Page 9 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘Lady Jane isn’t doing a reading today,’ said Phil, tugging at my sleeve. ‘Let’s go.’

Before we could, Mr Stoker approached.

‘Mrs Balcombe?’ he said to Mother. ‘Bram Stoker. I believe you know my mother. How lovely to see you here.’ He was talking to Mother but looking at me.

‘Mrs Stoker and I have known each other many years,’ Mother replied, offering her hand. ‘How is your dear mother? And may I say, I’m very sorry about your father.’

Grief flashed across Mr Stoker’s face. ‘Thank you, Mrs Balcombe.’ He gave a small bow. ‘And you must be Phillippa?’ He turned to Phil who curtseyed. ‘And Maude, if I’m not mistaken?’ Maude gave a bob.

I was holding my breath. ‘And you must be the incomparable Florence.’

‘Depends on what you compare me to, Mr Stoker,’ I said.

Mr Stoker’s eyes widened, then he threw back his head and laughed.

Phil gave me a not-so-subtle nudge in the ribs. Yes, I was rude, but I was tired of the flattery and the men who believed it would ingratiate them. My cheeks began to grow hot.

‘Indeed, that’s true, Miss Balcombe. Frankly, I cannot think of a suitable retort, for fear of offending you further. Forgive me, I meant it as a compliment. The Wildes speak often of your wondrous virtues; I was referring to those.’

‘Wondrous virtues?’ I looked at him askance.

‘Intelligence, wit.’ He numbered them off on his fingers. I closed my hand over his to stop him.

‘You’re quoting from The Merchant of Venice. Those attributes aren’t mine. They belong to Portia.’ I removed my hand.

He looked directly into my eyes. His were the most startling colour – a clear grey, like a silver-kissed storm cloud. ‘She doesn’t have exclusive rights to them.’ His mouth twitched. So did mine.

‘You enjoy Shakespeare then?’ Mr Stoker asked.

‘Very much.’ An image of Oscar reading the part of Puck bloomed.

‘Did you happen to see the marvellous Henry Irving’s Hamlet?’

‘That was last year, yes? Alas, I didn’t, but I recall your glowing review of his performance. Was Mr Irving really that good?’

‘Incomparable,’ said Mr Stoker, with a cheeky smile.

‘You seem rather fond of that word, Mr Stoker.’

‘Only when it’s apposite.’

I was about to give a tart response when he continued. ‘And in Mr Irving’s case, it most certainly is. He’s an actor on the rise, a fine performer. Talent like his appears but once in a generation. I consider myself most fortunate to call him a friend.’

‘This Englishman has made a strong impression on you, Mr Stoker.’

‘It would take a stronger man than me not to be impressed by his dedication to the stage.’

As we chatted, Phil, Maude and Mother discreetly removed themselves, leaving me and Mr Stoker to converse alone. All thoughts of leaving fled. The rest of the afternoon passed quickly. We spoke more about the theatre, which Mr Stoker not only enjoyed, but wrote critical pieces about for the Dublin Evening Mail. We shared a love of literature – especially novels featuring ghosts and vampires, like those of Sheridan Le Fanu (Mr Stoker’s former editor on the paper). We spoke passionately about Mary Shelley’s macabre Frankenstein, how thrilling it was, how original, before moving to Dickens, Keats and Coleridge.

‘What do you make of Coleridge’s ‘Rime’?’ he asked, referring to the famous Ancient Mariner poem.

‘I think it very fine indeed but, if pressed, I prefer “Kubla Khan”. The mystical, haunting nature of the poem, and how, like Miss Shelley, it describes an act of creation, albeit differently.’

‘In Xanadu did Kubla Khan / A stately pleasure dome decree,’ nodded Mr Stoker. ‘It’s fitting that this vision —’ he gestured to me, ‘favours Coleridge’s.’

For some reason, this compliment didn’t raise my ire.

‘Did he not also describe the poem as a fragment? Perhaps that’s what I am, Mr Stoker.’