Page 4 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘Very pretty.’

‘You shouldn’t have, Oscar.’ That was Mother.

‘Yes, he should have.’ That was Alice.

‘A special gift,’ said Phil, and looked meaningfully at me.

Everyone resumed their seats, Oscar too, helping themselves to more brandy, eggnog and mince pies as the conversation turned to our Christmas tree and the number of cards we’d received this year (twice as many as last year; the innovation was catching on). Mother made sure to sit beside Oscar, discussing the merits of Dickens’s novel Hard Times, which Oscar had loaned her a few months earlier.

‘I had to read it twice to really appreciate the satire. Mr Gradgrind is a wonderful parody of Utilitarianism.’

‘Can’t be a very good book if you didn’t grasp the author’s intention the first time,’ said Father.

Before Mother could reply, Oscar leapt to her defence. ‘If one cannot enjoy re-reading a book there’s no use reading it at all, I say.’

There was a collective intake of breath. No-one dared correct Father, especially in company.

Father narrowed his eyes, but before he could utter a word, I spoke.

‘Surely, that depends on the book. Like a person, literature often merits more than one chance to be fully appreciated.’

‘And some people only need one,’ added Oscar, gazing at me.

There was a moment of quiet before a debate began about the virtues of Charles Dickens versus Herman Melville. Phil looked at Oscar, then the necklace, then me, beaming.

Oscar departed soon after and the family eagerly gathered around our large dining table. Mother and Father had overlooked our usual austerity so we might celebrate the season, and a platter bearing a huge golden goose swimming in glossy juices was placed centre stage by Mrs Gallagher, who paused to accept compliments and admire my new jewellery. Plates with slices of boiled ham, roast potatoes, emerald peas drowning in lard and glistening carrots followed. Crusty bread, pats of butter, tureens of rich gravy all tempted. In between appreciative sounds, hungry oohs and aahs, the sing-song voices of Alice and Billy as they studied the laden table, and the saying of Grace, carving and serving commenced, as did discussion about the necklace.

‘You know what that means, don’t you?’ said Phil, pointing at me with a fork claiming a slice of ham. ‘You’re as good as engaged.’

‘No, no —’ I protested meekly. ‘It’s just a necklace, not a ring.’

‘Same thing if you ask me,’ said Maude.

Mother nodded sagely. ‘One doesn’t give such gifts lightly, do they, James?’ She turned to Father. At once, the clang of cutlery ceased. Alice sat back in her chair, renouncing the haunch of goose she’d speared. All eyes were upon Father.

‘No, my dear,’ said Father, in his gravelly voice. ‘They do not. No gentleman, much less a student, gives a respectable young lady of his acquaintance jewellery of any description unless his intentions are honourable.’

Mother smiled approvingly and gave Father an extra pour of gravy. ‘Exactly.’

Phil gave an unladylike whoop. Maude clapped delightedly. Alice bopped up and down on her chair while Catherine blushed and twittered.

Mother was forever telling us girls that being part of a large family of ‘small means’ (we all knew she meant destitute), the only dowry of any value we possessed was our looks. ‘Florence,’ Mother would declare, ‘you have beauty in abundance; use it to your advantage’ – ‘your’ meaning ‘our’. One less mouth to feed. She would also remind us that the clock was ticking. Beauty, like milk, would sour eventually. All of us – me, Phil, Catherine and Alice – had it drummed into us that we needed to find husbands quickly lest we turn into vinegar-tongued old spinsters, knitting socks and making endless cups of tea for our elderly parents, brothers, and their future brides. Naturally, none of this was ever said to Maude, who had the good sense to already become engaged. As for poor sweet Mary and Maggie, well, they died in infancy and never had to endure Mother’s lectures or Father’s speculative looks as he tried to measure our worth to other men. I could feel his eyes upon me now. Weighing up Oscar’s gift, what it signified.

‘Imagine,’ said Phil, dramatically levelling her knife at each of us. ‘Oscar Wilde is going to be our brother.’ She stopped when the blade pinned young James and Billy.

‘Good,’ said Alice through a mouthful of goose, grease dripping down her chin. ‘He can replace the scaldy ones I’ve got.’

Before a donnybrook could erupt, Father cleared his throat loudly, drawing all eyes to the head of the table. ‘The main problem, as far as I can see,’ he began, waiting until there was complete silence, ‘is how on earth are we going to pay for another damn wedding.’

Dear Father; he could always be relied upon to put a dampener on the brightest moment. Not that anything could dull the sheen of this enchanted day. Not for me.

After all, one day soon I was going to be Mrs Oscar Wilde.

CHAPTER THREE

Dublin, March 1877

‘What are you smiling at?’ asked Phil as she entered the drawing room, Captain Walton at her heels. She removed her hat and flopped into a chair beside me. She’d just returned from walking the dog in the park across the road. I could smell the fresh air on her. Captain Walton shoved his head on my lap. I began plucking leaf detritus out of his fur.