Mr Bishop and the Actress

by Janet Mullany

  He nods and lets go her hand. For one moment she looks absolutely forlorn, but the moment passes and she disappears around the corner with a flutter of muslin.

  I follow her.

  I don’t trust her an inch.

  The bed is the only piece of furniture in the room, which is decorated otherwise with a few drifts of dust and what must be a garter, lying sad and abandoned on the bare floorboards. The bed is huge and ancient, its posts dark with age and carved with leaves and flowers, the hangings a dark red silk. A bed made for sin.

  She trots up the wooden steps necessary to get into the behemoth, and arranges herself on the red coverlet, ankles prettily on display.

  ‘Look, Mr Bishop, how beautiful the painting of the tester is!’ She points above her head and pats the bed with the other hand, as though inviting me to join her.

  I take a step forward and angle my head to catch a glimpse of cavorting fleshy gods and goddesses, protected inadequately by wisps of cloud and surrounded by beaming fat putti.

  ‘Very fine. And when do you intend to move this bed out, Mrs Wallace?’

  She rests on one elbow. ‘They say Queen Elizabeth slept on it.’

  ‘And you must sleep on it elsewhere, ma’am.’

  She twirls a lock of hair around one finger. ‘Regretfully at the moment I cannot afford to move the bed.’

  ‘Until you have another protector, I suppose.’

  ‘Precisely.’ She smiles, not quite shamelessly, but as though this is all just business for her. I suppose it is. I don’t like the idea of this woman skipping carelessly into the arms of the highest bidder; she looks too fresh and pretty.

  ‘If you were my sister . . .’ I begin.

  ‘If I were your sister, sir, you would arrange for me to enter into a similar arrangement blessed by the Church; nay, a lesser arrangement, for I’d be trapped for life with nothing of my own, not even a bed such as this.’ She pats the coverlet, this time as though caressing a favourite dog.

  I walk across to the window and prop myself up on the sill, wanting to move as far as possible from her and the huge bed. ‘Why, ma’am, you would have nothing but your honour.’

  ‘And very nice for them that can afford honour, I say.’

  I wonder what this woman’s story, is, that she came to such a pass; and who, and where, Mr Wallace is, even if such a person exists. She is not repentant, she is not resorting to tears or threats; she is remarkably stoic – or giving that impression – about her plight.

  ‘I quite loved Charlie,’ she says, taking me aback even further.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Oh, yes. But it’s possible, Mr Bishop, to love someone who you know is not the right person for you. Are you married, sir?’

  ‘No, ma’am, I am not.’ The last thing I need is a philosophical discussion with this woman. Or is she eyeing me up as her next protector? ‘I presume we can expect no unfortunate results of this liaison?’

  ‘Oh, sir!’ She looks quite shocked. ‘Do you talk, sir, of babies? Unfortunate results, indeed.’

  I ignore her. ‘Well, are there?’

  She looks me in the eye. ‘No, sir. I have made sure of it.’

  ‘I presume Mr Fordham owes you no money?’

  ‘No, sir. He owes me nothing.’

  ‘Very well. You’ll remove that bed, Mrs Wallace, and I trust you will have no further commerce with Mr Fordham.’

  She smiles. ‘Of course, sir, although is that not up to Mr Fordham? He does achieve his majority in a few months, I believe.’

  ‘I hope he has better judgement.’

  She pouts and twirls a loose curl between her fingers. ‘You are not very flattering, sir. I am a woman of good sense and, whatever you think of my profession, I have a sense of honour. He’d do better with me than anyone else, and I’d keep an eye on his accounts next time.’

  ‘Mrs Wallace, I don’t intend to flatter you. My instructions are to make sure that you will not come to Mr Fordham with any claims of a financial nature in future; in short, that you are out of his life. As for your honour, I think you will find the rest of society does not concur with your definition, so I advise you, ma’am, to find another profession.’

  This room, with the looming great bed and its pretty occupant, is becoming a trifle close for my tastes.

  ‘Oh, an excellent idea, sir.’ She beams at me. ‘You know, I have always fancied the law. Or perhaps I should try for a commission in one of His Highness’s more fashionable regiments? I should look well in an officer’s uniform, I think.’

  Of course I should be outraged by her frivolity. I should bow with outraged dignity and stride from the room. I should certainly not be thinking of Mrs Wallace’s slender neck rising from a black gown, a horsehair wig atop her curls; or worse, flaunting a set of regimentals, tight-trousered as any shameless actress. Good God, the woman is impossible – and possibly more accomplished in her current profession than I had first thought.

  ‘Or,’ she continues, ‘I could return to the stage. I was quite good.’

  Good is not the word I would have chosen. I clear my throat. It sounds horrendously loud in the quiet room. ‘Enough, Mrs Wallace. May I enquire as to the whereabouts of Mr Wallace?’

  She raises one foot a few inches – the drapery of her gown slips from her ankles – and flexes her silk slipper. ‘Since you apparently must enquire, sir, the late Captain Wallace is in hell, and I wish you godspeed there, too.’

  In the blink of an eye we have travelled from (mostly) good-natured wrangling to downright animosity. She has the last word and we both know it.

  I bow with all the courtesy I can muster. As I pass her, I catch a whisper of her perfume, sultry and intoxicating – and doubtless expensive and not yet paid for, I remind myself.

  Mr Fordham, heaving sighs, lurks on the stairs.

  ‘Come, Mr Fordham, you should leave now. I’ll call you a hackney carriage. Your mother and sisters are most anxious to see you back at home.’

  ‘But Sophie – you must help her move her bed, Bishop. She’s a good-hearted girl.’

  ‘Very well. You won’t be bothered by Mrs Wallace again.’ I take his arm.

  His lip quivers. ‘But I should like to be bothered by her.’

  I bite back a sharp retort.

  After I see Charles Fordham safely stowed in his hackney carriage I make haste to solve the problem of the bothersome Mrs Wallace and her bed.

  3

  Harry

  I find Mrs Wallace sitting on a large, neatly folded pile of pillows, sheets and feather bed, the bed stripped to its mattress.

  ‘I have arranged storage for your bed and temporary accommodation for you, Mrs Wallace, at Mr Fordham’s request. A driver and a cart will arrive shortly.’

  ‘That’s very good of you, sir.’ She proceeds to remove the mattress that lay beneath the feather bed and I move forward to help her. ‘May I ask where?’

  ‘At Bishop’s Hotel.’

  ‘Bishop’s Hotel? Your family owns it?’

  ‘They do, ma’am.’

  She looks at me with a satirical smile. ‘Oh, I know what you think. I assure you, I can be discreet. How very pleasant that you can visit your family!’

  I’m annoyed that my misgivings show on my face and am then surprised when she says with apparent sincerity, ‘Oh, I beg your pardon.’

  She unloops the rope that was the support of the mattress and coils it neatly. ‘Is the man with the cart strong?’

  I bristle with offended male pride. ‘I assure you I am quite strong enough to deal with dismantling your bed, Mrs Wallace.’

  ‘Oh, certainly.’ She strolls over to the window and props herself against the window ledge. ‘Pray proceed. The steps double as storage. You will find a mallet and a wedge there. There is not a single steel bolt or screw in the whole piece except for the curtain rails. It’s very well made.’

  I walk around the bed silently cursing myself for my arrogance. I am not sure that even the brawn of my brother-
in-law Thomas Shilling, a huge ex-pugilist of some twenty stone of muscle, or even two of him, if they existed, could dismantle this monstrosity of fornication. I shall be like the minnow that swims alongside a whale. Grimly I unbutton my coat.

  How many other men have unbuttoned their coats (and more) in the presence of Mrs Wallace and her bed?

  I am spared further disturbing thoughts by the arrival of Thomas and his son Richard, a skinny beanpole of a fellow who is much the same size and dimensions as one of the bedposts. Richard stares entranced at Mrs Wallace who rewards him with a dazzling smile.

  ‘Come along, lad,’ Tom says to him. ‘Look sharp, now. Harry, they’re doing the fattened calf and all for you at the hotel; Mrs Bishop is airing the sheets for you and has the kitchen all in a tizzy. They’re that excited to see you. Now, this bed. Well, now.’

  He steps around it as though facing an opponent in the ring.

  ‘Tester off first, Father, I reckon,’ Richard says.

  ‘One moment, gentlemen.’ Mrs Wallace trips forward, beaming. ‘If I may.’ She runs up the steps again and stands on the frame of the bed, holding on to a post and reaching on to the tester. ‘I had to take the precaution – if you would not mind catching these as I throw them down—’

  Good God, she tosses down a half dozen bonnets, three gowns, a couple of shawls, and handfuls of stockings.

  ‘They took some things I owned,’ she explains, ‘so I was careful to conceal the rest. Pray be careful with the flowers on that bonnet, Mr Bishop.’

  ‘What shall we do with these, then, Uncle Harry?’ Richard asks.

  ‘Take them off!’ I snap at him, for he sports a bonnet on his head, stockings festooned around his shoulders, and a silly grin on his face.

  ‘We’ll wrap the clothes in the curtains and I shall carry the bonnets,’ Mrs Wallace says. She looks down on us, laughing, standing on one foot like a tightrope dancer, and for a moment I smile back at her, as charming and pretty as she is.

  But it’s Tom who lumbers forward and offers his hand to her and she descends as gracefully as a queen while I feel like a fool, although I cannot say exactly why.

  So the work begins in earnest. The tester, that amounts to a large painting in a wooden frame, sits atop a railing that runs around the bed, set on top of the bedposts. We lower it with some difficulty, for it is a large and unwieldy piece, and set it against the wall. Tom unfastens the rail that holds the curtains and Richard and I dart forward to become entangled with yards of brocade, from which we emerge sneezing, and which we fold under Mrs Wallace’s guidance.

  Thomas sets to work with the mallet and wedge, and Mrs Wallace runs to catch the wooden bolts in one of her bonnets. Richard and I meanwhile steady the solid pieces of wood as they loosen and sway and carry them to the side. Mrs Wallace chats to Thomas about his grandchildren and makes Richard blush by asking him if he has a sweetheart. Me she ignores, and I am not sure whether I’m thankful or resentful, but eventually the bed is reduced to a pile of lumber and brocade.

  We take the first load downstairs to the cart and discover another impediment. Thomas has promised sixpence to a boy to hold the horse’s head, and a small crowd of ne’er-do-wells and loungers has collected. The boy, a child of about six who attends his task with great pride, may prove inadequate to guarding the contents of the cart.

  I suggest Richard stays and that I assist in carrying.

  ‘Indeed no,’ Thomas says. ‘It’s not right for a gentleman and carrying is what Richard is paid to do.’

  ‘Oh, indeed!’ Mrs Wallace pats a blushing Richard on the arm. ‘You’d never think he was so strong!’

  And so I find myself the guardian of the cart and subjected to loud and vulgar comments on my parentage and my private activities by the onlookers.

  ‘Ignore them, Mr Bishop,’ Mrs Wallace murmurs as she leaves with Thomas and Richard. ‘They mean no harm.’

  I am not convinced, although I suspect that the insults and crude comments are self-perpetuating, less to do with my appearance (employed, respectable) than with the desire to outdo each other in fantastic flights of the imagination. Indeed, I am quite impressed with the breadth and rich detail of the onlookers’ speculations. I also notice that, for the most part, they fall silent and remove their hats when Mrs Wallace appears, only to renew their efforts with the greatest of vigour, as though refreshed by their silence, when she goes back into the house.

  ‘Do I still get my sixpence, sir?’ the child asks, as though the insults are part of his job and he resents a new recipient.

  I assure him he does, and after several trips the bed is loaded and we are ready to depart. Before I think of doing so, Thomas offers his hand to Mrs Wallace, who alights gracefully on to the seat of the cart. Richard and I take our seats on the cart tail, our legs dangling. As we leave for Bishop’s Hotel I raise my hat to the crowd, who respond with some huzzahs mixed in with the insults.

  Sophie

  So this Mr Bishop is connected with Bishop’s Hotel! I am quite astonished, but then not so much. For all he looks like a gentleman, there are certain indications – his accent, the ill-fitting coat – that mark him as a servant, and of course my neighbours knew him for what he was immediately. An educated and gentlemanly servant, it is true, but someone who has ascended the slippery slope of social advancement on his own talent and wits. No wonder he is so nervous around me. He does not want to be associated with a woman of ill repute.

  I have become great friends with Mr Shilling while Mr Bishop glowers and I flirted a little with Richard to make him glower more; but it was so easy I lost interest. I am intrigued to find out why Mr Bishop is so unwilling to visit his family, and I am to find out soon enough.

  I have never stayed at Bishop’s Hotel for it is not the sort of place that Charlie and his friends and family would patronize, since it is neither fashionable, smart, nor conveniently located for the fashionable centre of London. Rather, it is a small, ramshackle, frowsty sort of place, frequented by shifty gentlemen awaiting the arrival of a banker’s draft, salesmen selling noxious drafts and potions, and widows of dubious reputation; and although I am one of the latter myself I am fashionable, and would turn up my nose at the accommodation at Bishop’s. Or at least in former times I would have done so. Now, my circumstances are changed.

  We drive into the courtyard, where a carriage disgorges its occupants and ostlers unharness the horses. All is bustle and efficiency.

  A smiling gentleman, prosperous in appearance with a fat gold watch chain, consults his watch, and hooks his thumbs into his waistcoat as the passengers step out and stretch and shake out travel-creased greatcoats or skirts. He greets a few, shaking some by the hand, and I notice he does so as an equal. He is an older version of Mr Harry Bishop, but more genial and more at ease in the world. A waiter holds a door open, bowing, to admit the passengers into the hotel.

  But then a woman, dark-skinned and all brilliance and colour in a sapphire-blue gown and rich cashmere shawl, runs to the foot of our cart.

  ‘Harry! Lord, you should have given us more notice. Come here, then.’

  To my great amusement she grabs Bishop and bestows a smacking kiss on him. He squirms away like a small boy. ‘Ma’am! Not in front of everyone.’

  How delightful to see Mr Bishop reduced to normal humanity! But she advances on me as Mr Shilling helps me down from the cart. ‘Mrs Wallace, welcome to Bishop’s Hotel.’

  I curtsy and murmur a greeting.

  Mrs Bishop sums me up in a glance. She knows who I am, she knows the value of my gown and bonnet, and quite likely she knows Charlie has cast me off. She is friendly but cautious and her shrewd gaze implies that she does not altogether trust me.

  She turns her attention to the contents of the cart. ‘A bed! Why, what a monstrous great old thing. Tom and Richard, if I may impose upon you to set it up for the lady—’

  I am about to say it’s not necessary, but her son starts to say something of the sort and I am compelled to disagree, an
d instead express my thanks at her kindness.

  ‘You and I shall drink tea, Mrs Wallace,’ Mrs Bishop says, and leads me inside the inn, along a passage and some twists and turns, up a few steps, around a corner, down a few steps, and into a comfortable parlour. From the sewing discarded on the sofa and a newspaper tossed on to the table, I guess it must be the private quarters of the Bishop family.

  Mrs Bishop summons a maid to bring cups and saucers but makes tea herself from a kettle on the hearth and a tea caddy on the mantelpiece. When the maid has come and gone, and tea is poured, she sits back with a sigh, a busy woman enjoying the chance to sit and gossip for a while.