Page 28 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘We’ve been inseparable ever since, really,’ he said, flashing a smile at Bram. ‘Haven’t we, Brammie?’

Brammie?

‘’Tis true,’ admitted Bram, beaming fondly at the man. How he could listen to both George and Mr Irving simultaneously might have been something to admire if he’d shown the same faculty at home. ‘I’ve said it before, and in print, your Hamlet was unparalleled. Still is. But it was your recitation of the poem “Eugene Aram” that I’ll never forget.’

Mr Irving nodded solemnly. ‘Nor I, dear fellow. Nor I.’ He turned back to the mirror, plunged the cloth into a washbasin and wrung it out before applying it to his face again.

I’d heard something of this recital from others – how Bram had become all but hysterical after Mr Irving finished and committed himself to the actor’s cause that very night. How had Bram explained it to me when we were courting? ‘Soul looked into soul.’ The description had rattled me, and still did.

From the sly gleam in Mr Irving’s eye, he was making sure I was reminded of Bram’s pledge to him, a pledge akin to a marriage vow.

‘Shall we leave Mr Irving to his toilette, Bram?’ I asked. There was a beat. Bram stared at me blankly. ‘It’s late,’ I added. ‘Let us go home, dear.’ I was looking forward to discussing the play, hearing any gossip, too. I also wanted to tell him that I’d met the wonderful librettist, William Gilbert, and his wife Lucy. Seated next to George, they’d introduced themselves during interval. Before I could change my mind, I’d invited them for afternoon tea at the flat.

‘Home?’ His expression would have been comical had he not been so obviously thwarted. ‘I’m afraid I’ve agreed to supper at the Garrick with George and Henry …’

Perhaps realising his mistake, Bram swiftly dissembled. ‘Of course. I’ll take you home, Florrie. I’ll join you gentlemen at the club later.’

‘Make sure you do. The adoring crowds are expecting us,’ said Mr Irving, trying to disguise his smirk. ‘All of us.’

‘Not all,’ I corrected with a syrup-smile.

I was about to take my leave when Mr Irving twisted about on his stool again.

‘Brammie tells me you’ve an interest in treading the boards, Mrs Stoker.’

Just as anger propelled me towards the door, hope, followed by suspicion, gave me pause. I slowly spun about. What was Mr Irving up to?

‘Someone once suggested I might consider it —’ I didn’t admit it was Oscar and his friend Frank Miles, the artist. They’d spent time with the actress Lillie Langtry in London. Seeking to flatter me, they told me that my looks meant I was also destined for the stage. I’d told Bram what was said, but not the source.

‘I think we might be able to accommodate you,’ said Mr Irving, his eyes raking me top to toe.

Despite my wariness, and the fact I’d never seriously contemplated acting, dreams took flight. The rack of costumes beckoned, the pastes and unguents, the dazzle of rubies and diamonds. The orchestra struck up another tune in my head. Applause drowned me.

‘Mention it to Harry, will you, Brammie?’ said Mr Irving with a sharp gesture. ‘As soon as a suitable play is being cast, we’ll arrange a part for your wife.’

My heart thundered. I could scarce believe what I was hearing.

‘It won’t matter if she lacks talent,’ continued Mr Irving, captivated by his reflection again. ‘She’ll give the patrons something lovely to look at. She’s quite a vision, the Wife.’ He gave a dark chuckle.

Before I could summon a suitable retort, Bram grabbed my wrist and rushed me from the room.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Hamlet ran for six months. Mr Irving’s praises were sung across London. How he’d given the Bard a new lease of life. He was suddenly the brightest star in the London theatre firmament.

What so many failed to see as the dazzle grew – and Mr Irving did nothing to turn their eyes in a different direction – was that the main reason Mr Irving and the play shone was Bram.

It was Bram who came up with the idea of running advertisements in all the right newspapers, not just for the current show, but entire seasons. This meant, for the first time, advance bookings could be made. He ensured reviewers were looked after when they attended and tactfully thanked them when their critiques were published. He made sure playbills were posted about town and kept the actors enthusiastic and paid. He ensured the doors opened on time each night and that the play started at eight o’clock sharp. He used every connection he was making to keep seats filled. He also knew where everyone who was anyone was seated, greeting them by name and earning their admiration and respect. This made important patrons feel even more special because he welcomed and escorted them to their seats. Afterwards, these same folk were invited backstage for a personal tour and to meet the cast.

If he wasn’t answering the multitude of letters Mr Irving received every day, or responding to his boss’s constant messages, he was dealing with tradesmen, sending out invitations, accepting them, and even writing speeches for Mr Irving to deliver at the many functions they attended most nights after performances. Sometimes, Bram was asked to speak as well, something he enjoyed, but which absorbed more time.

Bram also made a point of reading every single play submitted to the Lyceum for consideration. I was astonished by the number. Who knew there were so many budding playwrights in London and abroad?

‘Most are rubbish,’ said Bram dismissively when I exclaimed at the size of the stack on his desk at home. ‘It’s no wonder Henry sticks to Shakespeare. At least that way, we’re guaranteed quality.’

‘Don’t let Mr Gilbert hear you say that,’ I said. Gilbert (as he insisted I call him) had made a name for himself with several successful comic operas. Since meeting him and Lucy, we’d visited each other’s homes and, sans Bram, taken strolls along the Embankment, and a trip to London’s Gaiety Theatre, where Henry Irving started his career and where Gilbert’s very first collaboration with his long-time partner, the composer Arthur Sullivan, had debuted. George and I had seen HMS Pinafore at the Opera Comique and adored it.

Whereas Gilbert was often quite prickly (though never towards me) and would make the most outrageous observations about people, making me chortle, Lucy was quiet and oh so patient, though according to Gilbert, she had a temper like a Pomeranian – sharp and snappy. They were both older than me and Bram, with eleven years between them as well. It was clear they were devoted to each other (he called her ‘Kitty’), and I would listen to their banter, see his solicitude towards his wife with a feeling akin to envy, wondering if Bram and I would ever be so loving.