Page 61 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘You’re always thinking, Florrie,’ he interrupted. I wasn’t sure if it was a criticism or a compliment.

‘We should snatch a few days away before you go. You, me, Nounou Yvette and Irving.’ Mademoiselle Yvette was a very sensible Frenchwoman I’d hired to replace the marvellous Elizabeth, who’d been forced to return to her family in York when her mother fell ill.

Bram shook his head. ‘That’s impossible, Florrie. Henry needs me.’

I stared at him incredulously. Honestly. This was getting ridiculous. I counted to three before I spoke, determined to keep calm. ‘You’ve just spent the last few weeks by Henry’s side. You’re about to go away with him to the other side of the world for half a year. Has it ever crossed your mind, Bram, that maybe I need you? That your son might? Or is Henry the only person you ever think about?’

Bram released a weary sigh. ‘Of course I think about you and Irving. Words like that don’t become you, Florence.’

‘Oh, so what words would you like me to use, Bram? Please, do tell.’ So much for remaining calm. ‘Or would you rather I say nothing at all? Stop thinking and, while we’re about it, talking too?’

‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’

My laugh was a sharp trill. ‘First, I’m unbecoming and now ridiculous. How many other insults will you level to subdue me?’ I leaned towards him. ‘I’ll not be quiet on this matter. In case you’ve forgotten, Henry hired extra staff who can meet his needs. It would do him good not to be so reliant on you. And, frankly, Bram, as I’ve said many a time in the past, it would do you good, too.’

Bram finished his whisky and stood. ‘I’m tired. It’s been a long day, and I’ve a very busy one tomorrow. The last thing I need is to come home and be harangued by my wife. I’m going to bed.’

A red curtain fell across my vision. I felt cold and heavy, like a great iceberg anchored to the ocean floor.

‘Sometimes,’ I said bitterly, as he reached the door, ‘I think you’d be more troubled if Henry died than me or your own son.’

Bram paused and slowly turned around. His eyes were filled with angry sparks. ‘I can always have another son,’ he spat. ‘What I cannot have is another Henry Irving.’

‘What did you say?’

‘You heard.’

My heart pounded; I began to shake, my chest constricted. Did other wives ever feel as I did in that moment towards their husbands?

Sheer hatred.

There, I said it. I wanted God or some other force to smite him, turn him into a pillar of ash. If a sword had been in reach, I swear I would have run him through.

Instead, I steadily rose, replaced my glass on the sideboard and pushed past him to wrench open the door. I paused at the threshold. ‘It’s a blessing I’m not accompanying you to America.’

There’d been a moment when he was upset about Henry’s decision to exclude spouses and children, especially as Henry’s dogs Charlie and Fussie were travelling with them, but as usual, he hadn’t contested it.

‘After all,’ I said, softly, dangerously, ‘you can scarce manage one wife. How could you possibly cope with two?’

I didn’t wait to hear his answer and slammed the door in his stunned face.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Dublin, 1883 to 1884

Bram and I parted on very strained terms. His terrible words echoed long after I waved goodbye as he boarded the steamship City of Rome with only six hundred tons of sets and costumes for company. Henry had sailed a week earlier, on 11 October, taking the luxurious SS Britannica along with Ellen, the dogs, and the rest of the players.

I can always have another son. What I cannot have is another Henry Irving.

A Henry Irving who thought nothing of making Bram follow him rather than travel beside him.

Irving and I spent Christmas with my family in Dublin and remained with them for the duration of Bram’s absence. Naturally, every visitor who came to Marino Court was curious about why Bram wasn’t with me. I was forever fielding questions about where he was and what he was doing. As the weeks passed and more letters arrived, I was able to tell them, ‘He’s in Philadelphia this week’, or ‘Detroit this month’, as the company travelled north, west, east, then back to New York where they started. There, Bram met President Chester Arthur (and even went on to dine at the White House when the company arrived in Washington). He also met the writer Mark Twain, whose real name was Samuel Clemens, and arranged to see his beloved Walt Whitman, the poet whose work caused such controversy.

Reviews of Lyceum performances reached Irish shores and were shared over breakfast or in the evenings. While Henry was praised for his Mathias in The Bells, the critics didn’t appreciate his Charles I, one writing it was a ‘charity to cut off his head’. I imagined Gilbert chuckling over that. I know I did.

Ellen wrote, informing me that for all Henry captivated audiences and the people he wined and dined, it was Bram making the greatest impression.

Henry might be charming the bald eagle, but without Ma, we’d all miss our entrances and exits – and not just on stage. He’s obsessive about sticking to schedule, ensuring we all run on time – Henry, William, Harry, the trains, even the hounds, Charlie and Fussie. We’d be lost without him. Henry especially. The people here recognise that and love him. How are you faring without him, Lemon?