Page 32 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

It was midday, Saturday. George was at the hospital; Matilda was in the kitchen, talking to Mrs Daw. Emma was cleaning Bram’s study. He’d be leaving for the Lyceum shortly. We’d a moment alone. It was the opportune time to tell him.

That and the fact Mrs Daw threatened to if I didn’t.

Bram was enjoying a late breakfast, early luncheon. I blurted out my news then studied his face to gauge his reaction; the burnished whiskers, the shiny hair brushed back from a wise forehead, those clear grey eyes that even now were looking at me as if I’d spoken in a foreign language. Or with forked tongue.

Would our child look like Bram? Or me?

‘Did you hear, Bram?’ I asked as he stared at me uncomprehending. I tried not to look at the kippers floating in some kind of sauce on his plate. I was already breathing through my mouth. The smell alone had turned my stomach over faster than a Covent Garden tumbler. ‘Come Christmas, we’ll be a family of three – or five if George and Matilda are still with us.’

He slowly closed the paper he’d been reading, put down his fork, and dabbed his lips with a napkin.

Outside, a quarrel erupted between two cab drivers. I could see them out of the corner of my eye, flapping their hands, whips waving like ribbons above their heads. Men gathered, the horses uneasy, disliking the raised voices, the flicking switches and shouts. There was a sharp whistle, and a peeler in his smart uniform appeared. As quickly as the affray began, it broke up.

‘I … I … oh my,’ said Bram and blinked furiously.

Any time I’d seen Bram with young ones, he’d been so kind and thoughtful. Ellen’s two children, Edith and Gordon, were often at the theatre and Bram made a great fuss of them, allowing them to play with the paints in the props room, or pull on the ropes that lowered the sandbags and adjusted the flats. I thought then what a good father he’d make. He also did a lot for Mr Irving’s sons, Harry and Laurence, more than their father ever did. As for me being a mother, well, I hadn’t paid the notion any heed and with good reason.

I knew a baby was inevitable. One couldn’t have conjugal relations, even as rarely and uneasily as we did, and not expect consequences. I just hoped we’d have a little longer as a couple; that I’d have more time to grow accustomed to being a wife before I was also a mother. A mother!

‘Oh my, indeed,’ I repeated.

He slowly stood and, taking my hand, helped me rise. Then he pulled me into his arms. His heart was beating faster than Hamlet’s drummers at Elsinore Castle.

‘There’ll be much to consider,’ he said.

‘There will.’ I broke free of his hold and moved to the window, where I couldn’t smell his breakfast. I began to number off on my fingers. ‘We’ll need a midwife and doctor, furnish a nursery. Then, there’ll be a nursemaid —’

‘They will cost,’ he said grimly.

I wanted to wipe the frown from his brows. ‘But we can afford it, can’t we?’

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ He flashed what passed for a reassuring smile, but I could see the calculation behind it. ‘Have you told Phil?’

I shook my head. ‘Not yet.’

‘Your mother?’

‘I haven’t told anyone, except you. Though, Mrs Daw knows, and she suspects your brother and sister might. I … haven’t been well most mornings. You generally weren’t around to hear. Or asleep.’

‘Oh. Forgive me.’

I shrugged. ‘It’s not your fault.’

Bram sat and slowly resumed his breakfast. ‘I suppose we’ll have to tell folk.’

I bit back a laugh. ‘Having a child isn’t exactly something I can hide.’ I smoothed a hand over my stomach.

Bram finished eating in silence.

Cutlery clattered on the plate, and he joined me by the window. We looked down upon the street, side by side, shoulders and arms touching. Below, a parade of people and animals passed. A chimney sweep shedding soot. A child with a kite. A maid with a basket of wilting flowers. Vendors wheeling half-empty carts. Shopkeepers in white aprons standing in doorways with folded arms, surveying the street. Men leading horses, avoiding the puddles or stamping through them. Broughams jounced along The Strand, two diverging to allow an omnibus passage. Life. Together, Bram and I had made a life, one more to join the throng. Surely, this was a joyous occasion, something to celebrate. Why wasn’t I happier? Why wasn’t Bram? Was he as scared as I was? Did he also think we weren’t ready?

‘We don’t need to tell anyone else just yet, do we?’ asked Bram quietly in his lovely brogue.

Relief made my knees weak. I turned to him. ‘No, not yet. We can keep this to ourselves a little longer, though I might have to explain why I can’t abide —’ I waved my hand towards his empty plate. ‘Certain smells and foods.’

‘Ellen is no fool,’ said Bram.

‘Nor Lady Jane nor the Gilberts.’