Stokers Shadow Read Free Page A

realizes that, while she was reading and picturing Jonathan Harker’s mannerisms and facial expressions, she was in fact seeing him. More impertinent still, the feelings of the hero mirror her ownso closely, she feels it has been her adventure all along as well. She wonders at the fusion between herself and Mr. William Stoker brought about by imagination and a story. She wonders at the strange new empathy she is feeling.
    She turns back towards her small dressing table, suddenly dissatisfied with the layout of her room. Thoughts quicken like electricity. She realizes what is wrong. That dressing table and chair should be placed in front of the window so she can overlook the night and breathe in the last blossoms of the season.
    F LORENCE S TOKER GAZES at the framed pencil portrait of the beautiful young woman which stands on her dressing table – a simple drawing of herself done in profile thirty years ago. She sees the white pool in the eye, the light that represents her soul. She scans over the knowing upward curl of the lip, a humourous, optimistic half-smile; a Mona Lisa touch most impressive in such a limiting format, she thinks. Did she really seem so intriguing to an artist?
    She holds the frame in her left hand and runs her right palm an inch over the glass surface, as though it is a genie’s lamp with the power to turn some, as yet, obscure wish into reality. She feels as though the image of the portrait must have imprisoned her soul.
    A noise somewhere above her room distracts her – a scuffing and scraping from the servants’ quarters, as though furniture is being moved. Why would Mrs. Davis be shifting things around at this time of night? She places her portrait back on the surface of the dressing table and takes up her hairbrush. The edges of her mouth, she sees, are turned down inhaglike misery. Not a trace of humour or optimism there, she thinks. She knows, in reality, she has not aged badly. She knows she is still admired for her looks. Yet she is unhappy with the image staring back at her tonight.
    She thinks over her day, the grey shambling stranger who called claiming to be her son. She remembers how William was as a little child. She sees him standing on tiptoe on the balcony, pointing to the ships’ masts and calling out their trades. “Spices, Mama, from India,” the piping voice called; “rugs from Persia, Mama look!” That was the William she had called upon for help, not the morose, middle-aged man who smelled of old tobacco.
    She thinks of the German pirates who have taken her husband’s novel. She sees that dreadful illustration again. Ghastly thing! She thinks of the Lyceum Theatre and closes her eyes. The fragrance of French perfumes and eau de cologne wafts upon her. She remembers how it felt to be at the centre of it all. She sees herself holding onto Bram’s strong arm at a premiere. She sees newspaper men twittering around her husband with their pencils and notebooks, begging for a quote from Sir Henry. No one would have dared to try and cheat them then. A great wave of pride rises and crashes within her, leaving in its wake a thousand conflicting streams of sadness. “Long gone,” the phrase whispers over and over like foam sizzling into nothing.
    Florence presses her palm onto the canvas-bound book on the corner of her dressing table. She has not yet started to read The Moonstone, although she had Mary borrow it from the library three days ago. She’s not even quite sure why shewanted it, having read it before. Perhaps she wants to submerge herself in the reliable, happy era it represents, she thinks, now that everything around her is creaking with grey malevolence and comfortless subversion. Florence remembers The Moonstone as an emblem, not a story. She remembers the Lyceum tour of America, the time she accompanied Bram. She recalls the detour to Niagara Falls, the silver, crystal waters and the exhilaration. She remembers the