Far Above Rubies Read online

  CHAPTER TEN

  July 1837

  48 Doughty Street, Holborn

  One morning, a few weeks after Mary’s death, I took the unusual step of disturbing Charles in his study. He had continued to be distant and withdrawn, losing himself completely in his work. I knocked upon the door and called his name tentatively. When I entered at his bidding, he left off writing and looked up with an air of weariness, his face pale and his eyes ringed with dark shadows. He put down his pen with a heavy sigh.

  ‘Kate, I’m glad that you’re here. I have something to tell you.’

  His voice held a note of seriousness that alarmed me.

  ‘I have decided to distance myself for a little while from everything that has happened in this house. I plan to spend some time in France and Belgium – no doubt the change of scene will do me good.’

  He opened the drawer of his desk and became preoccupied with arranging the items within it.

  My voice wavered, ‘Am I not to come with you?’

  He did not reply and I was unsure as to whether he had heard me or if he was deep in thought.

  ‘Charles?’

  He slammed the drawer shut and pushed his fingers through his hair, gripping it as he spoke. ‘God’s truth, Kate! Don’t you realize, that everyone wants so much of me that I shall go insane if I do not have some time alone?’

  His voice quivered with anger.

  I wanted to remind him that I was grieving too; the house was so empty without Mary and if he were to leave me also then I would be completely alone. But I knew from experience that if I were to display even a hint of complaint in my response, he would explode. So I put my feelings to one side saying, ‘Very well, my love, if that is what you must do then I shall not make it difficult for you, even though it will be very hard for me.’

  I stood for a moment, waiting for some sign of gratitude or acknowledgement, but instead, he picked up his pen, dipped it in the inkwell and became engrossed once more in his writing. It was as if I was not there at all.

  I tried not to make a great display of tears when he left for Europe, but turning back into the house, all at once it felt so large and empty without his great personality to fill it. So I quickly decided that I must keep busy while he was away and that I would seek to improve myself. Whereas Charles had grown in fame, I felt insignificant beside him and, as he worked to improve his own knowledge, the space between our abilities grew ever more apparent. So I resolved to apply myself to learn a little French and Italian in the hope that when he travelled abroad again he might take me with him without shame.

  Isabella recommended a Mr Francis Smith, her sister’s tutor, to assist me. I felt quite nervous upon our first meeting and I feared that he might find me lacking as a student. He was a tall, slim young man with dark curly hair not unlike Charles’s, but that was where any similarity ended. He was of a quiet and tranquil temperament and he appeared to have endless patience no matter how much I struggled to grasp what he taught me. He was liberal with his praise and I quickly came to crave the approbation that he so readily bestowed. In addition, I practised the piano as I had not done in a long time and I set about writing down a few recipes with the idea that Charles might assist me to get them published upon his return.

  Mr Smith called each day. I learned that he had been sadly widowed last spring and was left with a young son, Theo, to care for.

  ‘You must bring the dear little fellow to tea,’ I invited, and Mr Smith accepted with alacrity.

  But it was an invitation that I came to regret as the boy did not prove to be ‘a dear little fellow’ at all. It appeared that he had been completely spoilt by his maternal grandmother who had nursed him with misplaced leniency, causing him to become entirely ill-disciplined. On arrival, the child wore a sullen expression, which I had mistaken for grief at the loss of his mother. But when tea was brought in, his expression changed to one of greedy delight and his poor father was frustrated in his endeavours to control the boy as he took cake before sandwiches, bounced restlessly upon the couch and spoke with a full mouth, showering crumbs everywhere. I was not at all inclined to repeat the invitation and, thankfully, Mr Smith did not ask that I might do so.

  At the end of August my husband returned and he was pleased to note my accomplishments.

  ‘Well done, Kate!’ he beamed with delight when I greeted him in Italian. ‘I am pleased to see that you have not idled your time away.’

  Charles also demonstrated that his attention had returned to family life.

  Taking a flower from the garden, he inhaled its scent deeply and fixed it into his button hole.

  ‘I have been thinking that we might go away together, Kate, and perhaps your mama and little Georgina could accompany us.’

  Mama had still not recovered from the shock of Mary’s death and I knew that it would do her good to get away.

  ‘But let us not be too sombre, eh, Kate? Let’s take young Frederick with us; he will keep us in a merry mood.’

  We rented a small two-storey cottage in Broadstairs, a quiet fishing village in Kent. Charles loved it there, the ebb and flow of the sea appeared to inspire and move him greatly. In the evenings we would gather around him and listen as he read out a scene from his latest novel, Oliver Twist. The blood-curdling screams that accompanied the death of poor Nancy had us all gripped with fear and afterwards Charles’s eyes twinkled with amusement at the power which he held over us. By day Charles walked along the beach and sometimes he would allow me to accompany him if I promised not to interrupt his flow of thought. With great difficulty I endeavoured to match his energetic strides and keep pace with him.

  I reflected how I had seen him go through so many changes since that first meeting in Mama and Papa’s drawing room. It was as though his traits had become more exaggerated with the growth of his fame. He had always been of an orderly disposition, but of late he had taken to frequently checking and combing his hair as if he could not even bear disorder upon his head. His taste in clothes now verged on the outrageous; his brightly coloured waistcoats and cravats often drawing a raised eyebrow from passers-by. But since Mary’s death, the change that was hardest to bear was that he had developed a veneer of detached composure as if he feared being held captive to his emotions. It seemed as if Mary’s death had done more than bereave him, it had warned him that never again could he allow anything to rob him of his sanity or the vital energy that he needed in order to make a living.

  When we returned to Doughty Street he filled the house with as many visitors and as much noise as seemed possible, but I felt that all of this was merely a buffer between himself and reality.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  March 1838

  The Star and Garter Inn, Richmond

  Our baby daughter was born on a bright morning in March. The crocuses and snowdrops were in full bloom and I was delighted that spring was on its way. We agreed to name our pretty daughter Mary and at just a few hours old she lay in her father’s arms. He sat at my bedside in a soft leather chair and as he rocked her, the tears fell from his face and splashed onto hers.

  ‘Dear sweet Mary, I believe that so perfect a creature never lived before.’

  My heart stilled for a moment – a memory of someone else cradled in those very same arms had come to mind. I looked at the ring upon his little finger, which he had never taken off since the day that my sister had died, and her room and clothing had remained in place just as he had instructed.

  ‘Do you think of her often?’ I found myself saying with difficulty.

  He nodded sadly and, handing the baby back to me, he moved to the window seat, sat down and sighed deeply.

  ‘I think about her every day and dream of her each night. I do not believe I shall ever leave off missing her until the day that I die.’

  He was quiet and still for a moment and then, realizing that he had dropped his guard, he quickly reined in his emotions and pointed out of the window.

  ‘Well, look who’s here!’ he laughe
d, ‘It’s my old friend John Forster, coming to wish us well, no doubt. I’ll go down to meet him and see if he would like to take a ride out, I feel like working off some energy.’

  He returned to my side, promptly kissed the top of my head and in the same moment was gone. What strange behaviour! I could hardly fathom it out. It was hard to believe that beneath such a cheery exterior, he was hiding so much pain.

  As he left, Fanny entered the room and my spirits sank. Wherever Fanny went, a headache was not far behind and it usually seemed to attach itself to me. She looked at me with disapproval.

  ‘That husband of yours has something on his mind, I’ll wager. He has an air of melancholy about him, don’t you think? I expect it’s the baby’s name, t’would remind him of your sister. My, what a pretty maid she was! Such a terrible loss for him. Don’t think he’ll ever get over it.’

  Fanny’s attention then turned to the confusion of clutter about the bedroom. Unfinished mending on the chair, a litter of letters upon the dressing table, hairpins, hatpins, powders, perfume bottles.

  ‘Goodness, Kate, ’tis a wonder that you can find the little one amongst all of this lot. My brother always did like orderliness, you know, it quiets his mind.’

  I finally found my voice. ‘Fanny, please! You are speaking out of turn.’

  ‘Well, somebody has to say it and it might as well be me. You should have a tighter rein on matters, Kate, Charles cannot see to the home as well as earning a living, you know. Your sister would have never allowed the house to fall into such disarray.’

  I felt my body tense with resentment. In life my sister had outshone me: in death she eclipsed me still.

  The following month Charles and I celebrated our second wedding anniversary and I felt well enough to travel to Richmond for a few days. We planned to stay at the Star and Garter and as our carriage took a track through the Petersham meadows, our accommodation came into view. I marvelled at the exterior which looked just like the home of a nobleman. Charles told me that the inn was built on a site which dated back to Charles I.

  While our bags were unloaded, Charles nodded at the upstairs window and said, with a twinkle in his eye, ‘Did you know, Kate, that the wife of the former owner is said to haunt the corridors at night? Her husband was reputed to have been a foolish man who made costly additions to the property and died in prison without a penny to his name.’

  ‘Stop it, Charles.’ I giggled nervously. ‘How do you expect me to sleep if you tell me such things?’

  A few days later we were joined by Charles’s friend, Forster, who excitedly told us that the first edition of Charles’s latest work, Nicholas Nickleby, had sold 50,000 copies.

  ‘No need to hide yourself away here, Dickens! It’s good news all round.’

  Charles was developing the habit of avoiding reviews for fear that they may dispirit him, but Forster waved a copy of the morning paper under his nose and insisted, ‘Read that, dear fellow. The editor, Lord Jeffrey, has nothing but praise for you.’

  He also pulled from his pocket a crumpled note which he handed to Charles with a grin. ‘And this is from one of your younger admirers.’

  Charles looked puzzled and opened up the note and began to read. A few moments later his face broke out into a smile, followed by a laugh which grew louder and louder until the tears rolled down his cheeks.

  Forster joined in, ‘It’s priceless, isn’t it, my friend?’

  It appeared that a little boy had written stating his views as to the rewards and punishments that should me meted out upon the various characters in Charles’s story.

  ‘What a capital little fellow he must be, I will reply immediately. Lord Jeffrey will have to wait!’

  It was wonderful to witness that my husband, in spite of his growing fame, should choose to acknowledge the words of a young child above that of a well-known literary critic.

  In June our new sovereign Queen Victoria was crowned. The monarchy had fallen out of favour in recent years but almost everyone was won over by the tiny princess who would become our new Queen. Crowds flocked to London for the coronation and it was estimated that there were half a million strangers in London and a room could not be found for love nor money. Charles was excited to attend.

  ‘Come with me, Kate, why don’t you?’

  But I was not inclined to be jostled by crowds of well-wishers and said that I would prefer instead the quietness of my own home. A look of disappointment fell across Charles’s face and for a moment I felt guilty as he closed the door to leave. But the peace that I had imagined did not come at all, instead being intermittently broken by the firing of distant cannon, incessant ringing of bells and a twenty-one gun salute. Day turned into night and the celebratory fireworks punctuated the darkness of the City.

  When Charles returned he told me that the procession from Buckingham Palace had been led by trumpeters, life guards and a marching band, and although he had not been able to catch a glimpse of the royal carriage, he had heard that the Queen’s head was crowned with diamonds and that she wore a crimson cape trimmed with ermine. The next day reports of the coronation filled the pages of the newspapers. Charles perused the Morning Chronicle over his breakfast and then I noticed that he studied one section of print very carefully, ‘Well, I never!’ he whispered, and discreetly wiped a tear from his eye.

  ‘Listen to this, Kate. It says here that when one of the elderly lords took the steps to pay homage to the Queen he fell and rolled right down the steps to the throne. In fear that the old man might be hurt, the Queen advanced and took his arm to aid him to his feet.’

  His face shone with delight. ‘I think that we should not underestimate the diminutive size of our little sovereign. I think that she has the determination to shape our world in ways yet unknown.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  August 1838

  Coutts and Company, The Strand

  Not far from Holborn, in the Strand, is a fine-looking banking establishment known as Coutts and Company. Designed by the architect John Nash, its entrance reminds an imaginative onlooker of two pepper pots side by side. Within the grand walls, sits a row of clerks, each one behind his mahogany desk, over which money and gold change hands in the most dignified manner. Acting upon the advice of John Forster, Charles met Mr Edward Marjoribanks, a partner in the bank and opened an account there. The sum deposited was a nominal amount and so Charles was surprised to be afforded the courtesies of an old and valued client. Upon hearing that London’s well-known author had become a customer, Miss Angela Burdett-Coutts seized the chance of an introduction.

  Miss Burdett-Coutts’s grandfather had had no sons and neither had her late mother. Consequently the lady had recently found herself heiress to a sizeable fortune. My husband was most impressed to find that at the age of twenty-four, she had just one great wish: to use her wealth to help the less fortunate. After their first meeting, Charles arrived home full of excitement and enthusiasm. I was sitting at my needlework when he burst into the room with the words, ‘Kate, I have just met the most marvellous woman! We really must invite her to our home.’

  I felt myself prickle with resentment and stopped my sewing mid-stitch.

  ‘What do you mean – the most marvellous woman?’

  He paced the room energetically, slapping his gloves upon his hands.

  ‘She’s got money, Kate, lots of it. But she has resolved to share it with the less fortunate in society. Isn’t that wonderful?’

  ‘I don’t see what that has got to do with us,’ I said, resuming my stitching.

  Charles fell upon one knee and stilled my work with his hand.

  ‘But don’t you see? She has access to money that can fund my ideas for social reform.’

  In his earnestness he caught his finger upon my needle and I watched with dismay as a drop of blood fell and spread into a crimson stain upon my cross-stitch.

  ‘Oh, Charles!’ I cried in exasperation. ‘Look what you have done now.’

  A look of hurt and d
isappointment fell across his face.

  ‘Well, perhaps if you showed a little more interest in what I had to tell you, it wouldn’t have happened.’ And with an air of dejection he left the room.

  It was true, I had no interest in social matters whatsoever. Of course I felt sorry for those in the workhouse, for children who had to labour under terrible conditions and for those who did not know where their next meal was coming from. But these were issues that I preferred not to dwell upon. I found it all too depressing. Yet, if I was to keep my husband’s favour then I knew I must show greater support for his interests. I put my sewing to one side and sought him out.

  I found him in the sitting room, angrily prodding the hot coals with a poker.

  ‘Charles, I am sorry. You are right. If Miss Burdett-Coutts is as generous as you say, then, of course, you must invite her to our home and see what she can help you to accomplish.’

  He did not reply, but stared at the fire with a sullen expression upon his face.

  I put my hand upon his arm. ‘Charles? Please don’t be cross. I am sorry, truly I am.’

  He eyed me with suspicion. ‘Are you sure, Kate? Do you really mean it?’