Mr Bishop and the Actress

by Janet Mullany

  He looks unimpressed. ‘You must leave immediately.’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘You’re under an assumed name. Is that the action of an honest woman?’

  I shrug. ‘It’s my maiden name so there’s little false about it.’

  ‘Ma’am, you should not be here. It’s not decent. Do you really think Lord Shad would welcome the former scandalous Mrs Wallace into his house?’

  ‘No sir, but I consider I played that part. Now I play a different part, and remember, it was you who suggested I change professions. So I have done. I have as much right as you to be here, sir.’

  We have crossed the hall and now ascend the staircase.

  ‘Why are you coming with me?’ I ask.

  ‘I shall instruct my footmen to disassemble that wretched bed, ma’am, for you must leave this house.’

  ‘That is not very honourable.’

  ‘If I were to take the honourable path, ma’am, I should leave this house myself.’ The misery on his face takes my breath away.

  ‘You may do so if you wish, sir. But the only person who can tell me to leave is Lord Shad, and if I find you have told him of my past, I will tell him that you debauched me in London, taking a most ungentlemanly advantage of your position at the hotel.’

  ‘What!’

  We are at the top of the stairs now and I fear we may both tumble down together as we come to a violent stop.

  We both glare at each other and I am strongly tempted to slap him.

  ‘Ma’am—I—you—that is—you debauched me!’

  ‘Oh, certainly. And I may also mention that you harbour a tendresse for Lady Shad. She’s a very lovely woman; I should not blame you one bit for it. Her husband may jest about it, but if I were a man I should not care to cross Lord Shad.’

  ‘Enough.’ He turns away and marches towards my bedchamber. I follow a little more slowly.

  ‘What, not finished yet? Come, Matthew, look lively, man. The piece you have in your hand does not fit there, Mark, it’s as clear as the nose on your face. We serve dinner in an hour and you have yet to change into your livery . . .’

  It seems I am to stay. But I have to confess it is a hollow victory.

  The next morning Amelia and I are to begin our lessons, but first she takes me to meet her parents, the coachman and his wife, Mr and Mrs Price. There is much affection between them and pride that their daughter has risen in the world, and their other child, John, sees fit to do the same. They have a third child of about six, a pretty fair-haired girl named Emma. Surely she cannot be yet another of Lord Shad’s by-blows? She looks nothing like the others, but I remember Lady Shad’s example of the ginger tomcat. I am surprised that Lord Shad has reformed so thoroughly; I could see that although he looked upon me with appreciation (even such a dowd as I am now) there is only one woman for him and that is his wife.

  ‘But we must see the poultry and collect the eggs!’ Amelia cries. She dons an apron and a wide-brimmed straw hat and, basket in hand, takes me outside. ‘Do you like chickens, Mrs Marsden?’

  ‘I like to eat them,’ I say.

  ‘They are very silly creatures.’ She unlatches a gate to an enclosure where a variety of fowl roam and peck.

  A goose rushes at us, wings out and hissing.

  I shriek.

  ‘He can’t hurt you. Stop it, Oberon!’ She flaps her apron at the creature and it runs off.

  With great pride she introduces me to the poultry. My head reels with their Shakespearian names – there is a cockerel as aggressive as Oberon named Titus Andronicus whose neck she threatens to wring. Hens run over my feet and peck at the laces of my boots, thinking they are worms. They have a wooden enclosure and a trough full of hay, and Amelia invites me to push nesting hens aside to take their eggs. Their bodies are warm and soft and they make soft crooning sounds that remind me of the infant Harriet.

  Ducks swim in and waddle around a muddy pool, and Amelia searches for more eggs. Ducks, she assures me, are far more clever than chickens, although I suspect they are clever at being ducks and that is all.

  ‘So you are an admirer of Shakespeare,’ I comment, after having been introduced to her best layer, Portia, and a duck matriarch called Juliet.

  ‘Oh, yes. It is my greatest wish to appear on the stage.’

  I wonder what Lord Shad will think of that.

  ‘Are you by any chance related to Mr Marsden, the theatre manager? His touring company visited here last summer. It was quite splendid.’

  Now I have learned that lies are best if you stick close to the truth, so I reply that yes, indeed, Mr Marsden is a relative, but go into few details. It is not widely known that the scandalous Mrs Wallace is the daughter of that gentleman, but I shall take no chances.

  ‘It is a hazardous profession,’ I tell her. Hazardous indeed; she might well find herself fighting off an amorous Othello. ‘Certainly not one for a lady.’

  ‘But, Mrs Marsden—’ she pauses in counting the eggs in her basket. ‘I am not a lady, nor can I become one. The position of poultrymaid is a kindness for which I am most grateful, for I am paid by the kitchen for eggs and fowl. But I am not sure I wish to do this all my life and be a dependant on Uncle Shad. Possibly I may marry, but I cannot count on it. Do you think I should marry Mr Bishop?’

  ‘Mr Bishop? Has your—I mean, Lord Shad – has he suggested you should?’ For some reason this makes me extremely uneasy.

  ‘Oh, no. But Mr Bishop is here, and he is a real person.’

  ‘Both those factors are certainly in the gentleman’s favour,’ I say.

  ‘You see, I should really like to marry Benedict in Much Ado About Nothing. Or Henry the Fifth. Not Hamlet, for he is too melancholy. I should not like to marry a gentleman who spends so much time talking about himself.’ We walk back towards the house, she with her basket of eggs, while we discuss the merits of various heroes from Shakespeare as husbands.

  ‘Mrs Marsden, forgive me for asking, but were you ever on the stage yourself?’

  I could kick myself for revealing myself so. ‘Only in a very few amateur productions. It was all very genteel.’

  ‘So Mr Marsden never invited you to perform?’

  ‘He is a very distant sort of relative.’ Despite our proximity to the fowl, no cock crows as I deny my fond if absent sire.

  Fortunately at this point we have entered the kitchen and I am spared having to tangle myself further as some sort of crisis seems to have occurred, with the cook and Harry Bishop facing off on opposite sides of the kitchen table while the staff gather around, wide-eyed and awed, like children watching their parents quarrel.

  A large iron pot stands on the table and this is the cause of their disagreement.

  ‘I assure you, Mr Bishop, this is how it is done in this household. Mr Roberts never had cause to interfere.’

  ‘Maggots!’ Harry reaches into the pot and flicks something on to the floor that wriggles until he steps on it. ‘This will not do, ma’am.’

  ‘His lordship is used to food from foreign parts.’

  ‘Even in foreign parts, ma’am, they do not eat rotting food.’

  ‘Indeed they do, sir. It is why they add spices.’ The contempt and horror on the cook’s face demonstrate that maggots represent all that is good about England, whereas spices are the horrid epitome of the foreign sensibility.

  ‘I must disagree. They add spices because they like them.’

  ‘Impossible!’

  ‘And how many times have you served meat crawling with maggots to the family? It is a wonder they are still alive. Consider, ma’am, you may end up on the gallows. Would you serve such to downstairs?’

  Her face expresses eloquently that she would serve the maggots without the meat to him and her grip tightens on her wooden spoon.

  Harry nods to one of the footmen. ‘Take this out. Give it to the pigs.’

  The footman sidles forward, keeping a close eye on the cook as though she may spring to the rescue of the meat, and takes
the pot. A sour odour arises from its depths.

  ‘Well, I shan’t be held responsible for a half-empty table,’ the cook says.

  ‘Roast chicken,’ Amelia says and darts out of the door.

  After a very short time she returns with two limp corpses that she tosses on to the table. This girl, who petted and played with her fowl as though they were kittens, is entirely dry-eyed. ‘Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. I never much liked these two,’ she says. ‘I thought sooner or later we should eat them.’

  ‘Lord Shad will be expecting roast beef,’ the cook says as though inviting someone to slaughter a cow instead, but a moment later she is snapping at one of the maids to put on a pot of water so they may pluck the birds. She shoots spiteful glances at Harry all the while. It is only too obvious she would prefer to plunge him into the boiling water.

  ‘Miss Amelia. Mrs Marsden.’ Harry makes a half-bow in our direction. ‘May I be of assistance?’

  ‘I wanted to show Mrs Marsden the kitchen,’ Amelia says, oblivious of the hidden message that I certainly shouldn’t be trespassing upon Harry Bishop’s sphere of influence.

  ‘Certainly you may show her the stillroom and laundry room too,’ he says. ‘I am sure Mrs Marsden is very interested in household management. And don’t forget the brewhouse and icehouse.’

  Amelia looks from me to him, puzzled by his tone, but I thank him effusively for being allowed to visit the kitchen and pour on a little exaggerated praise about what a well-run and clean place it is. The cook swells with pride and Harry frowns.

  I escape with Amelia as soon as we can, trying not to wonder why I think of Mr Bishop as Harry.

  Diary of Miss Amelia Price

  I wonder why Mr Bishop was so insistent that I show Mrs Marsden the rest of the outhouses? She liked the dairy, but I find it extraordinary that someone should not know about butter and cream, although she assured me she knew a cow when she saw one. I offered to teach her to milk, and as we began the lesson, Mr Bishop came in and told us he thought she would be very good at it, her hands having been occupied in similar fashion before.

  She laughed, and he looked put out, and then the cow kicked over the bucket.

  I suppose it is London manners, since both of them come from there.

  8

  Sophie

  Amelia is to play for me, and she is a mess of nerves. I have never seen anyone wring their hands in real life (it happens on the stage, and in my dealings with gentlemen, fairly frequently).

  ‘I’m not very good,’ she says as though she is about to burst into tears.

  ‘Calm yourself. Pray choose a piece you like.’ I’m hoping she is indeed not too competent, for then I would have nothing to teach her. I am not so concerned about earning my keep – for sure, this is much easier than being a mistress, and I do not have to put up with snoring, among other unpleasantness, at night – but I like this young girl, her awkward charm and innocence. I want to help her.

  ‘You see . . .’ She paws miserably through the book of music. ‘I don’t know how to . . . that is, I’ve never had lessons.’

  ‘You mean you cannot read music?’

  ‘No, I don’t know how. Aunt Shad tried to teach me, but she had to keep running out to vomit.’

  ‘What! Your playing was so bad?’

  She shakes her head, taking my jest entirely seriously. ‘No, she was with child. Besides, Aunt Shad doesn’t really like to play. She likes horses and babies better.’

  ‘But you can play?’

  ‘Oh yes. It’s quite easy.’ She sits at the pianoforte and hums quietly to herself. ‘This is the Sussex Waltz.’

  And she plays, quite sweetly and simply, a tune she must have danced to. Her touch is light and delicate, but she has an instinct for when she should play loud or soft. I am charmed and impressed.

  ‘Where did you hear it?’ I ask when she has finished.

  ‘Oh, everyone knows this.’ She looks at me with astonishment as though everyone can do what she can.

  ‘I see. Would you like to sing for me?’

  She looks much happier and we browse through the volume of music together to find a song she knows, and naturally it is from Shakespeare, Feste’s song from the conclusion of Twelfth Night. I am struck not only by her innocence (it is, after all, a bawdy and vulgar song) but by her pure tone and the way she phrases the words.

  ‘I know I don’t know very much,’ she says after I have played the last chord.

  ‘On the contrary, you know much more than you think. I’m afraid you’ll have to learn how to read music but your touch on the instrument is very fine and you sing extremely well.’

  ‘Oh. Thank you. Do you think I know enough to go on the stage?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say, Amelia. I don’t think Lord or Lady Shad would wish me to encourage such ambitions. There is a great deal of difference between playing for polite society in a drawing room and performing on a stage with hundreds of people watching, ready to jeer if they do not like what you do, and—’

  I stop abruptly. I do not want to reveal my theatrical experience, but I regret it is too late.

  ‘Indeed?’ She looks thrilled. ‘What must you do on the stage?’

  I close the volume of music. ‘You have to make your voice reach the furthest seats in the house. You have to learn to breathe properly and—and, above all remember you are a lady.’

  For, yes, as though responding to a prompter, Harry Bishop has entered the room and frowns at us both. ‘Why, just in time!’ I cry. ‘Mr Bishop must partner you. I shall play a country dance and see how your deportment is.’

  He bows to Amelia, but not to me. ‘So we should pretend this is an Assembly, Miss Amelia?’

  ‘Oh, indeed, yes!’ Amelia smiles at him.

  ‘Lady Shad asked me to send for you, but it is not a pressing matter. Pray instruct your pupil, Mrs Marsden.’

  Oh, damn the man again. I have not been to a country assembly in my life. I cannot think of one time where I have danced in polite company. On tables, yes. In taverns. On stages. But at a country assembly?

  I recover quickly. ‘The gentleman will ask you to dance, Miss Amelia.’ A fairly logical step, I’d think, but his cynical smile tells me otherwise. ‘He has of course been introduced to us by a mutual acquaintance.’

  He bows, she curtsies, and I take my place at the pianoforte, having found a country dance in the music collection, very ill copied (Lady Shad’s, I suspect). I watch Harry and Amelia dance, or rather they play at dancing, sometimes imagining other couples within a set, and parting to take invisible hands or smile at nonexistent companions. It is quite charming and innocent. Harry, slightly uncomfortable at first, takes his part well, encouraged by her ease and happiness – I can tell she is a creature who loves to dance, but what young woman does not? They step and circle, well matched, and my fingers stumble on the keys. I recover from my spurt of wrong notes, and they catch the rhythm again, laughing now, and apparently oblivious to everything except each other.

  ‘Enough, I think.’ I conclude the dance with a crashing chord. They stop, Harry shaking his head and laughing, and she blushing a little.

  ‘Why did you stop, Mrs Marsden?’

  Why did I stop, indeed? I’m not sure. I don’t altogether approve of what I have just witnessed, although as I tell myself, there has been nothing untoward. Their dance was fanciful but not improper and I cannot tell why it has disturbed me so. I look at Amelia. I do not want to look at Harry.

  ‘You know well what you are about, Amelia.’ There is a certain shrillness to my tone and she looks at me with surprise. ‘That is to say, your manner is natural and easy and I think you will do well enough at any . . . any . . .’

  ‘Are you quite well, Mrs Marsden?’ Harry has come to my side.

  ‘Very well, I assure you. This room is a little close, that is all. Come, Amelia, we must visit Lady Shad, and . . .’ I cannot finish my sentences, apparently, but I take Amelia’s arm and escort her into the morning room
, where Lady Shad lounges on the sofa, Harriet at her breast, and her two sons play with a battered set of lead soldiers upon the floor.

  ‘Amelia is a very talented musician,’ I tell Lady Shad and see Amelia blush with pride.

  ‘I’ve always thought so, but I can barely tell one tune from another. I find her singing very restful. Shad said we should ask your advice about a new gown for Amelia.’ She pulls a tattered London newspaper from her side. It is some six months old. ‘You know all about London fashions, do you not?’