Chapter Thirty-Two #3
I looked askance at Mr Du Maurier, but there was nothing but sincerity in his eyes.
I responded accordingly. ‘Thank you. I wish —’ Bram had reached Noel, who was around the other side of the aviary, pointing at a macaw.
Bram knelt beside him, indicating another rather large bird with a magnificent emerald and sapphire crest.
‘What do you wish?’ asked Mr Du Maurier softly.
‘I wish we didn’t have to return to London.’ There was such an expression of horror on Mr Du Maurier’s face, I burst out laughing. Bram looked up and smiled uncertainly in our direction.
‘You don’t mean that, surely?’ Mr Du Maurier asked incredulously.
‘No,’ I admitted, still laughing. ‘Not really. But —’ I lowered my voice. ‘It’s nice to be away from the Lyceum.’
‘From Henry Irving, you mean.’
I wisely remained silent.
Mr Du Maurier nudged me. ‘Do you remember you once said to me that your husband worshipped the man?’
‘Did I?’ I gave a cavalier laugh. Oh, I remembered. I also recalled how disloyal I’d felt saying such a thing. But Du Maurier never used my rash words against me or Bram. ‘Now, I’m inclined to think Henry’s mesmerised my husband, the power he has over him.’
‘Mesmerised?’ said Mr Du Maurier. ‘Now that’s a novel thought.’
‘One I pray you keep to yourself.’
‘Imagine hypnotising someone,’ he said, ignoring my request. ‘What you could compel them to do …’ He brushed his fingers across my back.
‘George …’ I said in a warning voice, stepping away.
‘Well, your charms have always mesmerised me …’ He lifted my hand to his lips. I could feel the heat of his mouth through my gloves. ‘One word from you, Florence, that’s all it would take …’ I snatched my hand away.
With a dirty laugh, he walked around the aviary and joined Bram, slapping him on the back as if he hadn’t just propositioned his wife. Again.
‘What do you know about mesmerism, Stoker?’ he asked loudly, winking in my direction.
Rogue, I thought, watching as he and Bram wandered back to the others, Noel scampering ahead. For all Du Maurier’s persistence and rakish appeal, I wasn’t tempted.
First ensuring my gloves were in place, I slowly followed.
When we left the Hunts hours later, it was with promises to meet again soon. Violet attended a regular salon near her usual home in Kensington and promised to add our names to South Lodge’s invitation list.
At last, I thought, as we travelled home days later, our time at Whitby over, I’ve made a friend who has nothing to do with the theatre, Henry, the Lyceum, or Bram’s interests.
Violet was mine.
Maybe George Du Maurier was, too, I thought, recalling what he’d said, how he said it. The way he’d kissed my hand. Would my irresponsible words about Bram and Henry come back to haunt me?
A few days after we returned to Chelsea, my question was answered.
Bram, Noel and I featured in a cartoon Mr Du Maurier had drawn for Punch magazine.
We were portrayed sitting in Violet’s garden.
Bram had a tennis racquet at his feet, while I appeared to be staring at my gloves.
Noel stood behind my chair in his broad-brimmed hat and breeches.
But it was the caption beneath this family idyll that gave me pause.
It read: Mamma to Noel, who is inclined to be talkative, ‘Hush, Noel! Haven’t I told you often that little boys should be Seen and not Heard?’ Noel: ‘Yes, Mamma! But you don’t look at me!’
Was this Mr Du Maurier’s revenge for my rejection? Or was it proof my impulsive confidences were safe with him?
When Bram saw it, he laughed.
‘How can you chuckle when Du Maurier is portraying me as an indifferent mother?’ I huffed.
‘Is he? Not only did he get Irving’s name wrong —’
I winced.
‘But he’s suggesting our boy is a needy child.’
‘Needy? Hardly.’ I took a deep breath. It was now or never. ‘Bram, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.’
‘Oh.’
‘Du Maurier didn’t get our son’s name wrong …’
As predicted, the argument over the name change was bitter and long. But in the end, Bram had no choice but to accept that the boy he’d named after his idol had a mind of his own.
I wish I could say the same for his father.
When I casually mentioned the cartoon to Ellen and Lucy next time I saw them, they were enthusiastic. ‘It shows you’re rising in society, my dear,’ said Lucy. ‘You’ve appeared in these pages before, but Mr Du Maurier only lampoons those he admires, and it’s more than evident he admires you.’
‘Before you know it, he’ll write you into one of his stories,’ said Ellen.
I hoped not. Bram not only borrowed ideas from me, but tended to include the names of friends, people he met and places he’d been in his short stories.
I prayed I’d never see myself as a literary character.
It was bad enough I’d inadvertently helped inspire a story about child-killers and a book about the undead.
God forbid I should inspire something else.
Bram hadn’t mentioned the undead idea again since Whitby, even though he’d continued to spend our remaining time in the library there, poring over books, and down on the foreshore with the fishermen, absorbing information, making copious notes.
Just seeing the word ‘Dracula’ scrawled in his notebook conjured feelings in me I didn’t want to explore.
It was as if my dead man had found another way to bedevil me.