Mr Bishop and the Actress (17 page)

‘We are upsetting the young lady,’ my father says. ‘Come, Sophie, my dear, the hour of twilight, that time of fairies and ghosts and magic, is almost upon us and the cost of candles is something shocking. Mr Bishop must advise Miss Amelia on the best course of action.’ He sighs. ‘To see such a treasure slip through my hands! It is hard, my dear Sophie, very hard.’

We all return to the stage, a strange procession indeed. Amelia clasps her darning as though it was a playbook for one of Shakespeare’s tragic roles, Harry close beside her, avoiding my gaze. To my surprise I see Richard is in the auditorium, staring around him with the look of delight and horror that those unaccustomed to the theatre wear when they view it at any other time than during a performance.

‘Uncle Harry!’ He approaches, hat in hand, and his nervousness has gone. Although he has the shocked appearance of a rabbit at the approach of a large and hungry dog, he is quite calm and steady. ‘Sir, Uncle, you must come home.’

‘What’s happened? I thought I told you to go back to the hotel.’

‘I did, sir, and they sent me to get you.’ He swallows. ‘It’s bad, sir. Very bad.’

‘My mother?’ Harry says in a shocked whisper.

Richard shakes his head and Harry straightens his shoulders and addresses my father. ‘You sent word to the hotel with the address for your lodgings, Marsden? Very good. I shall call upon you and Miss Amelia as soon as I am able to. Your servant.’ He bows, ever correct.

My father nudges me. ‘Go with him, girl. He needs you, it’s as plain as the nose on your face.’

I take a step towards Harry, but he turns a look upon me of such contempt that I fear what he will say or do if I come any nearer. He inclines his head in the approximation of a bow and leaves with Richard.

‘Well!’ my father says, rubbing his hands. ‘What did you do to that nice young man, Sophie? For you’ve injured him, ’tis plain to see.’

‘He blames me for Amelia’s escape to London, Pa.’

‘I thought he had more sense than that.’

‘Well, chances are he’ll be sacked now, and that’s my fault for sure. I asked him to come with me to find her, and he knew who I was when I arrived at the house and he did not reveal my identity to the family. He blames himself for that, that I am a corrupting influence.’

‘Nonsense!’ my father says. ‘What, you, a corrupting influence? Of course he could have told Lord Shad who you were and he didn’t, and I think I know the reason why.’

‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘You are mistaken, Pa.’ I lean my head against his shoulder for what comfort my father affords, for I find I am sorely in need of it, weary and sick at heart.

My nose is stuffed up and I should like to retire to bed. ‘Amelia, my dear, would you mind if I went back to the hotel?’

She smiles. ‘Of course you should, Sophie. Mr Bishop would like to have you there, I am sure, if there is some sort of family trouble. And Mrs Marsden, I am indeed sorry I have put you and Mr Bishop to all this trouble. You have both been so good to me. Please thank him from me.’

‘I shall. And I am so glad you are safe.’

‘I like your papa very much,’ she says. ‘He has been very kind.’

Well, of course she does, poor child, bereft of the father she thought she had, and horrified to learn of her real sire. Even Billy Marsden seems a paragon of parenthood compared to the wicked old Viscount.

I bid my father a fond farewell and set off for the hotel, a scant half-mile walk.

When I arrive, I find a coach has just arrived and is disgorging passengers who throng inside, ordering food and drink. I am relieved that at least the building has not burned down. Mr Bishop, though, is not in the yard to welcome guests; instead one of the waiters is there performing that role.

I enter the building too, and find my way to the private quarters of the inn, where I tap on the door of the family’s parlour.

A woman with floating dark hair and deep brown eyes answers, signs of weeping upon her face. ‘This part of the hotel is not open to guests, ma’am.’

‘I’m Sophie Wallace.’

‘Oh.’ She looks at me with sudden comprehension. There’s something about her that reminds me of Harry; the sharp cheekbones and something in the shape of the jaw, perhaps. ‘Ma’s spoken of you.’

‘Are you Harry’s sister?’

She nods. ‘I’m Mary Shilling. You’ve met my husband and son, I believe.’

‘I don’t wish to intrude, but may I be of some assistance to you?’

She attempts to smile. ‘You’re very kind, Mrs Wallace. My father is grievously ill of an apoplexy. The surgeon is with him now.’

‘Is that Sophie?’ a voice cries from the room behind Mrs Shilling.

‘Yes, Ma.’

‘Well, let her come in.’ But Mrs Bishop’s voice lacks its usual vibrancy and is hoarse as if she too has wept.

Mary opens the door and I enter. Mrs Bishop sits upon the sofa, tears spilling from her eyes. ‘My dear Sophie,’ she cries. ‘I was hoping you would come.’

‘Mrs Bishop, I am so very sorry.’

‘Will you sit with us a little, my dear? Mary, pray pour Sophie some tea. Harry will be glad you are here.’

I doubt it, but take her hand.

‘Mr Bishop was here, taking some tea with me,’ she says, and I know it is a story she will repeat over and over in disbelief as the reality of her loss sinks home. ‘He said to me, “Mrs Bishop, you look most handsome today,” and then a strange expression came over his face.

‘I said, “What is wrong, my dear? You do not look quite the thing.”

‘And he started to say something and dropped like a stone, here.’ She points to the floor. ‘Like a felled tree. It was a dreadful thing to see. And I knelt by him and took his hand and said, “Peter, my dear” – for it is only under the most intimate of circumstances that I use his Christian name – “you must speak to me.” But his hand was cold, cold as a stone, and I called the girl for hot bricks but he said not a word more to me and did not open his eyes again.’ She falls silent, biting her lip. ‘I wonder what it was he tried to tell me. Why did he leave me so?’

‘He’s not gone yet, Ma,’ Mrs Shilling says. She hands me a cup of tea and sits down next to Mrs Bishop. ‘The surgeon said he has known some in these cases rally. We’ll see what he says when he and Harry come back downstairs.’

So we wait, and after a while, a gentleman who must be the surgeon and Harry come into the room, their faces grave.

Harry looks at me with mild surprise but he appears dazed, as though he might expect to see any number of people or things upon the sofa and not be much moved. I rise and stand aside, and watch as Harry takes his mother’s hands and speaks quietly to her.

She wails and shakes her hands free, saying no, it cannot, must not be, while Mrs Shilling embraces her and the two women rock to and fro.

‘You should go and speak to him, Ma,’ Harry says. ‘He might hear you. Your voice will comfort him.’

She nods and she and Mrs Shilling leave the room for the bedchamber where Harry’s father lies dying.

Harry exchanges a few words with the surgeon and tugs on a bellrope. One of the female servants of the hotel, pale and as red-eyed as her mistress, is summoned to bring the surgeon’s hat and gloves, and Harry and I are left alone.

‘I am so very sorry, Harry.’

He nods. He looks older, sombre, and his shoulders droop as though intolerable burdens have been placed upon him, and indeed, so they have. ‘I must write to my other sisters and brother. God knows when the letters will reach them. We last had word from Joseph some six months ago when his ship was in port. My sister, the one who is a housekeeper, is in Yorkshire, and Eliza in Bristol expects her third child any day. There is not time for . . .’ He blinks at me and takes off his spectacles, rubbing them absently on his cuff. ‘Thank you for keeping my mother and sister company, Mrs Wallace.’

I have not been addressed as Mrs Wallace in such a while that I start at the use of my name.

‘I beg your pardon. Mrs Marsden, then. I have another favour to beg of you, ma’am, that you will stay with my mother and sister this night.’

‘Of course.’

He continues, ‘I must write also to Lord Shad, to . . . pray God no one in the neighbourhood knew of Amelia’s departure. Her reputation may yet be saved. But . . .’ he looks at me, confused. ‘I regret this delays our departure for Brighton.’

‘Harry, sit. You should drink some tea.’

He does so and sits stirring his tea like a man in a dream, but when he drinks it he becomes more like himself. I wish I could touch him and give him some human comfort, but I know too that his formality, his wish for order, is the only protection he can offer his family.

‘The physician says he doubts my father will last the night,’ he says and then falls silent again.

I go upstairs to the bedchamber where Harry’s father lies, attended by his wife and daughter, only the slight rise and fall of his chest indicating that he lives still.

Richard, solemn and somehow less gawky, as though he has grown up in the past couple of hours, is summoned to bid his grandfather farewell, and both he and his father Thomas weep.

Harry returns from his letter writing and sits beside his sister in silence, his arm around her shoulders.

Mrs Bishop holds her husband’s hand and talks of how things go at the hotel this night and how the cook, in her grief, burned some chickens and drank a quart of porter; of compliments the hotel has received from guests; and how those who have stayed there before wish Mr Bishop well. Mrs Bishop tells him she has no doubt Mr Bishop will rally and that she will nurse him back to health and take him away for a holiday, for in all this time he has never had one. Sea air, she thinks, would do him good. She holds his hand to her face, talking of the bright sparkle of sunlight on sea, the slap and tug of waves, the cries of seagulls as they ride the winds overhead.

Gradually her voice becomes quieter and I think she talks of their courtship, of their years together, and of their children and grandchildren.

Clocks strike, coaches arrive and depart, and the night watchmen call the hours and announce that it is a fine night.

So it may be, but not for the Bishop family. Shortly before dawn Mr Bishop dies.

I leave the family so they may grieve alone and find the hotel staff at the bottom of the stairs, waiting, many of them in tears. They don’t need me to tell them what has happened, but they look to their new master, for Harry has followed me downstairs.

‘My father and your master Mr Bishop is dead.’ His voice is quiet and kind. ‘I thank you all for your concern. The Norwich coach arrives in fifteen minutes, so make sure all is ready. Bring Mrs Bishop some tea in the parlour, if you please.’ He turns to me. ‘May I ask you to stay with my mother? She should sleep. I’ll have a room made up for her. Mary must return home to her children.’

I cannot refuse. When Mrs Bishop comes back downstairs, a woman having arrived to lay the corpse out, she is in a state of nervous agitation, scarcely able to keep still, and then collapsing into tears. She talks incoherently of her dead husband and what is to become of her now.

She grips my arm during one of these panicked ramblings. ‘You must help Harry. He will need a wife now. We always meant for him to run the hotel, but not yet. Not so soon. Promise me, Sophie.’

I urge her to calm herself.

‘Has he made you an offer?’ she asks with something of her former bright-eyed energy.

‘He did, ma’am.’

‘Oh, thank God.’ But then she sees my expression. ‘You refused him, my dear Sophie? How could this be? But never mind, he will propose again, and this time you must accept.’

‘Ma’am, I regret I—’

‘Promise me!’

‘If he asks, I shall consider it,’ I say carefully. She is not to know how unlikely it is he would ask me again.

I cannot tell her that her son has lost all regard, all respect for me, for I think I would weep myself if I were to tell her.

But my answer seems to satisfy her for she calms a little and drinks some tea, finally allowing me to help her to a bedchamber and assist her in going to bed.

‘This was the room Harry slept in as a boy,’ she says. ‘He and our other son, Joseph. You see here, they measured themselves and marked it on the doorjamb.’

Sure enough, a series of notches, one headed by an H and the other with a J, measure the growth of the Bishop sons.

‘Harry was so angry that Joseph was always taller.’ She manages a smile. ‘My dear, you will like him so much when you meet him, and my other daughters Sara and Eliza. To think they never bid their papa goodbye!’

She argues very little when I suggest she take some laudanum and she falls asleep.

I go to my bedchamber and lie on my bed, thinking I shall sleep only a little while, but when I awaken it is late afternoon. Outside I hear a coach horn and the clop of hooves and the rumble of vehicles on the cobbled yard of the inn. When I go to the window I see Harry, wearing a long apron, greeting passengers as his father did, a black armband on one sleeve. He smiles and makes conversation and I marvel that he is able to do so with such ease; a few, noting the symbol of mourning, stop and converse more deeply with him or shake his hand.

A familiar trio enter the courtyard on foot – my father, Sylvia, and Amelia. I smooth my skirts and splash a little water on my face and go downstairs to meet them.

Sophie

‘
A
dreadful business, Mr Bishop. Dreadful indeed.’ My father dabs at his eyes with a large handkerchief he wields like a theatrical prop, which is exactly what it is. ‘Your late father was well known and deeply respected in the neighbourhood. It is a loss, sir. An inconsolable loss for us all. My commiserations, sir.’ He wrings Harry’s hand.

‘For heaven’s sake, Pa, you didn’t even know him,’ I mutter to my sire and pull him aside.

The last of the arrivals have entered the hotel, and Harry invites us into the family’s parlour, where Mrs Shilling and Mrs Bishop preside over the teapot. A few other ladies, who are introduced as friends of the family, gaze in astonishment at Sylvia’s beard and then talk loudly of the weather.

Mrs Bishop, swathed in black like a mourning queen, graciously accepts the condolences of the newcomers, although somewhat taken aback at my father’s florid eloquence. She barely seems to notice Sylvia’s beard and smiles faintly at Amelia’s youthful prettiness.