Chapter 38: Birthday Wishes
On Saturday morning, James woke early and went into the kitchen to confer with Mrs. du Maurier and her grandsons on their choice of gifts for Charlotte. By the looks of things, the boys had risen even earlier than James to finish their gifts. The table was strewn with papers, bottles of ink, pens, paste, and brightly colored ribbons. Mrs. du Maurier was standing on the other side of the room, watching her grandsons, a faintly amused expression etched on her face.
"Well, it looks as though you've all been working very hard," James remarked, sitting down at the table with the children. "Is everyone ready to show me their finished products?"
The boys nodded.
"All right. Good. What did you make, George?"
"I made Aunt Charlotte a special bookmark." George handed it over proudly for James to inspect. The bookmark was constructed of several layers of colored paper, the effect of which was similar to that of stained glass. He had attached a piece of gold ribbon to the bottom, on which he had written, "To Aunt Charlotte: Happy Birthday. Love, George. 1907".
"Well done, George," James said. "She's going to love it. What about you, Jack?"
"I wanted to give her something meaningful," Jack explained. "So I made a book of pressed flowers. See, they're from different places that are important to her." Sure enough, there were captions on each page, describing where the flowers had come from: Kensington Gardens, the flower bed in front of the Duke of York Theater, their own backyard. Jack even pointed out some distinctive lavender daisies that Arthur had contributed from somewhere on the grounds of Undershaw, and some purple heather from a hill overlooking his house. Now James understood where Jack had been when he spent all that time away from home the previous afternoon.
"This is very thoughtful, Jack." James was surprised at the boy's sensitivity. He was also slightly jealous that he was not possessed of the same ability to understand women.
Peter wordlessly thrust forward his gift. It was a pencil drawing of a robin. James had seen Peter sitting outside in the garden the previous day, taking great pains to sketch the bird without scaring it off. Peter had signed it at the bottom: "Aunt Charlotte, Fond Birthday Wishes, With Love, Peter".
"This is a wonderful gift, Peter," James praised him. "You've done a brilliant job." Peter smiled hesitantly at the compliment.
"I've made something too!" Michael exclaimed. Determined not to be outdone by his brothers, he held up a watercolor of all seven members of the family: James and Charlotte were in the center, with George and Jack on their left, and Peter, Michael, and their grandmother on the right. The portrait was set in Kensington Gardens. The family stood under a surprisingly well-rendered oak tree. Porthos lounged nearby, and the cat, Tiger Lily, was climbing the tree.
"This is very pretty, Michael. You've captured your grandmother's likeness quite well." James winked at her.
"I'm very proud of how hard you've worked," James told them all. "You should all be very happy with what you've made."
They all looked pleased. "She's going to like my gift best," Michael hissed to his brothers. None of them paid him any heed.
"James, would you come over here and give my gift your final approval?" Mrs. du Maurier asked. She unwrapped a piece of tissue paper. He went over to stand next to her and gazed in admiration at her handiwork.
"I thought it was time I knitted her something," Mrs. du Maurier explained. "I think she'll be able to use this."
"It's a very pretty shawl, Emma. Green is one of her favorite colors."
"I thought it would be best to make it out of wool because it gets so draughty in that room sometimes." She was referring to Charlotte's habit of leaving the bedroom window open and sitting near it for hours at a time. She did this mainly because that window faced the front of the house, and she liked to see who was coming and going. Most importantly, she could see when James returned.
"What did you get her, Uncle Jim?" Michael piped up.
"Well, I'll show you, but we'll have to go to my study. I can't risk her seeing it yet."
They all went down the hall to the study that James had taken over after moving into the house. Apart from a few small changes, it was still very much the same as it had been on the day that Mrs. du Maurier had tried to forbid James from ever seeing her family again. George du Maurier's portrait still hung above the fireplace. It was larger than the one in the parlor, and had been done as he neared the end of his life. An authentic George du Maurier illustration stood proudly on the mantle. The drawing was of a woman (James suspected it was Mrs. du Maurier, for although she categorically denied it, there was always a gleam in her eye when she did so.) It was one of his favorites, so he kept it in the room. He sometimes imagined it was Charlotte in the drawing. He didn't think George would have minded.
There was a framed cameo of Sylvia on the windowsill, and a photograph of the Llewellyn-Davies family, minus Arthur, on the desk. James had brought over all the furniture from his old study. He kept the fire lit even when it wasn't cold outside, because the smoke helped him think. James did not particularly care that, when he invariably dozed off in the midst of his work, both the fire itself and his lit pipe could change in an instant from faithful companions to deadly foes.
"I had this made especially for Charlotte," James said. He reached into a drawer and took out a long rectangular box. The others crowded around as he opened the box to reveal a strand of grey pearls.
"There are twenty-nine pearls," James explained. "One for each year of her life, and then two very special ones. This one represents our marriage, and the other symbolizes our family, which is something she's never had before."
"This is a wonderful idea, James. It's very clever," Mrs. du Maurier said.
"Thank you, Emma. I think she'll like it." He closed the box and replaced it in the drawer. "We can't let Aunt Charlotte know about this yet, right? It's our secret." The boys nodded in agreement.
"Good. Now, I have to go and see Mr. Frohman. If I hurry, I can be home before Charlotte wakes up." He gathered up some papers from his desk and shooed everyone out of the study.
"Are you going to talk to Mr. Frohman about your play, Uncle Jim?" George asked, following James to the front door.
"Yes, that's exactly what we're going to talk about. I hope he'll be a bit less critical and a bit more productive this time. I spent fourteen straight hours on the revisions this time. Charlotte would kill me if she found out about that. I hope Charles appreciates my dedication to fulfilling his wishes. I'm enough of a perfectionist without his prodding." He stepped outside. "I should be back before too long. I imagine that Charlotte will sleep at least until I get home."
"Good luck, James," Mrs. du Maurier called. James turned and waved, then disappeared into a waiting carriage.
As the carriage trundled toward Charles Frohman's office, James went over his notes again. He was slightly nervous, because this play was different than anything else he had written. He had never displayed his feelings in such a way before, putting them on stage for everyone to see. It was simple enough to speak through fictional characters, to use a narrator to whom the author himself bore little or no resemblance. In allowing others to speak for him over the course of so many years, James had effectively created a wall between himself and his audience. He had spent far too much time hiding behind that wall because it was safer than making himself visible. Now he was taking a great risk, one that he had never anticipated, especially not this late in his life. But things were changing within him and around him. He would have to adjust.
Charles had, in the past, been reasonably patient with James. Even when they had failed to sell enough tickets or been slandered by the newspaper reviews, Charles remained loyal to his friend. He rarely complained about being plunged into debt or having to work twice as hard to repair his and James' damaged reputations, but Charles, too, was getting older. He was at a point in his life when, more than ever, he wanted to live comfortably. Charles had expectations. So did everyone else, for that matter, particularly after Peter Pan. It would be difficult to follow the greatest work he had ever produced, but James would be doing himself a disservice if he did not take advantage of the creative surge he had felt in the last few months.
The carriage finally stopped in front of Charles' office. James got out and walked to the front door of the building. As he reached for the door handle, he nearly collided with the man coming out. The man's tall frame towered over James, so that the glare of the sun obscured his face. James blinked several times before craning his neck and gazing into Gerald du Maurier's eyes. Gerald beamed down at James.
"Hello, Gerald," James greeted him, surprised. "What brings you here?"
"Charles called me. He wanted to find out what my plans are for the next few months. Now I understand why."
"He's asked you to be in the play?" James asked, slightly offended. "He never even consulted me."
"Well, you'll have to take that up with him. From what he showed me, this play is nothing short of a work of genius, James. You I know I never give that assessment freely."
"Thank you, Gerald. That means a great deal."
"I'm willing to put my time into this because I know it's going to succeed. But I must get home now. Muriel is expecting me. Good luck with Charles. Say hello to my mother and my nephews for me."
"Gerald, I'm leaving for Scotland on Tuesday. Perhaps you'd like to join us for supper on Monday night? Muriel as well."
"Thank you, James. That's very kind. Shall we come at around eight o' clock?"
"Yes. That would be fine."
"Well, I'll see you then. Good day." Gerald strode away. James went into the office. He reached the glass door and knocked. Charles immediately waved him inside. James closed the door and sat down. Charles regarded him for a moment out of narrowed eyes.
"How do you do it, James?" he asked finally. "I've always known you were a genius, but now you have to throw it in my face? Where are your revisions?" James handed them over. Charles nodded. "I'll call you when I'm done with these. I'd like to get to work as soon as possible."
"Charles—"
"I'll get in contact with our usual crowd—in fact, I think Maude will want to be involved."
"Charles—"
"What, James? Is it really necessary for you to interrupt me?"
"Well, I have something to tell you."
"Of course you do. Go on."
"Work will have to wait, I'm afraid. I'm going to be in Scotland for six weeks."
"Oh, very convenient. You're on vacation while I work tirelessly to make you a success. When are you leaving?"
"Tuesday morning."
"I guess my issues will have to wait, then. Is Charlotte going with you?"
"No, and she's very sensitive about the subject. I suggest you keep quiet about it."
"I will. Why are you fidgeting so much? Anxious to leave?"
"It's Charlotte's birthday. I have to get home soon."
"James! Why didn't you tell me? I would have been happy to come over!"
"Well, why don't you come over on Monday evening? Gerald and Muriel are coming at eight o' clock."
"I'll come then, and I'll bring a present for Charlotte."
"We'll be looking forward to it. Goodbye, Charles."
James left the office feeling much happier than when he had arrived. No longer would he have to endure the nervousness and anxiety of waiting for Charles' review of his work. Anyway, it wouldn't do for him to be distant while they were celebrating Charlotte's birthday. He had to make sure to give Charlotte the necklace as soon as possible, because he had no doubt that Arthur's gift would at least come close to upstaging his own.
When James arrived home, he exited the carriage and went up to the front door with a slight spring in his step. He found everyone sitting in the parlor. Charlotte was already wearing her new dress: pale yellow satin and cream-colored lace. James was a bit apprehensive that she might be in a difficult mood, because she hated everything about the dress, which Mrs. du Maurier had forced her to wear for the occasion. Charlotte was angry about having to let out the dress, and it still stretched tight across her stomach, which made her cross anytime she glimpsed her reflection. They all looked up when he came in, and James was glad to see that Charlotte appeared resigned to wearing the dress after all.
"I've just come from Charles' office," he announced triumphantly.
"And?" Charlotte demanded.
"He likes the play. We'll start work when I come back from Scotland."
"Oh, James! That's wonderful!" Charlotte beamed at him.
"Congratulations, James." Mrs. du Maurier smiled. "Charlotte, tell James what happened while he was gone."
"What happened?" James asked anxiously.
"Well, I was eating my breakfast this morning, and I felt a bit ill—"
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm fine." She smiled. "I wish you'd been here, though. The baby was kicking."
James was speechless. How could he have managed to miss such an important moment?
"I felt it," Michael said proudly.
"That's very nice, Michael," James answered distractedly. "I'm sorry I missed it," he added, addressing Charlotte again.
"That's all right. I'm sure you'll be here the next time it happens."
"You know, James," Mrs. du Maurier interjected, "Sylvia always liked to guess whether her baby was a boy or a girl by the strength of its kick. She was right every time."
"Was she?" He sighed. "Well, do you have a guess, then?"
Charlotte blushed. "Perhaps we should go somewhere else to talk about this?"
"All right." James started to walk toward the study, then realized that he couldn't risk letting Charlotte anywhere near a certain desk drawer. He steered her instead in the direction of the staircase.
"Wait for me upstairs. I'll be there in a moment."
"Why?" she asked suspiciously.
"Nothing. Just—" He left her standing at the bottom of the stairs and went quickly into the study. He took the small jewelry box from the desk and went back into the hallway. Charlotte was still standing where he had left her, a look of utter confusion etched on her face.
"James, what—"
"Nothing. What do you think?"
"About what?" They began to climb the stairs.
"About the baby." He tried to inject the proper emotion into his voice, but he didn't think it came through.
"Oh." She stopped. "You'd be happy either way, wouldn't you?"
"No matter what," he confirmed.
"Well, I don't know how much truth there is to this, but Emma told me that when Sylvia was pregnant, the boys all had very strong, distinctive kicks. Because the movement I experienced was weaker, Emma thinks that our baby is a girl. Dr. Walters might know how to tell. I think he would have some idea."
James said nothing. He tightened his grip on the box in his pocket.
"I'll call him while you're away," Charlotte said. "Are you happy, James?"
"Of course. Why would you ask me that?"
"It's hard to tell sometimes. Your face doesn't always portray your emotions. You're very good at hiding what you feel. I suppose you've had to learn to do that. James, why do you look so nervous? Is it too soon to be talking about this? It's strange, isn't it? I think I'm actually getting used to the idea of being a mother. James, what's the matter?"
He took her hand. "I love you, and I'm the most fortunate man in the world. I wouldn't give this up for anything. Happy birthday." He presented her with the box containing the pearl necklace. She opened it slowly and sank down on one of the stairs.
"James, it's beautiful." She sniffed and swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand.
"Don't cry," he said, alarmed. "What is it?" He lowered himself onto the step next to her.
"It's so beautiful," she repeated. "I love it. I don't think it really matches this dress, but I suppose—oh, James, this has been a wonderful birthday. Thank you!" She leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. Before she got the chance, however, there was a loud rap on the door.
"I'll get it," Mrs. du Maurier called as she glided through the foyer.
James sprang to his feet with a surprising agility that he had neither felt nor exhibited in quite some time. Thinking that Arthur and Jean had arrived early for the festivities, he went down the stairs and followed Mrs. du Maurier to the door, leaving Charlotte to grasp the railing and attempt to pull herself to her feet.
As James appeared at Mrs. du Maurier's side, she opened the door to reveal a thin, nervous-looking man standing on the stoop, ringing his hat in his hands.
"May I help you?" Mrs. du Maurier asked. There was a forced politeness in her voice that clearly betrayed her wish for the stranger to leave as quickly as possible.
Despite the obvious signal, the young man pointedly avoided answering her question. "Madam du Maurier?" he inquired instead.
"Yes," she replied warily.
"Then, surely you must be Mr. Barrie?" the man addressed James. His uncertainty was nothing more than a formality, because only someone who had been hiding under a rock for the past decade could fail to recognize two of the most famous people in London.
James nodded once, but the young man was not deterred. He seemed to gain some confidence as he offered them his hand. Neither James nor Mrs. du Maurier acknowledged the gesture.
"George Barnaby," the man introduced himself. "I'm a friend of Mary and Jenny Hodgson."
"Oh, really?" the slightest of sneers had appeared on Mrs. du Maurier's haughtily regal features, but James was suddenly worried.
"I am. I imagine you still remember them quite well," Barnaby continued. "Might it be possible for us to continue this conversation inside?"
"What conversation?" James muttered, but Mrs. du Maurier gave him a warning look as she stood aside to allow Barnaby to enter the house. The three of them went into the parlor.
When they were all seated, James and Mrs. du Maurier exchanged a nervous glance before Barnaby spoke again. He sat with his hat in his lap, seeming to relish his position.
"You will be glad to know," Barnaby began, "that both Mary and Jenny have found positions with respectable families, and they are both quite happy."
"Positions that I helped procure for them over two years ago," Mrs. du Maurier said cuttingly.
"Yes, well," Barnaby went on, as though he had not heard her, "as you know, there is the problem of the will."
"I beg your pardon," Mrs. du Maurier interrupted. "My daughter's will—"
"Your daughter," Barnaby interrupted, "the widow of the late Mr. Arthur Llewellyn-Davies, left a will which very clearly outlined the guardianship of her children."
"We're aware of that, thank you," James finally spoke up. He was becoming nervous about what Barnaby would reveal, but the young man seemed determined to speak his piece. As he opened his mouth again, Charlotte started to come through the parlor door. The boys were with her. James noticed them and made eye contact with Charlotte. He shook his head almost imperceptibly, and she ushered the children from the room. James wanted to tell them himself, as it seemed apparent that everyone would soon become aware of the charade that he had painstakingly maintained since Sylvia's death. He had never dreamed that anyone would find out, but what else could be the reason for Barnaby's unannounced visit?
James would have to wait a bit longer for confirmation, however. Barnaby, for the first time, seemed totally distracted from the purpose of his imposition on their privacy.
"That was…?" his voice trailed off as he stared at the door.
"My wife," James finished, becoming impatient. "And yes, she will be giving birth to my child. The amount of speculation…But you see, Mr. Barnaby, it's my wife's birthday, so we really have no time—"
"My apologies. Let me get to the point. You made your own copy of the will for Mrs. Llewellyn-Davies' family, didn't you, Mr. Barrie?"
"Yes, I did," James answered reluctantly.
"So perhaps you'll be able to explain how Mary and Jenny were excluded from the co-guardianship provided for in the will?"
James hesitated.
"I don't understand," Mrs. du Maurier said, frowning at Barnaby. "I dismissed Mary myself. Jenny was never in our employ. It made no sense to keep them on—Their names aren't mentioned anywhere in Sylvia's will, I'm sure of it."
George Barnaby made eye contact with James for a split second, and James knew that the consequences of his actions over two years earlier had finally caught up with him. Barnaby had apparently decided to give James a brief repose before carrying out whatever revenge the Hodgson sisters had asked for.
He stood. "Well, thank you for your time. I'm sorry for the imposition. Give my best to your wife, Mr. Barrie. No, I can see myself out, thank you, Madam du Maurier."
They watched him leave. Mrs. du Maurier sighed.
"You know I still venture out into society, James. I've heard every possible rumor about you. It astounds me that you would keep this quiet for two years. I know you must have your reasons, but it's gone on long enough now. Did you change the will, James? I'm sure you meant well. I certainly no longer subscribe to the belief that you have some sinister intentions. I would understand if you had inadvertently done something—"
"Emma." James looked straight into her eyes. "I did not change Sylvia's will. I copied it exactly as she had it written. She referred to me by my nickname, so I suppose it's convenient for people to say that I substituted my name for Jenny Hodgson's."
She nodded. "I have kept quiet in the past because I never actually knew the truth. If anyone asks me, I will continue to stand by you. I just don't understand why Mary never was mentioned in Sylvia's will. As far as I can remember, we had discussed including Mary, but I never knew what came of it."
James shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Well, as a matter of fact, Emma, Mary was removed from the will because of a discussion that Sylvia and I had before she died."
"What discussion—no, I don't want to know. I trust that you knew what you were doing. I don't think we have anything to fear from those women. They have no money, therefore their accusations will hardly go anywhere."
James reluctantly agreed, but something continued to nag at the back of his mind. He nearly ran into Charlotte as he left the parlor. "Did you hear?"
"No. I waited until that man left. I didn't want to eavesdrop. What's going on, James? Don't tell me not to worry about it, because I won't leave you alone." She crossed her arms defiantly.
James sighed. "Come in here, then." They went back into the parlor and sat down.
"There was a girl called Mary Hodgson," James began. "She used to be the boys' nurse. She was very strict with them, and I—I didn't like her methods of discipline. Before Sylvia died, she and I had a conversation in which we determined that it would be best not to keep Mary on if—when—something happened to Sylvia. Accordingly, I encouraged Emma to dismiss Mary. We haven't heard from her in over two years."
"So, that man—was from her?"
James nodded. "He's a friend of hers. And her sister. Since Sylvia died, there's been a rumor—well, a belief, among some people—that I altered Sylvia's will to include myself in it. Some people think that Sylvia meant for Mary to have the guardianship of the boys, not me. They also think that Mary's sister, Jenny, was mentioned in the will, and that I replaced her name with mine. I think only Sylvia's attorney ever saw the original copy of her will, so it's not surprising that people would speculate about my involvement in some kind of illegal activity."
"But I don't understand how your name is close to—"
"Well—Sylvia used to call me—Jimmy. It was her little nickname for me, I suppose." He looked slightly ashamed.
To her credit, Charlotte remained composed, apart from the eyebrow that compulsively raised and then lowered itself again.
"I see. So why, after all this time, did the Hodgsons send a representative to contact you?"
James sighed again. "Well, they've been taking advantage of the fact that people believe they were in the will. And now they've decided—they want—" His voice had failed him.
"What is it, James? Are you all right?"
"Hardly." He took her hands. "They want the children."
"I beg your pardon?" she stammered. "What makes them think—they can't have the children," she said stubbornly. "There's nothing they can do, is there?"
"I don't know. They could very well turn up a copy of the will with their names in it. Charles has an attorney that he retains for just this sort of incident. I'll ask his advice. Let's forget about this for now, all right? Let me worry about it. You shouldn't be occupied with anything that will upset you."
She nodded. "I suppose you're right. I just hope this can all be resolved soon. I hope nobody decides to make a fuss—" She broke off at the sound of the front door opening and closing.
"Hello," a man's voice called through the foyer. "James?" A moment later, Arthur's head appeared in the doorway to the parlor. "Ah, there you are." He came inside. "Excuse us for letting ourselves in. We were running late." Jean Leckie materialized at his side. James nodded, but did no more to acknowledge her.
"Well." Arthur thrust himself into the awkward silence that had followed his greeting. "We're glad to be here. Happy birthday, Charlotte."
"Thank you, Arthur. We are also happy you're both here." She glared at James, a nonverbal command for him to behave himself. "Now, I think we ought to go and start my birthday celebration. I'm quite eager to see what everyone's going to give me."
Arthur laughed. "Yes, you're such a materialistic person that I suppose you'll go mad if we don't give you your gifts soon. Which reminds me—" He handed over two rectangular packages, which clearly contained books.
"Thank you. I can't wait to see what these are," Charlotte joked.
They went into the kitchen. The boys exchanged enthusiastic greetings with Arthur, but were more subdued as they welcomed Jean. Mrs. du Maurier politely introduced herself to Jean, but her smile was tight and her eyes were slightly quizzical, as though she couldn't quite believe that everything she had heard was true. James looked sullen.
"You said you were happy," Charlotte hissed at him. "Look it!"
"Supper will be ready in a moment," Mrs. du Maurier said. "Peter, will you show our guests to the dining room?"
No sooner had the five of them sat down than Michael entered the dining room, carrying one of many platters of food. Jack recited the Grace (without any prodding from his grandmother), and they commenced eating. There was silence for a few minutes as everyone savored the excellent food that Mrs. du Maurier had prepared.
Finally, having wolfed down everything on his plate, Arthur put down his fork and sat back to let his digestive system do its work.
"An interesting piece of news, James. I think you might even care to hear about this."
"What? Who? Is it one of our friends?"
"Well, in a manner of speaking. Kipling's up for the Nobel Prize next year. Shaw's up in arms about it, as you can imagine."
"For what reason?" James asked irritably. "He hasn't done anything significant enough to merit that kind of recognition, and he knows it. Meanwhile, other people at least make a reasonable attempt at having a literary career. He fritters away what time and talent he has."
Arthur shrugged. "You're not alone, friend. Not all of us have gotten the recognition we deserve. It's perfectly natural to question Shaw's abilities. In fact it would hardly be sensible not to. But I do think Wells has a rather corrupting influence on him."
"Don't mention that name!" James snapped.
Arthur looked surprised. "I didn't realize you two—"
"Yes," James interrupted pointedly. "If that man takes one more step in the wrong direction, I'll cut off all contact indefinitely. And you too will have unmentionable status if you continue to go the way you're going Arthur."
"But James—"
"I wish Kipling every success, anyway." James went on doggedly, speaking over Arthur. "A win for him is one step closer to a win for one of us, eh?"
"Hear, hear," Arthur replied fervently, raising his glass a few inches.
They both drank solemnly. The children, not understanding what had just passed, continued to chatter excitedly. Mrs. du Maurier, seated at the head of the table, remained silent. For Charlotte, it was as though the world had stopped momentarily. There was so much tension between James and Arthur lately. Charlotte was beginning to think it might be good for James to go away for a while. At least it would give he and Arthur a chance to miss each other.
"Why don't we clear some of these dishes?" Jean suggested.
"Yes, we ought to bring in the presents," Charlotte added. James couldn't help smiling.
As the children and the other women began to prepare for the celebration, Charlotte did her best to temporarily reconcile James and Arthur again. After exhausting the subjects of the weather, the neighbor whose bird had recently gotten out of its cage and flown away, and the new flowers she had planted, Charlotte finally gave up. However, she was soon distracted by the presents that were being deposited in front of her.
"Mine first!" Michael said excitedly. He gave her the watercolor, which had been rolled into a cylinder and tied with a piece of blue ribbon.
She took each of the boys' gifts one-by-one. She smiled and praised each one for its creativity. Mrs. du Maurier handed over the box containing her gift.
"Emma, this is beautiful!" Charlotte exclaimed. She draped the shawl across her shoulders.
Arthur passed over the two packages that he had brought. "Open Jean's first," he advised. "It's the one on top."
Charlotte tore open the wrapping paper to reveal a pristine copy of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice.
"I know you're going to have a lot of time on your hands now. But you do remind me of Elizabeth Bennett," Jean explained.
"Really?" Charlotte blinked. Anyone who knew her well, including Arthur, knew that she bore no particular resemblance to any of Jane Austen's heroines, not being rebellious or outspoken by nature.
"Thank you, Jean," Charlotte replied graciously. "This is a very practical gift for me." She turned her attention to the other book, which was from Arthur. After removing the colored paper, she shrieked with delight. "Arthur! This is wonderful!"
As Charlotte leaned across the table to grasp Arthur's hand, James caught the title of the book: The Hound of the Baskervilles. He rolled his eyes. Arthur looked extremely pleased with himself.
"One of the first copies ever printed," he said proudly. "Look at the inside cover."
Charlotte opened the book to see that Arthur had inscribed a brief message, which read:
To Charlotte, happy birthday,
From your awed, humble, and loyal friend,
A.C.D.
"Awed and loyal you may be, Arthur, but humble you most certainly are not," James retorted dryly.
A few tense seconds passed. Suddenly, James and Arthur simultaneously burst into laughter. All was well again.
The rest of the evening passed quite pleasantly. Finally, the boys trailed upstairs to bed, followed shortly after by their grandmother.
Arthur stood. "Well, I think it's time we got going. No, don't get up. We can see ourselves out."
James stood anyway. "Will you come and see me off on Tuesday?" he asked.
"No, we're going back to Surrey tomorrow morning. I'll be back here within the week though, I think. Good luck, old chap. Say hello to the fellows for me." He and James shook hands. "Happy birthday, Charlotte. Thank you again for having us." He and Jean left the room. A moment later, the front door opened and closed. James and Charlotte were alone in the parlor.
"That turned out to be quite an enjoyable evening," Charlotte sighed. "I was a bit worried that you weren't going to behave yourself, but I suppose things ended up all right."
"I think I was very well behaved, if you ask me," James replied indignantly.
"Yes, I suppose you were. Thank you."
"What's happening?" he said quietly. His voice was strained.
"What do you mean? Nothing out of the ordinary is happening. The only thing happening is that I'm seriously considering going to bed."
"Well, you can't do that just yet. We have to talk about something now."
"All right." She yawned. "Get on with it, then."
"I want to fix the problem before it gets worse. It seems as though the thing that should be bringing us closer is driving a wedge between us."
"James. You think that because I'm five months away from giving birth I don't love you as much anymore?"
"I don't know what I think. I just know that I meant what I said earlier, if you can remember what that was. I wouldn't give this up."
"Oh, James, I do remember." She moved to sit next to him, smiling. "Things are changing. I'm trying to prepare myself to do this alone for a while. The boys will be going back to school in a couple of weeks. We all know there's only so much Emma can do to help. I'm sure George will be very responsible about things, but it's not his obligation to take care of us all the time. And when you do come back, you're going to be working very hard. Of course you shouldn't feel guilty about that, but I had hoped to share this experience with you. I know you've never had children of your own, but really, James, you ought to be more—" she stopped suddenly, as though realizing what she was saying. "I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I know that sort of attitude caused problems in your last marriage. It would be selfish of me to ask you to give up your work—"
"No," he interjected. "You're right. When I come back, my focus will be you."
"Oh, James, really?"
"Now that Charles has taken over, the play will happen. My priorities should be here."
"Poor Charles."
"He'll manage. I don't want to miss anything more than I already have." He put his arms around her, then pulled back in alarm.
"You felt it?" Charlotte asked excitedly. She almost laughed at the bewildered expression on his face. "Here, it's happening again. It's all right." She took his hand and placed it on her stomach. "See? Emma thinks this is too little movement."
"Is it—are you—"
"It's quite normal, darling. Though somewhat uncomfortable, to be honest. Emma seems confident that it's a girl. I'd really like a girl, personally. Don't look at me that way. I'm fine, don't worry. There, it's stopped for now. You see? You really have to be here for these things."
She was only half-serious, but for the first time, James understood the full emotion of what was happening. He was entirely overwhelmed.
"I love you so much," he managed.
"I love you too, darling."
They were silent for a few moments. Nothing more needed to be said. Finally, Charlotte stood.
"You'll forgive me, James, but I really can't keep my eyes open for very much longer. Be sure to lock up, all right?"
He watched her climb the stairs, like an angel ascending to heaven. It was at least a full minute before his mind could persuade his body to move. After checking all of the doors and windows, he went into the study, locked the door, and let every emotion that had welled up inside him explode through his pen onto the pages in front of him.
This was a difficult chapter to write for several reasons, the most serious of which being the doubts cast over the integrity of Sylvia's will. The clause in question was that which gave James the right of guardianship over her boys. As this issue was, in fact, debated for several years, I knew it would only be a matter of time until I could no longer avoid the subject. Now, as James struggles with the implications and responsibilities of having a child of his own, seemed the most appropriate time for his character to be called into question. It seemed most appropriate that the semblance of a family he had created for himself might now be threatened just as he comes to the verge of understanding what a family really is.
Mary and Jenny Hodgson were real enough, from what I understand. Of course, they are rather obscure figures that would have disappeared entirely but for their association with one of the most important British families of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, and their involvement in what may have become a very uncomfortable situation. Mary Hodgson was the nursemaid of the Llewellyn-Davies children from the time that George was very young. She, in fact, was with the boys the first time they encountered James Barrie in Kensington Park. James came to know her almost as well as he knew the other members of the family. He witnessed her interactions with the children throughout their formative years. In many instances, he greatly disliked what he saw. He was not hesitant or shy about voicing his disapproval of her methods of disciplining the boys, especially as she often took the children away while they were playing. In his dedication to Peter Pan, written several years after the book's original publication, James references the countless hours that were interrupted by Mary's insistence that the boys needed to spend their time in more practical pursuits. According to the boys, Mary would occasionally join in their games, but they corroborate James' opinion that she was often preoccupied with disciplining them. Her concern was apparently that their parents should not be disappointed.
It is thought that Sylvia requested in her will that Mary Hodgson retain guardianship of the boys if they became orphaned. She also instructed that Mary would share her care of the children with Emma du Maurier, her oldest son (Sylvia's older brother) Guy, and Arthur Llewellyn-Davies' brother Compton. Mary's younger sister Jenny was to be included as well. There is a theory, widely popular at the time of Sylvia's death, that when James made his own copy of Sylvia's will for the du Maurier and Davies families, he substituted his own name, Jimmy, for that of Jenny Hodgson. It is worth emphasizing that anyone who knew James well refused to believe this rumor, and it is difficult for many people now to believe that he would ever have done such a thing. The only people who accused James of forging Sylvia's will are the same who believed that his intentions with her children were anything but innocent.
Because of the system used to archive information on the Internet, it is difficult to either substantiate or disprove the theory. Additionally, very little has been written on the subject, which is likely due to the renewed effort in recent years to exonerate James of any wrongdoing. It would almost certainly be necessary to have the records for that year and an original copy of Sylvia's will at one's disposal in order to find out the truth. Unfortunately, that is a luxury I do not have. It would also be difficult to find a known copy of Sylvia's will that had not been tampered with. If one exists, it is quite certainly in the possession of her family. For the record, I believe that James was legitimately given guardianship of the boys, either by Sylvia before she died, or through a compromise with her family. Regardless, the boys were lucky enough to remain close to all of their aunts and uncles, as well as their grandmother.
I imagine you've all guessed the identities of the famous names dropped in this chapter. If you have, you're quite correct. James (sometimes) enjoyed the friendship of H.G. Wells and George Bernard Shaw. James was often at odds with Wells for his enthusiastic support of the eugenics movement, and for his constant affairs and several illegitimate children. He knew of and admired, though never actually met, Rudyard Kipling.
Rudyard Kipling won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1908. George Bernard Shaw was finally recognized for his own contributions to literature (and Edwardian society) in 1912.