Page 78 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘The stairs, the cows in the fields, the birds in the sky, whatever you wish.’

‘I’d like to see the circus.’

We’d learned yesterday there was a circus in town.

‘We’ll see,’ was the extent of my commitment.

Noel sighed and with a kiss on my cheek, tucked his book under his arm and left the breakfast room.

‘Dracula,’ I said finally, as Bram finished his meal with gusto.

‘It’s evocative, isn’t it?’ he said between mouthfuls. ‘What with your vision of the dead man who manifests in shadows and fogs, in the corner of rooms, his blood-red eyes and sharp teeth, flocculent palms, I have my villain. I’m thinking of writing about a psychical research agent who investigates those who refuse to die, who taunt the living. The undead. Someone or something called Dracula will feature, of course.’

‘The undead?’ I swallowed. My hand trembled as I reached for the teapot. I suppose that was what the drowned man was – to me, at least. Undead.

‘I rather fancy calling this agent Singleton. Dr Singleton, you know, to represent someone of single purpose. He’ll have white hair and a beard, like Walt Whitman, only more adventurous. Ever since I met that fellow who came to your first salon, the explorer, Burton, I’ve wanted to include men like him as characters in a book. Bold, daring, enterprising. Intelligent. Fighting evil. A story of this nature is perfect.’

‘Undead,’ I repeated. Again, an image of the spectral man rose before me. ‘Like a ghost that manifests in daylight to unsettle anyone who sees it?’

‘Oh no,’ said Bram with an odd smile, looking straight through me. ‘Something much, much worse.’

Our time in Whitby passed quickly. Noel and I attended dances, concerts and even a marvellous performance of The Marriage of Figaro. In our final week, I met the novelist Violet Hunt. Noel and I had been taking tea at the spa in town. Miss Hunt was seated at an adjoining table and asked us to join her and her mother, Margaret Raine Hunt, who had her own claim to fame for translating Grimms’ Fairy Tales from German into English (Noel’s grandmothers had read these to him over the years). When she learned I was married to the acting manager of the Lyceum and a published author, Miss Hunt wasted no time inviting us to her parents’ place nearby for a soiree. One of the guests at Broad Ings Farm happened to be George Du Maurier.

I’m not sure what came over Bram as we whiled away the afternoon eating cakes, drinking tea, playing games and exchanging stories. Perhaps it was an attempt to upstage Mr Du Maurier, who was in fine fettle, or to prove himself worthy among Violet’s well-known acquaintances (including Ford Madox Ford and the writer Herbert Wells), but before too long, Bram began to regale those present with tales from the Lyceum I’d never heard before, arousing much laughter.

Later, while some of the guests played tennis, I took Noel into the gardens to see the huge aviary. Part of it was enclosed to protect the birds from the weather. Noel wandered around the cage, pressing his face against the glass, agog at the colour and noise. That was where Mr Du Maurier found me.

‘Even their brilliant plumage pales beside you.’ He swept a bow.

‘Really, Mr Du Maurier?’ I laughed. ‘That’s the best you can do? Comparing me to parrots?’

He chuckled. ‘Oh no, I can do much better.’ He stood so close, our shoulders touched. ‘If only you’d give me a chance.’

‘Mr Du Maurier …’ I flashed a look at Noel, then out of the corner of my eye, I spied Bram heading towards us across the lawn.

Mr Du Maurier saw him too. ‘Forgive me, Mrs Stoker, but it’s so easy to forget what stimulating company your husband can be, he’s so often lost in Mr Irving’s shadow.’

I released a tired sigh. ‘He casts a long one. We’d come here to escape.’ I didn’t admit that not a day went by when I half-expected Henry to show up at our lodgings.

‘Well, I for one am glad you did. It’s always a pleasure to spend time with you, Mrs Stoker.’

I looked askance at Mr Du Maurier, but there was nothing but sincerity in his eyes. I responded accordingly. ‘Thank you. I wish —’ Bram had reached Noel, who was around the other side of the aviary, pointing at a macaw. Bram knelt beside him, indicating another rather large bird with a magnificent emerald and sapphire crest.

‘What do you wish?’ asked Mr Du Maurier softly.

‘I wish we didn’t have to return to London.’ There was such an expression of horror on Mr Du Maurier’s face, I burst out laughing. Bram looked up and smiled uncertainly in our direction.

‘You don’t mean that, surely?’ Mr Du Maurier asked incredulously.

‘No,’ I admitted, still laughing. ‘Not really. But —’ I lowered my voice. ‘It’s nice to be away from the Lyceum.’

‘From Henry Irving, you mean.’

I wisely remained silent.

Mr Du Maurier nudged me. ‘Do you remember you once said to me that your husband worshipped the man?’

‘Did I?’ I gave a cavalier laugh. Oh, I remembered. I also recalled how disloyal I’d felt saying such a thing. But Du Maurier never used my rash words against me or Bram. ‘Now, I’m inclined to think Henry’s mesmerised my husband, the power he has over him.’