Chapter Fifteen
‘Bram,’ I said, knocking on his study door gently.
‘This just came for you.’ I pushed the door open to find him bent over his desk, scribbling away.
I watched him a moment; the loosened necktie, the tousled hair, his pen moving swiftly across a page.
It was Sunday, and at my insistence, Bram was home.
But was this writing Lyceum work or the short stories he’d begun to compose?
Bram held out his hand. ‘Henry?’
‘I can’t think who else would send you something on the Lord’s day.’
He read it, then issued a long sigh.
Despite being away for several weeks on a Mediterranean cruise with the baroness over summer, and handing responsibility for the Lyceum to Bram, Mr Irving couldn’t help himself.
Every day, letters, telegrams and notes arrived with instructions.
If they weren’t delivered to Southampton Street, they were sent to the theatre – I know because an actress who was a longstanding friend of Bram’s from Dublin, Genevieve Ward, told me.
Older than me and Bram, Genevieve had once been an acclaimed opera singer, but a terrible illness had destroyed her voice, so she’d turned to acting.
I was quite intimidated at our first meeting.
Raven-haired with pale green eyes and very striking, she was also friendly.
I wondered if it was because she was born in New York and lacked the arm’s-length attitude of the English.
By the time we met, it was impossible to trace her origins through her accent.
She’d lived in so many different countries and even been married to a Russian count – a noble who, though he failed to arrive at the church on the wedding day, was later hunted down by her parents and forced to wed her.
Immediately after the ceremony, she deserted him.
Imagine! Bram had known her for years and leased the Lyceum to her while the company was in summer recess so she could perform a particular play she had her heart set on.
It only ran for four disastrous performances before it was cancelled.
Genevieve was devastated. Determined to help, Bram persuaded her to stage another play he thought better suited to her talents, Forget-Me-Not by Herman Merivale and FC Grove.
It had been a resounding success. Bram convinced her to buy the rights for five years, so when her Lyceum lease ended, she could tour everywhere, including faraway places such as Australia and South Africa.
To celebrate the success of her new play, I’d invited Genevieve to luncheon and asked Bram to ensure he was present.
Bram had been at the theatre even more than usual of late, sometimes failing to come home at all.
When I asked what was keeping him there, he was offhand.
‘Henry might not be around, but the theatre doesn’t run itself,’ he’d say.
Or, ‘I’m taking advantage of Henry’s absence.
’ I tried not to dwell on what else Bram was taking advantage of – my gullibility?
The other actresses? If I didn’t know Genevieve better, I might have been more concerned about that.
Bram’s distracted air, the heavy pouches under his eyes, his sometimes-unkempt appearance, the fact he’d sleep at the theatre, continued to gnaw at me. What was going on?
‘Shall I make your excuses to Genevieve?’ I didn’t even have the energy to sound cross anymore.
Bram re-read the note. ‘If I leave now, I can be back in time to join you both.’
‘Really?’ I asked, disbelief making my question sharp.
Bram chuckled. ‘Really.’
When Genevieve arrived, Bram still wasn’t home. I should have known. I apologised for his absence and explained about the note … the notes.
We were sitting in armchairs, me with tea, Genevieve with a glass of Cypriot.
Genevieve huffed in exasperation. ‘It’s the same at the theatre,’ she said. ‘Couriers arrive with messages from Henry telling Bram to do things he’s already taken care of. I don’t know how he tolerates such interference. I swear I’m far more upset by them than he is.’
‘It’s been like that even before he started at the Lyceum.’
‘They must drive you to distraction,’ said Genevieve. ‘They do me.’
Silence was my answer.
‘All I can say is,’ said Genevieve, ‘your husband has the patience of a saint.’
Or the backbone of an eel, I thought uncharitably.
‘And so do you.’ She raised her glass in a toast.
If only she knew.
There was a loud voice in the hall and the drawing room door flew open.
‘Genevieve,’ cried Bram and drew her to her feet, kissing her soundly on both cheeks.
‘You came,’ I said, putting down my tea and standing.
‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ Bram admonished with a smile. ‘I said I would, didn’t I?’ He held me briefly. ‘Come, Mrs Daw tells me lunch is ready. Shall we? I’m ravenous.’
After a delicious meal of rabbit stew, haricots and mashed turnips, Genevieve recounted anecdotes from her opera days. We were still chuckling over one when Bram suddenly stood. ‘Right. Drink up, ladies. It’s time to go.’
I waved a careless hand. ‘Sit down, Bram, relax. It’s Sunday.’
‘I’ve a surprise for you both at the theatre.’
‘The Lyceum?’ I asked, bewildered. ‘But you’ve just come from there.’
‘What surprise?’ asked Genevieve.
‘Let me just say,’ began Bram mysteriously, ‘that your curiosity regarding what I’ve been doing these last weeks is about to be sated.’ He pulled out my chair and helped me rise. ‘I’ve something special to show you.’
Ignoring all questions and protests, Bram hustled us into our coats and hats and hailed a hansom.
Once we were on our way, I twisted to face him. ‘What’s this about, Bram? Why all the secrecy?’ I wondered briefly if perhaps he was writing again, choosing to keep the manuscript at the Lyceum. Only, that didn’t make sense.
‘Yes, Bram,’ said Genevieve cautiously. ‘What’s so special you can’t simply tell us?’
In the close confines of the cab, he regarded us with sparkling eyes, like a young lad about to embark on a grand adventure. ‘Patience, ladies. All will soon be revealed.’
Upon arrival, Bram led us backstage, then along a twisty and rather dusty passageway.
We passed the gilded thrones used in Hamlet, the bust of a Roman emperor, one side of his head missing, and an arrangement of very dead flowers.
We mounted flights of narrow, creaking stairs festooned with cobwebs, inhaling the overpowering odour of rodents.
It was like entering a haunted house from one of the marvellous tales of Edgar Allan Poe that Phil and I used to read.
The only heart I could hear beating was my own.
Above us, thick wooden beams groaned, unlit lamps were screwed into the walls.
Thank goodness Bram had brought a light.
There was the ghostly echo of the scene painters’ voices below as they touched up some flats.
Broken pieces of furniture were stacked untidily in dark corners.
Swathes of rotting canvas were thrown over other large objects, and I could have sworn the material trembled as we passed, as if some malignant spirit lurked beneath.
I was hot, badly in need of a refreshment, and feeling quite light-headed. I hadn’t walked so much in weeks, not with the sickness having me in its thrall until recently, and Mrs Daw and Matilda reminding me constantly that a woman in my condition should rest.
Finally Bram stopped outside a wooden door.
‘I didn’t know this was even here,’ whispered Genevieve, her eyes large in the glow of Bram’s lantern.
‘Few do,’ said Bram. ‘Now, ladies, allow me to show you what’s kept me occupied. Ta-da!’ He threw open the door, and with a grand flourish, bade us enter, pushing ahead to light the gas lamps.
My first impression was of a gloomy, very long and narrow room.
More like a hallway in shape and size. The walls were oak-panelled and dark, gleaming.
In the centre was a large table that could sit over thirty people with ease.
High-backed chairs surrounded it – some grand, others still in need of repair, most mismatched.
There were pictures aplenty on the walls, portraits mainly, all in gilded frames.
There was a lovely marble fireplace, and an ancient rug on the floor.
The room smelled of nostalgia and old men.
Bram was leaning over the table looking from me to Genevieve, waiting for us to say something.
‘Well?’ he asked, holding out his arms like a proud father. ‘What do you think?’
‘What is this place?’ I asked.
‘This used to be the Beefsteak Room,’ said Bram.
Genevieve glanced at me and we both shrugged.
‘The what?’ I asked.
‘The Beefsteak Room,’ Bram repeated and grinned. ‘Decades ago, a club called the Sublime Society of Beefsteaks was created and gentlemen would meet in this very room to dine, partake of refreshments, smoke, sing and, over a piece of steak, solve the world’s problems.’
‘Or create them,’ I muttered.
Bram continued. ‘When I first discovered it, I dismissed it from my mind. It was run-down, ramshackle, and mainly used to store disused props.’ He pulled out a seat, inviting me to sit.
Genevieve began to wander around the room, studying the paintings.
‘Before he left for his sailing trip with the baroness,’ Bram explained, ‘Henry expressed a desire to host dinners at the theatre instead of the clubs; to entertain key patrons, cultivate and support artistes as well. I remembered this room, what it once was, and knew it’d be the perfect spot to fulfil his wishes.
For the last month or more, I’ve spent every spare minute making it ready.
Now, it’s fit for purpose. When he returns from abroad, Henry can reinstate the club. ’
I regarded Bram steadily. ‘This is where you’ve been? What you’ve been doing?’
Bram beamed. ‘I haven’t done it single-handedly,’ he said, indicating the chairs, the rug, the pictures. ‘Some of the staff helped.’
‘Of course,’ I said faintly. I was both flabbergasted yet strangely resigned.
‘My, you have been busy,’ said Genevieve, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder, squeezing it.
‘I do hope Henry appreciates your efforts. Tell me,’ she added, when no-one spoke for a minute, ‘isn’t that the famous actor David Garrick over there?
’ She pointed to a rather forbidding picture on the wall opposite.
Bram nodded. ‘He’s Henry’s inspiration. Now, it’s the Chief’s turn to do the same for others.’ He jerked his chin towards the other artworks.
Facing me was a series of seven paintings. With a start, I saw they were all of Henry Irving. In one he was portrayed as King Lear, in another, Hamlet, then a character I didn’t recognise – Mathias? I was surrounded by a gallery of Irvings.
Even when he wasn’t here, he was everywhere, including in my husband’s head and heart.
Instead of taking advantage of Mr Irving’s absence to pursue his own work, join me on outings, or spend time at home, Bram had spent every spare minute creating this shrine to his master.
He was awaiting my praise, my congratulations for a job well done.
Oh, it was very kind, it was thoughtful, but it was also …
My knees began to shake; my palms grew sweaty.
I tried to stand, but the arm of the chair was slippery in my grip. Everything around me began to grow dark.
‘Are you quite well, Florence?’ asked Genevieve, clutching my elbow to steady me.
‘Florrie!’ said Bram and flew to my side. ‘Come, let’s get you home. This has been too much. Matilda did warn me.’
I didn’t object as they led me away. Nor did I protest when Bram didn’t accompany us back to Southampton Street but bundled us into a carriage and remained at the theatre. I didn’t ask why or how long he’d be. What was the point?
Sensing the dark turn my mood had taken, Genevieve sought my hand. ‘Be grateful the room’s finished before the babbie’s born, Florence. Bram has no excuse not to be there when the time comes.’
He’ll find one, I thought.
Or Henry will find one for him.