Absolutely Dickens

Prologue

I lost my mother before I even knew her. Giving birth to triplets took its toll on her, and my brother, sister, and I were brought up by my harsh father and our governess. Charlotte and Martin were doted upon by my father for their tumbling blonde curls, bright blue eyes and extraordinary talents; Charlotte was a beautiful singer and Martin was top of his class. I was looked upon as the black sheep, almost literally. My own hair was as lifeless as a rock, gloomy as mud and my eyes were an unnerving dark blue. I owned a violin but rarely looked at my music and was deemed a failure.

My real passion was writing. I could lock myself in my attic for hours after lights out scribbling on pieces of parchment with my quill – or if I was able to save some coins, a metal nib pen. Sometimes I would burn my candle right down to the holder and have to turn in. I never shared my writing with anyone. I was sure they'd mock me and tell me to work towards something more achievable. Instead, I would go about my life as anyone else in our household would. I would retire downstairs for breakfast in the morning, don my hat and coat and head off to the shop for the majority of the day, and return home for dinner. I would turn to the library after dinner, to feast my eyes upon the beauty of other worlds. I was never offered to take a turn around the room with my father but did not mind. I had nothing to contribute to conversation anyway.

On Sundays, I would be bored without the clutches of the shop. Martin often invited me to watch him play croquet with some friends but I habitually found this duller. I always attended my sister's concerts but they were in the evening. So, I would wander around Lucington, muttering poetry and novel ideas under my breath, longing for the moment to scribble them down.

Unbelievably, my life has always been this dry. In 1829, I turned 5 years old and my father sent myself and Martin to a prep school in Kent. Charlotte was to be educated at home by the governess. She was a witch; I could not see Charlotte having an enjoyable time. I returned every summer and Father would reluctantly take us all to London to visit his sister; my Aunt Beatrice. Her house was much larger than ours as her husband was a politician. Often, we would lounge outside in their garden, laden with morning tea and scones, soaking up the sunshine underneath their pergola, occasionally taking a dip in their pond.

As the years wore on, my siblings and I began to drift further apart and we no longer enjoyed each other's company. Martin and Charlotte had their handfuls of friends that they would invite home during the holidays but I preferred to sit in the garden with my book. Year after year, Father would invite a young lady into our house so that I may court her. He found me ladies who had similar interests to me, the me that Father believed me to be. They would be quiet girls who played instruments and read books. At first this appealed to me. Who wouldn't want a lady friend with the same interests as oneself? But everything was opposites. I was a lover of calm, soothing music whereas they would dote upon busy and exciting scores. I enjoyed gentle stories about the every day, and they would kindly inform me that they loved a good adventure. There was nothing wrong with these ladies per se, but none of them appeared to be someone I would be willing to spend my life with.

And so, as I turned seventeen, my father arranged me a position at the local shop, where I would earn my way in life and find the things he had tried so hard to find for me.