Page 96 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

The weather was unusually warm for October. Bram was in the provinces again, managing the Lyceum company’s latest tour. Determined to get me out of the house, Gilbert had invited me for a drive in the country in his new Rolls-Royce motor car. By the time he delivered me home, I was bone-tired. All that fresh air and bucolic scenery was incredibly wearying. My head had not long hit the pillow when a pounding on the front door woke me.

Before I’d even reached the top of the stairs, Bram’s younger brother Tom came bounding up them. Not quite as tall as Bram, he was a slender man, with kind, deep-set eyes and a marvellous moustache waxed into curled ends. After he retired from the Indian Civil Service a few years ago, he and his wife Enid had moved close by.

‘Tom!’ I exclaimed, clutching my nightgown, staring at his anxious face as Ada, our maid for the last year, frantically lit some lamps.

I ushered him towards the drawing room, carrying a lamp with me. ‘What brings you here at this hour?’ I glanced at the clock. It was after two. ‘Oh, God,’ I said, hand flying to my mouth. ‘Bram. Is he alright?’

‘He’s in good health.’ Tom waited until Ada left the room. I knew she was listening at the door.

‘What is it? Are you alright? Enid?’

‘I’m fine, Florrie. Enid too. But I’m afraid I’ve some very bad news.’

My heart was thudding painfully. ‘Is it Phil? James? Catherine?’ I didn’t stop to wonder why Tom might know anything about my siblings.

Tom forced me to sit down. ‘It’s not them.’

‘Then who?’

‘It’s Henry Irving,’ said Tom.

‘Henry? But why —?’

‘I’m afraid he’s dead.’

I fell back in the chair as if struck.

‘How?’ I asked, trying to gather my scattered thoughts.

‘He collapsed —’

‘No,’ I waved my hands. ‘How do you know?’

‘Bram telegraphed and asked me to come and tell you. He didn’t want you to read it in the morning papers. He wanted someone to be with you when you learned …’

I sucked in my breath. Even when faced with such a catastrophic loss, Bram thought of others. And this time, he thought of me.

Tom knelt on the floor by my side.

‘Now give me details,’ I whispered. ‘I know he’s been very ill. Bram’s been most concerned.’

Tom nodded. ‘My understanding is Sir Henry collapsed in the foyer of the Midland Hotel in Bradford. After the performance —’

‘Of course after.’ I gave a dry laugh. Henry was playing Beckett, a role he loved.

‘He didn’t make it to his room. Bram hadn’t long left him and was called back. He found him in his valet’s arms, already dead.’

‘Poor Bram.’ I prayed they parted well, despite everything that had happened between them of late, the disagreements, the recriminations over the failure of Dante in America, the cancellation of the next American tour, Henry’s growing irascibility as his health worsened, his refusal to slow down.

I began to rise. ‘I must go to him.’

Tom gently forced me back down. ‘Bram knew you’d want to but said to assure you he’ll be home as soon as he’s made the necessary arrangements. He asked that you remain in London.’ Tom patted my knee and stood. He went to the bureau and poured us both a whisky, returning with full glasses, one of which he pressed into my hands. Grateful, I drank.

The sounds of the streets were suddenly loud, intrusive. A series of shouts from somewhere nearby; the clop of horses abroad late; the mournful dirge of a tugboat horn. I could hear Ada and Maria whispering in the hall. The glow of a streetlamp shone through the window, falling on a folded magazine. From where I sat, I could see the article. It was one Bram wrote about Ellen.

Oh, Ellen. She and Henry may not be together anymore, but this would break her. If I couldn’t go to Bram, I could go to Ellen. I made to stand again, then took in the darkness, the shadows. I would go in the morning. She would blame herself, reasoning that if she hadn’t left Henry, this wouldn’t have happened.

I sat sipping the whisky, examining my feelings about ‘the Chief’ who had dominated our lives and controlled my husband for so damn long. Every decision we’d made – appointments, trips, dinners, invitations, openings, every holiday we’d taken, every separation we’d endured, even our wedding – had all been timetabled around Sir Henry and his needs. I’d carried my burning anger at his power over our lives like an unwanted child. And now he was gone.