Far Above Rubies (11 page)

November 1841

Devonshire Terrace

It was a dull morning: a dense cover of grey, without sign of where each cloud began and ended. I sat in the drawing room, struggling to sew in the poor light. I was trying to alter the children’s clothes; they were growing up so quickly. Charles would remind me again and again that he was a man of means now and that there was really no need for me to make do, but it gave me a meaningful way to spend my time, and losing myself in the rhythmic cycle of the needle was soothing when my old anxieties returned.

I heard my husband’s striding gait across the hallway and waited for the turn of the door knob which I knew would follow. The door flew open with the words:

‘Ah, there you are, Kate! Kate, I have decided: I want you to accompany me on a trip to America, I can’t do without you for any great length of time and there is no point in my going for a short trip, so you must come with me.’

He dropped into the chair opposite me, as if the speech had momentarily taken all the life out of him. A second later his foot was tapping impatiently, willing me to hurry up and make a decision.

‘But Charles, I don’t think the children would be up to such a strenuous tour, they’re still so little.’

He dropped his eyes to the floor and brushed an imaginary speck from his trousers. Putting my sewing aside I leaned forward earnestly.

‘Charles, you can’t begin to think of asking me to leave them, and how could you yourself bear to leave them for so long?’

He got up from the chair and turned away, not wanting me to see his face. Although he mastered his emotions well enough in front of others, I knew him too intimately to be fooled.

‘Well?’ I persisted.

He cleared his throat. ‘The children will be fine. I have asked Macready and his wife to see to them and they are quite willing.’

He strolled about the room straightening a chair, the tablecloth, a protruding book on the shelf; arranging everything around him as he was now arranging my life, as if he knew that I would protest no more than those inanimate objects to being moved about where I might not want to go.

I picked up my sewing again with a decisive action.

‘Well, I shall not leave them, even if you can,’ I said petulantly.

Charles spun around suddenly, his eyes blazing. ‘I do not think you understand me, my dear. I have said that I cannot do without you and I that want you to come with me. Now I have made all the arrangements and everything is set, so please do not upset me with one of your moods. We will not be leaving for a month, so you will have plenty of time to sort out your wardrobe and say goodbye to the children.’

He turned to leave, desperate to avoid further discussion and, with a swift bang, closed the door behind him.

‘Sort out my wardrobe and say goodbye to the children.’ As if one could be as easily done as the other! I paced about the room, seeing their little faces, imagining them crying, thinking about not seeing them for months, maybe never seeing them again if we were lost at sea.

‘No! I can’t leave them. He shouldn’t ask me to.’

I grasped at the curtains, burying my face, finding comfort in their softness like a child seeking refuge in her mother’s skirts. Why couldn’t he let me stay? He could take Forster, or one of his
other acquaintances. Why me? Yet how often had I anguished over the times when he had seemed cold and distant, appearing to prefer everyone else’s company above mine. Now here at last he was asking for my companionship and my support on this adventure. If I refused to go, he might never forgive me. And how could I ever rightly complain of his neglect again? If only I did not have to choose my duty as a wife above my devotion as a mother. But maybe the children were more resilient than I knew. Perhaps they would enjoy their stay with the Macreadys.

I moved over to the desk and sat down. I thought for a moment and then began to write. It was not a list of the things that I would need for the trip, but of the things that my children needed:

January 1842

Liverpool

I was exhausted by the stressful morning, making sure that we had everything and then journeying to Liverpool. Charles, confined by the coach, had nearly driven me mad with his restless fidgeting. I was wearing a blue velvet travelling suit with matching hat and muff. Charles wore a charcoal, full-length greatcoat with a large fur collar, his bright red cravat peeking above at the neck. It had taken him the best part of one day to pack his trunk. He had refused all offers of help and had rearranged the items within over and over until he was satisfied.

We stood now at the docks: myself, Charles, his sister Fanny, her husband Albert, and Forster. Charles could not stand still for a moment. He had already gone to check on the luggage several
times, firstly to make sure that it was all there – two large trunks, one smaller trunk and two carpet-bags – then, as soon as he returned to us he threw his hands in the air as if remembering something else and went back to check that the locks were secure.

‘My papers are in that small trunk, Kate. They must not be disturbed,’ he called over his shoulder as he disappeared.

When he wanted to make sure that the porter had remembered to be careful with the carpet-bags because they could easily be squashed, I sighed with exasperation. ‘Charles you cannot disturb that poor man again.’

Forster announced, ‘Leave this to me, madam, I will come to your husband’s aid.’

Fanny was no comfort to me either. Knowing how unstable her brother’s mood was, she directed her fussing and flapping at me instead.

‘Now have you packed suitable clothes, Sister? Plenty of warm petticoats. The weather will be quite bitter there now.’

‘Yes, Fanny. I have what I need!’ I hissed, not wanting my undergarments discussed for all to hear.

‘And have you put in some of your larger sized dresses? You will be attending a lot of dinners, and you know how you are inclined to put on weight easily.’

Albert shuffled with unease at his wife’s tactlessness, but I chose to ignore her comment for fear of losing my temper once and for all. Charles took out his comb and gave his hair a ritualistic tidy. Then he fetched out his watch and frowned.

‘I wonder what’s happened to Forster, he’s been gone ages. I must go and find him.’

Fanny opened her mouth again as if to speak again and so I pleaded, ‘No, Charles, let
me
go; I need to stretch my legs,’ and broke away quickly before he could object.

I spotted Forster’s tall silhouette moving toward me amid the heaving crowds. The ship’s horn blew and a cloud of steam descended, obliterating him from sight for a moment. Mindful that it was time to start boarding, I was grateful to see him
reappear through the swirling steam.

‘There you are, John. Charles thought that you had got lost.’

He took my arm and said. ‘You will help to keep him calm while he’s away, won’t you, Catherine? He has many things on his mind, especially his campaign to gain a copyright agreement between England and America. I have secured his interests here, but I will not be there to help him on the other side of the water, you know. I worry that he will over-exert himself.’

I was touched by Forster’s concern. Despite his pompous nature, I could not fault the sincerity of his friendship with my husband.

‘I cannot promise to bring any influence to bear on my husband’s temperament. As you know only too well, John, Charles is not directed by anything other than his own will. But I will try.’

As we returned to the others, Charles hurried toward us, gesturing at the ship.

‘We must get aboard now, my dear. Please don’t delay.’

Forster shook Charles heartily by the hand and gave him a small package. Charles unwrapped it and took out a pocket book of Shakespeare. He embraced his friend and said, ‘How foolish I was ever to have quarrelled with you in the past, my dear Forster. I will keep this with me throughout my trip and remember that I have a brother waiting at home for my return.’

We stepped onto the boarding plank and once aboard, jostled for a position on the deck, looking for familiar faces on dry land. When the ship set sail at last, we stood and waved until Forster, Fanny and Albert were insignificant dots on the quay.

January 1842

The Britannia

Plagued by terrible toothache, Charles rubbed his jaw.

‘This cabin is no larger than a matchbox.’ He groaned. ‘And the windows are nailed shut. How am I supposed to breathe?’

He banged the porthole again violently in the hope that it might finally give way.

‘Dear God, Kate, I am sick of this leaky vessel! It has only been two days since we left home and already I long to be on dry land.’

He lay down on the bunk and wriggled, trying to get comfortable, before complaining again. ‘This ship feels as though it will capsize at any moment, there are no lifeboats and if the deck doesn’t catch fire from the sparking funnel it will be a miracle!’

At another surge of pain in his tooth he sat up suddenly, banging his head on the bunk above. He leapt off the bed and hopped from one foot to the other, holding his head and shouting things which I cannot write down here. My own head throbbed, I felt sick and dizzy and Charles’s temper was doing nothing to bring me relief. I struggled to think how I might help him. What would Forster do if he were here? I thought about Forster, his irritating voice and embellished story-telling. Charles would revel in his companionship and banter; I,
however, could not provide that but perhaps I could find someone who might.

There were eighty-five passengers aboard this boat and everyone of them would no doubt relish the privilege of meeting the ‘inimitable’ Charles Dickens. There had to be at least one among them who could distract my irritable husband with stimulating company. When Charles had settled himself on the bed again, I left the cabin in search of someone with sufficient character to capture my husband’s interest.

I mingled amidst the varied passengers: the toothless and pipe smoking, the cultivated and wealthy. I heard a hearty laugh and saw near the brow of the ship a tall, distinctive figure. I could not see his face, but standing at more than six feet tall his physical bearing carried a strong sense of authority. At his side was a petite, exquisitely dressed woman who was holding onto his arm with great affection. They turned so that I could see their faces and continued their animated conversation. He had a large bristly beard, peppered with red, that matched his auburn curly hair. His eyes sparkled with mischief and, when he laughed, it was with such resonance that he caused passers-by to turn and smile. His tiny wife was dark-haired, perhaps little more than twenty. She caught my glance and smiled, revealing a set of beautiful white teeth. I returned her smile and felt a little embarrassed at having been caught watching them. But I remembered my mission and found the courage to approach them.

I held out my hand in greeting. ‘May I introduce myself? I am Mrs Catherine Dickens. I’m sorry if I appeared to be staring but I was quite struck by your charming outfit, madam.’

The lady held out her hand in return and said, ‘Thank you, Mrs Dickens, I purchased it in Spain.’ Her voice revealed an accent that undoubtedly came from the same location.

‘My name is Consuela Swift and this is my husband, Doctor Thomas Swift.’

‘Pleased to meet you, ma’am.’ He enthused, grasping my hand so hard that I thought it would break.

‘Are you a doctor of medicine, sir? For if you are, then you might be able to bring some relief to my poor husband.’

‘I would be glad to help, Mrs Dickens. Lead the way.’

I gestured in the direction of our cabin and used the short walk to reveal the identity of my husband and to explain how our confined quarters and seasickness were not being improved by his terrible toothache. I tapped nervously on the door of the cabin. ‘Charles, I have brought someone to see you.’

He groaned in response. ‘Kate, I am hardly in any mood for company. Tell them to come back later.’

‘But it is a doctor, Charles. He might be able to help you.’

A few moments of silence were followed by the rustling of clothes being hastily donned and the click of the cabin door opening. Pale-faced, Charles peered through the crack in the door. His hair was in wild disarray, having been underneath an ice-bag.

‘Good-day to you, sir, I am Dr Thomas Swift. If the ladies will excuse us, I hope that you will permit me to come to your aid.’

A sense of relief washed over Charles’s face and he stood aside meekly, allowing the giant of a man to enter the cabin. I turned to Mrs Swift, ‘And perhaps, madam, you can tell me more about that outfit of yours.’

It took fifteen days to cross that turbulent ocean and the difficult journey was only endured because of our new-found friendship with the Swifts. Thomas was everything that my first impressions had conveyed, warm-hearted, with a jovial disposition that endeared him to all who met him. His intellect and humour were the best medicine that Charles could have taken on that unsteady crossing. I discovered that Thomas and his wife were emigrating to America so that he could take up the directorship of The Institute for the Deaf in Philadelphia. Thomas believed in social reform for the less privileged and, like Charles, believed that America was leading the way in this area. He and Consuela had met in Madrid. Her father was a diplomat and had taken some persuading to let his youngest
daughter marry, but had eventually been won over by Thomas’s charm and reassurances that he would guard Consuela with his own life. They had been wed less than six months and were now about to embark on a new life across the water.

Despite her diminutive size, Consuela mirrored her husband’s enthusiasm for life and it did not take long before Charles displayed signs of being completely besotted with her. He would spend longer than usual combing his hair and tying his cravat, but I tried not to be too dismayed and hoped that this would just be one of his passing infatuations. However, I could not help but feel outshone: envious of her tiny figure and dazzling wardrobe. It was not only my physical shortcomings that I was reminded of. Over dinner it became evident that in addition to speaking English, Consuela was fluent in Italian and French also. Charles joked about my own achievements.

‘I suspect that you did not know that my wife is also an author?’ he said with a twinkle in his eye.

Thomas and Consuela looked at me with interest and surprise, and I began to panic.

‘It was only a little cookery book,’ I admitted, my face reddening with embarrassment.

There was a moment’s silence and then Charles turned to Consuela and asked about her father’s distinguished career. I watched as he listened intently, seemingly mesmerized by her moving lips. Thomas kindly asked me about the children and for a moment I felt at ease talking about that which was closest to my heart.

At the sound of the accordion playing a reel, Charles jumped up and grasped Consuela’s hand, ‘You don’t mind if I borrow your wife, do you, Thomas?’

Thomas nodded his consent, apparently taking Charles’s interest in his wife as a great compliment.

When the boat docked at Boston, a bitter frost and sharp wind bit deep into our bodies. What hopes we had had of a soft bed and a restful recuperation were quickly dashed with the descent
of newspapermen and shouts of, ‘Welcome to America, Mr Dickens.’

Crowds pressed forward to come on board and greet the famous English author. While I was desperate to escape, Charles rose to the occasion, delighting in the acknowledgement of his fame. Countless invitations were pressed into our hands and I wondered how I would find the energy to fulfil them all. In a momentary lapse of concentration, I slipped on the gangplank and twisted my ankle. Charles was overcome with embarrassment and after a hissed chastisement, he joked to all in hearing, ‘I think that my wife has taken a little too much brandy to warm her through!’

Thomas kindly came to my aid and bound up my foot, despite my protests that I would be fine. When the crowds subsided, we said goodbye to the Swifts and promised that we would visit them in Philadelphia before returning to England. Charles kissed Consuela’s hand and whispered something in her ear to which she responded with a giggle.

‘It has been an honour to be in your company, Mrs Swift, and Thomas, I think that I should have gone crazy with both pain and boredom if it had not been for you. I thank you for all you have done.’

We stepped into a waiting coach and made our way to a hotel in Boston in the hope that at last we would have a few days’ rest before Charles began his round of engagements.

The lobby of the Tremont House hotel brimmed with women of all ages waiting for a glimpse of my husband. I was alarmed to note that they seemed to have completely forgotten what good breeding signified, and called out without any shame, ‘Over here, Mr Dickens! Over here, please!’

I did not know whether to be fearful of his being spirited away, or to feel proud that he was mine. I stood and watched with some amusement as his head popped up every so often above the adoring crowd, calling anxiously, ‘Are you still there, Kate?’

He was besieged again, this time with requests for an autograph, but when they began calling for locks of his hair, and pulled at his scarf, he made his excuses and broke away.

Over the days and weeks that followed, Charles hardly refused an invitation: he danced with vigour at the ‘Boz Ball’, spoke stirringly at the Boston Literary Supper and campaigned unceasingly at every opportunity for the copyright agreement that he sought. But it was not as easy as he had thought. While people admired him as a writer, they were not ready to change the laws of their beloved country to suit an outsider. It seemed that Charles had overestimated people’s opinion of him.

One morning, he was reading the newspaper over breakfast and dropped his cup with a clatter into its saucer. ‘Vulgar! Uneducated! Me?’

I reached for the newspaper. ‘Oh dear, that can’t be so. Let me see, my love.’

He snatched it from my grasp.

‘How can they call me vulgar and common?’ he said, straightening his red cravat and smoothing down his purple waistcoat.

A scuffle outside the window caught his attention and when he drew back the curtain he found a group of journalists trying to peer into our bedroom. At that my husband exploded, calling the men the most dreadful names. I cautioned him that it was not wise to do so if he did not want to receive further bad press, but as usual Charles paid no heed to my opinion.

After weeks of endless engagements, Charles announced that he wished to be free from any more commitments and complained that he could no longer bear being public property.

‘If I stay in the hotel, Kate, we are bothered by incessant callers. If I go out then I am set upon by hysterical women. I can’t even sneeze in private without receiving a hundred letters asking how is my cold!’

By now I was becoming completely exhausted and the more tired I became, the clumsier I seemed to get. My ankle was still bandaged and, once again, I lost my footing alighting a coach,
badly bruising my legs. My head ached, my throat was sore from greeting people, but I dared not confide the slightest illness to Charles lest I disappoint him and be labelled a poor companion.

After Philadelphia and Baltimore, we moved across to the west of the country and the long journey gave me time to sleep and recuperate. However, when we arrived in Illinois we met with the most uncivilized conditions. Charles and I were alarmed at the uncouth manners we encountered and the rapid speed at which saliva was projected across our paths everywhere we went. Charles was greeted by the public with complete indifference and within days I noticed a distinct change in his mood. He had realized that there was no glory in being a writer in a place where people could not read, nor any esteem in being a gentleman where society did not exist. It seemed that he could not thrive without public adulation after all, so once again we packed up our luggage and moved on.

We made our way back through Ohio and moved northwards until at last we crossed the border into Canada. In Ontario, one could almost imagine that we were back in England again. The genteel Canadian hospitality made us feel quite at home and we were once more given the most lavish reception. When asked by the British Ambassador, Lord Mulgrave, Charles felt bound to put on an amateur performance for an invited audience. He urged me to take part, saying that it would be fun and although I was reluctant, I was surprised to find myself rather a good actress. ‘But is it any wonder?’ I reflected, ‘For throughout the whole of this tour I have managed to convince my husband that I really am the keenest of travellers!’

The crowning moment of our visit to Canada was a trip to Niagara Falls. I stood in awe at the great thunder of water softened by silvery spray and rainbows.

‘Charles, have you ever seen anything so beautiful in all of your life?’ But he did not reply.

‘Charles?’

He was perfectly still, transfixed as the spray from the falls gently dampened his face. He peered intently at the huge tumble
of water and then suddenly caught his breath.

‘Charles? What is it, my love? Are you all right?’

A tear fell from his face. ‘It’s Mary,’ he whispered. ‘If you look very carefully, you can see her in the spray. She looks just like an angel.’

At last the time came for us to return to England. We had been away from home for five months and it was painful to think about the hours, days and weeks in which I had not laid eyes upon my children. Too tired to accompany Charles to yet another dinner, I found the time to write and tell them of our imminent return.