Page 62 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

I wasn’t lost, but as the weeks went past, the ice-cold anger and despair I felt at Bram’s brutal words began to melt. There was no point letting it become a canker that ate my soul. Harsh words were oft exchanged between spouses in heated moments; it was how one chose to deal with them that mattered. I didn’t think I could ever forget what he said, but I was able to lock it alongside the other secret, in an imaginary box, and bury it deep within me.

But not deep enough, it seemed. Aware something was amiss, Phil cornered me one day.

‘You’re too pale.’ She studied me as I unsuccessfully tried to darn one of Irving’s socks. ‘Worse, you’ve forgotten how to laugh. Come on, ’fess up. You’re miserable again. Mother’s noticed too.’

‘Miserable? Moi?’ I looked up from my terrible stitching. I gave her the brightest smile I could conjure. ‘What reason would I have for misery?’

‘I can think of one – a burly one who happens to be in America. Oh, give me that sock. I can’t bear watching you ruin it.’ She snatched it off me and began to unpick my work. When I didn’t speak, she looked up. ‘Well?’

‘Well … alright. I admit it.’ I sighed. She waited for me to continue. ‘I’m coming to the realisation that while Bram and I share a name, a son, a house – and that only now and then – we’ve very separate lives.’

‘Then you’re like most married couples,’ said Phil. ‘Mother and Father barely saw each other for years – only long enough to make another child.’

I gnawed my lip. ‘That’s different.’

‘How?’

‘Father was an army officer; he was away in another country, in the Crimea and Borneo. He was serving queen and country. My husband serves but one man, in London, the provinces, and in America. Wherever he’s ordered to go.’ I sighed again. ‘I don’t know, Phil. I thought marriage would be … different. That as husband and wife, no matter our … divergences, we’d build a life together. As it is, I don’t feel a part of Bram’s life at all.’ Bram’s face as he confessed to being ‘an unnatural man’ threatened to appear.

‘Maybe, but —’ said Phil, biting the thread, ‘who says you must be a part of his? If he’s not willing to include you, why can’t you just live your own life? Sounds to me you practically do anyway. You’ve your own friends, family here, Irving, you’ve those wonderful salons you write about in your letters – why, even folk here are talking about them, about you. You go on outings, do volunteer work. You have me,’ she smiled. ‘What more do you want?’ She passed me the mended sock. Her needlework was exquisite. ‘The way I see it, you have it the wrong way around. It’s Bram who needs you. Imagine what sort of life he’d have if you weren’t in it? If you didn’t ensure he mixed with more than theatre types? The kind of man he’d be?’

I shot her a look. There was nothing disingenuous in her question.

Unaware of my discomfort, she continued. ‘I mean, isn’t there something you can do for Bram that Henry Irving can’t? Apart from the obvious.’ Phil chuckled and reached for my fingers. ‘Don’t pull that face. There must be something. You just need to work out what that is.’

I considered Phil’s words long after I should have been asleep. Perhaps there was something I could do. After all, I’d brought Bram and Mr Marston together, and look what resulted … There was no doubt Bram met many interesting and worthwhile people through the Lyceum but, apart from our closest friends, they only saw him in that context: as Henry’s man. What if I invited more of them to our home? Bram would be seen in his own environment, out from under Henry’s shadow. He’d be viewed differently, I felt certain. Possibly even taken seriously as a man of many talents, in a way he wasn’t while only associated with the theatre.

The idea excited me. Who knew what could happen?

The rain was unrelenting over Christmas and into January, keeping us indoors. Nounou Yvette, Alice and Catherine played parlour games and cards with Irving. I read countless books, many aloud to Mother, who would sit in her favourite chair, her impossibly thick-lensed glasses atop her nose, and knit. Mary Shelley, the Brontes and Austen (much to Father’s disgust – he’d leave the room as he had no time for female writers) were quickly devoured. I revisited Dickens and even the works of Bram’s old employer, Sheridan Le Fanu, including the vampiric tale, Carmilla. When the weather permitted, I’d venture out – sometimes with Irving, always with one of my sisters. I visited Bram’s oldest brother, Thornley (his mother and sisters were living on the continent), bringing a lovely fan and a silk scarf for his wife, Emily. She’d been very unwell. When I asked after her, Thornley all but broke down.

‘I don’t know what to do, Florrie. She’s taken to eating insects in the belief they’ll prolong her life.’

‘Oh, Thornley,’ I said, imagining the lovely Emily stuffing flies, beetles and wasps into her cupid-bow mouth. I repressed a shudder. ‘I’m so sorry.’

Thornley nodded miserably. ‘Here I am, a man of medicine, and the best I can do for my wife is lock her in the east wing of this huge house for her own protection.’ He gazed about despondently, not seeing the overloaded wooden bookcases, the flocked wallpaper or crystal chandeliers. ‘I’ve hired two nurses to attend her.’

I couldn’t stop thinking about Emily, or Thornley. Problems like that put my own in perspective. I wasn’t going mad, despite the way I sometimes felt, the conclusions I worried others might leap to if I admitted what was disturbing me. I was in control. I wrote and told Bram, encouraging him to contact his brother. I prayed for Thornley, Emily too.

As winter ended and spring shyly reared its gentle head, I was more than ready to return to London. Dublin was no longer my home. I’d forever be fond of it, but I’d outgrown it.

I reached London on a cold, mist-riddled morning in late March, and aired the rooms at Cheyne Walk, removed the dust-covers from the furniture, and set about hiring new staff. We’d been forced to let Mrs Daw and Emma go as we couldn’t afford to pay them while Bram was away and I’d no need of them in Ireland. The place was strangely quiet without them; almost unwelcoming. Thank goodness for Nounou Yvette and the distraction of Irving, who soon filled the house with noise and laughter. Once they understood I was back, my friends called – Gilbert, Lucy, Genevieve and Matilda – and invitations and outings resumed. I began to plan my next salon.

I hadn’t forgotten Phil’s words either.

Isn’t there something you can do for Bram that Henry Irving can’t?

Bram would be back in a matter of days, which begged the question: I might have been ready for London, to live my life, and to broaden our circle of friends and acquaintances.

But – was I ready for Bram?

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

St Leonard’s Terrace, 1884

I don’t know when the rumours about Oscar first reached me. Maybe they were whispered long ago, back in Dublin, drifting about like a spring breeze, too gentle to be heeded. Maybe I heard them at one of the Beefsteak dinners, swirling among the tobacco smoke and whisky fumes, evanescent and impossible to catch. But when they became more than the background drone of busy bees buzzing first here, alighting there, transforming into dangerous words that found willing ears, they could no longer be ignored.

However, on my return from Dublin, I was initially too preoccupied with domestic matters to hear them. Whether it was the glow of homecoming or the success of the North American tour, when I suggested we move house again, Bram readily agreed.