Page 35 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘My, you have been busy,’ said Genevieve, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder, squeezing it. ‘I do hope Henry appreciates your efforts. Tell me,’ she added, when no-one spoke for a minute, ‘isn’t that the famous actor David Garrick over there?’ She pointed to a rather forbidding picture on the wall opposite.

Bram nodded. ‘He’s Henry’s inspiration. Now, it’s the Chief’s turn to do the same for others.’ He jerked his chin towards the other artworks.

Facing me was a series of seven paintings. With a start, I saw they were all of Henry Irving. In one he was portrayed as King Lear, in another, Hamlet, then a character I didn’t recognise – Mathias? I was surrounded by a gallery of Irvings.

Even when he wasn’t here, he was everywhere, including in my husband’s head and heart. Instead of taking advantage of Mr Irving’s absence to pursue his own work, join me on outings, or spend time at home, Bram had spent every spare minute creating this shrine to his master. He was awaiting my praise, my congratulations for a job well done. Oh, it was very kind, it was thoughtful, but it was also … My knees began to shake; my palms grew sweaty.

I tried to stand, but the arm of the chair was slippery in my grip. Everything around me began to grow dark.

‘Are you quite well, Florence?’ asked Genevieve, clutching my elbow to steady me.

‘Florrie!’ said Bram and flew to my side. ‘Come, let’s get you home. This has been too much. Matilda did warn me.’

I didn’t object as they led me away. Nor did I protest when Bram didn’t accompany us back to Southampton Street but bundled us into a carriage and remained at the theatre. I didn’t ask why or how long he’d be. What was the point?

Sensing the dark turn my mood had taken, Genevieve sought my hand. ‘Be grateful the room’s finished before the babbie’s born, Florence. Bram has no excuse not to be there when the time comes.’

He’ll find one, I thought.

Or Henry will find one for him.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

London, 30 December 1879

Eyes wide with wonder, Bram beheld his newborn for the first time. With an exclamation of joy, he reached into the crib and carefully scooped his son into his arms. They made a splendid tableau: the besuited father and his swaddled boy. He’d entered the world just as a threatening storm unleashed its madness, my own wails mingling with those of the wind.

Next to Bram stood Dr Everett, who’d been recommended by George. On his other side was Matilda. George stood just behind Bram, patting his brother’s shoulder. Emma was bustling around, bunching bloody cloths and towels. First making sure I was comfortable upright, pillows nicely plumped behind me, the nursemaid, Mrs Elizabeth Jarrald, took up position close to the babbie. The glow from the coal fire made everyone appear radiant. Fire smoke drifted lazily about, forming spectral shapes in shadowy corners, while outside, gusts rudely jolted the glass.

‘What are you calling him?’ asked Matilda, crooning softly.

Before I could answer, Bram did. ‘His name is Irving. Irving Stoker.’

‘What did you say?’ I stared at him incredulously. Surely, I’d misheard.

‘I said,’ Bram repeated, a fatuous sort of expression on his face, though whether that was from holding the child or the drinks he’d consumed, it was hard to tell. By the time he’d lurched into my crowded bedroom, the doctor who’d been present at the birth close on his heels, the babbie was more than two hours old.

‘His name is Irving Noel Thornley Stoker.’

There were nods, murmurs of approval. George grinned and slapped Bram on the back. Matilda cast a dubious look in my direction.

‘Pfft. I’m in no mood for your humour, Bram.’ I fell back on the pillows.

‘Humour?’ Bram rubbed his nose gently against the babbie’s, inhaling. I’d a vague memory I’d done the same when they first placed my son in my arms, inhaled the very essence of him. It was like nothing I’d ever smelled before. As if the perfume of heaven and the angels had been distilled. To think, after all the blood, the hours of building pain, the soupy fog of the laudanum, this perfect little sweet-smelling being had emerged.

‘I’d hardly make light of something as important as our son’s name, my dear,’ he chuckled.

A sweet-smelling angel called Irving …

‘He’ll not be called Irving.’ My voice was low, firm.

Emma paused in what she was doing. Elizabeth’s hands fluttered nervously. The doctor gave an embarrassed cough.

‘Too late to change it,’ said Bram, chuckling, as if I was making a joke. ‘It’s on the birth certificate. Filled it out when I arrived, according to the doctor’s instructions.’

Dr Everett said something unintelligible above the roaring in my ears. Bram had wanted me to use George as my physician. I told him it’s bad enough George lives with us and is privy to much of what is said and happens, be damned if I’d let him prod my body. Now I’d cause to regret my decision.

My fingers curled around the sheets. They’d been changed. The bloodied, sweat-soaked ones taken away, my body washed and scented. As scented as someone who’d just spent hours straining and pushing and expelling all kinds of fluids could be. God, I still leaked. I ran my fingers through my hair, which brushed and now dry, sat loosely about my shoulders, falling to my hips. I’d pulled off the cap I’d been wearing, loathing the way it clutched my scalp, the dampness at the edges.