Mr Bishop and the Actress

by Janet Mullany

  ‘Indeed?’ Mr Bishop, too, looks impressed by my boldfaced lie.

  ‘Indeed, yes. Elegance and fashion combined with comfort,’ I babble.

  ‘Well now!’ Mr Bishop takes a slurp of tea. ‘We had the Earl of Edminster’s drawing room in mind, you know, for we were both in service there. I was his lordship’s butler for some ten years and Mrs Bishop—’

  She frowns at him and he clears his throat. Sensing that a change of subject is necessary I ask if they have attended the theatre recently. They are happy to chat of plays they have seen and I wonder that they are ashamed that once they were in service when they are so obviously proud of their son’s position. Now and again I catch Mrs Bishop’s speculative gaze, but so long as she does not turn on me and accuse me of being a shameless trollop who shall darken her establishment’s door no longer, I am content. Besides, having seen some of the other inhabitants of Bishop’s Hotel, I think myself an average sort of guest.

  I am, however, the only one to have breached Mr Harry Bishop’s virtue, through a compulsion I still do not understand and do not wish to dwell upon. Besides, I have much to do in the next few days, for I must sell my best gowns and find replacements of a dowdy, respectable sort that are not being sold because the original owner died of a hideous complaint.

  Three days later I receive a letter saying that the position is mine and to my relief the newspapers do not report the sudden and violent death of Mr Jake Sloven.

  I wish I did not dream of it so, of his blood spreading over the floorboards of the stage.

  Harry

  ‘The clouds,’ Lord Shad says. ‘Look at those clouds, Bishop.’ He reins in his horse and rests a hand on the pommel of his saddle to examine the skies.

  ‘Very fine, milord.’

  ‘Like a cathedral.’

  The cathedral spatters down a little rain.

  Lord Shad’s interest in clouds does not derive from his days as a Navy man. Rather, his innate gentleness expresses himself in a love for his family and a hobby of painting landscapes. His delicate, spare watercolours are hung throughout the house. Lady Shad, whom I first and mistakenly complimented on these efforts, laughed uproariously and said she barely knew one end of a paintbrush from the other.

  But I see what he means. The sky is huge here because the land is so flat, and clouds change constantly with the wind from the sea, a half-day’s journey hence. Grass in the meadows bends and flutters and nearby a heron launches itself aloft with cumbersome dignity. The land is criss-crossed with ditches and small canals and every house and cottage possesses an outside door on its first floor, a sober reminder that given an unfortunate combination of tides and winds, the waters may rise.

  Lord Shad has told me of the last great flood here, some twenty years ago, shortly before he went to sea, and which he found a great adventure, although several tenants had died and the flood had caused much destruction of crops and property. ‘They blamed it on the late Viscount, my father,’ he said. ‘Folk round here think he was in league with the devil.’

  I’d heard plenty of kitchen gossip about the wicked old Viscount and his many sins and cruelties. By all accounts, the Viscount’s eldest son, who held the title for a short time before an untimely and unlamented death, was not much better.

  ‘We must return.’ Lord Shad straightens in the saddle and eases his bay mare around. ‘I promised Charlotte I’d drink tea with her and the companion we’ve hired for Amelia. I believe she should be here by now.’

  In very few households would the master invite a servant to ride with him purely for the pleasure of his company. I have a few duties relating to the estate – Lord Shad does not keep a land agent, but prefers to oversee such things himself. Once Parliament is in session at the end of summer and he spends more time in London, however, he plans to delegate more of the estate business to me. So we amble around his land on horseback, he gazing at clouds and occasionally throwing out the odd comment on his livestock and tenants.

  ‘Have you any thought of marrying, Bishop?’

  I inadvertently jerk the reins and the grey gelding on which I am mounted breaks into a trot. Did I return from London with some sort of wild hunger in my eyes?

  I rein my mount in. ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘If I may speak plainly, it would be appropriate for a man in your position. But I should warn you not to look to my ward.’

  ‘But—but she’s only sixteen!’ And beautiful, although I do not think it tactful to say so; furthermore, a match between milord’s illegitimate daughter and a house steward, even one of humble origins, would be no bad thing.

  ‘Precisely. She’s too young,’ Lord Shad says, ‘and I wish her to see some society before she considers any offers. On the other hand, I’ve found women pretty much get what they want, so if she sets her cap at you, Bishop, good luck to you.’

  ‘I assure you, my lord, I’ve no intentions towards Miss Amelia, and I believe she’s indifferent to me.’

  ‘Very well, then. We’ll speak no more of it.’ He smiles at me with exceeding sweetness, awkwardness averted, and then his eyes brighten as he sees a trap approach. He raises his hat in salute. ‘Talk of the devil.’

  Miss Amelia and her brother John, Lord Shad’s two wards, are driver and passenger respectively. They are ludicrously like his lordship in appearance, with the same sharp cheekbones and finely arched brows beneath dark hair, but how Miss Amelia manages to turn this into ethereal beauty and Master John, at twelve, appears mainly a dishevelled mass of long limbs, is a great mystery.

  ‘Sir!’ John cries to his guardian. ‘Amelia will not let me drive. It’s not fair.’

  She elbows him. ‘Manners. Uncle, sir, I trust you’ve enjoyed your ride. And I shall not let John drive, Uncle, for I don’t want to end in the ditch.’

  Her brother glowers at her, lower lip thrust out. She cuffs him in a friendly sort of way and we proceed to the house.

  Diary of Miss Amelia Price

  I don’t know why the decision to keep a diary is such a troublesome thing. You start off full of good intentions and then, after a few days writing about the weather, become bored to death. And the decision when to write it is problematic. For instance, if I write in the morning as I do now, it is a convenient time but does not allow for the fact that interesting things may happen later and when I come to write about them I may have forgotten pertinent facts.

  For instance, if I met a gentleman (fairly unlikely since we see little society).

  I wonder if I should practise falling in love with Mr Bishop? He is quite handsome and gentlemanly.

  But Aunt Shad said he had all the symptoms of a man attached to another. I do not know why she thinks so, for her attempts to find out – asking whether he has a sweetheart last night at dinner while the footmen sniggered and then requesting he pass the fish pie – met with little other than a polite smile and a shake of the head.

  Later today while dressing for dinner:

  Mrs Marsden is most charming and ladylike but I wonder why she travels with her own bed? And Mr Bishop was most put out about it. I suppose it interrupts the footmen’s work.

  7

  Harry

  This is a nightmare.

  At first I think debauchery has addled my brain.

  The hall of the house is littered and defiled with huge pieces of timber and swathes of embroidered bed hangings. They are familiar to me. I have seen the deities above smile on my efforts (somewhat blurred without my spectacles) and I have grasped the bedposts during the most intimate of activities. This is, in short, the bed I never thought to see again and owned by a woman who has no business in this house.

  ‘My lord, I must speak to you most urgently—’

  ‘Later, Bishop. Good God!’ says Lord Shad. ‘Did she not think we’d provide a bed for her? It is a bed, is it not?’

  ‘I believe so.’ I turn to one of our footmen who lingers, staring at the mess. ‘Why is this here, Mark?’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Bishop. You see, we mu
st move the bed that is in the young lady’s bedchamber out first, and so . . .’ He shrugs and with his hook stirs the pile of timber.

  ‘Excellent workmanship. I don’t think I’ve seen such fine wood carving since on board ship,’ Lord Shad says. He examines one of the bedposts. ‘Look here, John, does not this remind you of the carvings in Ely Cathedral?’

  His ward squats to examine the carving more closely. ‘Excellent, sir, there’s a fox among the grapevines. And here, lilies and apples.’

  ‘You will see, my lord, that the carvings are based on the book of the Song of Solomon,’ says a familiar voice.

  The voice is familiar, but the woman who descends the staircase is transformed. The riotous black curls are tamed beneath a cap and her gown and spencer reveal barely a hint of bosom. She is all modesty, correctness, and ladylike charm.

  She curtsies to Lord Shad, who introduces her to his two wards and then to me. She allows me a polite smile and curtsy as though I am a total stranger.

  John bows, gazing at her with awe, and she smiles sweetly at him before turning to his sister and taking her hands. ‘Why, Lord Shadderly did not tell me what a lovely young lady you are. And so tall! But Lady Shadderly mentions that you sing and like music. We must find some to play together, for she said she is sadly out of practice.’

  The two of them walk away, arm in arm and deep in conversation.

  ‘She’s so pretty!’ John exclaims and blushes deep red.

  ‘So she is.’ Lord Shad gazes after the female wolf in sheep’s clothing. ‘But I am afraid you are stuck with the Reverend Dimmock for your lessons.’

  ‘It’s no fun without Amelia there,’ John says as we enter the drawing room. ‘I still don’t see why she can’t go to lessons with me.’

  ‘Curate Dibble,’ Lady Shad says. She sits with the infant Harriet at her breast on the sofa.

  ‘What has Curate Dibble done?’ Amelia asks.

  Lord and Lady Shad exchange glances, while Mrs Marsden (Mrs Marsden) assumes the duties of pouring tea. Does her hand tremble as she passes me my cup? Mine does as I receive it.

  ‘Curate Dibble,’ Lord Shad says as he stirs his tea, ‘wrote you an amorous poem in Latin that John found inside his copy of Suetonius. It was most improper. Fortunately you did not see it and John did not understand it.’

  ‘Oh, yes I did, sir, even though he made some grammatical errors.’ John blushes. ‘I translated it for you.’

  Amelia makes a face. ‘Curate Dibble? He looks like a fish with those big blubbery lips. And I don’t believe he’s ever said a word to me.’

  The infant disengages herself from her mother’s breast with a loud popping sound and Lady Shad reaches for a slice of bread and butter. ‘I doubt the Curate meant to debauch her, my dear.’

  ‘Then he should have addressed her as an honest man,’ Lord Shad says. ‘You’re dropping crumbs on to the child’s head.’

  ‘And what if Miss Price has an overwhelming desire to study the Classics?’ Mrs Marsden enquires. ‘I regret I am sadly lacking in Greek and Latin.’

  ‘John can teach her. It will do him good,’ Lord Shad says.

  ‘No one ever asked me if I wanted to study Greek and Latin,’ Amelia says. ‘I don’t quite know why I should need them, or, for that matter, why John should, although apparently gentlemen need them to pursue a profession. But I liked to keep John company.’

  She looks troubled. She may sit in the drawing room but her status, and that of her brother’s, in the house is uncertain. She has youth and beauty, she has pin money from her position, a sinecure as poultry maid, and although ostensibly she is the daughter of the coachman Mr and Mrs Price and his wife, everyone knows she is illegitimate and whose daughter she is. A marriage to a curate or an upper servant such as myself is about all she can hope for unless Lord Shad settles some money on her. As for a profession . . . I remember my pompous advice to Sophie and try not to squirm.

  ‘What do you think, Bishop?’ Lord Shad asks me.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I asked you what you thought of learning for women.’

  This must be my chance to atone although how I can do so without blushing or making an utter fool of myself (or worse, revealing myself as a great hypocrite) is beyond me. ‘I am in favour of it, my lord. My mother tells me that learning to read and write was the making of her and raised her in the world. But she could do so only because it was her father’s whim to see his daughter educated, not because it was her right or her wish.’

  ‘Your grandfather sounds like a remarkable man,’ Lord Shad comments. ‘He was a man of learning, himself?’

  ‘He was of high birth. My mother’s mother was his property.’ In my bid for atonement I have revealed the shameful secrets of my family and my origins.

  A silence falls, broken by Lady Shad’s strange mixture of kindness and clumsiness. ‘Bishop, will you take this child? I wish to drink tea.’ She hands over Harriet and examines me frankly. ‘You don’t look black.’

  Harriet blows a bubble at me as I receive her sweet weight in my arms. ‘I resemble my father, ma’am.’

  ‘Well, then. You know, Bishop, it’s high time you got some of those yourself. Babies, I mean. They probably wouldn’t all be black.’

  ‘Ma’am,’ Lord Shad interjects, ‘leave the man alone, and for God’s sake stop speculating on his unbegotten offspring. Have you no sense of propriety?’

  ‘Very little, Shad, as you should know by now. I was thinking of the kitchen cats. We used to have a ginger tom who would perch on top of doors so he could better drop on to our heads and terrorize us, but not all of his kittens were ginger. So I thought that Bishop’s—’

  ‘But my mother is no bluestocking.’ I interrupt Lady Shad’s assessment of me as some sort of stud animal. ‘She cannot keep accounts, and she reads only the fashion papers, but she has great determination and energy and sense. I attribute that to the discipline of education.’

  ‘I didn’t offend you, I hope.’ Lady Shad lays a hand on my arm.

  ‘Not much, ma’am.’ We smile at each other.

  Harriet, in the crook of my arm, releases a large belch.

  ‘I don’t want to make an absolute fool of myself calling out my house steward,’ Lord Shad comments. ‘Pray leave him alone, ma’am.’ He turns to Mrs Marsden (for so I must think of her now, or for at least as long as she’s in the house, which hopefully will not be more than an hour or so) and says, to my horror, ‘Bishop is on somewhat intimate terms with Lady Shad. He delivered our daughter.’

  ‘He fainted,’ Lady Shad says, nudging me.

  Oh God.

  Sophie

  I know Bishop will reveal my secret. I know he suspects I followed him here for some purpose, and I wish I had had the foresight to ask his mother where he was in service. (But if I had done so, would she not have assumed I was in pursuit of him?)

  I sit in the shabby drawing room and although I have been in the house less than one hour, I do not want to leave. I like this family – the children are charming and Lord Shad kindly. And I very much like Lady Shad, who for all her bluntness and indiscretion has good sense and a ready wit, and beauty too, although she does not strike me as a woman who cares overmuch for her appearance. Together they are delightful; surely this was a love match, and yet despite three children and his frequent absences in London, their affection seems undimmed.

  To my surprise, Amelia is no country clod. She is modest and charming and I hope her singing voice is as sweet as her speaking voice.

  I shall not leave. I am aware of Bishop’s discomfort, how he tries to catch his employer’s eye. I find myself admiring him a little for his confession, and for his praise of his mother, and intrigued by the idea of him as a man midwife. I suspect he is a little in love with Lady Shad – certainly they seem most comfortable with each other, she even nursing her child with him present – and that Lord Shad is aware of it too.

  Harry places his cup and saucer on the small table with the ot
her tea things. He clears his throat and stands, and so do I, ready to defend myself.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, my lord,’ he says. ‘I—’

  ‘Of course, you must see Mrs Marsden settled in. You’ll both dine with us, if you please.’

  Harry’s back is stiff as he walks to the drawing room door and opens it. I bow my head in acknowledgement and smile at him.

  Once we are outside we turn on each other like a pair of dogs about to fight.

  ‘Why the devil did you come here?’ he says.

  ‘I was offered this position through the services of the Countess of Dachault.’