Page 71 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘You did? They … they never reached me, Florrie,’ said Bram, ashen, unkempt. ‘Truly. I didn’t know about the sinking. Nothing. Not until late last night. I came at once.’ He took a step closer. He held out his arms again.

‘I’ve been sending cables since we reached here.’

He shook his head. ‘I never received them, Florrie.’

Disbelief set my features; anger coursed through my chest.

‘I’ve barely been home these last nights.’ Bram was all but pleading. ‘The preparations, you unders—’ The look on my face gave him pause. ‘You sent the maids away. There was no-one home to receive the messages. No-one.’ He gave a shuddering breath. ‘The moment I heard, I came.’

I wanted to believe him, but it was second nature for Bram to put the theatre before his family, and too easy to believe he’d waited until it was convenient for Henry to come.

‘You never received my telegrams?’

‘I swear. But when I learned about the sinking, that it was your ship …’ His eyes filled. ‘I dropped everything and came. You have to believe me … Florrie, please.’

Still, I hesitated, even as a sob began to build. I wanted to believe him. Trust him, but …

With a groan, Bram pulled me into an embrace. Resistant at first, I soon relented, melting into his hold. Irving flung his arms around us both. All my pent-up anger, hurt and fear, my doubts, were unleashed as, together, we held each other and wept, oblivious to the gathered crowd.

As we walked back to the hotel, my tears started afresh. Whether Bram was telling the truth or not, we’d survived. Against terrible odds, we were alive. This was a second chance.

Later that night, as we lay on the hotel bed, Irving curled between us, it occurred to me that real second chances required change – of perspective, habit, anything. One thing I knew for certain about my husband was that he was not only unwilling to change, he was unable to.

It was up to me to give us, me and Bram, that second chance.

And so, against my better judgement, swallowing my terror of the ocean, I made the greatest reversal a woman could: I changed my mind.

I accompanied Bram on the Lyceum’s six-month tour of America.

PART FIVE

1888 to 1900

None other should be master of me

I was conscious of a love growing into adoration, and also of abhorrence. This I know is a paradox, but I can make no other attempt to explain the feeling.

J Sheridan Le Fanu, Carmilla

CHAPTER THIRTY

Scotland, 1888

Bram suggested to Henry that over the summer break they go to Scotland and take in the blasted heaths, the ruined castles, and immerse themselves in Scottish history and mythology, all in the name of research for the Lyceum’s forthcoming production of Shakespeare’s Macbeth. Ellen and I were to join them. I’d always loved the play, the otherworldly elements, Lady Macbeth, Hecate, the witches, prophecies and the bloody consequences of unchecked power. Here was an opportunity to see the landscape where it was set, and that appealed far more than crossing and recrossing the Atlantic with the entire Lyceum company which, as great an adventure as it was, I swore never to do again.

As I planned our Scottish trip, I decided Irving would return to his grandmother, aunts and uncles in Dublin. Deep down, I knew he’d be happier with his relatives, and at his cousins’ school. Over in Ireland, he was the boy who lived in another country; he was exotic, with his quaint accent and ways, and therefore paid a great deal of attention. Far more than if he travelled with us, especially since Henry would be sure to monopolise Bram. I’d Ellen for company, and while Fussie would no doubt be by Henry’s side, Irving needed other children. He needed to be part of a family in a way he simply wasn’t as an only child in London.

When I told him, I half-expected, half-hoped, he’d object. He’d never been to Scotland and was, among many things, a curious boy. On reflection, it was when I said Henry would be there too that he accepted his lot with something akin to relief.

Then he said something unexpected.

‘Mother,’ he began, looking uncertain. ‘Can I tell you a secret?’

We were sitting in the drawing room. Bram was at the theatre, Mrs Simpson was embroidering. Irving had been playing with a wooden train, driving it over a rug road and cushion mountains.

A strange coldness swept over me. ‘You can tell me anything, dearling.’ What secrets could an eight-year-old have?

Irving ceased to play and, casting a wary glance at Mrs Simpson, came and stood beside my chair. ‘I don’t like Mr Irving.’ He stared at me with troubled eyes. ‘Not one bit.’