Suddenly, I was so cold by the open window, my teeth were chattering. I didn’t want to hear any more, but as I dragged a shawl around my shoulders I was drawn back to my position by the door. In the next room Irving was doing his best to persuade Bram that Whitby was just a backwater, picturesque perhaps, but nowhere near big enough for a man of his talent and ambition.
‘There’s no scope, no cultural life, no -’
‘Don’t you think I’ve had enough of cultural life in the last eight years?’ Bram snapped. ‘That’s all I have had. There’s been no room to breathe, to expand – no room even to think, for heaven’s sake! Here at least I’m able to be myself – no one knows me, no one expects anything from me, and that’s more of a relief than you can ever know.’
‘Relief?’ the other man echoed, with just a suggestion of contempt in his tone. ‘You mean the relief of stepping off-stage, removing the make-up, taking a brief respite? Well, that’s fine, my dear chap, as long as you remember that we need demands and expectations to draw out the best in us. Without expectations we merely exist, we do not strive – and without the striving, what are we? Animals, creatures, what you will – if we do not strive, we are not men.’
‘I have striven, Irving – you know that. You, above all, have had my best...’
His voice was muffled but the emotion was clear. I saw that he had moved to sit beside the range, and that Irving was in the other chair, leaning towards him. ‘I know,’ he said, so softly that I had to strain to hear, ‘and that is why our partnership has been so successful – because we have both given our best, and at all times. We’ve never stinted, never short-changed. We’ve worked harder in the last eight years than most men work in a lifetime – and we’ve succeeded, Bram. And why? Because you and I – you and I, Bram – have led, bullied and cajoled the best company in London. More than that, we’ve made them the best company.
‘I beg of you,’ he went on softly, ‘now we’re established, don’t let me down.’
He was poised for a long, long moment, not moving, just waiting for a reply.
Bram sighed and shifted and shook his head. ‘That’s just it,’ he burst out at last, ‘you are established now, the Lyceum has a reputation second to none, and because of that you’ve been able to attract the best people – accountants, secretaries, press agents – to do all the jobs I used to perform single-handedly. You can afford to commission your own plays, and even to employ writers to straighten out the old ones. You don’t need me, Irving, any more than Florence does. If I thought you did, I wouldn’t have -’
Irving threw up his hands. ‘Oh, my dear chap, you couldn’t be more in error! It doesn’t matter who or what I can afford! No one can edit a play like you – no one sees the essence of a plot as you do, and I swear no one else has your flair for pace and timing and the perfect dramatic impact...’
Well, I thought sardonically, you should know... But I believed him, and thought Bram would too. I was astounded when he denied it. ‘Use Tom,’ he declared, ‘he’s better.’
‘No. No, no – you miss my point. Hall Caine is a fine fellow and a perfectly competent novelist, but he lacks the quality I’m speaking of. How can I describe it, except as a question of rapport? You and I have it, but with other people, I spend so much time explaining what I mean and what I want, it’s generally quicker to do it myself! Anyway, with whom should I air my ideas but you?’
He had such fire, such sincerity, it was impossible not to be moved by those claims. Even I was convinced.
When he reached out a hand and said: ‘I can’t do it by myself, old chap, I need you,’ I expected Bram to be inspired, to offer emotional thanks for the honour and the vote of confidence. I was almost ready to give him up in such a cause. But I was not prepared for the force with which Bram flung himself out of the chair and across the room. Expecting the door to fly open I cringed against the wall. When I dared to look he was leaning forward over the desk, his face contorted; I could hear him taking harsh, rasping breaths that shook me almost as much as they racked him.
Eventually, with great effort, he brought himself under control and said to Irving, ‘And is that all I am to you? We were friends, once.’
There was such agony of emotion in those few words that I had to jam my fingers into my mouth so as not to make a sound. Knowledge ripped through me like a butcher’s knife. He wasn’t afraid of London – it was Irving, Irving he was running from, hiding from, battling with in the secret recesses of his mind. Irving who made his heart pound and lungs heave, who could wring that effort from him and edge his voice with such distress.
As he came out of the shadows, I saw concern in the older man’s eyes, and heard it, thankfully, in his voice: ‘I hope we are still – I hope we will be, always...’
Bram took a deep breath and steadied himself, but I could see the glint of tears on his cheek. ‘That’s been my hope too – but you know, latterly...’ He broke off, shook his head, unable to go on.
‘I know. I’m sorry. It’s been my fault. We must set things right – make a return to our old style – what do you say?’ Irving asked with a charming, almost puckish smile. Again he reached out, but this time Bram did not flinch away. At Irving’s touch he turned and, with a single, wordless exclamation, they embraced.
The gesture was as brief as it was emotional, but the intimacy – even to Bram’s lack of embarrassment as he dried his eyes afterwards – spoke of a closeness I’d never suspected. I felt shocked, jealous, excluded. I wanted to tear open the door, knock Irving out of the way, enfold Bram in my own protective arms. But I wanted to shake him too, bring him back from tears and the marshy depths of sentiment to his former position of anger and resistance. I wanted him to stand firm.
Irving’s voice was like silk. ‘You’ve had a difficult time of it, I know, and I feel dreadfully responsible. The thing is, you have such a genius for organisation, you make everything look easy. I tend to forget how much is involved. In future, you must remind me.’
In future! He speaks, I thought furiously, as though all were settled, as though only his wishes were of any account, as though there had never been any real question as to the ultimate decision. No doubt he was accustomed to achieving his own ends, to using whatever means came to hand – from cold professionalism to this warm cloak of sympathy and charm.
I willed Bram to reject that, to withdraw from the actor’s seductive aura; but although he continued to voice words of protest, they lacked conviction. Somehow, in Irving’s embrace, he had lost that wonderful energy and vibrancy which had been so much a part of him. I saw him become clumsy and slow, even physically diminished, as though the very marrow was being sucked from his bones.
Twenty-eight
I had been so sure that Bram was in love with me, that it was possible to ensnare him with passion while his cold-hearted wife stood no chance at all. But standing there, clinging to the door, spying on my lover with the man who had ruled his life for the past ten years, I knew with absolute certainty that my rival was not Florence Stoker. By comparison with Henry Irving, Florence was almost incidental, and Bram’s truancy with me was no more than an escapade that might linger in the mind, but sooner or later would be forgotten.
I felt crushed, ground underfoot by this man Irving, while Bram was locked in conversation, unaware. Despite his protests and explanations – about the fascination of Whitby, its extraordinary character and folklore, the writing he had been doing since his arrival – I knew an acknowledgement had been made, and because of that, Irving was prepared to listen. For a while at least.
It was when Bram started to talk about me that I wanted to kill him. I felt he had no right to discuss me with anyone, least of all Irving, even though he described me in such fulsome terms I barely recognised myself. On his lips, I sounded like some paragon of new womanhood whose growth had roots in a distant, almost mythical past, leading a life as fascinating as anything portrayed in the stories he wrote. All nonsense, but even though I could not imagine Ir
ving believing a word of it, such excess angered and embarrassed me.
Unable to eavesdrop a moment longer, I had to act. With no idea what I was about to say, I picked up the letter, unlatched the door and strode into the kitchen. They both turned, momentarily dumbfounded, and the effect gave me courage.
‘By the way,’ I announced to Bram, handing him the sheet of scented yellow paper, ‘you dropped this.’
He stared at it, and then at me, before reaching into his pocket for the rest. Obviously taken aback, he seemed to struggle for words before saying abruptly: ‘We’ll talk later.’
‘Why can’t we talk now?’ I demanded, my voice high with nerves.
Irving’s timing was smooth, and I could feel his eyes taking in the changed details of my appearance. ‘We shall soon disturb you no longer,’ he said with a slight, courtier-like bow. ‘Hall Caine is merely changing our bookings for the return journey.’
I turned on him. ‘And is that for two people, Mr Irving, or three?’
The challenge startled him, but, as if on cue, Hall Caine made his entrance, and my question remained unanswered. As though by arrangement, Bram was immediately involved in conversation, while I found myself ushered outside, into the garden.
Henry Irving was the kind of man who concentrated absolutely upon the person he was with, and, having been forced to elevate me somewhat in the scheme of things, his attitude had changed. Despite my antipathy, it was hard not to be aware of his charm. Or his looks. For he was tall and graceful, and far more striking than any photograph. He also possessed the actor’s ability to use every asset to full effect.
Disliking him intensely, still I could feel the attraction he exerted; and when he spoke it was hard not to be seduced. His voice was gentle, persuasive, reasonable in the extreme. If specific words failed to register, I imagine it was because I heard the message loud and clear: give up the fight, release Bram, let him return to his own kind. I tried to refute that, not because I thought Bram loved me more than he loved either Irving or Florence, but because I knew he had another side, other talents that were in grave danger of being bled dry by Irving’s monumental selfishness and conceit.
It was a rearguard action at best, and in the end he overcame my resistance by the simple trick of taking me into his confidence. And the subject he chose was debt. Assessing correctly that a poor young woman would understand the obligations and implications of owing money to the wrong people, he told me that Florence had always lived beyond her means. According to him, not even Bram knew how heavily she had spent on refurbishing their new house. He had no reserves with which to pay her debts, but while he, Irving, was willing to settle the problem, he had to have Bram at the theatre.
‘And please believe me,’ he said, his voice deep with sincerity, ‘I do need him. Bram is good at what he does. Very good. Do you think I would be here, begging for his return, if I could make do with anyone else? The Lyceum has been in chaos since he left.’
‘Then treat him with respect, Mr Irving,’ I retorted sharply, ‘Not like you did before – and not like some flunkey you can replace at any time!’
With rueful laughter he acknowledged the rebuke. ‘Yes, indeed, it’s been a much-needed lesson – rest assured, I shall not forget!
‘However, Miss Sterne, there are things you would do well to remember. Particularly this nonsense of his about writing for a living – which is all very well if your name happens to be Charles Dickens or even Thomas Hall Caine, turning out pot-boilers to capture the public imagination. But who knows Bram Stoker? If he had some kind of private income it might be feasible to retire to the country and do as you suggest, but he hasn’t, you know – not a penny. He cannot afford this folly, my dear – believe me, he cannot.’
Sufficient doubt was introduced to dampen my convictions; and when, in a last-ditch attempt to hold on to something that had, in effect, already been torn away, I said I would accompany Bram to London, that too was dismissed as unwise.
‘It wouldn’t do, my dear, to take Florence’s words at face value. For the moment she needs him, and is therefore prepared to say anything to get him back. But she could make things very difficult for Bram – and for you too. Besides, it wouldn’t do him any good to be reminded of so many impractical plans, and promises hastily given – he would only be dissatisfied and unhappy. In these instances, I always think it’s best to make the break complete, don’t you?’
His arrogance appalled me. I wasn’t an instance, for heaven’s sake, I was a human being, and this was my life he was talking about. What about me? I wanted to yell at him. When Bram’s returned to his old life and everything’s back to normal for you, what do I do? But something – pride, perhaps – held it back. In the meantime I was angry, and with the sense that nothing now could make things worse, I turned on him before he could walk away.
‘Oh, come on, Mr Irving – why hide behind Florence’s skirts? You’ve got that poor woman where you want her – I’m the one you’re not sure of, the one who might be too much for you. Truth is, you don’t want me getting in the way. You’re just a tiny bit afraid I might have a hold on Bram. That I might prove awkward, not know my place – that I might actually be a serious rival!’
He assumed a convincingly bemused expression. ‘I don’t understand what you’re suggesting, Miss Sterne.’
‘I’m not suggesting anything – I’m telling you I know your game. You’re a cheat and a blood-sucker, Mr Irving – you can’t bear to think of there being so much as a drop left over for anyone else, not even for Bram himself. Well, let me tell you, Mr Bloody Irving, you can have him – after all I’ve seen and heard today, I don’t want him. I don’t want a man who’s willing to be used like that – or who uses me as a substitute for the thing he can’t have!’
I was not even aware of having thought that, and yet out it came.
I wish I could recall a resounding silence after my outburst, but by the time I’d finished I was trembling so violently with rage, I was aware of nothing but a need to get away.
Stumbling towards the house, I ran blindly into Bram. He’d heard every word and was desperate to hold and deny and explain.
‘Leave me be!’ I cried, beating him off. ‘I don’t want to talk to you – I don’t even want to see you! You disgust me. Get your books and your clothes and your fancy friends and just get away from here – back to London, back to where I can’t see you. Go!’
He made some protest as I broke free, caught up as I struggled with the gate, grabbed my arm and shook me before I could escape. ‘Don’t, Damaris, listen to me – don’t be so foolish!’ Harshly, he cried: ‘It wasn’t like that! Believe me!’
‘No? So what was it like? What was it all about?’
‘A mistake! It wasn’t -’
‘Oh, let go of me – I don’t want to hear it! Let go!’
‘Not until you promise to stay away from the sea.’
Laughter sprang from somewhere, a crazy, hysterical sound. ‘Oh, don’t flatter yourself!’ I cried, with a violent effort shaking myself free. ‘I’ve had one brush with death this morning – you needn’t think I’d risk another. Not on your account, anyway!’
‘So where are you going?’
‘Out. For a walk. Alone. Just be gone when I get back!’
His arms dropped in defeat. ‘You don’t understand – it isn’t what you think. There are things I have to do in London, which might take a while, but...’ He broke off and took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘I love you, Damaris – I want to come back here -’
‘Don’t,’ I said harshly. ‘Don’t give me your lies!’ Between rage and pain, I thought my heart would break. I fumbled my way through the gate and up the hill. When I turned he was still there, following me with his eyes. Just at that moment the sun broke through and caught him in a noose of light. His beard was like a flame, and I was tempted, fleetingly, to run to him, to be forgiven and held in his arms; but then I saw Irving behind him, poised and waiting.
Just like the Gentle
man in Black.
Twenty-nine
It was the middle of summer but I was terribly cold. I banked up the fire as though winter stood on the threshold, and drank cup after cup of black sweet tea. I couldn’t eat and I couldn’t sleep. My mind kept going over everything, from the night I’d first given myself to him at the abbey, to more recent moments before the storm.
I’d wanted freedom, enjoyment, no responsibilities on either side. Small wonder, I thought, that with so much on offer he’d felt entitled to take everything, to possess me entirely and in every way possible, with hands and mouth, tongue and teeth, body and soul. He’d bitten into my flesh and tasted my blood. Naked, he had covered me until our sweat intermingled and became one, until, at the last, he had succeeded in penetrating me in every way. It was as though he’d striven to fill me with the essence of himself, in order to make me his own.
There was something frightening in the idea of such passion and possessiveness. In every sense he’d tried to make me his – even to mingling his blood with mine. And I’d let it happen. I hated myself for that, cursed myself for a fool.
I didn’t understand, but the more I dwelt on it, the more I pitied him. Pitied? No, that came later. That night I hated him.
If Irving was the one he truly wanted, then it seemed to me Bram was doomed to misery. Irving would tempt him constantly, giving only a little here and there, a look, a touch, a brief caress of approval, even an embrace where necessary. But that would be it. To give more would be to relinquish an important element of his power. And it seemed to me that Florence was using similar weapons.
Of course I didn’t come to these conclusions immediately – I pored over the problem for years, returning to it again and again like some obscure mathematical equation, adding bits of information here and there, working at it until gradually a sense and a balance began to emerge.
~~~
Sadly, to begin with I didn’t understand at all, and dwelt on it to the exclusion of all else. I examined everything from every angle, and then went over it all again. I wanted to see where I’d gone wrong, whether anything I might have said or done would have altered the outcome. To do that, I felt I had to understand Bram, so I thought about him more than anyone else. Bella, I knew, would have called me an idiot, a dreamer, a time-waster, while urging me to get busy and forget him. But that was the difference between us. When the crisis came for her, she lashed out in pain and ended by killing someone. I preferred to waste time in doing nothing.
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