Page 25 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘Thank you, Emma.’ He crossed to the window, flashing me an apologetic smile. Standing in what remained of the light, he unfolded the piece of paper and scanned the few lines.

‘It’s from Henry,’ he explained, as if he needed to. ‘I’m wanted at the theatre.’ He passed the note over.

Kyrle Bellew struck by hansom. Find replacement. H.

‘Who’s Kyrle Bellew?’ I asked.

‘The actor who plays Osric.’

‘Oh no!’ I exclaimed. I recalled meeting a broad-chested fellow with angelic curls and porcelain skin. ‘I hope he’s alright.’

‘Henry will be at sixes and sevens,’ said Bram, swiftly running a brush through his thick hair.

‘I meant Mr Bellew.’ I placed the note on the bedside table, on top of the three that had already been delivered since he’d come home.

‘Sorry, Florrie.’ He ducked to examine his reflection in the mirror on the dresser. He’d been to the barber earlier that morning and his hair and beard were neatly trimmed. ‘I thought I could relax while you dressed, that I’d be able to escort you, but I’ll have to make haste.’

‘It’s alright. I understand; this needs your attention. George will accompany me.’

He stretched out his arm for the jacket. I held it open, and he shrugged it on. I smoothed the sleeves and began rearranging his cravat into neater folds. I kept my expression neutral even though my insides were roiling. This was meant to be our big night – my first public appearance as Mrs Bram Stoker. It was hard not to feel as if the moment had been stolen.

At least, I consoled myself, this note had conveyed something critical.

It was just as well Bram couldn’t be my consort, for I’d no doubt this wouldn’t be the first or last time, so I’d better grow accustomed. Bram had worked hard for this night – and, in all fairness, so had Mr Irving.

I stepped back slightly to admire him, pinching the folds of the kerchief sprouting from his pocket. ‘Now I’ve more time to make myself beautiful.’

Bram’s hands folded over the top of mine, stilling them. ‘You don’t need another second, Mrs Stoker. You heard what Ellen said. And she hasn’t stopped since.’

How could I forget. Disgustingly beautiful. An oxymoron if ever there was one.

‘I doubt anyone will even notice the stage. Maybe it’s best you wait until the lights are dimmed before you make an entrance.’ He bent and kissed me chastely.

I stood like a stunned coney. Where had this flattery come from? Before I could wish him well, he departed.

I lay atop his bed and stared at the ceiling. The afternoon had become grey and dull as the light diminished and snow began to fall, striking the glass and leaving dirty streaks resembling tears. I rolled over, tucking my hands under the pillow. The clock in the hallway ticked loudly, its steady rhythm a contrast to my flustered thoughts. I could smell Bram in the bedclothes – a musky, earthy maleness.

Excluding the oft bitter words we’d have before he went to work each day, and the few we’d exchange when he came home (apologies, mostly), this was the longest we’d spoken. It was also the most time I’d spent in his bedroom and the first time I’d lain on his bed. Apart from our awkward wedding night, when we’d clumsily consummated our marriage, there’d been no more attempts at intimacy.

My body grew hot, not with lustful memories, but disappointment. What happened between us on our wedding night was worse than I’d ever imagined. The press and slap of flesh, the pungent smells, the involuntary wetness, the facial expressions, the odd noises. Once it began, I’d just wanted it over. The awkwardness afterwards, as if a dreadful faux pas had been committed, was even worse. Bram had thanked me – so formal after what we’d done – then, bless the Lord, rolled away.

It hadn’t felt like love, or even lust. It was so … impersonal, perfunctory. A matter of duty. I lay awake for hours after, listening to his breathing, his faint snores, thinking about the time and effort that had gone into making my underclothes attractive – the lace, the satin ribbons – trying to look and smell heavenly. What a waste. He hadn’t even sought to undress me. Neither had he removed his shirt or breeches. He’d snuffed out the candles so the room was dark, then, after a couple of kisses, where he pressed his lips to mine as one might a dear relation, raised my shift, found the gap in my bloomers and, after fiddling with the fastenings in his trousers, sought to put his not very hard member into my cunny.

I’d been very dry. He’d pressed himself against my inner thigh but was too soft to have any effect. He lowered his hand, gripping his cock, and began to move it rhythmically. After a moment, he was harder. Not a word was spoken between us. Outside the wind howled and shook the window. I could hear the faint wail of a baby; the lament of a tomcat. I bit my lip so as not to cry out as he breached my defences. I’d been warned it would hurt, but not how much it would burn. Nor was I prepared for how ignominious I’d feel. Through half-closed eyes, I watched as he rose and fell above me, as if he was using his instrument to pump air into me. He looked … ridiculous.

Finally he stopped, shuddered, and I felt a rush of liquid warmth.

He withdrew, rolled off me, kissed me on the cheek and said, ‘Thank you, dear. Now, you are truly my wife. We are one, Mrs Stoker.’

I think I mumbled something suitable in reply. After I was certain he was asleep, I rose, wiped away the mixture of my blood and his seed, the symbols of our union, and lay down cautiously, trying hard not to wake him lest he wish to repeat what he’d just done.

I recalled thinking, Is that it? That’s what I’d saved myself for?

It was then my treacherous memory first invoked Oscar. Those chiselled lips, his passion-filled eyes, the involuntary moan he’d elicit whenever he held me. The church, the park, the long, deep kisses, the way he bit my neck, nibbled my ear, pressed me to him so I could feel him. How I’d melt into his embrace, throw aside my modesty and scorch and ache. I’d believed that it would be the same with my husband …

A few days later, we were in Birmingham. Nothing happened between us there, despite sharing a bed. Once we arrived in London, we had our separate bedrooms, and he hadn’t attempted to make us one again.

A part of me was thankful. Another so damn uncertain. I’d hoped that caresses were something I’d enjoy with him. Bram Stoker was a handsome man. Everyone said so. Amiable, too. One had only to see the way Mrs Daw and Emma responded to him, not to mention Mr Irving. Did Bram not find me desirable? Or was it my oft strident words about his ‘Chief’ that deterred him? But I’d a right to speak my mind, surely? What if he regarded coupling with me an obligation he’d now fulfilled? Did marriage alter a man’s desire?