15th February 1826

I am beginning to think that valentine cards are one of those quaint and primitive customs that ought to be abolished altogether, like wearing knee breeches or putting fellows in the stocks. The trouble today began at breakfast. Fanny nudged me and bid me observe Mama looking at Papa (‘see? like a cat watches a mouse!’). My father, seated at the other end of the table, reading his newspaper, remained utterly oblivious. Nonetheless, Mama grew so intent that her spoon hovered above her porridge, perfectly still; and the room itself – to me at least – seemed to grow distinctly colder.

‘Mr Dickens –,’ said my mother, finally.

‘Mrs Dickens,’ said my father, cheerily enough, raising his nose from the paper, mistaking this opening sally for good humour.

‘Mr Dickens,’ repeated my mother, emphatically. ‘I must speak. I can remain silent no longer. Pray, sir, do not mistake me for a mute.’ 

My father tactfully restrained himself from saying that he was unlikely to ever suffer from such a misapprehension.

‘I gather from Cook,’ she continued, haughtily, ‘that the postman called yesterday at this very property?’

My father smiled and agreed that he did.

‘Did he – the postman – deliver a certain solitary item?’

‘He did, indeed, Mrs Dickens,’ said my father, still rather jolly. ‘Indeed, ma’am, it would be dereliction of his duty to do otherwise!’

‘An item, which you read and placed in your coat pocket?’

‘Why, I expect so!’

‘And which fell out of your pocket this morning, this very morning, to be found – for shame! – by our domestic servant?’

‘Did it?’ said my father, putting down the paper, and searching his pockets. ‘Well, dear me! I do hope La Skillet was not scandalised!’

My father grinned, as if at some private joke, and got up to approach my mother, extending his arms as if to embrace her.

‘My dear,’ Papa went on, ‘the game is up. There is no need for circumlocution or embarrassment – your heartfelt sentiments – all reciprocated – let us positively bathe in the cheery rivulets of our mutual felicity, et cetera, et cetera –’

My mother, however, rose abruptly from her seat, extending her arm – and spoon – to prevent his approach. She rather resembled a champion fencer armed only with a lonely piece of cutlery.

‘Do not rivulate me, John Dickens,’ she said, darkly, ‘I sent you no card.’

‘Not you, my dear?’ said my father, looking somewhat confused.

My mother, having waited for the right moment, now produced the article in question, and threw it down upon the table, as if for the benefit of the assembled jurors (composed of the junior branch of the Dickens family). The card depicted a naked cherub perched upon a branch, and bore the words, ‘Sweet cupid – let fly your darts of love.’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘This … this article is not mine.’

My father raised his eyebrows, picked it up, and looked it over anew. But before he had opportunity to speak, my mother snatched the card back.

‘This, John Dickens!’ exclaimed my mother, waving it under his nose in the most threatening manner, ‘this is the thanks I receive for my years of duty and devotion?’

‘My dear Betsy!’ exclaimed my father, who seemed genuinely fearful that he might be swatted at the shortest possible notice, ‘do not trouble yourself! I swear I have lent no encouragement to –’

But my mother had already turned on her heels and stalked out of the room, taking the card with her. 

Sometimes I think the pair of them are not well-suited.

(Even my father has received a valentine – a man of his age! It is quite unpleasant!)

At lunch, mindful of what transpired at the Stray Cat and Mutton, I suggested to Percy that he might offer to take his Jane dancing but he replied that he has ‘two left feet and the legs to go with them besides.’ I attempted to put him on his mettle and hinted that I had heard her say something about dancing to some good-looking young fellow at the bar. He looked very anxious and said that he would think about it. 

He is very much his own worst enemy.