Page 90 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘What?’ He had that tone.

I knew enough writers by now to know though they claimed to be able to take criticism from loved ones and even encouraged it, they were like the finest porcelain and liable to crack or even break if it was offered. I trod very carefully.

‘The count is such a strong presence, even though he hardly appears.’ I paused until Bram looked at me. ‘Actually, it’s his absence that makes him such a powerful entity. Even when he’s not there, he haunts the pages. The reader will always be anticipating his arrival and the ominous consequences he brings in his wake.’

God, I knew that feeling.

‘What do you think it should be called then?’ Bram sniffed, then picked up the poker and stabbed the coals a few times.

‘I think it should be called Dracula. Not Count, just Dracula.’

Bram replaced the poker and swung around. ‘Dracula.’ He pulled a face. ‘The name raises more questions than it answers.’

‘Exactly. As you said yourself, years ago in Whitby. It’s such a strong, interesting word. Foreign, odd. It will make people curious. Didn’t you say it meant “devil”?’

Bram gave a dry laugh. ‘Among other things, from what I can gather. Though I don’t see how placing it on the cover will sell the book.’

‘But you won’t have “devil” there, will you? You’ll have a word that arouses curiosity. Surely, that’s exactly what you want to evoke in a potential reader.’

Bram arched a brow. ‘Well, thank you, Florrie. I’ll think about it.’ Which meant he wouldn’t give it another thought. ‘Forgive me.’ He pushed his hair back from his forehead. He looked old tonight, as if the reading had drained his vitality. In that moment, I saw my husband’s mortality. My heart lurched. ‘I’m completely exhausted; I’m going to retire.’

I pulled the blanket off my shoulders and folded it. ‘I will too.’ I stood, picking up a lamp. ‘It’s very late.’ I glanced at the clock. Where had the time gone?

Taking another lamp, he gestured for me to precede him. ‘It’s very good, Bram. Truly. I think you’ve written something special.’ I thought back to the conversation I’d had with Lucy and Violet about books as we went to the train station. ‘Something that those who love Mr Wells, the Brontes, Mrs Shelley, Mr Verne and even Mr Du Maurier’s efforts will appreciate.’

Bram’s face fell.

He opened the door and stepped into the gloomy hall. It was bitterly cold. Nightmares had taken up residence. My lamp guttered and almost went out.

‘I hope one day, Florrie,’ said Bram, leaning wearily against the doorframe, ‘there’ll come a time when I’ll be the literary touchstone by which new works are judged.’

Before I could respond, he placed a fleeting kiss on my forehead and went to his bedroom.

I waited until he had shut the door before I released a long, weary sigh. Were all men seeking immortality through their work? Were they so greedy that their lives, their families and friends, were never enough?

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

London, 1897

It was May 18, and a pre-publication reading of Bram’s book had been organised at the Lyceum. It may have been hastily planned to protect theatrical copyright, but in my heart, I felt so much more was at stake. This was the first time Bram’s novel would be heard by anyone other than me.

Lurid green and black posters advertising the event were put up a mere hour before the reading was due to begin. A cast had been assembled from those in the current production of Madame Sans-Gene, with other thespian friends taking on the minor roles. Ellen’s daughter, Edith Craig, was playing the part of Mina.

The greatest change, which Bram had either failed to tell me or kept as a surprise, was the title. It was now called Dracula: The Un-Dead. Not exactly what I suggested, but a good compromise.

A whole guinea was charged for admittance, and I pondered who had set such a costly fee. No wonder so few members of the public came. Most of the audience was made up of the Lyceum company – including backstage crew, cleaners and friends. Dear Mary Dunhunter, our cook, begged to attend. We were like fallen leaves in winter, scattered across the huge auditorium. The place had never felt so empty. Bram, who’d been nervously pacing the house before he left this morning, would be very disappointed. I wished I could console him, but he was nowhere to be seen.

For the reading, the book had been divided up into five acts and many scenes. Fifteen different actors would read the characters. It’s hard to describe how I felt seeing Bram’s name, not only as acting manager on the program, but as the author. It was only later I saw that, in a churlish gesture, someone had included a unique addendum on the back page.

Any complaints should be referred to the acting manager.

So much for mutual loyalty and support.

The reading started at ten o’clock and went for what seemed like hours (at least five). I didn’t linger after it finished, as Bram was surrounded by well-wishers. At least he’d looked pleased.

The following day, when I caught up with Ellen at Violet’s soiree, I learned that Henry, who I’d been surprised to see among the audience at the beginning of the reading, but not at its conclusion, had left before the second act was complete.

‘Afterwards, Ma was foolish enough to ask Henry what he thought of it,’ said Ellen, leaning back in a chair and shaking her head.