Page 130 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

Mrs Fassett held out a pen.

In that moment, I felt their presence. The uninvited men who had entered my life and impacted it in ways I’d never foreseen brushed against me one last time. Henry Irving, the drowned man, and even Bram’s count. I felt them hovering. Just as I blinked and tried to focus on the opaque, wavering shapes, they began to dissolve into the smoke that drifted towards the ceiling.

‘I hope you’re right, Miss Fassett,’ I said, accepting the pen with a shaking hand. I couldn’t wait to tell Mr Thring, Lucy, Nancy, Violet, all those who’d supported me. Phil and Phillippa too. I wished Ellen was still here, Genevieve. Dear Gilbert. And Poor O. I sent a prayer heavenward, thanking God Almighty but also Bram. I wondered if he was watching and, as the familiar scents of ambergris and whisky encompassed me, felt he was. After all, this was for him as much as me.

‘The thought that my actions over the years, that ours —’ I included Miss Fassett; after all, this wouldn’t have been possible without her, ‘might leave such a legacy is beyond my wildest dreams. But —’ the pen was poised over the contract, ‘but, I fear that if I’m to be remembered at all, it won’t be for that.’

Noel clicked in exasperation.

‘Why on earth not?’ said Miss Fassett. She sounded affronted. Then, jabbed the place I still had to sign.

Watched over by my son, Miss Fassett and those spectral others, I scrawled my name.

Florence Anne Lemon Bram Stoker.

‘Bram may have given birth to a monster,’ I said. ‘But in this very moment, I’ve set it loose upon the world.’

‘Lucky world,’ said Miss Fassett dryly, and lit another cigarette.

EPILOGUE

Wilton Place, 1937

Was it worth it, fighting so hard for the rights I sought to protect? Whether or not Miss Fassett’s rather bold assertion that I’d somehow be viewed as a trailblazer for a creator’s ownership would be proven true was not something I considered. At the very least, my legal dues as Bram’s widow and beneficiary of his estate had been upheld.

Over the following years, I would occasionally wonder if I’d done the best thing in signing away Bram’s creature, especially when Universal Pictures bought the rights to all stage adaptations of Bram’s book as well, and a man named David O Selznick, who oversaw a unit with the big Hollywood studio MGM, bought the story ‘Dracula’s Guest’. Then promptly sold those rights back to Universal for a tidy profit.

When I received my share of the money (twenty-five thousand dollars, a serious sum), I was content. When what was later called the Great Depression flung the entire globe into economic catastrophe, that money kept me and my loved ones in relative comfort. I was relieved and grateful. I refused to have regrets.

The Universal film, which was directed by Tod Browning and starred a Hungarian actor, Béla Lugosi (who’d also played Dracula in the stage adaptation in America), was one of the studio’s first talking pictures. It was produced during the Depression, and though the original budget was dramatically reduced, forcing the writer to draw on Mr Deane and Mr Balderston’s stage play far more than Bram’s book (which did disappoint me), it was a remarkable success.

I only saw the film once. Mr Lugosi was exactly as I’d always imagined the count – a charming caped and dinner-suited gentleman with a heavy accent and mesmerising, almost glowing, eyes that often filled the screen and made my heart thud and my breath catch. He also wore a large medallion, which added dignity to his bearing. The sets were eerie shadowscapes, whether London drawing rooms or the count’s formidable castle. Arches were draped with giant cobwebs, impenetrable fogs drifted through the streets; crumbling stone staircases, rough walls, lanterns and guttering candles abounded. Hands emerged from coffins, spiders skittered across flagstones. I was so captivated by the Carpathians, Whitby and London interiors, I sometimes forgot to absorb the dialogue and performances. When I did, I was underwhelmed. The film lacked the depth of Bram’s book, relying on cheap shocks and somewhat overblown performances, meaning Mina and Renfield were caricatures rather than vulnerable victims – or, in Mina’s case, a resilient woman.

The year it was released, Miss Fassett rang to inform me that Dracula was the studio’s highest grossing film.

Maybe, I thought, I’d given away the rights too cheaply.

Funny how when you have no choice but to remain where others put you, even a large space can feel confined. So it was with my airy bedroom in Wilton Place. I was dependent on Winsome, Noel, Neelie, Ann and whoever else plucked up the courage to visit, to entertain me with gossip and news of the outside world.

I was ending my life as Bram began his – confined to bed. Sometimes, when the pain kept me awake or I had to rise and change my bloodied pads, I’d crawl back under the covers and think how coffin-like it had become. I was Count Dracula or one of his brides, returning to the place that kept me safe; where others couldn’t harm me.

Others might not, but what was growing inside me, the monster that lurked within, was slowly, bit by bit, killing me.

Noel refused to talk about it, as if denial was a weapon he could wield. Neelie would burst into tears and run from the room if I raised the spectre of my demise. Ann was resolved in the way the young were, reminding me to remain positive, weaponising smiles to keep death at bay. They didn’t prevent my swift deterioration, but they did, I had to admit, help.

Only Winsome, of all those around me, was stoic about my impending end. Winsome and Miss Fassett, who still phoned me every other day with updates about foreign rights to Dracula, or entertaining snippets about other writers and film stars. I’d half-hoped that now Mr Logie Baird’s television had captured the public imagination there’d be a deal with the BBC or some such organisation producing programs for the small screen.

From my bed, I kept abreast of the growing threat in Europe as fascism continued its brute march across the continent. There were rumours that war was inevitable. I prayed fervently that was not the case. The Chancellor of Germany, Herr Adolf Hitler, leader of the Nazi Party, was creating headlines every other day. There were dark whispers of dreadful mistreatment of Jewish people, of them being forcibly removed from their homes and sent to specially built camps. The monsters Bram created, whether Count Dracula, Arabella March or the mummy, Tera, were nothing compared to this Hitler. A part of me was grateful I wouldn’t be here to see what fresh horror he’d unleash upon the world.

Of the money received from Universal for Dracula, some of it was used to update my little flat. A splash of paint here, some new curtains and armchairs there, and to modernise the bathroom. This included putting in a downstairs lavatory, so I didn’t have to struggle upstairs to relieve myself. Not that it mattered anymore. Christened ‘Room Dracula’ or ‘Drac’ by Ann, I liked the idea that proceeds from a book that had caused me so much angst paid for a toilet. My greatest extravagance was a gallery I had built above my bedroom, a sort of mezzanine where I could store memorabilia. I glanced towards the steep wooden staircase. It was more than I could manage now. I’d also put a tidy sum in an account for Ann when she came of age, had travelled back to Dublin a few times before my health prevented it, and given money to Phillippa’s children. Naturally, I’d donated to my local parish as well. Father O’Malley had been very grateful and shown his gratitude by visiting me once a week for prayers and confession. The rest I’d intended to spend in good time, but God had other ideas.

There were to be no more times, good or otherwise. My debt was being called in.

It wasn’t entirely dreadful being constricted, first to my apartment, then bed. Though the flat was quite small compared to other places I’d lived, I adored its high ceilings, the ornate fireplaces and large windows. From my bedroom, at the other end of the flat from Winsome’s, I could catch a glimpse of Hyde Park. I took great consolation from the sounds that would float through the open window (I insisted on it being left that way, regardless of the weather) – the distant conversations of passersby, the squeals of excited children, the rumble of traffic and the cacophony of vehicle horns gave me solace. Sometimes, I’d hear my neighbours, great quarrels, laughter, song and music. Crying, too. The symphony of life. The fragrances of spring would waft in, oft tainted by exhaust fumes and other noisome odours. I didn’t mind, not anymore. I was just happy to be reminded that life went on.

Around me were mementoes of my youth – Oscar’s painting, which Winsome brought from the drawing room – or should I say ‘living room’, though hardly any of that was going on in there anymore, along with copies of all Bram’s works, Oscar’s plays, Gilbert’s librettos, and the box in which I kept Oscar’s letters, the cross I never did return, his poems, essays and other keepsakes. I couldn’t read anything, my eyesight was but a memory now; everything was seen through a glass opaquely. But I’d touch each letter, fondle a ring here, a brooch from Ellen there, a feather, a sequin, a dried flower, and recollections would parade across my mind. I could remember every word written to me, every sentiment.

All the letters Bram had sent me during our marriage, I’d destroyed after his death, a futile attempt to excise him from my past. Did I regret it? I did. Over the years, I learned the past is not something you can put behind you after all. It’s a part of you, whether you wish it or not. I made peace with the fact our marriage had been unconventional. How sad that my death, like Bram’s, would be so damn ordinary. Still, I’d lived to a ripe old age. Seventy-eight. I told Lucy she’d long surpassed me (I’d tried to make a joke of it, but Lucy didn’t laugh). Violet said she didn’t appreciate my gallows humour. Henry Irving’s disgruntled widow had made it to ninety-one, dying only two years ago. The rancorous woman had made a point of dressing in mourning on the anniversary of Henry’s death every single year to remind everyone who she’d once been married to.