Page 45 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘That was a right craic,’ chuckled Bram, leaping ashore then offering Henry his hand.

‘I’ve never felt so alive,’ exclaimed Henry, stepping onto the sand and stretching his arms above his head.

‘You pair of eejits,’ I bellowed as I reached them, my fear bursting forth. ‘What were you thinking? And don’t you look at me like that,’ I reprimanded the boatman, shaking my finger at him. ‘What were you doing taking them over there? They could have been killed.’

‘’Twas that gentleman insisted, ma’am.’ The boatman nodded towards Henry, who gave an amused shrug.

‘I wanted to see the fort. Didn’t know it would defend itself from curiosity quite so vehemently.’

‘Henry,’ cautioned Ellen. Her eyes flashed. ‘We thought you were going to —’ Tears began to well.

I was too angry to cry. ‘Surely, you knew about the minefield, Bram. You’ve been talking to all and sundry. Someone must have warned you. There are signs.’ I gestured towards them.

‘Oh, they did,’ admitted Henry. ‘There are. We just thought it worth the risk.’

Ellen gasped. I swung to Bram. ‘Worth risking your life? You have a son, Bram. A wife, too, yet you still went on this foolhardy boys’ adventure? Do you realise what might have happened?’

‘But it didn’t, Florrie,’ began Bram, holding out his arms. I slapped them away.

‘Don’t you Florrie me. I can’t believe that you only thought to satisfy your own selfish desires —’

‘Florence, Florrie,’ said Henry, using his Shylock voice, like treacle over pancakes. ‘Stop making such a fuss, dear. Leave Brammie alone. No harm has been done.’ He laughed and, before I could prevent it, looped his arm through mine. ‘Come, let’s go back to the hotel, and while Brammie and I change our clothes, how about I organise a whisky, or better still, a tisane for you. Calm those nerves. Funny, you never struck me as the hysterical kind.’ He patted my hand.

I was made to walk a few steps with him, Bram and Ellen following, before the fury spreading in my chest reached my head. I whipped my arm from his, any notion of being strategic forgotten.

I stood inches from him, our faces level. ‘How dare you,’ I began; my tone was steel. ‘You may have my husband at your beck and call, but you’ve no right to tell me what to do and how to think or feel.’ My words were a sword that I thrust again and again. ‘Nor do you have any right to tell me how I may speak to my husband. That’s my business, which makes it absolutely none of yours, sir. This is not the theatre. I’m not a character in your production that you can direct hither and thither and bend to your will. This is real life, Henry, mine and Bram’s, and I won’t allow you to treat it with your usual callous disregard.’

Henry’s mouth dropped open. ‘No-one has ever spoken to me like that before.’

‘Then it’s about time,’ I snapped.

‘Brammie,’ said Henry. ‘Are you going to allow your wife to speak to me like that?’

I spun towards my husband, folding my arms. ‘Well, Brammie?’ I dared him.

Ellen stifled a grin.

Bram shifted his gaze between me and Henry, guilt rearranging his features. He cleared his throat. ‘Err … Florence doesn’t need my permission to speak, Henry.’

I almost keeled over then and there. At once, the heat of my temper cooled. ‘Well,’ I said, brushing sand from my skirts so Bram and the others wouldn’t clock my astonished expression, ‘I’ve had my say and will not mention it again. Go change your clothes, Bram. The mines may not have killed you, but you’ll catch a death in those sodden garments.’ I deliberately ignored Henry. ‘I’m going to check on the wee mannie. Like me and Ellen, he swallowed something most unpalatable. Coming, Ellen?’

With a last withering look in Henry’s direction, I entwined my arm through hers and returned to the hotel.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

London, Autumn 1880

A few months after our sojourn in Southsea, Henry kept his word and cast me in Tennyson’s play The Cup. As excited as I was at being part of Bram and Ellen’s world, treading the boards, I also wondered if this was Henry’s way of proving he could indeed direct me. Not that he did much of that, as Ellen said. He oversaw very few rehearsals, leaving much of it to Harry and even Bram. Henry liked to manage the big set pieces. I never saw him run lines with Ellen or practise his entrances and exits. He lurked around the theatre, watching, thinking, snapping his fingers for Bram to follow, barking orders, providing feedback on performances he viewed, Harry Loveday a shadow behind him.

I wasn’t given a speaking part, so there was no risk of me stealing the limelight. Along with ninety-nine other young women, I was given the very minor role of a vestal virgin. It was impossible to distinguish one from another. No doubt, Henry’s idea of humour.

When I read the play, I was underwhelmed. Not that anyone would dare say that to the poet laureate, Alfred, Lord Tennyson. It was an extravagant production, even by Henry’s standards, with elaborate sets and a literal cast of hundreds.

‘Henry takes realism too far,’ commented Bram one evening after a long rehearsal. ‘Why must there be real food, real flowers and even damn forests? The quantities of gold leaf, peacock feathers, ostrich feathers, genuine jewels, beggars belief. It’s make-believe, for godsakes. And I’m the one who must find the money to pay for such things. Still,’ he admitted, after a restorative dram of whisky, ‘when everyone is distracted by the staging, they’re not considering the rather woeful plot.’

Woeful plot or not, the elation of being part of the production, the numerous rehearsals, the costume fittings, applying make-up, having my hair brushed and braided by expert hands, escaping my everyday life for a few months, was something I’ll hold onto for the rest of my days. I couldn’t help but be grateful to Henry for that.

What I didn’t expect when I was given a role, but enjoyed equally, was observing my husband at work.