Chapter Eight
It was a cold, blustery day in early December when Bram and I arrived at the Plough and Harrow in Edgbaston, Birmingham, five days after we married.
It had been an intimate service at St Ann’s Church – intimate because, due to its rushed nature, hardly anyone came.
Both my mother and Bram’s mammy remained dry-eyed throughout.
Alice and Catherine howled. Bram’s brothers, Thornley and George, formed a small guard of honour with James and Billy; all the sisters tossed dried rose petals. Father remained seated.
Bram and I spent the next couple of days between the Stoker brothers’ medical practice in Harcourt Street and my home, opening presents, packing trunks with gifted sheets, towels, linen, and other essentials to make a home.
These would be sent ahead. Bram had taken a lease on a suite of six rooms in London’s west, not far from the Lyceum.
Believing we still had a couple of weeks before we had to leave, I was discommoded when Bram bowled into the practice and told me we had to leave immediately – not for London, but Birmingham.
‘Birmingham? Why on earth would we go there?’ I asked, wrapping a vase.
‘Because Henry requires me,’ he said, the telegram containing the summons in his hand.
‘But we’ve still so much to do.’ I gazed helplessly at the half-packed boxes, the sorting to be done, all the while thinking that this Mr Irving was very needy. ‘How can we possibly be ready to leave tomorrow?’
Bram frowned at the mess. ‘I suppose I could leave you here, go on ahead —’ He caught the look on my face. ‘Or we can ask George to take care of everything. Since he’s coming to live with us, there’s no reason he can’t finish organising our boxes and cases.’
I stared about helplessly. This was so inconvenient. ‘Do you think George will mind?’
‘Why would he?’ said Bram. ‘I’ll let Henry know we’re on our way.’ He dropped a kiss on my head.
I sighed. Could I trust all this to George?
Keen to find a position at a hospital in London, George was to board with us and help pay the lease.
Perhaps going to Birmingham wouldn’t be so bad after all, I thought as I wiped my hands on my apron and went to finish packing my trunk.
At least Bram and I would have a few days to ourselves.
Our arrival in Birmingham was met by squalls of icy rain, which meant we ran into the hotel, joining the other patrons milling about in the vast foyer, awaiting a break in the weather.
Bram and I checked in at the desk. I was so busy looking around at the high ceilings, the ornate chandelier and grand staircase, listening to the English and other accents, I only partially caught what the harried concierge was rapidly explaining.
Something about when breakfast would be served, what services were on offer, at the same time hailing a porter to take our luggage.
All I could think was, I’m in England!
The concierge slid an enormous room key across the desk. ‘Enjoy your stay, Mr and Mrs Stoker.’
A dart of pleasure struck me. I was Mrs Stoker.
I fiddled with the ring beneath my glove and flashed Bram a smile.
He was craning his neck, searching the huge foyer.
I turned in the direction of the stairs.
Before I’d taken a step, Bram cupped my elbow and began to steer me in the opposite direction.
‘This way, my dear. Henry’s waiting.’ He nodded towards an area at the rear.
‘He’s here?’ I gasped. ‘Oh, let’s not keep him.
’ I swiftly tucked stray wisps of hair under my hat, tugged my coat cuffs.
Side by side, we headed towards a fireplace surrounded by a semicircle of high-backed chairs; a sole occupant faced the burning coals.
I spied crossed legs and a foot bouncing like a metronome.
I was trembling with excitement. There was so much I wanted to say to Mr Irving, not only to thank him for employing Bram in such an important capacity at the Lyceum, and bringing us both to London (eventually), I also wanted to express my gratitude about his offer to promote Bram’s authorial ambitions.
Mr Irving had promised to introduce him to some publishers.
Forced to halt as a bellboy carrying a great many suitcases staggered past, I took Bram’s hand. This was the first step in a new direction – for both of us. The theatre, England, marriage.
We reached the chairs. The foot ceased its rhythmic movement. ‘Henry,’ said Bram, his voice full of warmth and affection. He released my hand and stepped forward.
Whatever I expected, especially after everything I’d heard and read about Mr Irving, it wasn’t the sallow-skinned man who, with a dramatic exclamation, languidly unfolded himself from the chair and grasped Bram’s outstretched hand enthusiastically.
He was gaunt, taller than I expected, and slender.
His cheekbones appeared to have been whittled from wood, and his nose was rather long and prominent.
His eyes were dark, inquisitive; his surly brows a straight line above them.
His hair was raven-black and unfashionably long, sitting untidily against his collar.
His mouth, which was widening into a great smile for Bram, possessed thin but mobile lips. He was altogether striking.
‘You’re here!’ he exclaimed in a voice rumbling with strange enunciation. He held Bram at arm’s length. ‘You’re really here.’
Bram laughed delightedly, lowered his head modestly and his cheeks coloured.
My stomach churned uncomfortably, and a high-pitched whine sounded in my ears.
I knew that Bram admired Mr Irving, but this behaviour was so unlike him; why, it was almost coquettish.
They exchanged more greetings and reassurances about convivial mutual travels – the ship, the train, the abominable weather.
There was a real simpatico between them that should have been heartening to witness.
I stood back and, as my stomach settled and the noise in my head dulled, affected a smile, quietly rehearsing what I wanted to say.
I waited, but when Bram failed to introduce me, when there was still no acknowledgement of my presence by either man, only a sweep of Mr Irving’s hand inviting Bram to take a seat, I cleared my throat loudly. The men ceased talking.
‘And who is this?’ asked Mr Irving, noticing me for the first time.
I opened my mouth to explain when, with a guilty flush, Bram pulled me to his side. I reached for his hand, but it wasn’t offered. Self-conscious, I tucked mine into the folds of my skirts.
‘This, Henry, is my wife.’
‘Your … your what?’ Mr Irving’s dark brows met, and he stared at me in sheer disbelief.
Since I’d come of age, I’d grown accustomed to a range of men’s reactions, but this was something altogether different.
Almost as if my very presence was an affront.
It confounded me. Refusing to be intimidated, knowing my new travelling gown fitted well and was appropriate for the occasion, that I was well within my rights to be there, I lifted my chin.
‘How do you do, Mr Irving. My name is Florence —’
Mr Irving spluttered, then fell back in the chair as if pushed. ‘The Wife,’ he gasped and clutched his chest. ‘You’ve brought the Wife.’
Bram chuckled as if he’d told a great joke.
‘He couldn’t very well leave me behind,’ I half-laughed.
Mr Irving crossed his legs first one way, then the other.
He looked from me to Bram and back again with glittering eyes, resting his chin on tapered fingers.
He shook his head. He behaved altogether like a villain in a pantomime.
‘You didn’t tell me you had a wife, Bram!
’ His laugh was hollow. ‘Florence? Your name is Florence?’ His face screwed up in distaste.
My cheeks flooded with colour. While I could hardly fault Mr Irving for not knowing that Bram and I were wed – after all, everything had been conducted in such ‘unseemly haste’ as Mother put it – his rudeness was shocking.
Incomprehensible. Perhaps Father had been right about actors.
But the question I really wanted to ask Bram then and there was why Mr Irving didn’t know about me.
Bram had talked of little else but Mr Irving for months.
I knew he was born John Henry Brodribb, in Somerset, and that his role as Mathias in The Bells made him famous.
I knew all the plays he’d performed in; read most of the excellent if somewhat gushing reviews Bram had written when he performed in Dublin.
I knew how much money he’d invested in the Lyceum, that the fabulously wealthy Baroness Burdett-Coutts was a patron, that he’d recently hired the applauded actress Ellen Terry to join his company.
Yet, as was becoming increasingly apparent, I had not featured in Bram’s communications with Mr Irving at all.
Not only was the man ignorant about our nuptials, he didn’t know I existed.
Uncharacteristically, I bit my tongue and tamped down the confusion that climbed my chest and instead, held out a hand.
‘Florence Anne Lemon Stoker, to be precise. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Irving.
And yes, I’m Bram’s wife of five days. Though he didn’t exactly bring me here, like a piece of excess luggage.
The credit for that goes to the steamship, the train and of course, these.
’ I lifted my skirts to reveal my new boots.
‘Shanks’s pony, I believe is the expression. ’ Dear God, I was blathering.
His eyes dropped to examine my well-shod feet before returning to my face.
He took my hand, rising and bowing over it in a mannerly fashion.
I withdrew my fingers as Bram swiftly carried over another chair.
Taking time to sit, I rearranged my skirts carefully, then turned to Mr Irving who watched me in silence.
‘Makes it sound like a proper title, doesn’t it?’ I smiled, determined to alleviate the strain my unexpected appearance had evidently caused. His thoughtless reaction as well.