Chapter Forty-Two
The weather was unusually warm for October.
Bram was in the provinces again, managing the Lyceum company’s latest tour.
Determined to get me out of the house, Gilbert had invited me for a drive in the country in his new Rolls-Royce motor car.
By the time he delivered me home, I was bone-tired.
All that fresh air and bucolic scenery was incredibly wearying.
My head had not long hit the pillow when a pounding on the front door woke me.
Before I’d even reached the top of the stairs, Bram’s younger brother Tom came bounding up them.
Not quite as tall as Bram, he was a slender man, with kind, deep-set eyes and a marvellous moustache waxed into curled ends.
After he retired from the Indian Civil Service a few years ago, he and his wife Enid had moved close by.
‘Tom!’ I exclaimed, clutching my nightgown, staring at his anxious face as Ada, our maid for the last year, frantically lit some lamps.
I ushered him towards the drawing room, carrying a lamp with me. ‘What brings you here at this hour?’ I glanced at the clock. It was after two. ‘Oh, God,’ I said, hand flying to my mouth. ‘Bram. Is he alright?’
‘He’s in good health.’ Tom waited until Ada left the room. I knew she was listening at the door.
‘What is it? Are you alright? Enid?’
‘I’m fine, Florrie. Enid too. But I’m afraid I’ve some very bad news.’
My heart was thudding painfully. ‘Is it Phil? James? Catherine?’ I didn’t stop to wonder why Tom might know anything about my siblings.
Tom forced me to sit down. ‘It’s not them.’
‘Then who?’
‘It’s Henry Irving,’ said Tom.
‘Henry? But why —?’
‘I’m afraid he’s dead.’
I fell back in the chair as if struck.
‘How?’ I asked, trying to gather my scattered thoughts.
‘He collapsed —’
‘No,’ I waved my hands. ‘How do you know?’
‘Bram telegraphed and asked me to come and tell you. He didn’t want you to read it in the morning papers. He wanted someone to be with you when you learned …’
I sucked in my breath. Even when faced with such a catastrophic loss, Bram thought of others. And this time, he thought of me.
Tom knelt on the floor by my side.
‘Now give me details,’ I whispered. ‘I know he’s been very ill. Bram’s been most concerned.’
Tom nodded. ‘My understanding is Sir Henry collapsed in the foyer of the Midland Hotel in Bradford. After the performance —’
‘Of course after.’ I gave a dry laugh. Henry was playing Beckett, a role he loved.
‘He didn’t make it to his room. Bram hadn’t long left him and was called back. He found him in his valet’s arms, already dead.’
‘Poor Bram.’ I prayed they parted well, despite everything that had happened between them of late, the disagreements, the recriminations over the failure of Dante in America, the cancellation of the next American tour, Henry’s growing irascibility as his health worsened, his refusal to slow down.
I began to rise. ‘I must go to him.’
Tom gently forced me back down. ‘Bram knew you’d want to but said to assure you he’ll be home as soon as he’s made the necessary arrangements.
He asked that you remain in London.’ Tom patted my knee and stood.
He went to the bureau and poured us both a whisky, returning with full glasses, one of which he pressed into my hands. Grateful, I drank.
The sounds of the streets were suddenly loud, intrusive.
A series of shouts from somewhere nearby; the clop of horses abroad late; the mournful dirge of a tugboat horn.
I could hear Ada and Maria whispering in the hall.
The glow of a streetlamp shone through the window, falling on a folded magazine.
From where I sat, I could see the article. It was one Bram wrote about Ellen.
Oh, Ellen. She and Henry may not be together anymore, but this would break her.
If I couldn’t go to Bram, I could go to Ellen.
I made to stand again, then took in the darkness, the shadows.
I would go in the morning. She would blame herself, reasoning that if she hadn’t left Henry, this wouldn’t have happened.
I sat sipping the whisky, examining my feelings about ‘the Chief’ who had dominated our lives and controlled my husband for so damn long.
Every decision we’d made – appointments, trips, dinners, invitations, openings, every holiday we’d taken, every separation we’d endured, even our wedding – had all been timetabled around Sir Henry and his needs.
I’d carried my burning anger at his power over our lives like an unwanted child. And now he was gone.
Out, out, brief candle.
Henry had haunted our existence when alive. Would it be any different now he was gone? Would Bram finally be free? Would he be able to become the man I’d always hoped? Devote time to his writing?
I drank in silence, lost in thought, the clock ticking. Did Henry know he was dying? What was he thinking about in his last hours, minutes?
‘I know you’ll be concerned about what Bram will do now Henry’s dead,’ said Tom, interrupting my musings. ‘I’ve no doubt he’ll be able to pick up work with another theatre company. With all his experience, they’ll be clamouring for him.’
I stared at Tom in first bewilderment, then horror. ‘Another theatre company? Oh, Tom, Bram won’t want to do that. Not again. Not anymore.’
‘Why ever not?’ He gave a little huff of disbelief.
‘It’s what he’s good at. It brings in a decent wage.
’ He looked around the room, at the Whistler on the wall (a gift from James), the other fine paintings, tapestries, the lovely ornaments, rugs and furniture.
Yes, Bram’s wages had paid for all this and more, I thought, plucking at my silk robe.
‘Because Bram’s a writer,’ I said more earnestly than I intended. ‘He wants to write books. He does write them. Now he can devote time to that and make his name in the literary world.’
Tom set down his glass and began to chuckle. Then, he saw the look on my face.
‘You’re serious? That’s how Bram wants to make a living? I always thought of it as a … pastime.’
Tears of indignation began to build. I blinked them back. I couldn’t credit his brother had laughed.
‘Pastime? It’s a great deal more than that, Tom. It’s what he’s always wanted to do. Part of the reason we came to London.’ Another promise Henry had broken, to introduce Bram to publishers.
Tom stared at me incredulously. ‘Really? Then I’m afraid he’s going to have to get a damn sight better at it.’
I sniffed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Come on, Florrie, you’re a practical woman.
Bram may be outstanding at many things, but when it comes to penning novels, his efforts haven’t set the world on fire, have they?
I mean, when I mention my brother is Bram Stoker, folk don’t say, ‘‘Oh, you mean the author?” They always say, “Oh, Henry Irving’s man”, or “Henry Irving’s secretary”.
Some even refer to him as “Irving’s shadow”.
Don’t look so surprised. Good God, he’s been at the man’s beck and call for twenty-seven years. ’
I’d accused Bram of the very same. What made me despondent was that other people shared the same view. But then, hadn’t they always?
I thought of the books Bram had written – none of them had sold as well as he’d hoped. Even Dracula, though it continued to sell, only brought a small amount of royalties each year.
Tom was right. I wanted to deny it, but I couldn’t. No-one thought of Bram Stoker as an author, any more than they thought of him as a lawyer, yet he was that too – a barrister, no less.
‘It’s only because he’s been so busy helping others find success,’ I said defensively, ‘helping them realise their dreams, that he didn’t have time to spend on his own. Now he’s freed from any obligation to Henry, he will. You’ll see.’
‘Well, I hope you’re right, Florrie,’ said Tom amiably, finishing his drink and standing. ‘I really do, because one thing I’ve learned about being a husband is that sometimes you must forgo your lofty ambitions for the sake of your family. Dreams don’t pay the rent.’