When Mr. Dickens finished speaking, he bowed his head and there was silence from the audience for perhaps ten seconds before we burst as one into applause, leaping to our feet, crying out for more. I turned to look at Father who, rather than appearing as thrilled as I had anticipated, wore a pale expression, a sheen of perspiration gleaming on his face, as he inhaled and exhaled in laboured gasps, staring at the floor beneath him, his fists clenched in a mixture of determination to recover his breath and a fear that he might never do so.
In his hands, he clutched a handkerchief stained with blood.
Departing the theatre into the wet and cold night, I was still trembling from the dramatics of the reading and felt certain that I was surrounded by apparitions and spirits, but Father seemed to have recovered himself and declared that it was quite the most enjoyable evening he had spent in many years.
“He’s every bit as good an actor as he is a writer,” he pronounced as we made our way back across the park, reversing our earlier walk, the rain starting yet again as we marched along, the fog making it almost impossible for us to see more than a few steps ahead of ourselves.
“I believe he often takes part in dramatics,” I said. “At his own home and the homes of his friends.”
“Yes, I’ve read that,” agreed Father. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be invited to—”
Another coughing fit overtook him and he struggled for air as he bent over, assuming an undignified position on the street.
“Father,” I said, putting my arm around his shoulders as I attempted to right him. “We must get you home. The sooner you are out of those wet clothes and lying in a hot bath the better it will be.”
He nodded and struggled on, coughing and sneezing as we leaned on each other for support. To my relief the rain came to an abrupt halt as we rounded Bayswater Road for Brook Street, but with every step I took I could feel my feet growing more and more soaked through my shoes and dreaded to think of how wet Father’s must be. Finally we were home and he forced himself into the metal bathtub for a half hour before changing into his nightshirt and gown and joining me in the parlour.
“I shall never forget tonight, Eliza,” he remarked when we were seated side by side by the fire, sipping on hot tea and eating buttered toast, the room filled again by the scent of cinnamon and chestnuts from his pipe. “He was a capital fellow.”
“I found him truly terrifying,” I replied. “I enjoy his books almost as much as you, of course, but I wish he had read from one of his dramatic novels. I don’t care for ghost stories.”
“You’re frightened by them?”
“Unsettled,” I said, shaking my head. “I think any story which concerns itself with the afterlife and with forces that the human mind cannot truly understand risks disquiet for the reader. Although I don’t think I’ve ever experienced fear in the way that others do. I don’t understand what it is to be truly frightened, just how it feels to be disconcerted or uncomfortable. The signalman in the story, for example. He was terrified at the horror he knew was sure to come his way. And that woman in the audience who ran screaming from the hall. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to be that scared.”
“Don’t you believe in ghosts, Eliza?” he asked and I turned to look at him, surprised by the question. It was dark in the room and he was illuminated only by the glow of the reddened coals that made his eyes appear darker than usual and his skin glow with the colour of the sporadic flames.
“I don’t know,” I said, uncertain how I truly felt about the question. “Why, do you?”
“I believe that woman was an imbecile,” declared Father. “That’s what I believe. Mr. Dickens had barely even begun to speak when she took fright. She should have been excluded from the start if she was of such a sensitive disposition.”
“The truth is I’ve always preferred his more realistic tales,” I continued, looking away. “The novels that explore the lives of orphans, his tales of triumph over adversity. Masters Copperfield, Twist and Nickleby will always hold a greater place in my affections than Mr. Scrooge or Mr. Marley.”
“Marley was dead, to begin with,” stated Father in a deep voice, imitating the writer so well that I shuddered. “There is no doubt whatever about that.”
“Don’t,” I said, laughing despite myself. “Please.”
I fell asleep quite soon after going to bed but it was a fitful and unhappy sleep. My dreams were supplanted by nightmares. I encountered spirits where I should have undertaken adventures. My landscape was dark graveyards and irregular vistas rather than Alpine peaks or Venetian canals. But nevertheless I slept through the night and when I woke, feeling groggy and out of sorts, the morning light was already coming through my curtains. I looked at my wall clock; it was almost ten past seven and I cursed myself, knowing that I would certainly be late for work and still had Father’s breakfast to prepare. However, when I entered his room a few minutes later to see whether his condition had improved in the night, I could see immediately that he was far more ill than I had previously realized. The rain of the evening before had taken hold of him and the chill seemed to have entered into his very bones. He was deathly pale, his skin damp and clammy, and I took great fright, dressing immediately and running to the end of our mews where Dr. Connolly, a friend and physician of long standing, lived. He came back with me and did everything in his power, I have no doubt of that, but he told me there was nothing we could do but wait for the fever to break, or hope that it would, and I spent the rest of the day by Father’s bedside, praying to a god who did not often trouble my thoughts, and by early evening, when the sun had descended again to be replaced by our perpetual and tormenting London fog, I felt Father’s grasp of my hand grow weaker until he slipped away from me entirely, gathered quietly to his reward, leaving me an orphan like those characters I had spoken of the night before, if one can truly be called an orphan at twenty-one years of age.
Chapter Three
FATHER’S FUNERAL TOOK place the following Monday morning in St. James’s Church in Paddington and I took some comfort in the fact that half a dozen of his co-workers from the British Museum, along with three of my own colleagues from St. Elizabeth’s School where I had employment as a teacher of small girls, attended to offer their sympathies. We had no living relatives and so there were very few mourners, among them the widow who lived next door to us but who had always seemed loath to acknowledge me in the street; a polite but shy young student whom Father had been mentoring in his insect studies; our part-time domestic girl, Jessie; and Mr. Billington, the tobacconist on Connaught Street who had been providing Father with his cinnamon-infused tobacco for as long as I could recall and whose presence made me feel rather emotional and grateful.
Mr. Heston, Father’s immediate superior in the Department of Entomology, held my right hand in both of his, crushing it slightly, and told me how much he had respected Father’s intellect, while one Miss Sharpton, an educated woman whose employment had initially caused Father some disquiet, informed me that she would miss his lively wit and excellent humour, a remark that rather astonished me but which I nevertheless found consoling. (Was there a side to Father that I did not know? A man who told jokes, charmed young ladies, was filled with bonhomie? It was possible, I supposed, but still something of a surprise.) I rather admired Miss Sharpton and wished that I could have had an opportunity to know her better; I was aware that she had attended the Sorbonne, where she was awarded a degree, although naturally the English universities did not recognize it, and apparently her own family had cut her off on account of it. Father told me once that he had asked her whether she was looking forward to the day when she would get married and thus not have to work any more; her reply—that she would rather drink ink—had scandalized him but intrigued me.