Page 36 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘I thought we were agreed upon names, Bram,’ I began, trying to keep my voice steady, aware of the audience. ‘If we had a boy, he was to be called Noel James Thornley – after my eldest brother and yours. Sorry, George.’

George shrugged good-naturedly.

Bram tittered, either ignoring or not hearing me. ‘Look at his hair. Matilda,’ he swung the child towards his sister. ‘It’s quite dark, isn’t it? Was mine like that when I was born? I wonder if he’ll have your eyes or mine, Florrie?’

‘I think it better if he has his own,’ I snapped.

Matilda began ushering George, Elizabeth and Emma out of the room, clucking like a hen. Dr Everett, who’d done very little except administer laudanum when I grew angry that Bram was ignoring the many messages sent to the theatre, and watched (‘supervise’, he said) Elizabeth help me deliver the child, took it as his cue to retreat to the drawing room for a celebratory drink. Bram was obviously keen to join him for more, as was George.

Bram wasn’t going anywhere until we sorted out this naming business. One look at my face told him as much.

I waited until the bedroom door closed, and the chink of glasses, along with some low laughs, carried from the other room. I watched Bram swaying in front of the fire, nursing our newborn and tutting. How was it possible for a heart to swell with affection and yet constrict with rage and disappointment at the same time? I pressed my hand to my breast, willing my brain to focus.

‘I don’t want him called Irving, Bram.’

‘Oh, but I do, Florence,’ said Bram, smiling amiably. ‘Think of everything Henry has done for us, for me. It’s my way of honouring him. It’s the least we can do.’

Everything he’d done for Bram? Why, the first thing he’d done upon returning from his boating holiday with the baroness was hire an accountant – an old, out-of-work actor named Charles Howson – insisting the man work with Bram. Bram, who’d done a meticulous job of not only managing the theatre while Henry sojourned, but reinstating the bloody Beefsteak Room, had been devastated. I’d been grateful to start with, thinking the extra person meant Bram would be freed from at least one duty. On the contrary, Mr Howson, who was supremely unqualified, created more work for Bram who had to train him and, when he proved unable to grasp what was required, check every entry he made in the ledgers and redo his calculations daily. When Bram tried to talk to Mr Irving about Mr Howson’s ineptitude, instead of redeploying or even firing him, Mr Irving insisted Bram continue to supervise the man’s efforts.

‘Charles needs the work, Bram. He can no longer tread the boards and being in the theatre makes him feel useful.’

I objected when Bram told me. ‘Mr Howson isn’t useful. You are. Tell him, Bram.’

Bram simply took on the extra workload.

And now, here he was, wanting to name our son after Mr Irving. Didn’t he understand, a man like that didn’t appreciate grand gestures. You may as well name a dog after him. Considering the fuss he made over his pups, he’d probably prefer it.

‘Oh, Bram … I think you’ve done more than enough. You don’t need to bestow his name on our son.’

‘Well, it’s done,’ said Bram. ‘Henry already knows.’

‘What?’

‘And he’s agreed to be Irving’s godfather.’

‘You asked him to be godfather as well?’ My voice was shrill. ‘Without consulting me?’

‘Calm yourself, Florence. Really. There’s no need to make a —’

‘Oh, Bram! How could you?’ I couldn’t deal with this now. I covered my face, blinking back tears. Warm fluid flowed between my legs. I imagined the blood, spreading, soaking into the fresh sheets. My life force, my protests, draining away. ‘Mr Irving didn’t even attend the christening of his own second son,’ I said, my words slightly muffled. ‘How can he be godfather to our boy?’ I raised my head.

Bram scoffed. ‘You know why he didn’t go – his Florence wouldn’t allow him. Anyway, this is different.’

Angry words crowded my throat, wrestling for release. On the one hand, I wanted desperately to make Bram understand how this was intolerable to me. Reason with him. Henry Irving already had a big enough stake in our family without my son bearing his name. God, could I bear to even say it? To call him Irving? To introduce him, knowing everyone would first see Henry Irving? The Chief, the guv’na, as the other actors and stagehands addressed him. Every time I called to my son, wrote about him in letters to my family, to Bram’s mammy, it would conjure him. How could I ever utter that name in love? To have it in my mouth, hear it upon the lips of others, in my house day after day after day, year after year … I shuddered.

Only, this wasn’t Mr Irving’s doing, was it? This was Bram’s. Discounting what we’d discussed, he’d overridden what I thought was a mutual agreement. Then, he’d asked him to be godfather without talking to me first. The disrespect was breathtaking. I wasn’t some weak-willed woman he could ride roughshod over. I was furious he couldn’t see what was apparent to me, to Matilda, to Genevieve, even to Ellen Terry.

The last conversation I had with Ellen flew into my mind.

‘I worry about Ma sometimes,’ she’d said. Whereas most of the actresses called Bram ‘uncle’, an appellation to put me at ease so I knew their intentions towards him were avuncular, Ellen called him Ma. It came about when she saw how Bram signed letters with his qualification from Trinity, the MA. Not one to allow such a vanity, or to remind him of it, Ellen used the initials to bestow an altogether different meaning. It made me laugh the first time I heard her use it.

Arm in arm, Ellen and I had been strolling along the Embankment after church, my swollen stomach our vanguard. Bram was at the theatre, no doubt poring over the Lyceum’s ledgers, correcting Mr Howson’s mistakes. It was a beautiful, cold morning. There was not a breath of wind. Folk were promenading in their Sunday best. A flower seller was offering her wares in a lyrical voice. A young, grubby-faced lad was roasting chestnuts, the smell making my mouth water. Dogs gambolled. A cat basked atop the wall lining this part of the river, a slitted eye upon the frisky hounds. I was thinking how nice it was to be out of the house; how grateful I was to count Ellen among my friends. Ellen and the Gilberts, whom I’d invited over for luncheon.

‘Worry about Bram? In what way?’

‘How much time he spends at the theatre. With Henry.’

Ah. She wasn’t the only one.