Chapter Seven
The first I knew that Oscar was back in Dublin was a letter. It was buried under others on the salver in the hall, but I recognised the handwriting immediately. My treacherous heart began to beat faster. I didn’t open it then and there, but tucked it away to read later, in private.
A part of me dared to think (to hope?) he’d written to beg me not to marry, to return to him. The other part dreaded he had. I lacked the courage to examine my ambivalence.
What was it Oscar always said? I like men who have a future, and women who have a past. He was in mine now. Bram was my future.
After lunch, I escaped upstairs. Scrawled across two pages, Oscar claimed he’d been taken aback to learn of my engagement.
Really? What did he expect? I was a woman of marriageable age.
A woman whose family expected, needed me to marry.
He hadn’t asked me to wait for him; he hadn’t asked me anything.
He’d played with my feelings, then ignored – or, worse, forgotten – my existence.
Towards the end of the letter, he asked that I return the gold cross. I still wore it, beneath my dress. I lifted it out, my fingers closing around it.
I wish to carry it with me at all times as a memento of two sweet years – the sweetest of all the years of my youth.
I stared at the words, incredulous; fury began to lick my ribs.
I at least cannot be indifferent to your welfare, the currents of our lives flowed too long beside one another for that.
He dared to accuse me of indifference? The man who’d led me – and others – to believe I meant something to him and then didn’t write a word for months?
Was he so blind to his part in this? It was all I could do not to screw the damn letter up.
Instead, I read it again, shifting between indignation and guilt.
He’d had two whole years to propose and hadn’t.
What choice did a woman in my situation have but to accept who she could, while she could?
After all, another offer wasn’t forthcoming.
When Phil found me later, I wordlessly passed the letter over.
‘He calls you Florence.’ She quirked a brow. ‘Not Florrie.’
‘Seems he finally decided to make it formal between us.’
Phil harrumphed and kept reading. ‘He’s clearly hurting.’
‘Least he deserves,’ I said unkindly, wishing I believed it. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. Not even Oscar.
‘What are you going to do?’ Phil sat beside me on the window seat, our backs to the world.
‘What else but give the necklace back.’ I gazed vacantly around the room. ‘But not here. I can’t bear the thought of him coming here. I’ll pick somewhere else, somewhere there’s no history between us.’
‘Oh, Florrie. Are you sure about this?’
‘Of course, I must return it.’
‘You know that’s not what I mean.’
I rose. My knees began to shake. I sat down again and buried my face in my hands. Phil rubbed my back. ‘No, no, I’m not.’
Outside, there was the clop of horses, the rise and fall of people passing. A dog barked; church bells rang. The faint tread of footsteps in the hallway below reached us. Catherine called for Mother.
‘Oh, Kitten,’ sighed Phil finally. ‘I did ask you not to marry the first man who came along.’
I raised my head. ‘How can you say that to me? Now of all times. And about Bram. He may have been the first, but he’s also the right …’ I paused.
‘The right one?’
‘The right one for me.’ I stared at her defiantly.
‘Is he though?’ she asked ever so softly. ‘Do you love him?’
I groaned. Did I? I admired him enormously.
I thought him in possession of everything that would make a fine husband: ambition, kindness, courtesy, a career.
But love? Come to think of it, I couldn’t recall Bram ever saying he loved me.
Oh, he admired me, I was in no doubt about that.
As I knew from pained experience, actions spoke louder than words.
Oscar’s certainly had, despite his protestations now.
‘Not yet,’ I admitted finally. ‘But I think I could.’
‘Is that enough? For you?’
I glanced at Oscar’s accusatory letter. So petulant, so angry. ‘It has to be, doesn’t it?’
Oscar and I never met to exchange the necklace. When I told him where I wished us to meet – the Stoker brothers’ medical practice in Harcourt Street – and expressed concern how a reunion might be construed (by Bram of course), Oscar was furious. A note arrived.
After all, I find you know me very little, he’d scribbled.
Well, that went both ways.
One part of me was deeply disappointed I wouldn’t see him; another utterly relieved.
I was not ready to test my resolve. Anyway, nothing was stopping Oscar appearing at Marino Court and demanding to see me, throwing himself at my feet and begging me not to marry.
For a few days after our fraught exchange, every knock at the door, every cab slowing outside the house, had me rushing to see who it was.
Oscar never came.
I had to face the truth: far from being ‘over’ Oscar, as I declared, a little piece of my heart would always belong to him.
Minuscule, microscopic, I told myself. A flea’s bollocks. The rest belonged to Bram.
Oscar never received the cross, but I did stop wearing it. I buried it among the few pieces of jewellery I owned and told myself sternly to forget all about it; all about him.
In mid-September, Bram received an urgent message from Henry Irving, saying he needed Bram in Glasgow. Bram dropped everything and went. Naturally, I was filled with curiosity about what was so important that Mr Irving required a civil servant, albeit a very clever one, to attend him.
Over the years they’d been acquainted, it was clear the men had developed a strong bond.
When Mr Irving had come to Dublin for two weeks in July, Bram spent almost every spare minute with him, apologising for neglecting me.
Mr Irving was not only a visitor to our city, but being seen in his exalted company would enhance Bram’s reputation.
Mr Irving was celebrated, earning accolades wherever he performed.
I couldn’t pick up a newspaper without reading about him.
It spoke well of the man that he never forgot Bram was one of the first reviewers to recognise his talents.
Even so, I was a little piqued I was never invited to see Mr Irving on stage or to join them afterwards.
In his desire to attend the actor, it seemed Bram had forgotten his earlier promise to me.
Not long after Bram returned from Glasgow, it was with news that would alter the course of our lives.
He came to the house one evening to share it with my parents.
‘Colonel Balcombe, Mrs Balcombe,’ Bram said, looking windblown and distracted. He nodded to my parents, who sat primly before the fire, cups of tea in hand. The girls had been exiled upstairs, but I knew they’d have ears pressed to doors. James and Billy were off playing sport.
Forewarned, it was all I could do to sit still and not interrupt.
‘I wish to let you know,’ he began, ‘that I’ve resigned my position in the civil service.’
Mother’s mouth fell open. Father choked on his tea.
‘Florence,’ said Mother, removing Father’s teacup and slapping his back. ‘Did you know about this?’
‘Yes,’ I said meekly. ‘Yes,’ I repeated more firmly. ‘Bram told me a few days ago.’
‘Why would you do such a thing, Bram?’ asked Mother, pursing her lips and passing Father her handkerchief. ‘I’m sure you must have good reason.’ She calmly placed her cup and saucer on a small side table. ‘I’m keen to hear what it is.’
Bram shot me a look, and I gave him a nod of encouragement.
‘While I was in Glasgow, my friend, the actor Mr Irving, offered me a position that was contingent on him acquiring the lease of a splendid theatre in London. The Lyceum. While it has taken him a few weeks to secure funding, he informed me he’s now officially the licensee.
I telegraphed him immediately and accepted the post.’
The grandfather clock chimed. Captain Walton, perhaps sensing tension, rose from before the fire and wandered over to Mother, who absent-mindedly petted him. ‘And pray what is this post exactly?’ she asked.
‘I’m to be the acting manager for the Lyceum.’
Mother stared at Bram blankly. Father couldn’t look at him at all.
‘It means taking care of all the productions,’ I said quickly.
‘The actors, hiring and managing the front-of-stage and some backstage staff, scheduling shows, and so much more.’ Bram had explained it all to me.
Unlike Mother and Father, who were dumbstruck, and not in a good way, I was ecstatic at this turn of events.
When Bram told me the job was in London (London!), I’d flung myself into his arms and he’d spun me around until I was dizzy.
To think, after thirteen years, he’d thrown away a boring civil service job and was stepping into the great artistic unknown – and taking me with him.
My solid civil servant was full of surprises – wonderful ones.
I wanted to burst with happiness. To his astonishment and mine, I kissed him.
Bram’s eyes widened, then his face broke into one of his charming smiles. ‘Why, Miss Balcombe!’ He rubbed his nose against mine.
‘Why, Mr Stoker,’ I said, and went to kiss him again. He quickly put me down.
‘Let’s wait until you’re Mrs Stoker before there’s any more of that, shall we?’ He then explained what this position would entail.