Page 24 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

Much to my astonishment, the building was unrecognisable as a theatre. It was a complete mess. To start with, the outside was covered in scaffolding and drop sheets, while the interior was more or less how I imagined an ancient city such as Pompeii, Athens or Rome to look: rubble, ruins, broken masonry, furniture askew, half-painted walls, and crawling with people. Rehearsals for Hamlet, the theatre’s first production under Mr Irving, were in full swing. The actors and actresses were battling to say their lines above the ring of hammers, the grinding of saws, and the tramp of boots, as countless tradesmen clomped about the auditorium, replacing, repairing, building. The smell of paint and dust hung in the air, causing more than one person to launch into a volley of coughs and sneezes. I kept my trusty handkerchief pressed to my face. Only backstage was there some relief. There, I was briefly introduced to the acclaimed actress Ellen Terry.

Dressed in costume, she looked like a Grecian goddess fallen from the lofty heights of Olympus. Older than me by almost a decade, taller, too, she was lithe yet buxom. Her burnished hair fell in waves down to her waist. Her eyes, which danced with merriment, scaled me from top to bottom. ‘Oh, my God,’ she exclaimed in a wonderfully husky and surprisingly deep voice, ‘you’re as disgustingly beautiful as they say.’

Before I could utter a word, she grabbed my shoulders and kissed both my cheeks. ‘You smell lovely, too.’ She smiled, a huge one that brought out her dimples.

‘Not as lovely as you, Mrs Terry,’ I said.

She gave a delightful laugh. ‘Ah, a woman who also says the right thing. I should probably hate you, but I can tell we’re going to be great friends.’ She took my hands in hers. They were cool, long-fingered, soft. I didn’t want her to let go.

‘Well,’ I managed to say, dazzled. ‘Hate is such a good foundation on which to build a relationship, I’m sure we will be.’

Mrs Terry baulked, then burst out laughing. ‘I must dash – time for Ophelia to die.’ She rested a hand on Bram’s chest. ‘Your wife is enchanting. Make sure you invite me to your flat soon.’

Quite overcome, I waved farewell, but as I was introduced to some of the backstage crew, I found myself thinking about Ellen Terry.

I was exchanging pleasantries with the stage manager, a personable stretch of a fellow with a ridiculous moustache, Mr Henry Joseph ‘call me Harry’ Loveday, when Mr Irving appeared.

‘Ah,’ he said, pulling up short when he saw me.

‘Hello, Mr Irving,’ I said sweetly. ‘It’s the Wife. Bram is showing me around your Lyceum.’

Mr Irving frowned. ‘I don’t like visitors backstage.’

‘Oh,’ I exclaimed merrily, ‘I’m hardly a visitor, am I? I’m part of the Lyceum family, surely?’ I shot Bram a conspiratorial look.

Mr Irving batted away my question, only to replace it with one of his own. ‘So, what do you think of my grand old lady?’

I took my time responding. ‘Like you,’ I began, ‘it’s not what I expected.’

Mr Irving turned to Bram. ‘I need you to supervise the chandeliers being hung.’ He flashed his teeth in my direction. ‘I’m afraid your husband is needed elsewhere, Mrs Stoker.’

‘He always is,’ I said agreeably to Mr Irving’s back – he was already halfway down the passage with Mr Loveday, who was more focussed on the rapidly issued instructions than saying goodbye.

Bram watched him leave, clearly torn. ‘Go, Bram, you’re needed elsewhere,’ I said. ‘Thank you for the tour; I enjoyed it very much.’ An image of Mrs Terry rose.

‘This way,’ he said, taking my arm and escorting me to the Wellington Street entrance. ‘The rain is heavy. I’ll hail you a cab.’

Once home, I thought back on my visit. It did give me a fresh appreciation of what Bram had been doing, the work involved, but it still didn’t entirely explain why it took such precedence over our life. Why Mr Irving did. Nor did it explain why Bram became a completely different person in his company. Where was the man who courted me? The charming, attentive one who was so assured, so determined to win my admiration? He’d been replaced by a man who bestowed nothing more than wholesome kisses and brotherly hugs. Did Bram regret marrying me? Would he have been so quick to propose if he’d known the life awaiting him in London? How much Mr Irving would want him? Was the Wife proving to be an impediment?

More importantly, knowing what I did now, would I have married him?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

30 December 1878

The gently falling snow gave the night a fairytale quality as we alighted the brougham. George held tight to my arm so I didn’t slip on the icy surface of the road. Perhaps inevitably, Bram had been unable to escort me to the opening night of the Lyceum as planned.

He’d come home late afternoon for a bath, a quick meal, and to change into the suit he’d had tailored especially for the occasion. As he was dressing, there was a knock on the front door.

I was seated on the edge of his bed, nursing his jacket while he fastened his shirt. He’d been telling me about the final rehearsal, how well it had gone, how the last sawhorse and drop sheet had been removed.

Bram was in a fine mood – slightly nervous, but who wouldn’t be in his shoes? Those few short weeks of long days and endless nights; all the planning, the expense, the labour, buttering up various lords, wealthy businessmen and members of parliament, influential men who would draw an audience in their wake, would culminate in a matter of hours. Though Bram looked handsome in his finery, his cheeks were colourless above his beard, his eyes shadowed. I don’t think I was the only one who’d be grateful when the demands upon him eased.

Voices echoed in the hall followed by a light knock on the bedroom door.

‘Sir? There’s another message for you.’

Before I could react, Bram opened the door and retrieved it.