Page 26 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

The reprehensible voice in my heart said, ‘Not Oscar’s.’

It became a refrain I couldn’t silence, one that grew louder, especially now I’d turned the painting in the drawing room around again and saw Oscar’s name every time I sat before it. If Bram had seen it, he made no mention.

One evening, when Bram was with Mr Irving, Mrs Daw had left and Emma was upstairs in her room, I closed my bedroom door and, disrobing, studied my nakedness in a mirror. I wanted to ensure there was nothing wrong with me. I lifted my heavy hair from my shoulders and dropped it again, stroking the line of my collarbone. My nipples grew when I tweaked them. I wasn’t fashionably formed, being tall and slender; more Rossetti than Rubens. I ran my fingers lightly over my stomach, causing my flesh to goose, my lips to part. My mound was covered with a small but soft growth of chestnut hair. I tugged gently at the tiny curls, causing a tingling sensation deep in my belly.

As I lay alone upon Bram’s bed, memories of Oscar filling me with torrid sensations, I was tempted to touch myself again. Until images of Bram rushing out of the house to be with Mr Irving extinguished any desire. Where was my passion for my husband? Was it my fault any spark between us was doused? Or was the real culprit Henry Irving?

Unable to sort my thoughts, I had begun picking up the clothes Bram had carelessly discarded. After all, whatever my conflicted feelings, I’d vowed to be a dutiful wife. The Wife.

Now the great day had arrived and I couldn’t take my eyes off the building looming before me. The Lyceum was an altogether different prospect from when I saw it just three days ago.

Above me, soaring ivory columns rose to hold aloft the grand portico. The faces of the bedazzled patrons arriving reflected my own – open-mouthed, oohing and aahing with excitement. It was as if we were entering a Grecian temple, built to the gods of old, and I was a priestess about to worship at the altar of Dionysius. We crossed the threshold and passed through the ornate doors.

Though I knew Mr Irving had spent thousands remodelling the interior, pounds and pence couldn’t convey the craft and finesse involved as George and I floated upon lush carpets, clutched shining bannisters, moved through carved doorways and into the vast auditorium. Gone was the dust, the dirt, the peeling paint and plaster, the faded palette of days gone by. In their place was glorious colour. Sapphire and emerald fabric, replete with ruby whorls, covered the rows and rows of seats. The expansive walls were resplendent with painted peacocks. Above, a duck-egg blue and gold ceiling stared down benignly, an old queen welcoming back her subjects. Scallop shells encased the footlights around the stage, wine-coloured lampshades flickered between seats and brass railings glimmered, demarcating the stalls. Scents of lavender, lemon, beeswax and a slight hum of metal floated in the air. Gentle melodies escaped the orchestra pit, forming a perfect accompaniment. While reminiscent of Dublin’s Gaiety Theatre, the Lyceum was an altogether grander prospect. It was completely breathtaking, like being in a fairytale palace.

A young usher in an Eton suit showed us to our seats, not too far above the stage. The moment we sat, I searched the auditorium for Bram.

‘I don’t know whether people are bewitched more by the interior or you,’ said George, shuffling as close as our seats would allow. His whiskers tickled my ear.

I regarded him with astonishment, then immediately peered around.

‘Don’t stare,’ hissed George, nodding and smiling at someone over my shoulder.

Of course, I did just that, gazing at the patrons manoeuvring between rows and boxes to their seats. People were gawking. Some were even standing and pointing. One woman in a large feather headpiece, which made her appear part of the muster of wallpaper peacocks, grabbed the sleeve of the nearest usher.

‘Who, pray, is that young woman over there?’ she boomed, aiming a heavily ringed finger in my direction.

‘That’s Mrs Bram Stoker,’ said the usher.

My name echoed as other patrons whispered to each other. ‘Mrs Bram Stoker, Mrs Bram, that’s Stoker’s wife.’

My cheeks burned.

‘Who’s Bram Stoker?’ asked the woman dismissively, before the usher pointed towards the top of the stairs. Ah, there he was, shaking hands, bowing, welcoming the throng. He looked magnificent. Important.

Who’s Bram Stoker? The richly dressed woman with large bosoms had asked. I’ll tell you. He’s the man who day after day, night after night, prepared this theatre in record time for the likes of you, my lady, that’s who. I took in the lights, the splendid decor, the appreciative murmurs and exclamations, the music, the filling seats. This was as much Bram’s doing as Henry Irving’s. An unexpected rush of remorse that I’d been so critical of his long absences and the endless messages, followed by quiet pride, filled me.

I wanted to say something to George, but he was deep in conversation with a gentleman and his wife beside him. I opened my copy of the program. On the front page, there was Mr Irving’s name: Royal Lyceum Theatre Sole Lessee and Manager. I turned the page, searching for Bram’s. There was the cast, of course. Mr Irving’s name appeared next to Hamlet. On and on the list of cast members went. There was Ellen Terry, starring as Ophelia. I wondered who Bram had found to replace Mr Bellew. The various acts and scenes were denoted, followed by the scenic artist, Hawes Craven. Even the stage manager’s name was given prominence: Mr HJ Loveday.

I flipped the booklet over and, finally, found Bram. His was the very last name on the back page, at the bottom of the program.

As if he were an afterthought.

‘Better get used to it, my goddess,’ said George. At first, I thought he was talking about Bram’s placement in the program. He gestured towards three men a few rows across who stood and bowed in my direction. He tucked my hand into his arm, laughing. It was so unfair, I thought, all but glowering until I remembered where I was. I smiled, a frosty one that seemed to please the gents no end. Here I was getting all this attention, and most didn’t have a clue who Bram was or what he’d done. How those all-important first few weeks of a marriage, which Mother had assured me were when a husband and wife learned about each other, navigated differences and discovered commonalities, had been sacrificed to this theatre and Henry Irving.

I folded the program in half and stuffed it in my reticule. I hadn’t uprooted my Dublin life and come to London to be the wife of an afterthought. I watched George poring over his copy of the program and made a pledge to myself then and there that one day, Bram’s name would be known – not as a postscript, not on the back page of a playbill or as a jack-in-office to a ‘strolling player’, no matter how famous – but in its own right.

I was jolted out of my thoughts when George half-stood and waved towards the pits.

‘You’re enjoying this.’ I chuckled as more people stood to gawp. I resisted the urge to fan my face.

‘Too right I am,’ he said, retaking his seat. ‘It’s not every day a man like me gets to escort the loveliest being in London anywhere, let alone to the opening night of the theatre his brother manages.’

I tensed, but George wasn’t being ironic.

‘Relax,’ he said, patting my arm. ‘Enjoy the notice. Bram’ll be chuffed when I tell him. Unless, of course, the unthinkable happens.’

‘What’s that?’ I asked, as the lights began to dim, and the thirty-piece orchestra grew in volume.