Page 51 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘That’s the problem, Phil. It’s only when Henry is around that his behaviour undergoes this alteration.’

‘Does he know how unhappy Henry makes you?’

I scoffed. ‘He must. I’ve said it often enough. But, in all fairness, it’s not so much Henry who makes me unhappy, conceited and selfish as he is, it’s that Bram is so deferential to him. Prioritises Henry’s needs over his own, over his family’s. What’s even worse, I’m not the only one who notices.’

‘Who else does?’

I looked at her miserably. ‘Everyone.’

Phil chewed her lip a few times before seeking my hand and holding it tightly. ‘I’m so sorry, Kitten. I don’t know what to say, except that Bram’s an eejit.’

If only that was all he was …

‘You don’t need to say anything.’ I sighed and extracted my hand. ‘It’s helped just telling you.’ I gave a dry laugh. ‘Admittedly, it all sounds rather irrational. As if Henry’s some succubus or monster, draining Bram.’ I stood, stretched, then climbed onto the bed and patted the space beside me. ‘Enough about me. I’ve come all this way for your nuptials. Let’s talk about you.’

Still frowning, Phil joined me. The evening had grown cooler, so we lay under the blankets, heads close together like we used to. ‘I’m going to ask you the question you once asked me,’ I said.

‘Oh?’

‘Do you love him?’

‘Who? Bram?’ quipped Phil.

I snorted, as she knew I would. ‘You know jolly well who I mean. Well, do you love John?’

Phil cupped my cheek, a serious look on her face. ‘I do. But I think I need to ask you again, Florrie. Do you love Bram? It’s clear you care about him or this business with Mr Irving wouldn’t bother you so much.’

I stared at my sister and saw nothing but understanding in her sympathetic eyes.

‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘Truth is, I think I’m afraid to.’

Phil pulled me into her arms and held me tightly as the tears I’d held at bay for so long were finally unleashed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Cheyne Walk, 1881

The rain kindly held off long enough for my first salon to be a complete success. I’d spared no expense, deciding it would also be an opportunity to celebrate the publication of Bram’s collection of children’s stories, Under the Sunset. Meeting Mr Marston had paid dividends. Handsome ones. It was his company that published Bram’s tales. I’d also invited all my friends and, following the suggestions of Gilbert, Lucy, Ellen and Lady Jane, a range of other people from London’s artistic and political ranks.

Ellen, the Gilberts, George and Matilda were first to arrive, along with Bram’s brother Richard, who was visiting from India and staying with his sister. He was followed by Lady Jane, Hall Caine and his housemate, the artist Frederick Sandys, and James Whistler (I couldn’t not invite him; we were practically neighbours). The artist John Singer Sargent, a friend of Matilda’s, came, as did the writer and illustrator George Du Maurier, who Gilbert had reluctantly introduced to me at the last Beefsteak dinner with the warning, ‘Careful. He’s a notorious womaniser, Florence.’

‘A Lothario, is he? Then he needs to be wary of me,’ I reassured Gilbert. ‘I regularly slay them … with my tongue.’

Gilbert chuckled. ‘The deadliest weapon known to man.’

‘Only to those whom I wield it against.’

Regardless of Gilbert’s caution, I was keen to converse with Mr Du Maurier as, having been born in Paris, he spoke fluent French and mine was becoming rusty. He’d asked to meet Sarah Bernhardt, the marvellous French actress I’d encountered last season and who was between tours. Escorting her was her lover, soon to be husband, Aristides Damala. Even the prime minister, William Gladstone, whom Bram had befriended before he was voted into office, came, accompanied by both his wife, Catherine, and the notorious Sir Richard Burton who, learning about my salon, sent me a note, begging to be included. How could I refuse Sir Richard Burton? Others soon followed – the dashing William Terriss; a young Scottish writer, Arthur Doyle, who I’d bumped into on a walk with the Gilberts one day. There were also a couple of scientists from the Royal Society Lady Jane proposed, at least three journalists Ellen knew, and some philosopher acquaintances of Bram’s.

The drawing room in Cheyne Walk was much larger than our previous one, but even so, it felt crowded. Striped wallpaper lined the walls above the oak wainscotting. Gold and cream chintz armchairs and a large chaise lounge were artfully arranged around a Moroccan rug. High-backed wooden seats from our dining room were placed in twos and threes by the large windows. A card table was erected near the fireplace and, sparing no expense, I’d even bought an elegant chess set and placed it on a mahogany table before our towering bookshelves. Hall Caine and Sir Richard were already in the thick of a game.

Cigar smoke swirled, mingling with the odours of perfume, the flower arrangements I’d purchased last-minute, leather, male pride and whisky. Conversation and laughter rose and fell. From my position near the window, I watched with no small degree of pleasure as my drawing room filled with people I admired, those I was yet to become familiar with, some I liked very much and, I admit, those I disliked, as well as some who simply tolerated each other’s company. As they entered, I introduced my guests to each other, made sure they had drinks and encouraged them into pairs and small groups of like-minds. With a starched apron over her gown, Emma was ably assisted by two extra maids I’d hired just to serve Mrs Daw’s scrumptious food. There were tiny watercress and egg sandwiches, jellied fish, devilled kidneys, miniature cakes, pastel-coloured meringues, as well as tea, coffee, wine and port.

Bram moved with ease through the room, chatting with Lady Jane about the worthiness or otherwise of a new newspaper, the London Evening News; congratulating Miss Bernhardt on her recent success in America and Paris. William Terriss was busy flirting with Ellen (a vision in lilac), telling her all about a visit he’d paid to the town of Godalming to see the electric lights.

‘They say it won’t be long before theatres are using it, too,’ he said.

‘Don’t let Henry hear you say that,’ said Ellen. ‘If there’s one thing Henry abhors above all else, it’s change.’