs and at the end of the landing opened the door to what had once been my bedroom. The curtains billowed from an open window into an empty room and the butler crossed the room to close it. There was neither crib nor toys and I shivered, suddenly filled with an overwhelming sadness: an image of Mary crawling across the nursery floor had come unbidden into my mind and I expelled it with a sigh.

‘Are you all right, Kate?’ Charles asked with uncustomary concern.

‘Just unexpected memories, that is all,’ I replied, as the nursery door was closed.

Feeling now more sadness than joy, I walked around the remainder of the house disengaged, lost in thought; visiting the house had fulfilled a wish that I had long held, but it had been a mistake. I would not come back again.

Driving away, Charles picked up the morning newspaper and returned to something that had caught his eye earlier.

‘Look at this, Kate!’ he enthused prodding the open pages of the
Morning Chronicle
. ‘Coach and two horses for sale – forty guineas. If it’s as good as it sounds then we’d have no more need of hiring a carriage. What do you say?’

Having very little interest in any moving vehicle, I nodded and smiled, feigning interest. He directed the driver to a nearby farm.

‘We’ll go and have a look, Kate, eh? Might as well while we’re in the area.’

It had grown dark.

‘Where on earth are we?’

Charles strained his eyes to look out into the night. The darkness was foreboding. ‘What is this terrible place?’

Over the last few days we had left Edinburgh, and travelled on to Stirling and Melrose, and were now on the Glencoe Pass.

The carriage creaked and moved from side to side, jolting me repeatedly against an angry and frightened husband. The windows did not provide a water-tight barrier between the storm and ourselves and the driving rain found an opening, its icy fingers darting into the coach and gradually dampening us. The visit to the farm had been a waste of time; the coach and horses had not been worth forty guineas at all and the farmer would not budge on his price.

A flash of lightning illuminated the carriage, transforming Charles and myself into ghostly images. Charles banged on the roof and called to the driver.

‘How much further?’

If the driver replied his voice was carried away by the wind and for a terrifying moment I imagined an unmanned coach driven by two possessed horses heading for Hades. When the lightning flashed once more I saw that we were on the Glencoe Pass on a steep decline, and that the bridge across the river was flooded.

I clutched at my husband’s arm. ‘Charles, I’m frightened.’

The carriage was swaying violently now and seemed to be gaining speed. Suddenly the driver made his presence known shouting, ‘Sir! Madam! You must jump out! We are heading for the river!’

I was paralysed with fear and could not move.

‘Kate, you heard him, we have to get out.’ Charles threw open the carriage door and held out his hand, but, as the coach hit a hard place in the road he was hurled through the open door, leaving me behind. The driver leapt clear too and the carriage hurtled uncontrollably into the swollen river. With incredible bravery the man dived into the moving waters and managed to pull me free. One of the horses struggled to loose itself from the harness and succeeded, but the other poor creature was pulled away to its death. Charles staggered to his feet and waded part way into the water to help. His hair was caked with mud, and streaks of blood washed onto his face with the rain. Back on dry land I was lifted onto the remaining horse and that dear lame animal limped through the darkness until we found shelter in a remote inn.

Charles pressed several coins into the driver’s shaking hand and thanked him profusely. The man tugged his forelock and sat down to drain a large tumbler of whisky. The innkeeper’s wife wrapped us up in blankets and we sat and stared into the fire trying to expel from our minds the image of the carriage turning over and over. The other patrons attempted to disguise their furtive glances and in the low hum of chatter we heard the words, ‘Dickens … almost killed … his poor wife nearly drowned….’

When we had warmed through sufficiently to go to bed,
neither of us could sleep, being woken with a frightening start each time our eyelids finally closed. Charles held on to me tightly and cried intermittently.

‘Kate, I was so frightened… I thought that I had lost you forever … if I….’ He choked on his words and then tried again. ‘If I ever seem…that is, if I sometimes struggle to express how I feel about you know now that I care more than I can say, almost losing you has made me realize that.’

In spite of the day’s events, I felt a strange sense of peace: a woman can exist a long time on the memory of such words.