Page 97 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

Out, out, brief candle.

Henry had haunted our existence when alive. Would it be any different now he was gone? Would Bram finally be free? Would he be able to become the man I’d always hoped? Devote time to his writing?

I drank in silence, lost in thought, the clock ticking. Did Henry know he was dying? What was he thinking about in his last hours, minutes?

‘I know you’ll be concerned about what Bram will do now Henry’s dead,’ said Tom, interrupting my musings. ‘I’ve no doubt he’ll be able to pick up work with another theatre company. With all his experience, they’ll be clamouring for him.’

I stared at Tom in first bewilderment, then horror. ‘Another theatre company? Oh, Tom, Bram won’t want to do that. Not again. Not anymore.’

‘Why ever not?’ He gave a little huff of disbelief. ‘It’s what he’s good at. It brings in a decent wage.’ He looked around the room, at the Whistler on the wall (a gift from James), the other fine paintings, tapestries, the lovely ornaments, rugs and furniture. Yes, Bram’s wages had paid for all this and more, I thought, plucking at my silk robe.

‘Because Bram’s a writer,’ I said more earnestly than I intended. ‘He wants to write books. He does write them. Now he can devote time to that and make his name in the literary world.’

Tom set down his glass and began to chuckle. Then, he saw the look on my face.

‘You’re serious? That’s how Bram wants to make a living? I always thought of it as a … pastime.’

Tears of indignation began to build. I blinked them back. I couldn’t credit his brother had laughed.

‘Pastime? It’s a great deal more than that, Tom. It’s what he’s always wanted to do. Part of the reason we came to London.’ Another promise Henry had broken, to introduce Bram to publishers.

Tom stared at me incredulously. ‘Really? Then I’m afraid he’s going to have to get a damn sight better at it.’

I sniffed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Come on, Florrie, you’re a practical woman. Bram may be outstanding at many things, but when it comes to penning novels, his efforts haven’t set the world on fire, have they? I mean, when I mention my brother is Bram Stoker, folk don’t say, ‘‘Oh, you mean the author?” They always say, “Oh, Henry Irving’s man”, or “Henry Irving’s secretary”. Some even refer to him as “Irving’s shadow”. Don’t look so surprised. Good God, he’s been at the man’s beck and call for twenty-seven years.’

I’d accused Bram of the very same. What made me despondent was that other people shared the same view. But then, hadn’t they always?

I thought of the books Bram had written – none of them had sold as well as he’d hoped. Even Dracula, though it continued to sell, only brought a small amount of royalties each year.

Tom was right. I wanted to deny it, but I couldn’t. No-one thought of Bram Stoker as an author, any more than they thought of him as a lawyer, yet he was that too – a barrister, no less.

‘It’s only because he’s been so busy helping others find success,’ I said defensively, ‘helping them realise their dreams, that he didn’t have time to spend on his own. Now he’s freed from any obligation to Henry, he will. You’ll see.’

‘Well, I hope you’re right, Florrie,’ said Tom amiably, finishing his drink and standing. ‘I really do, because one thing I’ve learned about being a husband is that sometimes you must forgo your lofty ambitions for the sake of your family. Dreams don’t pay the rent.’

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

London, 1905 to 1906

Henry’s funeral took place on 20 October 1905. It was a sombre yet grand affair. Thousands of mourners lined the streets from Baroness Burdett-Coutts’s house to Westminster Abbey. Ellen and Arthur Conan Doyle, along with the Prince and Princess of Wales, whom the king and queen sent as their representatives, attended. So did Bram and I. But that was the extent of our involvement. The moment Sir Henry died, his family and the executors of his will moved swiftly to ensure Bram had no say in the funeral arrangements or in any of Henry’s affairs going forward. Henry Irving’s devoted acting manager and supposed great friend, Mr Bram Stoker, was effectively frozen out.

It wasn’t only Henry’s family who excluded Bram, but the man himself. Despite all Bram had done for him, there was no mention of him in the will. Not a thank you, not even a small token of appreciation. It was as if Bram had never been a part of his life. Neither was anything bequeathed to Harry Loveday, and only a small annuity to his devoted valet, Walter Collinson.

While friends sought to comprehend such a huge oversight, I wasn’t surprised. Henry had never given Bram much consideration – look at his business decisions over the last years. Ellen blamed Henry’s sons, who were anti-Irish. Gilbert believed that Florence Irving held Bram and Harry Loveday responsible for barring her from the inner circle at the Lyceum (no, I told him, she’d managed that all by herself) and worked hard now to ensure Bram was punished.

All that may have been true, but their reasoning neither fully explained Henry’s choices nor exonerated him. The only redeeming moment was when I learned Lady Irving didn’t receive anything either.

It was hard not to be chewed up with bitterness.

Noel would pop by every other day, often bringing Neelie with him. Hall travelled from his home on the Isle of Man and stayed just over a week. To hear laughter coming from Bram’s study late at night was such a restorative. Hall and I would talk when Bram was otherwise busy, both of us worried about the impact of Henry’s death.

‘Given time, I’ve no doubt Bram will recover,’ said Hall, unconvincingly.

While I hoped Henry’s demise would present opportunities for Bram, the pragmatic part of me was concerned how he’d make a living. The piecemeal writing, speaking engagements, his novels – they weren’t enough to support a household. When I said something to Hall, he tried to reassure me.

‘Bram will be inundated with offers, you wait and see.’