Chapter Seven #2
One minute, there’d been a secure, if dull, life in Dublin opening before me, and now, suddenly, here I was, destined to not only be the wife of the acting manager at one of the most prestigious theatres in London, but I was going to live in the city I’d longed to see.
I’d heard so much about it – how cosmopolitan it was, how crowded, exciting, dirty, how anyone who was anyone flocked there.
There’d be theatres, shops, gardens, concerts, all at my fingertips – not to mention the fascinating people who’d come into my sphere.
How could Mother and Father not see what an opportunity this was?
How it encapsulated everything I’d ever wanted?
My dreams were becoming a reality. Bram’s too – well, apart from writing.
But being in London meant his chances of fulfilling that ambition came so much closer.
‘What about your pension?’ asked Father, his voice cracked and disapproving.
Bram shifted uncomfortably. ‘I’ve had to forfeit that, sir.’
‘Hmmfff,’ said Father.
‘There’s more,’ said Bram.
‘Oh?’ sniffed Mother. Father didn’t say a word; his gaze bored holes through Bram.
‘I’m hoping,’ Bram continued, ‘since the position starts in December in time for the Lyceum’s grand opening, that you’ll give permission for Florence and me to marry earlier, so she might accompany me to London as my wife.’
‘Bring the wedding forward an entire year!’ exclaimed Mother, looking from me to Bram and back again, panic-stricken.
I nodded excitedly.
‘She’s certainly not going with you in any other capacity, young man!’ growled Father and then, standing abruptly, left the room, muttering all the while about eejits, debt, prospects thrown away, actors and actresses. ‘Sleevens,’ he mumbled. ‘The lot of them.’
‘Well,’ said Mother, also standing and smoothing her skirts. ‘I’m sure you know what you’re doing, Bram.’ As she reached the door, she turned and looked emphatically at me. ‘I just hope you do, Florence.’
For such a big man, Bram appeared quite diminished. No doubt he was also recalling the formidable Charlotte’s reaction when he’d told her. ‘What?’ she’d sneered. ‘Manager to a strolling player?’
It didn’t matter that Mr Irving was far more than a strolling player; nor that this new position was better paid than any civil servant’s job.
I waited until the door closed and grinned at Bram. ‘That went well, didn’t it?’
With the date of the wedding brought forward, there were only weeks until I not only became Mrs Bram Stoker, but left Dublin – for good.
The reality of what Bram had committed to, and what I had in accepting his proposal, was starting to become clear.
I was like a Liffey tide, fluctuating between highs and lows, moving from despondency to exhilaration.
My sisters and brothers had mixed reactions to the news. James and Billy pretended it didn’t change a thing, yet I noticed they spent a great deal more time by my side than they ever had before, as if they were collecting memories.
Maude, Catherine and Alice were thrilled for me and wanted nothing more than to imagine what my life would be like in a new city in a strange country as the wife of an acting manager.
‘You’ll come home though, won’t you?’ said Alice one day.
‘Of course I will!’ I said, pulling her close. ‘Often. You’ll think I never left. And you’ll come to visit me.’ Alice withdrew from my arms, shaking her head. ‘I’ll never cross the sea.’
‘You won’t get me on a steamship,’ said Catherine.
‘Me neither,’ said Maude.
‘We don’t want to drown,’ said Alice.
All of us were terrified of open water. The girls couldn’t be persuaded to wet their toes in the local lake let alone cross a raging sea. The notion saddened me deeply.
Phil was her usual pragmatic self. ‘You were marrying him anyway, so what’s the difference if it’s sooner rather than later. It won’t change anything except …’ she hesitated.
It was late. We’d been sketching dresses for days, thinking of ways to improve my existing wardrobe, and how to transform Mother’s old wedding gown into something more fashionable.
Both Phil and Catherine were expert with a needle and thread and already Mother’s antique cream dress was turning into something I’d be proud to wear.
Phil had fashioned a bustle, added some lovely lace we’d picked up from a tinker to the sleeves and frontispiece, and Catherine had salvaged some netting used on Alice’s cot, turning it into a veil.
We’d been discussing Henry Irving and how his offer to Bram had changed everything.
I was so grateful to this man I’d heard so much about, who my husband-to-be clearly adored.
I couldn’t wait to meet him and thank him for believing in Bram, for giving us such a chance.
In my mind, he’d become akin to Aladdin’s genie, casting magical spells that made life glitter.
Once upon a time, Oscar used to make me feel that way …
‘Except what?’ I asked when Phil didn’t continue. Jesus wept. Were those tears in her eyes? Her body shook. ‘Phil, mo ghrá … what is it?’
She threw down the pencil she was using and roughly wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands.
‘Naught. It’s just … I’m going to miss you, Kitten.
Miss this —’ She threw out her arms to include our bed, the glowing lamp, the strips of lace and fabrics draped over the stool, the dresser, the scattered pages, the pencils.
She nodded towards our shared wardrobe, the open door revealing gowns hanging side by side, a faded palette of lilac, gold, powder blue, peach and emerald. ‘I’m going to miss us.’
I pushed aside the skirt I’d been darning and threw myself at her. ‘I’m going to miss you too. So much.’
How long we held each other, I’m not sure.
I cried. For all my bravado and talk of wanting to leave, now it was on the cusp of becoming a reality, what I was forsaking struck me.
I was turning my back on Phil, my family, Captain Walton, my home, my city, my country.
In London, I’d be an outsider, and worse, an Irishwoman.
I’d already discussed with Mother how the English scorned the Irish.
‘Why do you think we encourage you to speak like them? To learn French?’ she said. ‘So you won’t suffer the discrimination our countrymen and women have for centuries, that’s why.’
I thought of Bram. Would he tame his beautiful brogue? A rebellious part of me hoped not. I wouldn’t deliberately hide my origins, either. I was proud of them. Proud of being Irish; being a Balcombe.
‘Well,’ I said, drawing away from my sister, my cheeks wet with tears, my shoulder with hers. ‘You’ll just have to overcome your fears and visit me.’
‘That’s the problem; I’m not sure I can.’
‘Then, I’ll be sure to come home twice as often – and write. I will write, every week, you wait.’
Phil began to laugh. ‘You’re just as scared of the ocean as I am. I don’t expect you to make the crossing often. And you don’t have to write every week … just more than that gobshite Oscar Wilde did.’
There was a beat. Suddenly, he was there in the room between us. Part of us. Phil had loved him too. She’d never entirely trusted him, but she had loved him. We stared at each other, the knowledge of what I’d lost, but also what I’d gained, unspoken between us.
‘Be happy, Florrie. Please,’ she whispered, holding my chin. ‘No matter what the future holds, whatever life throws at you, please, be happy.’
‘I’ll be Mrs Bram Stoker. How could I not be?’