“Such a state has never stopped a man from longing for a woman like Lillie. She is beautiful, bold, and intelligent. The Prince likes to show off Miss Langtry, but he also is building a place where they can be alone. The house is not finished - the masons’ strike, you know - so they apparently use rooms at Lord Derby’s mansion nearby. But he has purchased land near Bournemouth’s East Cliff and told Miss Langtry she can design the home for them. A romantic love nest. Lillie told me that Bertie’s chamber will be filled with original paintings and the fireplace is to be made of carved oak and hand-painted tiles with scenes from Shakespeare in blue and white enamel and gold leaf. She says in the minstrel’s gallery, she will place a statement, one that says ‘What say they? Let them say.’ There will be stained glass windows that depict swans in a loving embrace. Lillie has even had special curtain tie-back hooks made which reflect the prince’s own emblem. It sounds marvelous; I wish I could avail myself of it.”
I almost laughed. Oscar could be wonderfully malicious and exuberant in repeating gossip, while looking down at gossipers. But in this particular venture, I feared for him.
“Oscar, do take care. If she is the prince’s mistress and he is building her such a home, he must be deeply infatuated with her. Surely you do not wish to incur the wrath of the future King of England! Besides, what about Florence?”
His face clouded over in such a way as I had not seen since Effie’s funeral.
“Oscar? I asked what about Florence, the young lady to whom you were going to propose?”
“That is another matter,” he said sharply.
I sighed. “All right, then. Aside from Florence, how was your recent trip to Ireland after your classes ended?”
“Well, I visited relatives, of course. I went riding and hunting. I attended a shooting party at Ashford Castle in County Mayo, which was quite grand.”
I had never been to County Mayo, but just before I’d entered nursing school, I’d joined Effie and her family on a short excursion to Ireland to visit their relatives there. It was a lovely country. Before returning to England from Dublin, Effie, her father and I had travelled north to see other relations in Crossmaglen. I would never forget the sun beating down on the undulating hill and dale, the small, oblong berries of scarlet on the haw shrubs, the turquoise turnip fields, the showy purple irises that flagged in the breeze, and the thick, white mist of the bogs, like clouds hovering low to the ground. The streams of sunlight fell through branches that hung over the road, turning the trees into Gothic windows, like those in a great cathedral, with traceries through which golden beams and rose rays danced.
Oscar prattled on about his new associations with other celebrities and a collection of poems he was working on. When we finished lunch, I asked him if he wanted to walk with me to St. Bart’s.
“Walk?” he scoffed.
I laughed. Oscar would rather hail a hansom cab to cross the street than walk.
When I was ready to leave, I kissed his cheek, and he touched my arm. “Wait, Poppy. I have something to tell you before you go,” he said quietly. I sat back down.
“What is it, Oscar?”
“My Florence is engaged to marry someone else.”
“Oh, my God, Oscar, I am so sorry. Who?”
“Abraham Stoker. Well, he calls himself ‘Bram’ now. His father died two years ago, and I think it was a way of freeing himself from his father’s shadow. I knew him at Trinity. We were friends, or so I thought.” His tone was bitter and it was obvious that this turn of events had thrown him into a melancholy.
“I’m so sorry,” I said again.
“He lives at St. Stephen’s Green now, but they are to be married this December, and they are moving to London. He’s travelled quite a bit and published short stories and a non-fiction work about the duties of clerks of Petty Sessions - that’s his occupation, some civil servant position. A year or so ago, he started doing theatre critiques, and he gave a favourable review of a production of Hamlet at the Theatre Royal in Dublin. Henry Irving was the star. Bram and Irving struck up a friendship and apparently, Irving has convinced Bram to move to London and become acting manager and business manager at Irving’s Lyceum Theatre here. Florence told me that he is a gentleman with a permanent job and a steady income, whereas life with me would be filled with uncertainty.
“So, Poppy, now I know how Victor felt when you tossed him aside for Sherlock. I understand why he sailed off to India.”
As my face grew hot, I glanced sideways. “Oscar, I did not toss-”
But he cut me off.
“Of course, I did not move to London to get away from the pain - and that would have been an irony, wouldn’t it, considering they are moving here. But I understand Victor’s need to extricate himself from the situation. India is a bit far for an escape but...” He heaved a sigh. “At least Stoker is marrying Florence.”
He paused and threaded his fingers through my hair as if he were admiring a ribbon of fine, black silk. “But Sherlock will never marry, Poppy. Not even you. So do not stay under his shadow.”
I pulled back and looked away. I need not be reminded of Sherlock’s brick barrier to emotions.
He clasped his hands over mine. “Poppy, look at me.”
Reluctantly, I turned to face him.
“You know I am the last person on Earth to criticize nonconformity. I am endeavouring to master the art of nonconformity and the unconventional. To set my own rules and live the life I want. Sherlock annoys me at times, but I also respect him because he, too, sets his own rules. And your independent streak... I applaud it. But you
