Page 66 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘I don’t want to be a monster!’ Irving howled into his palms.

I made a noise of dismay.

‘And you’re not, sweetpea,’ said Ellen soothingly, ruffling his hair. ‘The make-up is only so you look like one.’ She glared at Henry, then Bram. ‘What were you thinking?’

Irving’s cries began to ease.

Dismissing Ellen with a flap of his hand, Henry bent over until his face was level with my son’s. ‘That’s right, boyo, there’s nothing to be afraid of. Why don’t you show your mother? Show her what I did.’

Ever so slowly, as Ellen and I made noises of encouragement, Irving lowered his hands and stared in the mirror. Beside him was Henry. I studied the two faces, side by side, one large, one small, one aged, one youthful, the crow-coloured brows, the hollowed cheeks, eyes reflecting the gaslight so they appeared to have twin flames in their heads. Not only was my son named after Henry, in that moment he resembled him as well.

‘Dear God,’ I whispered. ‘A diabolical double.’

Irving’s eyes, already crudely emphasised with black rings, grew larger by the second, his lips began to quiver and his body to shake. He let out another piercing shriek, and shoved Henry away. ‘Enlève-le! Enlève-le!’ He began rubbing his face, smearing the make-up.

‘Merde!’ Henry, startled, fell on his arse and scuttled away.

Irving began to rake his cheeks, his nails renting the delicate flesh. Blood and tears mingled with the thick paint. He was sobbing, terrified, confused. I grabbed his hands and turned him around so he could no longer see himself. Ellen stood between Irving and Henry.

‘Dearling, Irving, listen.’ I kept my voice calm, soft. ‘Tu vas bien. You’re alright.’ He was panting heavily; snot collected between his nose and upper lip. Ellen handed me a towel and I knelt and wiped his face, wincing as the scratches reopened and bled afresh.

‘I want to go home,’ he cried, tears trailing down his damaged face.

‘Hush, hush,’ I whispered, brushing them aside, pulling him into my arms. ‘If that’s what you wish, we’ll go.’ I looked pointedly at Bram, who had helped Henry to his feet. ‘Bram?’ I waited for him to offer comfort to his distressed son, to do something.

Henry’s eyes narrowed as he observed us. ‘You need to take that boy in hand, Brammie. Teach him to behave.’

‘Behave?’ I stood and lifted Irving into my arms. ‘What? Like any young Christian lad would when made to look like Satan? To having the devil himself transform him?’

Henry began to laugh. It was cold, brittle, like breaking glass. ‘Moi, the devil?’ He gestured towards me. ‘And there’s your problem, Brammie. The poor boy can’t tell the difference between reality and fantasy. I wonder who’s to blame for that?’ With one last accusing look in my direction, he swept from the room. Moments later, Harry’s voice rang out.

‘Five minutes until curtain! Show’s about to start.’

As far as I was concerned, the show was over.

I put Irving to bed, leaving him in the care of the new nanny, Mrs Cassan Simpson, Nounou Yvette having returned to France a month earlier. I retired to my own, my mind filled with noxious thoughts about Henry and devils before I found myself dwelling on Oscar again. Yesterday, I’d learned that his son, Cyril, was ill. He was a sickly baby and a source of concern for him and Constance, who was very pregnant with their second child. It was the reason Oscar had absented himself from his usual social circles, including my last few salons, though Bram said he’d been seen about town. I confess, I’d missed his presence. I prayed for him, his son and Constance, before finally drifting off …

Something woke me from yet another feverish dream. I found Bram at his desk, writing. The sun hadn’t risen but from the bugling of a distant cock, and the mauve and sapphire sky, dawn was approaching.

‘How long have you been home?’ I asked sleepily. I hadn’t heard him come in.

He waved towards a chair, inviting me to sit. ‘A couple of hours.’

‘You haven’t been to bed.’

Bram shook his head, even though it wasn’t a question. A half-drunk bottle of whisky and a glass sat at his elbow.

I waited for him to inquire after Irving. He continued to write. I cleared my throat. ‘Shouldn’t we discuss what happened with Irving? With Henry?’

The pen stilled. ‘I’m not sure what’s left to say about it, Florrie. The boy had a fright, that’s all.’

‘He did. Henry frightened him. I can’t believe you allowed him to do that to our son.’

‘Do what? Put a bit of greasepaint on him?’ Bram scoffed. ‘Henry was right; the boy overreacted.’

‘Overreacted? He was terrified, Bram.’

Exasperated, Bram put the pen down. ‘Did Irving have trouble settling when he got home?’