Page 7 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘After nothing from him for so long, he writes that,’ I sobbed. ‘I loved him, Phil, love him.’ I hiccoughed. ‘I thought he loved me too. That we’d get married. But he can’t even be bothered to come home, not now he has someone else. It’s me that’s the eejit, Phil. Not him, me.’

Phil held me as I blubbed, the noise bringing first Maude, then Mother to the door. Phil shooed them away wordlessly. As I wept for what I’d had, what I believed with all my heart might have been, I thought about how the family had protected me from the truth I was only now seeing. Whereas Oscar’s name used to punctuate every conversation, news of his exploits demanded, his few publications and awards shared with pride with visitors, subtly, but with a deftness I hadn’t grasped until now, his name had slowly been withdrawn. It was as if everyone else knew what I’d wilfully failed to realise. Oscar no longer wanted me. He’d changed his mind. Someone or something had altered it. I’d wasted almost two years of my life waiting for a man who’d never had any intention of arriving at what I’d persuaded myself was our natural destination.

Were people laughing at me for having the temerity to think I could be Mrs Wilde?

I must have said the last thought aloud, for Phil answered. ‘No-one is laughing at you, Florrie. We all thought the same. Even me, the sworn spinster. Oscar had us all hoodwinked.’

‘It was the necklace,’ I said. ‘We read too much into it. I did. Interpreted it to mean something it didn’t.’ I held it up to the grey light. As if to mock me, a shaft of sunlight pierced the looming clouds, striking the gold and making it glow. Laughter drifted from the park opposite. I raised my head and saw a couple, tall like me and Oscar, strolling, arms linked, heads together. Two dogs gambolled after a ball, tongues lolling, ears flying. It was altogether bucolic and served to plunge me into deeper misery.

No. I wouldn’t allow it. Self-pity was not my style. I was nobody’s fool. No-one’s. Especially not yours, Oscar Wilde.

Just thinking his name cracked my heart wide open.

With a deep, shuddering breath, I withdrew from Phil’s arms, sat up straight and blew my nose forcefully. I tried to give the kerchief back to her. She gave me a sardonic look, so I tucked it into my sleeve instead.

I slowly stood. ‘I must face facts. It’s over between us. I just wish Oscar had the courage to tell me, instead of these absences forcing me to draw my own conclusions.’

‘They tell their own sorry story, don’t they?’ said Phil.

‘You warned me once. You were right.’ I sniffed. ‘And now this.’ I flicked the letter.

‘He’s a fecking coward,’ said Phil.

‘He’s not the man I thought he was, that’s certain. I’ve had my eyes opened, Phil.’ I inhaled deeply and let out a shuddering breath. ‘From this day forth, I’m going to forget him; forget he ever existed. But not until I’ve told him exactly what I think about his behaviour.’ I rummaged in a drawer and found a pen and paper. ‘As far as I’m concerned, this new friend can have him.’

Phil clapped her hands. ‘That’s the spirit, Kitten. Show those claws. No man is worth such misery. Especially not Oscar. You’re worth ten of him.’

I gave her a watery smile.

‘Florrie, listen. Oscar will regret this. Maybe not today, nor tomorrow, but one day he’ll regret the way he’s treated you.’

‘I’m already regretting I ever thought I could be Mrs Wilde.’ I sat at the dresser, pushed aside brushes and combs, and readied the paper.

Phil scoffed. ‘He’s just one man. There are dozens out there who’d be proud to call you wife. Only —’ she paused.

‘What?’

‘Listen. You’re hurting. Hurting and angry. Just promise me you won’t marry the first man who asks you.’

I dashed my hand across my eyes and snorted. ‘As if.’

CHAPTER FIVE

Dublin, May 1878

Until the invitation to Lady Jane Wilde’s soiree arrived, I’d managed to bury my humiliation and despair about Oscar, the fact he never replied to my caustic missive, and put on a brave face as if I’d not a care in Dublin. Nights at the theatre, concerts in the park, walks with my sisters, window-shopping in Grafton Street, afternoon teas on St Stephen’s Green – I made sure to talk the most, laugh the loudest, dress with care, and do all in my power to hide my torment. Men lifted their hats, their eyes followed me, and I tolerated their sometimes clumsy efforts to engage me in conversation, their flowery compliments, but nobody captured my interest. The problem was, nobody compared to Oscar. How could they? I became an ice-maiden, unable to be thawed by even the handsomest and most attentive of men, which of course just increased their ardour.

When I saw the Wilde name on the card in the hallway, in a cursive reminiscent of Oscar’s flamboyant style, I was quite undone. I quickly read the contents, reeling that not only were Phil and Maude invited to afternoon tea at 1 Merrion Square, but Mother, Father and me as well. It was too much. I fled to my room. Surely Lady Jane understood that the last place I wanted to set foot was Oscar’s home.

I didn’t hear the door open. It wasn’t until Phil sat on the bed that I was even aware she’d entered. By then, it was too late to hide the precious stash of letters.

‘What are you doing, Florrie?’ She stared in dismay at the pages and cards spread across the counterpane. All from Oscar, they covered the time of our friendship – I couldn’t, wouldn’t, consider it as anything more.

My heart ached, my head, my soul. I still couldn’t think of him without physical pain.

‘Oh, Kitten,’ said Phil in that pragmatic, sympathetic way she had. She began to fold up the letters, return them to their envelopes. ‘I thought you said you’d forgotten him, that Oscar was in the past. Instead, you’re like a flagellant of old, whipping yourself with memories. Seeking answers.’

I nodded miserably. ‘I know, only they won’t come.’