IF YOU DO COME WITH ME

IF YOU DO COME WITH ME

By Richard Banks       

It was a book that had to be ordered. Long out of print the only copy listed in the library catalogue was in Colchester. At first, they didn’t know they had it. Their own records contained no reference to Katherine Melrose or any book by her. Then they found it in a dust laden cardboard box with the works of other dead poets. It arrived in Rayleigh at my local library two weeks later with a note saying that it was now part of a library sale and could be purchased for fifty pence. I paid the money willingly, and quietly celebrating my good fortune hurried home.

      There is nothing to compare to an old book. New ones have their attractions I grant you, – that perfume smell, the pristine freshness of each opened page, a virgin land just waiting to be discovered, but old books are better a shared experience, every blemish telling its own story, the smudge of an unwashed finger or thumb, the meticulous creasing of page corners, the occasional annotation, all bear witness to those who have read the same words that you are reading now. A previous reader of Miss Melrose’s book had been a tea drinker (may still be a tea drinker) a circular brown stain indicating that he or she had once placed a hot cup or mug on its padded leather cover. A moment of carelessness I wonder or did the book have no more value to the reader than a coaster?

      There would be other ‘clues’ inside. I turn to the first printed page. It was not, as I had hoped a first edition. Published in 1847 it was the second impression of a third edition. Clearly, Miss Melrose was a popular author in her time; today she is largely forgotten, meriting only four sentences in the Dictionary of Literary Biography. At the top of the page there is an inscription in blue ink: ‘Henrietta Brice, Westcliff-on-Sea, August 1848.’ The copperplate handwriting is neat, well formed letters slanting left to right. So the book first belonged to Henrietta, a young woman no more than twenty years of age. Her writing shows this, not a childish hand to be sure but nothing of the regressive slackness of later years. She has a romantic disposition; if not her ownership of Miss Melrose’s poetry would be a paradox. Towards the foot of the page an oblong stamp declares that the book has become the property of the Colchester Subscription Library. The same stamp testifies that this happened in October 1850. Was this when Henrietta put away her romantic notions?

       I skip the preface and read the first poem, a sonnet, fourteen lines occupying a single page. I read on to page twenty and find another addition in blue ink, a single line beneath the words, ‘the endless drift of unfilled days'. Could this have been Henrietta’s life? In 1848, her education at an end, her progression to the workplace would have been firmly discouraged. Only working class girls sought paid employment and Henrietta was not working class, her ownership of an expensive book proves that. Her role in life as a wife and mother was yet to begin. There might be many years of waiting until the right man came along. Would he come? The world was changing but not quick enough for Henrietta. For now she must fill in time as best she could. On the same page a pressed flower, a forget-me-not.

      Modern-day critics of Miss Melrose’s poetry are less than kind, accusing her of sentimental self-indulgence, velveteen emotions, a lack of intellectual content. These criticisms are harsh, conveying the prejudices of a more cynical age. They ignore her ability to charm, to weave the dream, to give it substance. In her works we see an ideal world tantalizingly out of reach but never out of sight. If Henrietta was to escape her gilded cage she needed dreams, a belief that life, her life, might one day step beyond the limited horizons of 'polite' society.

      I continue reading. The pages show little sign of wear. Unlike the cover, none are stained or smudged. Could I be the first person since Henrietta to read this book? The notion seems absurd, but not impossible. On page fifty-four is another annotation; beside the words, ‘he comes to conquer, feigns to love,’ is written ‘George’. One feels there should be a question mark after ‘George’ but there is none; evidently, his motives, his intentions, were only too clear. Could George be a suitor? If so he was likely to be disappointed. A man who only feigned to love was not for Henrietta, but George was persistent.

      Clinging to page ninety I find his visiting card, ‘George Bovis, Chief Clerk, Martins Bank, Lombard Street, London, EC3’ On the reverse side is written, ‘sorry to have missed you, fond regards, George.’ So George had come calling and Henrietta was out – by accident or design?

      Her parents, if they were in, might well have been pleased to see him. A young man with a secure job in the City was a suitable young man. Already a chief clerk he would surely make manager. If these thoughts were theirs they were not Henrietta’s. The card is folded and creased, picked at in one corner. The poem on this page is titled, ‘The Stranger at the Hearth’ - accident or design? The poem is a long one covering five pages. It deals with a loveless marriage. The words ‘damned’ and ‘condemned’ are underlined. In the penultimate verse the heroine mourns for, ‘he who loved and may still love.’ This too is underlined.

      I read on but the printed pages have less interest now than the manuscript additions. Henrietta is writing her own story; I may be the first to read it. I turn each page carefully. The next act in this drama is not long in coming. I find it between pages 102 and 103, a poem, five verses long written in brown ink on the notepaper of the Ship Inn. It is a love poem entitled, ‘To look into your eyes'. Expressive of chivalric love the poem is tender, warm, intimate. The last verse reads,

               ‘For those who flee the citadel,

                No more the walls, the curfew bell.

                Sweet world beyond the wishing well,

                If you do come with me.’ 

Beneath it the author has signed his name, ‘Clem.’ Below that is a large X to which Henrietta has added one of her own.

      So, Henrietta had two suitors, George the banker and Clem the poet. She had made her choice, that is clear but was she free to choose? Not yet of legal age, a romantic attachment to a man unacceptable to her parents would have been forbidden. Did they know about Clem? Would they have approved had they known? His poetry would not have been enough that’s for sure, what else did he have? I want to know more. There must be more, another poem, a calling card, more annotations, but there are none. The remaining pages contain only the black print of Miss Melrose’s poems.

      I feel downhearted, cheated. In frustration, I shake the book and from its spine something flutters to the floor. Beneath my chair, I find a ticket to a concert. The ticket is dated 29 August 1850, red lettering on tan coloured paper card. A theatrical company, the Northgate Players, are performing a play at Trotter's theatre near Southend Pier. It is the last night. The play is ‘Paul Pry’ by John Poole. On the reverse side of the ticket are brief details of the Company’s next production in Reading.

      Has this any relevance to the unfolding story of Henrietta, George and Clem? I think it does. The date on the ticket precedes the library acquisition of Henrietta’s book by less than a  month. Then I remember the closing line of Clem’s poem, ‘if you do come with me’. All is clear. Clem was an actor, with a travelling company, the Northgate Players, temporarily resident at the Ship Inn where he wrote his poem. During the Company's summer season he and Henrietta met and fell in love. Whether her parents knew of this or were kept in ignorance we may never know. Either way, their opposition to such an association would have been formidable and unyielding. Within days of the company’s final performance, Henrietta and Clem eloped and married.

      Pure supposition I hear you say. Where is your proof? The facts are too few, you stretch them too far. There is no evidence of an elopement. But there is. It lies on the desk at which I sit, a certificate of marriage received this morning from the Institute of Genealogy. On the 1st September 1850 Henrietta Brice and Clement Jerome married at Gretna Hall in Gretna Green. Their occupations were given as actor and actress. Henrietta was nineteen years of age.

      Of their life together I have no further information. That it can be found in genealogical records I have no doubt. Let it be. The dry dust of history ends only in death.  On the 1st September 1850 they were young, happy and free. The story’s told. No better ending can there be.   

Copyright Richard Banks