Page 11 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

CHAPTER SIX

When I came downstairs for breakfast the following morning, there was a note awaiting.

‘It’s from Mr Stoker,’ said Alice.

‘You read my correspondence?’

‘You shouldn’t be such a lie-a-bed.’ She ran into the dining room before I could catch her.

Note in hand, I followed at a more leisurely pace. Sat around the table were Mother, Maude, Phil and Catherine. Father and the boys had gone for a walk with Captain Walton.

‘You made quite the impression on Mr Stoker,’ said Phil, nodding at the note.

‘Then he must be easy to impress.’ I sat down and reached for toast and jam.

‘When are you going to understand, Florence Anne Lemon Balcombe,’ began Mother in a tone that indicated a lecture. ‘You may not have a conventional dowry —’

‘Or any —’ muttered Phil.

‘But beauty, wit, style and —’

‘Wonderful sisters,’ added Alice.

‘Are priceless,’ Mother smiled. She waited a beat. ‘So, what does the estimable Mr Stoker write?’ She placed a cautionary hand on Alice.

With an indifference I by no means felt, I unfolded the note. ‘He’s invited me to go to the theatre with him tomorrow night. It’s hard to tell, his writing is almost illegible.’

‘Will you go?’ asked Catherine, glancing at Mother.

‘I’ll have to make sure it doesn’t clash with all my other engagements,’ I said wryly.

‘You could do worse than a Stoker,’ said Mother.

‘Mother! It’s an invitation, not a proposal.’

‘She could do better too,’ added Phil, giving me that look. One I knew cautioned against falling for another man so soon after a broken heart.

The grandfather clock in the hallway chose that moment to chime. Time was ticking; marriage was the only way to guarantee myself a life, a future, and a man to share it with.

I glanced down at the note again. Mr Stoker’s handwriting was truly terrible.

It was hard not to stare as we settled into our seats at the Gaiety Theatre. Though I’d been before, I’d only ever sat in the stalls. Mr Stoker had procured tickets for the balcony, which gave a completely fresh aspect. Phil and Catherine, who’d accompanied us, were seated a row behind.

‘It’s huge,’ I said, admiring the baroque features, the lavishly painted ceiling. I glanced over my shoulder at my sisters. Phil was grinning approvingly.

‘It can seat over two thousand people,’ said Mr Stoker.

‘Has any actor filled it to capacity?’ I asked, noting quite a few empty seats. Still, for a Wednesday, it was a respectable crowd. Women dressed in the latest fashions, glittering with jewels, moved between rows searching for their seats. Across from where we were sat, the elegant boxes were being filled. I recognised politicians, a gentleman I’d met at the Wildes’, a lord and a woman I assumed was his wife. The gentleman caught my eye and nodded.

‘Only the one I told you about,’ replied Mr Stoker. For a moment I forgot my question.

‘Mr Henry Irving,’ I said.

Mr Stoker turned slightly. ‘You were listening.’

‘Sometimes I do.’ I beamed. ‘Will he be performing tonight?’

‘Alas, no. He’s touring England, but when he returns to Dublin, I’ll make sure you witness his brilliance.’