Mr Bishop and the Actress (11 page)

After a brief conversation with her friend, Amelia comes to my side. ‘Mrs Marsden, Jane – that is, Miss Wilton – has invited me to accompany her family to Bath this summer! Do help me persuade Uncle Shad that I should go! I know it is not so fashionable as Brighton, but Miss Wilton and I are such great friends already.’

‘Of course.’ What else can I say? In a way I am relieved, for if I were to accompany Amelia there it is doubtful whether I should meet any acquaintances from my former life. Bath is not particularly fashionable these days now that the Prince Regent has made Brighton his own.

Amelia puts her arm in mine and takes me to meet the Wiltons. The party also includes Mrs Wilton’s brother, a military gentleman who seems somewhat ill at ease in his brand-new regimentals, Captain Dean. ‘Charmed, ma’am.’

He gazes at me with approval and for one horrid moment I fear he recognizes me, for at first glance he is just the sort of gentleman, raffish and dandyish, convinced all females will swoon at his feet, that I should have associated with in my previous profession. But no, he is a young man who feels his uniform obliges him to flirt with any pretty woman, a sort of patriotic duty. He bends over my hand, creaking and jingling as he does so.

‘Oh, fie, Edward!’ His sister smacks him with her fan. ‘Take no notice, Mrs Marsden, he is an incorrigible flirt. Besides, next week his regiment leaves for Nottingham and we shall be bereft of his company. So, Mrs Marsden, is it not charming how well our young ladies get along? And to think Lord Shadderly . . . well. I must say, she is a most ladylike creature and she is a credit to him. And to you, ma’am, of course.’

‘I regret I cannot take much credit for Amelia. Her talents are mostly her own.’ I am full of admiration for Mrs Wilton’s deflection of any interest I may have in her brother; not only have I been given notice that the gentleman is not long in the neighbourhood but he is not to be taken seriously. To annoy her, I add with a sigh, ‘It is very fine to see a gentleman in regimentals among all these naval gentlemen.’

She snaps her fan shut but at that moment we are summoned in to dinner. It is a very informal affair for we straggle into the Carstairs’ dining room and sit where we will. So it is I find myself next to Captain Dean and opposite Harry, who is deep in conversation with some other neighbours about making beer.

Captain Dean gives me the heavy-lidded, amused smile of a man who believes he is God’s gift to women. ‘You are very interesting, Mrs Marsden. A hothouse flower set down in the country.’

‘La, sir!’ I affect a giggle and smack him, a little more than playfully, across the knuckles with a spoon. ‘I’ll take some of that pie by your elbow, if you please.’

Breathing heavily, he helps me to a slice of pie, managing to drip gravy suggestively on to the tablecloth. (No, I cannot adequately describe how he does it. Suffice it to say that the pie becomes an object of carnal interest and I its unwitting votary.)

‘And do you enjoy military life, sir?’ I ask, briskly dumping a spoonful of carrots on to his plate. ‘Some carrots, Mr Bishop?’ For that gentleman looks upon me across the table with disapproval.

Captain Dean stirs inside his high military collar and reddens. ‘I’ve not yet joined the regiment, ma’am.’

‘Oh, so you are a chrysalis of a soldier.’

Harry Bishop drops a large slice of roast beef on to my plate while the military gentleman ponders my statement. I think he is somewhat disturbed by my implication that he is to become a martial butterfly.

‘Do you enjoy walking, Mrs Marsden?’

Naturally Amelia and I spend a great deal of time splashing through puddles while she recites Shakespeare to the clouds and I try to save the hems of my gowns from mud, but I know where the Captain’s question is leading. Doubtless he imagines thickets, grassy banks, secluded spots, and my own charms laid open to his attack. My reply is hesitant. Genteel ladies enjoy walking. I am a genteel lady, so therefore . . . ‘Oh, very much so. But—’

‘Lord Shad wishes the ladies in his household to stay indoors until the Great Norfolk Horned Beast has been captured,’ Harry says.

‘The Great Norfolk Horned Beast!’ The Captain looks at him with astonishment as do I, for I am amazed that Harry has come to my rescue. ‘What sort of creature is this?’

‘Huge,’ I offer. ‘Possessed of great teeth and claws and the size of an elephant. And horns, hence its name.’

‘Mrs Marsden exaggerates. It’s the size of a small cow,’ Harry says. ‘It’s played havoc with our sheep this past month.’

Others at the table have overheard our conversation and have taken it up, some speculating it is a creature from the Americas that has escaped from a private collection or an ancient beast haunting the fens since the dawn of time. I watch, entranced, as the topic weaves and grows in richness and inventiveness, until it reaches Lord Shad, who laughs and declares it a great piece of nonsense.

And so dinner continues, with the amorous Captain at my elbow and Harry watchful opposite me and it is mightily uncomfortable. I am indeed glad when our hostess rises, prompting a general clatter of chairs as we all get to our feet, and shawls are disentangled, fans collected, and the gentlemen bow us out of the room. I am probably the only lady there who has some idea of what will follow, the male rituals of port and tobacco and manly jests and conversation, the sideboard door open to reveal the chamberpot.

After we leave, our hostess discreetly lets it be known that a water closet is available for the ladies’ use, an item she seems to be rather proud of, blushingly confessing it is a new improvement to the house. Mrs Wilton laments that such an item may increase laziness among the staff, but Mrs Carstairs assures her that the usual arrangements continue in the bedchamber. Satisfied that the social order is maintained, we progress to the drawing room where we arrange ourselves prettily on the sofas and chairs, and giggling Miss Wilton fusses with Amelia’s hair. I admire the pianoforte, acquired about the same time as the water closet, Mrs Carstairs confesses.

‘Did you attend many concerts in London, Mrs Marsden?’ Mrs Wilton asks, an opening gambit in the game of discovering more about me, following her brother’s interest in me during dinner.

‘As many as I could, ma’am,’ I reply with a fine ambiguity.

‘Oh, London,’ Mrs Carstairs says with a sigh. ‘I’ve never been further than Norwich. I do so envy you, Mrs Marsden. But tell me, how do Charlotte and the child? I long to see her. We are godparents, you know, to little Harriet and the boys.’

I know that in the normal course of things any fashionable lady would be expected to stay abed for at least another week, not lounge half-dressed on the sofa with her children, a contented, milky slattern, or repair to the kitchen to assist in the preparation of strawberry jam. I assure Mrs Carstairs that all is well.

‘I believe that is a gown from a London dressmaker, Mrs Marsden,’ Mrs Wilton interjects. ‘Most elegant. With whom were you in service before?’

She has noticed my gown is far better than any a woman in my position should be able to afford and my mind becomes absolutely blank. Of course I have prepared a false story of my life, but her effrontery in asking me about my previous employment, as though she was considering me for a position as chambermaid, fairly takes my breath and my fabricated story away. Mrs Carstairs glances from her to me with some distress, clutching an album of music to her bosom.

I am saved from a reply by the entry of the gentlemen led by Captain Carstairs, deep in conversation with Lord Shad, and Mrs Wilton’s attention, and that of the rest of the ladies, turns to the gentlemen. There is a fair amount of laughter and banter and a great gust of brandy accompanies them into the room. Mrs Carstairs, who has interposed herself between me and Mrs Wilton, shares a relieved smile with me, and takes over pouring tea which one of her footmen hands around.

Amelia glances at the pianoforte. I thought she’d be nervous. On the contrary, I see she longs to perform and the thought crosses my mind that maybe she might be suited for the stage. She has talent, she has ambition, and she has what I never did, a yearning that is half passion, half steely determination. I relied on my good looks, my family’s influence, and a moderate talent to use the stage as a stepping stone to becoming a courtesan. I also possessed the fearlessness of youth, the one thing I have in common with Amelia (except that at her age I was already mistress to the elderly yet lecherous Lord Radding, of whom I still think with affection as I lie in the bed he bequeathed me).

Amelia fidgets like a thoroughbred at the starting gate until our hostess takes pity on her and asks if she would like to play. For the first time she hesitates and I offer to accompany her while she sings. I am afraid that my insistence that she learns to read music may have set her back a little in her playing. We confer and she chooses an opera aria we have studied that week.

She steps forward, and something twists inside me at her beauty and innocence. I shall protect her and guide her; I would say she is like a sister except my sisters needed little protection or guidance as they forged indifferent careers on the stage, somewhat more successful careers in gentlemen’s beds, and the final achievement of matrimony and respectability (all except for poor Kate, dead in childbirth).

Of our audience, some of the gentlemen, who have succumbed to sleep in anticipation of musical entertainment, sit bolt upright, blinking in astonishment at what they hear. Of the ladies, their expressions vary between pure envy and admiration. Lord Shad listens with a proud smile.

I wish I could like him better for it.

But I concentrate on my playing, allowing Amelia to shine as she should, and when I raise my fingers from the keys there is as much of a thunder of applause as can be raised from the company. She turns to smile at me, and there is a question in her eyes – should she sing another? I shake my head, no: Leave them wanting more, a maxim that has served me well, both on and off stage.

She curtsies prettily and I remain at the piano in case any other young lady should like to sing. Amelia’s newfound friend the giggler slops her way through a Scottish folk song to polite applause, and then the real business of the evening begins – the dancing.

The military butterfly alights at the end of the instrument. ‘Are you to remain at that damned, beg your pardon, ma’am, that instrument all evening, Mrs Marsden? I had rather hoped you might do me the honour, ma’am.’

I express with great insincerity my regret that I am here to provide the music and assure the gentleman that I do not need anyone to turn pages for me. His sister regards him with disapproval and takes him under her wing so he may tread upon the feet and leave damp handprints upon the gowns of more deserving women.

Sophie

M
rs Marsden, you must be tired of playing the piano while everyone dances. You have been here a good hour at least. I insist, my dear, I shall play this last one so you may dance.’

‘You’re most kind, Mrs Carstairs, but I assure you there is no need . . .’ But my hostess waves me away and takes my place on the bench. Across the room, the amorous Captain sets his sights and begins a march towards me as though I were a besieged fort ready for the final attack. Even worse, Lord Shad rises from the sofa where he sits with Amelia, and begins his own advance. I look around and see assistance is at hand.

‘Harry! I need you!’

‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Marsden?’

I grab his arm and smile upon him although my teeth are gritted. ‘Dance with me.’

He raises his eyebrows.

‘If you please, sir,’ I say, my dignity thrown to the winds. Both of my would-be suitors are closing in for the kill.

‘Mrs Marsden, may I beg the honour of this dance.’ He looks the advancing Captain in the eye and bows to me. Fortunately he cannot see, over his shoulder, that he has bested his employer also.

‘I should be delighted, sir,’ I reply. I have seen him dance, of course, that time with Amelia, and tonight, where to my surprise he was in great demand as a partner, for he moves gracefully and I am convinced has trod on few feet.

I am aware also that the only time Harry has partnered me in any sense – other than the uneasy truce we maintain – was in far more intimate circumstances. And there, it is true, he performed with some clumsiness, but an endearing sense of amazement and eagerness to please; and, oh yes, a certain mastery and confidence as the long hours of that night wore on, which pleased me greatly. And it’s Harry as he was then that I’m reminded of as we dance, as he guides and turns me, and I give myself to him with a perfect trust. The dance becomes a stylized flirtation, every touch of hand and glance containing a perfect amorous significance, and the other dancers fade into insignificance as we weave a pattern of desire.

So when the music ends, and after we have bowed and curtsied to each other, we stand for a moment looking at each other and I see a sense of wonder on his face. Do I look the same? For the first time since that night, or possibly for the first time ever, we smile at each other.

And then it is as though we both awake and come to ourselves, laughing a little as we see we are the last couple on the floor, the other having retreated to the sides of the room. The evening is quite definitely breaking up now, with the guests moving in the general direction of their host and hostess to bid them farewell. It is time to go home.

‘Mrs Marsden?’

‘My lord?’ I spin around at the tap on my shoulder.

‘Forgive me for intruding, but I wished to let you and Bishop know that Amelia and I have been offered a lift home in the Wiltons’ carriage, and as she’s somewhat fatigued, I thought it best to accept it. Will you join us?’

‘No thank you, sir. I prefer to walk.’ I certainly don’t want to risk being interrogated by Mrs Wilton or have his lordship press his leg against mine in a crowded carriage.

‘If you’re certain, then, for there is plenty of room. Bishop will see you safely home.’

It does cross my mind then that possibly he had approached me, not to ask me to dance, but only to offer me a lift home. Even so, he does not seem angry that I kept him waiting, and Amelia is busy chatting with her new friend; they hang upon each other as though they have known each other for years.