Page 93 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘Fact is,’ he said softly, ‘if I don’t look out for him, protect him from his own worst tendencies, ensure his finances are in some order, who will?’ Bram heaved himself off the sofa and dropped a kiss on top of my head, ‘Excuse me, Florrie, I’ve letters to write. There are more folk I need to notify about Henry’s condition; the alteration to the Lyceum’s schedule.’

Was Henry’s next decision the beginning of the end? Or had it been hurtling towards us like one of the comets that streaked across the skies? Perhaps the finale had been put in motion long ago when Henry first damaged his knee. Reduced the insurance monies weeks before the prop warehouse burned. Lavished money on his son Laurence’s failed productions. Refused to consider Arthur’s offer. Collapsed with pleurisy. Made Austin Brereton his press agent after the fire, effectively shutting out Bram and causing more friction between them.

Hindsight is a wonderful thing, but later, when Bram and I discussed these events, it was clear they all contributed to what I privately called the downfall of Sir Henry Irving. Bram would never be so direct.

While Henry was convalescing, and without consulting Bram, who happened to be in America organising yet another tour, enduring the worst storm the Atlantic had ever seen, Henry sold his rights to the Lyceum.

We only learned what he’d done after Bram returned. By then, nothing could be done. Bram felt betrayed. He was. But instead of railing against Henry, seeing him for the selfish bastard he was (oh, yes, I was cussing), Bram defended him. Again.

‘This damn consortium took advantage, Florrie,’ he said as I sat, aghast at the news. ‘They waited until I was absent and Henry in a weakened state. If he’d been in his right mind, if I’d been present, none of this would have happened.’ His voice began to break. ‘Oh, God, Florrie, Henry thought he was going to die … Yet he said naught of his fears. Imagine if he had …? How could I …?’ He buried his head in his hands.

Words from long ago echoed.

I can always have another son … What I cannot have is another Henry Irving.

Bram could not see what was so clear. Henry was purposefully distancing himself. Bram had done nothing wrong. Nothing. But he was being cast aside like an outgrown toy. Loyalty, devotion, meant nothing to Henry.

I went to Bram and gently rubbed his back.

‘This will be an unmitigated disaster,’ continued Bram, raising his head, the tremor in his voice gone. ‘Though Henry still retains artistic control, and I’ll keep my job, the only one to financially benefit from this new arrangement is the consortium.’

While we were preoccupied with these Henry-induced dramas, news arrived from Paris that plunged me into an abyss of despair.

CHAPTER FORTY

London, December 1900

I’d not long returned from a shopping trip with Lucy, Genevieve and Violet, when Maria admitted Ellen into the drawing room. I knew at once something was amiss.

‘Ellen!’ I exclaimed, taking in her red nose, puffy eyes and wind-blown hair. ‘What is it?’

‘Oh, Lemon,’ she said, striding across the room and taking my hands. ‘Brace yourself, dearest. I’ve heartbreaking news.’

‘What?’

Tears began to spill down her cheeks. ‘Oscar … Oscar is dead.’ She released my hands and began to sob.

My head filled with roaring and the room, one moment pearled with grey light, became darker and smaller. I stumbled and would have fallen, except Ellen caught me.

‘Come, come, sit. Maria!’ she called, as she drew me to the lounge. ‘Fetch drinks. No, no, not tea. Something stronger – much stronger.’

There was the clink of glass, the gurgle of liquid, then something solid was pushed into my hands. ‘Here. Drink, Lemon.’ Unable to do anything else, I obeyed. The whisky was fiery, and I drank it too fast and began to choke, then cough.

Ellen slapped my back.

‘Tell me,’ I said, my voice hoarse. ‘Tell me it’s not true.’

‘Alas,’ she said, wiping her eyes.

‘How … how do you know?’

‘Oscar’s friend Reginald Turner wrote. You know I kept in contact with Oscar, mainly through Reginald, after he was released from Reading Gaol and eventually went to Paris?’

She was a better friend than I’d ever been.

‘Reginald was by his side, Lemon. With Oscar when …’ She caught her breath.

‘Tell me what he wrote, please.’