Far Above Rubies (9 page)

April 1840

Devonshire Terrace, London

Charles was irritable: he had finished writing the final instalment of
Nicholas Nickleby
and without a project on hand to engage him, he was restless. He had made several false starts upon another novel but could not seem to settle on an idea which excited him, or that he thought would excite his readers. He paced about the sitting room, drumming his fingertips together, his brow furrowed as if he were struggling to think of a specific word that was eluding him. He huffed and sighed, fretted and frowned, voiced an ‘aha!’ then shook his head vigorously with anger and frustration.

I had seen him like this on many occasions before and knew that when he found what he was searching for the mystery would be unlocked, he would focus his mind upon it with singular determination and hurry away to his study to fix it in ink before it escaped him. But today was not one of those moments and sensing his mounting agitation, I sought to make an exit before he noticed me. Poised to move from my chair, I unwittingly caught his attention.

‘Kate,’ he sighed, ‘must you always wear that grey dress? It makes you look quite a fright.’

I placed a protective hand on my lace collar and brooch.

‘I’m sorry, Charles, I thought the collar and brooch relieved its
plainness. But I will change, if it pleases you.’

He looked me up and down with distaste. ‘Yes, it would please me greatly.’

‘Very well, my love, but is anything wrong? You seem—’

Charles turned, his eyes blazing, ‘What? What do I seem? Come along, Kate, let me hear your customary perceptiveness.’

My face fell at his biting sarcasm. I knew the cause of it only too well. A royal wedding had taken place some weeks before. Queen Victoria had married her cousin, Prince Albert of
Saxe-Coburg
-Gotha and Charles had joked that he was completely broken-hearted. At first I had taken his comments in good spirit and when at the dinner parties we attended in the ensuing weeks, he would drink to her health and pronounce himself distressed that she had forsaken him, I would laugh along with the other guests and try to be a good sport. After all, I saw it for what it was, a distraction from his frustration at not being able to write.

Everyone would cheer at the charade and urge him on to greater tomfoolery, and I would endeavour to smile graciously and enter into the fun. But as the weeks went on, Charles did not cease in the masquerade even when it became obvious that his friends had tired of it; and I found it all the more embarrassing when I overheard hushed whispers from around the dinner table and received nods of sympathy. It seemed that Charles had convinced himself the joke was true. Why shouldn’t the Queen return his admiration, he reasoned? Wasn’t he every bit her equal in fame and in popularity? Didn’t he deserve a woman of title and renown as his companion? In consequence, he became increasingly cold and distant towards me.

One evening, he lay in bed and, staring up at the ceiling, he addressed me.

‘You wouldn’t understand what it is, Kate, to know greatness. She was born to it: I have had it thrust upon me. We would have so much in common.’ He sighed deeply. ‘If only we could meet. I have heard that she admires me greatly; oh yes, it is true that she has copies of my work within the very walls of Windsor Castle.’

He paused for a moment as if struck by a new thought. ‘Perhaps I should go to Windsor and seek an introduction. She will know I am sincere in my admiration then!’

He punched his pillow, and turned his back upon me in a gesture of indifference. All that I could do was to endure it. Surely it must pass soon. But which woman has ever had a queen as her rival in love?

July 1840

Newgate Prison, London

At last my husband put pen assuredly to paper, his fanciful infatuation with the Queen faded and his good humour, for a time, restored.

He stood in front of the hall mirror, tying his cravat and whistling cheerfully, He was dressed in a sober fashion, which was for him unusual, and was wearing a black armband. Not being aware of the death of any of our acquaintances, I was puzzled.

‘Has someone who we know died, dear?’

‘No, no one we know.’ He was humming to himself now.

‘Then one of your colleagues?’

‘No, not one of my colleagues,’ he responded unhelpfully, and continued to hum.

‘Then where are you going?’ I persisted.

He hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to satisfy my curiosity, then he smoothed down his hair, reached for his hat from the hat stand and replied, ‘I am going, my dear, to a hanging.’

‘A hanging!’ I was shocked at such an idea. ‘Whatever for?’

I was aware that Charles had been caught up in the trial of Courvoisier, the Swiss-born valet who had murdered his elderly master, but to go to the gates of Newgate Prison and witness such a vile spectacle as his death, how could Charles do such a thing?

‘A little bit of research,’ he said, with a ghoulish voice, attempting to be amusing. A sharp rap at the door caused me to jump. Talk of such a macabre subject had unnerved me.

I was surprised to see William Thackeray on the doorstep and to find that he too was attired in a cheerless manner.

‘Good morning, my dear William!’ Charles chirped, shaking his friend’s hand in an enthusiastic welcome. William greeted me with a somewhat diffident smile and seemed unusually awkward and uneasy in my presence. I pondered for a moment over his appearance and hesitant manner, then all at once I understood.

‘Oh, William! Not you too?’

Charles came to his defence. ‘Kate, a writer must stay abreast of what is happening, if he is to write with any conviction, isn’t that so, William?’

William didn’t know which way to move his head, not wanting to disagree with his dear friend, whom he greatly admired, nor to offend my female sensibility. Charles snatched up his cane, put on his hat with a tap and grimaced theatrically. We shall see you later, Kate!’

The newspapers had been filled with reports about the sensational trial. The victim was Lord William Russell, brother to the Duke of Bedford, and the court had been crowded by those eager to learn more about his bloody end. François Benjamin Courvoisier had taken a knife to his master’s throat while he slept in his bed and then made it appear as though a robbery had taken place during the night. The housemaid had found the lower floor in a state of disturbance the following morning, and had scurried in various directions calling for the cook and valet to come to her aid. The furniture was upturned, the cupboards and drawers opened and emptied. It was then that a terrible thought had entered her mind: ‘What of his lordship?’ She and Courvoisier had gone upstairs and found the aged gentleman, dead, his pillow soaked with blood. The poor girl had screamed and shouted for the neighbours to come to their aid.

The paper reported that, despite the valet showing the police
where the thieves had purportedly entered the premises, he found difficulty answering their other questions. When a search of the premises had been made, many articles of his lordship’s were found under the floorboards in Courvoisier’s room and under his mattress: a gold watch, a silver toothpick, a locket bearing a lock of hair belonging to his lordship’s departed wife, and a good deal of gold and silver coin too.

Courvoisier changed his story repeatedly, first blaming the housemaid and then the coachman, with whom he said the maid was in love and wished to elope. Mr Edward Flower, an experienced attorney, was employed to conduct the defence as a result of the large subscription that had been raised by the many foreign servants in London, who wanted to see the valet receive a fair trial. At first Courvoisier had been confident, almost defiant, but when the landlady of a French hotel in Leicester Square came forward with some silver candlesticks – passed to her by the defendant some weeks before Lord Russell’s murder – he confessed all. The jury found him guilty and Lord Chief Justice Tindal sentenced Courvoisier to death by hanging.

In the early hours of the morning Charles returned home. I heard him groaning and went at once to the top of the stairs, sensing that his buoyant mood of earlier had disappeared. He was slumped on the bottom step, his head in his hands.

‘Charles what has happened? Are you unwell?’

I hurried down the stairs, crouched down beside him and lifting his face, saw that his complexion was waxen – and I was suddenly repulsed by the smell of vomit upon his clothing. He groaned again.

‘It was a night with the demons, Kate, I wish that I had not witnessed it. The surging crowd were filthy and immoral, I had to rent a room with a balcony just to avoid my pockets being picked. Even the women were drunk and hurled about obscenities while jostling for a place at the front. I cannot conceive that my fellow humans could act with such barbarity.’ He shuddered. ‘Do you know that they cheered when the body
swung?’ At this he rested his head on my shoulder in distress at the memory.

I shivered as the image passed before my eyes and I was lost for words to comfort him. I laid my hand upon his head and stroked his hair with sympathetic tenderness, grateful of his need for me, if only for the moment. Two days later, Charles wrote to
The Times
and made public his outrage at the degraded practice, stating that the law was as guilty as the criminal in carrying out such a punishment. And thus he began the campaign for the abolition of the death penalty.

August 1840

Broadstairs, Kent

Another summer was spent at Broadstairs. The morning newspaper lay unread on the breakfast table; a review of
The Old Curiosity Shop
was contained within and Charles feared that his eye might chance upon it while perusing the columns. He need not have worried: although
Master Humphrey’s Clock
had left his readers feeling disappointed at its brevity, he had quickly set to work on
The Old Curiosity Shop
and had judged the mood of his audience with exactitude.

Unaware of his success, he was in a restless mood. Upon arrival at the holiday cottage he first satisfied himself that the sleeping arrangements were in all order, next he had rearranged the sitting-room furniture, moving one chair, then another, until it pleased him. Finally he took out all of the crockery and began to count the plates.

‘You never know, Kate, we are sure to have visitors.’

I begged him to come and relax in the garden, but instead he whipped up the children into a frenzy by chasing them about, roaring and growling, and the air was punctuated with the squeals of childish delight. Eventually, worn out, he sat down. He tried out several places on the lawn, but got up repeatedly to remove a twig or to stamp down a bump in the soil. At last he
settled, lay down and put a handkerchief over his face. A few seconds and in time the handkerchief was drawn in and out with each gentle breath that he took.

Then in one bound, he leapt to his feet and charged into the cottage!

‘Heaven preserve us what is he doing now?’ I sighed.

Ten minutes later he emerged with an envelope in his hand and declared with satisfaction that he had invited guests to join us. Was it really so impossible for him to spend even a few days alone with just his family?

Mr and Mrs Charles Smithson, their niece Eleanor Picken and her friend Millicent Brown, arrived at the end of the week and they brought with them sunny skies. Mr Smithson grasped Charles’s hand with such zeal I thought he would fall down on his knees in an act of worship.

‘Mr Dickens! Mr Dickens! What a pleasure to see you again.’

His niece, Eleanor, was a slim, attractive girl with golden blonde hair that was ringleted in the latest fashion about her face. She was equally in awe of meeting Charles, but I watched as she very carefully appraised his appearance and noted how her face changed to one of disappointment as she took in his small stature and gaudy waistcoat. Her demeanour alternated frequently between insincere sweetness and subtle spite, with her poor companion Millie usually on the receiving end.

Millie spoke very quickly, blushed easily and always seemed to be tripping over something; here I sympathized with her, being naturally unsteady upon my own feet. She was a slightly built girl who looked no more than fourteen, although she must have been nearly twenty, and the wire glasses which rested on a homely nose, did nothing to enhance her plain features.

Eleanor inspected the cottage with an air of dissatisfaction and wrinkled up her pretty nose with distaste. ‘Had I known that Mr Dickens was holidaying in a fisherman’s cottage, I would have instructed Uncle to take private rooms elsewhere, Millie.’ She then set about ordering her friend to unpack her
bags, hang up her clothes and to close the windows for she could not stand the smell of the sea air.

I had not met Mr Smithson before, but learned that my husband had met the solicitor through his old colleague, Thomas Mitten, a former clerk at the courts where Charles had worked as a reporter. Mitten now worked in Mr Smithson’s chambers and had made the introduction when his employer expressed enjoyment of my husband’s work. Mr Smithson was a portly man with huge whiskers and several chins, and his spouse was equally stout. It was whispered that before they had moved to the City that she had at one time been his cook and that he had married her after the death of his first wife. If this were true, proof of her culinary talents were still in evidence: a button was missing from his tightly fitted waistcoat and those that remained were straining to retain their hold upon the material.

‘Pleased to make your h’aquintance, Mrs Dickens.’ Mrs Smithson curtsied unnecessarily, trying to adopt the airs and graces she felt were required by her new-found station in life. I took in her dress, which was patterned all over with large flowers and adorned with needless frippery and finery upon her sleeves, cuffs and collar. To my mind, a stout woman should never wear rosettes and ribbons, for they call to attention every pound of flesh a lady should want to minimize. If good taste was any indication of good sense, then I could see that a holiday spent with Mrs Smithson was not one to be relished.

Charles was to be thanked for providing all the entertainment we needed. In the evenings he organized guessing games, dancing, or walks along the beach, and when Daniel Maclise, the artist, joined us the following week, he delighted us with his clever sketches of passers-by. One evening, while walking along the beach, a look of mischief crossed my husband’s face and, without warning, he dashed towards Eleanor, falling down upon one knee before her feet.

‘Dearest Ellie’ – he took her gloved hand – ‘please say that you
will treasure these few brief moments we have spent together, and never forsake me!’

Eleanor looked about her with embarrassment, and then her face formed a scowl of disapproval. ‘Please do not jest so, Mr Dickens. Get up! Get up! People are watching.’

‘I care not!’ he exclaimed dramatically, clasping her hand to his heart, ‘What are the opinions of others to me when I am bewitched by your very presence?’

A small audience had now gathered and Millie giggled with delight, glad for once to see her friend feeling awkward and embarrassed.

‘Mrs Dickens, please will you call your husband off!’ A note of hysteria had entered into Eleanor’s voice.

I, too, delighted in the spectacle, but tried my best to comply with her request.

‘Charles, come now, the young lady has had enough.’

‘Enough? I have not yet even begun.’ At which he scooped her up in his arms and ran along the beach with her until he reached the water’s edge.

Mrs Smithson forgot her propriety and squealed, ‘Lord, luv-
a-duck
! ’E’s goin’ to soak ’er!’ She caught the astonished glance of her husband and submitted, ‘I meant to say, her dress is silk, sir.’

‘Talk not to me of silk, madam,’ Charles shouted, dancing in the waves, ‘I am a man possessed! This is no time for prudence.’

By now Millie was pressing her handkerchief to her mouth in an effort to disguise her mirth at the sight of Eleanor kicking her legs and thrashing her arms about.

‘Uncle! Will you tell him to loose me at once.’

‘Come now, Dickens,’ Smithson cajoled, ‘put her down – there’s a good fellow.’

Charles stopped in his tracks, looked at Eleanor and, with the words, “it seems, my dear, that we are destined to be parted”, he dropped her into the water. When Eleanor surfaced, her curls in disarray, she screamed with rage. She fixed a malevolent glare upon Charles, slapped her uncle on the arm as he tried to escort her, and ordered Millie to her side at once, beginning an
indignant retreat to the cottage.

‘The man’s a madman! That’s what Charles Dickens is – a complete madman!’