Page 48 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

Ellen reached for my hand and squeezed it. ‘You don’t need to explain. Anyway,’ she said, releasing me and tucking a stray hair away, ‘you made the right choice, my dear. Trust me on that. Oscar …’ She pulled a face, half-grim, half-amused. ‘Well, let’s just say, he’s not really husband material.’

As I joined the other virgins, my inconstant mind wondered if I had made the right choice. Oscar might not be husband material, but was Bram?

It was late as the brougham drove away from the theatre, the streetlamps giving off a gentle glow, disguising the sullied snow banked up against houses and shops. The traffic was scant. Cab drivers had either retired for the night, or were gathered under a lantern, smoking and gossiping, their breath opaque ribbons dancing with tobacco fumes. A thinly dressed beggar shivered towards them, hands outstretched in supplication. It was the third poor creature I’d seen, the last with two emaciated children in tow. Bram tried to distract me from the sight of the wretches forced to wander on such a bitter night, drawing me close and whispering, reliving the night. It was warm beside him, and he smelled of cigars and the satisfaction of a job well done. I was still dizzy from the experience of being on stage. The heat of the lights, the press of bodies, the throbbing power of the music, the deep, resonant voices chanting lines I repeated in my mind. The hundreds of faces watching us in the weighty darkness, the excited whispers in the wings, the pushing, the peering, the running to make cues. Seeing first Henry, then Ellen and the other actors transform from the ordinary folk I knew into something imperial and otherworldly the moment they stepped onto the stage, had been remarkable. The deafening applause, the shouts of ‘Brava’ and ‘Bravo’ when first Ellen, then Henry, took their bows.

Bram was euphoric, recalling the comments we’d heard in the Beefsteak Room afterwards, the hearty congratulations given to both him and Henry, and to Ellen. I lost myself in his descriptions, adding the praise I’d heard. By the time we reached Southampton Street, we were both fizzing with excitement, joy bubbling within us.

Once home, we tried to be quiet but, in the manner of those who have drunk success, failed. We laughingly shushed each other, pointing down the corridor towards George’s room and up to the maids. I was about to enter my bedroom when, much to my surprise, Bram grabbed hold of my wrist and pulled me towards his. It had been so long since he’d shown any interest in his husbandly duties, I initially wondered where he was taking me.

Ever since I’d been given a role in The Cup, our relationship had undergone an alteration. Instead of being an audience to Bram’s life, I was beside him, and I relished that. So, it seemed, did he. We’d discussed rehearsals, the set, the music; projected spectators’ reactions, admired Ellen’s acting or that of other players; we became a team. Henry Irving’s name ceased to grate, as he too was part of our mutual project.

A small fire burned in the hearth, making a shadow-world. Bram drew me to the bed and, as I stood in bewilderment, slowly unbuttoned my dress, helping me shiver out of it. With great patience, he unlaced my corset. Butterflies began to perform a ballet in my stomach; my mind was a battlefield of conflicting thoughts. Who was this man? When I went to remove my drawers, he stayed my hand.

‘Leave them on,’ he whispered hoarsely.

Relieved he didn’t want me entirely naked, nervous he wanted me at all, I lay down and waited. Bram knelt beside me, on top of the blankets and, using his considerable strength, flipped me over onto my stomach. My face fell into his pillows. Before I could exclaim or reposition my legs, he pulled me up onto all fours, widened the opening in my drawers and entered me the way a dog does its bitch.

At first, I didn’t understand what was happening and, when I did, he was already inside, thrusting quickly, harder than I ever remembered, one hand on my back, the other holding my hair, as if I was a horse he was riding.

There was the crude slap of his flesh against mine, his bollocks swinging to hit my arse. It was so carnal. My breasts jiggled and swayed. I lowered my head, screwed up my eyes, wishing I could reach down and pleasure myself, kindle some desire. I thought of Oscar’s flowers, his words. I loved her …

Then, Bram became still. With a great groan, he collapsed across my back, and I fell beneath him. I felt the hot rush of his seed, the shudders that ran through his body. When they ceased, he lifted himself slightly and withdrew, then rolled onto his side. His arm blended into mine. I could feel a trail of stickiness across my thigh; the throbbing of my cunny; smell his hot manliness. Bands of frustration tightened my loins.

Boldly, I twisted towards him, reached for his hand, and drew it towards my aching centre. I parted my legs so there was no mistaking what I wanted. Before I could place his hand there, he snatched it away, and began to untangle my hair, which had come loose. Then, almost solicitously, as if I was an invalid, he covered me with the blankets.

He sighed and drew me into his arms. My head was against his chest. The coarse hairs tickled my cheek; his heart began to resume a steadier beat. With vacant eyes, I watched the Stygian silhouettes climb the walls and ceiling. What had just happened? It was so unexpected, so … What? Passionate? No, it wasn’t that, though there was no question Bram had been filled with desire. But was it for me? Or was I simply the vessel he used to quench it? Why had Bram turned me over? Was it so he didn’t have to see me? The few times Bram and I had relations, perfunctorily, as if we were strangers, I’d been on my back. Was this his preferred way? Or was it because I was now a mother, he couldn’t bear to look at my body?

I searched for something to say, to break the silence between us. All my words had fled. In the space they left, sadness, and another emotion I didn’t want to identify, crept.

Then, still holding me close, Bram murmured. ‘You were wonderful on stage tonight. Magnificent.’

‘How could you tell?’ I whispered hoarsely. ‘I looked and behaved just like ninety-nine others.’ Should I tell him about Oscar’s flowers?

No. I’d keep Oscar’s gift to myself.

I loved her.

Bram didn’t answer. He lay there, eyes closed, his breathing gradually deepening. After a while, I raised myself carefully on an elbow and studied him. Watery moonlight entered the room through the gap in the curtains. He looked so young in repose, all the cares of his daily life erased from his features. The lines were softened, his wide mouth immobile. Even the dark circles beneath his eyes faded into other planes and angles. The little pulse in his neck, just visible where his beard ended, fluttered. How vulnerable was a throat, I thought. Bram’s was very white, completely unblemished. The steady beat, so revealing of one’s heart. When it came to me, did Bram have a steady heart? Damn the niggling doubts that ate at my peace. Only, they didn’t arise from nowhere, did they?

Why could I not love him the way a wife should?

Why could I not love him as I had Oscar …?

Could I love another man? Should I? It wasn’t vain to acknowledge there were men eager to bed me – James Whistler, William Terriss, John Millais, even Gilbert’s friend, the up-and-coming politician Harry Cust. Then there was the Prince of Wales. Believing me to be a member of the chorus, he’d made his intentions apparent in the Beefsteak Room tonight. When Ellen told him I was Bram’s wife, it only increased his ardour. I wondered what would happen if I showed interest in Oscar. What would he do?

I burned with shame for even thinking it. I was no Ellen, no Lillie Langtry. God knows, I could never break my vows. Was it so great a sin to imagine doing so?

I lowered myself back onto the pillow, trying to ignore the hunger between my legs, the stickiness. I should rise and return to my own room, sort my tempestuous thoughts, but I didn’t want to disturb Bram.

After a long while, just when I thought I could make my escape and was beginning to slide out of the bed, Bram rolled towards me. His member pressed into my side, hard, primed. He sighed with such longing, it gave me pause.

‘Oh, Henry,’ he murmured.

Oh, Henry.

How those words haunted me; those, and the memory of his unyielding manhood, rigid against my thigh. Together, they plagued my every moment. I drifted about the house, simmering with confusion. I was plunged into a tossing ocean, and every day was a fight to keep my head above water. Unable to think of hosting an afternoon tea, I ceased to send out invitations. The thoughts I’d buried deep in my heart now bubbled to the surface. Was my marriage a sham?

Oh, Henry.