Mr Bishop and the Actress

by Janet Mullany

  ‘A little.’ To my horror, the newspaper falls open at a sketch of the supremely elegant Mrs Wallace’s new gown.

  ‘I thought a nice muslin, maybe spotted, or a striped cotton. What say you, Mrs Marsden?’

  I remember that gown, palest muslin with a gold net overlay, cut scandalously low with the barest hint of sleeves. Dear Charlie could hardly wait to get it off me.

  ‘Perhaps the cut of the bosom . . .’ I venture.

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Lady Shad glances down at her own generous bosom, enhanced by nursing an infant. ‘We cannot all be so fortunate.’

  ‘Who is Mrs W—?’ Amelia asks, peering at the sketch. ‘She looks a little like you, Mrs Marsden, except you are much prettier.’

  ‘She is a lady of a certain reputation, Amelia, and if you understand that and we were in polite society, you would pretend you did not know what I mean.’

  Amelia looks rather dumbfounded at Lady Shad’s advice. ‘Why, Aunt Shad?’

  ‘Mama, we need the newspaper.’ Master George, his face set in a determined frown, sits on the sofa and watches his sister nurse. ‘When will she be big enough to play with me?’

  ‘Not for a good while yet,’ his mother says, ruffling his hair. ‘What do you need the newspaper for?’

  ‘It’s complicated,’ the child says.

  His mother tears the picture out of the newspaper and hands the rest to her son, who then borrows the scissors from her workbox and joins his brother on the floor again.

  ‘Amelia, you should go into the village and visit the dressmaker,’ Lady Shad says. ‘Mrs Marsden can advise you on the cloth and cut, for I don’t think Mrs Henney is up on the London fashions, even those from six months ago. We’re invited to Captain and Mrs Carstairs next week and I daresay there’ll be dancing. They’re our neighbours, Mrs Marsden, and she’s quite amiable although he has but one leg and is dreadfully shy. And after that we go to Brighton, for the Beresfords have invited us – he is Shad’s cousin, you know, and Lady Beresford my great friend. Do you know Brighton, Mrs Marsden?’

  Brighton! Oh heavens, of course I do. I cannot possibly go there, not even disguised as a frump. What on earth shall I do?

  ‘George is cutting Simon’s hair again,’ Amelia says. She reaches for the scissors, which George relinquishes after a brief struggle.

  Sure enough, his brother’s hair is reduced to tufts, and Simon gives a delighted smile at the attention.

  ‘You little monsters,’ Lady Shad says with great affection. ‘And when shall you be breeched, George, a great boy like you?’

  George sticks his thumb in his mouth and frowns.

  ‘Very well.’ His mother shrugs. ‘But if you wish to go into the village with the ladies you must wear breeches.’

  Both little boys giggle and crowd on to the sofa with their mother and I am charmed with this demonstration of familial affection.

  Lord Shad enters the drawing room, a boot in his hand. ‘Which of you fiends pissed in my boot this morning?’ He pounces on George. ‘You? And you’ve cut your brother’s hair again. Ma’am, I’ll be grateful if you do not lend your child your scissors, and pray teach him the difference between a boot and a chamber pot.’

  ‘Papa, I did it,’ Simon says, and then, ‘George told me to.’

  ‘A conspiracy! Come with me, both of you.’ He leaves with his sons, who seem quite cheerful and not at all contrite.

  ‘Oh. He will not beat them?’ Amelia looks mightily distressed.

  ‘No, he’s too soft-hearted. Doubtless he teaches them a lesson with soap and a brush in the kitchen, and I regret there is nothing they like better than soap bubbles and getting themselves wet. But at least they will be clean for a little while.’ She glances at me. ‘Mrs Marsden, my apologies for our irregular house. Bishop will drive you into the village; I know he has some business to conduct there.’

  Diary of Miss Amelia Price

  I write this with the greatest of excitement as I have come upstairs to get my spencer as we are to drive into the village where I will get a new gown (!!!), and today I danced with Mr Bishop and he is a very good dancer and I enjoyed it exceedingly. I think Mrs Marsden thought it improper but I am sure if she had she would have said. And tho he danced with me he looked at her quite a lot. And now I must go.

  Harry

  I am none too pleased at Lady Shad’s command to drive Sophie and Amelia into the village but I am to buy some household goods, tea and sugar, and collect a sack of flour from the mill and can think of no reason why they should not accompany me. The two women spend a vast deal of time getting ready – my mother and sisters are the same – and I stand for a good ten minutes becoming increasingly impatient while the horse dozes.

  They appear giggling and both looking remarkably pretty until I remind myself that Amelia is my employer’s ward and Sophie – Mrs Marsden, that is – is a strumpet in the clothing of respectability. As soon as they are in the trap the horse stirs itself, cocks its tail, and deposits a heap of steaming manure on the cobbles of the stableyard. For some reason I am mortified, but not nearly as much as when, but a few minutes later, the horse and I have a struggle of wills as to whether it shall remain on the road or take a turn.

  ‘His friend lives down there.’

  ‘His friend, Miss Amelia? How can a horse have a friend?’ I haul at the reins and click my tongue.

  ‘His friend is a donkey. Would you like me to take the reins, Mr Bishop?’

  ‘No thank you, ma’am.’ We lurch back on to the road. It is a warm day and if I were alone I would divest myself of my coat, but of course with the two females present it is impossible.

  Amelia, seated next to me, rummages in her reticule and produces a piece of newspaper, turning to speak to Sophie who sits behind. I glance idly at the newspaper and drop the whip. ‘Why do you have that?’

  ‘It’s a picture of a gown,’ Amelia explains. ‘It’s very fashionable.’

  ‘But it’s—’

  ‘The notorious Mrs W—’ Sophie murmurs and I glance back. Her face is hidden by the brim of her bonnet yet I could swear she laughs at me.

  I scrabble to retrieve the whip from the floor of the cart and place it in the holder where it can do no harm, considering I shall not need it again until our return journey when doubtless the horse will again wish to pay a morning call. I have learned to ride and drive from necessity, not as a right from birth, or from being reared in the country.

  This is my first visit to the village, where a venerable oak spreads its branches over a few boys playing ball on the green and a collection of ducks swimming in a small, muddy pond. I have no doubt Amelia casts a professional eye upon them. I let the two ladies down at a shop with a window full of bonnets and fabrics, whose sign proclaims it to be the establishment of one Mrs Henney, and spend some time at the grocer’s in the village, where I am treated with much deference before the owner launches into a torrent of praise for the departed Mr Roberts, my predecessor.

  After a brief struggle with the horse, who has decided we should return home immediately, I return to the dressmaker’s. The bell clangs as I enter female territory and I am reminded of the tedium and mystery of visiting such establishments with my sisters and mother. Amelia and Sophie pore over piles of fabric and trims at the counter.

  A soft stream of chatter comes from Mrs Henney. ‘. . . and born not six months after the wedding, and a fine lusty child he is, but he has bright red hair. Well. I am sure I need say no more. Now I did hear also that the serving maid at the vicar’s has gone to visit her mother and she had grown very stout these last few weeks; of course I am not the gossiping sort, but . . .’

  ‘Mr Bishop!’ cries Amelia, having looked up at the jangle of the bell, and, blinking, recognized me. ‘You must help us decide. Pale blue or cream? I am afraid if I choose the cream, my gloves will not match for I am sure they will look dingy. Or the pink, do you think?’

  ‘Oh, the pink, most definitely.’ Frankly I have no idea, but it is obvi
ous a firm masculine sensibility is needed here.

  ‘Pink?’ She turns to Sophie. ‘Oh. But I thought you said—’

  ‘So I did. Take no notice of Mr Bishop. His response was merely to get us out of the door and himself out of this distressingly feminine atmosphere. He has not even looked at the fabrics. No, I stand by the blue. Mrs Henney, I am sure you can use some leftover fabric to fashion a bandeau for Miss Amelia . . .’ and they are off again.

  Mrs Henney drops me a curtsy and offers me tea while the ladies’ business continues. It seems they are coming to a conclusion, although the mention of the bandeau creates some time-consuming excursions into consideration of various silk flowers, of which Mrs Henney possesses an alarming quantity.

  ‘But what shall you wear, Mrs Marsden?’ Amelia cries and I groan, probably silently, fearing the whole process will start all over again.

  ‘Do not concern yourself, Amelia. I have a perfectly acceptable gown. Besides, I shall play the piano while the guests dance, and I do not wish to outshine the guests.’

  ‘And very proper for a widowed lady, ma’am,’ Mrs Henney comments, almost certainly a widowed lady herself. She sports a monstrosity of a cap, lace and starch with strange side flaps that make her look like a goat. ‘Now then, let us see . . .’ Business is concluded, for she scribbles on a piece of paper, with the ragged piece of newspaper at her elbow for inspiration.

  Sophie pauses to examine a Kashmir shawl, vividly patterned.

  ‘Oh, you should buy it!’ Amelia cries.

  Mrs Henney looks up from her calculations. ‘Indeed, ma’am, you should. Very few ladies have the complexion to carry off such bright colours.’

  Sophie drapes the shawl over one shoulder and gazes at herself in the mirror. ‘It’s very pretty.’ She shakes her head. ‘No, I think not.’

  She gives a regretful glance to the shawl, placing it back on its stand, before beginning a discussion with Amelia about the bonnet in the window with as much dedication and energy as members of the Royal Society pondering a scientific specimen. Now it is my turn at the counter to arrange for payment (billed to Lord Shad) and delivery of the gown and its odds and ends.

  ‘How much is the shawl Mrs Marsden admired?’ I ask Mrs Henney.

  She mentions a sum that makes me blink, adding, ‘Such a pretty young woman should not hide her light under a bushel.’

  ‘True, ma’am. Please add it to the purchases, with Mrs Marsden’s name on the package.’ I slide a guinea on to the counter. ‘We need not encumber his lordship with the cost.’

  ‘I see, sir,’ she says, her voice heavy with meaning, and I realize that my plan already has consequences I should have considered. From what I have seen of Mrs Henney, word will spread like wildfire that Mr Bishop has intentions towards pretty little Mrs Marsden. I wave away the change. ‘It shall be our secret, eh, Mrs Henney?’

  The coin disappears into the lady’s lace mitten. ‘Certainly, sir. Certainly.’

  9

  Sophie

  The next week passes pleasantly enough. I see very little of Harry, whose frowning countenance unsettles me. I know he plans some mischief and it is probably against me, but I cannot dwell upon his intentions. I spend about half of each day with Amelia, teaching her how to read music. She is somewhat put out to discover that not only are there sharps, but that she must also deal with flats too, and grumbles a little. She learns a couple of songs which were all the rage in London a year ago, printed in another newspaper yellowing with age that the children have not yet purloined.

  Occasionally she wonders why his lordship is so very insistent that this invitation be treated with such great care. After all, she has been to Captain Carstairs’ house a dozen times before. We speculate on the possibility that young gentlemen, new to the neighbourhood, have been invited also, or even a party from London; or that it is practice for her social engagements in Brighton.

  ‘Do you think I need to learn to flirt?’ she asks with absolute sincerity.

  ‘I think you will find out how to do it.’

  ‘Maybe I should practise on Mr Bishop.’

  ‘On Mr Bishop!’ I echo. ‘Oh, surely not.’

  ‘I don’t think he would mind. He is very good-natured. Just yesterday he spent all afternoon making a hutch for John’s rabbits.’

  ‘I don’t think it would be proper. Flirting is hardly the female equivalent of carpentry.’ The claim of impropriety is the best way to end an argument with Amelia, particularly one where I am not sure what my high moral ground should be. And Mr Bishop good-natured? I have yet to see him so, but he is always most proper on the rare occasions we meet. He dines a couple of times with the family that week, unfailingly polite, meeting Lady Shad’s teasing with a fine ironic air and discussing work to be done on the house with Lord Shad.

  One afternoon I look out of the window to see him, in his shirtsleeves, playing cricket with John and the two little boys. He may keep my secret, but all in all he seems far more at home in this house than I do. I find I must second-guess every thought and gesture. I sigh and watch Harry carefully miss an easy catch and go chasing after the ball while little Simon, skirts tucked up, runs between the wickets and Master George jumps up and down with excitement, crying encouragement to his brother.

  It is with great excitement that Amelia and I receive the package from Mrs Henney, only a few hours before we are expected at the Carstairs’ house.

  From her usual place on the sofa, Harriet on her lap, Lady Shad directs the unwrapping, thriftily stowing away the brown paper in which the gown is wrapped. ‘I almost wish I could come,’ she murmurs. ‘If only this sweet little wretch did not occupy my person all day and all night.’

  Lord Shad, fingers stained with watercolours, strolls in and bends to kiss his wife. ‘We’ll hire a wet nurse.’ He tickles his daughter’s stomach. ‘She’s smiling.’

  ‘Certainly not! To both of your suggestions. That is wind, you should know by now.’

  ‘Oh!’ Amelia holds up the gown and smiles at herself in the mirror above the fireplace and I’m gratified to see that the blue was the right choice for her. ‘Oh, Uncle Shad, this is the most lovely gown I have ever had. Thank you, sir.’

  ‘You do me credit, my dear.’ Lord Shad sits on the sofa next to his wife and takes their daughter on to his knee.

  ‘Wait. What’s this?’ Lady Shad draws a small parcel from among the swathes of brown paper. ‘Why, Mrs Marsden, something for you.’

  ‘For me? I bought nothing.’

  I take the brown paper parcel and regretfully my mind leaps to the immediate conclusion, that there is only one person who could have made such a gesture, and that is my employer. He has been perfectly proper towards me although he is obviously a man who appreciates a pretty woman; I have seen admiration in his glance from time to time, but not nearly as often as I have seen pure adoration directed towards his wife and children. But this . . . coming as I do from a world where gentlemen, married or not, give women like myself gifts for one purpose, what else can I think? He is a handsome man, and however fond he may be of his wife, she has but recently given birth, and I know all too well that gentlemen in that situation often look elsewhere for gratification.

  And I thought he might be different!

  My face heats.

  ‘Oh, do unwrap it,’ Amelia says.

  I take a deep breath. ‘Surely this is a mistake. It must be something for you, Amelia, an appreciation of your patronage of Mrs Henney’s establishment.’

  Amelia giggles. ‘Your name is written on it.’

  ‘Oh. So it is.’

  Lady Shad watches with bright interest and I cannot bear that she is to suffer embarrassment and disillusion.

  I hate that Amelia is to witness this also and her evening will in all likelihood be ruined. ‘Amelia, why don’t you go to my bedchamber and ask one of the maids to help you change into the gown? We should like to see you wear it, and we may have to check the hem.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Marsde
n.’ She gives another glance at the parcel that is burning a hole in my conscience. Surely I have not encouraged his lordship? Or am I so used to playing the whore that without an awareness of what I do I have made my intentions and profession clear?

  The door closes behind us. Harriet burbles quietly.

  ‘Is something wrong, Mrs Marsden?’ Lord Shad asks.

  I shake my head, hoping I am mistaken.

  ‘Mrs Marsden?’ With a smile, Lady Shad offers me a pair of embroidery scissors.

  Resisting the temptation to plunge the scissors into the bosom of her faithless husband, I cut the string and unwrap the parcel. Folds of scarlet and blue and cream tumble and drape on to my lap. It is the Kashmir shawl that I admired and I wonder how on earth Lord Shad knew of it. Did Harry tell him how I admired it?