Page 6 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

I didn’t need to consider the question for long. ‘London.’

‘London!’ exclaimed Oscar. ‘Not Athens, or Rome? What about Cairo?’

‘Oh, I’d love to see them too, but you did ask where first.’

‘I did. Now, tell me why.’

‘Why not?’ I said glibly, earning a stern look. I laughed. ‘Because there, possibilities begin.’

‘And what could Florence Balcombe possibly want?’

I stopped and faced him. ‘Everything.’

‘Greedy girl,’ he said and kissed the tip of my nose. ‘My favourite kind.’ He squeezed my hand as we resumed our walk.

On days like those, it wasn’t such a great stretch to imagine a life together – Oscar Wilde, the most eligible bachelor in Dublin, and me, the third daughter of the impoverished Balcombes.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so happy,’ said Phil one night as we lay, pillows close together. We’d been planning my wedding gown. Blue and silver, with a headdress of violets and a shimmering veil.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy.’

Phil rolled over onto her back and sighed. ‘I just wish he’d hurry up and ask you formally so we can all relax. Work out how to “pay for another damn wedding’’,’ she said, imitating Father.

‘He’s waiting to finish his studies,’ I explained. Not that Oscar had said this. ‘He wants to stand on his own two feet. The death of his father last year was a terrible blow, and now that his older brother, William, is a journalist and sometime poet, Oscar is determined to make a name for himself too.’

‘I think Oscar will make a name for himself wherever or whatever he is,’ said Phil, turning her head and searching my face. ‘I just want him to give you his name.’

So did I. So did I.

CHAPTER FOUR

Dublin, March 1878

It had been an age since I’d last heard from Oscar. He’d gone back to England, and the usual flurry of letters filled with witticisms and anecdotes, declarations of affection and longing that I’d so cherished this time last year, had slowly reduced to a trickle. Promises to return home, write more, send word of his whereabouts, were broken repeatedly. Then, sometime after Christmas, he ceased to correspond altogether.

It was humiliating dealing with all the questions from family, friends and neighbours.

‘How’s Oscar?’ they’d ask. ‘When’s he coming home?’ Or worse, ‘When’s the wedding?’

As winter gave way to spring, I pondered whether this was his way of releasing me from a commitment that had only ever existed in my imagination. I’d no answers, only a deep, burning pain in my heart, which slowly transformed into a fierce anger.

Now at last, after protracted silence, a letter arrived. I seized it from the pile of mail on the salver in the hallway and, with a heart fit to burst, fled to the privacy of the bedroom. I perched on the window seat and tore it open, devouring the words.

‘What does he say?’ asked Phil, bounding into the room and holding out her hand.

Was nothing sacred in this house? Reluctantly, knowing Phil would persist, I handed over the one-page letter.

‘My dear Florrie,’ she began, using the voice she’d adopted lately when talking about Oscar. Her eyes scanned the single page.

‘I miss you terribly,’ continued Phil, ‘but I’m enjoying the company of a delightful friend (a new friend) —’ Phil raised her head. ‘New? What the hell does that mean? Delightful? I’ll give him fecking delightful. Is he deliberately trying to hurt you by telling you this? Who’s this friend?’

Bands of pain tightened my chest. ‘I don’t know. But he says he won’t be coming home for Easter. He’s staying at the Royal Bath Hotel in Bournemouth instead.’

‘With this delightful new friend?’

The look of disdain on Phil’s face undid me. I hated myself for my earlier selfish thoughts. My sister was marvellous. The anger that had bolstered me dissolved. Tears began to fall.

Phil cast the letter aside and gathered me in her arms. ‘Oh, Florrie.’ She kissed the top of my head. ‘Please, Kitten, don’t cry. Oscar’s an eejit. A damn wretched one who’s thoughtless and cruel.’