Page 38 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

I’d sooner go to hell.

‘He has transformed Shylock from the hand-wringing usurer,’ continued Bram, lost in the throes of worship, ‘into an intellectual, a regal being who’s wronged. Audiences are loving this version. They’re calling it genius.’

I silently sighed as I gazed tiredly at Bram’s face. Already forgotten, his little boy lay asleep in his father’s arms. A will-o-the-wisp, trapped in a flesh cage.

Could Bram really be so unaware of what Henry Irving was doing? He’d turned my husband into a creature of the night, one who fell into bed as the sun rose, departing Southampton Street as it was setting, disappearing into the dim theatre, the world of eternal darkness. A world where all his creative energy was being siphoned away. Where any dreams Bram had were shelved in favour of Mr Irving’s.

The danger was, as Ellen had pointed out that day on the Embankment, the more I told Bram exactly how I felt about Mr Irving, the more Bram would simply batten down the hatches, defend the man; cleave to him in a way that would make it impossible for anything to come between them. She’d seen it happen before. If I wanted Bram to see Henry for what he really was, a selfish man who, if allowed, sucked the life and joy out of all those who came within his compass, all those who didn’t serve his purpose, then I needed to try a different tactic.

‘Instead of bemoaning Henry,’ said Ellen, ‘do the opposite. Heap praise upon him.’

‘I … I can’t do that.’

‘You damn well can,’ she said. ‘Even better, encourage Bram in his affections, his devotion and adoration, and most importantly, join in.’

I stared at her in horror.

‘What if,’ Ellen lowered her voice, ‘by doing that, instead of feeling like the third party in your marriage, Henry Irving became the extra?’ She shook my arm and laughed. ‘Come on, Lemon, I hear you want to try your hand at acting. Here’s your chance. Play the role of Henry’s admirer. What’s with that face? Remember, this is my lover we’re talking about. Trust me. It will be easy. Just base your performance on Ma’s. Remember, men and women are merely players …’

I thought back to when Bram and I saw The Taming of the Shrew, and I’d argued along similar lines, advocating that kindness and tolerance were the best way to persuade someone to change their behaviour. I wanted to eat my words. Then I recalled Bram’s analysis of the play: It’s an interesting way to observe marriage … As if there’s an enemy to defeat.

I flicked a glance in his direction. Dear Lord, he was still harping on about Shylock. This time, it was the costume – the dark brown robe and sash, the brocaded tunic. I waited until he drew breath and then touched his arm, stopping the flow of words. What if the goodwill approach worked? It was worth a shot, surely? Especially if it defeated my enemy …

‘I’m very happy for Mr Irving. For you too, Bram.’ He blinked in surprise. I contrived a smile. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Mr Irving does deserve our gratitude and, if you think we’re showing it by naming our son after him, well …’ The words were sour in my mouth. I leaned over, wincing as my hips and stomach throbbed, and stroked the babbie’s soft furry cheek. ‘Just wait until you meet your namesake, Irving,’ I said softly. I nestled as close to Bram as I could, resting my head against his shoulder. ‘You’re going to love the man just as much as your father does. As I do too.’ May God forgive me.

Bram beamed at the babbie, then at me.

I eased myself back down and shut my eyes. Ellen would be so proud.

PART THREE

1880 to 1881

In married life, three is company, two is none.

And so hour by hour we drifted apart.

Bram Stoker, The Jewel of Seven Stars

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

London, 14 February 1880

One hundred nights. That’s how many evenings The Merchant of Venice had been performed thus far. Three hundred and fifty special programs, bound in white with gold lettering, were handed out to those invited to remain after the performance and celebrate the milestone.

Instead of using the Beefsteak Room (which was limited in size) for the festivities, the Lyceum stage was transformed into a majestic dining room. It became a glorious pavilion of snowy drapes and scarlet ribbons lit by two enormous chandeliers that glowed like twin moons above the tables. A beautifully drawn seating plan was pinned to a board and, as I was escorted to the stage by Gilbert (Bram was busy welcoming guests), I couldn’t help but be awed, made giddy by the glamour, the glow of silverware, the glint from polished glasses atop pristine tablecloths. The heady perfume of the abundant flowers, their vibrant colours and shapes, added to the sense of being part of a wonderful fantasy where you could become anyone you wanted. As I took in the fashionably dressed women and exquisitely suited men chattering and laughing, the more important members of the cast among them, I felt a complete fraud. Who was I but the daughter of a soldier, mother to a scrap of a son? On the one hand, I wanted the vampire trap in the stage to open and swallow me; on the other, this is what I’d long dreamed of, what I’d hoped marriage would give me. I was going to relish being part of something momentous; drink, and demand my cup be refilled.

Gilbert patted my gloved hand, then indicated a distinguished looking gentleman who was watching us closely. ‘I hope Bram always cedes this duty to me, Florence,’ he said, ‘and I continue to be able to escort you to every occasion, arousing the envy of artists, poets and royalty.’ He nodded towards the Prince of Wales, who had a famous French actress draped on his arm. ‘Just don’t tell Lucy I said that.’

I slapped his forearm playfully. ‘You, sir, are incorrigible.’

‘Yes,’ said Gilbert, twitching his moustache. ‘I am. And you love me for it. Fortunately, so does my wife.’

Lucy, sadly, was unwell, but insisted Gilbert accompany me. I was grateful. George Stoker was unable to attend, crying work. Though invited, Matilda declined.

‘Having seen Henry Irving as Shylock four times already, I don’t think I could bear to see him perform again,’ she said.

‘Oh, I’m not going to the play,’ I explained. ‘Just the party afterwards.’