Page 41 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘’Tis I, indeed,’ Oscar declared, and made an elaborate bow. There were exclamations of delight, a smattering of applause. His brother, Willie, stood and hailed him in joy. Oscar sprang up the steps two at a time, clapping backs, shaking hands. When he saw me among the diners, his eyes widened, then a slow smile crept across his face. He held my gaze. I forgot to breathe.

‘I wasn’t aware you and Wilde knew each other,’ said Gilbert, looking from me to Oscar. It had been well over a year since I last saw Oscar, long before I’d married Bram, though I’d heard plenty about him. He looked splendid. Ridiculously handsome, with his deep-set eyes and wide, sensuous mouth. A mouth that had captured mine many times, including in my dreams …

‘Know me?’ said Oscar who, ignoring calls for him to join the table, came to my side. Around us, talk recommenced, Bram resuming his seat. ‘As Adam did Eve, Gilbert.’

‘Before the Fall, he means,’ I added, trying unsuccessfully to swallow a grin. ‘Oscar is merely trying to make mischief, turn me into the subject of tattle.’

‘Not before time,’ said Oscar, lifting my hand from where it trembled on the table and kissing my fingers one by one, his smouldering eyes never leaving my face.

I snatched my hand away, trying unsuccessfully to quash the feelings his lips, his touch, stimulated. People were looking and whispering. What if Bram saw? I took a breath and smiled pleasantly. ‘Truth is, we were more akin to Petruchio and Katherina.’

Oscar laughed. ‘Well, I always say, if a woman wants to hold a man, she merely has to appeal to what is worst in him.’

‘Really? I would think the opposite is true,’ I said lightly. ‘She should appeal to a man’s better nature – use her goodness to transform him.’

Oscar looked towards Bram, his smile disappearing. ‘Men never become good – they merely become old.’

‘They’re not mutually exclusive, Oscar.’ I strangled my napkin, wishing him gone. Wishing him never to leave.

He leaned closer, ensuring I alone would hear him above the rising din of voices. ‘I’m sick of women who are good. Women who hate are much more interesting.’ He waited until I met his eyes. ‘Do you hate me, Florrie?’ Before I could tell him I could never hate him, he straightened and gave a loud sigh. ‘Much to my disappointment, I see married life, motherhood, suits you. You’re more beautiful than ever.’

I ceased torturing the napkin; willed my heart to steady. I had to put a stop to this. ‘I live to disappoint.’

There were raised voices. Bram was trying to restore order after the chaos of Oscar’s late arrival.

Before he could summon a retort, Oscar was called to take a seat further down the table, next to his brother, Willie, near Bram and Mr Irving. With one last lingering look, a gentle salute and a kiss of his fingers, he left to take it. My eyes kept drifting in his direction.

‘He’s an acquired taste, that man,’ said Gilbert. ‘One I’ve yet to develop. It’s clear he holds you in … high esteem.’ Curiosity coated his words.

‘Not as high as he holds himself,’ I said. Our brief exchange had left me rattled. The visceral effect Oscar had on me was powerful. He always knew how to get under my skin, burrow into those parts I thought hidden, and had done so again, even now I was both married and a mother. And in public. I picked up my drink and took a generous gulp.

Fortunately, I was saved from any further discussion as a choir of young men, hidden by sheer curtains, led the guests in the national anthem. Grace was said and dinner served. Bowls of clear turtle soup were placed before us, followed by cold salmon the colour of flamingos, succulent lamb cutlets and mushrooms. There were platters of sweetbreads, stuffed larks, salad, ham, peas, aspic of prawns, cheese and Parmesan straws. Noises of delight greeted each dish; cutlery chimed, conversation hummed, and drinks flowed.

When the plates were being cleared, Bram rose once more.

‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ he began. ‘Welcome to this celebration of the one hundredth performance of The Merchant of Venice. The longest this play has ever run in its entire history. If only Shakespeare were here to commemorate such an accomplishment, an accomplishment only made possible by the one and only, the greatest and most remarkable thespian of the Victorian age —’

I shot a glance at William Terriss, one of the Lyceum’s other leading actors – younger than Mr Irving and far more handsome, as well as very talented. I wondered what he’d have to say about Bram’s description of the Chief.

Bram passed the duty of toasting Mr Irving to Lord Houghton. The noble waxed lyrical for some minutes, describing Mr Irving as the most extraordinary person who’d ever trod the earth, who’d done wonders for the dramatic arts and other pursuits, drawing laughter and cheers. He all but eulogised him, claiming how Mr Irving’s rendition of Shylock rehabilitated a great villain.

Gilbert leaned over. ‘Does he mean the usurer or Irving?’

I snorted.

There was great applause, then everyone was invited to stand and toast Mr Irving’s health. Once we’d all resumed our seats, Bram then invited Mr Irving, who’d been lapping up the praise, to respond.

Mr Irving rose to thunderous claps, smiling and bowing, and with false modesty tried to quieten everyone.

When silence fell, he thanked Lord Houghton and, quoting from Richard II, began, ‘I count myself in nothing else so happy / As in a soul remembering my good friends.’ His arm swept the room and there were more cheers.

Gilbert groaned. ‘If this keeps on, we’ll be here until Christmas.’

The speech went for over half an hour, encompassing Mr Irving’s ambitions and his accomplishments. Not once did he mention Bram, his stage manager Harry, or even Ellen, who’d been a wonderful Portia to his Shylock. By then, even his most ardent devotees were growing restless. It was all I could do to uphold Ellen’s advice and play the role of an admirer. I resisted the temptation to respond to Gilbert’s occasional snide remarks and forced myself to listen. Mr Irving closed by giving everyone permission to smoke within the pavilion. As if on cue, waiters appeared with expensive cigars, distributing them to all the gentlemen and at least one lady.

Finally finished, Mr Irving stood while the diners stamped their feet, cheered and clapped. He pressed his hand to his heart, his smile wide. ‘Please, you’re all too kind.’

‘What he really means is, More, more,’ muttered Gilbert.