Page 33 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘They can have their suspicions.’ He put a finger under my chin, tilting it upwards. ‘We’ve made a baby,’ he whispered, his eyes full of wonder in the rain-pearly light. Wonder, fear and something else.

‘We have,’ I said, and drew his hand down to rest over my midriff. ‘Another Stoker to add to the cast.’

Bram touched his lips to mine briefly. I braced myself lest the kiss deepened, but he drew away.

‘Thank you, Florence. Thank you.’

At last, I thought, I can give my husband something that Henry Irving cannot.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

London, August 1879

‘Bram,’ I said, knocking on his study door gently. ‘This just came for you.’ I pushed the door open to find him bent over his desk, scribbling away. I watched him a moment; the loosened necktie, the tousled hair, his pen moving swiftly across a page. It was Sunday, and at my insistence, Bram was home. But was this writing Lyceum work or the short stories he’d begun to compose?

Bram held out his hand. ‘Henry?’

‘I can’t think who else would send you something on the Lord’s day.’

He read it, then issued a long sigh.

Despite being away for several weeks on a Mediterranean cruise with the baroness over summer, and handing responsibility for the Lyceum to Bram, Mr Irving couldn’t help himself. Every day, letters, telegrams and notes arrived with instructions. If they weren’t delivered to Southampton Street, they were sent to the theatre – I know because an actress who was a longstanding friend of Bram’s from Dublin, Genevieve Ward, told me.

Older than me and Bram, Genevieve had once been an acclaimed opera singer, but a terrible illness had destroyed her voice, so she’d turned to acting. I was quite intimidated at our first meeting. Raven-haired with pale green eyes and very striking, she was also friendly. I wondered if it was because she was born in New York and lacked the arm’s-length attitude of the English. By the time we met, it was impossible to trace her origins through her accent. She’d lived in so many different countries and even been married to a Russian count – a noble who, though he failed to arrive at the church on the wedding day, was later hunted down by her parents and forced to wed her. Immediately after the ceremony, she deserted him. Imagine! Bram had known her for years and leased the Lyceum to her while the company was in summer recess so she could perform a particular play she had her heart set on. It only ran for four disastrous performances before it was cancelled. Genevieve was devastated. Determined to help, Bram persuaded her to stage another play he thought better suited to her talents, Forget-Me-Not by Herman Merivale and FC Grove. It had been a resounding success. Bram convinced her to buy the rights for five years, so when her Lyceum lease ended, she could tour everywhere, including faraway places such as Australia and South Africa.

To celebrate the success of her new play, I’d invited Genevieve to luncheon and asked Bram to ensure he was present. Bram had been at the theatre even more than usual of late, sometimes failing to come home at all. When I asked what was keeping him there, he was offhand. ‘Henry might not be around, but the theatre doesn’t run itself,’ he’d say. Or, ‘I’m taking advantage of Henry’s absence.’ I tried not to dwell on what else Bram was taking advantage of – my gullibility? The other actresses? If I didn’t know Genevieve better, I might have been more concerned about that. Bram’s distracted air, the heavy pouches under his eyes, his sometimes-unkempt appearance, the fact he’d sleep at the theatre, continued to gnaw at me. What was going on?

‘Shall I make your excuses to Genevieve?’ I didn’t even have the energy to sound cross anymore.

Bram re-read the note. ‘If I leave now, I can be back in time to join you both.’

‘Really?’ I asked, disbelief making my question sharp.

Bram chuckled. ‘Really.’

When Genevieve arrived, Bram still wasn’t home. I should have known. I apologised for his absence and explained about the note … the notes.

We were sitting in armchairs, me with tea, Genevieve with a glass of Cypriot.

Genevieve huffed in exasperation. ‘It’s the same at the theatre,’ she said. ‘Couriers arrive with messages from Henry telling Bram to do things he’s already taken care of. I don’t know how he tolerates such interference. I swear I’m far more upset by them than he is.’

‘It’s been like that even before he started at the Lyceum.’

‘They must drive you to distraction,’ said Genevieve. ‘They do me.’

Silence was my answer.

‘All I can say is,’ said Genevieve, ‘your husband has the patience of a saint.’

Or the backbone of an eel, I thought uncharitably.

‘And so do you.’ She raised her glass in a toast.

If only she knew.

There was a loud voice in the hall and the drawing room door flew open.

‘Genevieve,’ cried Bram and drew her to her feet, kissing her soundly on both cheeks.