Chapter Twenty
When the lease on Southampton Street was due to be renewed, Bram and I made the decision to rent a bigger house in Cheyne Walk, Chelsea.
Situated halfway between Kensington Vestry Wharf and Draw Dock, the Cadogan steamboat ferry stopped virtually at the door, taking Bram – via London Bridge – to Waterloo.
From there, it was a short walk to the Lyceum.
It was a rather grand, if narrow, house of five stories, offset from the rest of the street.
Across the road was the Embankment, a lovely place to promenade most afternoons with its granite retaining walls, row of young trees and splendid lampposts.
The views from the front door and windows captured the river.
When the tide was high, it was a delightful vista, even on drizzly days.
Low tide exposed the pitted riverbed, attracted the curious mudlarks, and a terrible odour.
Not that it bothered young Irving, who liked nothing better than to watch the water traffic or listen to the large cabs known as growlers rumbling along the macadam.
George contributed towards the lease monies, which was just as well, because it was considerably more expensive than our humble abode in Southampton Street.
Thank goodness the move gave me plenty to do, decorating the rooms and purchasing new furniture to fill the extra space – anything so I wouldn’t dwell on my growing doubts about my husband’s inclinations and what they signified about him. About me.
As the weeks went by and Bram didn’t seek my bed again, I began to feel relief that I was to be spared not only physical congress, but also a conversation I felt must happen but dreaded.
Was I a coward? Dear Lord, yes. Was this the easier path?
I’m not certain. But it was the path I chose.
Contentment, with my marriage, with Bram, became a costume I donned daily, all while dousing spot fires of bitterness and doubts flaring in my soul.
I kept asking myself, if I’d known what my marriage to Bram would entail, what it would deny me, would I ever have agreed to wed him?
Even though my resolution to be nice to Henry was sorely tested at this time, I maintained it, all while praying fervently for strength. The strength to either bring matters to a head or endure.
Come mid-summer, I reached a decision. Whatever Bram was, whatever I was to him, I was still, in the eyes of God and man, his wife; I was Mrs Bram Stoker and that was beginning to mean something in our London circles.
It was time for me to put aside my destructive thoughts and strike out on my own.
To mark my new resolve, I began to plan my very first salon – Lady Jane style, as I’d once dreamed.
After all, not only was our new house more suited to such an event, but I could count several London luminaries as friends and others as acquaintances.
Matilda had brought a range of artists into my circle.
These same people were connected, known and admired.
I felt certain their presence in my home would, over time, bring others to my door as well.
Before I could begin any serious preparations, or think of putting together an invitation list, for which I would seek the advice of Ellen, the Gilberts and Lady Jane, I had to return to Dublin.
Phillippa, my sworn-spinster sister, was getting married.
The wee mannie and I, along with Elizabeth, left for Dublin just as Bram was preparing to accompany Henry and Ellen on a provincial tour.
We parted with promises to write to each other, and Bram gave me gifts for his mammy, his sister Margaret and Thornley’s wife, Emily.
My homecoming was greeted with great fanfare by my siblings, especially Phil.
The moment Elizabeth and I walked through the door, Irving was whisked into Alice’s arms and paraded about the house, while I was hurried into the drawing room to be reunited with Mother and Father.
Captain Walton, who was a bit white around the muzzle now, didn’t know who to follow, but decided that if Irving was going to be given some Victoria sponge, he was the better option.
Catherine took Elizabeth upstairs to show her the room she’d share with Irving.
Alice had grown taller in the year or so since I was last there. Her lithe body now had curves, her eyes a knowing twinkle. Catherine had grown into a lovely young lady and was, according to Phil, turning the heads of all the eligible and not-so-eligible men in the neighbourhood.
‘That Cormac O’Leary has been sniffing around her worse than Captain Walton does Mrs Browning’s bitch.’
Cormac O’Leary was a known rabble rouser who was against Home Rule. ‘You must be having conniptions, Father,’ I exclaimed.
‘He threatened him with a beating if he ever showed his face here again,’ said Mother, shaking her head.
Father chuckled, his bony shoulders jiggling. ‘Can still inspire terror in the lads,’ he said proudly.
‘If you keep doing that to anyone who shows interest in your daughters, we’ll never get rid of them!’ complained Mother.
Everyone laughed.
It was shocking how much my parents had aged since I last saw them.
As if their years on this earth had suddenly caught up with them.
I didn’t remember a time when the hairs circling Father’s pate weren’t grey, but since when had his back become so bent and the hand that gripped his walking stick so twisted?
Mother’s hair had metamorphosed from rich auburn to mostly silver.
Her voice had a tremor, and she kept clearing her throat.
She relied on a pair of glasses and a magnifier to read the paper, and to examine me and Irving.
‘You’re looking thin, Florrie,’ she said, her eyes owl-like in the large lenses. ‘Don’t you think so, James? Is that Stoker husband of yours treating you well?’
How could I reveal my fears to my own mother? I was too ashamed, too afraid of what she’d say. My parents had never really forgiven Bram for throwing away his civil service job and linking our future to a theatre company. I hesitated just a second before answering. ‘Yes, Mother. Very well.’
Alice chose that moment to bring Irving back and I swooped upon them.
Mother harrumphed loudly, then held out her arms for Irving. ‘Come to Granny Moo!’ she clucked.
Maude was unable to leave her house because the babbie was due any day, so I would take Irving for a visit. Likewise, James and Billy were now living in the city and would come by to see me after work.
Phil’s fiancé, the delightful John Knott, a wiry teacher with round spectacles and a soothing voice, joined us for dinner.
Sat around our old dining room table that first evening, watching Alice, Catherine and Phil tease each other, bait Father, and plead with Mother about going to the theatre unaccompanied, made me realise how much I’d missed them.
Missed the easy banter, knowing that even when you disagreed or argued, you were still loved. My eyes filled.
‘Are you alright, Kitten?’ whispered Phil.
I dashed away the tear running down my cheek. ‘Don’t be nice,’ I hissed. ‘I’ll be quite undone. Quick. Call me names.’
It was something Phil and I did when we were on the brink of crying – demanded the other think of awful things to say.
‘You’re a proper dryshite,’ she gibed. ‘You’re so ugly, even the tide wouldn’t take you out. You’re a right gombeen —’
‘Enough, enough,’ I began, smiling wanly.
‘You can thank me later.’ She put her hand over mine. ‘We need to talk.’
‘We do,’ I said, and extracted my hand. It was the last thing I wanted.
I hadn’t accounted for Phil’s determination.
After John had left, along with James and Billy, I pleaded weariness and, first making sure Irving was settled, retreated to my brothers’ old room where I was sleeping.
I changed and sat by the window, gazing upon Marino Park.
The late evening sky was a glorious rainbow of violet, gold and rose.
Couples enjoyed the balmy weather; men were out walking dogs, and two women pushed a stroller.
The ducks that normally occupied the area near the rotunda were roosting by the pond.
Above, a murmuration of starlings circled and glided, little blots of darkness against the paintbox sky.
Lost in memories of meandering walks, picnics on the grass, and other times, my ribs grew tight, my throat too.
Sweet Jesus. Was it just three years since I married and left Dublin?
It felt a lifetime. I’d been another person.
The door opened, and in slipped Phil. My heart sank. I knew that look.
‘Out with it,’ she said.
She dragged over a stool and joined me by the window. ‘There’s no use denying it, Kitten. I can see you’ve something on your mind, something that makes you forlorn. No, it’s worse than that. I sensed you were withholding in your letters. What is it?’
‘Naught, Phil.’ I flashed a tired grin. ‘You’re imagining it.’
‘Ha! You’ve always said I’ve no imagination. You can’t grant me one now just because you don’t want to divulge the source of your unhappiness.’
‘I’m not unhappy.’
‘Then why do you have a face like a slapped arse?’
I gave a bark of laughter. ‘Where did you learn that one?’
‘John’s mammy. Now, stop avoiding my question. Tell me, what’s Bram done?’
‘How do you know Bram’s done anything?’
‘I didn’t, but I do now.’ She waited, then reached over and took my hand in hers, stroking my fingers. Damn if my eyes didn’t well.
I released a long sigh. ‘You’re not going to give up, are you?’
‘Not when it’s you, Kitten, no.’
‘I don’t want to foist my problems on you. You’re about to get married, and John’s lovely.’
She scoffed and waved her hands. ‘More reason to tell me – I’m immune, inoculated by love.’ Her mirth died when she saw my expression. ‘Oh, Florrie, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make a mockery of —’
‘No, no, it’s not that. You’re not. It’s just —’ Then, before I could change my mind, I told her – about how Bram behaved around Henry Irving, their strange, unbalanced relationship.
How Bram idolised the man, failed to recognise his faults.
How Henry was akin to a parasite, demanding all Bram’s time and attention, leaving nothing for me or Irving.
‘Worse,’ I added, ‘Bram appears to be willing to sacrifice everything for him. Apart from some children’s stories – many of which he’d written before we ever moved to London – his dreams of being a serious novelist appear to have been discarded.
Everything he does now is to further Henry Irving’s ambitions … ’
What I didn’t admit were my doubts about the nature of their relationship; how I feared it was more than hero-worship.
How these doubts grew to encompass any man who came into Bram’s ken.
Though Phil and I had read The Symposium together and resolved not to condemn those who loved their own sex, to understand them even, I told myself it wasn’t fair to divulge my concerns to her.
Anyhow, I wasn’t entirely sure what I was dealing with. I might be mistaken …
When I finished, Phil was silent. Outside a cat wailed. From within the house, Captain Walton began to bark. There were footsteps, a shout, then the soft tinkle of the piano forte.
‘Oh, Florrie,’ said Phil. ‘Are you sure —?’
‘Please,’ I said, holding up my palm. ‘Don’t say I’m mistaken, that it’s just Bram being loyal and doing a wonderful job. I’m not and he is. This is more than that. I can’t put my finger on it exactly … I just feel Bram is diminished by Henry when the opposite should be true.’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Phil finally. ‘I can’t imagine this man you’re describing as Bram Stoker.’
‘That’s the problem, Phil. It’s only when Henry is around that his behaviour undergoes this alteration.’
‘Does he know how unhappy Henry makes you?’
I scoffed. ‘He must. I’ve said it often enough.
But, in all fairness, it’s not so much Henry who makes me unhappy, conceited and selfish as he is, it’s that Bram is so deferential to him.
Prioritises Henry’s needs over his own, over his family’s.
What’s even worse, I’m not the only one who notices. ’
‘Who else does?’
I looked at her miserably. ‘Everyone.’
Phil chewed her lip a few times before seeking my hand and holding it tightly. ‘I’m so sorry, Kitten. I don’t know what to say, except that Bram’s an eejit.’
If only that was all he was …
‘You don’t need to say anything.’ I sighed and extracted my hand.
‘It’s helped just telling you.’ I gave a dry laugh.
‘Admittedly, it all sounds rather irrational. As if Henry’s some succubus or monster, draining Bram.
’ I stood, stretched, then climbed onto the bed and patted the space beside me.
‘Enough about me. I’ve come all this way for your nuptials. Let’s talk about you.’
Still frowning, Phil joined me. The evening had grown cooler, so we lay under the blankets, heads close together like we used to. ‘I’m going to ask you the question you once asked me,’ I said.
‘Oh?’
‘Do you love him?’
‘Who? Bram?’ quipped Phil.
I snorted, as she knew I would. ‘You know jolly well who I mean. Well, do you love John?’
Phil cupped my cheek, a serious look on her face. ‘I do. But I think I need to ask you again, Florrie. Do you love Bram? It’s clear you care about him or this business with Mr Irving wouldn’t bother you so much.’
I stared at my sister and saw nothing but understanding in her sympathetic eyes.
‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘Truth is, I think I’m afraid to.’
Phil pulled me into her arms and held me tightly as the tears I’d held at bay for so long were finally unleashed.