Read Online Stokers Shadow by Paul Butler - Free Book Online Page A

Stoker.”
    Mary feels stranded between Mr. Thring and Mrs. Stoker, her shoulders beginning to slope as she tries to work out whether she should speak, leave or pour the tea. She is about to ask Mr. Thring whether he takes milk and sugar when Mrs. Stoker answers him.
    â€œI do believe, Mr. Thring, that you are an incorrigible flatterer, but may I say a delightful one.” Mary turns to see the bright openness of Mrs. Stoker’s pale blue eyes; it seems she has become a different person entirely – younger, happier, almost playful. Then she hears a more familiar offhand whisper saying, “Just leave the tea, Mary, I’ll deal with it.”
    Mary’s ears begin to burn only when she gets to the threshold of the sitting room and the hall; only then does she feel the full force of the disparity, the less-than-nothing esteem in which she is held. She catches muted words through the closing door:
    Mrs. Stoker: “Poor girl, I hoped that London might have made something of her.”
    Mr. Thring: “How generous of you to take her in.”
    Mary faces the closed door and breathes in the foreign scents of wood and wax pervading the hallway. For a moment she hopes they are talking about someone else. After all, the exchange makes little sense with reference to herself – she was in a better social position in her own homeland by far, especially on this evidence. But with a dull thud, she realizes that the unthinkable is true. She is the unnamed “her,” the imaginary figure cowering in the gutter. She wanders slowly back into the scullery, towards the little oasis of civility she finds in Mrs. Davis.
    The housekeeper’s dark, intelligent eyes catch hers for a second as she kneads a wedge of dough. Mary peels off her apron, feeling like a ghost – numb and detached from reality.
    â€œMrs. Davis, I’m going out for a bit if you don’t need me.”
    Mrs. Davis smiles, her hands still working. “So you should, Miss. Get out and see some sights.”
    M R . T HRING IS conjuring a magic world for Florence – her own past coloured by the admiration of youth. He is describing what she had believed the world to have forgotten – the flamboyant and invincible circle to which she once belonged, characterswho could easily have been woven into the great mythic tales: Arthur and his knights, Jason and the Argonauts, Sinbad and his wild voyages in search of riches. He talks of men who leaped through flames, daring all upon principle – Whistler’s libel action against a spokesman for the brutish, philistine public and the penury that followed him; poor Oscar’s fierce last stand and the even worse fate that came to meet his defiance. But they were men alive with the fire of valour and faith. These things are their own rewards.
    â€œAnd where are we to find such colour in today’s drab world?” says Mr. Thring.
    Florence feels the warmth of comradeship in the heartfelt comment, so much so that her sadness spills into words before she can stop them.
    â€œMy son, for instance.”
    â€œAh,” Mr. Thring notes, not disagreeing.
    She wonders at her cruelty but feels a twinge of revenge not so much against the forty-year-old man as against the insolent boy who had once eavesdropped at a dinner party and then answered so sullenly.
    â€œNot like his father,” she adds, twisting her hands together.
    â€œIndeed, but what an act to follow, Mrs. Stoker!” He is now defending William, it seems, albeit gently. “What a man to live up to!”
    â€œHow true,” Mrs. Stoker says quietly, guilt stirring then subsiding. “Author, theatrical manager and barrister-at-law.” She plucks out the titles one by one, like trophies. Her favourite is the last – she never really enjoyed his stories,although she was pleased when others said they did – law’s respectability and stature speak for themselves.
    â€œI had no idea Mr.