Sophie, whose hearing is more acute than I had guessed, turns a dazzling smile upon my mother. ‘A very slight cold, ma’am. Pray do not be concerned for me. I shall be very well once I am warmed.’
‘Oh, my dear Mrs Wallace – I beg your pardon, Harry says I must call you Mrs Marsden now – I cannot hear of Harry dragging you out all over London while you are unwell. You must stay here and we shall take tea and I—’
‘I beg your pardon, ma’am, but our business is urgent.’ In a few words I tell my mother of Amelia’s unfortunate and hasty flight.
‘Good Lord, if the girl’s not ruined by now, what difference will a few more hours make? Or even another night?’ my practical mother cries. ‘I insist. You must dine before you go out. Mrs Wallace, I mean Mrs Marsden, we have a nice joint of lamb and some cheese pies and I believe a rocket salad. You are hungry, I’ll be bound.’
‘Ma’am, you’re most kind,’ Sophie says. ‘Harry – I mean Mr Bishop – I fancy I could eat some dinner. Besides, there’ll be no one at any theatre for an hour or so.’
‘Well, then! It’s all settled. I shall go and see how things are in the kitchen.’ My mother grabs my arm and hauls me with her out of the room. ‘Why, she looks blooming if a little red around the nose. Have you not made an offer for her yet?’ she says as soon as we are out of Sophie’s hearing,
‘Ma’am, with all due respect, may I suggest you mind your own business.’
She lets out a great shout of laughter and cuffs me around the ear as though I were a boy still. ‘I’ll wager you gave her the shawl. She keeps it tight around her, but ’pon my honour I’d wager she’d rather it was your arm.’
‘She is not well, ma’am.’
My mother winks and heads for the kitchen.
I return to the parlour where Sophie now sits, gazing into the fire.
‘Mrs Bishop is right,’ she says. ‘Amelia is ruined. Our only hope is that we can keep it a secret.’
‘Come, maybe it’s not so bad.’
‘This is the theatre, Harry. Of course it’s bad.’
I have a sudden longing to kneel by her and put my arms around her and protect her from the cruelties of the world, but at that moment, my father, having heard that we entertain Mrs Wallace again, comes into the parlour and proceeds to fuss over her.
‘Punch!’ he announces, and rings the bell. When one of our waiters wanders in, he’s told to make haste and bring lemons and hot water and spirits, for my father fancies himself an alchemist of punchmaking. He proceeds to measure and pour and stir amidst clouds of steam, tasting as he goes, purely for Mrs Wallace’s – or rather, Mrs Marsden’s – health, of course. Sophie drinks a glassful of his fiendish brew and chokes a little, sneezes, and claims it’s doing her a world of good. Certainly she looks a little more bright-eyed and more like herself, but she is subdued and I suspect it is not only the cold that dampens her spirits. She must indeed feel responsible for Amelia’s escape, but there is something else, too. Does she think of her former lover, Mr Fordham? Or other former lovers? I wonder if she will take another protector now she is back in London and reminders of her former life are all around. The thought alarms me so much that I gulp a glass of my father’s punch and have to sit down, dizzy from the fumes alone.
My father slaps me on the shoulder. For sure, my parents are affectionately heavy-handed today, as overjoyed as they are to see Sophie again, and, to a lesser extent, myself.
To give my mother her due, she excels herself as a hostess, if given to complaining that I look too thin and forcing second and third helpings upon me at dinner, while advising Sophie that she should feed a cold. This inspires a discussion between my parents and eventually the couple of waiters who serve us, as to what feeding a cold in truth means, but Sophie smiles warmly and praises the dinner.
I am much relieved when we can finally tear ourselves from the table and undertake what brought us to London in the first place. My father insists we take the hotel’s gig, and my nephew Richard Shilling, who with his father Tom Shilling helped us move Sophie’s bed that first time, serves as our driver – for we will need someone to hold the horse while we search the theatres – and so we set off.
‘Would you like me to drive, Richard?’ Sophie asks as he drops the whip, tangles the reins, and attempts to drive us into the path of an approaching hackney. ‘How is your father? I hope he is well.’
‘No, ma’am, that is, thank you kindly, I shall manage.’ His voice perambulates a few octaves. He blushes fiercely and his hat falls off. ‘And Father is quite well and sends his kind regards, ma’am.’
I jump down from the vehicle to retrieve the hat. God only knows what he’d do if he tried to find it himself – more than likely, he’d hang himself in the harness.
‘Richard,’ I whisper to him as I hand him his hat, somewhat the worse for wear from the muck of the street, ‘she’s a female. Your mother is one and I know you have sisters. Mrs Marsden is not related to you but for the purposes of our sanity, may I suggest you think of her as an aunt. Otherwise the gig will become kindling and we in little better condition.’
‘Yes, Uncle.’ He gazes at his new aunt with pathetic adoration.
She smiles back at him and I grab the reins before they disappear beneath the horse’s hooves.
‘Drive on, Richard, if you please,’ Sophie says with winning sweetness. She turns to me and whispers, ‘Why, Harry, he is a worse driver than you. I did not think it possible.’
‘You wound me, ma’am.’
Our first stop is at Drury Lane, for Sophie believes that Amelia, in her naïveté, will have tried the bestknown theatres first. She leads the way down the narrow alley at the side of the theatre and, telling me to stand aside, has a lively conversation with the doorkeeper.
‘Yes, and I’m the Queen of Sheba,’ that person announces and bangs the door shut.
She picks her way through the refuse of the alley and returns to my side. ‘I told him I was Sophie Wallace and he didn’t believe me! I must look a fright. Oh, but wait.’
She darts away and intercepts a pair of gaudily dressed women who approach chattering, and this time I am witness to Sophie’s skill as an actress.
She drops a curtsy and launches into a long story about her poor little cousin Amelia – though to be sure, she may go under a different name now, with the prettiest voice, and do they know of her whereabouts? And my, what a handsome bonnet. You won’t see anything of that sort in the country. And so on, flattering, cajoling, encouraging them to gossip.
They smile with good humour but tell her there have been no newcomers to the company, not even any hopeful young women who have been turned away recently.
And so it goes for the next few hours until our search must end, for the curtains will be raised now, and this will be Amelia’s second night in London. Does she sleep in a doorway somewhere, like the wretches we see on the streets? Or has she been tricked into entering a house of ill repute? A person, particularly a woman, can be engulfed, devoured by the town, sinking into its depths.
‘Can you think of nothing you or she said that may tell us where she’s gone?’
She shakes her head. ‘I told her how I had started with small roles in a lesser company, but Amelia has such certainty in her ability . . .’
‘You did badly, ma’am, encouraging her.’
‘Preaching does not become you, Harry.’
‘Let’s drive home, then, Richard.’
Richard flaps the reins on to the horse’s back and we leave the fashionable part of town, heading for Aldgate and the hotel. ‘I been to a theatre once,’ he says.
‘Did you, now? What play did you see?’ Sophie asks, reducing him to a wreck of embarrassment.
‘’Twasn’t a play. Not as such, for it was Easter. There was singing and dancing and a pretty girl in tights.’
‘A pantomime?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Right near home, too.’
‘Near home?’ I think for a moment. ‘Surely not the Royalty Theatre in Wellclos
e Square?’
‘Maybe, sir.’
‘What say you, Sophie? Shall we make one last stop there? It’s in the borough of Poplar, quite close to the hotel.’
To my alarm she goes quite pale.
‘Is something wrong?’ I am afraid she is ill.
‘No, no.’
The horse plods through the evening traffic, but as we are going against the general flow we make good progress. I very much doubt the theatre will even be open – it is a disreputable sort of place, not licensed for plays, and generally presents only low forms of entertainment.
We stop in front of the theatre, forlorn-looking and festooned with tattered and shredding posters of past attractions.
‘I don’t think it’s open,’ she says. ‘Drive on, Richard.’
But one of the large front doors of the theatre is opening as though we are expected and Sophie and I both step down from the trap.
A large burly man wearing a suit of clothes a little too tight, and the skin on his face a little too loose, emerges, moving slowly through the fading light. He extends one fleshy hand to Sophie.
‘No!’ she cries.
‘My little Sophie!’ the man says in a sepulchral voice.
‘Were you his mistress too?’ I am appalled.
‘No.’ She is so pale her nose appears bright red and dark shadows appear under her eyes. ‘No. I murdered him.’
13
Harry
She murdered him? This disreputable gentleman is certainly no ghost, for he belches loudly and scratches his generous belly.
Sophie grabs for my sleeve and I put my arm around her, for I am afraid she will swoon.
‘My darling!’ says the dead man. ‘Unhand my betrothed, sir.’
I push past him, supporting Sophie in my arms, and into the theatre. The doors to the auditorium stand open and there seems to be some sort of activity on the stage, a boy turning cartwheels, and a group of people banging scenery around.
I help Sophie on to one of the wooden benches.
Someone rushes at me and grabs me by the collar, sending my hat flying. ‘What the devil are you doing with her?’
I must be in a madhouse. I push the second gentleman away, and find myself face to face with the first, who gazes at Sophie with inane sentimentality. ‘My little flower,’ he croons.
‘Your betrothed?’
‘In a manner of speaking, sir, yes. She is my sun, my joy and hope.’
‘She is not, sir, and she is certainly not yours. Yes, sir, what may I do for you?’ For the other gentleman approaches, fists clenched in a pugilistic, fierce sort of way.
‘Take your hands from my child!’
His child?
‘Oh, Pa,’ says a weak voice from around the level of my chest, ‘do hold your tongue.’
‘She lives!’ Mr Marsden cries, for indeed that is who he must be, and now I see the similarity of bone and colouring, the same fine eyes, that he shares with Sophie.
‘Of course I live, Pa. The wonder is that Mr Sloven does. I thought I’d killed him. And as for you, Pa, where the devil have you been?’
He lays his hand on his breast. ‘My child, restored to me! A most profitable and healthful tour, my dear, Portsmouth, Southampton, salubrious spots by the sea. And then we ran out of money and returned, and Mr Sloven, since you are affianced, is kind enough to finance our thespian endeavours here.’
‘I am not affianced to Mr Sloven.’
‘Ah. I see,’ says her fond parent and turns to me. ‘You keep company with my daughter, sir? She’s fond of a pretty bonnet, you know. I doubt she’ll stay long if you can’t afford better than that. Why, Sophie, I’m sorry to see you come down in the world so.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with my bonnet. I’m a respectable woman, sir. And I’m certainly not engaged to Mr Sloven.’
‘But, Sophie, my love—’ Sloven flings himself with a thud on to his knees, his pudgy frame trembling. ‘Sophie, was it not here we plighted our troth?’
‘You put your lecherous hands all over me, you mean. And then I hit you.’ She sits up and glares at us all.
‘True, I fear.’ Jake Sloven sighs. ‘Yet in that moment, like Paul upon the road to Damascus, I became a changed man. A white light shone about me and angel voices told me, “She is yours. Sophie Wallace is yours and will return to your bosom.” And so I have waited for you.’ He spreads his arms wide.
‘I regret I have no intention whatsoever of returning to your bosom.’ She unties her bonnet strings. ‘I did my very best to avoid your bosom and the rest of you too, Sloven.’
‘Not even to give your poor old father the chance for theatrical glory?’ Mr Marsden looks somewhat concerned.
‘Not even for that. Why didn’t you tell me where you’d gone, Pa?’
He draws himself up. ‘I hadn’t seen you for six months, my dear. Your old Pa wasn’t good enough for you. I was wounded, here in my heart.’ He strikes his chest.
‘You know why, Pa. Charlie was forever gazing into your actresses’ bosoms.’ She glares at Sloven, who is doing that exact same thing to her, and gets to her feet.
‘But come to your father’s arms, my child! Let me embrace thee!’ Despite his theatricality, I see some genuine affection between Marsden and his daughter.
Suspecting this happy reunion may be protracted, I go outside to tell Richard to take the horse home. We can walk the half-mile or so to the hotel.
When I return another personage has joined the group, a beautiful woman with dark curls tumbling down her back, flashing eyes, and a figure of generous proportions spilling from a spangled satin gown. Her skirts are hoisted to reveal pink tights and soft leather boots. Her beauty is enhanced and made even more extraordinary by a luxuriant black beard that spills upon her superb bosom. Hands on hips, she gazes upon the embracing father and daughter with deep suspicion.
Marsden extricates himself from his daughter’s arms. ‘Ah, my dear. This is my daughter, Sophie.’
‘Your daughter!’ She looks her up and down, lip curling. ‘Oh, of course she’s your daughter. I know you, Billy Marsden. Just like that niece you have backstage.’
‘Ma’am.’ I bow to her. ‘May I introduce Mrs Sophie Wallace. She is indeed Mr Marsden’s daughter.’
‘That’s never Sophie Wallace! Not the most notorious woman in London – or as of two months ago.’ She strokes her beard. ‘And who are you, sir? The Prince of Wales?’
‘Harry Bishop. Your servant, ma’am.’
‘Hmm.’
Sophie holds out her hand. ‘I’m most pleased to meet you.’
‘Yes, my dear,’ Marsden says, ‘Fatima, the Bearded Woman of Constantinople. I pray you will learn to love her and call her Mama.’
‘Sylvia Cooper of Wapping, in real life,’ she says. She looks upon Sophie with a somewhat less suspicious eye.
‘You should see her on the trapeze!’ Mr Marsden continues. ‘She is a goddess, revered by all. Such grace, such ease, such perfection of limbs . . .’
‘Ballocks. They want to see my thighs and my beard. I’ll fetch us some drink.’
‘A lovely girl,’ Marsden sighs as he watches her depart. ‘The beard took some getting used to, I must admit, but she has a heart of gold. Of gold, sir. Speaking of which . . .’ He casts an anxious glance at Sloven. ‘It is his word against yours, you know, Sophie my dear, and if you are not engaged, you will see your pa begging in the streets.’
‘Oh, nonsense.’
Sophie
I suppose I should be flattered that Harry Bishop looks so very out of sorts at the appearance of Jake Sloven; I am certainly out of sorts, in particular at the suggestion that Mr Sloven and I have some sort of understanding. First he appeared like a ghost – a moment I am sure Amelia would have appreciated, for it was positively Shakespearian – and frightened me to death, and then to tell my father that he and I are engaged! I almost wish the blow with the piece of scenery had been more effective.
And my father has a mistress with a
beard. Well, that is odd, but she seems more pleasant than other ladies he has associated with. His choice in ladies, bearded or otherwise, is not my chief concern at the moment; I fear he has sold me to Mr Sloven to pursue pantomimes in this theatre.
Sylvia, true to her word, has returned with bottles and glasses, assisted by the boy who turned cartwheels upon the stage.
‘You have a cold, my dear,’ my fond parent pronounces. ‘I do not wish your ill humours to infect my players. Pray keep a little apart from me.’
‘Pa,’ I say, backing off as far as I can but still within whispering distance, ‘pray tell me what arrangement you have made with Jake Sloven concerning my person.’
Mr Bishop and the Actress Page 13
