Chapter Thirty-Four #2
Bram’s shoulders slumped. I felt the determination leave his body and resignation take its place. He slowly extracted his arm and returned his coat to the peg.
‘Did … Oscar see you?’
I resumed my seat. ‘Yes. Even wearing a veil. I carried a bunch of violets.’
‘For loyalty.’ Bram fumbled for his kerchief and blew his nose.
For a long time, Oscar had avoided looking at the gallery.
But when he spied first Bosie, then Robert Ross, his back straightened.
Then he saw me and his eyes widened slightly, his chin lifted, his lips trembling as he tried to smile.
My heart had swelled. I was close enough to his lawyer’s assistant to tap him on the shoulder.
He’d turned, annoyed at the interruption.
I simply pushed the man with the filthy neck to one side and thrust the violets into the assistant’s hands.
‘For Mr Wilde,’ I said.
Oscar saw the flowers and managed to complete his smile. Then, he kissed the tips of his fingers and bowed his head. I returned the gesture.
As I was about to continue, there was a sharp knock and Ellen burst through the door, a newspaper clutched in her hand.
‘Oh my, have you heard … Lemon! I didn’t know you were coming tonight.’ She frowned when she saw my face. ‘You know.’
I nodded grimly towards the newspaper. ‘I can’t imagine what they’re saying about him.’
Ellen shook it. ‘No-one has to imagine anything. Not when it’s in print.’ She threw the paper on the desk and sank into a chair. ‘What are we to do? This is an outrage.’
Bram and I shared a glance.
‘There’s nothing we can do … for now,’ I said.
‘I’d pray,’ said Ellen, ‘only according to the press, God doesn’t acknowledge men like Oscar Wilde.’
I swallowed. Bram plucked the edges of the newspaper.
‘Like what?’ I asked.
‘Men who prefer the love of their own sex,’ she said sadly.
If Bram was aware of her eyes dwelling on him, he made no sign.
It was hard to concentrate as I prepared to attend the theatre that night.
The very same day Henry Irving received a knighthood and achieved his goal of elevating acting to a respectable position among the arts, one of the finest playwrights of the modern era was taken from Newgate to Pentonville before being transferred to Holloway to begin his hard labour.
It would be ironic if it wasn’t so damn unjust.
I could scarce raise a congratulations for Henry, or Bram’s brother Thornley, who was also knighted this day.
Sir Henry Irving. Sir Thornley Stoker.
Oscar Wilde: felon.
I managed to include a note for Thornley in Bram’s effusive letter to him. As for Henry, there was to be a Beefsteak dinner to honour him, something Bram and I would have to sit through, pretending our hearts weren’t breaking.
Before Bram left for the theatre, we’d sat quietly in his bedroom. Our chairs were side by side, facing the window. As we gazed upon the street, Bram reached for my hand and held it tightly.
Traffic was busy upon the Albert Bridge. Hansom cabs shared the roadway with broughams and even an omnibus that was swaying dangerously. Rain fell, as if the sky itself was weeping. I glanced at the lumbering clouds as a flock of birds winged their way south, towards the Battersea cricket ground.
‘Thank you, Florrie,’ said Bram after a while, dragging his eyes from the sweet young flower seller flirting with a fine-dressed gentleman below the window.
‘What for?’ I asked. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed five of the clock. Almost immediately, the nearby church bells rang. It was time for Bram to depart. As was customary, I would follow later.
‘For persuading me not to attend court; not show my … allegiance to Oscar.’
‘I don’t know whether I should be thanked or beg the Lord’s forgiveness.’
Now was not the time to admit to Bram I’d begun to visit the local Catholic church, to seek out solace in the old faith.
Because of what was happening to Oscar, yes; but also because of the many demons, real and imagined, still nipping at my peace.
One day I would tell him I intended to convert. Not today.
‘I’m so ashamed I didn’t offer Oscar support throughout the trial,’ said Bram.
‘You had no choice.’ I gave him no choice, I thought sadly. I didn’t want anyone examining our relationship too closely, or those Bram enjoyed with others.
‘Today Henry told me that not only have Oscar’s books been stripped from bookshops and libraries,’ said Bram, examining my palms the way one might a new fabric, ‘but his name has been taken off playbills.’
I wrenched my hands away and lowered my face into them.
Bram rubbed my shoulders. ‘Imagine what will happen once word reaches America.’
‘If it hasn’t already.’ My voice was muffled.
‘I also learned that Constance has taken the boys out of school and left the city. I wouldn’t be surprised if she files for divorce. Or changes her name.’
God in heaven, my chest felt heavy. I rose from the chair and leaned against the window. My breath turned the glass opaque. I began to draw a pattern with my fingertip. ‘Who told you that?’
‘A note came from Willie,’ said Bram quietly. ‘He also wrote that Oscar has made it clear he wants his friends and family to safeguard themselves. That, until he has served his time, it must be as if we never knew him.’
I swallowed a sob and twisted around to regard Bram.
‘The guilt of what we’ve done will continue to gnaw at me until my insides are hollow.
Even so, I would do the same all over again.
’ I placed my hands on his shoulders. ‘Imagine if it was your books being removed, or you lost your job at the Lyceum. What if it was you going to gaol?’
He lifted my hands into his own and shook his head. ‘I promised you once, Florrie, that will never happen. I’m not Oscar.’
I raised my face to his. First bestowing a chaste kiss upon my lips, he left the room.
I sighed and turned back to the window. Only then did I notice that the shape I’d drawn in the glass was a perfect O.
More than disturbed by what had unfolded, by the fear and guilt that had gripped me for weeks now, was it any wonder that as my maid, Maria, dressed my hair for the theatre that night, the ghastly presence made an appearance?
I stiffened when I saw him reflected in the mirror, leaning casually against the wall in the far corner of my bedroom, staring boldly.
‘Are you alright, Mrs S?’ asked Maria in concern. ‘Did I stick you with a pin?’
‘No, Maria,’ I reassured, trying hard not to look in his direction. ‘It’s nothing.’
The red eyes still glowed with a furious heat, the grubby suit swagged off his large frame, the grey-tinged flesh was more cadaverous than I recalled.
The cloak sat high on his shoulders and though there was no draught, it danced about his ankles as if directed by a ghostly breath.
His flesh hung in folds from his cheeks, his skull bones were prominent on his forehead.
He’d aged, decayed. Each time I saw him, he not only looked worse than I remembered, but as if he’d taken on the characteristics of the horrors happening in my own life.
I was reminded of Oscar’s Dorian Gray.
But did my spectre represent the decadent, convicted man or the portrait? What sins did he embody? Whose?
Mine, Oscar’s or Bram’s?