Page 104 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘As it happens, she wasn’t offering me anything.’ He ceased prodding.

I pulled a face. ‘I don’t understand. Why did she ask you to attend her if it wasn’t you she wished to engage?’

Bram carefully placed the poker against the hearth. ‘Because,’ he faced me, ‘she wished to utilise your services, my dear.’

‘Me?’ My astonishment knew no bounds. ‘What could she want from me?’

Bram paused, waiting until I met his clear grey gaze. ‘For the princely sum of three shillings six pence, she wanted you to read to her in the evenings.’

A wave of red-hot shame seared my chest, rose up my cheeks. ‘You cannot be serious.’

‘Oh, but I am.’

‘I hope you declined.’

‘I thanked her, Florrie, and then yes, I declined.’

How dare she? Had we fallen so far that Lady Ritchie would deem it appropriate to offer what was akin to charity? ‘Does this mean …’ I began, then pressed my lips together.

‘That our financial troubles are common knowledge? I’m afraid it must, Florrie. How else are we to understand it?’

My vision wavered as I regarded Bram. He was sallow beneath the flush of indignation that coloured his face. So tired-looking, yet also determined. He leaned over and took my hand in his. ‘I don’t want you to worry. I’ll fix this. My publisher has high hopes for my new book.’

We all did. Called Famous Imposters, it was a non-fiction about a range of well-known historical figures and rogues who’d fooled royalty and the public. The most contentious chapter was about the great Queen Elizabeth who, Bram asserted, was really a boy from Bisley.

I held his hand tightly as sparks whirled and burned my mind. Bram, my dreamer, my spinner of tales, my flawed man who seemed destined to forever miss the greatness so many – including me – had believed him preordained for.

‘I do too,’ I said finally and, standing, kissed his soft dry cheek. ‘I do too.’ Without another word, I left.

In the privacy of my bedroom, I lay on the bed and burned with humiliation, railed silently against the unfairness of life, refusing to acknowledge the dark figure in the corner.

Thoughts of our own penury were quickly forgotten when news reached us that Samuel Clemens, who’d proved such a good friend to Bram, a real comfort after the loss of Henry and our change in fortune, had died.

Once more, Bram was thrown into depression. He locked himself away in the study. He no longer requested I take dictation but soldiered on. Despite his poor vision and the difficulties he had holding a pen, he started a new novel. The title was enough to stop the heart: The Lair of the White Worm. He’d always loved the legends of the Lambton Worm of Durham and the serpents said to have laid waste the land around Bamburgh. His writing was painstakingly slow, but unceasing; as if he could write away our sorrows.

Not even preparations for Noel and Neelie’s wedding diverted Bram from this new novel and the smaller writing commissions he accepted. I was glad to have something to focus on. Despite the parlous state of our funds, I ordered a new dress.

It was with mixed feelings I attended the dressmakers. Shown a range of fabrics and accessories, with colours and styles so varied and wondrous, I settled on a pastel pink with black and gold trim – my favourite combination. Gone were the days when a man could span my waist with his hands. Like everything else about me, my middle had thickened, my face was broader, my legs and stomach too. My hair was threaded with almost as much silver as brown. The dressmaker, Mrs Cardew, resorted to the usual flattery as she measured and draped swathes of silk and taffeta across my shoulders, pushed velvet ribbons under my chin, scolding me for being too hard on myself, assuring me I was still a beauty. I knew what I saw in the mirror, and it was an elderly woman whose time to dazzle had passed. It was only when Neelie’s mother, who was sitting with her daughter awaiting her turn to be measured, exclaimed as a mock-up of my gown was pinned against me, ‘Why, Mrs Stoker, that will not do. You’ll eclipse my Neelie in that ensemble!’ that I examined my reflection with a more objective eye.

Perhaps I wasn’t so bad. I was comparing the girl of my youth to the woman before me. A woman who had lived through much. I was soon to be a mother-in-law, and in time, a grandmother, too. Was I ready?

What woman conscious of time’s weary passage ever was? The role of grandmother announced old age in a manner nothing else quite could. I prayed I’d be ready to embrace it when it came.

I looked at Neelie, chattering away beside her mother, all slender limbs and soft, unmarked complexion. What kind of mother would she be? Better than me, I’d no doubt. I’d been an absent mother in many ways. Not physically so much as emotionally. I don’t think I’d been designed for motherhood. So much for it being woman’s instinct.

Bram and I were better matched than anyone realised. He’d never embraced being a father … or a husband, either. But I could look back on our years together and, while those early ones were a trial and I despaired of ever being happy, we’d found a contentment of sorts, hadn’t we? What was that saying? Familiarity breeds contempt? With us, it had bred acceptance, and respect. At least, for me it had, especially as he relied on me more. It was nice to feel needed, to have a purpose.

‘What are you thinking, Mrs Stoker?’ asked Neelie, rising to stand beside me.

I stared at her in the mirror. She came to my shoulder. Her eyes were dancing, her mouth mobile. Yes, she was exactly what us Stokers needed. New blood: a fresh outlook on life that would chase away the doldrums of the past – and the present. I prayed she and Noel would find real happiness together, the kind I feared he’d not experienced with me or his father. Too concerned with making a life beyond Henry Irving’s reach, Noel had been forced to create his own childhood, substituting other adults for Bram and me – I thought of the closeness he had with my mother, with Phil, his Stoker uncles and aunts. With Mrs Simpson and Nounou Yvette, too.

Now he’d found someone special to build a life with.

‘I was thinking how lucky Noel is,’ I said, reaching for Neelie’s hand and drawing her towards me. ‘How lucky we are that you’re to be part of our family.’

Neelie’s large eyes filled and, much to my surprise, she threw her arms around me.

I froze briefly, then melted into the hug.