Epilogue #3
I think, in the end, my fight for Dracula’s rights, for my dues as Bram’s widow, was as much a fight for my right to be myself: a woman who would no longer be governed by men’s choices – the dead and the living.
For years after Oscar’s death, I’d wondered if he’d never asked me to marry him because he loved me too much to cause me the pain that became Constance’s.
But no. He’d loved her too, in his own way.
That was one thing I had in common with sweet Constance – we’d both wed men who couldn’t return our love – not in the way society expected.
She was punished far more harshly than me, living in exile for the rest of her short life.
And Bram? His stubborn loyalty to Henry Irving reduced him in every way possible – as husband, writer, father, and as a man.
As for the disease that ultimately killed him – and the choices that led to it – surely that was punishment enough, secular and divine.
I sent a prayer to heaven for him, and for Poor O and Constance.
Then there were the men who lived: Mr Thring, Mr Deane, Liveright, Balderston, Bang, the many publishers and film producers – all had tried to force me into decisions that were in their best interests while pretending they were in mine.
But I’d resisted them.
The truth was, Dracula had transformed me, turned me into something different and, I liked to think, better, stronger. I had Bram to thank for that, and I did. With all my heart.
The laudanum had me in its grip now. I could hear the soft strains of a hymn, the faint rumble of thunder.
A raven sat on the end of my bed, pecking at the bedcovers.
A bat flew in the window and alighted on the mantel, folded its wings and hung upside down.
More followed, draping themselves like bunting along the picture rail, their little furry heads twisted, their pebble eyes staring at me.
A thick mist drifted in the window and began to fill the room, curling sinuously about the bed.
From within its billows a bald man in a shabby suit, a cape swirling about his thighs, appeared.
With brazen familiarity he glided across the room.
His eyes glowed that cursed ruby shade, his teeth, sharp and crowded in his mouth, gleamed as he smiled.
‘It’s you,’ I whispered. ‘Here to crow over my demise, I suppose?’ My chest was moving rapidly now, my heart ready to burst from my ribs.
Silently, he bent over me and as I gazed into those blooded orbs, I saw myself reflected in their depths. I gasped. My hair was lustrous and chestnut, my face unlined, my cheeks pink, my mouth a fragrant rosebud.
He gently pushed the tresses away from my forehead.
The mattress shifted as he lowered his weight onto it.
To my surprise, he smelled of the past, of long walks in Merrion Square, assignations in churches, opening nights at the theatre, crowded cinemas, electric lights, motor cars, cordite and terror; violets and roses, the briny sea.
Of something chthonic and dangerous too. He drew closer.
A spindly finger caressed my cheek; a pointed nail scored the skin. ‘I’ve come to take you, Florence Stoker.’
I started shaking, tears streaming down my cheeks. I wasn’t ready to go. Not with him, please … No …
‘Take you to him …’ he finished.
Another, beloved voice, entered my head; one with touches of Ireland, of promises made and dashed, of dreams defeated. One replete with possibilities, too.
‘We’re bound together for all eternity,’ it pledged. ‘My love, my champion.’
My demon swooped and his jagged teeth met the soft flesh of my neck. My mouth opened in a soundless scream as hot blood pulsed against his tongue. The cold that had gripped me melted as heat coursed from my jugular to every other part of my body.
Bright light exploded. The raven cawed and the bats chirruped, their funny leather wings flapping. I could no longer hear the hymn.
The mist languorously enveloped me, spectral caresses causing my body to thrum, relax. Tranquil now, I ceased to resist and closed my eyes in surrender.
Champion. Was that how I’d be remembered? Not as the Wife, or Mrs Dracula, but as a champion.
‘Take me, then,’ I sighed, and his savage kiss deepened. I began to dissolve into a dreamy nothingness, where pain had no place, becoming weightless. Memories jostled against my newfound peace, before fading … fading.
I opened my eyes. My dark guide had vanished. The birds and bats too. Only the mist remained and, when it parted, two men emerged.
Both were tall, distinguished. One was possessed of lovely twinkling grey eyes and the most genial smile. He nodded in joyous welcome and beckoned me lovingly. The other, a cape draped across his broad shoulders, gazed at me with an expression of such longing and opened his arms.
I rose from the bed hesitantly and stood. I’d a choice to make. The last and most important I’d ever make. One for all eternity.
But there’d really only ever been one man for me.
With swimming eyes and a full heart, I walked towards him.