Page 100 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘What’s wrong?’ I threw back the covers, pushed my feet into slippers, reached for my gown. ‘Tell me.’ Ada was shaking like a trapped coney.

‘Oh, Mrs S,’ she sobbed. She tried to speak but gulped air instead.

‘What is it?’ I said, firmly.

‘It’s the master.’ She swallowed, took a breath and stared at me with panicked eyes. ‘He’s dead!’

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

London and Deal, 1906

I stumbled into the frigid corridor, past Bram’s bedroom, to find Maria and Louisa in the doorway of his study, crying and wringing their hands.

With a gelid heart, I pushed between them. On the floor, lying alongside the desk, was Bram. Scattered around him were copies of Personal Reminiscences of Henry Irving.

His eyes were shut, his cheeks colourless. I dropped to my knees beside him, scanning his body swiftly, my hands drifting above, not knowing what to do, where or even if I should touch him. He was still in his suit. His tie had been loosened, his waistcoat partially undone, but it was evident he’d never gone to bed. He must have been in here all night. If only I’d put aside my stubborn animosity, come to his study, welcomed him home.

I lowered my head and shut my eyes, forcing back the welling tears, sending a silent prayer for forgiveness to the Lord. While He may forgive me, I doubted I could ever forgive myself.

I opened my eyes and, with trembling fingers, reached out and stroked his cheek. I drew my hand back with a gasp. ‘He’s warm!’

That wasn’t entirely true. He was very cold, but as soon as I realised there was life in him, I began to loosen his collar, push his hair from his face. I felt the ever-so-slow rise and fall of his chest.

‘Bram?’ I whispered. Then, louder, ‘Bram?’

His senses were shut. But he was alive.

Overwhelming relief flooded me, followed by a strange calmness. I’d been given a reprieve of sorts. Nevertheless, something was terribly wrong.

‘Quick, Ada,’ I snapped, glancing towards the swollen-eyed maid. ‘Cease your wailing. Light the fire.’ Ada blinked at me in confusion, then at Maria, who flapped her hands at her.

‘You heard the missus. Do what you’re told.’

‘Maria,’ I said, picking up one of Bram’s limp hands and holding it tightly. ‘Fetch Dr George and Mr Tom at once.’

‘He’s not dead?’ She bit back a sob.

‘Not yet,’ I said, my voice breaking. The urge to scream and beat my chest was strong. ‘Do as I bid.’

She didn’t need to be told again.

‘Louisa.’ I didn’t even look at her. ‘Help me get him closer to the hearth.’ Reluctantly, Louisa came forward.

I rudely shoved the books out of the way and lifted one leg. Louisa took the other and we pulled. Once Bram was atop the rug in front of the fire, I grabbed the blanket draped over the armchair and covered him. I reached for his coat, which was flung across his chair, folded it and pushed it under his head. He was so ashen-faced, so gaunt-looking. This hadn’t happened overnight. How had I not seen this before?

Bram was a sick man.

‘Bram,’ I said softly, kneeling over him so my lips were close to his ear. ‘I’m here, my dear. I’m here. George and Tom are on their way. All will be well, I promise.’

As my tears fell onto his cheek and ran down his neck, I prayed. Don’t let him die, please, Lord, don’t let him die. The grip his spirit had upon the world felt tenuous. How long I knelt there, willing him to open his eyes, to speak, I’m uncertain. It wasn’t until I heard familiar voices downstairs and then two faces I’d never been happier to see enter the room – George, followed by Tom – that normal time was restored.

Tom helped me to my feet, gathering me in his arms, then tenderly placed me in the armchair. I’d begun to shake uncontrollably. My teeth were chattering, my hands and legs behaving as if they belonged to someone else. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from what George was doing, but it was as though I watched from a different planet. Everyone and everything seemed far, far away.

George checked Bram’s pulse then his breathing. The brothers spoke quietly, opening his shirt, wrapping him in the blanket, ordering a variety of spirits and medicine. Another blanket was fetched and put around my shoulders, a warm drink shoved into my hands.

‘What’s wrong with him, George?’ I asked once he’d finished another whispered conference with his brother. ‘Will he be alright?’

A frown furrowed Tom’s usually serene brow and his cheeks were suspiciously wet. George rose from Bram’s side, wiping his hands on a huge white handkerchief. ‘Not sure yet,’ said George. ‘I’ll have to conduct a few more tests to be certain.’