Page 39 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘My point exactly,’ said Matilda drolly.

To make up for abandoning me, Matilda helped me dress for the evening. A dab hand at styling hair, she first brushed mine until it gleamed and then, using a combination of bandoline, which, like starch on collars, fixed hair in place, and pins, created an elaborate updo with a braided bun at the nape of my neck. She then wove a marcasite necklace that had been a gift from Charlotte Stoker through my tresses. It was as though I wore a coronet. The dress itself had been quite expensive – I still hadn’t presented the bill to Bram. It was a beautiful violet and sky-blue shot silk overlaid with diaphanous fabric. When I moved, it gave the illusion of flowing water. The neck was scooped lower than I was accustomed to, but the seamstress assured me it was all the rage. When I mentioned the lack of modesty to Matilda, she scoffed.

‘If I had titties like yours, Florence, I’d display them at every opportunity.’

‘Matilda!’ I said, in faux shock.

‘Oh, don’t you Matilda me. You’ve a lovely figure. No-one would know you’d given birth less than two months ago.’

Standing in front of the mirror in my bedroom, I’d run my hands over the bodice and my stomach. It was nice to display a décolletage again, to feel more like my old self, especially after what childbirth had done to my body, how it had torn and ravaged my cunny. (Why, oh why, did no-one warn me about that?) Then, for a few short weeks, I’d been little more than a drinking vessel for baby Irving.

I still struggled with calling my son by that name. Every time I uttered it, another face replaced my babbie’s sweet visage. I think that was partly to blame for my feelings of revulsion every time he latched onto my breasts. I could scarce stand the sucking. I couldn’t overcome the idea that he was an incubus draining me, stealing my life force. I’d begged Bram for a wet-nurse, but George, supported by Elizabeth, informed me such a thing wasn’t done anymore. It was important the mother feed the child. Well, they cannot say I didn’t try. For weeks, I endured the pain of his rubbery gums gnawing at my tender nipples so fiercely they bled. Hard crevices opened, making the moment his lips latched on akin to someone driving needles in and out of my damaged flesh. Finally, in a puddle of tears and pain, I swore I wouldn’t do it anymore. Elizabeth tried to persuade me to continue, Matilda too, but I refused. George was brought in to add his arguments.

When Bram found me one afternoon in January, sitting broken and hurting, a mess of snot and tears, while the others stood around admonishing me, the fractious babbie in my arms, he knelt by my side.

‘What’s this?’ he asked, placing a finger under my chin, forcing me to look at him.

Between sniffles, I told him. Anytime George or Matilda tried to interrupt, he silenced them. When I’d finished, he took the babbie (the child was howling) and passed him to Elizabeth.

‘My wife will no longer be feeding our son.’ I stared at him in disbelief through swollen, watery eyes.

‘But, sir, if the baby is to thrive —’ began Elizabeth.

‘You’ll give him bread soaked in water,’ said Bram, rising to his feet and pulling me upright at the same time. He put a protective arm around me. ‘Or milk. It’s what my mammy did and none of her children suffered.’ He dared George to contradict him. George flung his hands in the air and stepped back.

‘But, sir —’

‘But nothing, Elizabeth,’ snapped Bram. ‘Take Irving and keep him in the nursery until such time as Mrs Stoker asks for him. Can’t you see my wife needs rest? The poor thing is exhausted. Rest and peace. I’m sure Dr Stoker here would concur.’

George wisely remained mute. Without another word, Bram led me from the drawing room and into my bedroom.

Who was this solicitous, forceful man? Oh, I’d seen Bram assert himself before – usually with his underlings at the theatre – but never on my behalf. It was … marvellous. Was my new strategy finally paying off? I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry harder.

He poured me a tumbler of spirit and insisted I drink. Then he helped me into bed, tucking the covers around me as if I was a child. I was overwhelmed by his solace. I lay back on the pillows, listening to the rain pattering against the windows, watching the curtains undulate with the draught. The room was dark except for the lambent glow of the lantern.

‘I don’t know if I can do this, Bram,’ I whispered, reaching for the lapels of his jacket, pulling him towards me.

‘You don’t have to anymore,’ he said, smoothing wisps of hair from my face.

‘I don’t mean breast-feeding.’ I met his steady gaze. Bram looked handsome in his suit. A fine upstanding man. A gentleman. My husband. Why could I not find it in my heart to love him as he deserved? To love his son? Was it because I feared that if I did, it would be unrequited? As it had been with Oscar.

I couldn’t bear the thought. To be that woman. Not again.

‘I mean, be a mother.’ My words were softer than a moth’s kiss.

Bram chuckled gently. ‘Of course you can, Florrie. It’s woman’s natural state.’

Tears began to well again and I shook my head. He didn’t understand. No-one did.

‘A child needs his mother,’ he said firmly. ‘Irving needs you.’

Irving? Irving? Henry’s face appeared, the dark brows, the cold, black eyes. I released Bram. He sat up.

‘Go to sleep, Florrie. Rest. You need it.’ He bent over, pressed his lips to my forehead, then left the room.

From that day forward, Irving was handfed – sometimes cow’s milk, other times, bread softened in broth and water. Desperate, I’d written to my mother for advice. She replied that her mother, my Granny-Moo, had sworn by whisky – just a snifter. While it didn’t work on the babbie, it did on me. I drank half a dozen snifters in one sitting and didn’t hear him cry once.

To ease the ache in my unused paps, Elizabeth wrapped them in brown paper and vinegar. It smelled terrible and, after a few days when the compress was removed, my empty breasts were shrivelled and horribly flat. I couldn’t stop bemoaning that my once pert bubbies with the rosebud nipples were now little more than something you’d toss on a griddle. But after a few days, with massages and washes, they resumed something close to their normal shape. Not as perky, maybe, but they’d suffice.