Page 17 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

Once upon a time, Oscar used to make me feel that way …

‘Except what?’ I asked when Phil didn’t continue. Jesus wept. Were those tears in her eyes? Her body shook. ‘Phil, mo ghrá … what is it?’

She threw down the pencil she was using and roughly wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands. ‘Naught. It’s just … I’m going to miss you, Kitten. Miss this —’ She threw out her arms to include our bed, the glowing lamp, the strips of lace and fabrics draped over the stool, the dresser, the scattered pages, the pencils. She nodded towards our shared wardrobe, the open door revealing gowns hanging side by side, a faded palette of lilac, gold, powder blue, peach and emerald. ‘I’m going to miss us.’

I pushed aside the skirt I’d been darning and threw myself at her. ‘I’m going to miss you too. So much.’

How long we held each other, I’m not sure. I cried. For all my bravado and talk of wanting to leave, now it was on the cusp of becoming a reality, what I was forsaking struck me. I was turning my back on Phil, my family, Captain Walton, my home, my city, my country. In London, I’d be an outsider, and worse, an Irishwoman. I’d already discussed with Mother how the English scorned the Irish.

‘Why do you think we encourage you to speak like them? To learn French?’ she said. ‘So you won’t suffer the discrimination our countrymen and women have for centuries, that’s why.’

I thought of Bram. Would he tame his beautiful brogue? A rebellious part of me hoped not. I wouldn’t deliberately hide my origins, either. I was proud of them. Proud of being Irish; being a Balcombe.

‘Well,’ I said, drawing away from my sister, my cheeks wet with tears, my shoulder with hers. ‘You’ll just have to overcome your fears and visit me.’

‘That’s the problem; I’m not sure I can.’

‘Then, I’ll be sure to come home twice as often – and write. I will write, every week, you wait.’

Phil began to laugh. ‘You’re just as scared of the ocean as I am. I don’t expect you to make the crossing often. And you don’t have to write every week … just more than that gobshite Oscar Wilde did.’

There was a beat. Suddenly, he was there in the room between us. Part of us. Phil had loved him too. She’d never entirely trusted him, but she had loved him. We stared at each other, the knowledge of what I’d lost, but also what I’d gained, unspoken between us.

‘Be happy, Florrie. Please,’ she whispered, holding my chin. ‘No matter what the future holds, whatever life throws at you, please, be happy.’

‘I’ll be Mrs Bram Stoker. How could I not be?’

PART TWO

1878 to 1879

This strange night existence is telling on me

We women are such cowards that we think a man will save us from our fears, and we marry him.

Bram Stoker, Dracula

CHAPTER EIGHT

Birmingham, December 1878

It was a cold, blustery day in early December when Bram and I arrived at the Plough and Harrow in Edgbaston, Birmingham, five days after we married. It had been an intimate service at St Ann’s Church – intimate because, due to its rushed nature, hardly anyone came. Both my mother and Bram’s mammy remained dry-eyed throughout. Alice and Catherine howled. Bram’s brothers, Thornley and George, formed a small guard of honour with James and Billy; all the sisters tossed dried rose petals. Father remained seated.

Bram and I spent the next couple of days between the Stoker brothers’ medical practice in Harcourt Street and my home, opening presents, packing trunks with gifted sheets, towels, linen, and other essentials to make a home. These would be sent ahead. Bram had taken a lease on a suite of six rooms in London’s west, not far from the Lyceum.

Believing we still had a couple of weeks before we had to leave, I was discommoded when Bram bowled into the practice and told me we had to leave immediately – not for London, but Birmingham.

‘Birmingham? Why on earth would we go there?’ I asked, wrapping a vase.

‘Because Henry requires me,’ he said, the telegram containing the summons in his hand.

‘But we’ve still so much to do.’ I gazed helplessly at the half-packed boxes, the sorting to be done, all the while thinking that this Mr Irving was very needy. ‘How can we possibly be ready to leave tomorrow?’

Bram frowned at the mess. ‘I suppose I could leave you here, go on ahead —’ He caught the look on my face. ‘Or we can ask George to take care of everything. Since he’s coming to live with us, there’s no reason he can’t finish organising our boxes and cases.’

I stared about helplessly. This was so inconvenient. ‘Do you think George will mind?’

‘Why would he?’ said Bram. ‘I’ll let Henry know we’re on our way.’ He dropped a kiss on my head.