Page 54 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

We sat before the fire, the remnants of the afternoon mostly cleared away. There were just a few empty glasses, platters with some sandwiches and cakes, which I’d told Emma to leave. I’d briefly gone upstairs to say goodnight to Irving. When I returned, everyone was deep in discussion about portraits. Mr Whistler again insisting I allow him to paint mine.

‘While it’s very gratifying, Mr Whistler,’ I said, pouring a fresh cup of tea, ‘I oft think that portraits are little more than cruel reminders of who we once were.’

‘What do you mean, Mrs Stoker?’ asked young Mr Osborne, studying me with gentle eyes.

I eased myself back into a chair, trying to ignore my aching feet. ‘The idea that my face might be captured on canvas for all eternity as it appears now, never to grow older or fade, makes me … uneasy. I don’t want a reminder of what I’m destined to lose – or for others, over time, to compare and see what I’ve lost. It’s like a punishment for simply living, for being fortunate enough to grow old.’

‘Maybe it’s just harder for women,’ said Ellen. ‘We’re only celebrated while young.’ She’d been painted many times and would lament how different she looked in real life to her portraits, how age had been cruel. (Which was ironic, because to me and her many admirers, she was still beautiful.)

‘Don’t you think it would be far more interesting if it was the portrait that was altered?’ I asked.

‘Do you mean artists should paint their subjects differently?’ Bram frowned.

‘No, not really,’ I said.

‘Oh, we should always imagine people differently,’ said Oscar with a smile. ‘Most are much nicer that way.’ There were chuckles.

I waited until I’d everyone’s attention again. ‘Imagine if, in real life, the person painted continued to look just as they did when they sat for the artist, no matter how much time passes. What if instead it was the painting that aged and changed?’

There were exclamations of wonder.

‘I like that,’ said Oscar, leaning forward in excitement. ‘The years no longer touch the person. They remain youthful and lovely regardless of advancing years or their dissipation.’

‘Exactly,’ I nodded, pleased Oscar grasped my meaning. ‘As if by magic, nothing corrupts the person, only the painting.’

There was silence, then some uncomfortable laughter.

‘That would be …’ began Ellen.

‘Demonic,’ said Bram, clearly beguiled by the notion.

‘It would, wouldn’t it?’ laughed Oscar. ‘And utterly marvellous.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

London, April 1882

It was spring, a time when flowers bloomed, sunshine occasionally won its eternal battle with the clouds, and the number of layers worn slowly decreased. I was tucked up in bed, enjoying a book I’d borrowed from the bookstall at the nearby train station – The Italian by Ann Radcliffe. Midnight had been and gone, and the sounds of civilisation had faded to a gentle rumble. Rain drummed its fingers against the window and the fire crackled and spat cheerily. I’d just reached the part where Vivaldi and his faithful servant, Paulo, were trapped in a dungeon, when I heard the front door latch. George had come home hours ago; Bram was early then.

When he knocked and entered the bedroom, one look at his face told me something was amiss. I closed my book and placed it atop the teetering pile on the side table.

‘Hello, dear,’ he said. ‘I was hoping you were awake.’ He dropped a light kiss on my forehead, gestured for me to shuffle over so he could sit on the bed, and released a long, heavy sigh. He glanced at at the book, reaching over to stroke the cover. ‘The monk, Schedoni, is a masterpiece of villainy, don’t you think?’

For a big man, Bram had lovely hands. Long tapered fingers. Unmarked white skin with a fine dusting of russet hair on the back. A writer’s hands.

‘Bram?’ I said gently. ‘What’s wrong?’

He paused. ‘It’s Henry.’

‘Oh?’ What I wanted to say was, What’s ol’ Hen-peck done now?

Ever since Bram and Ellen advised Henry not to cast himself in the lead role in their latest major production, Romeo and Juliet, advice Henry ignored, he’d been in a dudgeon. How he ever thought a man of forty-two could pass as a youth, no matter his talent, spoke volumes for his conceit; it was all I could do not to squirm watching him. Gilbert showed no such restraint and laughed openly at his performance and went out of his way to share the many caustic reviews and even a satirical Punch cartoon featuring him and Ellen. Despite all this, the Lyceum had managed to attract full houses for almost every show. Henry took out the scorn levelled at him on everyone.

‘He’s become quite the villain,’ said Ellen wearily one afternoon when she came to Cheyne Walk. ‘Prowling around the corridors like a caged beast, lurking backstage, front-of-stage, even pacing up and down the auditorium, barking at whoever he sees, judging everything Bram or anyone else does. How Ma puts up with him, I don’t know.’

‘I don’t know how you put up with him,’ I said. We’d long passed the point where I had to pretend with Ellen.

‘Well, I don’t at present, that’s why I’m here,’ she said, flopping into a chair and removing her gloves. ‘Now, where’s my drink?’