Page 81 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

I slapped his arm playfully, laughing.

‘And there it is,’ said Oscar softly. ‘A sound I’ve so missed.’

We paid our respects to Lady Jane, who, gowned in black and adorned with bright jewels and brooches, a slash of colour on her mouth, always drew the eye. She was warm and loud in her acknowledgement, but I was grateful she didn’t ask where Bram was. Few bothered to inquire these days, when the answer was always the same.

Oscar and I took a turn around the room, and I was introduced to some new faces and greeted familiar ones. I was pleased to see Hall. James Whistler was there and paid me outrageous compliments. Ellen and I warmly embraced. William Terriss was accompanying her. Oscar’s friend, the cause of such salacious whispers, Robert Ross, joined us, bringing over a very pretty fellow, Lord Alfred Douglas. There were some members of parliament I’d met before, and the Prince of Wales, who was doing a very poor job of being incognito – ‘call me Bertie’. A different woman to the one I’d seen him with at the theatre only a few weeks earlier was hanging off his arm.

Oscar signalled for drinks and, instead of taking one of the chairs positioned near a card table in the centre of the room, or over by his mother on the sofa as he used to when we were younger, sat me in a corner away from the other guests, and pulled up a seat. Looks were cast in our direction, Gilbert’s most disapproving. I ignored them. Flattered by his attention, I was also curious why, after all this time, Oscar would single me out in such a public manner.

‘Well, Florrie,’ he began. ‘Have you read it?’

I accepted a glass of sherry from the boy and, waiting until he was out of earshot, replied, ‘You mean your novel or the gossip about you?’

‘What gossip?’ said Oscar, feigning shock. Then, he raised his glass.

‘You got my thank-you note? Good. And yes, I have read it,’ I said. ‘I think it brilliant, Oscar. Awfully clever and cleverly awful. You transformed a speculative conversation from long ago into a gripping tale.’

Oscar chuckled in delight. ‘It’s been too long between drinks for us, hasn’t it?’

We clinked glasses and I smiled. ‘Between anything.’ I took a sip. ‘But I’ve also read the stories about you, and I must say, if scandal and scurrilous headlines sell books, then you must help Bram create some.’

‘I would think Bram perfectly capable of generating his own, my dear, don’t you?’ He tilted his head, his eyes sombre and knowing.

What they knew, I didn’t care to find out, but my face grew warm.

‘How’s Constance?’ I asked, changing the subject. ‘And the boys? Cyril and Vyvyan, isn’t it?’

Oscar levelled a long look at me. ‘As far as I know, they’re well.’

‘As far as I know …’ I repeated slowly. ‘Then, you’re like all husbands and treat your home, your wife and family, like rooms only to be used for special occasions. Or when you need to rest your body.’

‘Or on my laurels,’ said Oscar.

I laughed. ‘I doubt you’ll ever rest on yours.’

‘You always knew me best, Florrie.’

‘Did I though?’ I finished my drink. ‘I think perhaps I scarce knew you at all.’ I looked pointedly in the direction of Mr Ross. Oscar followed my gaze before his eyes slid to Lord Alfred. Ah, that’s how the land lies.

Oscar sighed and focussed his attention back on me. ‘Maybe it was me who knew you.’

‘Really?’ I scoffed. ‘I think perhaps you scarce knew me at all.’

Oscar hesitated. ‘Are you happy with Bram, Florrie? He’s still spending more time with his Chief than his wife. Du Maurier’s going around saying Irving’s mesmerised him.’

Damn Du Maurier!

Surprised by the question and hurt by Mr Du Maurier’s perfidy, I waited while my glass was refilled before answering. ‘What is happiness? Fleeting, according to the poets.’ I sipped my wine. ‘I think I’m happier with Bram than I would have been with the alternative, don’t you?’ Oscar didn’t answer. ‘And what about you? Are you happy with Constance? With the vicissitudes of marriage, of being a husband and father?’

‘I’ve always been of the opinion that a man who desires to get married should know either everything or nothing.’

My lips twitched. ‘What do you know?’

‘Why, everything, Florrie. I know everything.’

‘Modest as usual,’ interrupted a deep voice. It was Lord Alfred. He stood slightly behind Oscar’s chair, smiling, drink in one hand, cigarillo in the other.

Oscar jumped to his feet. ‘Florrie, may I introduce Lord Alfred Douglas. Lord Alfred, this is a dear old friend of mine, Mrs Bram Stoker.’