Page 101 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘Will he be alright?’ I insisted. ‘Will he live?’

George exchanged a long look with Tom then, squatting so his face was level with mine.

‘He’ll live, Florrie.’ He rested a hand on my knee. ‘But whether he’ll be alright is in God’s hands.’

I stifled a moan. ‘What do I do?’

‘Pray,’ said Tom.

And so I did.

After some time, another doctor and his assistant arrived. Bram was carefully lifted and carried into his bedroom. Ada began to pick up the books, stacking them on Bram’s desk. As far as I was concerned, it was no coincidence Bram had a turn whilst revisiting his time with Henry Irving.

I went to follow, but George prevented me. ‘Florrie.’ His tone was so kind, his eyes too. ‘You can do nothing for now. Go, make yourself presentable, eat something. Then, join us. I hope to have some answers by then.’

I nodded. ‘Alright. Thank you.’

‘And, Florrie —’

I paused near the doorway. George held a copy of Reminiscences, turning it over in his hand. ‘If Bram recovers, we’re going to need to discuss his work practices. Seems not even Irving’s death has slowed him down.’

If. Such a small word to carry so much portent.

‘No,’ I sighed. ‘Just almost killed him.’

‘How are you feeling today?’

I carefully slid the tray I’d taken from the maid onto the table in the conservatory. Bram was seated in a large cushioned chair he’d appropriated the moment we arrived at George’s country house in Deal. He was dressed in his favourite jacket and waistcoat, a tartan blanket tucked around his thighs. Several books competed for space on the smaller table beside him, as did newspapers. It was a cold autumn day, though the sun shining through the glass was very pleasant and provided excellent light for reading. The magnifying glass Bram required lay dormant in his lap.

Being an invalid didn’t suit him. He resented being shut away and watching the world through a window instead of being out in it. It reminded him too much of his childhood. There were days he chose to punish those he felt were responsible for his confinement. Usually by pretending he didn’t hear us.

Today was one of those days.

I chatted lightly about the progress on the Piccadilly line of the Underground (something that had interested Bram in the past) and told him that the Gilberts had written to say they’d paid a visit to the first crematorium in London – Golders Green (being fascinated with the macabre, I felt sure Bram would comment). When he didn’t, I poured him a cup of tea and, still talking, sat beside him. I cast a sideways glance as he drank. He didn’t like anyone looking lest his hands trembled too much, or he spilled the liquid. I was pleased to note he did neither.

Bram returned the cup to its saucer with nary a clatter and released a long, heartfelt sigh. ‘The cook here knows how to brew tea, does she not?’ he said.

‘She does,’ I agreed. Then, as was our usual practice, I picked up one of the unread newspapers and proceeded to share its contents with him.

We’d been at Fairlight Lawn for over two weeks now, guests of George and Agnes and their brood of mostly well-behaved children. The eldest were already away at school, while the three youngest relied on a governess, a rather frivolous woman named Minna. Although it was initially a relief to be away from London and reminders of Bram’s collapse, I was starting to miss my friends, and Mary, Ada and Louisa (Maria had come with us), and the bustle and chaos of London. But in consultation with George, we’d agreed upon four weeks’ rest in the country. I was secretly glad we’d only ten or so days remaining of this medical exile. I suspected Bram felt the same. Anyway, he’d work to return to – The Vicar of Wakefield to stage. The American who hired Bram had been relentless in his messages, wanting to know when Bram would be well enough to return.

When George first diagnosed Bram with both Bright’s disease (which was, I learned, an affliction of the kidneys) and a paralytic stroke, I feared for the future.

‘What caused it?’ I’d asked.

George had taken my hand (never a good sign). ‘It’s difficult to say exactly, but in Bram’s case, it’s likely been brought on because he works so damn hard. The man never stops. He’ll have to now,’ he added.

‘Stop work?’

Suddenly, the life we’d enjoyed flashed before me and a new one rose: no more parties or Sunday afternoons, no more theatre, art shows, exhibitions, speeches, trips to Paris, Dublin or Scotland, or indeed a writing career for Bram. The line from John Donne’s poem came to me, In that the world’s contracted thus.

‘At the very least,’ said George, interrupting my nightmare, ‘as I’ve said numerous times, he must slow down.’

Dismissing the memories, I said, ‘You seem better today.’

‘I am,’ he smiled.

The palsy I feared was permanent and which made his hands shake so he couldn’t hold a pen or grip a knife, was almost gone. His speech, initially slow and slurred, was improving.