Page 106 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

With a huge sigh, I dried my eyes, stood, and, rearranging the letter, found the book I was looking for.

If Bram’s happy memories were what sustained him, I determined then and there to make some more with him.

Our finances became so straitened during Bram’s recovery – partly because of the move and because the earnings on his books and other writings were so paltry – that given his poor health, he felt compelled to apply to the Royal Literary Fund for a grant. Another loan Hall had generously made us the year before was gone. Uncertain about admitting his financial as well as physical difficulties, Bram asked me to read over the application before he sent it. My worst fears were confirmed. Never had we revealed ourselves in such a way. I felt raw, exposed.

When I paused towards the end, Bram urged me to keep going.

‘If you’re sure …’ I waited for him to tell me this was a mistake. He didn’t. I cleared my throat. ‘At present I do not know whether I can in the future do much, or any literary work, and I am emboldened to look to my fellow craftsmen in my difficulty.’

What it must have cost him to write that. I know what it cost me to read.

Now our plight was official – Bram’s inability to secure another position and, worse, his failure as a writer, would be a matter of public record. As I anticipated, once our situation became known, some among our acquaintances were swift to abandon us. However, our real friends (and there were many) behaved as if nothing had changed, asking after Bram’s health, visiting, extending invitations. Just as I’d always done, I continued to show one face to the world – optimistic, cheerful – and hide the other. The one that, like Dorian Gray’s portrait or Dr Jekyll’s alternate personality, was kept concealed.

I wondered what that face looked like, what my picture in the attic would depict. It didn’t bear thinking about …

Fortunately, both Gilbert and Charles Dickens’s son Henry supported Bram’s application to the Royal Literary Fund. We received the princely sum of one hundred pounds. I had to swallow fury at their paltry offering and write a letter of thanks on Bram’s behalf. If he was disappointed, he didn’t say. Despite the difficulties he experienced, the pain he suffered, his laboured breathing and terrible fatigue, he’d almost completed The Lair of the White Worm.

When I told Lucy and her recently adopted daughter Nancy, who I’d met at the tearooms in Princes Street, that Bram would soon have another book out, they were delighted and took it to mean that he was fully recovered. I didn’t enlighten them. No-one wants to hear another’s woes and fears, not really. As the two women chattered about their new house guests, a Miss Preece and another whose name I didn’t catch, I allowed the convivial atmosphere to wash over me. Women sat at adjacent tables, drinking tea, coffee and cordials, exchanging news and gossip. Some had shopping bags and hat boxes at their feet, others pored over newspapers, reading excerpts aloud. Earlier in the year, the very first International Women’s Day had been celebrated. As a sex, we’d come far. Why, in some countries women were even being granted the vote. I wondered if we’d achieve the vote in my lifetime. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it, though I knew if Bram’s mammy were alive, she’d be marching with the Pankhursts and hunger-striking like that woman, Marion Wallace Dunlop. I told myself I’d more pressing issues to concern me.

I overheard someone reading a review of George Bernard Shaw’s latest play. It was excellent. To think, Henry Irving had once refused to consider staging anything written by him. He’d be rolling over in his grave at the accolades the man was attracting.

‘So, does next Sunday suit, Florrie?’

I stared blankly at Lucy. ‘Pardon?’

Lucy and Nancy were both smiling.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, flustered. ‘What were you saying?’

‘We were asking if you and Bram would be free for luncheon next Sunday,’ said Nancy, just as Lucy reached across the table and covered my hand with her own. I could feel the texture of her kid gloves, noted the lovely fawn colour.

‘Are you quite alright?’

‘Of course. Yes. And next Sunday would be fine. Delightful.’

‘Good! It’s been an age since you’ve been to Grim’s Dyke.’

‘I’ll show you the new trick I’ve taught Paul,’ added Nancy.

I had to think quickly who Paul was before I remembered it was one of the lemurs. Would Bram be up to a drive, let alone a visit? I knew he’d enjoy catching up with Gilbert and the entire family. He loved watching the antics of the animals. Maybe we could take a slow walk around the lake. A flutter of excitement tickled my stomach. An outing to the Gilberts would be just the panacea. I began to think of what to wear.

We parted outside the tearooms, Lucy and Nancy opting to take the train and me signalling a cab – horse drawn, thank you very much. I was still nervous about the motorised ones, even though there were more of them on the road. As the women waited with me, we remarked on the unseasonably warm weather.

‘No doubt Gilbert will be in the lake when I get home,’ sighed Lucy. ‘He does so love a swim. I only wish he wouldn’t sit on the furniture before he’s changed out of his sodden trunks.’

When a note arrived at the house three mornings later, I recognised the writing and knew it was from Nancy. Probably a reminder about the luncheon. Instead of opening it immediately, I returned to my cup of tea, pausing to look over the street, admiring the cornflower sky, the scudding clouds and thinking how much better Bram looked yesterday. We’d taken a short stroll along the Embankment and the fresh air, the birdsong, interrupted by endless honking, shouts and chatter, then browsing in a bookshop, had done much to restore his spirits. The new cane I’d bought him was much better suited to a man of his height and he looked quite distinguished using it.

I finally broke the seal on the note.

‘Oh, God,’ I gasped. I couldn’t breathe. I pressed the note to my breast. My eyes filled. ‘No, no,’ I panted. I looked out the window. In a matter of seconds, the glorious day had transformed into a mockery of the despair surging inside me.

I read the note again, dashing away tears. Then, I bowed my head and wept.

Time collapsed. A delivery arrived. A hollow knock on the door, the deep voice of a man. Footsteps echoed throughout the flat. I heard Bram leaving his bedroom. He said something to Maria and then went to his study.

Lord, I would have to tell him.

But how? How did I tell Bram, when we’d already lost so much, that one of our dearest and most beloved friends, Sir William Schwenck Gilbert, had suddenly, quite unexpectedly, died?