Chapter Twenty-Four
September slid into October, and the flurry of publicity over Bram’s rescue came to a swift conclusion when the hero of the hour went north for a few weeks to manage the ridiculous ‘Farewell to England’ tour Henry had insisted the Lyceum company undertake before they headed to America.
Bram and I had hardly seen each other, what with Henry and the theatre dominating Bram’s every waking hour, and me visiting the Gilberts, attending plays, art exhibitions and lectures at the Royal Institution.
I still held my salons every other Sunday, minus Bram and the Lyceum luminaries, but I was all too aware that opportunities to keep company with my husband, or for Irving to enjoy his father, were slipping away.
Soon, Bram would be on the other side of the world for six months.
We may not have shared conjugal relations, but it was important we consolidate what we had, otherwise I feared we’d drift apart, perhaps irrevocably.
When Bram came home in mid-October, I decided to discuss the possibility of snatching a few days away together, just the three of us – in Dublin, Paris, anywhere we could be together as a family.
Bram and I were in the drawing room. The moonlight pierced the gap in the curtains, spotlighting my writing desk and the book I was reading, Around the World in Eighty Days.
If Bram could travel, so could I, albeit in my imagination.
The coals gave off a lovely molten glow.
I was tired and longed for bed, but ever since the man died in our house, I’d been disturbed by strange dreams that left me hollow-eyed and jumping at shadows.
They always began the same way: I was sitting at our dining table, entertaining friends.
The table was beautifully set with fine bone china and silverware.
Candles burned on the mantelpiece and sideboard.
The fire wasn’t lit, and the room was very cold and filled with shadows.
Bram wasn’t always present, and I couldn’t recognise my guests.
Sometimes, they were vague outlines; at others, they were dark and lumpen, their faces obscured.
It didn’t seem to bother me, not at first; nor the fact that everything happened in silence.
In the centre of the table was an enormous cloche.
At some point, the cloche was lifted. Beneath it lay the drowned man.
I tried to cry out, to stand, to flee, but I was unable to move.
Bands of fear twined themselves around my rib cage, tightening like a cruel corset.
My guests began to dissolve into thick grey smoke that rose as the man slowly sat up and faced me, staring with those blood-red eyes.
I tried to express how sorry I was that he had died; how I wished more could have been done.
That it wasn’t Bram’s or George’s fault.
But my tongue became a great weight, muting me.
Then his mouth opened in a rictus, exposing long grey teeth as he reached for me with impossibly attenuated fingers, his palms draped in weed or hair, I couldn’t tell which, before he lunged for my throat and I woke, bathed in sweat.
In other dreams, he’d simply follow me through the house, emerging from behind doors, anywhere the light didn’t reach.
I would try to ignore him, but the tension in my chest, my goose flesh and shallow breathing meant my body wouldn’t let me.
I soundlessly cursed him, pleaded with him to leave me be.
But he didn’t, and slowly my fear transformed into vexation.
Why was he tormenting me? His death was not my doing.
It had been so long since I’d slept through the night, the lack of sleep was making me irritable.
At least, that’s what I told myself. I hadn’t divulged to Bram what was plaguing me.
He thought I was out of sorts because he was leaving.
There was truth in that, too. A part of me was angry with him – angry that he’d brought the man into our home, angry that I was obliged to keep his secret, even though I knew I’d little choice.
In my head, the two merged, one becoming a symbol of the other.
Secrets damaged everything, caused relationships to decay, love to die.
I’d no choice but to keep Bram’s confidence because it was also mine.
And now I had to hold it tight while dealing with my unwelcome nightly visitor.
Aye, rightly or not, I was angry with my husband.
Bram was settled into his chair, whisky in hand and waiting for me to speak of my day. There was the hoot of an owl, the hollow clop of horses’ hooves. It was very late, past two in the morning.
‘So,’ I began, after Bram finished telling me how difficult it was proving to pack the required scenery for America, ‘I’ve been thinking …’
‘You’re always thinking, Florrie,’ he interrupted. I wasn’t sure if it was a criticism or a compliment.
‘We should snatch a few days away before you go. You, me, Nounou Yvette and Irving.’ Mademoiselle Yvette was a very sensible Frenchwoman I’d hired to replace the marvellous Elizabeth, who’d been forced to return to her family in York when her mother fell ill.
Bram shook his head. ‘That’s impossible, Florrie. Henry needs me.’
I stared at him incredulously. Honestly.
This was getting ridiculous. I counted to three before I spoke, determined to keep calm.
‘You’ve just spent the last few weeks by Henry’s side.
You’re about to go away with him to the other side of the world for half a year.
Has it ever crossed your mind, Bram, that maybe I need you?
That your son might? Or is Henry the only person you ever think about? ’
Bram released a weary sigh. ‘Of course I think about you and Irving. Words like that don’t become you, Florence.’
‘Oh, so what words would you like me to use, Bram? Please, do tell.’ So much for remaining calm. ‘Or would you rather I say nothing at all? Stop thinking and, while we’re about it, talking too?’
‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’
My laugh was a sharp trill. ‘First, I’m unbecoming and now ridiculous.
How many other insults will you level to subdue me?
’ I leaned towards him. ‘I’ll not be quiet on this matter.
In case you’ve forgotten, Henry hired extra staff who can meet his needs.
It would do him good not to be so reliant on you.
And, frankly, Bram, as I’ve said many a time in the past, it would do you good, too. ’
Bram finished his whisky and stood. ‘I’m tired. It’s been a long day, and I’ve a very busy one tomorrow. The last thing I need is to come home and be harangued by my wife. I’m going to bed.’
A red curtain fell across my vision. I felt cold and heavy, like a great iceberg anchored to the ocean floor.
‘Sometimes,’ I said bitterly, as he reached the door, ‘I think you’d be more troubled if Henry died than me or your own son.’
Bram paused and slowly turned around. His eyes were filled with angry sparks. ‘I can always have another son,’ he spat. ‘What I cannot have is another Henry Irving.’
‘What did you say?’
‘You heard.’
My heart pounded; I began to shake, my chest constricted. Did other wives ever feel as I did in that moment towards their husbands?
Sheer hatred.
There, I said it. I wanted God or some other force to smite him, turn him into a pillar of ash. If a sword had been in reach, I swear I would have run him through.
Instead, I steadily rose, replaced my glass on the sideboard and pushed past him to wrench open the door. I paused at the threshold. ‘It’s a blessing I’m not accompanying you to America.’
There’d been a moment when he was upset about Henry’s decision to exclude spouses and children, especially as Henry’s dogs Charlie and Fussie were travelling with them, but as usual, he hadn’t contested it.
‘After all,’ I said, softly, dangerously, ‘you can scarce manage one wife. How could you possibly cope with two?’
I didn’t wait to hear his answer and slammed the door in his stunned face.