Page 53 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘Wait. Florrie, please. Talk to me.’

I turned back.

‘I can hardly credit that the ingenue I knew in Dublin is responsible for this gathering —’ Oscar’s arm swept the room. Then he saw my face. ‘No, that’s not true. I knew you’d be remarkable. You always were.’

I gave a sad smile.

‘You have a lovely home,’ continued Oscar. ‘But, tell me, how’s married life? Is it everything you wished for?’

It was as if Oscar could see into my soul. There was nothing but sincerity in his eyes; sincerity and something else …

‘It’s … an experience,’ I said with forced levity. I owed Oscar no elucidation. I didn’t owe him anything.

‘Experience is the name we give to our mistakes.’ He tossed back his drink.

‘Then I will leave you to contemplate yours, Mr Experience.’ Before he could think of a clever retort, I joined Hall and Mr Rossetti, who were arguing with Mr Gladstone about the imprisonment of Charles Parnell in Ireland. I was about to engage with them when Mr Du Maurier descended and steered me towards the window, whispering urgently to me … in French.

Still flustered from Oscar, it took a moment to understand him. Once I did, I retreated a step.

‘Mon Dieu, Mr Du Maurier,’ I began firmly, speaking French as well. ‘This is neither the time nor place. As I said to you at the theatre last week, and the art exhibition the week before, though I’m flattered by your … proposition, I’m not interested. I’m perfectly happy with my husband.’

We both looked in Bram’s direction. He was deep in conversation with Henry. His eyes were shining, he was smiling broadly and nodding agreeably.

‘As happy as your husband is with Mr Irving?’

First Oscar, now Mr Du Maurier. What was I? A window everyone could see through? It was a full minute before I replied, my eyes narrowing as I beheld my husband and his chief. ‘That’s not happiness, Mr Du Maurier. That’s worship.’ The words escaped before I could prevent them. My hand flew to my mouth.

Mr Du Maurier chortled. ‘My, my, Mrs Stoker. You Irish don’t mince words, even in another language, do you?’

My throat burned, my face too. Of all the people to hear me speak so carelessly. A man who saved his often caustic observations about people for his satirical illustrations and scribblings.

I tried to mitigate the damage, laughing and placing my hand atop where his rested on the windowsill. ‘Who doesn’t worship Mr Irving? Bram is merely following the fashion.’

‘Really? Your husband doesn’t strike me as someone who cares for such tarradiddles,’ said Mr Du Maurier, returning to English.

‘Ah, wait till you get to know him.’ I went to move away, but not before he had the last word.

‘I’d rather get to know you, Mrs Stoker …’ I had no trouble understanding his French that time.

The afternoon passed in a whirl after that as I floated from one group to the next, trying not to think about Oscar, Mr Du Maurier, my unguarded words and the potential repercussions. Hall asked me to acquaint him with the journalist who wrote the articles about the outbreak of smallpox earlier in the year and the importance of vaccination. I obliged and left them to talk, having no inclination to discuss infection.

‘You’re a natural hostess, Florence,’ said Lady Jane when I joined her, kissing my cheek with her scarlet lips. ‘It’s not easy bringing such a disparate group together, but you’ve done a marvellous job.’

Her praise meant the world.

‘I was hoping there’d be more than verbal disagreements,’ said Willie, addled with spirit, pretending to box and almost falling over.

‘You’d still manage to be a punchline, dearest,’ said Oscar, holding his brother upright.

By the time the clock chimed seven, most of the guests had left, saying how much they’d enjoyed themselves.

‘It was all Florence’s doing,’ Bram told them proudly.

‘Well, Mrs Stoker, I hope you’ll host another soon,’ said Mr Gladstone, shaking Bram’s hand.

Much to my gratification, this sentiment was echoed by everyone.

Finally, only Oscar, Mr Sandys, Hall, Mr Singer Sargent, Mr Whistler, the Irish painter Walter Osborne (a friend of Matilda’s visiting from Brittany), Ellen and Mr Terriss remained.