Page 67 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘No —’

‘Has he had nightmares?’

I pursed my lips. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him of my own.

‘Then, Florrie, there’s nothing to talk about, is there? Please, don’t make more of this than it is. Irving is a sensitive lad, some might say oversensitive.’

‘Really? Who?’

Bram didn’t bite. ‘Let it go. If you do, the boy will. Henry will as well.’

‘Henry? Don’t tell me he was upset.’

‘Of course he was. Despite what you think, he’s not a complete monster. He was distressed by Irving’s reaction. Being a consummate professional, he didn’t let it affect his performance.’

‘Well, thank the good Lord for that.’

He returned to his work. I waited a full minute, then without another word, went back to bed.

Surely, if anyone was responsible for Irving’s flight of fancy, it was a father who’d raised him on a diet of ghost stories and tales of creatures roused from nightmares to pluck children from their beds and punish them. Not that I was innocent of that particular sin, I supposed, having told Irving many tales of restless spirits and invisible beasts myself. As far as our son was concerned, Henry was one of those storybook ghouls come to life – and had turned him into one as well.

How could Bram be so … cavalier? An image of his pen moving across the page filled my mind. Maybe he was right, and Irving was simply a sensitive lad who just needed to learn the difference between make-believe and reality. Visions of my own spectral visitor loomed. Perhaps I needed to learn that lesson too.

Before I finally drifted off to sleep, I prayed that what happened to our son tonight wouldn’t harm him in any long-lasting way. I also prayed it wouldn’t somehow crawl its way into Bram’s fiction to live forever.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Victoria Station, London, 1887

Caught in the frenzy of planning the 1887 tour of America (the Lyceum’s third), Bram determined that this time, I’d join him. I refused. I’d no desire to go; no urge to risk the storm-tossed violence of the Atlantic, no matter how safe Bram said it was. This didn’t stop him, or Ellen – shamelessly co-opted as his ally – pestering me endlessly.

Frustrated by their determination to make me change my mind, I decided to leave London for a while and go to Paris. My absence would allow Bram to dedicate every waking moment to his preparations while reinforcing I was serious about not wanting to accompany him. It was one thing to take a short trip on a steamship to France, quite another to sail to America.

Not intending to take the boy, when Bram generously upped my allowance so I could buy some new dresses (for when I came on the tour, he said – ha!), in a moment of weakness I relented, taking Mrs Simpson as well as Irving.

We were pushed and jostled on the platform as we farewelled Bram at the train station. Between ensuring our baggage was loaded, Bram incessantly checked his pocket watch. He had to make it back to the Lyceum before Henry noticed him gone.

I was thinking about ways to entertain Irving and Mrs Simpson on the journey. At least the ferry to Dieppe was overnight and the boy would sleep. We’d have a few hours to pass in Newhaven before we’d be able to board. A growing township with a wide, unpaved High Street and some shops, Newhaven had undergone a few changes since my first trip to Paris years earlier. The course of the river had been altered, creating a deeper, safer harbour, sands had been dredged and bridges upgraded. There was always a veritable fleet of ships and barges in port, which of course meant sailors, some from far away. I hoped seeing the assortment of ships, the variety of cargo being loaded and unloaded, hearing all the different accents, would be enough to keep Irving amused.

‘I must be off,’ said Bram, kissing my cheek and shaking hands with his son. ‘Think about America again, Florrie, for my sake?’ he asked wistfully.

‘You’re not waiting until we depart?’

‘Can’t,’ he said. ‘Henry.’ With a final wave, he disappeared into the furls of steam, bonnets and top hats.

The porter strode past, warning us departure was imminent and ordering us to board. Towards the front of the train, another uniformed figure rose above the swarm of people. He blew a sharp whistle and pandemonium erupted. There were tearful farewells, shouts, a baby began to cry. Somewhere, a dog started to bark, a frenzied barking that transformed into a full-blooded howl.

I swear, it sent shivers through me. A great feeling of foreboding smothered everything, as if this was to be the last time I’d ever stand here on the platform, searching for my husband who was lost to me. The sensation sucked the air out of my lungs, my vision briefly dimmed. I wanted to cry, to howl like the dog.

‘We have to board, Maman,’ said Irving, tugging at my skirts. I looked at the strange boy with the slight French accent. I forgot where I was. Who I was. Who he was.

Irving frowned, his expression altering from annoyance to concern. I forced a smile. ‘We do indeed, dearling,’ I said, tugging the fair locks that hung beneath his cap. ‘Let Mrs Simpson go first.’ I took his hand to prevent him climbing the metal stairs before her.

Mrs Simpson neatly alighted, then turned to help Irving, who leapt into our compartment, racing past her to fling himself on the seat. I pulled myself onto the topmost stair and took a final, lingering look before shutting the door. The grey and white steam swirled. Shadowy figures moved within it and, for just a second, I thought I could see Bram’s broad shoulders, that hurried gait. He’d waited after all. My spirit lifted, my hand too.

It wasn’t him.

My heart stopped. I stumbled and would have fallen had I not swiftly grabbed the railing by the door.