‘Most excellent. Bricks and dust all over the floor and one of Bulmersh’s men crushed his thumb. I helped them knock the hole in the wall. But, sir, where is Sophie now?’
He looks grave. ‘I regret I cannot tell you that.’
Sophie
‘I don’t even like brandy.’ Charlotte and I are busy getting drunk in her bedchamber. ‘What shall become of me?’
‘Oh, come home with us. I know Shad wants to see the work on the conservatory that I’m not supposed to know about. Don’t worry about Harry.’
‘Worry about him! I’m not worried about him! I hate him! I love him to distraction!’
‘You’re spilling brandy on the bed.’ She steadies the glass in my hand. ‘If you had told him before none of this would have happened. But do you think you will enjoy running a hotel?’
‘I won’t ever know,’ I blubber. ‘Why did he follow me to Wallace’s lodgings?’
‘I don’t think he did. He would have arrived sooner.’ Charlotte’s sensible words are spoiled by a hiccup. ‘But I am full of admiration that even at fifteen you knew it to be a false marriage. You were very brave.’
‘I had no choice. I was ruined anyway.’ A fresh set of tears rise. ‘What could I have done? I loved Wallace, silly girl that I was. It was only when he went abroad that I realized I was abandoned and must fend for myself.’
The door bangs open to reveal Shad struggling out of his coat. ‘In my bed again, Sophie? Would I were a bachelor. Out, ma’am. You may sleep with the children in the nursery.’ He starts on the buttons of his waistcoat. ‘The good news, however, is that Wallace has cried off the duel as we thought he would. Why is there a brandy bottle in the bed?’
‘Possibly for the same reason that you reek of the stuff yourself,’ Charlotte says. ‘Where is Harry?’
‘He leaves for London at first light. Sophie, pray go to bed and do not make an attempt to find Harry. I have never known a pair so incompetent at making and accepting a proposal of marriage.’
‘I don’t want to see him.’ I lurch to my feet, grabbing on to a bedpost for support. ‘I don’t want to marry him.’
A footman, embarrassed by my weeping and drunkenness, escorts me to the nursery. Shad and Charlotte are taking no chances with me now and I am so weary and heartsick I don’t care. Let them do with me what they will.
Letters fly back and forth in the next couple of days.
I see letters from Shad to Harry in the hall, awaiting collection, and find out that Harry still acts as his agent, hiring new staff. Shad does not offer, and neither do I suggest, that I write to him.
‘Well, Amelia,’ Shad says at breakfast one morning, an opened letter in his hand, ‘I have heard from the Wiltons on your behalf. They would be delighted if you joined them in Bath, as you originally intended.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Amelia says. ‘Poor Jane Wilton must miss me terribly.’
I doubt whether that little giggler misses anything that is not in her immediate vicinity, but Amelia doesn’t sound very enthusiastic at the prospect of leaving Brighton. Why should she? Brighton is far more fashionable, and sea bathing infinitely preferable to the cloudy, steamy waters of the old-fashioned city of Bath.
‘Perhaps you should go,’ Shad says. ‘Sophie could travel with you, if she’s willing.’ He cocks an eyebrow at me. It’s early in the morning, and his immediate family are the only ones awake, our hosts keeping more fashionable hours. His sons squirm on his lap, allowed the privilege of breakfasting away from the nursery, and dip pieces of toast into their father’s tea.
‘As you wish, sir,’ I reply and pour him tea into a fresh cup, his present one being almost entirely soggy crumbs.
‘Yes, brother,’ Amelia says, eyes downcast. ‘I fear I have a cold and am not well enough to travel yet.’
But later she mutters to me, ‘Sophie, I must return to London. I shall not run away, I swear it, but I must go. Can you help me?’
The only way I can help her at the moment, until her brother agrees to my idea to become a patron of a reputable theatre, is to continue to instruct her in music and teach her some of the skills she will need: how to make herself appear taller on the stage, or older, or younger; how to make the quietest whisper resonate around the house.
And I absolutely refuse to tell her of my life as a courtesan – she does not ask outright but I know she is curious – stressing that I was not a good enough actress; I was not dedicated enough nor did I work hard enough to establish myself successfully in a career on the stage. I do not tell her that I had but half of her talent for fear she will overreach herself.
Charlotte and Shad are most kind to me, treating me as though I were an invalid or an elderly aunt who needs cosseting. They provide special treats, ices, and visits to the circulating library; they encourage me to bathe to lift my spirits. The water is cold and I do not see what good it can possibly do me as I flounder in a garment like a sack and have my face slapped by waves. Charlotte insists I look the better for it. She most certainly does and she and Shad cast each other languishing glances and brush hands when we are in company.
Our hosts, the Earl and Countess of Beresford, enjoy entertaining on a grand scale, and I find myself slipping down to the servants’ quarters on those nights. There I discover that Mr Hoskins the butler has a fine singing voice, the third maidservant believes herself to be with child (she is not: I ask some pertinent questions), and the boy who brings in the vegetables longs to read and write.
I arrange for Mr Hoskins to teach him, and whet his appetite by reading Robinson Crusoe aloud to him. I wonder if Harry was like this as a boy, bright and ambitious and greedy for knowledge.
I dare not think of my future. Maybe I should visit the gentleman in the City who handles my investments and consider retirement, setting myself up in a very modest sort of way in a small house, but I doubt I can afford to live in London and I cannot see myself anywhere else.
The former fashionable and dashing Mrs Wallace cries quite a lot and sleeps in the nursery. She wakes very early each morning to find small children tweaking her hair and pushing her eyelids open with gentle but insistent fingers.
She is not happy, but she is not unhappy either. But I know this cannot last, and so one day I ask both Shad and Beresford for advice.
Harry
‘There’s a legal gentleman to see you, sir.’
I look up from the ledgers over which I have laboured this past week, well pleased that despite my late father’s haphazard ciphering and dreadful writing, the hotel runs, mostly, at a profit. Arithmetic does not mend a broken heart but it almost makes me believe in an orderly universe where things are what they seem and an added column of figures gives the same result whether you start from the top or the bottom.
Jack, the waiter who has delivered the news, lounges at the doorway to the office, one ankle crossed over the other, but jumps smartly to attention as I focus on him. I am glad to see the cloth hung over his arm is clean and so are his hands.
A legal gentleman. This does not bode well. Have we poisoned a guest recently? Smothered someone in one of our beds?
‘On behalf of Lord Shadderly,’ Jack offers.
Even worse. Has something gone horribly wrong with the renovations I supervised for twenty minutes? Did the butler and nursemaid I hired for Lord Shad run amok?
But a plump, snuff-sprinkled form pushes his way into my office, beaming, hand held out. ‘Your servant, sir! Geoffrey Trelaise.’
He is a younger son of one of the many branches of the family, it appears, a very distant branch, for this gentleman bears no resemblance to the handsome, lean members of the Trelaise family that I have met. We go through the formalities, I offer refreshment, and push my ledgers aside.
‘Well now!’ Trelaise says. ‘I’ve heard many good things about you, sir, many good things. Lord and Lady Shad send their kindest regards. I am here to clear the name of a lady, sir.’
I’m not sure whether I feel relief or foreboding. ‘And wo
uld that lady be Sophie Wallace?’
‘Miss Sophie Marsden, yes, sir.’
I debate whether I should throw this undoubted imposter out and he sees my hesitation – this jocund member of the legal profession may behave like a genial fool, but I think I should not underestimate him.
He continues, ‘But what am I thinking? Here, sir, are my credentials, a letter of introduction from the Earl of Beresford.’
The letter bears Beresford’s seal and indeed introduces the family lawyer to me.
I lay the letter on my desk and say, ‘Why do you refer to the lady by her maiden name?’
‘Read these, sir. They are copies, but as you see, witnessed and all made good, from the legal gentleman who represents that personage.’ He lays a finger to one nostril and winks.
Another flourish, like a conjuror producing a flock of doves, and another document appears on my desk. And another.
Trelaise rises. ‘I shall leave you to peruse these documents, sir. I have a fancy to visit your taproom, for I have heard the punch at Bishop’s Hotel is the best in London.’
I show him to the taproom and order punch – my mother sails forth to concoct it, for she feels she best honours my father’s memory by attempting to duplicate his fiendish brew – and return to read the documents.
I don’t know what to believe. There is an account, from a Mr Buckle, of a false marriage at which he impersonated a vicar, some ten years ago, between Sophie Marsden and Rupert Wallace.
So the marriage is false. She is not married to him and she tried to tell me.
I may have been a fool at fifteen to elope with that man, but I assure you I have not been one since, not for any man.
But then – statements of investments, of earnings from a small house in an unfashionable part of London, leased to a physician and his family – all in the name of Sophie Marsden, femme seule. Not a huge amount of wealth, but enough that an adventurer like Captain Wallace might want to lay his hands on it. The lady withdraws nothing, prudently reinvesting. I see her strategy is to build a comfortable income for the future.
And it is this that persuades me, more than any protestation of love or vow of fidelity. She has entrusted me with her deepest secret – not her lovers or her indiscretions, but her financial holdings, the symbol of her independence.
The last item is something wrapped in a scrap of paper and sealed, again with Beresford’s seal. I break the wax and discover a small, pale green object. A piece of glass, battered by its journey through sand and sea-water and transformed into an object of beauty, that Sophie picked up from the beach at Brighton.
I bundle the documents together and return to the taproom where Trelaise and my mother, both of them pink-cheeked and giggling, are working their way through a large amount of punch.
‘More ginger, do you think, sir?’ My mother raises a glass to me. ‘Mr Trelaise says he has brought you good news, but he is very discreet.’ That means she’ll force the news from me later.
‘Dear lady, Mr Bishop, your health. And may I anticipate a happy union in Mr Bishop’s future?’ Trelaise raises a glass.
‘It’s about time!’ My mother pours me a glass of punch. We drink a toast to . . . I’m not sure who, for the next few hours pass in a happy blur.
Sophie
I return from Bath somewhat travel-weary and still concerned for Amelia, who clearly obeys her brother out of duty and making sure everyone knows she takes very little pleasure in it. Even the fulsome greeting of giggling Miss Jane Wilton failed to produce much liveliness in her, although she cheered up a little at the prospect of shopping.
Having submitted myself to Mrs Wilton’s contempt for ten minutes in her drawing room (I think the lady debated whether she should send me downstairs to the kitchen), I retired to the very respectable hotel the Trelaise family patronize when visiting that town, and subjected myself to some bowing and scraping. Yet I cannot help but notice the waiter who wipes his nose on his sleeve and the greasy fingerprints on the wine glass (I send it back) and think of Bishop’s Hotel. I wonder how Mrs Bishop fares and whether Harry has started his campaign to smarten the place up.
And then I take the coach back to Norfolk, a long journey which gives me much time for reflection, and I am glad indeed when I arrive at the crossroads. The wind ripples through the marshy grasses and skylarks twitter overhead; the occasional tree etched against the sky takes on a particular beauty in its isolation.
Ahead of me I see a familiar group of figures, Charlotte and her two sons, waving wildly at me, followed by a female servant who must be the new nursemaid carrying the infant Harriet.
‘My dear Sophie!’ She embraces me and the two little boys crowd around me, asking if I have brought them presents. ‘I trust you are not too fatigued from your journey? I could send Martha back for the trap, if you like.’
‘No need. I am cramped from sitting in that coach for so long. How is the conservatory?’
‘Splendid. John threw a cricket ball through one of the window panes and I thought Shad would kill him.’ She takes my arm. ‘Was Amelia still in a sulk? I really don’t know what to do with her although Shad talks of sending her to his fashionable sister in London for the season.’
I take Harriet so the nursemaid can take my bag and carry her upon my hip as we walk to the house. We dissuade the little boys from dabbling in the duckpond and John, who has taken over the duties of looking after Amelia’s poultry, waves to us, a basket of eggs in his other hand.
As we enter the cobbled yard surrounded by outbuildings at the side of the house (for we do not stand on formality, choosing to use the side door rather than the front door), we are greeted by Mark the footman, who wears his largest hook and seems to be directing Luke and Matthew in the transportation of some unwieldy piece of timber.
When he sees us, a furtive expression comes over his face, and he grabs the door of the nearest building and pushes Luke and Matthew and their burden inside. Thumps and cries of pain as they encounter obstacles emerge from behind the closed door, along with the shouts of an enraged woman.
‘What on earth are they doing?’
She shrugs. ‘Oh, Shad asked them to take some old things out of the attic, I believe.’
‘Into the dairy?’ I glance at Mark who stands against the door, arms spread against the wood as though at any moment we will break the door down and he must protect the contents at all cost. Inside, someone shrieks that these great oafs will spoil her butter.
‘It is strange,’ Charlotte murmurs.
‘You’re plotting something. And why is there a fire lit in the steward’s house?’ For a trickle of smoke emerges from the chimney. ‘Is Harry here?’
‘Oh, no! Certainly not! He is in London. Yes, at his hotel,’ she says with tremendous emphasis, and I am relieved indeed that she does not need to make her living on the stage.
I hand Harriet back to her mother and march to the door of the house. I rap smartly on the wood but receive no answer. So I push open the door.
I’ve never been in Harry’s house before, and I look around with great curiosity. Some cleaning seems to be taking place, for all the furniture is huddled up at one end of the single room that is a combined kitchen and parlour, and the bedchamber, the other room of the house, is completely bare.
But Harry’s possessions are still here: a steadily ticking clock on the mantelpiece, and a few books, a pen, and a bottle of ink on the small table pushed against the wall. Bundles of herbs hang from the ceiling and at the hearth a kettle, hissing and releasing a little steam, stands on a trivet. His spare coat, the one that is a little too large for him – a gift from Shad – hangs on a hook on the bedchamber door. I press my face against the wool and then against the silk lining, wishing it was still warm from his body.
The room is stark, with plain whitewashed walls, floors swept and scrubbed to a creamy smoothness. The small window, with ancient thick glass in diamondshaped panes, looks out on to green fields.
And on the windows
ill, as though echoing that wavering and uncertain green, lies a piece of glass, smoothed, transformed, made magic by unknown storms.
I leave the house and walk towards the dairy, where the milkmaid continues to harangue her unwelcome guests and Mark still stands guard.
‘Get your foot out of that, ’tis ruined!’
‘Don’t you worry, Molly,’ tain’t a real leg.’
‘Girt great oaf, you think that makes it better? Cook’ll have the skin off your back.’
More thumps and the sound of a breaking vessel.
Mark presses himself against the door, his hook actually buried in the wood of the lintel.
‘I know what you’re doing,’ I say. ‘And I know you won’t tell me where Mr Bishop is, though I daresay he’s close by, but you don’t have to hide from me. Pray continue.’
Mr Bishop and the Actress Page 20
