Chapter Seventeen #2
While I was grateful for his lack of interest in sex (it was the last thing on my mind), a man had needs, and I began to wonder if Bram kept a mistress to ensure his were met.
After all, women loved Bram and he in turn was very fond of them – look at Mrs Daw and Emma, Genevieve Ward, the other actresses at the Lyceum; their faces lit up when he was around, their eyes followed him everywhere and they looked for any excuse to engage him.
Why, even Lucy Gilbert sang his praises.
I supposed I should be jealous that he attracted such attention.
I wasn’t, but I was curious. When I mentioned it to Ellen one afternoon, phrasing it in a cavalier fashion as though the thought wasn’t beginning to preoccupy me, she threw back her head and laughed.
‘Why would Bram need a mistress when he’s the envy of every man who meets you?
Good God, Lemon! Don’t be a doddypoll. Bram works too hard to keep anyone else, let alone a secret woman.
’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘How he even had time to make a child defeats me. Henry runs him ragged. When would he see a mistress?’
Nevertheless, I wondered. What did Bram do to satisfy his urges? Did he touch himself? (I blushed just thinking about it, at the same time recalling the way he would tug at himself, cure his lobcock, when we’d had relations.)
It was partly why, despite mounting bills from my endless shopping (as Matilda put it), I’d cast aside all concerns about the cost of the dress I’d had made for the celebration of The Merchant of Venice’s one hundredth show.
This event was important to Bram and, as it was my first public appearance since the babbie’s birth, it was important to me.
Gilbert and I waited our turn to check the seating plan and then joined the multitudes.
I recognised the Dickens family, Charles’s widow looking resplendent in a silver fur stole, her son and his wife less impressive.
Gilbert’s business partner, Arthur Sullivan, waved, as did Ellen, who was surrounded by admirers. She looked glorious in magenta.
I didn’t see Henry Irving, who, like most of the men, was dressed in a black evening suit, until everyone had finally taken their seats.
Seated next to Baroness Burdett-Coutts, who’d returned from Paris just to attend, Henry encircled himself with politicians, artists, playwrights and Bram’s writer-friend, Hall Caine, who hailed from the Isle of Man but was now lodging with our neighbour, the charming but infirm artist Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
‘There are so many famous people here,’ I whispered to Gilbert, trying not to stare too hard.
‘When everybody is somebody,’ said Gilbert dismissively, ‘nobody is anybody.’
‘What does that make me?’ I asked, mouth twitching.
Gilbert regarded me seriously. ‘Somebody anybody would be proud to accompany.’
I laughed delightedly and kissed his bearded cheek.
I smiled greetings at those I recognised as waiters poured drinks, my ear tuned to the conversations around me. Bram had organised the Lyceum caterers to prepare a seven-course banquet. I’d virtually starved myself in preparation.
I was studying the gorgeously designed menus, done in a Japanese style, adorned with images of kingfishers, butterflies and emerald fronds, when I became aware that someone was watching me.
‘Why, if it isn’t the most beautiful mother in the world,’ said an unctuous voice. The American artist James Whistler wrapped a sweaty palm over my bare shoulder.
I lifted his hand away. ‘It’s just as well your dear mother is no longer alive to hear you say that, Mr Whistler. Wasn’t that the title you bestowed upon her?’
Gilbert spluttered.
Mr Whistler waved a dismissive hand, as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘When are you going to sit for me?’
‘So long as it’s not on your lap, as you suggested last time we met, then, maybe one day …’ I picked up my drink.
‘I … err … Till then,’ Mr Whistler stammered before pretending to acknowledge someone else and walking away.
‘Marvellous artist,’ I said casually to those listening. ‘What a pity he can’t paint himself in a better light.’
Gilbert guffawed. Two women opposite raised their drinks in my direction, bestowing broad smiles, the men nodding approvingly. The gentleman next to me twisted in his seat.
‘I must know the name of the woman who finally put Whistler in his place,’ he began.
‘This is Mrs Bram Stoker,’ said Gilbert proudly. ‘Florence, allow me to introduce Arthur Balfour.’
Ah, the conservative politician. A man to be watched, according to George.
Suddenly, everyone around us wanted an introduction – not to Mr Balfour, but me, including a publisher, Edward Marston, who proved most gregarious. I was about to mention Bram’s literary aspirations when Bram rose from his chair and, banging a knife on his glass, called for silence.
Before he could begin, there was a commotion at the back of the theatre. People swung around, some half-rising, craning their necks to see what the disturbance was.
It was a man in a dark, flowing cape, carrying a top hat. Whoever it was paused dramatically halfway down the central aisle, directly beneath the lights.
‘Why, it’s Oscar Wilde!’ declared someone.
My heart flung itself against my ribs. Ice, then heat, filled my chest. It couldn’t be, could it?
‘’Tis I, indeed,’ Oscar declared, and made an elaborate bow.
There were exclamations of delight, a smattering of applause.
His brother, Willie, stood and hailed him in joy.
Oscar sprang up the steps two at a time, clapping backs, shaking hands.
When he saw me among the diners, his eyes widened, then a slow smile crept across his face. He held my gaze. I forgot to breathe.
‘I wasn’t aware you and Wilde knew each other,’ said Gilbert, looking from me to Oscar.
It had been well over a year since I last saw Oscar, long before I’d married Bram, though I’d heard plenty about him.
He looked splendid. Ridiculously handsome, with his deep-set eyes and wide, sensuous mouth.
A mouth that had captured mine many times, including in my dreams …
‘Know me?’ said Oscar who, ignoring calls for him to join the table, came to my side. Around us, talk recommenced, Bram resuming his seat. ‘As Adam did Eve, Gilbert.’
‘Before the Fall, he means,’ I added, trying unsuccessfully to swallow a grin. ‘Oscar is merely trying to make mischief, turn me into the subject of tattle.’
‘Not before time,’ said Oscar, lifting my hand from where it trembled on the table and kissing my fingers one by one, his smouldering eyes never leaving my face.
I snatched my hand away, trying unsuccessfully to quash the feelings his lips, his touch, stimulated. People were looking and whispering. What if Bram saw? I took a breath and smiled pleasantly. ‘Truth is, we were more akin to Petruchio and Katherina.’
Oscar laughed. ‘Well, I always say, if a woman wants to hold a man, she merely has to appeal to what is worst in him.’
‘Really? I would think the opposite is true,’ I said lightly. ‘She should appeal to a man’s better nature – use her goodness to transform him.’
Oscar looked towards Bram, his smile disappearing. ‘Men never become good – they merely become old.’
‘They’re not mutually exclusive, Oscar.’ I strangled my napkin, wishing him gone. Wishing him never to leave.
He leaned closer, ensuring I alone would hear him above the rising din of voices.
‘I’m sick of women who are good. Women who hate are much more interesting.
’ He waited until I met his eyes. ‘Do you hate me, Florrie?’ Before I could tell him I could never hate him, he straightened and gave a loud sigh.
‘Much to my disappointment, I see married life, motherhood, suits you. You’re more beautiful than ever. ’
I ceased torturing the napkin; willed my heart to steady. I had to put a stop to this. ‘I live to disappoint.’
There were raised voices. Bram was trying to restore order after the chaos of Oscar’s late arrival.
Before he could summon a retort, Oscar was called to take a seat further down the table, next to his brother, Willie, near Bram and Mr Irving. With one last lingering look, a gentle salute and a kiss of his fingers, he left to take it. My eyes kept drifting in his direction.
‘He’s an acquired taste, that man,’ said Gilbert. ‘One I’ve yet to develop. It’s clear he holds you in … high esteem.’ Curiosity coated his words.
‘Not as high as he holds himself,’ I said.
Our brief exchange had left me rattled. The visceral effect Oscar had on me was powerful.
He always knew how to get under my skin, burrow into those parts I thought hidden, and had done so again, even now I was both married and a mother.
And in public. I picked up my drink and took a generous gulp.
Fortunately, I was saved from any further discussion as a choir of young men, hidden by sheer curtains, led the guests in the national anthem.
Grace was said and dinner served. Bowls of clear turtle soup were placed before us, followed by cold salmon the colour of flamingos, succulent lamb cutlets and mushrooms. There were platters of sweetbreads, stuffed larks, salad, ham, peas, aspic of prawns, cheese and Parmesan straws.
Noises of delight greeted each dish; cutlery chimed, conversation hummed, and drinks flowed.
When the plates were being cleared, Bram rose once more.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ he began.
‘Welcome to this celebration of the one hundredth performance of The Merchant of Venice. The longest this play has ever run in its entire history. If only Shakespeare were here to commemorate such an accomplishment, an accomplishment only made possible by the one and only, the greatest and most remarkable thespian of the Victorian age —’
I shot a glance at William Terriss, one of the Lyceum’s other leading actors – younger than Mr Irving and far more handsome, as well as very talented. I wondered what he’d have to say about Bram’s description of the Chief.