Page 29 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

Yet, as much as I enjoyed my burgeoning friendship with the Gilberts and was grateful for brother George’s willingness to accompany me on outings when he was free, it was the man I married, who was held in such esteem by those entering our orbit, I wanted to get to know, which meant spending time with him – not just at home, but at the theatre, the river, the markets, a salon … anywhere, really. Even bed.

Anywhere Henry Irving couldn’t find him for a while.

Bram was home briefly the day Oscar’s mother, Lady Jane Wilde, came for tea. She’d not long moved to London, and when I ran into her at Covent Garden, I was afraid our encounter would be awkward. But when she practically invited herself over, I worried what Bram would say. I needn’t have been concerned. He’d been friends with the Wilde family for years and was excited to see Lady Jane again.

She waltzed into the flat, flummoxing Emma and leaving Mrs Daw slack-jawed. Dressed head to toe in black, including that towering mantilla, she had a slash of bright colour on her lips and cheeks and looked more like a music hall artiste than a titled lady. After making appreciative noises about the drawing room, the little cakes Mrs Daw had made especially, and the new tea set I’d bought for the occasion, when she saw Oscar’s painting, she plucked it off the mantelpiece and pressed it to her considerable bosom.

‘My boy has such talent,’ she said. ‘Except when it comes to recognising an excellent woman escaped him.’ She gave me a pointed look. ‘Mind you, Bram, as I told Florence,’ she carefully replaced the painting and faced my husband, ‘you were always the better bet. You’re possessed of an excellent character, and you never get into debt.’

‘Give me time,’ said Bram, arching a brow at the expensive teapot I was pouring from.

I was still chuckling when I passed Lady Jane her tea.

After that successful visit, and following Lady Jane’s advice, I began to extend invitations to some of the people I met at the Lyceum. My gatherings were always small – the flat wouldn’t allow too many. The Gilberts became delightful regulars and, in turn, included me in their circle. I always looked forward to Ellen’s visits, and as the months passed, she would come by every other Sunday. Not only did she have a sunny disposition, she was a repository of gossip about the Lyceum. With a knowing look, she’d sit on the sofa and regale me with stories.

‘You met Baroness Angela Burdett-Coutts, Henry’s main investor, yes?’

‘I have.’ A fabulously wealthy and generous woman, she was known for her sizeable donations to charity as well as her patronage of theatre and the arts.

‘Well,’ continued Ellen, ‘she’s a terrible flirt – loves the young men, but her companion of countless years, who only recently died, was a woman who used to be her governess. They lived together.’ She paused. ‘Just the two of them.’ She paused again. ‘For over fifty years. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’ Ellen waggled her brows.

‘You think they were —?’

‘Don’t you?’ said Ellen suggestively, and we both gave gasps of mock dismay.

While I knew love between two men was considered a danger to society, Sapphic passion wasn’t taken nearly as seriously. Sodomy was a criminal act, a punishable offence, and those labelled sodomites reviled as deviants. Something told me that in sharing this tidbit about the baroness, Ellen was testing me, a test that, as the afternoon wore on, I comfortably passed.

There was a time not so long ago when I would have failed. The notion of two women or men in love would have shocked me, until my attitude was forever altered by Oscar.

On one of his trips back to Dublin, Oscar had introduced me to his friend, the artist Frank Miles. The way Mr Miles looked at him, the way he flirted and gushed, made me both uncomfortable and slightly amused. I felt sorry for him, especially when it was obvious his feelings weren’t reciprocated. Oscar was only being polite when he tolerated his touch, the shared smiles and soulful eyes. When I mentioned Mr Miles’s behaviour the next time I saw Oscar, his obvious affection, and how kind Oscar was to endure his attentions, especially when such behaviour would be widely condemned, Oscar loaned me a copy of Plato’s Symposium.

‘Read this, Florrie,’ he said, pressing the thin book into my hands. ‘Then you will understand why it’s not a matter of me tolerating anything, let alone having any right to judge. Frank has no more control over where he bestows his feelings than you or I. As Aristophanes explains.’ He tapped the book. ‘Read it, please. For me.’

That night, curled up in bed, Phil and I read it together.

The story takes place at a banquet where several Athenian men take it in turns to give speeches in praise of the god of love and sex, Eros. One of the men is Aristophanes, who describes how humans used to be ungainly spheres, comprised of four arms and four legs until one day, in an act of vengeance at mortal hubris, Zeus split them in half. From that day forward, the incomplete beings spent their lives searching for their other half. Mostly, men seek women, but sometimes divided creatures search for a member of their own sex to achieve that lost sense of wholeness.

Phil and I didn’t speak for a while after we finished.

‘So, according to Aristophanes,’ I began hesitantly, ‘we’re all searching for our other half.’

‘Our soul mate, whoever, he —’

‘Or she —’ I added.

‘Might be,’ completed Phil. She found my hand and held it tightly. ‘I’d never conceived of it like that before.’

‘Me neither. How could we, when we’re told it’s wrong?’ I said softly.

‘That God punishes those who love their own sex.’

‘God?’ Phil queried. ‘Or man?’

‘Both.’

We fell silent again.

‘Do you think Oscar’s your other half?’ asked Phil eventually. ‘Is that why he gave you this to read?’