Page 49 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

I began to look at my husband anew. Suddenly, his friendships with other men, with that poet he wrote long ardent letters to in America, with his friend Hall Caine (a foppish little man, I thought cruelly), became freighted with new meaning. I’d observe the way Bram would clap brawny tradesmen on the back, his palm lingering. How he’d bend towards the stagehands, smiling into their eyes. How he’d stand close to handsome William Terriss, whispering, before they’d burst into gales of laughter and clutch each other’s forearms.

But William had a wife, didn’t he? Henry and Ellen were lovers. Not that it always made a difference. I’d been wondering if Bram had a mistress, but what if he sought satisfaction somewhere else altogether? I’d heard stories about men who, to hide their real inclinations, married and had children. Was I a disguise Bram wore to hide his true nature?

I began to wonder where he went every night after the performance. Was it the Beefsteak Room as he said? Did Henry really keep him there entertaining sponsors and patrons until the sun rose? Or was Bram lurking in some seedy establishment that catered to certain tastes, a nearby molly house? What were the men up to when they retreated to Henry’s apartment in Grafton Street?

Oh, Henry.

I wanted to say something, ask him, only I didn’t know how. My entire life I’d spoken my mind, refused to be cowed … until now. This was different. What would I do if Bram told me something I didn’t want to hear? Leave him and return to Ireland? God forbid, did I divorce him? Imagine what the family would say. What our friends, society, or those who made a game of such things would mutter. It was all well and good for Genevieve Ward – she was a countess, an applauded actress. Who was I? Who was Bram? We’d be utterly ruined. Not just me and Bram, but our son as well …

What if I was wrong? What if this was something my wretched imagination had conjured so I didn’t have to be intimate with my husband anymore?

I was locked in a turmoil of self-doubt and unhappiness. How did other women deal with such things? Their worries about their husbands? Their marriages? Themselves? Who did they unburden themselves to? There was no-one I could confide in, not even Ellen. She loved Bram. I couldn’t put it in a letter to Phil either. I just couldn’t.

I was completely alone in this.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Cheyne Walk and Dublin, 1881

When the lease on Southampton Street was due to be renewed, Bram and I made the decision to rent a bigger house in Cheyne Walk, Chelsea. Situated halfway between Kensington Vestry Wharf and Draw Dock, the Cadogan steamboat ferry stopped virtually at the door, taking Bram – via London Bridge – to Waterloo. From there, it was a short walk to the Lyceum. It was a rather grand, if narrow, house of five stories, offset from the rest of the street. Across the road was the Embankment, a lovely place to promenade most afternoons with its granite retaining walls, row of young trees and splendid lampposts. The views from the front door and windows captured the river. When the tide was high, it was a delightful vista, even on drizzly days. Low tide exposed the pitted riverbed, attracted the curious mudlarks, and a terrible odour. Not that it bothered young Irving, who liked nothing better than to watch the water traffic or listen to the large cabs known as growlers rumbling along the macadam.

George contributed towards the lease monies, which was just as well, because it was considerably more expensive than our humble abode in Southampton Street. Thank goodness the move gave me plenty to do, decorating the rooms and purchasing new furniture to fill the extra space – anything so I wouldn’t dwell on my growing doubts about my husband’s inclinations and what they signified about him. About me.

As the weeks went by and Bram didn’t seek my bed again, I began to feel relief that I was to be spared not only physical congress, but also a conversation I felt must happen but dreaded. Was I a coward? Dear Lord, yes. Was this the easier path? I’m not certain. But it was the path I chose. Contentment, with my marriage, with Bram, became a costume I donned daily, all while dousing spot fires of bitterness and doubts flaring in my soul. I kept asking myself, if I’d known what my marriage to Bram would entail, what it would deny me, would I ever have agreed to wed him?

Even though my resolution to be nice to Henry was sorely tested at this time, I maintained it, all while praying fervently for strength. The strength to either bring matters to a head or endure.

Come mid-summer, I reached a decision. Whatever Bram was, whatever I was to him, I was still, in the eyes of God and man, his wife; I was Mrs Bram Stoker and that was beginning to mean something in our London circles. It was time for me to put aside my destructive thoughts and strike out on my own. To mark my new resolve, I began to plan my very first salon – Lady Jane style, as I’d once dreamed. After all, not only was our new house more suited to such an event, but I could count several London luminaries as friends and others as acquaintances. Matilda had brought a range of artists into my circle. These same people were connected, known and admired. I felt certain their presence in my home would, over time, bring others to my door as well.

Before I could begin any serious preparations, or think of putting together an invitation list, for which I would seek the advice of Ellen, the Gilberts and Lady Jane, I had to return to Dublin. Phillippa, my sworn-spinster sister, was getting married. The wee mannie and I, along with Elizabeth, left for Dublin just as Bram was preparing to accompany Henry and Ellen on a provincial tour. We parted with promises to write to each other, and Bram gave me gifts for his mammy, his sister Margaret and Thornley’s wife, Emily.

My homecoming was greeted with great fanfare by my siblings, especially Phil. The moment Elizabeth and I walked through the door, Irving was whisked into Alice’s arms and paraded about the house, while I was hurried into the drawing room to be reunited with Mother and Father. Captain Walton, who was a bit white around the muzzle now, didn’t know who to follow, but decided that if Irving was going to be given some Victoria sponge, he was the better option. Catherine took Elizabeth upstairs to show her the room she’d share with Irving.

Alice had grown taller in the year or so since I was last there. Her lithe body now had curves, her eyes a knowing twinkle. Catherine had grown into a lovely young lady and was, according to Phil, turning the heads of all the eligible and not-so-eligible men in the neighbourhood.

‘That Cormac O’Leary has been sniffing around her worse than Captain Walton does Mrs Browning’s bitch.’

Cormac O’Leary was a known rabble rouser who was against Home Rule. ‘You must be having conniptions, Father,’ I exclaimed.

‘He threatened him with a beating if he ever showed his face here again,’ said Mother, shaking her head.

Father chuckled, his bony shoulders jiggling. ‘Can still inspire terror in the lads,’ he said proudly.

‘If you keep doing that to anyone who shows interest in your daughters, we’ll never get rid of them!’ complained Mother.

Everyone laughed.

It was shocking how much my parents had aged since I last saw them. As if their years on this earth had suddenly caught up with them. I didn’t remember a time when the hairs circling Father’s pate weren’t grey, but since when had his back become so bent and the hand that gripped his walking stick so twisted? Mother’s hair had metamorphosed from rich auburn to mostly silver. Her voice had a tremor, and she kept clearing her throat. She relied on a pair of glasses and a magnifier to read the paper, and to examine me and Irving.

‘You’re looking thin, Florrie,’ she said, her eyes owl-like in the large lenses. ‘Don’t you think so, James? Is that Stoker husband of yours treating you well?’

How could I reveal my fears to my own mother? I was too ashamed, too afraid of what she’d say. My parents had never really forgiven Bram for throwing away his civil service job and linking our future to a theatre company. I hesitated just a second before answering. ‘Yes, Mother. Very well.’

Alice chose that moment to bring Irving back and I swooped upon them.

Mother harrumphed loudly, then held out her arms for Irving. ‘Come to Granny Moo!’ she clucked.

Maude was unable to leave her house because the babbie was due any day, so I would take Irving for a visit. Likewise, James and Billy were now living in the city and would come by to see me after work.