Page 19 of The Wordsworth Key (Regency Secrets #3)
Jacob recognised the reference to one of Wordsworth’s poems in the Lyrical Ballads . The man’s thoughts always ended back at his poetry. ‘No doubt, he will.’
‘Did you know that I was visiting Christopher, my brother in Essex, when it happened?’
Jacob shook his head. ‘I did not.’
‘It took a week for news to reach me– a week when I thought her still alive and happy when in truth she was gone. It has been a terrible year– for us, and for the country. I wonder how it will all end.’
Wordsworth was not alone to feel the march of Napoleon east, crushing the Prussians, taking on the Russians, the war with America so recently declared, the death of Spencer Perceval, all were sapping the strength from Britain.
Jacob would’ve succumbed to gloom himself if the same period had not brought Dora into his life.
The prospects were bleak, but he would be doing the mourner no favours by encouraging despair.
‘There are signs of hope,’ countered Jacob. ‘Wellington is changing the fortunes of the army in the Peninsula. Our navy will doubtless beat the Americans.’
Wordsworth didn’t appear to be listening. ‘And my quarrel with Coleridge is only patched up not mended. I fear the break will be permanent.’ He swiped at a bramble. ‘In truth, it’s not my quarrel– it’s his.’
‘What happened, if I may ask?’
‘Typical Coleridge.’ Wordsworth sounded resigned rather than angry, the tone of a man who had seen an addict go around the same cycle of guilt and blame of others.
‘He took offence on the words of a gossiping friend that I was sending word ahead to London that he was not to be trusted.’ He stooped and selected a flat stone from the shore.
‘Coleridge accuses me of saying he is too often drunk, runs up bills he can’t pay and makes himself an absolute nuisance when he’s here.
All I could do was deny saying it, but I have thought it– all of us have.
He went from that to persuading himself I was his bitterest calumniator when all I’ve ever done is admire his intellect and wish that he could apply himself so that he could share it with the world.
’ He threw the pebble and they watched it bounce three times. ‘He was– for my part is – my friend.’
Jacob saw a way out of these gloomy thoughts. ‘My companion, Miss Fitz-Pennington, met Hartley and Derwent Coleridge in the woods yesterday.’
Wordsworth looked wary. ‘She did? I hope their manners were up to scratch?’
‘She found them delightful. They’re camping and playing at being Indians. They all have been indulging in a little boat stealing, like their Uncle William.’
Wordsworth let out a creaky chuckle, a man who hadn’t laughed for some months. ‘Have they now? Did I ever read you that part of my poem?’
Jacob saw his mistake. He had referred to the autobiographical work, the one the poet was not to know had gone missing. ‘You did. Are you working on anything new?’
‘I’ve ceded the field to my critics for the moment. I have made too many enemies.’
That was interesting– Jacob hadn’t considered the virulent world of the literary critics. ‘Anyone in particular?’
‘Oh, they are legion. Francis Jeffrey in the Edinburgh Review , Leigh Hunt in the Examiner , Lord Byron– they all have their knives out.’
‘A formidable array.’
‘These wits and witlings have no feel for poetry– they have no love for human nature and no reverence for God. The voice of my poetry cannot be heard without imagination– they lack that too.’
‘Have any of them called on you recently?’ What he was really wondering was if anyone who objected to Wordsworth’s challenge to the usual poetic practices had taken direct action? He could imagine someone stealing to lampoon his work– or destroy it, if they were very underhanded.
Wordsworth gave a bitter laugh. ‘What do you think? I did run into Byron in London in May– he was the one who brought the news to our dinner party that Perceval was shot.’
‘I imagine poetry was not the main topic of conversation.’
‘You would be right. He was very civil, but he can afford to be with his reputation at high tide. Other than that, my critics remain aloof and snipe from the cover of their magazines.’
‘But you have many of us who admire you.’
The poet gave a wintry smile. ‘There’s you– thank you for that.
And my other encouragers: De Quincey– he’s a great favourite in the nursery and he loved Catherine in particular.
He will be devastated to learn of her death.
Barton, of course– I have hopes for him.
His own verse is showing promise. Then there’s Wright, Knotte and Langhorne. I mustn’t forget them.’
‘And Sir George and Lady Beaumont.’ Jacob knew Wordsworth was particularly close to the painter and his wife who had a fine property over at Ullswater.
‘Where would we be without them?’
‘You have many more friends than enemies, Wordsworth. Maybe it would be good to dwell on that?’
* * *
Dorothy was rolling the pastry with a vigour that suggested it had insulted her personally.
‘It’s so hard to bear. I can’t stop weeping, but that’s no help to Mary and William. The poor children are bereft but what can I say– how explain it when I don’t understand myself?’
‘Can one ever explain death?’ asked Dora, stirring the plums in the pan on the stove. ‘I think these are ready.’
Dorothy lifted the pastry into the greased dish and trimmed the excess.
‘All I can say is that we should take solace that she’s still with us in the places she loved, our memories filled with her laughter.
She really was the sweetest child– one of God’s special ones.
’ She spooned the plums into the pie, placed a pastry lid on the top and pressed the edges together.
‘We will all meet again in heaven– it must be so, has to be so, or how could one bear to live?’
‘Amen.’ As she spoke, Dora wondered if she really meant that, or she was playing the role of pious lady to suit Dorothy’s mood? Perhaps she merely wanted it to be true because then all the wrongs of this world would be made right– and there were so many wrongs.
Dorothy turned the pie, satisfied. ‘All that’s left is the glaze.’
Dismissing theology for the moment, Dora brushed the top with milk. ‘Miss Wordsworth, we were wondering how many local people knew of the existence of the manuscript.’
‘Let me think.’ Dorothy slid the pie into the oven then sat down.
She drew letters in the flour on the table absentmindedly as she ran through their acquaintances.
‘Our friends at Keswick, the Cooksons and the Beaumonts, but they live outside of the district. In and around Grasmere, the poetical fellows– your Dr Sandys, Mr Barton, Mr Wilson at Elleray, Mr Wright, Mr Knotte and Mr Langhorne. Oh, and the Reverend Simpson and Miss Simpson. William never made a secret of it and would quote from it if something apposite came up.’
Three of those names were on Barton’s list: Wright, Knotte and Langhorne.
‘What would you say if I told you we considered Mr Coleridge as a suspect?’
Dorothy’s eyes flashed fire. ‘Then I would say you were mad! Not only has he not been here, but he would never, never , do anything to harm my brother’s writing. He believes in William.’
Dora got a rag from the sink and began to wipe the table. ‘Even though they’ve quarrelled?’
‘Only the fact that you’ve not met Coleridge stops me turning you out for that suggestion.’
Cloth in one palm, Dora held up her hands. ‘Please, we do not mean to insult or offend. I’m asking these questions to eliminate him from our list of suspects.’
Dorothy swept the remaining ends of pastry into the pig bucket.
‘I’m sorry if I snapped at you. Coleridge is– and will always remain– our friend and a member of this family.
He would no more do something like that to William than I would, or Mary.
He may disagree with us on how best to live his life, but we all agree that poetry is a sacred calling. ’
‘I see.’ Dora rinsed the cloth and hung it up to dry.
‘Then I should explain why I’m asking. I searched Mr Barton’s house and have concluded that the theft was deliberate– the thief wanted the poem.
He passed over many easier things of value to sell.
It could still be the act of a forgetful admirer who borrowed it and forgot to mention it– we are following up that possibility next.
The other explanation is that it is out of spite or jealousy.
If you think of someone who has been acting suspiciously around your brother, do tell us so we can look into their behaviour. ’
The back door opened. Wordsworth and Jacob walked in. The poet’s demeanour seemed a little brighter from having been outside.
‘That smells lovely,’ he said, vowels like Jacob’s showing his education in a northern school in his formative years.
Dora dipped a curtsey. ‘Sir.’
‘Thank you for calling.’ With a nod of dismissal and not quite looking at her so he could avoid the introduction, he strode past. ‘And you, Dr Sandys, much obliged.’ The door to his study clicked closed.