Page 42 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

I gave a yelp of laughter, but fortunately, no-one heard.

Bram then invited anyone who would like to add their praise to Lord Houghton’s to speak.

Much to my astonishment, and everyone else’s, Oscar struggled to his feet.

‘As it happens,’ he began, ‘I’ve composed an ode just for the occasion.’

There was a smattering of applause, some groans too. There’d been enough speechifying for one night, surely. But this was Oscar. I couldn’t believe he’d lavish praise on someone like Mr Irving.

‘Hush, hush,’ said Mr Irving, banging his glass for quiet. ‘Let the man speak. I for one wish to hear this.’

There were cries of ‘Hear, hear’.

Aware he must deliver immediately or lose the moment, Oscar struck a pose and began to recite his work from memory.

‘I marvel not Bassanio was so bold …’

By the time he uttered the line, ‘For in that gorgeous dress of beaten gold,’ only the dimmest or drunkest of those present would not have understood that this ode wasn’t for Henry Irving, but for Ellen Terry. More specifically, Ellen as Portia.

I looked over at Ellen, who was transfixed by Oscar. Then I glanced at Mr Irving. Whenever I’ve read that someone had a face like a thundercloud, I oft wondered how they’d look. I didn’t need to anymore. Mr Irving’s face was all booming thunderclaps and jagged lightning. When he became aware others were looking in his direction, he smiled affectedly.

Bram was grinning, clearly enjoying Ellen being acclaimed. It was only when he looked at the Chief that his face fell.

‘Portia! Take my heart: it is thy due,’ continued Oscar, arms outstretched, facing Ellen. ‘I think I will not quarrel with the Bond.’

There was a beat when he finished, then, if not the rapturous applause that greeted Mr Irving, it was resounding nonetheless.

Using the cover of the clapping, I cried out, ‘A toast, a toast.’

Gilbert and Mr Marston joined me, calling out loudly enough to be heard. There was a scramble as everyone rose and raised their glasses towards Ellen, who blew kisses to Oscar, who returned them with a fervent grin.

‘To Ellen Terry’s Portia: all the world desires her,’ he cried.

Ellen clutched her hands to her breasts, her cheeks turning an enchanting pink. Mr Irving’s claps were slow and measured. His laugh was hollow, the eyes that rested on first Oscar then Ellen, empty. I shuddered to think what he might do – not to Oscar, but Ellen. They might be secret lovers, but I’d no doubt he wouldn’t hesitate to punish her for stealing his show. But, when they were such a theatrical team, I couldn’t fathom how.

I managed to speak to Oscar once more before the night was over. I weaved my way through those remaining, trying not to cough as the fumes of over a hundred cigars choked the stage. I found him seated with Willie and Charles Millward, the composer, and a friend of Gilbert’s.

‘Your poem to Ellen,’ I said, bending over so my words were for his ears only, ‘was beautiful and more than deserved, even on a night intended to honour one man.’

Oscar gripped my wrist, forcing me to remain. ‘A man who fails to appreciate what he has and how she illuminates him.’ He looked pointedly towards Mr Irving, before his gaze slid to Bram.

I snatched my hand away and took a step back.

‘Bram appreciates me.’

‘As much as he does Mr Irving?’

I stared at Oscar in dismay. ‘I’m his wife. Mr Irving is just his —’

‘Master,’ said Oscar.

‘You make it sound like my husband is a slave. He’s simply doing his job.’

‘Is he? I find that the things one feels absolutely certain about are never true.’

‘You’re impossible,’ I said.

‘And you are adorable.’ We locked eyes before I broke the moment and went and found Gilbert.