Chapter Sixteen
Eyes wide with wonder, Bram beheld his newborn for the first time.
With an exclamation of joy, he reached into the crib and carefully scooped his son into his arms. They made a splendid tableau: the besuited father and his swaddled boy.
He’d entered the world just as a threatening storm unleashed its madness, my own wails mingling with those of the wind.
Next to Bram stood Dr Everett, who’d been recommended by George.
On his other side was Matilda. George stood just behind Bram, patting his brother’s shoulder.
Emma was bustling around, bunching bloody cloths and towels.
First making sure I was comfortable upright, pillows nicely plumped behind me, the nursemaid, Mrs Elizabeth Jarrald, took up position close to the babbie.
The glow from the coal fire made everyone appear radiant.
Fire smoke drifted lazily about, forming spectral shapes in shadowy corners, while outside, gusts rudely jolted the glass.
‘What are you calling him?’ asked Matilda, crooning softly.
Before I could answer, Bram did. ‘His name is Irving. Irving Stoker.’
‘What did you say?’ I stared at him incredulously. Surely, I’d misheard.
‘I said,’ Bram repeated, a fatuous sort of expression on his face, though whether that was from holding the child or the drinks he’d consumed, it was hard to tell.
By the time he’d lurched into my crowded bedroom, the doctor who’d been present at the birth close on his heels, the babbie was more than two hours old.
‘His name is Irving Noel Thornley Stoker.’
There were nods, murmurs of approval. George grinned and slapped Bram on the back. Matilda cast a dubious look in my direction.
‘Pfft. I’m in no mood for your humour, Bram.’ I fell back on the pillows.
‘Humour?’ Bram rubbed his nose gently against the babbie’s, inhaling.
I’d a vague memory I’d done the same when they first placed my son in my arms, inhaled the very essence of him.
It was like nothing I’d ever smelled before.
As if the perfume of heaven and the angels had been distilled.
To think, after all the blood, the hours of building pain, the soupy fog of the laudanum, this perfect little sweet-smelling being had emerged.
‘I’d hardly make light of something as important as our son’s name, my dear,’ he chuckled.
A sweet-smelling angel called Irving …
‘He’ll not be called Irving.’ My voice was low, firm.
Emma paused in what she was doing. Elizabeth’s hands fluttered nervously. The doctor gave an embarrassed cough.
‘Too late to change it,’ said Bram, chuckling, as if I was making a joke. ‘It’s on the birth certificate. Filled it out when I arrived, according to the doctor’s instructions.’
Dr Everett said something unintelligible above the roaring in my ears. Bram had wanted me to use George as my physician. I told him it’s bad enough George lives with us and is privy to much of what is said and happens, be damned if I’d let him prod my body. Now I’d cause to regret my decision.
My fingers curled around the sheets. They’d been changed.
The bloodied, sweat-soaked ones taken away, my body washed and scented.
As scented as someone who’d just spent hours straining and pushing and expelling all kinds of fluids could be.
God, I still leaked. I ran my fingers through my hair, which brushed and now dry, sat loosely about my shoulders, falling to my hips.
I’d pulled off the cap I’d been wearing, loathing the way it clutched my scalp, the dampness at the edges.
‘I thought we were agreed upon names, Bram,’ I began, trying to keep my voice steady, aware of the audience. ‘If we had a boy, he was to be called Noel James Thornley – after my eldest brother and yours. Sorry, George.’
George shrugged good-naturedly.
Bram tittered, either ignoring or not hearing me. ‘Look at his hair. Matilda,’ he swung the child towards his sister. ‘It’s quite dark, isn’t it? Was mine like that when I was born? I wonder if he’ll have your eyes or mine, Florrie?’
‘I think it better if he has his own,’ I snapped.
Matilda began ushering George, Elizabeth and Emma out of the room, clucking like a hen.
Dr Everett, who’d done very little except administer laudanum when I grew angry that Bram was ignoring the many messages sent to the theatre, and watched (‘supervise’, he said) Elizabeth help me deliver the child, took it as his cue to retreat to the drawing room for a celebratory drink.
Bram was obviously keen to join him for more, as was George.
Bram wasn’t going anywhere until we sorted out this naming business. One look at my face told him as much.
I waited until the bedroom door closed, and the chink of glasses, along with some low laughs, carried from the other room.
I watched Bram swaying in front of the fire, nursing our newborn and tutting.
How was it possible for a heart to swell with affection and yet constrict with rage and disappointment at the same time?
I pressed my hand to my breast, willing my brain to focus.
‘I don’t want him called Irving, Bram.’
‘Oh, but I do, Florence,’ said Bram, smiling amiably. ‘Think of everything Henry has done for us, for me. It’s my way of honouring him. It’s the least we can do.’
Everything he’d done for Bram? Why, the first thing he’d done upon returning from his boating holiday with the baroness was hire an accountant – an old, out-of-work actor named Charles Howson – insisting the man work with Bram.
Bram, who’d done a meticulous job of not only managing the theatre while Henry sojourned, but reinstating the bloody Beefsteak Room, had been devastated.
I’d been grateful to start with, thinking the extra person meant Bram would be freed from at least one duty.
On the contrary, Mr Howson, who was supremely unqualified, created more work for Bram who had to train him and, when he proved unable to grasp what was required, check every entry he made in the ledgers and redo his calculations daily.
When Bram tried to talk to Mr Irving about Mr Howson’s ineptitude, instead of redeploying or even firing him, Mr Irving insisted Bram continue to supervise the man’s efforts.
‘Charles needs the work, Bram. He can no longer tread the boards and being in the theatre makes him feel useful.’
I objected when Bram told me. ‘Mr Howson isn’t useful. You are. Tell him, Bram.’
Bram simply took on the extra workload.
And now, here he was, wanting to name our son after Mr Irving. Didn’t he understand, a man like that didn’t appreciate grand gestures. You may as well name a dog after him. Considering the fuss he made over his pups, he’d probably prefer it.
‘Oh, Bram … I think you’ve done more than enough. You don’t need to bestow his name on our son.’
‘Well, it’s done,’ said Bram. ‘Henry already knows.’
‘What?’
‘And he’s agreed to be Irving’s godfather.’
‘You asked him to be godfather as well?’ My voice was shrill. ‘Without consulting me?’
‘Calm yourself, Florence. Really. There’s no need to make a —’
‘Oh, Bram! How could you?’ I couldn’t deal with this now.
I covered my face, blinking back tears. Warm fluid flowed between my legs.
I imagined the blood, spreading, soaking into the fresh sheets.
My life force, my protests, draining away.
‘Mr Irving didn’t even attend the christening of his own second son,’ I said, my words slightly muffled.
‘How can he be godfather to our boy?’ I raised my head.
Bram scoffed. ‘You know why he didn’t go – his Florence wouldn’t allow him. Anyway, this is different.’
Angry words crowded my throat, wrestling for release.
On the one hand, I wanted desperately to make Bram understand how this was intolerable to me.
Reason with him. Henry Irving already had a big enough stake in our family without my son bearing his name.
God, could I bear to even say it? To call him Irving?
To introduce him, knowing everyone would first see Henry Irving?
The Chief, the guv’na, as the other actors and stagehands addressed him.
Every time I called to my son, wrote about him in letters to my family, to Bram’s mammy, it would conjure him.
How could I ever utter that name in love?
To have it in my mouth, hear it upon the lips of others, in my house day after day after day, year after year … I shuddered.
Only, this wasn’t Mr Irving’s doing, was it?
This was Bram’s. Discounting what we’d discussed, he’d overridden what I thought was a mutual agreement.
Then, he’d asked him to be godfather without talking to me first. The disrespect was breathtaking.
I wasn’t some weak-willed woman he could ride roughshod over.
I was furious he couldn’t see what was apparent to me, to Matilda, to Genevieve, even to Ellen Terry.
The last conversation I had with Ellen flew into my mind.
‘I worry about Ma sometimes,’ she’d said.
Whereas most of the actresses called Bram ‘uncle’, an appellation to put me at ease so I knew their intentions towards him were avuncular, Ellen called him Ma.
It came about when she saw how Bram signed letters with his qualification from Trinity, the MA.
Not one to allow such a vanity, or to remind him of it, Ellen used the initials to bestow an altogether different meaning.
It made me laugh the first time I heard her use it.