Drood

For New Year’s Eve, Dickens accepted an invitation to spend that Friday and Saturday (for New Year’s Eve fell on a Friday that year) at Forster’s luxurious digs, but according to Percy Fitzgerald, who heard it from Wills, who heard it from Forster himself, Dickens’s left foot (still poulticed) and left hand were still giving him much pain. However, he made fun of the discomfort and read the second instalment of Edwin Drood with such spirit and obvious good humour that the self-serious new illustrator, Fildes, would have almost certainly been at a loss to find a scene to illustrate if “grave” were his only criterion.

With his usual precision, Dickens timed the triumphant conclusion of his reading to the assembled party to finish exactly at the stroke of midnight. Thus 1870 began for Charles Dickens as it would continue until his end—with a mixture of extreme pain and loud applause.

I had considered giving another New Year’s Eve di

THE EVENING WAS QUIET—one could hear their two loudest clocks ticking—and Charley began feeling unwell and had to excuse himself halfway through di

I also stood and suggested that I go (since there were no other guests), but Kate all but ordered me to stay. Normally this would have seemed natural—when I lived with Caroline, as I believe I may have already mentioned, I would often go to the theatre or somewhere and leave her with our male guests and think nothing of it—but things had been strained between Kate and me since the day of Caroline’s wedding more than a year earlier.

Also, Kate had been drinking much wine before di

“Wilkie,” she said suddenly, her voice almost shockingly loud in the draped dimness of the little room, “do you know why Father invited you to Gad’s Hill last October?”

In truth, the question hurt my feelings. I had hitherto never required a reason to be invited to Gad’s Hill Place. Sniffing my brandy to cover my discomfort, I smiled and said, “Perhaps because your father wanted me to hear the opening of his new book.”

Kate waved her hand in a rather crudely dismissive ma

Now I was hurt. I tried to make allowances for the fact that Kate was clearly inebriated. Still trying to sound pleasant, even slightly amused, I said, “Well, why then did he invite me for that weekend, Katey?”

“Because Charles—your brother, my husband—has been deeply upset in the estrangement between you and Father,” she said briskly. “Father believed that a weekend at Gad’s Hill would quell some of the rumours of that estrangement and cheer Charles up a bit. Alas, it did neither.”

“There has been no estrangement, Katey.”

“Oh, posh!” she said, waving her fingers again. “Do you think I do not see the truth, Wilkie? Your friendship with Father has all but ended, and no one, in or out of the family, is quite sure why.”

I did not know what to say to that, so I sipped my brandy and said nothing. The minute hand on the loudly ticking clock on the mantel crept far too slowly towards midnight.

I almost jumped when Katey suddenly said, “You have heard the rumours, I am sure, that I have taken lovers?”

“I certainly have not!” I said. But, of course, I had—in my club and elsewhere.

“The rumours are true,” said Katey. “I have tried to take lovers… even Percy Fitzgerald before he married that simpering little charmer of his, all dimples and bosoms and no brains.”

I stood and set down my glass. “Mrs Collins,” I said formally, wondering at how strange it was that another woman now took my mother’s name and title, “we have both, perhaps, celebrated with this wonderful wine and brandy a bit too much. As Charles’s brother—and I love him very much—there are things I should not hear.”

She laughed and waved her fingers again. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Wilkie, sit down. Sit down! That’s a good boy. You look so silly when you play at being outraged. Charles knows that I have taken lovers and he knows why. Do you?”

I considered leaving without a word but instead sat down miserably. She had tried once before at Gad’s Hill, you might remember, to bring up this rumour that my brother had never consummated their marriage. I had changed the subject then. Now all I could do was look away from her.

She patted my hands as they sat folded on my lap. “Poor dear,” she said. I thought she was speaking of me, but she was not. “It is not Charley’s fault. Not really. Charles is weak in many ways. My father… well, you know Father. Even while dying—and he is dying, Wilkie, of some affliction none of us can understand, not even Dr Beard—but even while dying, he remains strong. For himself. For everyone. It is why he ca

I stood again. “I really must go, Kate. And you should go up and look in on your husband before midnight. He may need your help. I wish both of you the best of new years.”

She stood but did not move from the parlour as I went into the foyer and put on my coat and hat and muffler and found my stick. Their only servant had left after making di

I went to the parlour doorway, touched the brim of my hat, and said, “Goodnight, Mrs Collins. I thank you for a lovely di

Katey’s eyes were closed and her long fingers were touching the arm of the sofa to keep her steady as she said, “You’ll be back, Wilkie Collins. I know you. When Charley’s in his grave, you’ll be back before his corpse is cold. You’ll be back like a hound—like Father’s old Irish bloodhound, Sultan—baying after me as if I were a bitch in heat.”

I touched my hat brim again and stumbled in my rush to escape out into the night.

It was very cold but there were no clouds. The stars were terribly bright. My polished boots sounded very loud as they crunched on the remainder of the week’s snow on pavement and cobblestones. I decided to walk all the way home.

The bells at midnight surprised me. All over London, the church bells and city bells were ringing in the New Year. I heard a few distant voices crying out in drunken celebration and somewhere, far away towards the river, something that sounded like a musket being fired.

My face suddenly felt cold despite the muffler and when I raised my gloved hands to my cheek, I was astonished to find that I had been weeping.