Page 5 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘Nothing,’ I answered, my smile widening. ‘Was Phil a good girl?’ Captain Walton’s ears pricked, and he looked in Phil’s direction. I swear that dog understood us. Tired of my fussing, he withdrew his head and slumped on the rug before the hearth. Though it was early spring, winter was still showing its teeth, and a fire had been lit.

‘You haven’t moved from where I left you.’ Phil had tried to persuade me to come to the park, but Mother had recruited me to help Alice with her French. We were all fluent in the language, except for Alice and Father. He refused to learn it; Alice found it boring and struggled.

‘Is that another card from Oscar?’ exclaimed Phil, plucking the latest one off the table, turning it first one way, then the other. ‘How many is that now?’

‘Hundreds,’ said Alice, without raising her head from her declensions.

‘Dozens, at least,’ answered Maude, emerging from the shadowy recess of our over-crowded bookshelves. I’d quite forgotten she was there.

‘He’s in Greece,’ exclaimed Phil. ‘Lucky thing. What’s he doing there?’

‘Studying the art, mainly.’ I snatched the card back. ‘Seeing the great antiquities.’

‘What for?’ asked Alice.

‘To increase his understanding.’

‘Of what, exactly?’ asked Phil.

‘History, art, literature,’ I numbered them off. ‘Ancient cultures. He can speak Greek, you know. Well, I think he can. But he believes that art is a necessity of human life.’

Maude looked pointedly at her skirt. There was another tear in the seam. ‘I can think of other necessities.’

I silently agreed. Only a man from a privileged background could make such a grandiose statement.

‘Is he coming home for Easter?’ asked Phil, kicking off her shoes and rubbing her feet.

‘He is.’ I was unable to prevent the silly grin spreading across my face.

‘Look at you!’ she laughed. ‘The giddy girl all over again. How long is it since you saw him?’

‘Weeks,’ I sighed. ‘But he writes the most beautiful letters.’ Ardent, too, I thought, aware my cheeks were reddening. God in heaven, I missed him. Ever since he’d given me the necklace at Christmas, we’d spent every spare minute he was home together. Walking, going to the gallery, the theatre, soirees at his mother’s. It was at those, more than anywhere, that I caught a glimpse of the wider world that being Mrs Wilde would open to me. It was thrilling, and such a contrast to my mundane existence at Marino Court.

‘Well, considering how moonstruck he was when he was last here,’ said Phil, resting her head on the back of the chair and staring at the ceiling, legs outstretched, ‘I’m surprised he’s able to stay away so long.’

Memories of the church, of his mouth on my neck. That bite. There’d been two other times we’d exchanged kisses; kisses that left my knees weak, and my body afire. I squeezed my thighs together, hoping no-one noticed.

‘He takes his studies very seriously,’ I said a tad defensively.

‘Hmmm,’ said Phil. ‘I would rather he takes you seriously.’

‘What’s that mean?’

‘Well, he could either come home to see you or gallivant around the Aegean.’ She flicked her fingers towards the card. ‘His choice speaks louder than any pretty words, Kitten.’

‘Not these words,’ I said, cross she’d spoiled my daydreams. Still, her observation wasn’t entirely unfair. Oscar should have been home by now. Word was he’d stayed in Greece beyond his allocated holidays and been fined by his college. Rumour was, he was travelling with a particular professor who was perhaps exerting an unfortunate influence. What kind, I wasn’t certain. Surely, it couldn’t be harmful, let alone alter his intentions towards me.

Could it?

Oscar came home at Easter, rushing to my side the moment he’d greeted his family and deposited his bags. Our courtship resumed. Most days, we walked unchaperoned in Marino Park, enjoying the trees and blooming flowers. When we didn’t bring Captain Walton with us, we’d feed nuts to the squirrels and breadcrumbs to the mallards waddling along the grass. We’d chat with people we knew and politely address those we didn’t; rest in the shade of leafy boughs and recite poetry to each other.

‘Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness,’ Oscar would start as we rested against a huge tree, tucking a tendril of hair behind my ear.

‘Thou foster child of silence and slow time,’ I’d return. Like Oscar, I loved Keats’s work and knew much of it by heart.

Other times, we’d take parts in a Shakespearean drama, Julius Caesar or Henry IV, or a Sheridan comedy. He would sing silly ditties, making me laugh.

‘So,’ he said one day as we wandered arm in arm along the Liffey, ‘if you could travel anywhere in the world, where would you wish to go first?’