The Final Recollections of Charles Dickens (15 page)

A sentiment was growing powerfully within me, ever more difficult to suppress.

“Must you be with Geoffrey?”

I thought the question but did not ask it. There was nothing to be gained by that line of inquiry.

“You are thinking something,” Amanda said. “I see it in your face.”

I nodded.

“A penny for your thoughts.”

“I was thinking that perhaps I expect more of you than you expect of yourself.”

Her eyes flashed angrily, as I had seen before when I ventured too far.

“Don't talk nonsense.”

“It is intended as a compliment.”

“Then keep your compliments to yourself. You have no idea what I expect of myself, and you have no right to judge me. You are not a stupid man, Mr. Dickens. You have an idea of what I once did. But you have no idea of what my life was like when I was young, or what I am today.”

“Perhaps I know more than you think.”

“Not at all. You are a clever man, but you are quite young in knowledge of human nature. Let me tell you of the world I grew up in since you are so curious about it all.

“There was a child called Amanda, born into poverty and neglect. A child who had done no wrong but to come into the world alive. She knew no father. She did not know where she had been born. She first became aware of herself at the age of four, living on the streets of
London. She had a mother who did not care for her. She had no schooling. She was taught nothing of religion. Nobody kept watch over her to protect her. Nobody! The only care she knew was to be beaten and abused. She did not lose her innocence. She never had any.

“You have seen children, Mr. Dickens. Half-naked shivering figures that gaze with hungry eyes at the loaves of bread in shop windows. The thin sheet of glass that their pale faces press against is a wall of iron to them. I was one of those children.

“I had a brother who disappeared on the streets one day when he was seven. He was never seen or heard from again. My brother! Gone forever. That is the world I come from.

“When I was young, I was skin and bones. As womanhood came upon me and my body changed, my mother made a property of me. I was groomed for trade and sold to men who took me for their pleasure. I became pregnant. My mother brought me to a doctor of sorts, and they killed the baby before it could grow in my womb. The procedure changed what is inside me. I can never be with child again. Do you know how old I was then, Mr. Dickens? I was twelve. Make no judgment of me.

“I brought good looks out of childhood. Virtue as you think of it was a luxury that I could not afford. What came next comes to many women. I took advantage of the opportunities that my appearance afforded me. I suffered myself to be sold as ignominiously as any beast with a halter round its neck. I was offered and accepted, put up and appraised, until my soul sickened. Every grace that was a resource to me was paraded and vended to enhance my value. Somehow, I came through it all
without disease. I resolved that I would be well cared for and looked after. I became educated.

“I am a woman now, honoured by society. There is talk, I am sure, among the wives when I am not there. But I treat people of all classes with dignity and respect, as they now treat me. Perhaps you think I would have been better served had I taken up maid's work or sewn clothes or scrubbed streets to earn my roll of bread from day to day. I think not. Let all who would save my soul ask themselves where they were when I was an innocent, helpless little wretch. Let them understand that there is twenty times more wickedness and wrong among the rich than on the streets where I once lived. Why should I be penitent, and those born to wealth go free?”

Having spoken those words, Amanda lapsed into silence. Her face, which had been agitated, softened.

“I am done,” she said. “I have said enough. Let us not talk of honourable living. Perhaps, in some small way, your childhood was like mine. We need not make a show of our history. It was over long ago.”

Her beauty, fierce and defiant moments before, was now gentle in spirit.

I could no longer suppress the question.

“Do you love Geoffrey?”

“There was a time when I thought I did.”

“Does he love you?”

“He has been good to me in his way.”

“You could have chosen a more honourable man.”

“Don't talk to me of honour, Mr. Dickens. I dined with the woman who you are planning to marry. The daughter of your employer. A step up in society from where you began. That consideration, I am sure, was
not lost on you when you proposed marriage. Or is it chance that you are not engaged to a woman who began her life on the streets?”

The words I spoke next came without thought.

“I would leave her for you.”

“Don't talk rubbish. Leave her for me. I am a married woman, thank you, with no interest in leaving my husband. And you have no intention of deviating from the path that you have chosen for yourself. You are an ambitious man. I see that in you. You are as driven in your way as Geoffrey is in his. I do not think that scandal would suit you.”

The candle was burning low. Amanda was now fully dressed and looked as proper as when she had arrived, save for a smudge of wine on her sleeve.

“I know what I am,” she said. “I know the rules of society. Some times I abide by them. Some times I do not. I know the difference between right and wrong. I have done both in my life. As for the life I lead, I must lead it.”

“Why did you do this tonight?”

“Because I wanted to, Mr. Dickens. What other reason could there be? I chose to be with you this evening as I chose to go with you to the ballet. The difference is that, tonight, Geoffrey does not know that I am here. I trust you agree that it would be unwise to tell him.”

“I do.”

“Then we are of the same mind. One keeps a secret better than two. You must keep this one with me.”

“The secret is yours, not mine. I promise that I will respect it.”

“Then there is only one thing more that I would ask of you.”

Amanda reached into the bag that she had brought with her and drew out a book bound in dark green cloth. I recognised it immediately. Volume I from the first series of
Sketches by Boz
.

“Would you be so kind as to inscribe this for me?”

I carried the book to my desk and opened it to the title page. Amanda was smiling, but it seemed a smile that could easily turn to tears. I reached for my pen and wrote:

For Amanda Wingate,

a woman of uncommon beauty and grace.

My fondest good wishes,

Charles Dickens

“Thank you, Mr. Dickens. I will treasure this always.”

“It is my pleasure.”

“We are parting now. I shall not see you again.”

My heart, which minutes before had been soaring, sank suddenly like a stone.

“But surely—”

“Never again. It must be that way.” Her voice softened. “But let us part as friends.”

She extended her hand. I put it to my lips and kissed it.

“It is dark out,” I pled. “Let me accompany you home.”

“There is no need for that. I will be safe. I know my way about the streets.”

The hours after Amanda's departure were tumultuous in my mind. I did not realise then that she would be forever fixed in my consciousness. I did know that my life had changed. I also knew that I had hoped from the beginning that what had just transpired would come to pass. But I had never for a moment thought that it would happen. I felt no guilt or shame at having betrayed Catherine. There was a modicum of fear for my personal safety, but I sensed that Amanda would protect me.

On my bed, I found a handkerchief. Silk with two violets embroidered into the cloth. I wondered if Amanda had left it by design. I vowed to keep it forever.

That night, I dreamed of her, as I often would in the years to come.

The first installment of
The Pickwick Papers
was published the following morning. Clarence Evans met me at my rooms and escorted me throughout the day. Amanda was dominant in my thoughts. My fantasies ran wild. Geoffrey Wingate would be prosecuted and sent to the gallows. Amanda would be disgraced in the eyes of some. No matter. She understood my cause. She was born of it. Would that I could read the book of her heart. I knew little of it other than I longed for it to be mine.

On Friday morning, Clarence Evans returned to my quarters. Forty hours had passed since Amanda and I had parted.

“Inspector Ellsworth wishes to see you at the Wingate residence,” Evans told me. “He would like you to transcribe the statements of witnesses as he speaks with them.”

The constable was without further knowledge to answer my questions. Had Wingate crumbled and
confessed guilt? Had Amanda known more than she acknowledged to me and resolved to tell all? The carriage ride to the Wingate home seemed to last forever. My heart was pounding.

Several more constables were in the parlour with the servant staff when I arrived. I was led to Wingate's office. Ellsworth looked up from behind the desk and addressed me as I entered.

“They are gone.”

It took a moment for me to grasp the meaning of those simple words.

“Last night, under cover of dark, they fled,” the inspector said.

Files had been pulled from cabinets. The charred remains of what had once been Wingate's account ledgers lay on the floor in a corner of the room. The large painting of a naval engagement hanging opposite the window caught my eye. I looked at it more closely than I had before.

Burning hulls, bursting magazines; great guns exploding and tearing men to pieces; drowning sailors clinging to unseaworthy spars as others floated dead.

“The captain has deserted his ship,” Ellsworth said. “Come, let us look around.”

Room by room, I followed him through the house. The Wingates had taken whatever they could in direct proportion of monetary value to size. Jewel cases were empty and drawers flung open, as though thieves had entered in the middle of the night.

All of Amanda's jewelry was gone. Her many gowns and the mirrors that had reflected her beauty when they adorned her had a desolate air. We passed the harp in
the sitting room off the parlour where I had first seen her. In due course, Ellsworth brought the servant staff before me, and I transcribed what was said.

A chronology emerged. Wingate was extremely upset on Monday afternoon after the inspector and I sat with him. On Tuesday, his condition was the same. There was a flurry of activity on Wednesday and Thursday, with Wingate leaving the house several times, possibly to visit banks.

Amanda had come to my quarters late Wednesday afternoon. Had she known of their impending flight?

“We are parting now,” she had told me. “I shall not see you again.”

On Thursday night, they fled.

Amanda's lady's maid, Clarice, was the last of the servant staff to be questioned. She was clearly distraught. Clarice described how Amanda had shaken hands with each of the servants before departing and had turned for one last look at the house.

“She was dressed very plainly,” Clarice recalled. “And her hair was hidden under a shawl. All her fine clothes were left behind. That must have broke her heart.”

“What was Mrs. Wingate like?” I queried.

Ellsworth did not object to my question although, clearly, it overstepped my role.

“Very kind,” Clarice answered. “Mr. Wingate spoke harshly to us at times. Mrs. Wingate never said a word but was pleasant and right. She was a lady, and we were common people, but she talked with us as though we were of her own station in life.”

She stopped, as though wrestling with the propriety of what she was to say next.

“Go on,” I urged.

“Mrs. Wingate swore us to secrecy. But before she left—God bless her heart—she gave each of us fifty pounds. She warned us that Mr. Wingate would be angry with her if he knew. He spoke cruelly to her at times. She tried so hard to be a dutiful wife. How brave and strong her heart. She was crying when they left. And she said to me, ‘He is trampled down and ruined. I have an obligation as his wife. I cannot leave him now.'”