Page 77 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘He was never in any real danger. Anyway, how else is he to learn?’

Each morning, Bram took long walks along the cliffs, climbing the many steps to visit St Mary’s Church on the eastern side of the river, and tromping about the vast grounds of the magnificent Whitby Abbey. Often, when I rose, he’d already gone. Today, he’d been abroad bright and early, but returned for breakfast.

‘Good book, laddie?’ asked Bram, reaching over to ruffle Noel’s hair. Midway through munching his toast, Noel nodded, gave a half-smile, then returned to Jules Verne’s Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. He’d barely had his nose out of it.

A maid scurried over and, moving aside Bram’s ever-present notebook, poured tea, then waited to take his order.

We spent a few minutes exchanging pleasantries about the weather and plans for the day. I watched Bram concentrating on slicing bacon, stabbing pieces of egg, but noted that while he ate, his mind was most definitely elsewhere.

Finally, he said, ‘I’ve an idea, Florrie. For another book.’

‘Another one!’ I was surprised – and pleased. ‘But you’ve not finished the one you started after meeting that American publisher, have you?’

After years of tinkering with his dream of becoming a writer, and encouraged by a publisher who’d recently entered our social circles, Mr John Harper, Bram had begun work on a novel set in western Ireland. And now one more was waiting in the wings. This is what I wanted him to be doing. Something for himself. Writing. Creating.

‘The Snake’s Pass is all but complete,’ said Bram, fork aloft. ‘And yes, another idea has taken root. You can’t help it when the muse sings, Florrie. Actually, I thought up the concept a while ago, during our stay in Cruden Bay, but I wasn’t sure what to do with it … until now.’ He rested the fork on his plate, then placed his hand atop mine on the table. ‘And I’ve partly you to thank.’

‘Me?’ I blinked in astonishment. ‘How?’ The last time I inspired my husband – after Henry had terrified Noel during the run of Faust – he’d produced the godawful ‘The Dualitists’.

‘Well?’ I prompted as he fell silent and gazed out the window. ‘Don’t leave me in suspense.’

‘Indulge me, dear, while I provide some context.’ Pretending a reluctance he clearly didn’t feel, he gave a mischievous grin and opened his well-thumbed notebook, flicking past pages of scrawled code to reveal what looked like a timetable and some rough drawings of a ship. ‘Look at this.’ He pushed the notebook towards me. ‘I was talking to some fishermen yesterday.’ Bram was always conversing with the locals. ‘Their dialect is fascinating, quite difficult to tune your ear to, but once you do, it’s an embarrassment of riches.’ He chuckled. ‘Anyhow, I’d not long come from the lighthouse —’ he gestured towards the east pier, ‘when I met a coastguard who told me about a ship that had run aground after a particularly rough storm some years back.’ He jabbed his finger on the page. ‘The Dmitry.’

His sketch was excellent. ‘Russian?’

Bram nodded. ‘A brigantine out of the port of Narva.’ He turned and framed the window with his hands. ‘Imagine this, Florrie. The heaving seas, rain lashing the cliffs, the howling wind – and in the midst, a tossing ship in grave danger. Apparently, the townsfolk lined the cliffs to watch, fully expecting it to break up before it crossed the bar.’

My heart began to beat strangely. Sweat dotted my upper lip, trickled between my breasts. Noel looked up from his book, his face ashen, his chin quivering.

Bram seemed unaware of the effect his words were having on us. Had he so swiftly forgotten what we’d endured on the Victoria? ‘Miraculously,’ continued Bram, oblivious, ‘it managed to sail into calmer waters where it ran aground, over there, near Tate Hill Pier.’ He pointed. ‘It was completely embedded in the sand. Spectators broke out into huge cheers, uncaring of the rain or wind, for not one life was lost.’

I’d been holding my breath and released it slowly.

‘Between that tale, those of the fishermen I met mending their nets, the wretched bats escaping the church tower each evening, screeching and wheeling about the sky —’

‘I don’t like bats,’ said Noel.

I gave his back a comforting rub as Bram continued, ‘The magnificent sunsets, the grey mists over the brooling sea, the cemetery with its ancient tombstones and vista of The Scar, never mind the marvellous abbey ruins – well, it was enough to send my mind spinning.’ He paused to drink his tea. ‘That, and the … um … man we’ve discussed. Your … er … man, Florrie; the one you told me about. Your excellent description became lodged in my mind. I made notes.’ He tapped his journal.

I withdrew my hand from beneath Bram’s. I should have known my dark phantasm would become creative fodder for my husband. I tried not to feel exploited, but to see it as a positive step. Perhaps once my apparition was on the page, he would disappear from my life once and for all.

Unaware of my thoughts, Bram glanced at Noel, then leaned over excitedly. ‘Then, yesterday, I found this book in the library.’ He drew it out of his satchel and placed it on the table.

I picked it up. An Account of the Principalities of Wallachia and Moldavia by William Wilkinson.

‘The library here has some fascinating tomes, but it was this one, Florrie, this one,’ he struck the cover with his knuckles, ‘that clarified all the ideas whirling in my brain.’

‘Oh?’

‘It’s about the Carpathians, to be exact.’ He took it from me and began to leaf through the pages. ‘It says here —’ he gave a dramatic pause, finger against a line on the page, ‘that “dracula” in the Wallachian language means “devil”.’

A shadow passed over me. Noel reached for my hand, clutching it tightly.

‘Dracula,’ enunciated Bram. ‘What a magnificent word. It conjures so much just in the saying, don’t you think? Drak-u-lah.’ He lowered his voice, waggled his brows. ‘Wallachians bestowed it as a surname upon any person who rendered himself conspicuous by courage, cruel actions or cunning. It’s a name to be given to a hero. Or a villain …’ He snapped the book shut. I smelled dust and myth; death and blood-soaked tales. Bram sat back and looked at me triumphantly.

‘Irving,’ I said, having not yet told Bram about the name change, something that would need to happen soon, before he went to Oxford. I released his hand and stroked his cheek. ‘Why don’t you take your book to our room and read a while? Later, if you like, we’ll walk up to the abbey.’

‘Can I count the stairs?’