Page 65 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

A particularly gruesome troll chose that moment to squeeze past. Irving squealed in fright and buried his head in my shoulder. ‘Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea,’ I said to Bram over Irving’s head. ‘I’ll take him home.’

Bram scowled, then his face lit up and he snapped his fingers. ‘I’ve a better idea. I know exactly how to fix this. Irving,’ he said, prying him from me. ‘Come with me, laddie. I’ve someone I want you to meet.’

I stood, looking at Bram quizzically.

‘Leave him with me, Florrie.’ He placed a reassuring hand on my arm. ‘Why don’t you visit Ellen? She’d love to see you.’

Poor Ellen. She’d had a terrible time recently, losing three important men in her life in quick succession, including her husband, Charles Wardell Kelly. She’d been understandably downcast.

‘I’ll bring Irving back once I’ve eased his fears.’ Before I could ask how Bram intended to do that, he lifted Irving into his arms and disappeared around the corner.

‘Lemon!’ exclaimed Ellen as Judith opened the door. ‘Come in, come in. This is a lovely surprise.’ She enfolded me in a warm hug. My face was momentarily pressed into her shoulder, and I inhaled musk, jasmine and the slight mustiness of her heavily brocaded costume.

‘Sit, sit,’ she insisted as she resumed her seat. Judith quickly brought over a chair, and I sat at an angle watching Ellen as she put the finishing touches to her make-up. ‘Dear God,’ she exclaimed, flapping her arms. ‘These bloody sleeves are a nuisance.’ Long and widely flared at the ends, the extra material dragged over the top of the dresser, knocking over bottles and causing her brushes to clank to the floor. I picked them up.

Ellen chuckled. ‘You’re too well dressed to be stooping for those.’

‘I don’t mind,’ I said, and passed the errant objects to Judith, who replaced them out of reach and then began to pin back Ellen’s sleeves. Like the rest of the gown, they were heavily embossed and beaded. A jewelled sash angled across her torso, while a beautifully decorated cap adorned her head, her golden hair framing her face sweetly.

‘You make a lovely Margaret,’ I said, smiling at her reflection. The desolation in her eyes only enhanced the character.

‘A Leadenhall butcher would look lovely next to Henry’s Mephistopheles. That make-up is hideous,’ she shuddered then looked about. ‘I thought you were bringing Irving?’ She dusted a brush across her cheek.

‘I did. The poor mite was frightened by all the actors in costume, so Bram’s allaying his fears.’

‘You were worried this wasn’t an appropriate play for him.’

‘Still am. But Bram gets to spend so little time with him. If worse comes to worst, and what Bram’s intending doesn’t work, can I bring Irving here until the play’s over?’

‘Of course,’ said Ellen, reaching for my hand and giving it a loving press.

While she lined her eyes with kohl, I asked her how she was feeling.

She lowered the brush from her eyes. ‘Relieved I can escape here each night.’ She gave a tremulous smile. ‘It’s easier to deal with this tragedy rather than my own.’

‘I’m so sorry, Ellen.’ I went to touch her, reassure her, but hesitated.

‘Let’s not talk about it,’ she said. ‘Instead, have I told you about Mr Tonkins? No? Well, he comes to see the play every week and insists on coming backstage to check on my welfare. He believes Henry really is the devil and my soul is in mortal danger.’

‘I’m sure it is,’ I said, grinning. ‘Not only from Henry …’

‘Lemon!’ began Ellen, faking outrage, when a piercing scream rang out.

‘Irving!’ I was out the door in a flash, Ellen behind me.

The actors parted for us like the Red Sea for Moses. The scream turned into wails, leading me straight to Henry Irving’s dressing room.

I burst through the door to find Henry, costumed as Mephistopheles, replete with horns and ruby and black make-up, looking utterly terrifying, looming over my son, who sat with his little face buried in his hands, facing the mirror. Bram was shaking him by the shoulder, clearly cross.

Both men started guiltily when I bowled in.

‘Irving!’ I raced to his side. ‘What is it, mon coeur?’ I rubbed his back; he heaved with silent sobs.

Henry made a scoffing noise. ‘He’s overreacted, that’s all. Tell her, Brammie.’ He stood and leaned back with his bottom pressed against the dresser, arms folded.

‘Bram?’ I looked to my husband. Irving was frozen in fear. I was unable to coax him to lower his hands and turn around so I might comfort him.

‘I don’t know what’s got into him,’ began Bram, looking from me to Ellen then Henry. ‘All Henry did was put a little paint on him to prove that anyone can become a monster.’