On the 18th July 1817, Jane Austen died, leaving six finished novels as the legacy of her 41 years. The most popular must surely be Pride and Prejudice, which has inspired many a spin-off, from detective stories to steamy romances. Rohase Piercy takes a different tack: she explores the life of that silent, insipid contrast to Miss Eliza Bennett, the object of the heroine's pity and scorn: Anne de Bourgh. We hope you enjoy this extract from Before Elizabeth as our homage to Jane Austen today.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that I have inherited little in terms of character, and even less as to looks, from my mother’s side of the family – universally, because even Mama, having searched in vain for my features amongst two centuries of Fitzwilliam family portraits, has herself been forced to acknowledge it. She comforts herself with the reflection that in my plain, pale countenance and unimpressive figure resides the august history of my father’s family, now sadly diminished; the family into which she married with such hopes of conjugal felicity and consequence two years before my birth; the family de Bourgh.

We are of French origin, and my father and grandfather were anxious to maintain the connection at a time when no-one had yet heard the name 'Buonaparte'.  It is my father’s sister, Lady Isabelle, whom I am said most to resemble - indeed I would have been named for her, had not my mother demanded that her own sister’s name take precedence.  Her insistence carried the day and I was baptised Anne Isabel de Bourgh, in the little parish church of Hunsford, shortly after my birth in the year 1791.  My Aunt Isabelle was not present; she had lately married a French cousin possessed of a fine estate on the outskirts of Paris, thus making her the envy of all the young women of Kent. And so I was destined never to set eyes upon her, for in my third year both she and her husband met their deaths by guillotine under Robespierre’s Terror. Like many others they had thought themselves invincible, dismissing the concerns of their English relatives and delaying their departure from France until it was too late. My grandfather outlived his daughter by less than a year, blaming himself to the end for having encouraged the French marriage. 

There is a portrait in the long gallery at Rosings which held a particular fascination for me as a child.  It shows my father as a young boy, bewigged and powdered for the occasion, standing stiffly to attention at my grandfather’s knee, his blue eyes betraying even then that look of mild apprehension which I remember so well.   His sister, my young aunt, stands encircled by her mother’s arm, equally pale and solemn in stiff blue satins with a Cavalier spaniel at her feet. She is the only member of the group whose eye seems to meet that of the beholder, and to my young self it was like looking at my own reflection in the glass, in spite of the uncomfortable satin and powdered ringlets; for it is true - I do resemble her, in almost every feature. And my father, who had loved his sister dearly, doted upon the daughter who favoured her so closely and was as lavish in his indulgence of me as Mama was lavish in her disappointment.  I was their only child, and she had hoped for a son.

It is a question worth asking: why did my parents marry?  Why would a man of Papa’s temperament - given the choice as he undoubtedly was of so many young ladies of fortune - choose Lady Catherine Fitzwilliam, probably the least likely to contribute to his domestic happiness?  Did it really mean so much to him, to secure the daughter of an Earl?  Physically she was quite his opposite, tall and queenly as her bearing still is, with dark eyes and strong features; and as to character - perhaps it was her very air of assurance which attracted him?  Perhaps he believed that with her at his side, the social duties required of his situation would be less taxing to his shy and gentle nature.  One does hear of such matches, and sometimes they are very successful - but not, alas, in my parents’ case.

And my mother?  What could have attracted the Earl of Amberleigh's daughter to a mere baronet, and a quiet and unassuming one at that?  Ah, that is easy!  In those days as in these a noble name did not of itself secure an income, and the Fitzwilliam daughters could not afford to marry without some attention to their future material comfort.  My father was heir not only to a baronetcy, but also to a large, well-managed estate whose revenue was secure.  Careless, at that stage, of what disappointments his character might hold for her upon closer acquaintance, Lady Catherine Fitzwilliam would have needed very little persuasion to look favourably upon Lewis de Bourgh’s proposal.

Old Sir Lewis, so the story goes, was initially uneasy; he was a wise and protective father, and knew his son well.  But it was an eligible match; the Earl of Amberleigh had given his consent; and perhaps it was in my grandfather’s mind that so strong a young woman would bring robust blood into the family, enhancing its health along with its nobility.  The arrangements were duly made, and the wedding invitations dispatched. 

Chief among the guests in my mother’s eyes must surely have been her younger sister, Lady Anne, who had entered the marriage state some seven years earlier.  She had married for love, and her husband, although wealthy and in possession of a fine estate in Derbyshire, was distinguished by no other title than that of Mr.  How Mama must have relished having her restoration to seniority as wife of the future Sir Lewis de Bourgh and mistress of Rosings Park witnessed by Mr and Mrs Darcy of Pemberley, and their six-year-old son and heir!

She was confident, of course, that she also would produce a son in due course. When I arrived she hid her disappointment as best she could, and as the likelihood of my being joined by a brother diminished with each ensuing year she consoled herself by arranging, in her own mind at least, a match between her daughter and her sister’s only son - between myself and my cousin, Fitzwilliam Darcy.

Fitzwilliam Darcy - known in the family circle as William. There, I have done it.  I have forced my pen to write his name.  

'However Improbable Podcast' meets 'My Dearest Holmes'

'It is my specific wish and intention that the manuscript contained in this box be left unopened, unread and unpublished until one hundred years have passed since the events described in the first of the two accounts it contains (namely the year 1887).

If this length of time appears in retrospect to have been excessive, I can only apologise to the future generation.  It seems to me now, in this first decade of the new century, that some further decades at least must elapse before these reminiscences can be received with such sympathy and respect as I hope will one day be possible.

The accounts of these cases have never passed through the hands of my literary agent, Dr Conan Doyle, nor do I intend that they ever shall; they are too bound up with events in my personal life which, although they may provide a plausible commentary to much of what must otherwise seem implausible in my published accounts of my dealings with Mr Sherlock Holmes, can never be made public while he or I remain alive.  However, it is my hope that when all those involved have long passed beyond all censure, these accounts may see the light of a happier day than was ever, alas, granted to us.

John H. Watson, M.D., London 1907'

My Dearest Holmes by Rohase Piercy

Picture the scene:  it's 1987, Centenary Year of the publication of  A Study In Scarlet. Jeremy Brett is camping it up as Sherlock on the Granada TV Series here in Britain, the bookshops are full of Holmes memorabilia, shiny new editions, pastiches, scholarly discussions of the 'Holmes Phenomenon' etc … and a young lesbian couple, Rohase Piercy and Charlie Raven, are reading the stories for the very first time and quickly becoming obsessed.  What we are becoming obsessed by, however, is not so much the great detective's extraordinary intellectual powers as the relationship between Holmes and his faithful sidekick Dr Watson.  Why, we wondered were post-Freudian commentaries not brimming over with observation and deduction on this interesting subject?    

This interview with the lovely gals from the However Improbable Podcast brought it all back in vivid detail – the heady excitement of seeing the homoerotic subtext jump off the page, the witty and hilarious (to us) improvisation, the copious amounts of whisky and soda, all resulting in the creative urge to write, both together and individually, the hitherto untold story – and, of course, the media furore that greeted the eventual publication of 'My Dearest Holmes' in 1988, and ensured that Charlie's sister novella, 'A Case Of Domestic Pilfering' lay mouldering in a drawer for nigh-on thirty years.  If you've a spare half-hour or so, have a listen to how it all panned out. Just click the link below. 

https://www.howeverimprobablepodcast.com/listen/book-club-case-file-my-dearest-holmes

Rohase Piercy

Dr Watson's flight into marriage

In May 1891, Sherlock Holmes wrestled Moriarty on edge of the Reichenbach Falls and fell to his 'death'. Rohase Piercy's My Dearest Holmes gives us privileged access to what was passing in the Great Detective's mind and heart in the weeks leading up to his death - and above all, how it affected his faithful friend Watson.

Here's poor Dr Watson at breakfast with his wife - there's a hint of trouble to come.

We sat at the breakfast table, my wife and I, on the morning of the 23rd of April 1891, discussing the morning’s post. Mary had received a letter from her former employer, Mrs Cecil Forrester, which had engrossed her for a full quarter of an hour - much to my relief, for I had some private correspondence of my own to peruse.

‘Well, James,’ she said, when she had set down her letter with a smile, ‘can I help you to more coffee?’

I looked at her in some alarm. ‘James?’ I repeated.

She gestured with the coffee pot towards the envelope. ‘Dr James Watson. I am apt at reading upside down, you know.’

‘Oh, that.’ I gave a nervous laugh.

‘Yes, that. I wish you would tell me when you’ve been using a pseudonym. It could be very awkward - supposing the gentleman were to call, and I in my innocence were to disillusion him?’

I felt myself blushing, and sighed to cover my embarrassment. ‘I do not think that is very likely.’

‘Ah, but you should guard against all eventualities. I wonder what the maid thought when she read the envelope?’

I grimaced, and sipped at my coffee. ‘He asked my name. I hardly knew him. I did not give any surname at all. I don’t know how he discovered it.’

‘He probably read ‘Dr J Watson’ on your hat-band, or something. Did you give him our address?’

‘Of course not!’

‘Then how …?’ she gestured towards the letter.

‘He must have found it out …’ I trailed off nervously, wondering how.

Mary leaned back in her chair and surveyed me anxiously. ‘Is he asking you for money?’

‘No, he is trying to arrange another meeting.’

‘A gentleman?’ She raised an eyebrow.

‘A soldier.’

‘Ah, I see. Do be careful, John.’

‘Don’t worry, I will decline the invitation. And he’ll have too much to lose himself to try and pester me.’

I spoke confidently, trying to disguise the unsettling effect the brief note from my companion of the evening before last was having upon me and wondering when I had grown so careless. What Holmes would say, if he knew! But Mary was obviously reassured, for she picked up her own letter and smiled at me.

We had an easy, affectionate relationship, free from the expectations and hence from many of the pitfalls usually incumbent upon husband and wife. We liked one another, had much in common, and could guarantee each other discreet cover for the pursuance of our own tastes in companionship. My published account of our wooing in The Sign Of Four was accurate in one respect: it was, as has often been remarked, a rather rapid business. But why should we wait? We had nothing to lose, and much to gain, from a public alliance, and Mary had the blessing of Mrs Forrester, whose young son was fast approaching school age and no longer in need of a governess. I had hoped for a similar blessing from Sherlock Holmes, of course; but this I had absolutely failed to procure.

‘I have an invitation also,’ said Mary, carefully folding her correspondence and replacing it in the envelope. ‘And if it’s all the same to you, I would like to accept. Isobel has invited me to spend a fortnight at Hastings, now that the school term has started and Valentine is out of the way.’

‘That is a terrible way to speak of such a sweet little boy.’

Mary narrowed her eyes at me, and poured herself a third cup of coffee. ‘I should like to leave tomorrow,’ was all she said.

Isobel, of course, was none other than Mrs Cecil Forrester, who some eighteen months ago had made her deceased brother’s house in Hastings her permanent residence. Mary was in the habit of visiting her there regularly, and naturally I never made any demur. I lit a cigarette and smiled graciously. ‘You have my permission, Mrs Watson.’

Her reply was fortunately delayed by the arrival of the maid to clear away the breakfast things, and in the interval it was, I believe, somewhat modified. ‘I expect you will have a visit.’

I tried to look nonplussed. ‘I hope not, if I refuse this invitation.’

‘You know perfectly well who I mean,’ she said severely, pursing her lips. ‘And I will tell you in advance that I thank him for his kind enquiries, and send my regards.’

‘How civilised, to be sure. But I do not expect to see him, Mary. I believe he is still in France.’

‘If he knows I am away he will turn up, as sure as day follows night. John, do try to make him understand that I would never stand on my position - that I would never try to come between you. Heaven knows I owe him enough! And he knows he has no reason to resent me.’

I sighed. ‘Ah, my dear,’ I said, ‘there is nothing I would like better than to see you both good friends. But he will not change his attitude, because he will never admit to harbouring resentment in the first place. I’ve come to suspect that the circumstances make no difference to him - I have left him, and he is determined to punish me for it, even though he admitted with his own lips that he could give me no reason to stay. I had hoped it would be different but - well, there’s nothing to be done.’

Mary sighed also, and rose from the table. As she passed me she reached for my hand and clasped it sympathetically. ‘I’m so sorry, John,’ she said. ‘It seems you have not done so well out of this arrangement as I have.’

‘Oh, I do pretty well on the whole,’ I said with calculated nonchalance, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. ‘After all, I’m a rising star in the medical profession, with my own establishment, an unusually harmonious marriage, and some extremely talented friends. I rub shoulders with the rich and famous now, did you know?’

‘Yes, so you keep telling me. But you have not yet produced one invitation to a first night.’

‘Be patient, Mrs Watson, be patient.’

She shook her head indulgently as she left the room.

My smile faded when she had gone, and I lit a second cigarette. Against hope, I wondered whether I might indeed expect a visit from Sherlock Holmes. I had received two notes from him over the last three months, dated from Narbonne and from Nîmes, from which I gathered that his stay in France was likely to be a long one; though he did not tell me more than what I had read for myself in the newspapers, namely that he had been engaged by the French government upon a matter of supreme importance. Still, he had not forgotten me. He had written, twice. He wanted me to know where he was, and what he was doing. In the early days of my marriage, I had tried several times to invite him to dinner. Only once had I succeeded, and the occasion had not been a success. He was very civil to Mary, but when left alone with me at the dinner table he fell into a sulk and refused to converse in the old, easy way. I see now that it was insensitive of me to patronise him with these invitations; knowing as I did the insecurity that lay behind his precise, logical façade, it was unfair of me to flaunt my newfound domestic respectability. But then again, knowing as he did the real reason for my flight into marriage it was unfair of him to be so resentful.

The passage of three years made no difference to his attitude. He would visit me, as Mary said, uninvited and at odd hours, either when she was from home or when the hour was so late that he knew she had in all probability retired for the night. He would smoke my tobacco, make comments upon my appearance and amuse himself by deducing how I had spent my day, whether I’d had any other visitors lately, the state of my health etc. He would than ask casually whether ‘Mrs Watson’ were in, and upon receiving the expected reply would invariably request that I abandon my practice for the next few days and accompany him upon whichever investigation was currently in hand. I had, as I have mentioned elsewhere, an ‘accommodating neighbour’ in Dr Anstruther, who could usually be prevailed upon to cover for me on these occasions; but I think I would have followed Holmes at a moment’s notice, even if it had meant losing my practice altogether.

Time and marriage had not altered my feelings for him; and I, grasping at straws, was pleased to read in his minute observations of me, his constant reminders that he ‘knew my habits’, the confidence and alacrity with which he summoned me from my home and work, and even in his unreasonable jealousy of poor Mary, a sign of that affection for me which he had never allowed himself to express.

Sometimes, if he knew Mary to be home, he would summon me by telegram to his side. I always went, however inconvenient the time. Mary understood.

I dropped in at Baker Street a few times, uninvited. He was pleased to see me, I think, but it was painful for both of us to find ourselves alone together on the old shared territory; and he could never resist rubbing salt into the wound by remarking how wedlock suited me, how much weight I had gained, how thriving was my appearance and so on.

As time passed, we saw one another less and less frequently. He engrossed himself in his work; since my published accounts of his cases had made him well known, he was much sought after.

I knew that his cocaine habit had increased its hold, and that there was nothing I could do or say to dissuade him from it. At the conclusion of the Sholto affair, I had made a rather tasteless remark to the effect that I had done better out of the case than he, since I had gained a wife, and he not even the proper recognition for all his work since the credit was likely to go to Athelney Jones. ‘There still remains the cocaine bottle,’ was all Holmes had said.

I understand now what I could not then perceive, that he used the drug to deaden the turmoil within him, and that my marriage increased that turmoil. But my instinct at the time was one of self-preservation, and since my love for him made life at Baker Street a torment to me, I grasped the lucky chance that had come my way and left him to the tender mercies of the drug.

I was startled out of my reverie by the entrance of the maid announcing that the first patient of the day had arrived. I had not even heard the doorbell. Hastily I removed my dressing gown, donned my frock-coat, and made my way to my consulting room. For the next few hours at least, I must put Sherlock Holmes out of my mind.

‘Well, here is the train already,’ said Mary as we approached the platform. ‘I might as well get on and find myself a good seat. You don’t have to wait.’

‘I would like to wave you off,’ I said. I missed her when she was away, and it always surprised me. Sometimes I wondered whether she missed me when I disappeared in answer to a summons from Holmes. If she did, she never showed it. We approached the ladies’ carriage, and she was pleased to find it uncrowded.

‘I shall probably travel back on the Sunday,’ she said. ‘It will be quieter. Unless you hear otherwise, you may expect me back for dinner in just under a fortnight.’

I nodded. ‘Do give my regards to Mrs Forrester. I hope you find her well.’

‘So do I. Do you know, it has been nearly three months … we’ll have much to talk about!’

I laughed. ‘Will there be ... other guests?’

‘Not at first, I hope. But if I should encounter Anne D’Arcy, I will be sure to remember you to her.’ ‘Please do.’ I was aware that a mutual wariness existed between my wife and Miss D’Arcy, and that Mrs Forrester was the cause of it; but I never enquired too deeply into the complications of their circle. To be honest, I preferred not to contemplate the details of Mary’s private life; which was unreasonable in me, as she was perfectly sanguine about mine.

Mary boarded the train, and I assisted her with her portmanteau. She settled herself at the window seat. ‘Anyway John, James or whatever you call yourself, be sure to keep well; and be discreet, there’s a good boy.’

‘I am always discreet,’ I said somewhat huffily.

‘My dear husband, you are not. But far be it from me to lecture you. Just don’t shock the servants, and if you should be any chance be whisked away by you-know-whom, do just pause and send me a wire. If I return to an empty house and find that I could have prolonged my visit I shall be most annoyed.’

‘Prolong your visit anyway, my dear, if you wish; but I do not anticipate being whisked away. I shall certainly be in touch if anything untoward occurs.’

The final slamming of doors and the shrill of the guard’s whistle proclaimed that the train was about to depart. Mary hastily leaned out of the window and kissed me on both cheeks. ‘Have fun,’ she said.

‘And you, Mrs Watson.’

I felt no premonition, no twinge of foreboding; but the ground was to shift under my feet before I saw her again.

Tut, Watson, I'm surprised at you

 In this extract from the first part of Rohase Piercy's 'My Dearest Holmes', we eavesdrop on Holmes and Watson discussing the case brought to them by a Miss Anne D'Arcy, whose companion, Maria Kirkpatrick, has gone missing.  A search of Miss Kirkpatrck's desk has unearthed the photograph of an effete-looking young man, believed to be her illegitimate son … and a rather embarrassed Watson has had to admit that Mr Maurice Kirkpatrick is actually an acquaintance of his.

‘Well, Watson,’ said Holmes, leaping to his feet the minute she had left and beginning to pace the room whilst rubbing his hands together gleefully, ‘this is all very exciting, is it not? This case certainly exhibits some singular features. I am glad, by the way, that Miss D’Arcy found you so supportive. I can always trust you to take care of that department. And now for the next stage …’

‘Now look, Holmes,’ I interrupted sharply, feeling that such innuendos were in very poor taste, especially under the circumstances, ‘I really must set you straight on all this. The way in which Miss D’Arcy found me supportive was not at all what you imply. Heaven knows why you insist on propounding this fantasy about my susceptibility to women; but if you cannot see that Miss D’Arcy is - well, a confirmed spinster, I suppose is an apt description - then your powers of perception are considerably less than I’ve given you credit for.’ 

Holmes stood in front of me with his hands in his pockets, a maddening expression of pure delight upon his face. ‘My poor dear boy,’ said he, ‘you do underestimate me, don’t you? I do assure you that I have a full and accurate grasp of the situation. There is really no need to expound upon it. As for your affinity with the fair sex - well, Watson, you surely cannot deny that women in general, confirmed spinsters or no, do seem to find you extremely sympathetic. It’s your doctorly manner, I expect. Now, where is the inaccuracy in my stating the obvious? H’mm?’

I clenched my teeth in frustration. It was at times like this that I most regretted the exaggerated boasts with which I had for some reason felt it necessary to regale my friends at around the time of my first meeting with Holmes. What could I say? That I suspected his full and accurate grasp of the situation to be the result of his morning’s research, since I had seen no evidence of it earlier? I knew he would have no hesitation in calling my bluff, and in turning the situation to his own advantage.

'Anyway, Watson,’ he continued, strolling jauntily around the room with an annoying spring in his step, ‘since you’re so anxious to set me straight on matters of which I am ignorant, perhaps you’d care to give me a little resumé of your acquaintance with Mr Maurice Kirkpatrick. I must say, it really is a lucky chance your knowing him. Now, what do you think? Would he be pleased to receive a visit from your good self accompanied by an aficionado of the turf, eager to discuss form and courses? Or would he perhaps prefer to make the acquaintance of an older gentleman of private means and aesthetic temperament? Which shall I be, Watson? In either case, I think a certain air of decadence would fit the bill, don’t you?’ 

This kind of teasing made me even more uncomfortable, being nearer the mark of accuracy. I crossed hurriedly to the window to hide my discomposure. 

‘Tell me first,’ I said as coolly as I could, ‘just why you think he is being blackmailed?’ 

‘Oh, I don’t think he is being blackmailed at all,’ said Holmes impatiently. ‘But his father undoubtedly is, and has, rather foolishly in my opinion, called on him for help.’ 

‘His father?’ I spun round, astonished, all discomposure forgotten. ‘But he has no father!’ 

‘Tut, Watson, I’m surprised at you. And you a medical man! Everybody has a father somewhere; we may take that as a working hypothesis in at least ninety-nine percent of cases.’ 

‘Well good heavens, Holmes, I mean of course he has a father, but surely - do you mean you are assuming he knows who his father is?’ 

‘Well, I am assuming he does now! Whether he did before this present trouble, I am not yet in a position to say. But now, do you see -?’ he continued, deliberately adopting the patient manner of one explaining the obvious to a child or an idiot, ‘now, let’s assume for the sake of argument that he receives a message from a gentleman claiming to be his father, and he wishes to check the gentleman’s credentials, so to speak. To whom does he apply for corroboration on the subject? Come on now, my boy, your mental powers should be able to tackle this one …’ 

‘Oh stop it, Holmes,’ I said feebly, for I could see he was embarking upon a fit of hilarity and I had no desire to join him. ‘So he contacts his mother. But I still fail to see why it has to be blackmail.’ 

‘Why, it could be nothing else!’ said Holmes, controlling himself with difficulty. ‘If the man has contacted neither his son, nor the mother of his son, for some twenty-odd years, nothing less than the threat of discovery would lead him to do so now. You see why I did not wish to go into the matter in front of Miss D’Arcy,’ he continued in a serious voice, taking me by the elbow and leading me towards the door. ‘The subject would naturally be distressing for her. We had better wait until we have cleared the whole thing up before involving her further. Now, Watson, up you go and change into a waistcoat that boasts its full regimen of buttons! I would fit a new shoelace too, if I were you; we may have a little walk ahead of us. And what a careless fellow you were this morning, to nick your cheek like that … I, meanwhile, will go and don my accoutrements, and then we will make our way over to Kensington, with a little detour for lunch en route.’ 

‘Might I suggest, Holmes, that the older gentleman would be a more suitable disguise?’ I said sweetly. ‘I flatter myself that Kirkpatrick has always looked upon me as something of a paternal figure, and since I am your senior by a mere couple of years we can hardly expect him to do less for you.’ 

From the mischievous glint that stole into his eye, I realised that somewhere in my little speech I had laid myself open to his repartee. Having no wish to hear it, I closed the door hurriedly and made my way up to my room.

My name is not Mary

 A Case of Domestic Pilfering is a Holmesian romp set in high summer. Come, warm yourself on memories of hot streets ...

Madeleine had been stooping, picking at the flattened granules of something ground into the carpet.  Now she straightened, red in the face, and sat back on her heels for a moment until a movement at the door made her jump.

'Only me!'

Madeleine turned away.  'So I see.  How come you always turn up when the work's half finished?'

'It was John.  He kept me to help with – to help him shift something.'  The older girl moved across the room slowly, humming.

'Well, you took your time.  I've already cleaned over there, by the way.'

'So you have.  Good little worker, ain't you Mary?  Shall I do over here then?'   

My name is not Mary, protested Madeleine silently. 'No need.  It's all done, Sarah.'

'Well, lemme carry that then.  Oh by the way –  ain't it your half day today?  Don't feel like swapping with me by any chance?  I got some things I want to do.'

'No, I don't.  I've got things to do as well.'

'Oh come on, Mary!  What things?'  Sarah sat down on the piano stool; the lid was up, and she ran a finger along the keys.

'Shush that!  They'll hear you!' 

'Not them.  They didn't get in till light.  I heard 'em.'

'Couldn't sleep, eh?'

Sarah ignored the dig.  'You're mean, you are, Mary,' she said in complaining tones. 'You get much more fun than me, living out like you do.  It's work, work, work here, all day long.'

'I work.  Or hadn't you noticed?'  And my name is not Mary.

'Well, I'd have thought you could do me just one tiny favour...'

'I'm always doing you favours.'  Madeleine made toward the door.  'I've got things to do,' she repeated over her shoulder.

'Must be love, then!' laughed Sarah as she slid from the piano stool.

Madeleine stood still for a moment.  'No,' she said firmly; 'No, it's not love.'

They crossed the hall in silence, and disappeared down the back stairs.

Later, she threaded her way through the crowd.  It was hot, and although she'd washed her face and hands before leaving Mr Clements' house she felt dirty and sticky.  The pavements burned through the soles of her shoes, and the smell of people, horses and hot tar invaded her nose.  At last she decided to blow some wages on an omnibus, rummaging in her purse to find the requisite coppers.

Home at last, tired and flushed, feeling the hair cling damply to her forehead, she ascended the three steps and opened the door.  Immediately the smell of cabbage puffed at her, accompanied by its auditory equivalent: Mr Morgan's voice lessons wafting down the stairwell.  She hurried into the back room she shared with her mother, pulling at the ribbons of her bonnet.

Her mother was in bed, a great heap under the covers, snoring.  The yellow blinds trapped the air; the room smelled of sweat and unwashed linen.  Madeleine wrinkled her nose, withdrawing quietly.  She went downstairs to the basement where her younger brother Michael was reading at the kitchen table.

'Is that tea?'  She sat down opposite him as he refilled the cup at his elbow and pushed it towards her.  

'What you reading, Mikey?'

He held up the book.  'The Terrible Fate of Lady Melrose,' she read aloud.  'That's the same one you were reading last week!'

'Yeah.  It's got some good bits in it.  This Lady gets kidnapped by a gang of roughs - here, look -'

Madeleine read curiously.  'That's rude'.  She pushed the book away, blushing involuntarily.

Michael was grinning.  'I don't mind.'

'Don't suppose you do.  Anyway, no-one talks like that in real life.'  She swept some biscuit crumbs aside.

'It's books, innit?  Anyway, I'll be getting a new one tomorrow because – look.'  He slid something into his palm and made a fist.  'Which one?'

'That one.'  He opened his hand.

'Well well,' she said softly.  'You have been earning your keep now, haven't you?'  She looked at him.  'Anything else?'

'No.  Straightforward, this one. Never seen him before –  new to it, by the looks of him.'

Madeleine nodded.  'It's the regulars who turn out more interesting from my point of view.'

'And mine.  Did your Frog go for those papers?'

'Difficult to tell, but he was interested all right. Enough to make your gent worth another squeeze.'

'I'll squeeze him all right.  They're pathetic, that sort – dead scared, but keep coming back for more.  Must be my charm.'  Michael smiled pleasantly.  'The price'll go up this time, though.  We could do some serious business – tell your Frog that.  By the by, what about your gent?  Any chance there?'

'Mr Clements?  Too risky.   Anyway, he's catered for.  Got a nice friend staying with him now.'

'One of us?'  Michael leaned forward, interested.

'Nah.  He sticks to his own.'

Michael sat in silence for a while; Madeleine watched him.  He met her eyes.

'Mads - d'you think I should buy something for Ma with this?'  Suddenly he looked very young.

'She never notices!  Don't know why you bother.'

'Don't be hard on her, Mads.  She can't help it.'

'I'm sick of hearing that.'  Madeleine spoke coldly.  'She has it easy compared to you.  And me.'

'She's had a deal of trouble …'

'We've all got trouble.  Don't get soft on me, Mikey.  You won't last if you're soft.'

'I think I know that better than you,' said Michael quietly.  'Don't be angry, Mads.'  

There was a pause.  'When you seeing him, then?  Your Frog?'

'Dunno. Tonight, maybe. Or maybe not. I'm tired.'  She rubbed her eyes and passed a hand through her dirty yellow hair.  'No, tonight. I could do with a run. It helps.'

'I know,' said Michael.   

Upstairs Mrs Peterson reached a crescendo of snores, and on the floor above, Mr Morgan's pupil trilled on top G, cracked, and gamely tried again.  'Bravo!' came his voice, drifting faintly down the stairs; 'Bravo!'

Oscar, I will start again

Happy New Year to all our kindly readers! We wish you all plenty of health, wealth and happiness and thank you for visiting our blog.   

As we note that it was Constance Wilde's birthday yesterday, it seems an excellent opportunity to take a peep into some private correspondence addressed to her estranged husband, Oscar Wilde. It is, of course, as imagined by Rohase Piercy in her excellent and well-researched novel, The Coward Does It With A Kiss. 

Villa Elvira,

Bogliasco,

Nervi.

2nd of January 1898

My Dear Oscar,

You may be surprised to receive another letter from me so soon after my last, and indeed I had not intended to write again for I have nothing in particular to say that has not been covered by our recent correspondence.  I'm sure I need hardly add that I have not changed my mind about anything, especially after your last letter to me, which is the letter of a madman.  I suppose that A.D. is still with you?  I hear rumours that Lady Q. has written to him, and that you are both short of money.  I can only say that I hope she has withdrawn his allowance as I have withdrawn yours, and when I think of your going back to him after all that has happened, and then blaming me because I have been biding my time before inviting you here to join me, a thing which everyone agreed to be the most sensible and delicate course of action, I hope you may both starve.

Oscar, I will start again.

I do not want to write you another letter full of bitterness and recrimination.  I want to write you at least one honest piece of correspondence, not to lecture you about your situation, but to tell you something about mine.  Or are you so far steeped in the madness of self-pity that you have not even the imagination to see that your wife has a soul to be tormented also, a soul as precious as yours perhaps?

It is no use. I am so full, so saturated with bitterness and spite, that it appears I can neither speak nor write without barbs.  I sometimes wonder whether my ill health is not caused by sheer anger - spite and resentment running like electricity through my nerves - which would account, perhaps, for the shooting pains and the tingling.  Of course I have plenty of encouragement from my family and from well-meaning friends (and your well-meaning friends have done little to help the situation) – but encouragement is no excuse.  The truth is that I am an unpleasant person masquerading as a likeable one, a vindictive women pretending to be a martyr; one who chose with eyes wide open to go where I would seem to have been led innocent and blind.  I say this in cold blood and without self-abasement; and I know that it will be as great a surprise to you as anyone, to know that I have long had a window through which to look into the secret recesses of your heart.  

It has often been said to me (how often!) that I could not be blamed for having misunderstood you, that your actions were, and still are, beyond the comprehension of decent people.  But I did and still do understand you, Oscar; I understand you perfectly well.  It is myself, myself I do not understand.

Cyril went back to Neuenheim yesterday, and I do miss him; especially as today is my birthday, as you know, and I enter my forty-first year.  But it is a beautiful morning here at Nervi, and I feel quite well for the first time in days.  Maria woke me with a breakfast tray on which lay a bouquet of sun-coloured roses – a gift from the Ranee, who always remembers me.  She must have sent for them specially, at this time of year.  Feeling rested, I rose early and have been sitting for some time now by my window, from which I can see the jasmine in bloom, and the white road leading down to the village.  I have been leafing through an old diary which I found in the bottom of my trunk – I am still in the process of unpacking, you see! - and which I am very thankful to have kept by me, for I blush to think what the bailiffs who ransacked Tite Street would have made of it.  I am not sure just what has prompted such a restrospective indulgence, at a time when retrospection can bring me nothing but pain – intimations of mortality, perhaps, having reached the age of forty (still young, the Ranee says, but it feels so old!); my ill health, et cetera; and thoughts of other birthdays, with you.

 You think this a rambling and self-indulgent preamble, no doubt.  Well, you should know all about that.

  

No.  If I cannot do better than this, this letter had best not be sent at all.  I am getting too tired, Oscar, to nag you for much longer, you will be relieved to hear.  Would you be interested, I wonder, in what I have been reading?  

 Well, prepare yourself.  The young woman who expressed herself thus was twenty-six years of age, and newly married; a young woman of artistic pretensions, ardent disciple of the Aesthetic Movement, and forty-eight hours wife of one who was, at the time, regarded as its High Priest.

Hotel Wagram, Rue de Rivoli

31st of May, 1884

The first day of my new life!  And my first chance to write about it.  It still seems like a wonderful dream, from which I pray I may never wake.  I have a few hours to myself this morning – by choice, of course, for O. pressed me to join them in a morning stroll but I declined, thinking how delicious it would be to spend some time writing by the window in our room.  We have a wonderful view of the Tuileries, and everything is in bloom, and I can see couples out strolling arm in arm just as O. and I did yesterday (as man and wife!  How strange, and yet how completely natural it seems already to think of ourselves in those terms).  Mr Sherard addressed me this morning as “Mrs Oscar”...

  Oh, I forgot to mention that Robert Sherard arrived at breakfast this morning, and was introduced to me, and was altogether most charming and contratulatory.  I had heard much about him from O. and so was very interested to meet him; he does not seem on first acquaintance to display any of the “puritanism” that O. likes to complain of – on the contrary, he seems a rather romantic figure, and puts me in mind of Chatterton.  And he is the great-grandson of Wordsworth!  Anyway, he and Oscar are taking a stroll together, and I do not at all begrudge them one another's company, for now I have a little solitude in which to revel in my happiness.  To tell the truth, I am also feeling tired – and aching in every limb!  I am very glad of those talks with Lady M.B. otherwise I might not be quite sure that all is as it should be.  It feels rather like one's monthly “indisposition”, but it is not at all unpleasant; in fact I feel extremely smug and contented, and I shall never allow myself to be intimidated by a bitter old spinster like Aunt Emily again!  For what does she know of life, when all is said and done?

“More happy love, more happy, happy love,

Forever warm, and still to be enjoyed,

Forever panting and forever young!”

(O. prefers Keats to Shelley, and I am coming round to his way of thinking - we read this aloud only last night, and laughed for pleasure!)  

“Forever may I love, and he be fair!”

O. seems vastly pleased with himself, and enjoys showing much tenderness and concern.  I do not like to spoil it for him, although he knows perfectly well that I was neither ignorant - how could I be, with a father whose indiscretions were the talk of the household? - nor apprehensive!  He insists that all his past experience counts for nothing, that there was no-one to compare to me, and of course that pleases me.  And he is so beautiful … I nearly told him what Lady M.B. said to me about the Rajah on her wedding night, but feared that instead  of amusing him it might offend.  His delicacy is so delightful, I hope he never loses it ...

Oh, Oscar!  I really think I had better not send this letter.  Embittered and cynical as I have become, it still brings an indulgent smile to my lips, even a nostalgic tear or two.  And Robert Sherard!  Not that I have any particular suspicions, for it is true that he was infected with a lingering puritanism … but even so, more than one of my friends thought it strange, on the second day of our honeymoon, and said so!  Well, it comes as no surprise to me now, to remember that I thought the two of you charming together.  But see what comes next:

 

I am interrupted by a knock at the door, and there has just been delivered a beautiful bouquet from O., who has not yet been gone more than an hour and a half, and a card with sweet words on it! What must Mr Sherard think of us?

  

(What indeed?  I remember how, a few days later, he threatened to throw his swordstick out of the carriage door on the grounds of being tempted to murder us for being too happy.  I thought it a great joke, and offered to relieve him of the tempting weapon there and then...)

 Ah, Oscar, our honeymoon!  Visits to John Donaghue's studio (you remember the bas-relief of the naked boy harpist we both admired so much?); Sarah Bernhardt's wonderful Lady Macbeth; ordering heaps of new clothes (at last I could order with impunity the costumes of which Aunt Emily so disapproved - soft flowing fabrics, rich colours, no bustle); reading Keats to one another in the evenings, when “Chatterton” had made his bow and retired.  And we were in Paris, in June!  Of all places and all seasons!  I felt as though a banner had unfurled in my heart declaiming Liberté, égalité, fraternité!  Strolling through the Tuileries in the evening, lamps flaring out against an indigo sky - I felt like a queen newly crowned, installed in the palace of your heart, Oscar, with all your adorers hastening to cast themselves at my feet also.

  After Paris, Dieppe was quiet, was it not?  A little too quiet for you, I think, but for me it was just what I wanted, for I needed time to reflect, and prepare for our return to London.  I had much to reflect on – at least, I seem to have thought so at the time, for my diary entries become quite copious, all much in the same rapturous vein:

  

Oscar is like the white moon, hiding the secret blue of his eyes under langorous heavy lids, and the amber waves of his hair are like an aureola around him. He makes me feel as deep and as powerful as the sea; the moon leans down, and she rocks him in her lap, like a lover.

  

A little too “utter”, perhaps, but not all bad I think – even comparable to something of yours?  I was told that you described me on occasion as a “violet-eyed Artemis” - well, I cannot imagine that you found me much like Artemis on our honeymoon!  Looking back, I wonder whether I might even have frightened you a little?

  

Received today a letter from Lady Wilde, who addresses me as “Dearest Constance” and signs herself “La Madre Devotissima”!  Mainly compliments about the wedding...  Will I ever live up to her expectations?  I wish I had the courage to display even half her unconventionality!  I really do not want to be a  Virgilia to her Volumnia, though I am sometimes afraid that is how people will see us.

  

Ah, poor Speranza. She was looking for a daughter to fill the chasm left by your little sister's death all those years ago.  I think that in time I did come to fill it, at least partly.  I certainly did come to love her, with a true affection; it is one of my greatest regrets that I was not more of a comfort and support to her at the last.