Page 56 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘How’s that?’ asked Bram, twisting his head to look straight at me.

He looked so sad, so in need of reassurance, I provided it, even though the words were dust in my mouth.

‘You and Henry. Stoker and Irving. A duo like no other.’

‘We are, aren’t we?’ he said and smiled.

Later, long after Bram had returned to his own bedroom, I lay in the darkness, listening to the wash of waves on the banks of the river as a boat passed. I thought over what had just happened. Despite our marriage’s shortcomings, Bram trusted me. Maybe it was time I trusted him enough to ask the question burning in me. What I imagined could not be worse than the truth, could it?

A few nights later, after Bram returned from the theatre and had been in his bedroom awhile, I screwed my courage to the sticking place and tiptoed down the hallway, knocked on the bedroom door and poked my head around.

‘Florrie!’ exclaimed Bram. ‘Is everything alright?’ He was in his shirt and trousers, sitting on the edge of his bed.

The glass in the window shook as a late-night cab rattled past.

I shut the door and leaned against it. ‘I … I’ve something I need to ask, Bram. Something I’ve been meaning to ask for months now, and —’ I paused, nervous fingers plucking at the lace of my nightgown. ‘I want you to tell me the truth.’

I waited until his eyes met mine and moved closer. ‘Why do you never seek to be … intimate with me anymore? Not since the opening night of The Cup.’

Oh, Henry.

I hated that my voice shook. ‘Is something wrong with me … do I fail to … please you? Or is something, someone …?’ I couldn’t finish.

Bram gave an almost inaudible groan and stared at the ceiling before returning his gaze to me. ‘Oh, Florrie.’ His lips began to tremble, and great tears welled. ‘I … I knew that one day you might ask this … Dreaded the moment you would …’ He released a drawn-out sigh. He looked at me with such trepidation. ‘There’s nothing wrong with you.’ He gave a dry, bitter laugh. ‘You’re beautiful. The most beautiful woman I know. A woman any man would be proud to call wife … but …’

Silence stretched, expanding to fill the distance between us.

‘But?’ The word was both hard and soft, a whisper with sharp edges.

Bram went to stand, then changed his mind. ‘What if I can’t tell you the truth because … because I don’t know what that is?’ He lowered his head into his hands, his fingers ploughing his hair.

I waited. And waited. ‘I don’t understand. You’ll have to explain to me.’ More silence.

Finally, with another low groan, Bram raised his head. His eyes were grey orbs of sorrow. ‘I’ll try …’ His mouth moved, but no sound came. He swallowed, looked at me, then away, preferring the pockets of darkness behind me. ‘When I met you, I thought I could be a regular husband. Be like other men. Turns out, I was wrong. I cannot …’ He dropped his chin. ‘There’s something in me, Florrie …’ He struck his chest, forcefully. ‘Something I cannot help, nor … control.’ To my horror, he began to weep; deep, shuddering sobs that he swallowed as soon as they arose. I took another step towards him, then stopped. He needed to finish. I needed him to finish.

‘I’m sorry,’ he cried. ‘The thought I might lose you … to consider what my life would be without you by my side, is unbearable. I know there are men who desire you, who seek to possess you, pleasure you – how could I not? Yet, even knowing I’ve such eager competition, the choices available to you …’ He bit his lip so hard, the skin broke. Blood bloomed, a single ruby drop trembling in the candlelight. ‘I cannot be the man you want. The husband you deserve; not in the manner expected. I don’t …’ He shook his head, the droplet ruptured, blood dotted his mouth. ‘It’s not you, Florrie. By God. It’s … it’s me.’ He thumped his chest repeatedly. ‘It’s all me. Me.’

His face blurred as my eyes filled. The lamp by his bed became a small sun, glowing brightly, throwing his shadow onto the wall behind him, distorted, monstrous. Could he hear my heart? It was like the drums the queen’s guards beat when she rode through the city.

‘Florrie,’ he whispered. He licked his lips, smeared the blood. There were tears in my name. Mine were poised to fall.

‘Is there …’ I began with a quaver, then cleared my throat. ‘Is there someone else?’

He waited until my gaze found his again. ‘You’re the only woman I have ever and will ever love.’

I hesitated. Was that an answer? ‘Are you telling me you prefer … men, that —’

‘Please!’ He held up his palm as if to prevent the rest of my question reaching him. ‘Enough. Leave it, Florrie.’ His eyes became red-rimmed coalholes, dark and impregnable. ‘I beg of you. Leave it.’

Days passed, centuries. I grew old, died, was reborn. I was an iceberg, a desert. A raging river, a stagnant pool. My worst fears were confirmed; my doubts assuaged (oh, God). My stomach lurched and bile rose in my throat. Part of me wanted to leave the room, the house, the city, and never turn back. Another part, when I regarded him – cowed, broken, trusting me, terrified I’d abandon him – could not revile him.

A memory arrived unbidden. Me and Phil, lying in bed, discussing Plato’s Symposium, embracing Aristophanes’ explanation for all kinds of love; that sometimes one cannot control to whom they give their heart. Oh, how liberal we thought ourselves, how non-judgemental. Love is love, God is love, we thought innocently; naively. But it’s one thing to profess such a beneficent attitude towards a stranger, to congratulate yourself for your tolerance, quite another when the man you’re married to all but admits you do not make him whole. That other desires take precedence.

Sweet Jesus. If what Bram had all but confessed was ever discovered, we’d all be condemned to social purgatory: me, Irving, Bram. He would be branded a criminal, outcast from society. I would be a laughing-stock, a pariah. We would be utterly ruined.

Yet I could not abhor him. I’d asked the question and, as hard as it was, he gave me an answer. Incomplete in some respects, raising many more questions in its wake, but an answer nonetheless. Gaps could be filled in later, over time.

I inhaled and ever so slowly released a tear-filled breath. ‘I see.’