Page 20 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

We lay beside one another, stiffly, like two strangers sharing a medieval bed. I tried to shift his arm so I might lever myself up, but it was heavy, awkward.

‘Why did Mr Irving react the way he did to my name?’

‘Oh. That.’ Bram stifled a hiccough. ‘He has a wife named Florence. Only, they’re estranged. Apparently, she makes his life a misery.’

For a fleeting moment I wondered at both men being married to women with the same name. Did it signify anything? Other than how common my name was. Florence Nightingale had a lot to answer for.

‘Look, it was all a misapprehension,’ he said drowsily. ‘Henry has a certain way about him. You’ll get used to it and, in time, you’ll come to love him, just as I do.’

I pressed my lips together, made some sort of conciliatory noise.

‘You’ll apologise to him, Florrie? For me?’ Bram tightened his hold briefly. ‘I’d prefer the two people I care about most weren’t at odds.’

Without waiting for an answer, Bram kissed my temple, withdrew his arm, rolled over, and promptly fell asleep. I retrieved the book from under my hip, replaced it on the stand with a loud thump, and extinguished the lamp.

I lay there, my thoughts heavy. I’d been so looking forward to making a friend of Mr Irving, making an impression.

Well, I thought sardonically, I’d certainly done that.

CHAPTER NINE

London, December 1878

When I first entered the top-floor flat Bram had leased for us on Southampton Street, Covent Garden, it was all I could do not to turn around and walk out again. If our boxes hadn’t already been stacked in what was to be the drawing room, and George hadn’t been by my side, I may well have. George had arrived in the city two days earlier and picked up the keys. He’d been at Charing Cross station to meet us.

In shocked silence, George and I wandered through the six main rooms. There was a bedroom each for me and Bram, one for George, a kitchen and scullery combined, and another room that would serve as a study. Not counted because they were so small, were two attic bedrooms accessed by a narrow flight of stairs. The entire flat was dank and dusty, littered with furniture in various states of disrepair. The mouldy wallpaper looked like it had been shredded by a maddened cat. More positively, there were lovely large windows, including a shallow bay in the drawing room. The view was limited to the almost identical row of businesses and flats opposite. The street below was busy, forming a wide thoroughfare between the main road of The Strand and Covent Garden. What swiftly became evident was that this place needed to be made habitable before I could do much unpacking or satisfy my urge to explore the city.

‘The grand façade hides a shabby interior well, doesn’t it?’ remarked George, pulling out a large kerchief and wiping his hands.

‘It does,’ I said wryly, weaving my way between boxes and a couple of sad-looking chairs towards the window. ‘Lures the unsuspecting. Do you think Bram would have taken these rooms if he’d viewed them first?’

‘I think they’re so convenient to the Lyceum,’ said George, ‘they would have been hard to turn down, despite their state. The theatre’s just a couple of streets away.’

Alternately daunted and gratified that the task of overseeing renovations to the theatre and ensuring it was ready to open after Christmas had been given to him, ever-conscientious, Bram had left me and George to take charge of the flat and raced off to attend his duties.

I stood in the bay window, peering out through the filthy glass before turning around and mentally tallying the tasks. A good clean was first on the agenda, followed by purchasing some decent furniture, curtains, rugs and new wallpaper. A painting here and there, some cushions, and a cabinet to display the china and silver we’d been gifted.

‘I’ll need help.’ I pointed at rodent droppings in a corner, swiping a finger along the sill that was quickly blackened with dust and smuts. ‘To get the rooms in order.’

‘You will, Florrie,’ agreed George drolly, peeling a strip of wallpaper away. We watched it float to the floor. ‘I think hiring a maid, maybe two, should be a priority.’

‘How does one go about such a thing here?’

George shrugged. ‘Same as in Dublin. An advertisement, I imagine. Or maybe the solicitors in the office downstairs can offer advice or even a recommendation.’

I sighed and would have sat but didn’t trust the threadbare armchair to hold me.

‘Don’t worry, Florrie,’ said George, patting my shoulder. ‘Until I hear confirmation about a position, I’ll pitch in.’

‘Thank you, George.’ I began to rummage in one of the boxes. ‘I’d better start making a list.’

‘You’ll need paper and pen.’ George tore open another box. It was filled with books. Another item to add to the list: bookshelves. ‘On the bright side, Florrie,’ said George, lifting something wrapped in linen, ‘think of the fun we’ll have spending that allowance Bram’s given you.’

We shared a smile. George already knew how to cheer me.

By the time Christmas arrived, I was proud of what had been accomplished, and in such a short time. George declared it a Christmas miracle as we sat down to a delicious luncheon prepared by the marvellous Mrs Harriet Daw, the cook I’d hired, and served by her reliable niece, Emma Barton, our maid. I’d even managed to convert the upstairs rooms into two comfortable if bijou bedrooms – one for Emma, who lived with us, the other for Mrs Daw whenever the weather or time forced her to remain overnight.

George, true to his word, had rendered assistance until he took up a position at Chelsea Hospital, looking after old soldiers mainly. He also became the attending physician at the Lyceum. Mrs Daw and Emma and I had laboured for hours every day, cleaning, washing, stripping wallpaper, removing rubbish and rodents’ nests, sweeping hearths and blackening them, repairing whatever furniture could be salvaged (George and Mr Daw proved quite dab hands at that), hiring chimney sweeps and other trades to help transform the flat into a home. At first, I’d despaired we’d ever get the place clean, as the moment dirt was wiped away, a floor swept or furniture polished, the endless smuts from all the city’s coal fires would leave their hideous traces over everything. Keeping the windows closed didn’t help either. The smuts were tenacious. At least I understood why the windows were streaked with grime – it was futile to clean them (I’d tried) as the combination of smoke from hearth fires and dirt from the roads was as constant as a heartbeat. The factories on the outskirts of the city ensured a miasma of odours and pollution insinuated itself everywhere. If we weren’t tracking mud and other refuse into the house, we were trudging through it the moment we were out the door. I despaired the hems of my gowns would ever be clean again.