Page 64 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

Though I begrudged being thought of as a plaything, or a bright light, being admired and living in a fine box wasn’t so objectionable. But, if that was the case, why did I often feel so … hollow? My worth was based on my appearance, something I’d no say in; it was a (happy) accident of birth. A woman’s value was also largely dependent on whom she married, on the appraisal of men. A valuation that, unlike a painting or piece of jewellery, declined with age. It was most vexing.

Then, unexpected news flew about town. Oscar Wilde was getting married.

Bram told me one night after a Beefsteak dinner. Laid low with an awful cold, I’d stayed home in bed.

‘Oscar? Oscar Wilde?’ I said, hauling myself off the pillow to blow my nose and level watery eyes at Bram. ‘Who? Who’s he marrying?’

Oscar. My Oscar was getting married.

A shaft of jealousy lanced my chest, a scalding heat followed by a frost so deep and hard, I feared I’d begin to crack if I moved. Bram perched on the bedcovers.

‘Constance Lloyd. You remember her.’ He took my limp hand in his. ‘We’ve met her on several occasions – at Du Maurier’s, the gallery opening. She was at Lady Jane’s last salon. Dresses very simply. You said she was stylish.’

‘Did I?’ I said faintly.

‘She’s the daughter of that Queen’s Counsel.’

I tried desperately to recall her. Then I remembered. Introduced as a long-time writer friend of his, Oscar had hovered over her solicitously. I thought her very pretty with lovely big eyes and a slender, almost boyish figure. Warm, friendly, she was also Irish and the same age as me.

She’d grasped my hands tightly and drawn me close.

‘Oscar has told me so much about you. I hope we’ll be great friends.’

I managed a smile and some form of agreement, but not before I’d shot Oscar an accusatory look. He may have told her about me, but I knew nothing of her.

‘Are you feeling any better, Florrie?’ asked Bram. ‘You really are very pallid. How about I mix a toddy? Mammy always swore by them.’ Before I could object, Bram leapt up, making a drink and recounting the night’s performance. I barely listened. My head was filled with images of Constance and Oscar. A persistent voice, high-pitched, like the steam from a kettle, whined, Why did he never ask for your hand? What does Constance have that you lack? What changed?

Was it because Oscar was genuinely in love? Was it a matter of social status? Or was Constance his disguise, a costume he donned to move about safely in the world? Were both the important men in my life, the one who courted me and the one who married me, more attracted to their own sex?

It was too much to consider.

Arm in arm with Bram, on 29 May 1884 I attended the wedding of Oscar and Constance at St James’s Church in Paddington. I could scarce take my eyes off them as they exchanged vows. Oscar bestowed a lasting kiss on her lovely mouth, and then with shining eyes led her back down the aisle. I worked hard not to imagine myself in her place.

With the rumours circulating, did I even want to be? I’d my own complex relationship to protect.

There was no doubt, Oscar and Bram liked men, and a great deal more than made me comfortable, but it was evident that they enjoyed the companionship of women as well.

Lucky for them both, Constance and I provided the cover society demanded.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

London, 1886

The one complaint Bram allowed about Henry was that he was going to bankrupt the Lyceum. Nineteen months after Oscar wed Constance, a production of Faust was mounted, and almost did. A full-size organ was built into the stage and a peal of bells worth four hundred pounds was specially cast. Over two hundred and fifty extras were hired to play demons, goblins and warlocks. As if that wasn’t enough, Henry insisted that swords using the new-fangled invention, electricity, be made so that when fights took place, sparks would fly. There were tinsel storms, floating mists, and a ladder of angels. Extra trapdoors were built into the stage and ropes and pulleys constructed, allowing cast members to ascend and descend from the heavens. There were apparitions, fires and so much more. It was beyond spectacular, and the audiences adored it – and Henry, for what he gave them.

Despite a weak script, the run of Faust was already long, and the demands extensive. As the season continued, Bram begged me to bring Irving to see the show. Knowing it was a most unsuitable play for a young child (Irving was only six), I persuaded myself it could be no worse for him than listening to his father’s terrifying tales. It would have been churlish to refuse after moaning about how Bram never saw his son.

I spied Bram the moment we entered the stage door, a still presence amidst the whirl and noise. Irving was thrilled to be back at the theatre again and, I confess, so was I. After being part of the chorus in The Cup, I’d never performed again. The desire had been smothered. If I’d been offered another role, I would have declined. Still, there was something charmed about the place; how from all the backstage chaos, clutter and clatter, the colour, haze of tobacco, sounds of instruments tuning, voices warming up, panicked squeals, running feet, shouted orders, the moment the lights dimmed, and the orchestra started, all fell into place. The audience were transported.

‘Maman,’ said Irving, clutching my hand nervously as we navigated the corridor, passing imps, goblins and assorted horned creatures chatting and rehearsing lines, his little eyes wide. ‘Pourquoi y a-t-il des monstres partout?’

Bram glanced back. He didn’t approve of Irving speaking French in his presence.

‘English, please, Irving,’ I reminded him.

Irving gave a weary sigh. ‘Why are there monsters everywhere?’

‘Oh, darling,’ I said, swooping on him, forcing Bram to stop. I knelt so Irving could see my face. I pushed his hair back from his forehead, pressing the little worried furrow between his soft brows. ‘Remember I told you the theatre was pretend? These aren’t really monsters, they’re just people, like you and me, only they’re wearing costumes and face paint, doing make-believe, like you and Nounou Yvette do sometimes.’