Page 83 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘Is it that bad?’

There was no softening the blow. ‘Worse.’

‘Tell me,’ he demanded, smoothing a shaking hand over his cheek.

I took a deep breath. ‘Oscar’s been convicted of gross indecency and sentenced to two years hard labour.’ I bit back a sob.

‘Dear God!’ Bram dropped his head into his hands. As he absorbed the news, my mind replayed the events of the last few months.

London had been transfixed by the growing feud between Oscar, the Irish playwright, dandy and wit, and Lord Alfred’s father, the bellicose Marquess of Queensberry. Their quarrel was brought to a head after the marquess left a note for Oscar at a club they both frequented, the Albemarle, which read: ‘For Oscar Wilde posing somdomite.’

Misspelling aside, the marquess believed Oscar was perverting his son Bosie, the young gentleman I’d once met at Lady Jane’s.

Affronted by the note, and the public manner of its delivery, Oscar was persuaded by a vengeful Bosie, who loathed his father, to sue the marquess for libel.

In the lead-up to the libel trial, the marquess threatened Oscar and warned him away from Lord Alfred every chance he got – in restaurants, hotels, and even on opening night of Oscar’s play at St James’s Theatre, the outrageously funny The Importance of Being Earnest. There he arrived with a bouquet of carrots and turnips to throw at the stage from his box. Fortunately, Oscar was alerted and the authorities were called. Gilbert and I had been forced to negotiate our way through at least twenty peelers before being admitted to our seats. The police stood in the thick snow, doing their utmost to remain vigilant while trying not to freeze to death. Initially, I’d thought their presence a publicity stunt, much like the green carnations Oscar had distributed at the opening of Lady Windermere’s Fan months before. I hadn’t known what they meant until Bram told me when we arrived home.

I was just removing my wrap when I saw Bram twirling one of the pretty green flowers, a strange expression on his face.

‘Did you get one as well?’ I asked. ‘Oscar was handing them out to certain men friends. Why would he do such a thing?’

Bram poured us both a whisky, passing me a tumbler. ‘You really don’t know what a green carnation signifies?’ He held the bloom aloft.

I shook my head. ‘It’s a lovely colour. But, apart from being against nature —’

‘Exactly. Just like Oscar.’ He waited until I met his gaze. ‘And he doesn’t seem to care who knows or who else he identifies as being … like him.’

The colour drained from my face. ‘You didn’t wear it, did you?’

Bram scoffed. ‘Of course not. I didn’t even know I had it until just now. He must have slipped it into my pocket when we caught up after the performance.’

‘What a selfish fool he’s become.’ I plucked the flower from Bram’s fingers and threw it in the smouldering hearth.

‘Selfish and indiscreet,’ said Bram.

Our eyes met. ‘One cannot afford to be indiscreet.’

‘No, one cannot,’ agreed Bram.

In the shadow of Oscar’s case against the marquess, what had been bubbling away in London for years burst forth. In his stubborn insistence on pursuing the libel case, his defiance of social norms, Oscar unleashed a collective vengeance, not upon the marquess, as he’d hoped, but upon himself and what his relationship with Lord Alfred represented. Men like Oscar were seen as a threat – to marriage, family and civilisation. Accordingly, they must be punished.

Those who’d once sought Oscar’s presence at their soirees and dinners now shunned him. Work that had once drawn praise and delight, his poems, children’s stories, and essays, were discussed in a new and unforgiving light. Those witty bon mots, his trips abroad to study antiquities, were all tarnished with a depraved brush. The Picture of Dorian Gray, and all his wonderful popular plays, were now viewed through a glass darkly. Then, there were the green carnations …

I steadied my breathing as Bram absorbed the terrible news I’d just delivered from the court, his face registering despair, disbelief, denial, then fear. It was an echo of mine as I’d sat in the courtroom. Underlying it was also anger. Anger at Oscar that he hadn’t heeded the advice of those who had his best interests at heart and had urged him when he lost the libel case against the marquess to flee the country. Lady Jane was partly to blame for that. Self-serving Bosie as well.

Above all the emotions I’d experienced in the courtroom was guilt. As Bram lifted his head to regard me, I could see it swimming in his eyes as well.

‘Oh, Bram,’ I whispered. ‘Oscar won’t survive this. Not hard labour.’ I reached across the desk and our fingers entwined.

‘No.’

‘But we must,’ I said, squeezing his fingers forcefully.

‘Because of your insistence on caution, on staying out of … all this, we will,’ said Bram.

The entire time Oscar faced court, giving evidence, having his private life made public in all its grisly detail, Bram and I had kept our distance – from Oscar and the courtroom. We’d relied on the newspapers and reports from others, devouring any news. At least if they’re all looking at Oscar, I thought, they’re not looking at anyone else.

After Oscar lost his libel case, then was charged with indecency and put on trial, I was unable to stay away any longer. With Bram’s blessing, I’d thrown caution to the wind. With my face covered by a veil, I’d squeezed into the packed courtroom on the final day. I listened as the judge declared it to be the ‘worst case he’d ever tried’.