Far Above Rubies Read online

  Leaving her to attend to her business, I stepped quietly up the stairs to Charles’s room and took out the key that he had given for my and Mary’s use. I unlocked the door, and a sense of excitement overtook me – it would be almost like being alone with him, surrounded by his things and the familiar scent that was his. I walked about the room running my fingertips lightly over his possessions and smiled. I crossed the room to his desk to leave the bottle of ink I had brought, and it was then that I was struck by the precise orderliness of everything: it was quite strange and in complete contrast to the cheerful chaos of my own home. Each piece of furniture appeared to have been arranged by Charles with exactitude, and upon his desk his writing implements were laid out in ascending order of size.

  Upon the highly polished surface, piles of neatly arranged papers were stacked and, moved by curiosity, I opened the desk drawer. Inside was a roll of letters tied up with a scarlet velvet ribbon. I placed my hand upon them, and my fingers hesitated for a moment, as if having a conscience of their own. Ignoring the warning, I pulled the ribbon undone, unfurled the letters and my eyes fell randomly upon the words written in Charles’s hand:

  My Dearest M

  It is you whom I love … I know now that I cannot marry any other….

  My heart quickening, I read on:

  It is unbearable torture without you … your intoxicating company, your violet-coloured eyes….

  Each word added to my growing rage:

  It is unbearable torture without you … your intoxicating company, your violet-coloured eyes….

  This was too much to bear: to think that Charles had dared to number my own faults when he himself was acting with such deception! I hurled the letters across the room with fury.

  ‘Mary, you deceitful and wicked wretch!’

  And, taking the ink, I uncorked it and threw it across the collection of papers upon the desk. At that moment the door flew open and there stood Charles with the landlady, open-mouthed, at his side.

  ‘Kate! What in heaven’s name are you doing? How dare you interfere with my personal belongings?’

  His face was contorted with a fierceness that I had never seen before, and the landlady hurried away down the stairs ready to share the gossip, Mr Wossal now being old news.

  ‘Perhaps it is as well,’ I said, harnessing courage and pointing to the letters scattered across the floor, ‘as it seems that you and my sister have much to hide.’

  Without saying a word, he strode purposefully across the room, grasped me behind the neck in a most ungentlemanly manner and threw me to my knees, roughly pushing my face close to the scatter of correspondence.

  ‘Look who they are addressed to, Kate, can you see?’

  I tried to focus my eyes urgently on what he was asking for, but I was bewildered with fear and shock at his behaviour.

  ‘And what of the dates? Did you notice those?’ he growled.

  ‘Charles, you’re hurting me!’ But he was oblivious to it, seemingly driven by a need to exonerate himself. When he at last released me, he picked up the papers and began to read each one out loud.

  ‘To Miss Maria Beadnell, Coniston Villa, Kent … dated the 2 February 1830.’ He cast it angrily to the floor.

  ‘And this one,’ he continued, ‘Miss Maria Beadnell … dated 25 June, 1830.’ He threw that one to the floor too. One by one he read out the same name over and over, until he had cast each and every letter to the ground.

  ‘Five years ago, Kate, five years! Your sister would have been little more than a child, and there is not even one mention of her name.’

  ‘Then who was—? But I thought “Dearest M” must be …’ and I began to sob as I realized my foolishness.

  ‘Kate, please don’t cry,’ Charles said with obvious discomfort, ‘I hate it when a woman cries.’

  ‘But who was she?’

  Charles walked over to the window, took out his handkerchief and wiped away an unwelcome smudge on the glass. ‘She was an unfortunate mistake, a changeable butterfly,’ he sighed, ‘and although she never intended to become my bride, she toyed with my emotions in the cruellest way that a woman can. She was the daughter of a wealthy banker and she was selfish, flirtatious and not at all suited to be the wife of a writer.’

  ‘Then why did you keep those letters?’ I asked querulously.

  ‘Because, dear Kate,’ he said with a wry smile, ‘I am of a sentimental nature and prone, with the passing of time, to forget the reality of a situation. At the end of our friendship I asked Miss Beadnell, to return the letters that I sent her so that I might remind myself that I need a placid and steadfast love to become my wife.’

  He walked back across the room, crouched down on his haunches and wiped away my tears with his handkerchief, ‘And now I have found her.’ He smiled.

  I suddenly became aware of my appearance, my ink-stained hands and face, my red nose and my disarranged hair. I looked neither placid nor steadfast! Overcome with embarrassment, I begged Charles to forgive me and made him promise to speak of this to no one, especially Mary, whom I had so hastily accused.

  ‘Yes, Kate, I promise, but you in turn must promise me something. You must promise me that you will always trust me, trust me unconditionally. I will not be questioned over my actions at any time, Kate, do you understand? Not at any time.’

  His anger had frightened me and yet was I not to blame? Had I not provoked him? I made him the promise that he had requested and vowed that I would never be suspicious or doubt his morals again. But I did not know then that it would prove to be a promise impossible to keep.

  CHAPTER THREE

  October 1835

  York Place, Chelsea

  In October I fell ill. It was a month that I had always disliked, its fading crisped leaves and dusky afternoons, but now my melancholy was one of a physical nature. I was confined to my bed with a high fever and, as if to compound my low spirits, Charles was not free to visit me due to his growing work commitments. In his place he sent his sister, Fanny, a small, angular woman with plain features and a nose that looked as though it had been shaped by spending a good deal of time in other people’s business.

  Whenever I had asked Charles about meeting his parents he become strangely evasive and agitated as though it were a subject to be ashamed of. Fanny however, he had spoken of warmly, talking of happy childhood times spent together; but no matter how hard I looked, I could not find beneath her waspish personality the sister that Charles had spoken of so fondly. Taking off her coat and rolling up her sleeves as though she were about to perform an operation, Fanny set about plumping up my pillows and straightening my covers, with no thought that I might not want to be tossed about in such a ruthless manner. She had brought with her Charles’s apologies and a basket of fruit.

  ‘Are you sure he sent nothing else?’ I asked, picking through the apples as if something more interesting might be hidden amongst them. ‘Not even a note?’

  ‘No, my dear,’ she said coldly, ‘what you see before you is a true reflection of his esteem for you.’

  I was bitterly disappointed by his absence, his disagreeable sister and his dull gift.

  Fanny’s biting sarcasm did nothing to improve my ailing spirits. Not only did my heart sink at her daily visits, but I noticed that her main preoccupation seemed to be with how she might profit from the fortune of others. She took great delight in looking through my jewellery box, and would slip rings, necklaces and bracelets on and off with alarming sleight of hand. On one occasion, as she was leaving, I had cause to remind her, that she was still in possession of my grandmother’s ruby ring, a silver brooch and my favourite hairpin.

  ‘’Tis only to be expected when my mind is quite taken up with caring for your every need!’ she snapped.

  Every day I enquired whether Charles had written me any word and her answer was always the same. ‘He’ll be too busy making his way in the world to find time for that, my dear.’

  But what was most perplexing of all, was her delight
at telling me of Charles’s previous lovers when I had no desire to hear of them. One day when I had suffered an unrelenting headache, Fanny continued without letup. ‘… then there was Mary Ann Leigh, yes, when she was taken ill with the scarlet fever, he spent a whole afternoon choosing, “the softest gloves for the softest hands”, I think was his turn of phrase.’ She vigorously shook up my pillows again.

  ‘Fanny, please, I don’t feel well.’

  ‘And then there was Maria Beadnell….’ My pulse quickened at the mention of her name. ‘My! There was a romance for you. Nearly went out of his mind over that girl.’

  ‘Fanny, I don’t want to know about….’

  She sat me up and pushed a glass of water to my lips.

  ‘The letters he sent that young woman … I doubt he’ll ever really find a love like that again.’

  My head throbbed.

  Satisfied that her nursing duties had been fulfilled with the most tender care, she removed her pinafore saying, ‘Well, I’ve got things to do, you mustn’t keep me here talking all day. I’ll call your sister to take over now and I’ll be back again tomorrow, no doubt.’

  I dropped back onto my pillows, trying to push Fanny’s words from my mind. I did not want to think about Mary Ann Leigh or Maria, nor did I want to think about the reasons why Charles had not written, and seemed more concerned about his work than he was about me. Perhaps Fanny was right, maybe Charles could never love me as passionately as he had loved Maria. I thought about how often he had berated me whenever I voiced an opinion and began to wonder whether he was trying to mould me into a dull, agreeable puppet, someone who would not hinder his growing ambition.

  Fanny closed the bedroom door behind her and I fell into a restless sleep: Charles was dressed in a sailor suit and stood beside a carriage which had the letter M monogrammed upon its door. Inside was seated a young woman, wearing a scarlet velvet ribbon in her dark hair. She extended her hand through the carriage window and Charles kissed it sadly. I stood upon the steps of Selwood Terrace watching them, and as the carriage pulled away, Charles turned to me, and in an instant his face changed to one of bitter disappointment.

  With a pointed finger he ordered me into the house and then he began instructing me as to how to arrange the drawing room furniture. But wherever I placed a chair, he would move it elsewhere, wherever I hung a picture, he would shake his head disagreeably and take it down, and when I laid the table for dinner he set it all over again. With each opposing action that he performed, I became more restless and unsettled in my sleep.

  When I protested at his unreasonable behaviour, he opened a large wooden chest and angrily ordered me into it. I pleaded with him that I would not fit, but he kept insisting until I obeyed. He brought down the lid upon me and padlocked it. The darkness was suffocating, but no matter how I struggled, the lid would not move and with a gasping breath I opened my eyes to find Mary’s worried face hovering above me.

  ‘I don’t want to be trapped!’ I cried out with a start.

  ‘Catherine, dear Catherine,’ she soothed, sponging my face and burning body, ‘It’s all right, I am here.’

  ‘Mary,’ I coughed, ‘fetch me a pen…some paper.’

  ‘Catherine, your fever will break soon, Please, stay calm.’

  ‘No!’ I insisted, ‘I must write to him now, before I change my mind.’

  I would not give in, and Mary, fearful at my feverish determination, ran and brought what I had asked for. She steadied my hand and I began to write:

  Sir

  I can no longer bear the absence of any word from you. If our engagement is not your dearest wish, then release me from it, and you will hear from me no more.

  I signed it and pushed it into Mary’s hand.

  ‘You must see that Charles gets this immediately. Promise me, Mary.’

  ‘Of course, dear Sister, only please, do not exert yourself any further. You must rest now.’

  I nodded weakly and the darkness came again, but now it was a welcome darkness, a darkness no longer beset by dreams.

  When the light returned, I raised a hand to shield the intrusive brightness from my eyes.

  ‘Catherine, thank God!’

  My mother, father and Mary, who had all being waiting anxiously at my bedside, moved to embrace me.

  ‘We thought that we had lost you!’ Mama wept hysterically.

  Ignoring her dramatics I asked with urgency, ‘But where is Charles? Did he come?’

  Mary smiled her gentle smile and held out a bundle of letters and a small box. I pushed myself upright and took them from her with a frown.

  ‘Open the gift, Catherine,’ Papa said, stroking my hair.

  ‘Is it from you, Papa?’

  He shook his head, ‘Open it and see.’

  Inside the box was an exquisite antique bracelet, nestling in tissue paper. A small card resting on the top said simply: I am yours alone, if you will still have me.

  Mary urged me to open the letters and I tore open the first which, according to the date, had been written over a fortnight ago, and began reading:

  … so sorry that I cannot be with you … trying to make my way in the world….building a future for us….

  Each letter, written in Charles’s hand, assured me of his unchanging love, until finally I came to the last, which explained everything.

  Fanny, it seems, for reasons best known to her, held back my letters from you. I hope that you will forgive her, as I have done, and be assured that a sisterly love for me was her only motive. I must finish the instalments I have committed myself to write and then I promise to be back at your side before the week is out.

  I remain ever yours,

  Charles

  CHAPTER FOUR

  December 1835

  York Place, Chelsea

  December arrived, my health was restored and my spirits were lifted by the approaching festive season. I had planned to buy Charles a silver pen tray, but to my consternation, Mary had had the same idea. I petulantly pointed out that as Charles’s intended the gift should be from me and, true to her nature, Mary agreed without opposition. Papa was to make Charles a present of an ivory-handled letter opener which had been his father’s, and I thanked him saying that it would make a most handsome gift. But Mama, who was of an anxious nature, said she hoped that Charles would not cut himself on it.

  ‘We’ll no’ want a groom wi’ a missin’ finger!’ she warned in her Edinburgh lilt, with a shudder.

  Papa stroked his sandy moustache, trying to hide a smile, and said, ‘I have every confidence that the young man has a steady hand, my dear.’

  On Christmas morning Mama hurried about, hastily straightening cushions and pushing clutter into overcrowded cupboards and under the sofa. ‘I canna’ see why we always ha’ to make such a fuss when he visits us,’ Mama complained. ‘It’s not as if we even know who the laddie’s parents are.’

  ‘Now, now, my love,’ Papa counselled gently. ‘Remember I too was once a struggling journalist with only my hopes and dreams for a wage. London has been good to me and I hope that it will look upon young Dickens as kindly.’

  The ground and the rooftop were thick with snow and Charles arrived just before lunchtime shouting, ‘Merry Christmas to the Hogarths!’ We laughed as we realized that his hair had frozen to his scarf and while Mary led him to a fireside chair I fetched him a warm brandy. When I returned, he was deep in conversation with Papa.

  ‘Do you know, sir, I spent most of the morning walking and thinking, and I never noticed the cold at all. Don’t you find that this time of year makes you reflect on both the past and the future? And I found myself ruminating on an idea for a Christmas story. It was just a whisper of an idea, the beginning of something, something that I could not quite lay a hold of, but when it finally comes to me I shall capture it and put it down on paper for all to read.’ He signed with frustration. ‘But I am too caught up with Sketches at present to concentrate on anything else at all.’

  Sketches by Boz wa
s a collection of short stories that Charles had written over the last two years. They were now being put together in volume form, and he hoped that the money he earned from this might enable us to marry soon.

  Papa stood up and patted him fondly on the shoulder. ‘You keep at it, young man. If you carry on as you are, this will all just be the beginning for you, I am sure of it.’

  Shaking off his momentary melancholy, Charles called us to his side saying, ‘Hurry up everyone, I have presents for you all.’

  Charles handed Papa a fine bottle of port, to Mama he gave some linen handkerchiefs and Georgina, a china doll. Only Mary and I were yet to open our gifts. Excitedly I unwrapped my own and took out a fringed shawl that was beautifully embroidered. I set it about my shoulders and glanced at Mama, who nodded and smiled with approval. I was just about to thank Charles, when Mary opened her gift and gasped as she took out of a small box a silver locket in the shape of a heart. I watched with dismay as Charles placed it around the neck of my sixteen-year-old sister who blushed and thanked him shyly.

  There had to be some confusion: surely Charles had mixed up the gifts? Surely the heart-shaped locket must have been meant for me? My face flushed with the heat of my anger and I stared at the locket hanging at my sister’s throat, longing to tear it from her. But a series of recollections stilled my hand. I recalled Charles’s previous admonitions to mind my hasty temper. I thought again about his disapproval when I had been short with Mary on our visit to the theatre and lastly I remembered the embarrassing scene that I had caused over Maria Beadnell. So what did I do? I swallowed my resentment and said nothing. And here was a beginning: the first of many times that I would suppress my own feelings in search of Charles’s approval. But wasn’t this the role of a good and loyal wife, the yielding of her own will and opinion?