Mr Bishop and the Actress

by Janet Mullany

  I shall work hard. I shall be good. Mrs Marsden will be proud of me.

  I am so horrified I believe I will faint. I drop into a chair, the diary clutched in my hands, and read it again. Amelia believes she will walk into London unscathed and pursue a career as an actress, and although she stands as good a chance as any, I fear she will pay the price with her innocence and virtue.

  And it is my fault. I had thought I had been discreet about my past as an actress. I had not wanted to encourage her, but apparently I did.

  I stand and, the diary in my hands, run down the stairs.

  12

  Harry

  Harry!’

  I turn, and all the workmen stop too, amid a litter of rubble and dust. I had not expected to see her so soon, if ever at all.

  ‘Good God, what are you doing?’

  ‘We’re building a conservatory for Lady Shad. It is a surprise for her.’

  She sniffs and looks around at the carnage that was once the drawing room. ‘It most certainly will be. Harry, I must speak with you.’

  I brush most of the dust off myself and don my coat again. The demolition has been as enjoyable as I anticipated, but it has made a filthy mess, and I leave a trail of dusty footprints across the floorboards.

  I see now she is highly agitated. She clutches her pelisse and bonnet in one hand and a book of some sort in the other.

  ‘I must go to London immediately!’

  ‘Of course. I’ll get one of the footmen to—’

  ‘Give me that money, if you please.’

  ‘You mean the money Lord Shad wanted to give you?’ I draw the leather bag from my coat. ‘But what is the matter?’ There is a suspicious dampness around her eyes.

  ‘It’s Amelia!’

  ‘What of her? She left for Bath early this morning. Matthew took her to the Wiltons’ house in the trap.’

  ‘She didn’t go to Bath. She has run away to London. Look!’ She thrusts the book at me, open to a page of agitated writing.

  I read in growing horror.

  ‘It is my fault,’ she says with great wretchedness. ‘She will be ruined and I must go to rescue her. If I can hire a vehicle then maybe I can find her at one of the stops. But I must leave now.’

  ‘On the contrary, it is my fault. If I had told his lordship who and what you were he would have sent you from the house and this would never have happened.’

  She glares at me. ‘That is very easy for you to say, Harry.’

  ‘I shall come with you.’ I go to the door that leads to the servants’ staircase and shout down to have the trap made ready.

  ‘I shall do quite well on my own,’ she says with a mulish stubbornness.

  ‘No, you will not. I am his lordship’s steward and I should not let you go unaccompanied. It is not proper.’

  ‘You’re a dreadful driver,’ she says.

  ‘Are you better?’

  ‘Actually, yes. I was taught to drive by one of my—by a gentleman.’

  ‘I’m sure you were. Wait here.’ I tell Mr Bulmersh and his men to continue with the work and that I am called away upon sudden business, but will return later if I can, or within a day or so. I then dash to my house and throw a few possessions into a bag for the journey, and return to find Sophie seated in the trap, gathering the reins with an air of skill I envy. I toss my bag aboard and clamber up next to her as she clicks her tongue and flicks the whip, and we leave the house in a burst of gravel at a smart canter.

  Heaven only knows what will happen in the house while I am gone.

  The stage stops at an inn some ten miles away. It will be too late for us to catch Amelia there, for she has a good start of at least an hour, but with luck, and his lordship’s horses there (for since he travels frequently to London he keeps horses along the route), we shall overtake it later.

  Sure enough, at the inn we find the coach made its stop on time, and a stableman remembers a pretty young woman who travelled alone. We change horses and proceed. We speak little but a few miles further on Sophie reins the horse in.

  ‘He’s cast a shoe.’

  She jumps down, and lifts the horse’s near fore.

  ‘How did you know?’

  She gives me an odd look. ‘By his gait.’ She gathers the reins and knots them out of the way. ‘We will lose time, now, for we must get him shod, and we must walk.’

  So we set off on foot for the next village, where I hope there is a smithy. As we walk, I become aware that all is not well with Sophie. She coughs occasionally, and blows her nose frequently.

  ‘I fear you’re not well, Mrs Marsden.’

  ‘Do not concern yourself, sir.’ She regards her limp handkerchief with disgust.

  I hand her mine, relatively unused.

  We walk on, the horse and Sophie limping (she admits to a blister), for what seems hours. The sun is low in the sky when we see a smudge of smoke on the horizon that indicates a village, and it is almost dusk when we arrive.

  There is a smithy, but the smith has closed up shop for the day and gone home to have his dinner. The alehouse, a sorry place with dirty windows and an early customer already asleep on a barrel outside, seems to be the only place that will offer us shelter. The proprietor, impressed by our clothing, I suspect, bows Sophie into a parlour embellished by dead flies on the windowsill while he and I negotiate lodgings for ourselves and the horse for the night.

  Sophie

  ‘You said what?’ I hiss at Harry.

  ‘There is only the one room. Of course I had to say we were married. Your reputation—’

  ‘My reputation? My reputation in Upper Dunghill or whatever the name of this place is?’ My indignation is quenched by a sneeze.

  ‘If he thought we were not married he might have refused us shelter. Or charged us more.’

  We both fall silent as the waiter, a skinny, unwashed person marginally more filthy than the cloth he carries over one arm, slouches into the parlour to ask if we have finished with our dinner. He casts an acquisitive eye over the aged and undercooked fowl and strange pickled vegetables upon which we have feasted.

  ‘You may bring us tea,’ Harry says. ‘This time, use boiling water and pray wash the cups in clean water, not that used for washing the cooking pots.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Slopping gravy, he removes the cover.

  ‘I am not sleeping in the same bed with you,’ I say as soon as the waiter has left.

  Harry reaches for his travelling chest and flicks it open. An array of bottles stands within. ‘I have a tincture which I think you may find effective for your cold, or you can try brandy.’

  ‘Here it would probably poison us.’

  ‘Brandy is brandy. I shall not pay if they have watered it down.’

  When the waiter comes back with tea, Harry demands a clean cloth and polishes the cups and teaspoons with great care. The milk is just beginning to turn, but since I can taste very little I do not really care about the small white blobs floating on the surface.

  I retire for bed and a chambermaid, missing a front tooth and with a lank curl of hair hanging from her cap, arrives upstairs to assist with my stays. The bed is none too big, and there is scarcely enough space to accommodate it, our luggage, and a washstand in the room. Let Harry sleep on the floor, if he can find space. I crawl into bed, aching and miserable, and again in need of a fresh handkerchief. Mine are somewhere in the bottom of my trunk and I lack the energy to retrieve them.

  ‘Mrs Marsden?’ Harry thrusts a handkerchief into my hand. ‘Sit up, ma’am, I have some brandy for you.’

  He places a tallow candle on the washstand. ‘Did they use the sheets I brought?’

  ‘I suppose they must have, for they are clean.’ I take a swig of brandy. ‘Good night, Harry.’

  But he does not leave. He moves around the room, finding a bootjack, and I hear the rustling sounds of someone removing garments. I close my eyes. ‘I shall not share the bed with you. Can you not sleep in the parlour?’

  ‘I’d rather
have you than that greasy waiter as my bedfellow.’

  ‘Oh. Most flattering.’ Well, I can see his point. I shift to the far side of the bed, balanced on the edge. ‘I trust you’ll behave like a gentleman.’

  ‘That has always been my ambition, ma’am.’ He sounds amused.

  ‘You know what I mean.’ I honk into his handkerchief for emphasis. ‘We are merely sharing the bed out of necessity.’

  ‘Ma’am, I am not an animal. I do have some selfcontrol. You need have no fear.’

  He climbs into the bed and I feel his legs, bare and hairy, brush against mine. ‘What are you wearing?’

  ‘My shirt.’

  And I wear a nightgown. Two layers of cotton are all that separate us.

  A moment later I shriek, ‘Stop it!’

  ‘I would like a little use of the bedclothes, ma’am. May I suggest you do not sleep precisely on the edge of the bed? For in so doing you take the coverings with you.’

  ‘Oh, very well.’ With great caution I inch my way towards the centre of the bed so an equitable arrangement of the bedclothes can be reached.

  I lie awake for a little, blowing my nose occasionally. ‘Harry?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  Good heavens, he is actually going to sleep? How can he? ‘She’ll be in London by now. I hope she is safe.’

  ‘We’ll find her and bring her back home. Never fear.’ And he reaches his hand out to clasp mine and squeezes it.

  It is a pity it is the hand that holds the sodden handkerchief.

  ‘Goodnight, Mrs Marsden. I hope you feel well in the morning.’

  ‘Goodnight, Mr Bishop.’ I wait for him to spring upon me, but his breathing slows and he falls asleep.

  So, eventually, do I.

  I wake to find him trying to push me out of bed and a brief struggle for supremacy of both bed and covers ensues, both of us half asleep and one of us, at least, in a foul temper and with a sore throat and clogged nose, and the handkerchief nowhere to be found.

  ‘What the devil are you doing?’ I croak.

  ‘You’re snoring. I’m trying to turn you.’

  ‘What! Nonsense! I never snore.’

  ‘You have a cold. Colds sometimes make people snore.’

  ‘I do not snore. No one has ever complained of it before.’ I drag the bedclothes over myself and turn my back on him. As I do so I become aware of an impediment of a somewhat personal nature protruding into my side of the bed. ‘Oh, and Harry?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This bed is narrow enough. We cannot afford that sort of thing to take up valuable space.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am.’

  ‘It is unnatural. I am an invalid.’ And having had the last word, I wipe my nose on the sheet and compose myself to sleep.

  When I wake next it is daylight and Harry, in breeches and shirtsleeves, is shaving. He is a pleasant sight to look upon; he may be slender but he is a well-made man with a certain grace about his person, and if I did not have a cold and he had not accused me of snoring . . . I tell myself sternly to cease such thoughts immediately.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Marsden.’ He wipes his face with a towel and dons his spectacles. ‘Do you feel well enough to travel?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll go downstairs and see about breakfast.’ And he puts on coat and waistcoat and strolls from the room.

  I ponder his vile accusations of snoring. How on earth could I have practised my former profession if that were so? (Although little sleeping was involved). Nevertheless I flounce from the bed, even though there is no one to view my performance, and ring the bell several times for the maidservant, who by daylight sports a moustache and a veneer of grime not visible the night before.

  When I descend to the parlour Harry is making a hearty breakfast of ham and toast. I drink some tea and eat a piece of toast after examining it for fingerprints. All is set. He has arranged for the horse to be shod and it and the trap returned to the house. We will ride in a vehicle belonging to a gentleman who has business at the next town, a few miles away, where we can pick up the London coach at noon.

  Harry rummages in his travelling medicine chest and offers me some salve for my nose, which, I have noticed, glows bright red and is tender to the touch. Upon application I smell faintly of farmyard, for it is tallow with some pungent herbs, but the tenderness is eased. And so we set off once more.

  The gentleman who drives us also takes a piglet and a dog, both of which want to become our friends and with whom we share the back of the cart. The piglet, a small black and white creature with delicate hooves and a charming curled tail, has no idea that he will shortly become the dinner of the driver’s cousin. He seems altogether too cheerful.

  The dog, equally cheerful, sits and scratches most of the time, and I suspect we may carry away some of its fleas.

  When we arrive at the coaching inn we find that there are no inside seats to be had.

  ‘What do you think, Mrs Marsden?’ Harry says. ‘You are not well and I think it likely to rain. I regret I forgot my umbrella.’ This last in a shocked whisper that he has succumbed to such a human frailty as forgetfulness.

  ‘Sell you one, sir,’ says the young gentleman selling tickets, who chews on the end of his pen, and proceeds to name a ludicrous price for the item he produces, one that barely opens and which was probably abandoned by its former owner. We refuse his generous offer.

  The coach arrives with a blast of its horn and passengers tumble out to take advantage of the fifteen minutes it will take to change the horses, scurrying past us into the inn and calling for refreshments. We see our modest luggage loaded, and Harry gallantly assists me on to the roof of the coach where we make ourselves as comfortable as we can. By the afternoon we shall be in London; it is not so long, after all. We set off with a jolt. Our fellow passengers, a group of young men, whoop and shout as though on the hunting field, although their good spirits are dampened by the steady rain that begins to fall.

  I unfold the shawl, which for all its delicacy is as strong as iron and tightly woven enough to keep out all but the most severe weather, and wrap it around myself. I steal a glance at Harry, who has turned up his coat collar and sits hunched, hands in pockets. I unfurl the shawl once more.

  ‘Since you bought this you should share it.’ I wrap it around us both, bringing us into closer proximity than in the bed we shared last night. We are warm and snug, his thigh against mine, his arm around me beneath the shawl. I rest my head on his shoulder and, despite the lurching of the coach, fall into a deep sleep. I hope I do not snore.

  The noise of London wakes me. I am surprised how soon I forgot the din while I was in the country – the rumble of close-packed vehicles, the shouts of street vendors, the noise of a great city as all bustle and go about their business. The rain has stopped, and I am glad of it, for rain in London is a dirty, sooty nuisance.

  Perhaps it is my cold that makes me stupid, for I had barely considered what we should do when we arrived in London. I suppose I had some vague idea that we would go door to door from one theatre to another until we found Amelia, but Harry takes charge. He hails a hackney and directs it to, where else, Bishop’s Hotel.

  Harry

  My mother gasps and sinks into a chair – or at least she sinks and I hasten to place a chair strategically for her.

  She places a hand on her bosom and gasps for air. ‘Tell me you have not been sacked.’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘Or—’ She glances towards the far end of the parlour where Sophie is warming her hands at the fire and whispers, ‘Or married?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘Oh.’ She frowns. ‘You know, Harry, it’s high time you thought of marriage, for your pa talks more and more of retiring these days, and he’s getting tired. You’ll need a woman with a head on her shoulders to help you run this place.’

  ‘I doubt Sophie would be interested.’

  ‘That’s a great shame.’ But she co
ntinues, ‘And it is just a cold the poor dear young lady suffers from?’

  Surely she does not suggest that Sophie is with child!