Chapter Ten
Full of festive fare and enjoying their cigars, the men were reclining in the chintz chairs, admiring how fine the drawing room looked.
I’d festooned the mantelpiece with holly and ivy and decorated a young spruce in a pot.
Cards from home were propped on the sideboard, a captive audience for the pre-loved nativity scene I’d picked up from a tinker near Covent Garden.
‘I propose a toast,’ said George, raising his glass. ‘To Florrie.’
‘To Florrie,’ repeated Bram, smiling. They both drank. ‘Homemaker extraordinaire.’
I basked in their approval. It was nice to feel appreciated.
It was even nicer to have us together. We were a tiny branch of the Stoker family, a trio of Irish in a sea of English.
My happiness briefly dimmed as I thought about everyone back in Marino Court.
What would they be doing now? Had Alice found the pudding penny again?
Did Father Bowan stay sober enough to deliver the midnight service? My heart grew heavy.
‘And here’s to being able to pay for Florrie’s extravagance,’ added Bram, observing the room with a slightly concerned expression.
George snorted. ‘So long as Irving keeps covering expenses for all those nights you have at the Garrick or White’s, carousing till dawn. They must cost a fortune.’
‘What’s this?’ I asked. ‘Bram doesn’t have time for gentlemen’s clubs, not when he’s at the theatre all hours.’ And just like that, I broke the promise I’d made to myself not to raise how much Mr Irving monopolised my husband, today of all days, lest an argument ensue. ‘Tell him, Bram.’
Bram scowled at his brother, who gave a half-hearted shrug. Bram cleared his throat. ‘Some of the work I do requires me to attend Henry outside the Lyceum.’
‘By outside, you mean in these clubs?’
He grunted. I inhaled deeply but didn’t ask for an explanation, not then. I didn’t want to spoil the day or embarrass George. But I wouldn’t forget, and from the baleful expression on Bram’s face as he regarded his brother, he knew I wouldn’t let it rest either.
The following day, St Stephen’s, Bram left for work before I rose, so I never had the opportunity to talk to him.
After breakfast, I spent the morning unpacking the last of the boxes, including the one containing my letters from Oscar.
I stared at the little wooden box for a long time.
Flitting around the edges of my consciousness like a bat at a window was a thought I didn’t want to entertain. It began ‘What if …?’
I told myself I was only thinking that way because whenever Bram and I were together, all we seemed to do was exchange sharp words, then part on poor terms, even if the cause was always the same.
Oscar and I had barely had a cross word our entire time together …
until the end. Phil had written that Oscar was now living permanently in England.
Oxford currently, but he intended to relocate to London.
It was strange to think that one day he might be living nearby.
What if …?
Perhaps it was because I was still festering over what George had revealed: that far from working at the Lyceum constantly, Bram was being led astray by Mr Irving, spending money we didn’t have, staying out until the sun rose.
Whatever the cause, as I held first the lovely sketch Oscar had done of me, and then the watercolour of his family’s holiday home, Moytura House, my thoughts took flight.
Reluctantly, I put them aside. The sketch I slid into my underwear drawer.
The painting, I carried about the flat, pressed to my chest. I still hadn’t bought any art. The place most definitely needed some.
I roamed about the drawing room aimlessly.
George had gone to the hospital to pick up some equipment, and I’d given Mrs Daw and Emma the day off.
I was quite alone. Finally, I propped the painting on the mantelpiece, between a carriage clock and a statue of Aphrodite.
I fell back in a chair and studied it, the modest white house with its rather pretentious arches, surrounded by lush lawns and rolling hills.
I was trying to ignore the signature in the corner and failing dismally.
There was a time I’d dared to believe I would one day cross that threshold, no longer a Balcombe but as Mrs …
What are you thinking about at this very moment, Oscar?
A wave of shame washed over me. What sort of wife was I, thinking of another man? Daydreaming about an alternate future …
Guilt drove me to my feet, and I turned Oscar’s picture to the wall.
It was past three in the morning when Bram finally came home. I’d lain awake, determined to ask him exactly what his work for Mr Irving entailed. I found him in the study, leafing through some papers on the desk. He greeted me as if naught was amiss.
‘How was the Garrick?’ I asked quietly, steadily. ‘Or did you and Mr Irving entertain each other at White’s tonight?’
‘Florrie.’ My name was a nuisance in his mouth. ‘What’s this about? Does it really matter?’
‘It does to me.’ I folded my arms. ‘Where were you?’
‘As it happens, we were at the Garrick, we were —’
‘Drinking and feasting while I’m left at home believing you’re at work.’
I despised myself for sounding so needy. But I wanted an explanation as to why this had been kept from me.
‘You don’t understand,’ said Bram, slumping in the new leather chair I’d ordered for him.
‘Give me a chance.’
Bram pinched the bridge of his nose wearily. ‘It’s not what you think; nothing like George implied. It’s business, Florrie, not pleasure. It is work.’ He lowered his hand. His eyes were deeply shadowed, his face pale. ‘You think it’s how I want to spend every night? Away from home? From you?’
‘I’m no longer sure. Is it?’
A dying ember in the fire shattered in a cloud of sparks and ash. He gestured for me to sit. I pulled my dressing gown around me and sat, ramrod straight.
Bram looked at me for a full minute. ‘You may not believe this, but I’ve no choice but to accompany Henry.
He’s introducing me to important people; men who will ensure that once the Lyceum opens, it becomes the most sought-after ticket in town.
They’re key to the theatre remaining solvent and guaranteeing not only my position, but that of everyone employed there. ’
‘And these men happen to frequent the Garrick?’
‘The Garrick, Boodle’s, White’s and other places. Sometimes, Henry invites them back to his home in Grafton Street. He’ll entertain anyone who has the wherewithal to fund his productions, which means I must amuse them too.’
‘I thought his baroness friend provided the funds.’
‘She’s invested a great deal and not only in the theatre.
’ Bram reached for the elegant box of cigars atop his desk – a gift from Mr Irving – and extracted one.
‘But a major venture like the Lyceum is a hungry beast, it needs constant capital to feed it.’ He used a cutter to remove the end, then roasted the foot over a candle.
He sucked on the cigar a few times, smoke billowing around his head.
Soon, its perfume wafted pleasantly. ‘Our potential investors need to be both feted and reassured.’
‘About what?’
‘That they’re vital to Henry, to the theatre; to the life of the city. That they’ll have a good return on their investment, which will only happen if we’re successful. To ensure that, Henry’s star must continue to rise – and that’s my responsibility.’
‘Is it? You can’t have much faith in Mr Irving’s talent.’
He peered at me through a veil of smoke. ‘I have faith in all Henry does. He’s a sure bet; that’s why I took on the job, Florrie; to be able to provide for you, give you the life you deserve.’
My anger cooled as rapidly as it had ignited. ‘Oh, Bram,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Why didn’t you just tell me this sooner?’ I felt foolish, guilty. Like a harridan. Then I remembered the reason he hadn’t told me was because he never had the chance; he was so rarely home.
He watched my change of expression and rested the cigar across a large ashtray.
He held out his palm, waiting for me to lean across the desk and place my hand in it.
‘I know it’s been hard. First, I leave you to your own devices in Birmingham while I’m at work, now here,’ he began in a conciliatory tone.
‘You’ve kept busy.’ He gazed about. ‘You’ve effected a wondrous transformation in no time. ’
‘George helped. As did Mrs Daw and Emma.’
‘Ah, but it’s all your vision. Your homemaking; you’re positively talented at it.’
I harrumphed. ‘There’s only so many chairs and curtains I can order, Bram. So many walls I can wash. Help I can hire. It’s given me a short-term purpose, and it’s practically at an end. Then what will I do?’
‘Whatever you want.’ Aware he hadn’t given the right answer, Bram swept on. ‘You’re my wife, thus you’re part of the Lyceum family —’
‘And yet, Mr Irving aside, I haven’t met them.’
Bram had the grace to look ashamed. ‘I promise, Florrie, I’ll take you to the Lyceum and introduce you to everyone tomorrow.
’ He glanced at the clock. ‘Make that today. I mean it,’ he said firmly, seeing doubt on my features.
‘I assure you, once the Lyceum opens in just three days, and the pressure of these last few weeks lessens, the demands on my time will ease. You’ll see.
I’ll be able to show you this marvellous city properly.
Introduce you to the people I’m meeting, accept invitations that I know will be forthcoming.
Then, not only can you issue your own in return, but I can escort you to teas, dances, shows and more.
I know it’s difficult, that as a woman there are limits to your liberty —’
I scoffed.
‘But you’ll make friends, friends to divert and occupy you. Discover new interests to keep you entertained. We’re in London, after all. All I ask is that you be patient just a little longer.’ He squeezed my fingers and released them.
I gazed into those kind grey eyes. His request wasn’t unreasonable. ‘I’ll try.’
After our (well, my) bitter words that early morning, Bram kept his promise and later in the day took me to see the place to which we were both, in different ways, beholden.
Much to my astonishment, the building was unrecognisable as a theatre.
It was a complete mess. To start with, the outside was covered in scaffolding and drop sheets, while the interior was more or less how I imagined an ancient city such as Pompeii, Athens or Rome to look: rubble, ruins, broken masonry, furniture askew, half-painted walls, and crawling with people.
Rehearsals for Hamlet, the theatre’s first production under Mr Irving, were in full swing.
The actors and actresses were battling to say their lines above the ring of hammers, the grinding of saws, and the tramp of boots, as countless tradesmen clomped about the auditorium, replacing, repairing, building.
The smell of paint and dust hung in the air, causing more than one person to launch into a volley of coughs and sneezes.
I kept my trusty handkerchief pressed to my face.
Only backstage was there some relief. There, I was briefly introduced to the acclaimed actress Ellen Terry.
Dressed in costume, she looked like a Grecian goddess fallen from the lofty heights of Olympus.
Older than me by almost a decade, taller, too, she was lithe yet buxom.
Her burnished hair fell in waves down to her waist. Her eyes, which danced with merriment, scaled me from top to bottom.
‘Oh, my God,’ she exclaimed in a wonderfully husky and surprisingly deep voice, ‘you’re as disgustingly beautiful as they say. ’
Before I could utter a word, she grabbed my shoulders and kissed both my cheeks. ‘You smell lovely, too.’ She smiled, a huge one that brought out her dimples.
‘Not as lovely as you, Mrs Terry,’ I said.
She gave a delightful laugh. ‘Ah, a woman who also says the right thing. I should probably hate you, but I can tell we’re going to be great friends.’ She took my hands in hers. They were cool, long-fingered, soft. I didn’t want her to let go.
‘Well,’ I managed to say, dazzled. ‘Hate is such a good foundation on which to build a relationship, I’m sure we will be.’
Mrs Terry baulked, then burst out laughing. ‘I must dash – time for Ophelia to die.’ She rested a hand on Bram’s chest. ‘Your wife is enchanting. Make sure you invite me to your flat soon.’
Quite overcome, I waved farewell, but as I was introduced to some of the backstage crew, I found myself thinking about Ellen Terry.
I was exchanging pleasantries with the stage manager, a personable stretch of a fellow with a ridiculous moustache, Mr Henry Joseph ‘call me Harry’ Loveday, when Mr Irving appeared.
‘Ah,’ he said, pulling up short when he saw me.
‘Hello, Mr Irving,’ I said sweetly. ‘It’s the Wife. Bram is showing me around your Lyceum.’
Mr Irving frowned. ‘I don’t like visitors backstage.’
‘Oh,’ I exclaimed merrily, ‘I’m hardly a visitor, am I? I’m part of the Lyceum family, surely?’ I shot Bram a conspiratorial look.
Mr Irving batted away my question, only to replace it with one of his own. ‘So, what do you think of my grand old lady?’
I took my time responding. ‘Like you,’ I began, ‘it’s not what I expected.’
Mr Irving turned to Bram. ‘I need you to supervise the chandeliers being hung.’ He flashed his teeth in my direction. ‘I’m afraid your husband is needed elsewhere, Mrs Stoker.’
‘He always is,’ I said agreeably to Mr Irving’s back – he was already halfway down the passage with Mr Loveday, who was more focussed on the rapidly issued instructions than saying goodbye.
Bram watched him leave, clearly torn. ‘Go, Bram, you’re needed elsewhere,’ I said. ‘Thank you for the tour; I enjoyed it very much.’ An image of Mrs Terry rose.
‘This way,’ he said, taking my arm and escorting me to the Wellington Street entrance. ‘The rain is heavy. I’ll hail you a cab.’
Once home, I thought back on my visit. It did give me a fresh appreciation of what Bram had been doing, the work involved, but it still didn’t entirely explain why it took such precedence over our life.
Why Mr Irving did. Nor did it explain why Bram became a completely different person in his company.
Where was the man who courted me? The charming, attentive one who was so assured, so determined to win my admiration?
He’d been replaced by a man who bestowed nothing more than wholesome kisses and brotherly hugs.
Did Bram regret marrying me? Would he have been so quick to propose if he’d known the life awaiting him in London?
How much Mr Irving would want him? Was the Wife proving to be an impediment?
More importantly, knowing what I did now, would I have married him?