Page 80 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

It was as if my dead man had found another way to bedevil me.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

London, 1891

The first time I saw Oscar after the controversy ignited by his debut novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray, was at one of his mother’s soirees. Published first in abridged form in a magazine and then as a book, it attracted reviews both judgemental and scathing, calling the tale ‘mawkish and nauseous’ and accusing the author of ‘grubbing around in muckheaps’. They even attacked Oscar personally, calling him a pedlar of immorality.

Oscar sent me a copy, which was just as well because the books were removed from the shelves of all WH Smith stores the moment the reviews were out. It was about a beautiful young man, Mr Gray, who makes a pact with the devil so that regardless of his wicked hedonistic lifestyle, he retains his youth while his portrait ages in his stead. I was astounded. Why, Oscar had taken a rather fantastical conversation we’d had years ago at my very first salon and turned it into a book. The tale was notorious and, yes, immoral, but it was also brilliant. The whole point was that, though Dorian Gray sets his own most improper rules for living, he also pays a hefty price.

Bram and I discussed it at some length.

‘Oscar, as always, knows how to push the boundaries of what’s considered acceptable,’ said Bram admiringly. ‘People either love him or scorn him for it.’

‘And what do you feel?’ I asked.

‘About Oscar?’ His expression was inscrutable. ‘Why, the same as you, of course.’

To Bram and Oscar’s credit, despite my history with Oscar, they remained fast friends. Their families had known each other for years, even though in some minds, Bram had stolen me from Oscar.

But one can only steal something that’s owned. Oscar never owned me; to be fair, nor did he want to.

‘Everyone’s reading it, Lemon,’ said Ellen, one glorious Sunday afternoon. We were having tea with Violet at the ABC tearooms in Oxford Circus. The air was thick with steam, the blended aromas of coffee, hot chocolate and tea, as well as spices from the assortment of cakes, and heady gossip. ‘Oscar’s story has the city agog. The critics and moralists may not like it, but it’s set tongues wagging.’

Violet agreed. ‘And for all the negative press, I’m sure Mr Wilde’s publishers are elated. Their coffers must be overflowing.’

One thing was certain, Oscar’s ‘effeminate’ and ‘unclean’ book sold better than Bram’s valiant effort, The Snake’s Pass. Even I could see that Oscar’s work was superior (not that I’d ever admit that to Bram).

One Sunday as we waited in the drawing room for our guests to appear, I took the opportunity to offer sympathy for Bram’s lacklustre sales both here and in America, but he dismissed it. ‘It’s the fickle nature of publishing, my dear. We’re dependent on a market of unpredictable readers. Currently, Oscar’s brand of storytelling is the fashion.’

‘I hardly think Oscar’s novel is fashionable, Bram.’

‘Well, in that you’re wrong. There’s nothing more fashionable than outrage – moral outrage especially. And Oscar excels at that – and not just in fiction.’ He gave a pointed look, a flash of worry in his eyes, then donning a huge smile, prepared to welcome our first arrivals.

The unsavoury rumours that had dogged Oscar up until his marriage to Constance had recently resurfaced, becoming louder and more vitriolic. Rarely would a day pass when his name didn’t appear in print, or in a cartoon causing tongues to wag. There was usually a young man depicted as well – of late, it had been Robert Ross, who he’d met in Oxford and who’d lived with the Wildes for a while. Not even being married with two sons dampened what was being said. Indifferent to the rumours, or perhaps determined to brazen them out, Oscar not only wrote pieces in defence of Dorian Gray, but was often spied about town, not only with Mr Ross. On every occasion I’d seen him, he was in the company of a handsome young fellow, and though we greeted each other affectionately, we never really had an opportunity to talk.

I began to wonder whether Oscar was avoiding me.

No matter what was being said, Bram would ensure a place was set for Oscar at the Beefsteak dinners, a theatre seat reserved. He was always invited to our Sunday salons and, unless he was away, generally attended. Seeing Bram and Oscar together caused an odd sensation in my breast. They should be adversaries but took pleasure in each other’s company. Bram would drape an arm over the back of Oscar’s chair, leaning forward to catch something he said, laughing. Oscar would let a long-fingered hand tarry on Bram’s forearm, and I’d observe them standing at the window, deep in conversation. I wondered what they spoke about and flattered myself that maybe sometimes I was the subject.

I wasn’t sure what to make of the tittle-tattles. After all, this was Oscar, the man who once courted me; who expressed his feelings in ways that still had the ability to seize my heart. My eyes often strayed to the painting I now kept on the mantelpiece in my bedroom.

When I raised the gossip with Bram, he was contemptuous, but all the same, he was aware of every nuance and suggestion. I heard him discussing it with George one Sunday afternoon. George was worried lest what was being said about Oscar somehow reflected on his brother, as if the rumours were a disease that could spread.

‘Ah, George,’ said Bram, aware I was listening. ‘I have Florrie. No-one can doubt me when my lovely wife is by my side.’ He beckoned me over, put an arm about my waist and kissed me on the temple.

I wanted to point out that Oscar also had a wife, albeit one he scarcely saw, as well as two sons, but remained mute. It wasn’t until I saw Oscar weeks later, at his mother’s soiree, that the opportunity to speak with him presented itself.

Gilbert was my companion that afternoon, as Bram was off on another provincial tour. He’d recently not only started studying to become a fully-fledged barrister (I think because of the ordinary sales of his book and being privately piqued at Oscar’s success on the back of scandal), but had invested in a publishing enterprise with William Heinemann, who we’d been friends with for a while. The idea was to release works by English authors to compete with the very popular German firm Tauchnitz and their series of English-language novels beloved by travellers especially. Thus far, Bram and Mr Heinemann had bought the rights to novels by his dear friend Hall Caine, books by Henry James, George Meredith and Arthur Doyle (who was publishing as Arthur Conan Doyle) and Rudyard Kipling. When I asked if he’d buy Oscar’s latest, considering how well it had sold, Bram simply scoffed. With this new venture, yet again, Bram was dedicating his scraps of spare time to it.

Though Lady Jane’s house was walking distance, rain meant Gilbert and I took a cab. We’d barely divested ourselves of our coats, which were taken away to be dried by the maid and footman, when Oscar descended on me.

‘Florrie!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’d so hoped you’d be here.’

I’d seen him approaching in the mirror, so was half-prepared. Barely acknowledging Oscar, Gilbert mumbled a pardon, cocked a brow at me, and scurried into the drawing room. Clearly, Gilbert was more worried about contracting any gossip-related sickness than I realised.

‘It’s nice to see you again, Oscar,’ I said, taking his extended hand and proffering my cheek for a kiss. Dammit, if my treacherous heart didn’t give a flutter. Oscar looked dashing in his woollen jacket, beautifully tied cravat and pocket kerchief. His clean-shaven face with its wide, mobile mouth and sea-dark hooded eyes barely revealed signs of the dissipation attributed to him. But it was the evident pleasure he felt at seeing me that I responded to most – at least, that’s what I told myself. Bram was far too self-contained to show his feelings for me like that, I thought, pushing aside memories of him welcoming Henry into our home, or his unabashed excitement about travelling to America to meet Walt Whitman. Even the prospect of encountering Hall or any one of the many personages at the Beefsteak dinners elicited more of a reaction.

‘Come now, Florrie. Banish those melancholy thoughts. Allow me to soothe both brow and soul,’ said Oscar and led me into the already crowded room, calling out to all and sundry with a flourish of his arm, ‘Look who has graced us with her divine presence, this angel fallen to earth, Mrs Florence Stoker.’ He was like a major domo at a royal residence.