Page 113 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

London, April 1922

It was the tenth anniversary of Bram’s passing and, as he had every year (except during the war), Noel came to visit. It was obligation rather than genuine affection or concern for my wellbeing that brought him to my door, we both knew that. He’d still not forgiven me for what he called my outrageous behaviour following his father’s death.

It wasn’t Bram’s death per se that had made me act as I did, oh no. Rather, it was the reasons for it. My memories were forever tarnished. I was possessed by the knowledge Dr Browne had given me. It had been a stake to the heart.

Consequently, I did the worst thing a mother, a widow, could do: I became a source of tattle and rumour.

First, I’d auctioned Bram’s precious books, manuscripts, the artworks he’d collected, the items he’d purchased from Henry Irving’s estate, and all his other paraphernalia. Any reminders of him, his foiled ambitions, the mementoes of our life together, had been too painful to keep. They had to go and, if I profited from their removal, well, it was the least I deserved.

Dismayed I was being so cavalier about things that had been dear to Bram, my family and friends tried to dissuade me. But receiving four hundred pounds for what was, in my view at the time, largely dreck, was a windfall. I’d been ready to burn the damn lot.

Then I insisted people stop referring to me as Mrs Bram Stoker and call me Mrs Florence Stoker instead.

Within weeks, I’d cast aside my mourning garb and thrown myself into a range of distractions: lunches at Foyles with Lucy, Nancy and, occasionally, Ellen. Opening nights at the theatre, often with Violet. I went to dinners, book readings, invited people for afternoon tea. Services at Brompton Oratory soothed my soul and gave my life a sense of ritual and meaning. I went on a Hellenic cruise, taking a companion with me. I returned to Paris to do some shopping. I spent time with Genevieve, made regular visits to the family in Dublin. My appearance became more important than ever as doubt ate my soul. I’d hear people referring to me as the ‘merry widow’. It wasn’t a compliment.

I joined Noel, Neelie and my granddaughter Ann for summers on the Isle of Wight. I knew they invited me out of a sense of duty, but I went all the same.

After years of being content to let Bram steer our lives in the direction he chose, I took the helm. Before the auction even took place, I sent the publishers a curt letter informing them that all matters pertaining to Bram’s works must come to me.

It was a difficult time. Inside, I was reeling, seething with anger, betrayal and humiliation. A heady combination as it turns out; restrained emotion can make you do things that seem, to those who don’t know the reasons, rash, selfish and cold.

I heard Lucy tell Nancy one day it was ‘grief’ that made me act so; in the kitchen Maria and Mary muttered that my husband’s death had changed me.

‘Unhinged’, ‘frivolous’ and ‘superficial’ were among the kinder epithets. I wore them stoically. Only George understood. He kept his word, and the secret of Bram’s death followed him to his grave two years ago.

Today, I hoped to breach the defences Noel had erected. No, that wasn’t fair. It was my own conduct that had caused him to put distance between us.

I studied him as he sat on the lounge, the cup of tea in his hand, the dark, tailored three-piece suit; his brown hair, lighter than mine had once been but with a touch of Bram’s russet, was just starting to grey at the temples. I wasn’t convinced the moustache suited him, not that I’d dare say. He’d done well for himself, had Noel. He had a fine house, a loving wife and lovely daughter.

‘And Ann is well?’ I asked after we’d discussed the weather, the state of the roads, the new pope and the Prince of Wales’s visit to Japan.

‘Very,’ said Noel, a tad cautiously. ‘She’s showing a real talent for painting.’

‘On top of her music? Clever girl.’

‘Where’s Phillippa?’ asked Noel, looking around as if my niece and companion might suddenly manifest out of the walls.

‘Taking Moonbeam for a walk,’ I answered, glancing out the window, half-expecting to see a slender figure with a little Pekingese in tow.

When Phil first suggested her daughter, Phillippa, move to London and become my companion, I bristled. Old women had companions. But Phillippa, with her bright laugh, twinkling eyes and clever observations about people and things, her ability to know when I wanted time to myself, was a delight. I saw the world anew through her eyes – her unaffected joy at London, her excitement at meeting my friends and acquaintances, an enthusiasm that hadn’t diminished over the years she’d been with me.

‘I can’t believe that Mr Conan Doyle comes to dinner!’ she’d exclaim. ‘You aren’t dazzled at all, are you, Aunty Florrie?’

‘My dear,’ I’d said, repressing a smile, ‘when one counts the likes of Ellen Terry, Genevieve Ward and Sir William Gilbert among their dearest friends, has laughed with royalty, watched Jules Verne dance on tables, been snowbound in a hotel with an American president, it’s hard to be overwhelmed by anyone anymore.’

I sank back into the chair, hands gripping the wide cushioned arms, as Noel crossed to the window. The faint warble of a blackbird welcoming the shafts of sunlight piercing the rain clouds sweetened the day. A motor car drove through a puddle. I liked that sound, the lovely swish. It reminded me of Gilbert. Dear God, that was so long ago.

It’s funny how time can alter how one feels about something, about someone … including my husband.

After Bram died, I became the executor of his literary estate, such as it was. Almost immediately, I was approached to finish putting together a collection of short stories Bram had been collating before he died. Instead of three volumes, only one was commissioned, but this was to include a deleted chapter from Dracula. The last thing I wanted to do back then was finish Bram’s incomplete work. Everything was too raw, so I declined. Then I was asked to write the preface. This was offered to appease me but, because it gave me latitude and authority, a recognition of my new role in relation to Bram’s creations, I capitulated. The collection was published as Dracula’s Guest and the subsequent royalties were very helpful, which was just as well, because apart from Dracula and Jewel of the Seven Stars, earnings from his other publications were pitiful.

Over the years, through Bram’s publisher, I’d sold some translation rights, fielded interest in the reprint of one or two books (rarely did these amount to anything), but nothing of any significance had arisen … until now.

‘Noel,’ I began cautiously. He turned around. ‘There’s something I need your advice about. It’s to do with your father’s literary estate.’

In the past, Noel had suggested I reach out to the Society of Authors for counsel, but I’d been hesitant to do so. I was still bridling over the pathetic one hundred pounds the Royal Literary Fund had given Bram when he’d sought help and, consequently, had developed a general distrust of literary organisations.