Page 95 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

PART SIX

1902 to 1912

Out, out brief candle

… never have I seen, nor do I expect to see, such absorption of one man’s life in the life of another. If Bram’s body had its rightful resting place it would be at Irving’s feet …

Hall Caine’s obituary for Bram Stoker, Daily Telegraph, 24 April 1912

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

London, 1902

18 St Leonard’s Terrace

Chelsea

24th August

Dearest Phil,

Thank you for your chatty letter and the beautiful shawl. The gift was unexpected and so thoughtful of you. I find it a great comfort. The brief summer has given a last gasp, blown away by frigid winds that blatter the windows and stir the embers in the hearth. As I write, the parlour maid, Louisa (she’s the one with the sprinkling of freckles and eyelashes that would be the envy of a dairy cow), is frantically trying to remove coal dust from the furniture. A lost cause at the best of times.

You asked what I was up to. Well, between visits to the theatre, an exhibition at the newly opened Leicester Gallery, dinner with friends, listening to Bram give lectures and after-dinner speeches (he’s very popular), and my Sunday salons, in memory of Bram’s mammy I’ve been raising money for the Royal Association in Aid of the Deaf and Dumb. I’m currently enjoying another of our friend Mr Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes, The Hound of the Baskervilles. Bram will read it too (when he has time), especially since Arthur sent such a lovely note regarding his latest novel, The Mystery of the Sea. I’m glad you and John enjoyed it; please feel free to pass it around the family. It’s very different from Miss Betty or Dracula, isn’t it? Quite the rollicking adventure with its buried treasure and secret codes. It was the use of codes Arthur particularly liked. Bram based the one in the book on a cipher used by Francis Bacon. The things one learns when you spend every spare moment (!) in the British Library or museum. Instead of being delighted by Arthur’s praise, Bram became quite despondent as anything with the name Conan Doyle attached serves to remind him of Henry’s stubborn refusal to accept a play from the man. Turns out, the play Arthur intended for the Lyceum a couple of years ago has been an outrageous success in America. It’s decisions like that which confirm Henry is losing touch (and has been for some time) – not that Bram is ready to admit it. It’s quite depressing, really.

Frankly, Phil, these days melancholy rises to envelop me like a winter’s brume the Thames. Over the last year or two, we’ve been beset by blows that would fell a much sturdier being. First it was Oscar dying (I still miss him so), followed by those trite and unkind obituaries, especially in The Times. Thank God Lady Jane wasn’t alive to read them. Then, as if it wasn’t enough, there was the death of our glorious queen. Imagine Bertie, who used to crook his finger at Lillie Langtry, drink until he tumbled over, argue over the roll of dice, is now King Edward VII.

Bram still has that terrible limp you commented upon when you saw him at his mother’s funeral. The scar left from the trunk that struck him during that last Atlantic crossing is like a war wound. I doubt he’ll ever walk properly again. But he did recover from the pneumonia he contracted, thank you for asking.

Now, what letter from me would be complete without a line or two devoted to Sir Henry. I know my complaints about the man must be tiresome, but Bram’s distress as the fracture in their relationship widens is difficult to witness. I cannot discuss it with him anymore, and the Gilberts simply agree with me (they’ve always detested Henry); Ellen is compromised by having loved him and though she and Henry are no longer together (did I tell you? Not only will she be leaving the Lyceum Company, but Henry has a new amour), I don’t feel right carping about him to her (I know it hasn’t stopped me in the past, but she’s also very despondent at present). So, I’m afraid it’s you or no-one and you’ve always been such a good listener – especially by letter.

Just over a month ago, Sir Henry gave his final performance at the Lyceum, a matinee of The Merchant of Venice, playing Shylock. Ellen was Portia. As they took their bows (it was the thousandth performance – can you believe that? Bram had seen every single one) the applause was deafening. After the audience left and the company remained, hugging, crying, reliving stories from the past, an army of workers moved in and following orders from Bram, commenced dismantling the theatre. Unable to watch, I removed with Ellen to her dressing room, which was virtually empty. We sat together, staring at our reflections in the mirror, sipping champagne that Harry Loveday had thoughtfully placed in the room, listening to Bram’s booming voice echoing from the stage. For all the theatre held mixed memories for me, for Ellen and, of course, Bram, it also represented almost twenty-five years of dedication, hard work, glory and failures. It was a huge part of our lives. The fact the curtain had come down due to Henry’s foolish business decisions (honestly, that consortium!), it’s his total disregard for Bram’s advice that’s equal parts infuriating and frustrating.

Ellen hadn’t even finished her drink when she broke down. Yes, me too, mainly because of the realisation that though the theatre has shut its doors, Bram was still as committed to Sir Henry as the day he agreed to become his acting manager.

As if to prove me right, not only will there be a provincial tour in a couple of months, but Sir Henry had Bram book the Theatre Royal for an entire season next year. The play will be Dante and, in usual Sir Henry fashion, a spectacle. Bram said the budget was already in excess of twelve thousand pounds! I’m convinced Sir Henry thinks he’ll be able to magic the funds or find a cave of thieves and command ‘open sesame’. Then, to top it all off, Sir Henry intends to tour Dante – with all the expensive sets and lighting, plus cast, around America. Bram will be gone from October to March and, before you ask, I’ve no intention of accompanying him. Expect to see me then.

God, Phil, I can only imagine how exhausted Bram will be after that, in addition to finding someone to replace Ellen, who has signed a contract with Beerbohm Tree, then this grand American venture. There’s talk of visiting thirty-three cities in five months. Thirty-three! When I said to Bram, Sir Henry is mad, Bram replied, ‘Not mad, he just wants to leave a legacy.’ I think leaving his profession with his health intact would be a better one, don’t you? The man is ailing, and it’s apparent to all.

It’s not only Sir Henry whose health is in question. Bram has recently lost weight for no explicable reason (other than overwork). On top of all his commitments, he’s been writing articles for newspapers, short stories, tracts, speeches, answering so many letters I cannot begin to tell you, and working on another novel. A person just needs to cry ‘Help me, Bram!’ Or ‘Some advice, please, Bram!’ and my husband drops everything and does all in his power for whoever. He’s also developed some painful sores on his arms.

The good news is that with the Lyceum shut for the rest of summer, Bram has returned to his favourite place: Cruden Bay in Scotland – alone this time. He’s abandoned our regular haunt at the Kilmarnock Arms and is staying in nearby Whinnyfold. He may call it a holiday, but it’s not. All our holidays, such as they are, end up becoming about work of one kind or another. Why, during our last sojourn, at St Ives, I rarely saw him as he was finishing Mystery of the Sea. He tells me his next novel will be called The Jewel of the Seven Stars. Such an intriguing title, don’t you think? It never ceases to amaze me what comes out of my husband’s head. Those looking for another Dracula might be disappointed. Did I mention that Dracula is now in its sixth reprint?

Let me tell you about Noel. He’s now a fully-fledged accountant (he would have told you when you saw him at Charlotte’s funeral?), living in London and recently brought home a most delightful girl for us to meet, Neelie Sweeting. Sweet by name and nature, and Noel is clearly smitten. Young love. Was that us once, Phil?

What I have with Bram may not be the kind of love I thought I longed for, the troubled, passionate, Cathy-Heathcliffe doomed-but-forever sort. (Remember how one of us would pretend to see her ghost at the window and scare the bejesus out of the other?) Over the years, I’ve come to appreciate that love comes in many guises, and I find that one tended like a garden, grown from small seeds to flower gently, suits me. Hot fires can burn one to ash and rarely rekindle once they’re doused. What’s your preference? Fierce and burning? Or love that flourishes over time?

I think when love, in any form, is returned, there’s something secure and enduring about it.

On that final note, please, give my love to the family. Oh, and tell the girls I received their list of requests for various items from Harrods. I’ll do my best between now and my next visit to be a good aunt and fulfil them.

Love always,

Your Florrie.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

London, 1905