Beyond Laughter: The Marie Corelli Story

By Julie Harris

Marie Corelli was a best-selling author whose 30 books were published from 1886 until a year after her death in 1924. Many of these works are still available today.

From an abandoned, illegitimate newborn to Queen Victoria’s favorite author, this is the story of Minnie Mackay’s transformation into Marie Corelli.

A lonely child, a lonely woman.

Beyond Laughter is a fictional account of Corelli’s private life, based on what little fact is known.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Julie Harris
• Release date: Feb 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507093306

Book preview

Dedication

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For John Richardson, who knows where, when and why this story came to be.

Thank you for chasing me all the way down Church Street, Stratford upon Avon, and reassuring me all would be well.

Introduction

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Many years ago when I first read A Romance of Two Worlds, I never dreamed that one day I would be standing at the foot of the stairs in Marie Corelli’s house, Mason Croft. Halfway up I was hit by a wall of sadness and despair so palpable I turned and ran.

Marie Corelli had it all, or so it seemed. The only thing missing from her life was the love she wrote about, and probably dreamed about, but never got to experience.

Beyond Laughter is a glimpse into the life of a once-famous author, Queen Victoria’s favorite. Some of her works are still in print.

Most books written about Marie Corelli are non-fiction and the authors have made assumptions about her character based on what she wrote. Whilst writing this story, I leaned heavily upon my imagination, local Stratford upon Avon residents who responded to my plea for help, my agent at the time, Bob Tanner, and Bertha Vyver’s Memoirs of Marie Corelli, published in 1930.

Whilst some parts of this novel are based on fact, Beyond Laughter is mostly the product of imagination. Where, though, does fact end and fiction begin?

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1855—1924

Chapter 1

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London, 1854.

It was dreary, foggy night, and in an even drearier street, a row of decrepit houses disappeared into the cold gloom. A hansom pulled up at #6. A woman, neither young nor old, opened the door and threw her arms about her visitor’s neck. He did not offer any affection—not yet at least. William, he said, turning back and nodding to the driver who obediently whipped the horse into a walk. The good William would drive on to Hyde Park and, as he had done for two years, he’d wait patiently until midnight before returning. It would not be proper to have Charles Mackay’s carriage seen in such a neighborhood even if it was a regular sight of two years’ duration.

What news do you bring me? Mary asked as she closed the door and took her lover’s coat.

News? None. She lingers still but no matter, Mary. Come spring your name will be Mackay. Now let me see you.

He lifted her face and kissed her, hard. What was she waiting for? he wondered. News that his wife of twenty-three years had finally died? If so she’d wait forever. A simple idiot this one who’d believe anything.

Tell me you love me, Charlie.

Aye, you know I do.

No, Charlie, you must tell me.

He drew back. What’s this aboot then?

She didn’t have to speak, the horrible news lay in her eyes. She had asked for his news, hoping he would ask for hers. But this, whatever was on her simple mind, he didn’t want to hear. But hear it he must. What is it, Mary Mills? There’s something on your mind. A man can tell.

Spring you said? You’ll marry me come spring? Then our baby will have a name.

Charles stepped back. He’d known it would come to this—why in God’s name did he persist?

Is true, she said. Come spring you’ll be a father again.

Charles sat down. He had to or fall. Be a father again? At his age? Is mine?

Aye, is yours.

Can you not get rid of it? I know a physician who’ll-

Is too late for that.

Is too late? Why’d you not say sooner?

Wasn’t sure if I was, she lied.

Oh, you cannae keep it. I’d not want it. I’m an old man! My own’s grown, long gone. I cannae, I’m too old.

Do you not love me then, Charlie Mackay? Is everything you say a lie?

Mary, you’d not understand.

Oh, I do. You’ll marry me come spring. You’ll give your ween a name. Promise me this now or I’ll be visiting your wife, as ill as she is. Might also see someone at the Herald office. Many folk would like to read’o this news. Especially your friend Charlie Dickens.

You’d be shaming yourself, not me. I can deny it.

Fifty people in this street seen you come and go regular like for two years now. All know. Even your wife. Besides, I’d not ask for this. Just happened.

I’ll not see you lack, Mary, was all he could think of to say.

Oh, aye. You’ll marry me.

I cannae! Not yet!

Then help her along! A drop of arsenic in her tea or sommat! No, no, was a joke, like. A joke ... Oh, Charlie, surely you know me by now? She touched his face, drew his head close and held tight, an attempt at reversing the damage caused. And that she could always do, by a simple touch, a few flattering words. I thought you’d be pleased to know you’re not past it, doctor-sir.

Doctor-sir. He liked it when she called him that.

Is Will coming back at the usual time? she asked softly, running her fingers through his thinning hair.

Aye.

Then let’s not waste a moment. You’ve proof now.

Proof?

Of what our love has done. Proves there’s life yet in these tired old bones.

I’ll give you tired old bones!

She squealed with delight, she always did. A far cry from his wife who, before she became ill, would lie there, completely covered, eyes closed, stiff as a lump of wood. He and Mary Mills frolicked as if they were young and senseless and before long they were in her bed, as had happened most Friday nights for the past two years, since the day the good doctor’s wife threw the servant out of the Mackay household.

That’s what he felt when he was with her, young, senseless—always had, always would. But now she was with child.

It was happening again. Charles’s youngest son, George Eric, a tearaway spoiled brat, was 19 and in Italy, living with his sister. Rosa, named after her mother, was a studious, serious lass, always had been. Eric, the mischief-maker, spoke to his father only when his fiscal situation worsened. Here with Mary Mills was the only time Charles felt alive, worthy, and most of all, needed. Ah, but another ween!

Mary was dozing beside him. For Charles there’d be not a wink of sleep ever again. What can a man do? he wondered. Deny it? Mary was right, he couldn’t. There was always a price to pay and he’d been paying heavily all of his life. He sighed, long and loud. The woman beside him didn’t stir. He’d think of something once the ween was born. Aye, he’d think of something. He had a reputation to uphold in society. After all, he was a man of letters, a poet and philosopher. He’d not studied his entire life to acquire the LLD after his name. He had his reputation to think of now. What’ll I do? he asked silently as he stared up at the bleak darkness.

Perhaps he could find a couple whose ween had died, give the bastard to them? Or perhaps one morn he’d find a wee baby on his doorstep, abandoned? Oh, aye, he thought. That’s it then, that’s what will happen. Yes. I’ll find it on my doorstep. An abandoned ween. That’s what I will do.

He kissed Mary’s forehead, and with his tired bones creaking and sore, he dressed in the darkness. William wouldn’t have to wait outside tonight. For a change, Dr Charles Mackay would be waiting for him.

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Rose woke to the knock on the door and the maid servant’s soft voice. Sah? A message has come. Sah? and she watched as her husband put his book down, rose from his chair by the fire, and opened the bedroom door.

Aye, Mathilda. Good lass. Paper passed from one hand to the other.

What is it, Charlie? Rose asked, knowing full well he would never say. Charles looked at the note again and put it into his pocket. Has your article not been published yet?

Don’t worry yourself, Rose. All’s well. I’ve to nip out for a wee while. Is not important enough to worry your wee head aboot. I’ll not be long.

But-

Aye, I know you’re ill, but I said I won’t be long. You’ve had some supper, and it’s been a trying day, so you sleep now. Or do you want me to call for the doctor again?

No. No. Not again. I’ll sleep. So tired, so very tired...

Good lass. You sleep.

He leant over the bed and kissed the sweaty forehead. She needed a bath badly—he couldn’t stand being in the same room of late.

Pray for me, Charles. Pray for me.

Aye, my love. I always do, you know that. Later then. Sleep now.

Charles went downstairs, vowing again that the moment his wife died, he’d sell this horrible house full of dreary memories, and he’d go somewhere, anywhere. Surrey, possibly. At least he had a friend there. And he’d most likely let none of the family know where he was, too. But Eric would find out, for when Eric wanted money, nothing would stop him. Was a sad state of affairs when one had to run from one’s own son and heir, now, wasn’t it?

Heir. The very thought sent chills down Charles Mackay’s spine, chills which had little to do with the weather. It was quite cold on this May Day’s night, 1855. For the first time in many months, his wife had been strong enough to get out of the house and enjoy the May Day celebrations even though she’d collapsed on returning home. Charles knew it was a mistake to allow her out against the physician’s orders, but the poor lass knew her end was near and all she wanted was to see the joyful weens dancing about the Maypole. That was what she missed the most, she’d said, the sound of children’s laughter. Oh, and how she’d looked oddly at Charles, too, holding his hand as she’d said the words, as if she knew the very extent of his sin. But it was impossible. She didn’t know. Some days of late, she didn’t even know her name. And he liked her best that way for she could not feed his guilt.

So one of those days had it begun, and now it culminated in this note summoning him to Mary Mills’s dingy abode. He’d not forget this May Day for a long time. He felt that truth in his aching joints.

For some months he’d hoped God would miraculously save him from witnessing the proof of his adulterous sins. Alas, God did not.

His wife of many years, Rose Henrietta, was dying while his mistress endured childbirth. It was not a hard choice to make, at whose side to be, although he’d rather have visited the tavern and drowned all his cares. He summoned William from the servant’s quarters.

And so it was that at a quarter to eleven on May 1, 1855, Charles Mackay stood by Mary Mills’s bedside, in a room stinking of sweat and blood. Wrapped in her arms, the ween. At least he’d been spared the agony of hearing the woman giving birth, but his fervent, selfish wish, that it’d die, or better, be stillborn, was not granted. It was a robust, loud, ugly, red-faced thing. He didn’t want to get too close. Charles felt nothing at sight of this for memories of promises made were too strong to ignore. He didn’t expect his wife to live until the week’s end but he’d been expecting her demise for a good year now. Why was God so unkind? Promises made, pillow talk only, to marry the widow-mistress far below his position in society ... damn it all! He began to wonder if Satan himself had stolen his soul for a wee while. His ideals of spiritual equality fell short when faced with the realities of life. From a marriage of convenience, of money, to this—forced to give a newborn baby a name. Lord, he thought. I cannae live here a moment longer. I’ll have to move, start afresh in a place no one knows me.

Come closer. See? She has your eyes.

He came closer but he didn’t want to. He needed fresh air most of all. The newborn was gazing about as best it could, squinting, frowning, now and then uttering short, sharp—no, they weren’t cries. They were outstanding objections. It doesn’t want to be here, Charles immediately thought. I don’t want it here, either. We’ve that in common at least. I’ve two pounds I can give you now. Month’s end there might be one more.

But Mary Mills, for once, didn’t want to know about money. Her name will be Mary Mackay. Won’t it, Charles.

Aye. Of course it will, he said quietly. Cannae stay. See you after then.

Charles?

Aye? He turned back at the door.

Will you not hold her? She’s your flesh.

No. No, I cannae bear wee things so new. Might hurt it. Break it.

And he left very quickly, throwing two pounds on the side table downstairs. He left her alone. Damn her for ever arriving at his door, asking for work. She hadn’t done that, he’d not be in this position now. It was Mary alone who wanted this baby, not him. But he’d face his responsibilities as best he could. He’d pay for it, he’d marry its mother and give it a name, but he’d never love it. How could he? It would constantly remind him that his true sensibilities lay no higher than his belt buckle.

William of course said nothing to his stony-faced master except, Where to, sir?

Home. And be quick about it. Charles got into his hansom and William urged the horse onwards. William, of course, knew what was going on. It’d been going on now for years. Was Mrs. Mackay who’d got rid of the pest from her household, and not soon enough. Last time he’d seen Mary Mills on the street, she’d been heavy with child. So William had counted back, and seemingly this night it had been born, although he’d expected it sooner. How much has he paid the whore for silence? the driver wondered. He turned and looked into the cab. His master was sitting, staring out at nothing. William wanted to laugh. Oh, what a happy night indeed.

William?

Sir?

The tavern.

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Late one August evening when Mrs Mackay was a shadow from eternal rest, there came a knock on the door. Mathilda answered. Nowt was out there though, until she looked down and on the doorstep was a basket and in the basket... The young, simple maid squealed and ran for her master. Doctor Mackay! Come quick! Quick now!

Charles, who had spent the past three quarters of an hour reading by candlelight, not seeing a word there on the printed page, and glancing at the clock every two minutes, was not surprised to hear the knock. The simpleton was late. She’d said she’d leave it at the door come ten. Here it was, almost eleven.

What is it, girl? What’s the fuss here?

It’s a baby, sah! A baby in a basket on your doorstep!

Charles hoisted his body from his high-backed chair and followed the excitable Mathilda to the door. Nowt, he noticed, was about this late to see. Had she come at ten, as decreed, someone may have seen. Oh, there’d be gossip about now then, he thought.

Was a knock, sir, and nowt else but the basket, like. Has a pink ribbon in its hair sah, must be a wee girl. But why would anyone leave it here?

Charles picked up the basket and brought it inside. The baby girl was chewing on her fist and she stopped chewing long enough to give him a smile. She knew him. She’d seen his face before many times. Another smile caught his heart and he could not look away. Not now.

I’ll tell the mistress!

No! No, you’ll not wake her now. I’ll tell her in the morning. You’ll be quiet about this, Mathilda, until I decide what it is I’ll do. He knew she wouldn’t keep quiet. Heavens, the good Doctor Mackay finding a baby in a basket on his front doorstep? How could she be quiet about that? By midday tomorrow all of London would know—exactly what he was hoping for.

Can I touch her, like?

Aye. Aye. Charles sighed. I’ll go to the authorities tomorrow, then.

She won’t be staying with us? Surely whoever put her here wanted her to stay here? The maid gently plucked the baby from its warm nest and held it high. It smelled clean, was fat and well cared for. Something dropped from its rug. Five pounds. Mathilda looked at her master curiously. Five pounds? Seemed two years’ wages! What was this child? A rich man’s bastard? A rich man who couldn’t bear to do away with it but couldn’t live with the shame of calling it his own? Where was its mother? It cried, and Mathilda did her best to stop the cries, but she needed help. She had to call old Dottie from her bed upstairs. Dottie had children—seven of the little blighters. Perhaps none had survived past the age of three, but at least Dottie would know what to do with one so young. The mistress was too ill.

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Faint echoes of a baby’s cries woke the dying woman. By then, Charles was in his bed and snoring. She turned her head and looked at him as best she could. All you had to do was tell me, she thought. I would have understood. You just couldn’t leave alone, could you, Charles? You just couldn’t leave alone.

Show me the wee thing, Charlie, she said softly, but in return all she heard were his snores. A tear fell from her eye but she hadn’t the strength to wipe it away.

Mathilda found Mrs Mackay in the cold darkness before dawn when she’d crept in to fuel the fire so the master would not grumble about the cold on awakening. Mathilda’s cries woke the household, and half the street.

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My Dear George Eric,

As you can see by the above address, your stepmother and I have moved. Due to a change in circumstances I can no longer afford the eight pounds per month allowance. You must therefore find gainful employment to enhance your coffers and keep on with your studies which I hope are progressing well. I have been invited to America to report, first hand, on the battles taking place there. Fiscal matters will be tight, especially with our extra mouth needing food and clothing. I shall be absent for the next three years, and implore you to find work immediately. I trust that you and your sister are keeping well.

Your father, Charles.

The bastard! The bastard! Bastard, bastard!

Rosa Mackay looked up from her sewing. Not good news then?

The bastard has the audacity to tell me to get a job! Me!

Rosa rolled her eyes and went back to her needlework—she was darning her brother’s socks.

I’m being deprived of what is rightfully mine because of that bastard child of his and Mary Mills!

You’d not know the truth of the matter. Nor is it any of your business. And mind your language in the presence of a lady.

Lady? Where? You? Bah! He threw the letter down and stomped off, to, no doubt, go on another drinking spree with his arty friends.

Oh, father, Rosa moaned. She looked from the window. Below on the narrow cobbled street, Eric walked, still angry and hurt. Rosa picked up the crumpled letter which had awaited his arrival home from the opera class and he’d torn it open, frantically, to see how much money lay inside. Instead of money, there was this. It would just not do, telling Eric to earn his own livelihood. It was so like him to blame it all on a poor innocent child. He had no morals, no trace of conscience for he was little but a child himself.

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Dear Papa,

Eric has not taken this latest news at all well, but I had expected it for some time now. I have been offered a new position in Naples where I shall be teaching English to the daughters of a certain widowed countess. I have saved (she almost wrote ‘hidden’) twenty pounds, and would like to come home to see you and my little sister before you leave for the Americas. I should be coming on August 30, and would hope you or my stepmother could meet my train. I have news, Papa, but news that I can only relate to your loving face. I shall see you very soon. All of my love to you and a thousand kisses to my little sister, Mary.

Yours as ever, Rosa.

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I’m coming, too.

I can’t afford two fares, Eric. I need to see Papa alone.

Why? Mistrust lay in his dark eyes.

I am not well. That is why.

"What rot! I’m the ill one. Ill with worry as to how I might eat for the next month while you’re away!"

Get a job.

I am in training to be a world-renowned opera singer!

All these fancies you have. You came here to study art for you wanted to be a world-renowned painter! Well, I was studying, too, but had to take on tiresome work to keep you fed, to keep this roof! You found you could not paint, now you find that singing is too hard an endeavor...

Eric lifted his booted foot and kicked, catching Rosa in the mouth and sending her off her chair. She crashed down, hard. I’ll get a job then! I’ll not take a penny more if it’s thrust at me with contempt!

Rosa did not move until she heard the door slam. She lay where she’d fallen, touching her mouth. Bleeding. Her front tooth was loose. Go, she thought. Go and never come back. She prayed for the strength to get up and it seemed that an unseen angel’s touch lifted her upright. Rosa cried because the touch felt like her mother’s.

She wanted her mother, badly, but her mother was dead. A note from her mother’s friend Lucy had implored her to return before it was too late. How she’d tried! She’d saved so hard for the fare home that very year at a time when the weather was more acceptable. Came the day to purchase the ticket home to England, there was nothing in the wooden box save 30 lira and three English sixpences.

Eric had found her savings box and had stolen her money. No amount of anger or tears made him see reason and nor could any of it be recovered. He’d gambled it all away. He’d even stolen her wages as well. It was a miracle they were not evicted then and there.

So it was that Rosa never saw her mother again. George Eric couldn’t have cared one bit. He didn’t shed a tear when the sad news finally came—why should he, when Mother had no money to call her own, let alone any to give away to her children. Worse, Father had little money left, most of it went to pay for the funeral. There was certainly none spare to bring the son and daughter home. And then the news later that he’d married Mary Mills, the very girl that Mother had thrown from her house; and that a baby was found abandoned on the doorstep... It upset Rosa very much, until her mother came in a dream and told her all would be well, that her father was almost happy now, and that they’d be together again soon.

The cough worsened—some days she’d wake to a bloodstained pillowcase. This she’d told Eric, but he’d said it was nonsense. She could not be sick, he depended