Page 99 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

For the year it took him to complete, I did whatever was in my power to avoid being in his company. Did that make me a poor wife and friend? Maybe. But sharing a house while he worked on the book was hard enough. A day didn’t pass without Henry’s name being spoken, memories of his performances recounted, anecdotes of the time Henry did this, said this, asked for that. Though Ellen, the Gilberts and some of my closest friends understood that hearing his name was anathema to me, they couldn’t avoid being drawn into the conversations. Why, even my Sunday salons became dedicated to Henry for a while.

Noel would visit and together we made a pact never to say the Irving name in each other’s company. Out of everyone, Noel felt the same antipathy as me.

‘That man stole my father from me,’ he said.

Yes, I’d think. But your father let him.

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

When the two volumes were published, we received gratis copies. Bram happened to be meeting with an American opera singer, David Bispham, with a view to becoming his business manager, when they were delivered. I wasn’t entirely happy about the prospect of him working in theatre again, especially on a musical production that hadn’t been proven, The Vicar of Wakefield. But, without a regular wage, our situation was becoming desperate. Bram needed to take whatever work came his way.

Ada carried the box of books into Bram’s study, and I cleared a space on the desk. About to follow her out, I changed my mind and, waiting until I heard her descend to the kitchen, closed the door and, as carefully as I could, opened it.

The books were hardbound in red cloth, with the title and a profile of Henry embossed in gold on the cover. Rather childishly, I held one up to his portrait.

‘This is all about you, sir. Except this is the last time you pull his strings. You’re dead, your kingdom has been sold, and all your princes, lords and ladies vanquished. Never again will my husband do your bidding.’

Around me, the spines of Bram’s library glared, as if they knew what I really wished to do with their new recruits. Restored to its usual tidiness, the study looked ready to welcome its regular occupant. I took no comfort in that. Not even its discernibly Bram smell of ambergris, cigars and whisky.

I was about to fling the book back into the box when curiosity overcame me. Instead, I sank into the armchair near the hearth and, first listening carefully lest anyone approach, opened the cover and turned to the table of contents.

Dear God, Bram had covered Henry’s life from his first impression of him as Captain Absolute way back in 1867. I began to flick through the pages. There was so much detail, including, I noted as I reached for Volume Two, lists of guests who attended the Beefsteak dinners. It was an impressive roll call of royalty, literary worthies, politicians, adventurers, scientists, actresses and so much more. Why, even Mr Shaw was there, the man who disliked Henry so much, he refused to come to the funeral. Bram had given him the middle initial F instead of B. No doubt, deliberate; as was the omission of one name.

Though I searched, there was no mention of Oscar, one of the most celebrated guests at the dinners. In fact, as far as my cursory look allowed, Oscar appeared nowhere.

As I was flicking through, a particular line arrested my attention.

Looking back, wrote Bram, I cannot honestly find any moment in my life when I failed him, or when I put myself forward in any way.

I snapped the book shut. What kind of man admits to such a thing? Not just to himself, but the entire world? It confirmed him as the servant he’d been. Like Renfield in Dracula, suborned to his master’s will.

Bram had written a hagiography of a man who cared nothing for him, admitting openly he never advanced himself, only served, while a real friend, a dear, beloved friend with whom we shared so much, was erased.

I glared at Henry’s portrait. ‘Happy now?’ I scowled.

It was most definitely smirking. Even my husband’s memories had been sucked dry by this man so he might live beyond the grave.

I marched up to the painting.

‘You can’t have him,’ I snarled, daring him to step out of the frame and contradict me. Then I remembered a line from Dracula: ‘This man belongs to me!’ I spat, and stormed out, slamming the door.

Truth was, Bram didn’t belong to me. These two volumes, Bram’s own words, proved what everyone knew: my husband always had been, and still remained, the property of someone else.

When the reviews came in, apart from one or two that appreciated the depth and breadth of Bram’s work, they confirmed my worst fears. Described as ‘disappointing’, as not being critical enough, the book didn’t do anything to further Bram’s literary reputation.

Still, it sold well and kept the debtors from the door for a time, especially when, on the back of Reminiscences, Bram was invited to speak to various clubs and groups – speaking about Henry.

I didn’t accompany him.

When he finally came home after delivering yet another talk, I was at a gallery function. When I returned around ten in the evening, and Maria helped me undress, I didn’t even ask after him. I knew he was back because his portmanteau was in the hallway and a light beamed beneath the study door.

Sensing my mood, Maria didn’t mention ‘the master’ either. I climbed into bed, reading when I was unable to sleep. I was halfway through The Scarlet Pimpernel. I’d seen the play a couple of years earlier at the New Theatre and been thoroughly captivated. Though the book was excellent, not even the adventures of Lord Percy and his wife could keep my mind from wandering. I kept thinking about Bram, about how I could excise the canker that was Henry Irving from our lives once and for all.

What would it take? The morning gave an answer.

There was a scream, running feet, then my door flung open.

‘Mrs S, Mrs S!’ cried Ada from the doorway. ‘Dear Lord in heaven! Come quick. Quick!’