Authors: Jean Stubbs
Oh, how I wish that were true! Caleb thought.
‘Good-day, friend,’ he said aloud, peaceably.
The morning’s letters had arrived. He opened the one from his father first. The Warwickshire ironmaster’s yoke was comfortable, but both partners resented it a little. Still, his goodwill and advice and the twelve thousand pounds of capital he had helped them to borrow must be paid for in humility.
The letter began with Lord Kersall, who must surely be dogging their footsteps that day. Humphrey Kersall, the iron-master wrote, was driven by greed and worldly pride and suffered from the sin of covetousness. In order to save him from temptation, with the morsel of Belbrook Foundry in his jaws, the elder Caleb now suggested that they do business with George Horsefield in the main part, giving the Millbridge bank manager enough money to please him but not enough to put themselves at his mercy. Furthermore, when cash was short and payments due, they should draw bills on either the London or the Bristol Quaker business houses. ‘
For
if
the
fruit
is
ripe
,
’
Caleb had written, ‘
and
Humphrey
Kersall
ever
able
to
gather
it
,
that
will
he
do
.
’
He ended by saying that George Horsefield had spoken to him about marrying Zelah, and he had given him both permission and blessing to do so.
‘Oh … Christmas!’ said Caleb, which was the nearest he ever came to an oath.
*
The banker stood by Zelah’s side in the conservatory at Somer Court, quietly pleased with an intimacy which had grown from childhood, which would flower into marriage. She seemed pale and ill at ease, unlike herself. He put this down to a natural modesty, for she must know what was afoot even by the way Caleb had brought him to see her, by the way Catherine had smilingly left the inner room and taken her younger daughters with her.
So he began by saying, ‘This will not surprise thee, my dear Zelah — ’
When she incontinently cut across his speech, crying, ‘Pray thee, George, we have al’ways been friends. Let us remain so.’
His speech was too firmly in his head and mouth, too rooted by years of belief and habit, to be stemmed in this fashion.
‘Why, so we shall be, Zelah. For if a man is not his wife’s best friend, and she his, then should they not be joined — ’
‘Exactly so, I pray thee. I pray thee, say no more. Be my friend, and say no more, dear George. Oh, heaven knows’ seeing his bewildered face — ‘I would sooner cut off this hand than hurt thee. So be my friend, and no more.’
He was both intelligent and kind. Perceiving that she was on the verge of weeping he pursued the matter no further. But touched the proffered hand to show they were friends indeed, and bowed and left her. Alone, she grieved openly for the life they could have led together had she not met William; then for William who, though always present in her mind, was absent in flesh; then for her parents who would be disappointed and troubled; and at last for herself who was torn between the life she knew and the unknown life at Belbrook, and the discipline of her society which would surely expel her.
So Catherine found her, and endeavoured to mend the situation.
‘For though thou knowest that marriage is a solemn contract, and that much is expected of all women (and no one gainsayeth that our way is difficult!) yet do not let thy heart fail thee at the prospect, Zelah. Though there be hardship there is great joy, and deeper than joy, in a good match. And thee knows that George is a fine man and we love him. Do not fear marriage, Zelah. It is to be approached with reverence and care, but not with fear, my daughter.’
‘But I do not love George,’ cried Zelah. ‘I like him very much, Mamma, but I do not love him.’
Catherine assumed, as George Horsefield had done, that the thought of love-making was disturbing to her daughter. In truth, it was the lack of love-making, and not from George, which made Zelah weep.
‘Thee will feel better by and by,’ said Catherine. ‘Perhaps he spoke too soon for thee. Shall we ask him to wait a twelvemonth, my love?’
The truth hovered on Zelah’s lips, and was sealed by Catherine’s next observation.
‘Thy father hath persuaded George to be concerned in Belbrook,’ she continued, endeavouring to bridge the conversation with more familiar matters. ‘That will help Caleb and William mightily. I am amazed how much thy father hath done for them. But then, he sets great store by them both — though thee would not think it, hearing him chide them!’
‘Nast thee heard from Caleb yet?’ Zelah asked, drying her eyes and resolving to say nothing.
‘Why, we heard only last week, child. Thou cant not expect them to write more often.’
‘It seems much longer,’ said Zelah pitifully, for they only wrote of business.
‘Perhaps thee should visit one of my sisters for a month or two,’ said Catherine, looking at her daughter’s woeful face and drooping form.
The girl’s mouth and eyes were swollen, vulnerable. She was suffering the inexplicable sorrow, the extreme sadness, of youth. Her long childhood was over. She stood at the edge of loss.
‘Could I go to my Aunt Maria?’ Zelah asked.
‘I must ask thy father first, but I dare say he will not mind.’
For her sister Maria, closest of companions, had married a Church of England clergyman and gone over to the other side completely. They had never lost touch, but visits were not easy for either of them, and Zelah had not seen her aunt more than three times in her young life.
‘I thought thee did not care for Sheffield,’ Catherine commented.
‘I care for Aunt Maria,’ said Zelah, who would confide in her. Catherine sat with her hands in her lap, as women sit at the end of a long day, wondering how they have got through. The defection of Maria had been a sad trouble in her family, and in twenty years the hurt had not healed.
‘Well then,’ said Catherine at last, ‘if thee must, Zelah. Though why thee should have a concern for her above the others I do not know.’
The girl was silent. Her need could not be voiced.
‘I will take counsel with thy father then.’
But how should he deny his wife or favourite daughter? For favourite she was, though the great Caleb frowned upon favouritism. Zelah was too like Catherine to be loved along with the rest. So husband and wife communed together he spare and grey, she subdued but golden still.
‘She is younger in heart and body than we thought,’ said Caleb simply. ‘Well, she shall not be forced. It took me more than a twelvemonth to gain thy consent, Catherine. And thou wart older than our Zelah.’
She mused upon that time. She had borne their last child. Their summer was over. They could only see how quietly splendid their match had been, how like to it that of George and Zelah could be.
‘I shall speak with him again,’ Caleb assured her. ‘He will wait. His love is great and deep. Aye, let her go to Maria if she wishes. Though of us, they are apart from us, and that is what Zelah most desires. At the moment.’
*
My Dearest William, I am staying with my Aunt Maria at the Address above Until the Summer, and if Thee send me a Letter Pray ask Caleb to direct it so that my Aunt think it Comes from Him. Oh, how I do Detest this Secrecy, and feel I am Less than Myself in Our Love whereas I should be More. Aunt Maria hath Hearkened to my Story but will not say yea nor nay, and tho’ she hath a Concern for me she Fears to Estrange herself Further with my Parents by Taking my Side. George Horsefield hath spoken for me, but I Refused him, poor George. I’d my Parents think Only that I need Time, and he will Ask again. How then shall I Answer without I Tell them of Thee and me? Oh, Dearest Life, tho’ I would not Hurt thee in thy Dealings with George and my Father, shall thee not Confide in my Parents as to thine Intentions? Give me some Hope and some Direction, else shall I not know Where to Turn. I am so much Alone in this, and Separated even from mine own Sect in my Mind.
Tell Caleb that I am Poorer for my Brother, Friend and Messenger. It is nigh on a twelvemonth since thee told me that thee Loved me and would have me to Wife. Nigh on a Year since I have seen Thee. And those Thu Letters, tho’ so Dearly Cherished and Oft Read, are all I have of Thee. I know that thou art Embroiled in thine Undertakings, but All I have is Invested in Thee. Oh, Help me, William, and do not Cease to Love thy most Loving Zelah.
London
1792
Toby Longe’s notion of finance could be compared with going to sea in a leaky boat. While the waters were calm he trimmed his craft pretty well, though without making headway. When a wind rose he was in trouble. A storm threatened to capsize all aboard. And he was sinking little by little. Charlotte early learned to waylay payments so that butcher and baker might be satisfied. Every article of value was pawned and redeemed in rotation, so that they never possessed all at one time, but so far had not lost any either. Meanwhile, Toby, affectionate and hapless, never enquired how his household stayed afloat. Care went to bed with Charlotte, rose with her each morning, and kept her company during the day. Her love for him never quite died. He was a great deal of trouble, but he truly admired and revered her. And occasionally life smiled on them, enabling a debt to be paid, a bill to be settled, and a little left over. Then, a family man, Toby would take wife and children and Polly Slack out for the evening and sail down the river to Vauxhall, to eat ice-cream and watch the firework displays; or hire a post-chaise and drive to the village of Islington for the day, and drink fresh milk and let the world go by.
For a long while he had been possessed by the idea of publishing a radical journal which would entertain and inform intelligent readers. His main difficulty was lack of money, so he was constantly on the look-out for a patron, and still had not found one early in 1788 when his daughter Cicely was born. Before the infant was three months old, Joseph Johnson, a far more successful publisher, launched the first literary and scientific journal of its kind, called
The
Analytical
Review
. It was a thick little magazine, closely printed and heavy with informed opinion, containing serious essays of great length and shorter notices, designed to appeal to the radical intelligentsia. It was so much what Toby had in mind for himself that for once he gave vent to loud ill-humour, railing against fortune to such an extent that Charlotte lost her milk, and little Cicely had to be handed over to a wet nurse.
But on the heels of this disappointment came a far more significant calamity. The bailiff put a stop to all Toby’s activities by seizing the printing press, and threatening him with a debtors’ prison if the bill were not paid forthwith. Longe & Son was saved only by Charlotte unearthing Betty Ackroyd’s wedding gift of hard-earned shillings and sovereigns, to placate the creditor. She was understandably bitter about both these events, and on looking into the firm’s accounts found them in a perilous state, which further roused both her anger and her courage. She resolved to work in her own right, instead of helping Toby out for nothing, and was about to defend this decision with considerable acerbity if he had questioned it. But he remained prudently silent on the issue, realising that another rocking of the boat might bring them all to penury and eviction. And among those publishers who would employ a jobbing writer was Joseph Johnson himself, who kindly put some reviewing her way. This suspicion of betrayal on Charlotte’s part, and Toby’s inability to condemn her action, brought a coolness to their relationship. The marriage became mere courtesy for twelve months, and they went their own ways, so Charlotte was never sure at what particular point Ralph Fairbarrow entered both their lives. But early in 1789 Toby went off to France, from whence came rumblings of change, and his expenses must have been defrayed, for Charlotte now kept guard over their ready money in a locked box: an arrangement with which Toby did not quarrel, since she paid domestic bills out of it. She did not ask questions about his assignment and he did not offer explanations, though he returned full of a suppressed excitement, and Fairbarrow’s name cropped up in conversation, being referred to simply as ‘an old friend’.
Stationed at her writing-table in the window of their living-room, Charlotte welcomed the distance between them. She was busy from early each morning until early the next morning, overseeing the household and children, writing at all hours. Sometime during the day she would make her round of the publishers, delivering work, returning with further commissions, making introductions, following up connections. She was dealing with men on equal terms, meeting women like herself, earning a modest livelihood. She was no longer afraid of Toby’s whims and moods, no longer courting his favour. She had little time for conversation with him, and none for leisure. Besides, she was afraid of love, of becoming pregnant. She sensed that she was safer in every way when no longer involved emotionally with a man. The barrier suited her very well.
But nothing remains the same. The summer of 1789 was extraordinarily fine and hot. A lighter mood prevailed, threats of bankruptcy retreated and an astonishing book had come into her hands, called
Le
Rideau
Levé
,
ou
l’éducation
de
Laure
, published two or three years previously, which taught her a greater physical freedom. It was not, she learned, necessary to incur frequent pregnancies and live in fear of ill-health and possible death. If a sponge were inserted into the female passage, attached to a narrow ribbon, conception did not occur in the majority of cases. Afterwards, the sponge might safely be withdrawn. Sauntering homewards one bright blue day in high summer, Charlotte permitted herself for the first time in a year to think of Toby kindly. She had money in her pocket and in the cash-box, work to do, new people to know. She could afford to be his wife again.
As though in answer to this unspoken thought, Toby arrived back within hours of her return, bringing news that illumined and enjoined them. French peasants had stormed and taken the prison-fortress of the Bastille and slaughtered its governor. The revolution which Toby had long prophesied, and they and all their friends had hoped for, was made manifest A new and better world was at hand.
That night, lying together after a mutual reunion, Toby dared say, ‘Do you recall the idea I had for a radical journal, my love?’
And though Charlotte felt a customary pang of fear she answered, ‘Yes, my love?’
‘Well, it has turned out differently, and far better, than I could have hoped. Ralph Fairbarrow is interested in publishing a news-sheet which will appeal to the artisans, the small masters, those who are literate and stand to gain by a complete change of constitution. He feels that we could do this’ — and here he kissed Charlotte’s fingers, from which the day’s ink-stains were not completely removed — ‘but what do you say, my love?’
Charlotte replied warily, ‘Can we make it pay, Toby?’
He straightened at her tone, and though he continued to smile and shake her fingers gently from tune to time, to remind her of their reunion, he now spoke more directly.
‘He is willing to finance its beginnings, and to offer you a salary equal to what you now earn by working for others. Of course it must pay its way, but that it is almost bound to do. We plan to fetch it out once a week, charging twopence a copy — which these people can afford very well. Ralph already has a long list of possible subscribers and, once we begin, the readership will grow. I print it here in the shop. Ralph distributes it.’
‘Here, in London? We shall not make it pay in this city!’
‘No, no, in the north. Lancashire, Yorkshire, Durham, Northumberland. Up to the Scotch border. It will be a political weekly, giving informed opinion and reportage of events both nationally and internationally. I shall scurry round collecting the news, and you, my clever love, shall put it in your own inimitable way — so that it interests miners in Durham, cutlers in Sheffield, weavers in Manchester, and even sailors home from the sea!’
Charlotte was thinking so deeply that he rose from their bed and walked the room, humming uneasily to himself, glancing at her occasionally.
‘Why only the northern counties, Toby?’ she asked at length. ‘Why not Scotland, and the Midlands? They are just as industrial there.’
‘Well, Ralph has connections with this particular section of the industrial community. That is all.’
‘And a weekly newspaper — for that is what it is! They cannot rely on us for the latest news, can they?’
‘As I said,’ cried Toby, striding up and down, ‘we inform them. We distil, translate, give them the essence. Think of the influence we shall have! Think of the good we shall do! This is not like you, Lottie.’
‘It is not like I was,’ she replied composedly, ‘but I wish to have some guarantee of earning a living before I give up the one I have established.’
‘Oh, if that is all. Ralph shall speak to you. You will not mind dealing with him? He is a dry stick, but totally reliable!’
And in some pique he went downstairs to see if there was any wine left in the supper bottle. But he obviously needed her co-operation, for he was back again before long, his breath scented with claret, full of bonhomie.
‘And how is our good friend Joseph Johnson?’ Toby asked amiably, though the idea of
The
Analytical
Review
was still a bolus for him to swallow.
‘I have grown to like him very well,’ she said, smiling.
‘We have each been so busy of late,’ Toby continued casually, as though their year of non-communication had been an unavoidable weekend spent apart. ‘I know so little of all your enterprises — though our very bread has come from them. And that I do not forget, Lottie, my love,’ he added, with a sincerity which calmed and delighted her. ‘Come then, tell me how you met with him. We have not gossiped for such a while!’ and he settled himself down again, lying more comfortably upon the bed, by her side.
‘Well, where should I begin?’ she answered gaily. ‘Our good friend Edmund Crowley sent me to him, and first I met Mr Johnson’s assistant, Miss Wollstonecraft — who seemed in much the same case as myself … ’
Poor, talented, vulnerable, prickly, and too honest for her own good.
‘The alarming red-haired mistress?’
‘She is not his mistress, but his friend,’ said Charlotte coldly. ‘May not men and women be friends?’
He squeezed her hand in penitence, crying, ‘Why should I not believe it, when you and I are such friends, my love?’
‘Well, Mary is not his mistress — he set her up in the George Street house because he believed in her. But I digress. Mary heard my plea, looked at my work, and took me in to see Mr Johnson — who grasped my hand as though I had been a man, and said he dined at three! He says that to every poor and radical writer he employs, because most of them are hungry I expect! I know I was … ’
But had secreted food to take back to the children, just the same.
‘So you dined at seventy-two St Paul’s Churchyard?’ said Toby hastily. ‘Whom did you meet? Some of our friends?’
‘All friends in spirit, certainly. Yes, some I knew and some I did not.’
‘You should not give up Johnson entirely,’ said Toby, thinking of future introductions.
‘I had no intention of doing so. We are not yet rich enough for that!’
‘And you like Miss Wollstonecraft, I take it?’
‘Better than any woman I have ever known — except my mother, but that is a particular relationship,’ said Charlotte sadly, knowing how much it had diminished in the years of their separateness.
‘Then I shall like her too. We must sup together, Lottie. Aye, and Johnson also. I am not such a poor creature that I can envy a man who seizes his opportunity as well as Johnson has done.’
He stole a glance at her downcast eyes.
‘I used to discuss matters with my mother as I now discuss them with Mary,’ said Charlotte quietly, ‘but these days all Mamma and I have between us are our guarded letters. There is no freedom of thought or speech or written word any more. She was once my friend and mentor. Now? Oh, full of wit and anecdotes and wise remedies for small ills, but no more than another northern correspondent.’
‘The very name!’ cried Toby, thankful to divert her from this topic as well. ‘You shall write the leading review of the day, Lottie, in letter-form, and we shall call our journal
The
Northern
Correspondent
, in honour of your mother.’
And he kissed away the tears which brightened her eyes.
*
The first issue, in December of the same year, carried a full account of Dr Price’s discourse, preached the previous month at a meeting-house in Old Jewry, in praise of the glorious French Revolution. Charlotte reported the event with wholehearted fervour, and yet in such an easy and loquacious style that it seemed she was talking to her readers.
It was a fortuitous beginning for a swaggering, passionate, and honestly indignant courier such as
The
Northern
Correspondent
and its subscribers grew steadily as the journal hammered away. Price’s sermon drew forth a stinging attack upon the revolutionaries by Edmund Burke, in the House of Commons, three months later, to be followed by the publication of his thesis,
Reflections
on
the
Revolution
in
France
. Both factions were up in arms. At Upper Marylebone Street, the reformer Tom Paine was busy composing his measured answer to Burke. But long before his
Rights
of
Man
could be published, Mary Wollstonecraft rushed in with
A
Vindication
of
the
Rights
of
Men
, which Joseph Johnson printed sheet by sheet as she wrote it. Hers was the first refutation, and captured the public fancy. A second edition, early in 1791, carried her name upon it.