Page 22 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘What? The wife he abandoned when she was pregnant with his second child because she offended him.’ I’d heard the sorry story from George, who’d heard it at Boodle’s.

‘It was a bit more than that —’ began Bram.

I brushed it aside. ‘A wife he’s not spoken to since, never mind the two sons he has nothing to do with.’ My dander was up now. ‘Unlike Mrs Florence Irving, I’d at least like to share one uninterrupted meal, let alone some time with my husband – especially on the Lord’s day.’

Bram fussed with his gloves. ‘And you will, Florrie.’ He went to kiss my cheek. I stepped out of reach. ‘Florrie!’ He threw up his hands in exasperation, gave me a withering look, turned on his heel, and left the room.

I waited a beat, then strode to the drawing room door and wrenched it open. ‘Henry doesn’t always have to come first, you know,’ I shouted.

But he was already gone.

I slammed the door and fell into a chair. Rain battered the glass, accompanied by a loud growl of thunder, matching the tempo of my thoughts. The day had grown dark, thick, oppressive. The more I considered it, the more I realised only one cloud loomed over my new life in London. A Mr Irving-sized one that managed to not only douse every plan Bram and I made, but usher storms in its wake.

CHAPTER TEN

Christmas Day 1878 would have been perfect except for what George inadvertently revealed after one too many glasses of canary.

Full of festive fare and enjoying their cigars, the men were reclining in the chintz chairs, admiring how fine the drawing room looked. I’d festooned the mantelpiece with holly and ivy and decorated a young spruce in a pot. Cards from home were propped on the sideboard, a captive audience for the pre-loved nativity scene I’d picked up from a tinker near Covent Garden.

‘I propose a toast,’ said George, raising his glass. ‘To Florrie.’

‘To Florrie,’ repeated Bram, smiling. They both drank. ‘Homemaker extraordinaire.’

I basked in their approval. It was nice to feel appreciated. It was even nicer to have us together. We were a tiny branch of the Stoker family, a trio of Irish in a sea of English. My happiness briefly dimmed as I thought about everyone back in Marino Court. What would they be doing now? Had Alice found the pudding penny again? Did Father Bowan stay sober enough to deliver the midnight service? My heart grew heavy.

‘And here’s to being able to pay for Florrie’s extravagance,’ added Bram, observing the room with a slightly concerned expression.

George snorted. ‘So long as Irving keeps covering expenses for all those nights you have at the Garrick or White’s, carousing till dawn. They must cost a fortune.’

‘What’s this?’ I asked. ‘Bram doesn’t have time for gentlemen’s clubs, not when he’s at the theatre all hours.’ And just like that, I broke the promise I’d made to myself not to raise how much Mr Irving monopolised my husband, today of all days, lest an argument ensue. ‘Tell him, Bram.’

Bram scowled at his brother, who gave a half-hearted shrug. Bram cleared his throat. ‘Some of the work I do requires me to attend Henry outside the Lyceum.’

‘By outside, you mean in these clubs?’

He grunted. I inhaled deeply but didn’t ask for an explanation, not then. I didn’t want to spoil the day or embarrass George. But I wouldn’t forget, and from the baleful expression on Bram’s face as he regarded his brother, he knew I wouldn’t let it rest either.

The following day, St Stephen’s, Bram left for work before I rose, so I never had the opportunity to talk to him. After breakfast, I spent the morning unpacking the last of the boxes, including the one containing my letters from Oscar. I stared at the little wooden box for a long time. Flitting around the edges of my consciousness like a bat at a window was a thought I didn’t want to entertain. It began ‘What if …?’

I told myself I was only thinking that way because whenever Bram and I were together, all we seemed to do was exchange sharp words, then part on poor terms, even if the cause was always the same. Oscar and I had barely had a cross word our entire time together … until the end. Phil had written that Oscar was now living permanently in England. Oxford currently, but he intended to relocate to London. It was strange to think that one day he might be living nearby.

What if …?

Perhaps it was because I was still festering over what George had revealed: that far from working at the Lyceum constantly, Bram was being led astray by Mr Irving, spending money we didn’t have, staying out until the sun rose. Whatever the cause, as I held first the lovely sketch Oscar had done of me, and then the watercolour of his family’s holiday home, Moytura House, my thoughts took flight. Reluctantly, I put them aside. The sketch I slid into my underwear drawer. The painting, I carried about the flat, pressed to my chest. I still hadn’t bought any art. The place most definitely needed some.

I roamed about the drawing room aimlessly. George had gone to the hospital to pick up some equipment, and I’d given Mrs Daw and Emma the day off. I was quite alone. Finally, I propped the painting on the mantelpiece, between a carriage clock and a statue of Aphrodite. I fell back in a chair and studied it, the modest white house with its rather pretentious arches, surrounded by lush lawns and rolling hills. I was trying to ignore the signature in the corner and failing dismally. There was a time I’d dared to believe I would one day cross that threshold, no longer a Balcombe but as Mrs …

What are you thinking about at this very moment, Oscar?

A wave of shame washed over me. What sort of wife was I, thinking of another man? Daydreaming about an alternate future …

Guilt drove me to my feet, and I turned Oscar’s picture to the wall.

It was past three in the morning when Bram finally came home. I’d lain awake, determined to ask him exactly what his work for Mr Irving entailed. I found him in the study, leafing through some papers on the desk. He greeted me as if naught was amiss.

‘How was the Garrick?’ I asked quietly, steadily. ‘Or did you and Mr Irving entertain each other at White’s tonight?’

‘Florrie.’ My name was a nuisance in his mouth. ‘What’s this about? Does it really matter?’