Chapter Forty-Four
I stumbled into the frigid corridor, past Bram’s bedroom, to find Maria and Louisa in the doorway of his study, crying and wringing their hands.
With a gelid heart, I pushed between them. On the floor, lying alongside the desk, was Bram. Scattered around him were copies of Personal Reminiscences of Henry Irving.
His eyes were shut, his cheeks colourless.
I dropped to my knees beside him, scanning his body swiftly, my hands drifting above, not knowing what to do, where or even if I should touch him.
He was still in his suit. His tie had been loosened, his waistcoat partially undone, but it was evident he’d never gone to bed.
He must have been in here all night. If only I’d put aside my stubborn animosity, come to his study, welcomed him home.
I lowered my head and shut my eyes, forcing back the welling tears, sending a silent prayer for forgiveness to the Lord. While He may forgive me, I doubted I could ever forgive myself.
I opened my eyes and, with trembling fingers, reached out and stroked his cheek. I drew my hand back with a gasp. ‘He’s warm!’
That wasn’t entirely true. He was very cold, but as soon as I realised there was life in him, I began to loosen his collar, push his hair from his face. I felt the ever-so-slow rise and fall of his chest.
‘Bram?’ I whispered. Then, louder, ‘Bram?’
His senses were shut. But he was alive.
Overwhelming relief flooded me, followed by a strange calmness. I’d been given a reprieve of sorts. Nevertheless, something was terribly wrong.
‘Quick, Ada,’ I snapped, glancing towards the swollen-eyed maid. ‘Cease your wailing. Light the fire.’ Ada blinked at me in confusion, then at Maria, who flapped her hands at her.
‘You heard the missus. Do what you’re told.’
‘Maria,’ I said, picking up one of Bram’s limp hands and holding it tightly. ‘Fetch Dr George and Mr Tom at once.’
‘He’s not dead?’ She bit back a sob.
‘Not yet,’ I said, my voice breaking. The urge to scream and beat my chest was strong. ‘Do as I bid.’
She didn’t need to be told again.
‘Louisa.’ I didn’t even look at her. ‘Help me get him closer to the hearth.’ Reluctantly, Louisa came forward.
I rudely shoved the books out of the way and lifted one leg.
Louisa took the other and we pulled. Once Bram was atop the rug in front of the fire, I grabbed the blanket draped over the armchair and covered him.
I reached for his coat, which was flung across his chair, folded it and pushed it under his head.
He was so ashen-faced, so gaunt-looking.
This hadn’t happened overnight. How had I not seen this before?
Bram was a sick man.
‘Bram,’ I said softly, kneeling over him so my lips were close to his ear. ‘I’m here, my dear. I’m here. George and Tom are on their way. All will be well, I promise.’
As my tears fell onto his cheek and ran down his neck, I prayed.
Don’t let him die, please, Lord, don’t let him die.
The grip his spirit had upon the world felt tenuous.
How long I knelt there, willing him to open his eyes, to speak, I’m uncertain.
It wasn’t until I heard familiar voices downstairs and then two faces I’d never been happier to see enter the room – George, followed by Tom – that normal time was restored.
Tom helped me to my feet, gathering me in his arms, then tenderly placed me in the armchair.
I’d begun to shake uncontrollably. My teeth were chattering, my hands and legs behaving as if they belonged to someone else.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away from what George was doing, but it was as though I watched from a different planet.
Everyone and everything seemed far, far away.
George checked Bram’s pulse then his breathing. The brothers spoke quietly, opening his shirt, wrapping him in the blanket, ordering a variety of spirits and medicine. Another blanket was fetched and put around my shoulders, a warm drink shoved into my hands.
‘What’s wrong with him, George?’ I asked once he’d finished another whispered conference with his brother. ‘Will he be alright?’
A frown furrowed Tom’s usually serene brow and his cheeks were suspiciously wet. George rose from Bram’s side, wiping his hands on a huge white handkerchief. ‘Not sure yet,’ said George. ‘I’ll have to conduct a few more tests to be certain.’
‘Will he be alright?’ I insisted. ‘Will he live?’
George exchanged a long look with Tom then, squatting so his face was level with mine.
‘He’ll live, Florrie.’ He rested a hand on my knee. ‘But whether he’ll be alright is in God’s hands.’
I stifled a moan. ‘What do I do?’
‘Pray,’ said Tom.
And so I did.
After some time, another doctor and his assistant arrived. Bram was carefully lifted and carried into his bedroom. Ada began to pick up the books, stacking them on Bram’s desk. As far as I was concerned, it was no coincidence Bram had a turn whilst revisiting his time with Henry Irving.
I went to follow, but George prevented me. ‘Florrie.’ His tone was so kind, his eyes too. ‘You can do nothing for now. Go, make yourself presentable, eat something. Then, join us. I hope to have some answers by then.’
I nodded. ‘Alright. Thank you.’
‘And, Florrie —’
I paused near the doorway. George held a copy of Reminiscences, turning it over in his hand. ‘If Bram recovers, we’re going to need to discuss his work practices. Seems not even Irving’s death has slowed him down.’
If. Such a small word to carry so much portent.
‘No,’ I sighed. ‘Just almost killed him.’
‘How are you feeling today?’
I carefully slid the tray I’d taken from the maid onto the table in the conservatory.
Bram was seated in a large cushioned chair he’d appropriated the moment we arrived at George’s country house in Deal.
He was dressed in his favourite jacket and waistcoat, a tartan blanket tucked around his thighs.
Several books competed for space on the smaller table beside him, as did newspapers.
It was a cold autumn day, though the sun shining through the glass was very pleasant and provided excellent light for reading.
The magnifying glass Bram required lay dormant in his lap.
Being an invalid didn’t suit him. He resented being shut away and watching the world through a window instead of being out in it.
It reminded him too much of his childhood.
There were days he chose to punish those he felt were responsible for his confinement.
Usually by pretending he didn’t hear us.
Today was one of those days.
I chatted lightly about the progress on the Piccadilly line of the Underground (something that had interested Bram in the past) and told him that the Gilberts had written to say they’d paid a visit to the first crematorium in London – Golders Green (being fascinated with the macabre, I felt sure Bram would comment).
When he didn’t, I poured him a cup of tea and, still talking, sat beside him.
I cast a sideways glance as he drank. He didn’t like anyone looking lest his hands trembled too much, or he spilled the liquid. I was pleased to note he did neither.
Bram returned the cup to its saucer with nary a clatter and released a long, heartfelt sigh. ‘The cook here knows how to brew tea, does she not?’ he said.
‘She does,’ I agreed. Then, as was our usual practice, I picked up one of the unread newspapers and proceeded to share its contents with him.
We’d been at Fairlight Lawn for over two weeks now, guests of George and Agnes and their brood of mostly well-behaved children.
The eldest were already away at school, while the three youngest relied on a governess, a rather frivolous woman named Minna.
Although it was initially a relief to be away from London and reminders of Bram’s collapse, I was starting to miss my friends, and Mary, Ada and Louisa (Maria had come with us), and the bustle and chaos of London.
But in consultation with George, we’d agreed upon four weeks’ rest in the country.
I was secretly glad we’d only ten or so days remaining of this medical exile.
I suspected Bram felt the same. Anyway, he’d work to return to – The Vicar of Wakefield to stage.
The American who hired Bram had been relentless in his messages, wanting to know when Bram would be well enough to return.
When George first diagnosed Bram with both Bright’s disease (which was, I learned, an affliction of the kidneys) and a paralytic stroke, I feared for the future.
‘What caused it?’ I’d asked.
George had taken my hand (never a good sign). ‘It’s difficult to say exactly, but in Bram’s case, it’s likely been brought on because he works so damn hard. The man never stops. He’ll have to now,’ he added.
‘Stop work?’
Suddenly, the life we’d enjoyed flashed before me and a new one rose: no more parties or Sunday afternoons, no more theatre, art shows, exhibitions, speeches, trips to Paris, Dublin or Scotland, or indeed a writing career for Bram.
The line from John Donne’s poem came to me, In that the world’s contracted thus.
‘At the very least,’ said George, interrupting my nightmare, ‘as I’ve said numerous times, he must slow down.’
Dismissing the memories, I said, ‘You seem better today.’
‘I am,’ he smiled.
The palsy I feared was permanent and which made his hands shake so he couldn’t hold a pen or grip a knife, was almost gone. His speech, initially slow and slurred, was improving.
I handed him the two letters that had arrived in the morning post. They were from Hall and Ellen.
They’d also written to me. Many of our friends were doing that, corresponding with each of us separately, determined to only relay positive news to him, buck up his flagging spirits with wicked stories and funny anecdotes, anything to avoid asking after his health.
Questions concerning that were my province, as were their worries for his prospects.
Apprehensions I still shared, though not with my friends.
It was hard to believe that after all these years of steady, well-paid employment, we’d so little in terms of savings.
There was only one person I blamed for both our change of fortune and Bram’s stroke. Even from beyond, Henry Irving managed to control my husband, working him almost to death. I couldn’t shake the idea that somehow, like a vampire, Henry would reappear and claim Bram.
I began to draw the curtains tightly at night, shut the windows in Bram’s bedroom.
I’d ensure a fire was lit in the grate, that the lamps were left burning to discourage any restless spirits.
Not mine, however. He’d followed me to Deal, lurking in corners, an expression on his benighted face I could almost mistake for sympathy.
I wondered if he was there to offer the dubious comfort of the strangely familiar.
Or was he here to reinforce that I couldn’t escape him?
Bram would watch my nocturnal preparations with a bemused expression.
‘It’s in case you call for me during the night, dear,’ I’d explain weakly, ‘and I have to come to you.’
Before I’d leave the room, I’d pray to the Lord to watch over my husband, help his broken body and spirit mend.
‘Please, God,’ I’d whisper, ‘keep his immortal soul safe.’