Chapter Twenty-One
The rain kindly held off long enough for my first salon to be a complete success.
I’d spared no expense, deciding it would also be an opportunity to celebrate the publication of Bram’s collection of children’s stories, Under the Sunset.
Meeting Mr Marston had paid dividends. Handsome ones.
It was his company that published Bram’s tales.
I’d also invited all my friends and, following the suggestions of Gilbert, Lucy, Ellen and Lady Jane, a range of other people from London’s artistic and political ranks.
Ellen, the Gilberts, George and Matilda were first to arrive, along with Bram’s brother Richard, who was visiting from India and staying with his sister.
He was followed by Lady Jane, Hall Caine and his housemate, the artist Frederick Sandys, and James Whistler (I couldn’t not invite him; we were practically neighbours).
The artist John Singer Sargent, a friend of Matilda’s, came, as did the writer and illustrator George Du Maurier, who Gilbert had reluctantly introduced to me at the last Beefsteak dinner with the warning, ‘Careful. He’s a notorious womaniser, Florence. ’
‘A Lothario, is he? Then he needs to be wary of me,’ I reassured Gilbert. ‘I regularly slay them … with my tongue.’
Gilbert chuckled. ‘The deadliest weapon known to man.’
‘Only to those whom I wield it against.’
Regardless of Gilbert’s caution, I was keen to converse with Mr Du Maurier as, having been born in Paris, he spoke fluent French and mine was becoming rusty.
He’d asked to meet Sarah Bernhardt, the marvellous French actress I’d encountered last season and who was between tours.
Escorting her was her lover, soon to be husband, Aristides Damala.
Even the prime minister, William Gladstone, whom Bram had befriended before he was voted into office, came, accompanied by both his wife, Catherine, and the notorious Sir Richard Burton who, learning about my salon, sent me a note, begging to be included.
How could I refuse Sir Richard Burton? Others soon followed – the dashing William Terriss; a young Scottish writer, Arthur Doyle, who I’d bumped into on a walk with the Gilberts one day.
There were also a couple of scientists from the Royal Society Lady Jane proposed, at least three journalists Ellen knew, and some philosopher acquaintances of Bram’s.
The drawing room in Cheyne Walk was much larger than our previous one, but even so, it felt crowded.
Striped wallpaper lined the walls above the oak wainscotting.
Gold and cream chintz armchairs and a large chaise lounge were artfully arranged around a Moroccan rug.
High-backed wooden seats from our dining room were placed in twos and threes by the large windows.
A card table was erected near the fireplace and, sparing no expense, I’d even bought an elegant chess set and placed it on a mahogany table before our towering bookshelves.
Hall Caine and Sir Richard were already in the thick of a game.
Cigar smoke swirled, mingling with the odours of perfume, the flower arrangements I’d purchased last-minute, leather, male pride and whisky.
Conversation and laughter rose and fell.
From my position near the window, I watched with no small degree of pleasure as my drawing room filled with people I admired, those I was yet to become familiar with, some I liked very much and, I admit, those I disliked, as well as some who simply tolerated each other’s company.
As they entered, I introduced my guests to each other, made sure they had drinks and encouraged them into pairs and small groups of like-minds.
With a starched apron over her gown, Emma was ably assisted by two extra maids I’d hired just to serve Mrs Daw’s scrumptious food.
There were tiny watercress and egg sandwiches, jellied fish, devilled kidneys, miniature cakes, pastel-coloured meringues, as well as tea, coffee, wine and port.
Bram moved with ease through the room, chatting with Lady Jane about the worthiness or otherwise of a new newspaper, the London Evening News; congratulating Miss Bernhardt on her recent success in America and Paris.
William Terriss was busy flirting with Ellen (a vision in lilac), telling her all about a visit he’d paid to the town of Godalming to see the electric lights.
‘They say it won’t be long before theatres are using it, too,’ he said.
‘Don’t let Henry hear you say that,’ said Ellen. ‘If there’s one thing Henry abhors above all else, it’s change.’
Henry chose that moment to materialise. Eschewing his usual antisocial stance, he’d deigned to accept my invitation.
I suppose I should have been flattered. He stood in the doorway, eyebrows bristling, gazing with marked hostility when no-one noticed him until Bram rushed to his side like a moth to a flame, saving me the trouble.
Hall Caine, who’d lost his chess game to Sir Richard, fluttered over just as Gilbert, who’d been ready to suggest a rematch, headed in the opposite direction. He really couldn’t abide Henry.
Lucy was trying to persuade me, Catherine Gladstone and Matilda to join a group of women who spent one day a week preparing packages for our soldiers in the Transvaal. We’d just agreed when Gilbert sidled over.
‘I thought you’d better taste than to invite that ham,’ said Gilbert, lifting his glass in Henry’s direction.
‘What’s a party without a bit of melodrama?’ I said.
‘My mother would agree,’ said a voice behind me. My spine tingled and my cheeks flooded with colour.
‘Oscar,’ I exclaimed, spinning around. I hadn’t seen him come in.
Dressed in a royal blue jacket, a silk scarf tied about his neck, he held a glass in one hand and a flower in the other. He quickly handed the stem to me with an elaborate bow. It was a yellow chrysanthemum.
I stiffened. The bloom symbolised slighted love. As he greeted the Gilberts, Mrs Gladstone and Matilda, I swiftly recovered and placed the flower on a table. ‘I didn’t expect you.’
‘I’d never be so boring as to be expected, Florrie.’ He bent and kissed my cheek. ‘I hope you don’t mind me coming. Mammy said I’d be welcome.’
His mother chose that moment to limp across the room, using her cane to push people aside, her black mantilla towering over all of us – even her son.
‘Of course you are,’ I reassured him. ‘Always.’ As Lady Jane fussed over Oscar, I searched for Ellen. ‘Look who’s —’
Ellen gave a shriek and rushed to greet him, William Terriss on her heels. Bram detached himself from the group he was with and slapped Oscar on the back.
‘Good to see you, Wilde. It’s been a while. Heard you’ve been busy.’
‘Not as busy as you,’ said Oscar, gripping Bram’s hand. ‘Congratulations on the book.’
Bram brushed the compliment away, though I could tell he was pleased. ‘Just some children’s stories inspired by those Mammy and Nurse told me as a child. They’re quite gruesome, really.’
We all tittered, me nervously. They really were. Though I loved macabre stories as much as the next person, when Irving had nightmares from Bram’s tales of morbid hauntings and ferocious beasts, I was more than a little apprehensive.
‘So are most children,’ said Oscar and gulped his wine.
‘Who then grow into gruesome adults,’ I said, looking casually about the room.
Oscar followed my gaze. ‘None of us can stand others having the same faults as ourselves – not even you, Florrie.’
‘Why, Oscar, that presumes I have some.’
There was more laughter and a burst of excited chatter before Bram wandered away to greet new arrivals, including Oscar’s brother, Willie.
After telling me how lovely I looked and what a splendid afternoon it was, William Terriss took Ellen aside.
Gilbert’s business partner, Arthur Sullivan, drew Lucy, Gilbert and Mr Du Maurier into a deep conversation.
I began to relax. Over by the fire, Bram was finding a seat for Lillie Langtry, who’d arrived unaccompanied, pleasing the men, especially Willie Wilde, George and Richard, no end.
‘By the way,’ I said, when it was just me and Oscar. ‘I’ve been wanting to thank you for the lovely flowers you sent on the opening night of The Cup. You shouldn’t have.’
Oscar smiled and my heart somersaulted. ‘No, I really should have. But you didn’t wear them.’
‘You saw me?’
‘I’ve always seen you, Florrie.’ He raised his glass in Bram’s direction. ‘Apart from having to endure old Henry, how are you and Brammie?’
My lips twitched. ‘You know Henry’s pet name.’
‘Shocking, isn’t it? Less like a Brammie, etcetera. Never mind, I’ve one for the master. Hen-peck, I call him, but don’t tell him.’
‘I think I might …’ I grinned.
Oscar’s hand clutched his chest. ‘Your teasing always undid me.’
‘Oscar. Don’t —’ I went to leave.
‘Wait. Florrie, please. Talk to me.’
I turned back.
‘I can hardly credit that the ingenue I knew in Dublin is responsible for this gathering —’ Oscar’s arm swept the room. Then he saw my face. ‘No, that’s not true. I knew you’d be remarkable. You always were.’
I gave a sad smile.
‘You have a lovely home,’ continued Oscar. ‘But, tell me, how’s married life? Is it everything you wished for?’
It was as if Oscar could see into my soul. There was nothing but sincerity in his eyes; sincerity and something else …
‘It’s … an experience,’ I said with forced levity. I owed Oscar no elucidation. I didn’t owe him anything.
‘Experience is the name we give to our mistakes.’ He tossed back his drink.
‘Then I will leave you to contemplate yours, Mr Experience.’ Before he could think of a clever retort, I joined Hall and Mr Rossetti, who were arguing with Mr Gladstone about the imprisonment of Charles Parnell in Ireland.
I was about to engage with them when Mr Du Maurier descended and steered me towards the window, whispering urgently to me … in French.
Still flustered from Oscar, it took a moment to understand him. Once I did, I retreated a step.