Page 73 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

Henry was his usual demanding self the entire trip, dominating Bram, separating us whenever he could. However, the time away brought me even closer to Ellen. She divulged I was her most cherished friend.

‘In my experience, pretty women don’t really have friends their own sex, do they, Lemon? You, however, are the exception.’

‘Which do I lack then? Beauty or friends?’

Ellen guffawed. ‘You have both in abundance, which is, I believe, a rarity.’

We were at our hotel in Inverness. It was almost midnight. The men were still downstairs in the bar, enjoying their cigars and Highland whisky. We’d retreated to the rooms we’d been allocated upstairs. They were conjoined, with a cosy communal parlour between, perfect for conversations and planning. We sat with half-drunk wines in our night attire. Though it was summer, it was chilly enough to warrant a fire. Outside, it was a clear night and the moon had risen, its argent beams spilling through the window and accenting the worn rug, nature’s limelight. I was tempted to strike a pose in its glow. We could just hear the fretting ocean discussing the tides with the wharves, and the deep voices of sailors loitering outside. Several ships had come into port that day, one from Norway, others from England. A shanty from a nearby tavern blew on the wind, as did the sing-song banter of the drinkers, broken by the odd shout.

I was touched by Ellen’s revelation. She was my closest friend as well. But I also counted Lucy Gilbert, Bram’s sister Matilda, and George’s wife, the irrepressible Agnes, as beloved friends. Genevieve Ward, too. I also had my sisters – especially Phil. I regarded Ellen fondly. Though she had three sisters, including a Florence, they weren’t close. She looked lovely in the firelight, her cheeks rosy, her hair spun gold. The Scottish air agreed with her.

Ellen repeated her earlier words, interrupting my train of thought. ‘Think about it, the more attractive a woman, the less likely she is to have friends.’

‘What does she have?’

‘Competition.’

I blinked. ‘But … I would never consider you in such a manner; nor any other woman.’

Ellen burst out laughing. ‘That’s because, Florence Lemon, no-one can compete with you. You’re always the most beautiful woman in the room. But, for the likes of me, who is considered comely, but works in a profession where aspersions are cast as fast as a Scotsman’s fishing line, I only have competition. The older I get, the harder it is to win.’

I raised a self-conscious hand to my face. I was thirty years of age. Old by some accounts. ‘Well, I consider you my dearest friend, Ellen,’ I said. ‘I have for a long while.’ I lifted my drink. Our glasses kissed.

‘Did I mention I tried to talk to Henry about Lady Macbeth?’

‘Oh?’

‘He has very set ideas about how I should play her and … well, I don’t agree. I thought being in Scotland was the perfect time to raise the matter.’

‘And?’

She gave a harsh bark of laughter. ‘To him, Lady Macbeth is merely the wife: a foil to her husband; an accessory. She exists to highlight the tragedy of her man, nothing else.’

The wife. How that rankled. ‘But … that’s not right. She’s more than a prop. She’s the heart of the tale.’

Ellen sighed. ‘I should have known talking to him would be a waste of time. You see, for all his worldly ways, he lacks knowledge of womenfolk. If he can’t understand women, how can I expect him to understand Lady Macbeth?’

I hadn’t thought of Henry in those terms before. The man had been married, dealt with women every day in his profession, played countless roles opposite Ellen, and other actresses, and counted her his lover for years. He entertained many females in the Beefsteak Room, escorted them to functions. I’d not thought him ignorant about the fairer sex. Only, it was more than that, wasn’t it?

Ellen was right. Henry didn’t understand women because he didn’t care a jot what we thought or felt. If he did, he wouldn’t be so demanding of Bram, for a start. If he couldn’t see how his actions made me feel, made my son feel, did that mean I should be more understanding about what he asked of my husband?

Hell no.

Ellen saw my expression and gave a defeated chuckle. ‘He has, I think, never given the subject of women his consideration.’

Our eyes met and we began to laugh.

‘I think the only subject Henry has ever considered seriously is —’ I began.

‘Himself!’ we said in unison and laughed harder.

A draught blew down the chimney, sparks exploding like miniature fireworks.

‘The play is said to be cursed, you know —’ she said grimly.

I did.

‘And I’m worried it will curse Henry.’