Page 107 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

London and Whinnyfold, May 1911

‘Gilbert died as I would wish to, Florrie,’ said Bram after we returned home from the funeral and sat in quiet memory in the drawing room. Maria fussed about, arranging crockery and pouring tea.

‘How is that, Bram?’ I asked, taking a cup and indicating Maria should just place Bram’s by his side. I would lift it into his hands once she left the room. Ever since I’d broken the news to Bram about Gilbert’s death, he’d had a setback. His breathing was harsher, he barely ate a morsel, his skin was a ghastly yellow, the whites of his eyes, too. No matter what delicacies Mary cooked for her beloved master, he returned trays either untouched or looking as if he’d attacked the food without tasting it.

‘He died trying to save that house guest of his … What was her name?’

‘Ruby Preece,’ I supplied.

Miss Preece, who’d decided to go for a dip in the man-made lake at Grim’s Dyke, despite not being able to swim. She’d ended up out of her depth and was crying out for help when Gilbert, returning from a drive, heard her. He’d stopped the motor car, shucked off his shoes and, without another thought, dived in. While he managed to get Miss Preece to safety, he found himself in difficulties. The doctor declared his heart had given out and he drowned before anyone could render aid.

‘Thank you, Maria. That will be all.’

Maria bobbed and left the room soundlessly.

Only once the door shut did I rise and pour Bram a whisky. He took the glass from me carefully and tossed back the contents.

‘He answered a young woman’s cry for help,’ said Bram. ‘He died a hero.’

Two days after Gilbert died, Bram and I went to Grim’s Dyke to offer our condolences. And to do precisely what I did: hold Lucy and Nancy tight and remind them they were not alone in their grief. We’d loved Gilbert, too.

‘They’re calling him a hero, Florrie,’ Lucy sobbed. ‘But what good is a dead one? Tell me that?’

I didn’t want to say ‘no good to anyone’ to Lucy then, nor Bram now.

‘I’d rather you don’t go throwing yourself in a body of water trying to be a hero again,’ I said, gently reminding him that he’d already earned that accolade.

A repressed memory fought its way into my head: the grey-fleshed body dripping on the dining room table, the blue lips and sharp teeth, the strange blood-shot eyes, the D burned into the chest …

I could sense the dead man now. Not quiescent in the corners and shadows, but in my husband’s jaundiced flesh, his red and yellow eyes. The stench of whisky and something rotten that floated on his breath.

‘In fact, I’d rather you don’t die, hero or not, if you don’t mind,’ I said, exchanging his empty whisky glass for the teacup. ‘Anyway, you’re too young. Gilbert was seventy-five and you’re only sixty-three. You’ve at least thirteen more years before you consider leaving me.’

Bram didn’t drink but stared dolefully into the cup. The milky liquid shook and sloshed as if a small storm was raging.

‘Truth is, I don’t think I’ve thirteen more years, Florrie.’ He tried to drink his tea. I swiftly wiped the dribbles from his beard.

Truth was, I didn’t either.

‘Is Mr Stoker alright, ma’am?’

Lost in thought, it took a moment to realise the kindly query was directed at me.

I followed the gaze of the maid, Lizzie, who came with the cottage we’d leased in Whinnyfold for a few weeks. We were back in Scotland, Cruden Bay. Over summer, many of the fisherfolk sought employment in Peterhead, choosing to rent their cottages out to holidaymakers. Lizzie was the owner’s niece, a lovely lass of about eighteen who hadn’t yet learned to school her curiosity.

From the front windows, there were views right down to the arc of sand. Upon them, as was his habit, walked Bram. Once upon a time, he’d cut such a strong figure, striding along the harbourside at Port Erroll, stopping to make notes, talking to the fishermen and other holidaymakers, all of whom spoke about the nice Irishman they met. Now he marched upon the shores of Whinnyfold, his peculiar gait drawing attention.

This was his much-needed time to think, to sieve through the contents of his ever-busy mind. Though I often accompanied him, today he’d chosen to walk alone.

And he was, completely. There was not a soul abroad that I could see, thank God. Just the sea, the sand and the steep grassy slopes. And Lizzie, who reminded me how others viewed my husband.

‘Why’s he’s stompin’ about and shoutin’ into the wind like that? Is he angry, missus?’

I watched as Bram struggled against the sea gusts, lifting his legs high and bringing them down in rather a dramatic fashion, as if he were a child playing at being a soldier. With each step, he teetered before righting himself, turning to face the rolling waves and scream at nature, his stick waving above his head. He looked quite mad.

Or perhaps Lizzie was correct, and he was angry. He’d every right to be. Only, I was usually the one brimming with that emotion, not my amiable husband.