Page 60 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

I glanced at Bram. To these men, he was the picture of heroic masculinity as he recounted events. He was already weaving his actions into a wondrous narrative of mettle and misfortune. May the Lord forgive me, but I’d never been more grateful for his storytelling talents.

I couldn’t shake the image of the dead man: his discoloured skin, a devil-sent shade, his blood-red eyes and long grey teeth. He was more like a character from one of the supernatural tales I so loved than a flesh-and-blood person.

Tremors began to overtake me as my thoughts became brambles, so I rose and crossed to the other window, hoping the outside world would distract me from what had happened. A sea of hats greeted me. A few umbrellas opened as rain began to fall, the sunshine of earlier having been swallowed by heavy clouds. I was about to turn away, when something caught my eye. Not far from where the gaggle stood, was what had once been a cap. Crushed beneath horses’ hooves, it was now an odd shape. I watched as it went under the heels of yet more men running towards our front door, its shape no longer recognisable; like the dead man I imagined it once belonged to, its purpose had been taken from it. The rain grew heavier, beating against the flattened object until, finally, it stuck to the wheel of a cab and was taken away.

I spun around to find two more journalists had managed to worm their way back into the house. Pointedly ignoring me and a flustered Mrs Daw, who gave a helpless shrug from the doorway, they stood either side of Bram, demanding a recounting.

The men’s voices washed over me. Already I knew my sleep would be filled with impressions of scarlet eyes, hairy palms and long teeth, with images of the man who fate and God had brought into our home to draw his final breath.

Over the next few days, the papers were filled with Bram’s exploits. The press even went to the Lyceum to interview him, which might have been alright had they not also sought a quote about the valorous Bram Stoker from Henry Irving.

Just as Henry’s ego was beginning to recover from the Romeo and Juliet fiasco, my husband dared to steal the attention. When an article about Bram’s courage appeared in The Penny Illustrated Press, not only was the entire incident beautifully sketched, and Bram praised handsomely, an accompanying illustration depicted Henry greeting a dripping wet Bram holding a soaking hat and jacket. ‘Bravo, Stoker!’ he was saying. ‘We pretend to be heroes on stage, but you really are one!’

Ellen revealed to me that Henry had said no such thing. When he saw the press outside his dressing room and understood they weren’t there for him, he sent them away with a flea in their ear. When he finally learned what Bram had done, he took him to task.

‘You should have let the foolish old man die.’

‘He needed help,’ Bram protested.

‘I need your help,’ said Henry. ‘Lest you forget, I’m the one who pays you.’

Uncowed by Henry’s admonishment, Bram cut out and kept every single report on the incident, every illustration, cartoon or piece of copy. If I found one he’d overlooked, I saved it. He added these to the box in which he stored such keepsakes. He was so taken by these stories that hailed him as a rugged hero and the kind of victorious athlete he’d been in his youth, he completely missed that while they praised him, the more recent reports in the gossip columns also poked fun at his excessive loyalty to Henry. Which meant they also lampooned his master. Bram may have failed to see it, but I did and so did Henry.

When Bram was awarded a bronze medal from the Humane Society for his bravery, I held a salon to mark the occasion. Bram soaked up the notice. Henry was conspicuous by his absence, an oversight Bram excused.

‘He’s exhausted,’ Bram said, when asked where Henry was. ‘He had another engagement,’ he told Gilbert. ‘He’s readying himself for a trip to Paris,’ he told George Du Maurier.

Gilbert and Lucy looked at each knowingly; Hall Caine shook his head in disappointment. Du Maurier just laughed and cocked a cynical brow in my direction. Matilda, William Gladstone, Lady Jane and even Oscar scoffed. Ellen sighed. And on it went.

This readiness to forgive Henry’s pettiness did Bram no favours. While people recognised his devotion, there was a fine line between that and exploitation.

Or weakness.

That others might see beneath Bram’s manly exterior to the needy person beneath nibbled at my composure. Thus far, if they did, no-one passed comment.

As if aware that the praise of others might tempt Bram to test his autonomy, Henry played his cards well, announcing to all and sundry that in the coming year the Lyceum, along with the players, scenery, costumes and even the limelight men, would tour America.

And who was to take responsibility for this enormous feat? Why, none other than Bram Stoker.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

London, October 1882

September slid into October, and the flurry of publicity over Bram’s rescue came to a swift conclusion when the hero of the hour went north for a few weeks to manage the ridiculous ‘Farewell to England’ tour Henry had insisted the Lyceum company undertake before they headed to America. Bram and I had hardly seen each other, what with Henry and the theatre dominating Bram’s every waking hour, and me visiting the Gilberts, attending plays, art exhibitions and lectures at the Royal Institution. I still held my salons every other Sunday, minus Bram and the Lyceum luminaries, but I was all too aware that opportunities to keep company with my husband, or for Irving to enjoy his father, were slipping away. Soon, Bram would be on the other side of the world for six months. We may not have shared conjugal relations, but it was important we consolidate what we had, otherwise I feared we’d drift apart, perhaps irrevocably.

When Bram came home in mid-October, I decided to discuss the possibility of snatching a few days away together, just the three of us – in Dublin, Paris, anywhere we could be together as a family.

Bram and I were in the drawing room. The moonlight pierced the gap in the curtains, spotlighting my writing desk and the book I was reading, Around the World in Eighty Days. If Bram could travel, so could I, albeit in my imagination. The coals gave off a lovely molten glow. I was tired and longed for bed, but ever since the man died in our house, I’d been disturbed by strange dreams that left me hollow-eyed and jumping at shadows.

They always began the same way: I was sitting at our dining table, entertaining friends. The table was beautifully set with fine bone china and silverware. Candles burned on the mantelpiece and sideboard. The fire wasn’t lit, and the room was very cold and filled with shadows. Bram wasn’t always present, and I couldn’t recognise my guests. Sometimes, they were vague outlines; at others, they were dark and lumpen, their faces obscured. It didn’t seem to bother me, not at first; nor the fact that everything happened in silence. In the centre of the table was an enormous cloche. At some point, the cloche was lifted. Beneath it lay the drowned man. I tried to cry out, to stand, to flee, but I was unable to move. Bands of fear twined themselves around my rib cage, tightening like a cruel corset. My guests began to dissolve into thick grey smoke that rose as the man slowly sat up and faced me, staring with those blood-red eyes. I tried to express how sorry I was that he had died; how I wished more could have been done. That it wasn’t Bram’s or George’s fault. But my tongue became a great weight, muting me. Then his mouth opened in a rictus, exposing long grey teeth as he reached for me with impossibly attenuated fingers, his palms draped in weed or hair, I couldn’t tell which, before he lunged for my throat and I woke, bathed in sweat.

In other dreams, he’d simply follow me through the house, emerging from behind doors, anywhere the light didn’t reach. I would try to ignore him, but the tension in my chest, my goose flesh and shallow breathing meant my body wouldn’t let me. I soundlessly cursed him, pleaded with him to leave me be. But he didn’t, and slowly my fear transformed into vexation. Why was he tormenting me? His death was not my doing.

It had been so long since I’d slept through the night, the lack of sleep was making me irritable. At least, that’s what I told myself. I hadn’t divulged to Bram what was plaguing me. He thought I was out of sorts because he was leaving. There was truth in that, too. A part of me was angry with him – angry that he’d brought the man into our home, angry that I was obliged to keep his secret, even though I knew I’d little choice. In my head, the two merged, one becoming a symbol of the other. Secrets damaged everything, caused relationships to decay, love to die. I’d no choice but to keep Bram’s confidence because it was also mine. And now I had to hold it tight while dealing with my unwelcome nightly visitor. Aye, rightly or not, I was angry with my husband.

Bram was settled into his chair, whisky in hand and waiting for me to speak of my day. There was the hoot of an owl, the hollow clop of horses’ hooves. It was very late, past two in the morning.

‘So,’ I began, after Bram finished telling me how difficult it was proving to pack the required scenery for America, ‘I’ve been thinking …’