Page 124 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

We needed each other.

Still, it was a difficult mistake to admit. I wished there was someone I could unburden myself to. Noel already thought me unhinged for pursuing Nosferatu the way I did, Ellen as well. Dear Phillippa was long gone, married and happily settled in Dublin. Could I speak to her? Maybe Lucy and Nancy? Gilbert would have laughed and then taken me for a long drive to ‘blow away the cobwebs’. Only these cobwebs were woven afresh each night.

‘Oh, Bram,’ I sighed. ‘Guide me, please.’

I’d done what I could to promote his work – every single book – but all anyone cared about was Dracula. Now it was a successful stage play in London and the provinces, boasting audiences in the hundreds, making headlines and attracting reviews that, if not critically sound, at least admitted to the thrills and pleasure the show imparted, all his other writing was forgotten.

It didn’t help that around the city I was becoming known as Mrs Dracula. Anger lanced my breast. Mrs Dracula. I loathed the title and soundly berated anyone who dared even breathe it in my hearing. I refused to be a vampire’s wife let alone a monster’s widow. If I was to be likened to anyone, it was surely Mina Harker, using the skills and experience I’d acquired to aid and abet those serving the greater good. And what was maintaining Bram’s legacy, fighting for an author’s lawful rights, if not a greater good?

Vera had left the newspapers for me to peruse. Extracting my hand from under Moonbeam, I reached for one and my new spectacles. I hated the damn things. They were heavy on my nose and made me resemble an owl, or so Phil had told me when I was in Dublin last month.

As I drank the tea, I tut-tutted over the headlines: British troops had been sent to Shanghai to protect our settlement there. Well, that could only lead to trouble, couldn’t it? Only last month, America shipped soldiers into Nicaragua where a civil war was raging. You’d think after the Great War, leaders would be reluctant to send young men off to their deaths in countries they knew nothing about. I thought of Noel and was so very glad he was safe in his office each day, poring over numbers. My thoughts went to my granddaughter. I must have Ann over to stay again soon. I would telephone Neelie and organise that. There was nothing like an eleven-year-old to keep me on my toes.

With a smile, I continued reading. Then, I saw a piece about a new movie starring that American actress, the lovely Clara Bow. The film was being made by Paramount Studios and called It. Rather an unprepossessing title for a film. It was hard to conceive of that making any kind of lasting impact.

As it often did, my imagination began to fly as I cast the film of Dracula. Douglas Fairbanks – I could just see him starring as Arthur Holmwood or Quincy Morris. What a pity Rudolph Valentino was dead. I’d adored him in Son of the Sheik. What a fine count he would have made.

I put down the newspaper and sat up, disturbing Moonbeam. Was that why I was being haunted by ghastly phantasms night after night? Conquering London theatres wasn’t enough? If only I could break into America, ensure Dracula found a home there, in film or on stage. Thus far, I hadn’t managed to sell the film rights anywhere. Damn Nosferatu … As for theatre rights, well, there’d come a time when London audiences would grow weary of the count and his thirst for blood, no matter who produced the play or where. What would I do then? How would I survive?

The thought was still preoccupying me when I finally crawled out of bed. I’d a luncheon invitation at Violet’s London residence. Lucy and Nancy would be there too. I rang the bell for Vera.

I sat before the mirror as she styled my hair, my pale blue dress with its slightly raised hemline a nod to the fashion. Had I been younger, I would have enjoyed the dresses the girls now wore, with skirts that danced about the knees. I did relish the feel of silk stockings, a gift from my friend Mrs Collins. I rested my hand against the pearls at my throat. Did they age me? Bram had bought them to mark the new century. I was wearing them more often of late. And a lovely dragonfly brooch I’d inherited from my mother. Then, again, I didn’t need pearls to prove I was getting on. I’d be seventy next year. Seventy! Already, I’d been a widow for fifteen years.

Sometimes I wondered what life would have been like had Bram lived. How many more books would he have written? Would it have even mattered if all anyone cared about was Dracula? Or did he have better stories lodged away in that vivid imagination that would have delighted and tormented the masses?

As it was, I was doomed to try and eke out an existence from one, beholden to a bloodthirsty master who would wring every drop from me. Like it or not, I was Mrs Dracula.

I was still thinking about this when I returned home that afternoon to find a note awaiting. It was from a Mr Horace Liveright.

‘And who might you be?’ I pondered aloud.

I took my time reading it, first changing into something more comfortable, telling Vera to prepare a very light supper and asking her to walk Moonbeam again (I was far too tired). I fell into my favourite chair, a cup of tea by my side and opened the latest Agatha Christie, forgetting all about the note until I woke from a light doze.

At first, I wasn’t sure where I was. The light was strange, filled with distorted shapes and hoary shadows. The traffic hum from the nearby thoroughfare, the distant clatter from the kitchen, soon reminded me I was home. I rubbed my eyes and searched for my glasses. My hand landed on the neglected note. I tried to remember who it was from. A Mr Liver … spots? No. Right. Right.

I yawned, stretched and then, using my letter opener, unsealed it.

‘Live right,’ I repeated as I spied the monogrammed stationery. ‘Do you, sir?’

As I read, I sat up, the last vestiges of lethargy swept away. I re-read the letter, then read it again, hope blooming in my chest, my mind clamouring with possibilities. Why, this man was exactly who I’d been waiting for – the answer to my prayers. Had I somehow summoned him through the power of my fervent wishes? Or was it my nightly tormentor who made this happen?

Mr Liveright was an American publisher and stage producer. He’d seen the London production of Dracula no less than four times and wanted to discuss an opportunity. Would I be willing to meet with him?

My hand was shaking as I began pushing books and newspapers aside searching for paper and a pen. It was too late to meet with Mr Liveright today, but tomorrow, tomorrow was indeed another day.

‘So, you see, Mrs Stoker, if I was to take Dracula to the world, it would have to be with a new version, a different writer.’

From the moment Mr Liveright entered the drawing room, punctually at eleven o’clock, I took an instant dislike to him. We shook hands and, after introducing him to Noel, who I’d asked to attend, as well as Mr Bang, I indicated for him to please take a seat. Tea was poured, which he never even bothered to taste, nor did he try the delicious scones still steaming from the oven. Noel and Mr Bang weren’t so reticent; they appreciated Vera’s baking.

A handsome man in his early forties with a high forehead and a Roman nose braced by broken capillaries that laced his cheeks as well, Mr Liveright was loud, arrogant and very forceful. At first, he addressed all his conversation to the men. He then provided a veritable roll call of his accomplishments as a businessman: a publisher who eschewed the general rules of censorship – ‘I’m the man who brought Freud to America’ – and a theatrical producer. I’d never heard of any of his ventures and only learned much later that all had failed in one way or another. When he noticed that both Noel and Mr Bang would defer to me for anything to do with Dracula, he finally deigned to include me. Accustomed to that kind of treatment (what woman isn’t?), it gave me the opportunity to study him and conclude the reason for my instantaneous aversion: he reminded me of Henry Irving. Worse, he reminded me of how I envisaged Dracula after reading Bram’s book. And after seeing Nosferatu. There was an air of scandal about him. He was … I searched for the right word … unclean. Apart from the fact he reeked of alcohol and had clearly imbibed before arrival, he was more like a character than a real person. As if he’d spent his entire life creating this hollow man, stuffed with boasts and others’ ideas. He was as superficial as his words of praise, which, when it came to Dracula the novel, were cloying and hyperbolic. I wanted to rinse my face and hands, swill my mouth. Even fetch garlic and a rosary …

‘As much as I adore it, the Hamilton Deane production,’ he continued (he’d scarce drawn breath), ‘I’m afraid, it simply wouldn’t work with our audiences.’

‘Our?’ said Noel, managing to get a word in edgeways.

‘American, of course.’

Of course. America had become the world. Nevertheless, a little frisson of excitement bolted through my chest. I rested a hand atop Moonbeam, who, sensing my discomfort in this man’s presence, had taken up a position on my lap facing him.