Page 92 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

London, 1897 to 1898

Two shocking events occurred before the end of 1897: the mindless murder of the delightful William Terriss by a down-and-out actor he’d tried to help, and the immolation of the Lyceum’s warehouse in Southwark. Both were blows to the entire Lyceum family, and to Bram.

Is it any wonder then that the novel Bram composed after Dracula, the one he dedicated to me as a panacea for all the sorrow, was a romance? He titled it Miss Betty. When it appeared the following year, it did so with little fanfare and sorry sales. Quietly, I wondered if, after the lurid horror of vampires, the sweetness of Miss Betty (even if she could foretell the future) was not what readers wanted.

Once again, it stunned me how my husband could write with such feeling about passion, about pounding hearts and giddy minds triggered by the presence of another person. Miss Betty was filled with such moments. He’d even set it in the street where we used to live, Cheyne Walk.

Did he ever feel that way about me? About anyone?

Or did all of it come from his bountiful imagination? Did it matter?

Sometimes, when I looked in the mirror and studied my face and body objectively, a body that had birthed a son who was now about to turn nineteen, I’d wonder if I would ever know what it was like to be held with desire, to rhapsodise about the touch of a man, to listen with racing heart for his footsteps, to burn for his kisses. Oscar would float across my mind and memories of his hands, his lips, would cause my flesh to goose and my heart to quicken. I’d been so young, a different person then. He had been, too. I recalled the dangerously angelic face of Bosie, the freshness of Robert Ross, then Oscar as I’d last seen him, flaccid, grey and shattered. I would brush my once chestnut hair, seeing the way the silver threads among the dark caught the light, note the way the lines around my eyes and on my forehead were deepening. My teeth weren’t quite the bright white they used to be. My once taut jawline and neck were loosening.

I’d never been the dizzy, delightful Miss Betty, or Lord Godalming’s Lucy, or any of Bram’s other fictional heroines, fending off suitors and reeling over their charms. I was and would always be Mrs Bram Stoker, wife of a man who could pen the most wondrous and bizarre tracts that gave life to feelings I doubted he’d ever known.

Or had ever felt towards me.

It was a tough pill for this real woman to swallow. Still, after twenty years of marriage, I could console myself that while I didn’t share physical intimacy with Bram, there was much we did. Bram trusted me to hold tight his secret and respect his work. I hadn’t always appreciated the latter, true, and I’d resented the time it kept him away from home, resented the person I saw as responsible for that (and still did). But I’d become the principal sounding board for his ideas; was always the first person to read (or hear him read) his novels. Bram also respected me, valued my opinions. He appreciated the various people I’d brought into his sphere, many of whom had guided him to publication. For all that he’d said and done things that had hurt me profoundly, he’d never broken my heart. As far as I (or anyone else) knew, he never kept a mistress or visited bawdy houses (so many of our male acquaintances did and were not subtle about it), and he certainly didn’t shunt me away to a country house or seek to assert his authority by withholding an allowance. On the contrary, he was a generous provider. He endorsed my housekeeping, my salons, indulged my delight in shopping and new dresses. As if he had a choice! Not after the last time a ‘ladies column’ rather maliciously pointed out I’d worn the same ‘sensational’ outfit twice. It was the shame that report caused that put me on the fateful voyage to Paris with Noel and Mrs Simpson. To think, the desire to win approval, and from the gutter press, nearly cost us our lives …

If only that reporter knew the truth of my arrangement with Bram. Wearing the same outfit wouldn’t rate a mention.

Marriage caused unhappiness for far too many – especially women. So many wore it on their dour faces, squinched lips and downcast eyes. One had only to hear how Sarah Bernhardt’s brittle laugh improved after her husband died of a drug overdose, or recall Lillie Langtry’s false smile regardless of whose arm she was on. Why, look at the twisted features of Florence Irving, Henry’s estranged wife, formed by the bitterness her union had brought her. Then there was the Marquess of Queensberry and his string of broken wives. Not to mention poor Constance Wilde … Marriage had always been my goal. But I’d wanted an interesting life as well. Through Bram, I’d gained that. I should be content. I was – mostly. Yet, a part of me still fretted that my marriage was not what God intended, that I was a fraud, a fraud terrified of being exposed and shunned.

Was the life Bram and I chose to live together that unnatural? It was the question I’d repeatedly asked myself for years. Would I one day be punished for living a lie? Would Bram? I kept pressing God to provide an answer. Alas, the God of love was deaf to my pleas.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

London, 1900

The Lyceum company were once again on tour in the provinces and had gone as far north as Scotland. Naturally, I’d remained in London. A few weeks into their busy schedule, Bram wrote from Glasgow to tell me that Henry had fallen gravely ill. What was first attributed to ‘clergyman’s throat’ was later diagnosed as both pleurisy and pneumonia. Bram’s anguish leapt off the page.

I allowed him to perform, Florrie. Against my better judgement and at Henry’s insistence, I let him tread the boards. I doubt I’ll ever forgive myself for such a serious lapse of judgement.

Henry was ordered to bed and the tour continued without him. Bram took over, travelling between each of the towns, keeping to the gruelling schedule, coming home briefly when he could.

Concerned he’d fall ill as well, I urged him to rest, to hand over the reins to Harry or at least share responsibility. He looked at me as if I’d suggested he dance naked down The Strand.

‘I can’t, Florrie. Henry’s debts are crippling. The only thing I can do to ensure an income so the seventy people who perform each night can be paid, is keep the tour going. Henry’s relying on me.’

Oh, I knew he was. There was, after all, no-one else. Those three men Henry hired years ago had, inevitably, proved worthless.

One night after visiting Henry in Bournemouth, where he was convalescing, Bram confided, ‘Henry’s a mess, Florrie.’ The two men had spent the afternoon together. Once again, Bram tried to persuade Henry to change his mind about Arthur Conan Doyle’s offer to write a drama just for the Lyceum. Even though a play featuring his enormously successful character Sherlock Holmes would be guaranteed to fill every seat and a long run, it was to no avail.

‘Henry said he’d rather the theatre remain dark and empty than put on some populist claptrap.’ Bram shook his head in frustration. I poured him a whisky. Bram downed it in two gulps, then held out his glass for more. ‘He’s coughing up so much blood and pus yet refuses to see the doctor. I had to provide a fresh handkerchief at least a dozen times.’ He gave a theatrical judder.

I made what I hoped were sympathetic noises. No-one should suffer like that. But Henry’s stubborn refusal to listen to Bram, who’d always had his best interests at heart, failing to see his exhaustion, made the embers of ire stir within me.

Ellen had disclosed that Henry’s finances were in dismal straits. If only he listened to Bram, they could be repaired. He could be repaired. Without Henry to perform beside, and with Bram’s blessing, once the tour finished Ellen signed a short contract with Mr Beerbohm Tree’s new theatre company.

‘You organised for the doctor to attend Henry regardless of his objections, didn’t you?’ I asked Bram, joining him on the sofa.

The noise of the Sunday traffic intruded through the window. The sun was fighting a losing battle with bully-boy clouds, its weak light striking a vase of wilting flowers.

‘Of course,’ sighed Bram. He resembled the flowers, so worn and wan. His cheeks were pallid; his eyes lacked their usual brilliance. I wished there was something I could do to help reduce the burden that had always been his to bear when it came to Sir Henry. ‘Henry might be over sixty, but he doesn’t always know what’s best for him.’

I rested a hand on his knee. He closed his over mine. With his other, he swept the hair from his forehead. I noticed all the grey among the copper-brown. The deep lines fanning from his eyes, the grooves in his forehead. When had he grown so old? None of us escaped time’s march, not even the indefatigable Bram Stoker; only his vampiric creations did that.