Page 34 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘You came,’ I said, putting down my tea and standing.

‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ Bram admonished with a smile. ‘I said I would, didn’t I?’ He held me briefly. ‘Come, Mrs Daw tells me lunch is ready. Shall we? I’m ravenous.’

After a delicious meal of rabbit stew, haricots and mashed turnips, Genevieve recounted anecdotes from her opera days. We were still chuckling over one when Bram suddenly stood. ‘Right. Drink up, ladies. It’s time to go.’

I waved a careless hand. ‘Sit down, Bram, relax. It’s Sunday.’

‘I’ve a surprise for you both at the theatre.’

‘The Lyceum?’ I asked, bewildered. ‘But you’ve just come from there.’

‘What surprise?’ asked Genevieve.

‘Let me just say,’ began Bram mysteriously, ‘that your curiosity regarding what I’ve been doing these last weeks is about to be sated.’ He pulled out my chair and helped me rise. ‘I’ve something special to show you.’

Ignoring all questions and protests, Bram hustled us into our coats and hats and hailed a hansom.

Once we were on our way, I twisted to face him. ‘What’s this about, Bram? Why all the secrecy?’ I wondered briefly if perhaps he was writing again, choosing to keep the manuscript at the Lyceum. Only, that didn’t make sense.

‘Yes, Bram,’ said Genevieve cautiously. ‘What’s so special you can’t simply tell us?’

In the close confines of the cab, he regarded us with sparkling eyes, like a young lad about to embark on a grand adventure. ‘Patience, ladies. All will soon be revealed.’

Upon arrival, Bram led us backstage, then along a twisty and rather dusty passageway. We passed the gilded thrones used in Hamlet, the bust of a Roman emperor, one side of his head missing, and an arrangement of very dead flowers. We mounted flights of narrow, creaking stairs festooned with cobwebs, inhaling the overpowering odour of rodents. It was like entering a haunted house from one of the marvellous tales of Edgar Allan Poe that Phil and I used to read. The only heart I could hear beating was my own. Above us, thick wooden beams groaned, unlit lamps were screwed into the walls. Thank goodness Bram had brought a light. There was the ghostly echo of the scene painters’ voices below as they touched up some flats. Broken pieces of furniture were stacked untidily in dark corners. Swathes of rotting canvas were thrown over other large objects, and I could have sworn the material trembled as we passed, as if some malignant spirit lurked beneath.

I was hot, badly in need of a refreshment, and feeling quite light-headed. I hadn’t walked so much in weeks, not with the sickness having me in its thrall until recently, and Mrs Daw and Matilda reminding me constantly that a woman in my condition should rest.

Finally Bram stopped outside a wooden door.

‘I didn’t know this was even here,’ whispered Genevieve, her eyes large in the glow of Bram’s lantern.

‘Few do,’ said Bram. ‘Now, ladies, allow me to show you what’s kept me occupied. Ta-da!’ He threw open the door, and with a grand flourish, bade us enter, pushing ahead to light the gas lamps.

My first impression was of a gloomy, very long and narrow room. More like a hallway in shape and size. The walls were oak-panelled and dark, gleaming. In the centre was a large table that could sit over thirty people with ease. High-backed chairs surrounded it – some grand, others still in need of repair, most mismatched. There were pictures aplenty on the walls, portraits mainly, all in gilded frames. There was a lovely marble fireplace, and an ancient rug on the floor. The room smelled of nostalgia and old men.

Bram was leaning over the table looking from me to Genevieve, waiting for us to say something.

‘Well?’ he asked, holding out his arms like a proud father. ‘What do you think?’

‘What is this place?’ I asked.

‘This used to be the Beefsteak Room,’ said Bram.

Genevieve glanced at me and we both shrugged.

‘The what?’ I asked.

‘The Beefsteak Room,’ Bram repeated and grinned. ‘Decades ago, a club called the Sublime Society of Beefsteaks was created and gentlemen would meet in this very room to dine, partake of refreshments, smoke, sing and, over a piece of steak, solve the world’s problems.’

‘Or create them,’ I muttered.

Bram continued. ‘When I first discovered it, I dismissed it from my mind. It was run-down, ramshackle, and mainly used to store disused props.’ He pulled out a seat, inviting me to sit. Genevieve began to wander around the room, studying the paintings. ‘Before he left for his sailing trip with the baroness,’ Bram explained, ‘Henry expressed a desire to host dinners at the theatre instead of the clubs; to entertain key patrons, cultivate and support artistes as well. I remembered this room, what it once was, and knew it’d be the perfect spot to fulfil his wishes. For the last month or more, I’ve spent every spare minute making it ready. Now, it’s fit for purpose. When he returns from abroad, Henry can reinstate the club.’

I regarded Bram steadily. ‘This is where you’ve been? What you’ve been doing?’

Bram beamed. ‘I haven’t done it single-handedly,’ he said, indicating the chairs, the rug, the pictures. ‘Some of the staff helped.’

‘Of course,’ I said faintly. I was both flabbergasted yet strangely resigned.