Mr Bishop and the Actress (18 page)

After a while, Harry enters, his apron discarded. He announces his mother must rest, and with great tact and firmness directs the visitors out, but asks me and Amelia to stay.

Now everyone has gone he looks weary, like an actor coming off the stage, and so it has been for him, I suppose, as he maintains the friendly pleasant façade of the hotel keeper.

He sinks into a chair and accepts a cup of tea. I wish I could offer him more, some kindness or words of comfort, for now he looks weary and sad.

Amelia produces a needle and thread from her pocket and stitches at a loose ribbon on her bonnet.

‘Your bonnet turned out well,’ I say as she bites off the thread.

‘Oh, had you not seen it finished before?’

I shake my head. She had worked at that bonnet last week. Was she thinking even then of running away to London?

‘Mrs Henney admired it, too. I bought the ribbons from her.’

‘When did Mrs Henney see it?’ Harry sits bolt upright.

‘Why, just before I boarded the coach to London.’

‘
What?
’

‘Why do you look at me like that, Mr Bishop?’ She looks at me for reassurance. ‘Mrs Marsden, I met her while I was waiting for the coach. She drove up in her donkey cart and offered me a lift while I waited at the crossroads, but I told her I did not need one.’

‘So she knew you were going to London? Alone?’ I ask.

‘Yes, but I did not tell her why, for it was none of her business.’

‘What did she and you talk about?’ Harry asks.

‘Oh, very little. She teased me that I had a lover waiting in London and of course I told her she was mistaken. She very kindly offered to wait with me until the coach arrived.’ She gazes at us both. ‘Did I do something wrong?’

‘Amelia, my dear, Mrs Henney is the biggest gossip in Norfolk.’ I break the truth to her as gently as I can. ‘Your only hope, to retain your reputation, was that no one but us should know of your escapade. Now everyone – the village and all the surrounding families with whom Lord Shad wished you to be known as an equal – will know that you are ruined.’

‘Ruined!’ She stares at me in horror. ‘What shall I do?’

Harry puts his teacup down and stands. ‘We must take you to Brighton as soon as we can so you may throw yourself on Lord Shad’s mercy. I doubt whether he knows any of this and it is best he hears it first from you. We bury my father tomorrow.’ He says it with no emotion, no inflexion in his voice at all, but his hands are clenched tight. ‘Meanwhile, you and I must talk, Miss Amelia. I’ll escort you back to your lodgings. Mrs Marsden, I should be obliged if you will stay here until my return in case my mother requires your company.’

‘Cannot Mrs Marsden accompany us?’

‘No, Miss Amelia, she cannot.’

He bows, and I can only admire the eloquence of Mr Bishop’s bows, for this one expresses a lofty officiousness that makes me grit my teeth. As he escorts Amelia from the parlour, she sends me an agonized, tearful glance.

I sit in the parlour as the light fades, wondering if I should move into the lodgings with Amelia and my father as I find the proximity to Harry disturbing and painful, but I do not want to leave Mrs Bishop. As I bend to light a candle at the fireplace, Mary Shilling enters the room again.

‘Where is Harry?’

‘He is escorting Amelia back to her lodgings.’

‘Oh. Mrs Marsden, Sophie, may I ask the favour of you staying with us tomorrow? My father will be buried and we women shall be here. We should so like your company; you are a great comfort to us and Harry is . . . well, I need not tell you of Harry’s opinion.’

Oddly she too seems to think Harry holds me in great esteem. Doubtless she and her mother have been planning further attempts to make me the mistress of Bishop’s Hotel.

Harry, when he returns, looks even more strained and worried than he did before. He dons his apron. I watch him square his shoulders and assume a welcoming smile for the next group of travellers and wish I could ease his burden, but I cannot. I have assisted his family because I like them and I feel for them in their sorrow; I have become close to his mother in particular, even if she continues in the belief that I am to marry her son. I am willing for her to make that assumption if it gives her some comfort, although I know my refusal (or more likely his disinclination to make me a second offer) will sadden her. But I must leave Bishop’s Hotel soon, to become the drudge in my father’s company if I can do so without fulfilling any obligation to Sloven; and if that is unavoidable, I shall go elsewhere.

The next day is that of the funeral and for the first time in living memory, Bishop’s Hotel closes its doors for the morning. Mrs Bishop, Mary Shilling, and other female friends and relatives listen in the parlour to the tread of the undertakers’ feet on the staircase as they take the coffin downstairs. Harry and Thomas Shilling are two of the pall-bearers, as is my father, who weeps into another black-edged handkerchief the size of a tablecloth. The stable yard is deserted except for the carriage with two black and plumed horses.

Mrs Bishop wails and presses her palm against the window as though trying to touch her husband one last time.

The coffin is loaded into the carriage, and the male staff of the hotel flock into the stable yard, sombre, some weeping, all of them wearing black armbands. They gather behind Harry and the procession sets off, Mrs Bishop watching as it leaves the yard, her forehead pressed against the glass. None of us dare to disturb her.

‘What shall we do?’ Amelia whispers to me, for she and Sylvia have come to join the mourning women.

‘Nothing,’ I whisper back. ‘She will let us know when she is ready.’

Finally she moves. ‘Fetch some claret,’ she says, and the maidservants scurry to do her bidding.

‘But, Cousin—’ remonstrates a female relative. ‘It is not proper.’

‘My Peter liked a glass of claret, God bless him, and if you don’t like it, Cousin Letitia, you may leave.’

‘Well!’ Cousin Letitia and the pale, skinny child who is either her daughter or servant, I cannot tell which, leave, noses in the air.

I regret to say we all get drunk as not one, but many bottles of claret are produced from the cellar, but the atmosphere improves considerably. A hectic jollity reigns. Stories concerning childbirth, husbands’ antics in the bedchamber and elsewhere, and other female matters are exchanged, and Mrs Bishop weeps a little still, but she laughs occasionally too. Amelia blushes quite pink at what she hears but she pays close attention.

A cough comes from the doorway. Sylvia, who has been juggling empty bottles, scoops them up into her arms, and several of the ladies, who have raised their petticoats to take advantage of the fire, for it is a rainy, chilly day, make themselves decent.

Harry stands there, sniffing a half-full glass of wine. ‘For God’s sake, Ma, that’s the good claret.’

‘Of course it is. Your father would have wished it.’

‘Of course he would have. Will all the ladies stay to dinner?’

The ladies indicate they should like to indeed, and assure Harry that even the two among us who have fallen asleep will wish to dine.

Harry smiles and sneezes. ‘Mrs Marsden, I should like a word with you, if you please.’

‘Certainly,’ I say with a bravado inspired by the wine. Surely he is not going to make me an offer now?

He offers his arm and takes me into the office opposite the kitchen, where he hangs his hat on a peg on the door.

‘Mrs Marsden,’ he says with great formality, and I wait for him to drop to one knee.

Instead he sneezes again.

‘Oh, Harry, I am sorry. Did you catch my cold?’

‘I fear so. It is nothing.’

‘I hope you are right. I am almost better now.’

‘I am glad to hear it.’

But he looks unwell, tired and strained, pale except for a redness around the eyes, his voice hoarse. He continues, ‘As you have realized, I must manage Bishop’s Hotel now. It is something my parents expected me to do, and while I did not anticipate taking on the responsibility for some years, circumstances have . . .’ He pauses and reaches out his hand to touch the pipe that lies on the desk; his father’s pipe, a finely turned piece of ivory and wood. He stands absolutely still.

I lay my hand on his arm.

‘So.’ He shakes my hand off, not in an unkind way, but rather in an absent-minded way, as though I was a fly that had alighted on his sleeve. ‘I know my duty. You may have noticed that my mother expects me to marry, for this sort of establishment is best run by husband and wife . . .’

He spoils the effect of his eminently practical speech by producing a handkerchief and blowing his nose very loudly.

‘Of course you should marry!’ I cry with a little too much enthusiasm.

‘Well, then.’ He picks up the pipe and lays it carefully aside. ‘I think you understand me.’

This is a proposal? From Harry Bishop who kissed (and more) like a fallen angel?

‘Ye-es,’ I respond with some hesitation in my voice.

‘It will be best all round, I think.’

‘Of course.’ I look at him but he’s not looking at me. He’s started stacking papers together. ‘When shall you tell Mrs Bishop?’

‘Oh, soon. But first I must accompany Miss Amelia to Brighton and talk with Lord Shad.’

I give an inappropriate and nervous giggle. ‘Oh, of course. Well, that is . . .’ I had almost forgotten about Amelia. How foolish of me. ‘So when should we go to Brighton?’

‘We?’

‘Well, naturally I should accompany you. And I should apologize to Lord Shad for my lapse in judgement regarding Amelia’s ambitions.’

‘I don’t believe that will be absolutely necessary, Mrs Marsden. You did give notice, after all.’ He starts on another pile of papers. ‘Oh, good lord, more bills.’

‘But—but I’d like to see the family again.’ For as an engaged woman I will have immediate respectability should we meet anyone from my former life. ‘I think Amelia would like to have me with her. I know she will be nervous about seeing Lord Shad again under the circumstances.’

He stops his perusal of the bills. ‘Yes, I believe you have a point there. And it would be more proper if she had the company of an older female.’

‘Not very gallant, sir.’

He blows his nose again in reply.

‘Harry, you really don’t sound well. May I fetch you something for your cold?’

‘No, no, Mrs Marsden.’ Is that irritation I hear in his voice? Well, I have not received a proposal in some years, other than Harry’s last incompetent attempt, so maybe I have forgotten how it was done. Also he is unwell and moreover has just buried his dear papa, and possibly he is concerned about my suitability as his helpmeet in running the hotel. He has a lot on his mind, it is true.

‘Who shall run the hotel in your absence?’ I wish to show him that I am a practical woman.

‘Tom and Mary will help out, and I think it will do my mother good to get back to work.’

‘Why don’t we take Mrs Bishop with us?’

‘No, she’ll do better with Mary.’

A silence falls. He blows his nose again, and tucks the handkerchief back into his waistcoat pocket.

‘When shall you call the banns?’

He gives me a curious look. ‘When we return from Brighton.’

‘So you have nothing more to say to me?’ I know he is unwell and grieving, but I had expected more, a little more openness, or vitality, or even a hint of ardour. I had foolishly hoped that my acceptance of his offer might indeed bring him a little comfort or cheer.

He looks at me properly for the first time since he has returned from the funeral. I expected him to look sad, but I didn’t expect disappointment and confusion to show so easily on his face; I daresay it shows on mine too. For a man who has just become engaged – or I suppose he has, for he has not asked me and I have not agreed to it, as far as I remember – he seems remarkably unmoved.

He blows his nose.

The ever-surprising Harry Bishop says in a thoughtful voice, ‘I think I’d like to go to bed now.’

Sophie

‘
O
h!’ I try not to show how flustered I am or how aroused I am either at his sudden suggestion. What does it matter if he sneezes a few times beneath the sheets? ‘Now? With your mother and all your relatives in the house?’

‘Why should they mind? I didn’t sleep at all last night and I’m unwell. They’ve all drunk so much I daresay they’ll scarcely notice my absence at dinner.’

‘
Your
absence?’

‘Yes. If you could let them know, Sophie, I’d much appreciate it. I’ll bid you goodnight, then.’

And he walks past me, pausing at the door of the kitchen to have a short conversation with the cook. I hear the words ‘pick it up from the floor and wash it’, and wonder which part of the dinner suffered a mishap. It seems dinner may prove as great a disappointment as Harry’s offer to make an honest woman of me. So I return to the parlour, where card games are underway. Mrs Bishop has offered the hotel as a stake, and I hope the ladies are too drunk to remember anything of it when the time comes to settle up.

Amelia, who is looking rather wobbly and pink-cheeked from the claret, clutches my sleeve when I enter the room. ‘Is everything well?’ she asks.

‘Very well. I’m to come to Brighton with you tomorrow.’

‘Oh, good. Mrs Marsden, you don’t mind, do you?’

‘Not at all. I am sure everything will go well with Lord Shad.’

‘Oh.’ She bites her lip. ‘You think he will give his consent?’

‘He may insist you wait a few years for you are very young.’

She nods, but to my surprise looks relieved. Possibly her short time with my father has disillusioned her about a career on the stage, and I am sorry that Amelia has lost her fire and passion so early. On the other hand, neither of us may have any idea what we are saying, for I am swilling the best claret to catch up with the other ladies, and Amelia’s speech is very slightly slurred.

Dinner, a drunken, raucous affair, steadies but does not stop the claret consumption. At one point I find myself and Amelia standing on chairs, both of us swaying mightily, and singing, to the delight of the company. It is quite like old times.