Page 8 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘No. They won’t. The only person who can give you those is Oscar and he’s not here.’

Last we’d heard, he was in Rome. Or was it Greece? Or London?

Phil grunted. ‘If I knew where he was, I’d go straight there and give him such a kick in the bollocks, they’d be banjaxed. He’d have to buy a new pair.’

I gave a bubble of mirth. ‘Where from?’

Phil began to throw the letters back in the box. I wasn’t the only one hurt by Oscar. ‘The Bollocks Shop. He can purchase a pair of rat balls, or a flea’s; it would be more fitting.’

‘Do fleas have them?’

We stared at each other, then burst out laughing.

‘That’s better,’ said Phil, cupping my face, swiping an errant tear with her thumb. ‘There’s my Florrie.’

‘She never left.’

‘Listen, we’re going to Lady Jane’s. You and me. Heads held high and a mess-with-the-Balcombes-at-your-peril expression on our faces.’ She adopted a severe mien. ‘Come on,’ she insisted, ‘show me yours.’

I hesitated and then schooled my face into a look that would do Medusa proud.

Filled with bravado before we left the house, by the time I reached the doorway of the large drawing room where afternoons were hosted at Merrion Square and was confronted with strange voices, smoke, and a range of scents (not all pleasant), I lost my nerve. Hanging back, pretending to study the statuettes and paintings I knew so well, ignoring the peeling wallpaper and worn carpets that, far from indicating hardship, were a deliberate embrace of genteel shabbiness, I made Maude, Mother (Father went to his club) and Phil enter before me.

Lady Jane was a big woman with a long nose and Oscar’s deep-set eyes. She continued to wear black more than a year after her husband died and had recently adopted a Spanish style of headdress. The mantilla made her tower over all and sundry. It was as if I was entering the presence of a giantess – though Lady Jane hardly needed to costume herself to make an impression. She was a giant of Dublin society – an accomplished poet, philosopher, translator, and a champion of women’s rights and the poor. One of the tangential blows of the end of my relationship with Oscar was that I’d not seen nearly as much of his mother as I would have liked.

‘Florence,’ she said, sailing towards me and clutching me to her ample bosom. ‘I’ll never forgive that wretched son of mine for the way he’s treated you.’

Shocked she would mention Oscar’s behaviour and add thoughtlessly to my humiliation, it was all I could do not to recoil.

‘As beautiful as ever, isn’t she, Isola?’ She turned to her daughter who, in her usual fashion, looked me up and down before recognition dawned on her face. ‘Florence! Fancy seeing you here. For someone with a broken heart, you hide it well.’

Oscar’s sister was a cold, strange woman. Desperate for her mother’s attention, she treated other women the way Lady Jane had always treated her – with studied indifference. I forced a smile. ‘Dented maybe, bruised, certainly, but nothing that hasn’t already been repaired.’

Isola’s eyes narrowed and then she leaned close. ‘You’re not fooling anyone.’ Before I could respond, she flounced away.

The afternoon passed in a blur of faces, names and conversation. Artists, journalists, actors, actresses, poets and scientists, all graced Lady Jane’s salon. One day, I hoped to be able to attract such remarkable people into my orbit. I’d worried that being in Oscar’s house would be like picking the scab off a wound, but it was the panacea I needed. Phil stayed close the entire time, and I was grateful, particularly when a short man with a prominent stomach decided to flirt. Adopting our best severe faces, those and our monosyllabic answers finally deterred him, and he left us to go and bother a rather vivacious actress with the loveliest golden hair. He was replaced by a veritable streak of men, all demanding my notice. It was tiresome.

‘Would it be rude to depart before Lady Jane does her reading?’ I whispered to Phil. Lady Jane generally took advantage of a captive audience to read from something she was working on. We’d just managed to extricate ourselves from a rather dishevelled fellow with a filthy collar and nails who, ironically, waxed enthusiastically about a scientist named Louis Pasteur and his work on germs.

As Phil was considering how to exit discreetly, I glanced towards the doorway. Oscar’s older brother Willie had arrived with a companion in tow. There were friendly hails, a kiss from his mother. While lacking his brother’s height and presence, Willie Wilde had a lovely smile that, as his eyes caught mine, he bestowed and I returned, only to frown when he swayed violently. He was blathered. The man accompanying him caught him by the elbow and, holding him upright, led him to a chair.

I recognised the saviour but couldn’t quite place him as he asked one of the maids to fetch a drink, all the while chatting and nodding to two other gentlemen. Upon seeing him, Lady Jane crossed the floor and embraced him. Isola detached herself from the actor she was talking to and kissed his cheek.

‘Who’s that, Phil?’ I asked quietly.

It was Mother who answered. ‘That’s one of the Stoker brothers. Abraham, Bram, I believe he calls himself. They used to live in our street. Number fifteen.’

Tall, with an imposing build – I couldn’t recall ever seeing shoulders so broad – he had lovely umber-coloured hair and a neatly trimmed beard.

‘By all accounts, he was a champion athlete,’ continued Mother, noting my interest. ‘A rower, weightlifter, and apparently he excelled academically as well, holding all sorts of prominent positions in university clubs. He could have been anything, that young man, instead he chose to follow in his father’s footsteps and enter the civil service. Still, there’s worse things a man can be.’

‘Like a student,’ muttered Maude.

‘Or a cad,’ mumbled Phil.

I watched him with renewed interest as conversation swirled around me. Surrounded by men and one woman, he pulled out a pipe, tamped, lit it, and drew, blowing the smoke above people’s heads. In another fellow this may have appeared an affectation; with Mr Stoker, it looked natural, humble even. Instead of using his considerable size to command the room and demand attention, he stood back. He listened courteously to Lady Wilde, spoke to the old woman draped in pearls sitting at the card table, and even spent time with a young lass who was standing next to her mother and busy tying ribbons in a dog’s fur.

My ears tuned to what was being said, but my eyes were on the man gliding about the room.