Mr Bishop and the Actress (19 page)

My father, discovering Harry is absent, decides he shall take over as host, which he does with great energy and charm.

‘But where is your young man?’ he says at one point, when the two of us somehow find a quiet space while the celebrations rage around us.

‘Asleep. He has caught my cold.’

‘Aha. And is everything settled between you?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Sophie, my darling, surely you know. Did he propose marriage or not?’

He talked of marriage, it is true, although with a singular lack of passion. I was present, and so that must mean a proposal. ‘He did, sir, and I have accepted him.’

‘My child!’ He looks around for his glass and I fear he is about to propose a toast.

‘No, Papa, if you please. We wish to keep it quiet for the moment. Will you wait until we return from Brighton? It does not seem proper with his father just buried.’

‘Of course, my petal. Of course. You are such a tender creature.’ He gazes at me with brimming eyes. ‘I want nothing more than your happiness. And don’t worry about Sloven; I shall disallow the engagement. Besides, we’re in too far for him to withdraw his financial support.’

I believe he may be sincere, or the wine makes him so and makes me receptive to his sentiments. Our fond embrace is cut short as Sylvia, skirts tucked up to facilitate the technique of tossing a bottle beneath her raised leg, juggles glasses and bottles to the delight of the audience.

Harry

The company is, in a word, crapulous the next morning, and the family parlour and the hotel dining room are littered with detritus from the merrymaking, including my nephew Richard fast asleep under the table among breadcrusts and bones. I believe all of the good claret may have been consumed and hope my father would have approved.

I set the staff to cleaning. Their confusion speaks not only of overindulgence the night before, but of neglect in the forgotten arts of sweeping and scrubbing. I offer dire threats if the hotel is not cleaned thoroughly by the time I return, and seek my mother who is still abed.

‘What do you want at this time of day, Harry?’ My mother pokes her head, crowned with an elaborate nightcap, from the covers.

‘I’ve come to bid you farewell, Ma. I’m off to Brighton with Miss Amelia and Mrs Marsden. We have to leave early for the morning coach.’

‘Must you go?’

‘I regret I must.’ I speak as gently as I can but she cries anyway and clings to me.

‘Don’t stay too long, Harry. I need you here.’

‘I know. It won’t take me too long to conclude business with his lordship.’

‘Well, he’ll be glad to get his ward back, I should think. And how do things stand with you and dear Sophie?’

I consider before answering. ‘We are on cordial terms.’

‘Cordial terms! You’re a catch, now, Harry, with the hotel yours. She’ll have you, I warrant.’ She nudges me. ‘Come, you don’t want your old mother working her fingers to the bone.’

‘Oh, absolutely, Ma. My bride should work her fingers to the bone instead.’

‘She may have some scandal in her past, but she’s a sensible, clever girl, I think, and will do you proud.’ She frowns. ‘Mr Marsden asked me last night if I wished to invest in his theatrical company. What do you think, my dear? He is a most persuasive gentleman.’

Relief that my mother approves of my choice of a bride turns to anger. ‘Absolutely not! I trust you made no sort of commitment. He’s not to be trusted. Pray do not receive him before I return home. Besides, Pa left the books in such a state I don’t even know how much money we have.’

‘Very well.’ She sighs. ‘Go along with you, then, my dear. No, don’t kiss me. I don’t want to catch your cold. Do you have enough handkerchiefs with you?’

How is it that my mother can make me feel like a schoolboy? I go downstairs to the parlour where Sophie and Amelia, both of them pale and yawning, await me.

I bow to one and smile on the other, but they receive my greeting with very little interest. I offer them willow from my medicine chest and take a tincture of rosemary for my own ills, and we set off, with Richard driving. Rather, when I say Richard drives, he sits, a crumpled, unwell presence, on the driver’s seat, and the horse promptly goes to sleep. I am compelled to take the reins myself – I believe the horse will find his own way home without Richard’s participation – and so we make our way through the streets to the far better appointed and respectable inn, the White Horse Inn on Picadilly, where the Brighton coach stops. I find myself looking upon the appointments of the inn with a keen eye, noticing the cleanliness of the staff’s linen and the efficiency with which horses are changed. Bishop’s Hotel does not compare favourably with this establishment, but where it does exceed is in the cordiality of the staff (although I expect that today, following the excesses of the previous day, a general surliness will prevail).

We have inside seats, and both ladies compose themselves to sleep, gradually falling upon my shoulders so I am hard pressed to take my handkerchief from my pocket. I fall asleep myself, and dream of accounts and ledgers and bills, and the shock of coming upon quite ordinary items in the house that remind me of my father: his pipe, the china dog upon the parlour mantelpiece that he glued together after Joseph and I broke it as children, his hat hanging from a peg as though at any moment he would take it and strut into the yard as a carriage arrived.

I never knew I should miss him so.

I never anticipated how lonely I should feel without him.

We arrive in Brighton in the late afternoon. The passengers stir and stretch and there is a general air of excitement as the coach reaches the crest of the Downs and then begins the steep descent into town. Spread out before us are the baubles and bubbles of the Royal Pavilion, smoky huddles of the old town cheek by jowl with elegant new terraces for the fashionable, and beyond that the sea, blue and hazy and enticing, dotted with the sails of small craft, fishing vessels and yachts, and closer to shore, bathing machines. I pull the window open, despite protests from our fellow travellers, and the usual scents of a town, horses and coal-smoke and closely packed humanity, are accompanied by a faint whiff of salt.

Sophie gazes out of the window. I know she has been here before, doubtless on some gentleman’s arm, his prized possession, and I wonder if that is the cause of the sadness on her face, but her expression changes and she claps her hands like a child, reaching for my arm.

‘Look, Harry, the sea! Is it not a splendid sight?’

‘I wish my father could have seen it.’ And then I remember my mother telling him of how she would take him to the sea for his health as he lay dying and grope for my handkerchief.

Sophie says nothing; she does not need to, for her face expresses profound sympathy and understanding, and the touch of her hand on mine is far more eloquent than any words.

‘I hope I don’t catch your cold,’ Amelia says, oblivious of what has passed between me and Sophie. ‘I’m hungry.’

‘You sound like . . .’ Sophie hesitates, but continues ‘. . . like your nephews who want to eat all the time. Why, Amelia, you are an aunt! It makes you sound so very grown-up.’

‘Oh. I suppose I am. An aunt, I mean. And now I am indeed grown-up.’

Sophie touches her wrist. ‘My dear, if there is anything you wish to tell me . . .’

‘No!’ Amelia looks to me. ‘Harry, when do we arrive?’

But at that moment the driver blows the horn and bellows that we have arrived in Brighton, and the coach turns from the bustle of the street into the courtyard of the Ship Hotel.

‘Oh, Harry, Mrs Marsden, may we go to the sea?’ Amelia is jumping up and down like a small child. Any nervousness she has concerning her reunion with the family has dissipated. She tips her head back to look at a seagull floating lazily overhead.

‘Be careful of your complexion,’ Sophie says, smiling at Amelia’s excitement. To me, she says in a quiet voice, ‘Do you think it appropriate that she addresses you as “Harry”? I shall mention it to her.’

We leave our luggage in the inn and venture on to the promenade where the fashionable saunter in bright sunlight. I shall have to find Sophie lodgings for the night, unless the family relents and allows her to stay. She looks quite at home here, strolling arm in arm with Amelia, although she is plainly dressed. You might think them a couple of upper servants on their half-day off.

I take a deep breath of sea air, invigorated and a little more cheerful. All will be well. Here, a day’s journey from London, with the sea spread like a great shifting and glittering sheet of blue, my worries and sadness recede for a little, and I am glad of it.

Sophie and Amelia, meanwhile, still excited as a pair of children – even with her worldly and wicked experiences, Sophie still retains a childlike capacity for innocent pleasure – descend worn stone steps on to the pebbled beach. A fisherman, sitting on an upturned boat and mending his nets, gives their ankles a good inspection.

Hand in hand, the two women race to the edge of the water, where they jump and squeal as waves break, and Amelia plucks a piece of seaweed from the surf. I make my way over the stones to join them.

‘It is wonderful!’ Amelia says and then shrieks as the waves break over her feet.

‘Come, we must go to the Earl of Beresford’s house.’ The sooner this business is over the better; and at this time of day, when the fashionable, having paraded up and down the sea front, retire to their houses, we are likely to find Lord Shad at home.

‘I suppose so,’ Amelia mutters, eyes downcast.

Of course she is afraid.

Sophie stands at the water’s edge, her bonnet scandalously removed, her dark hair lifting and loosening in the wind. I am struck once again by the purity of her profile, her beauty, her expressions that change like the sea and the sky, revealing every thought and emotion.

I have made a terrible mistake.

Sophie

So far, so good. I thought I recognized a few members of the ton taking the air, but I am dressed so dowdily, and walking with two people who are not fashionable, that I might as well be invisible, a thought that cheers me. Once I would have been mightily insulted not to be recognized as a pretty, fashionable, and influential personage. The advantage is, of course, that now I may run on the beach and enjoy the waves and pebbles and sunlight.

That was not the behaviour of the scandalous Mrs Wallace, whose wickedness was far more polished and sophisticated. She would be perched on a phaeton with her latest lover, dressed at the height of fashion with a parasol protecting her from the ravages of the sun.

I am glad to see Harry is cheered somewhat, too. The strain has lifted a little from his face and he even smiles at Amelia as she gets her slippers wet in the surf and carefully places a handful of seaweed in her reticule. I am not sure what she intends to do with it, and I suspect it may draw flies or stink in a few days, but I will not spoil her pleasure. She has the wrath of Lord Shad to look forward to, poor child. He may be soft-hearted with his little children, but the question of his sister’s honour may well rouse him to anger.

‘Harry, do you think we can bathe?’ Amelia says. ‘And ride on a donkey? I should so like to do that. And someone said they have assemblies at the Ship Inn. And I shall need a parasol and a wide-brimmed bonnet against the sun, and—’

‘I’m afraid our visit can be only of a very short duration,’ Harry says. ‘We must return to London tomorrow.’

‘Very well, Harry.’ Amelia’s words may seem acquiescent, but she sighs heavily and rolls her eyes.

Oh, Lord, he wants to drag me back to Bishop’s Hotel so I can lawfully reside in a parish and the banns can be called. But does he really expect Lord Shad to allow his sister to return to London with us? I certainly cannot vouch for my father as a suitable person to protect her, nor his theatre as a place where Amelia may learn her trade.

Or, heavens, does he expect Lord Shad to cast Amelia out, which, sad to say, many a man in his position and with a wayward female relative, would do?

Amelia and I tidy ourselves as best we can in the brisk wind and we make our way back to the stone steps and up on to the promenade, and so to the house that the Earl of Beresford, the highest member of the Trelaise family, has taken for the summer. Harry, naturally, has the address.

It is a most impressive house and we linger outside, admiring the dark green of the railings and the pleasant beige stone of which the house is built. Stairs lead down to the servants’ entrance, where someone, shovelling coal from the sound of it, whistles loudly.

Amelia seems to have lost what nerve she has. She clutches Harry’s arm. ‘I don’t think I can!’

He pats her hand. ‘I will look after you, never fear.’

I interrupt this scene, which smacks of impropriety to me. What if Lord Shad, looking out from a window, sees his half-sister, who is supposed to be in Bath, on such intimate terms with his house steward?

‘I am damned if I will go into the servants’ entrance,’ I say. ‘I’m no longer Lord Shad’s servant and I shall not behave as such.’

Harry mutters something that sounds like ‘. . . and you never did,’ but I ignore him and mount the steps to the front door. I grasp the bell handle and give it a good tug, aware that almost certainly the butler spies on us through a side window, assessing our birth, rank, fortune, and the cost of our clothes.

I wish we had not dabbled in the sea but it is too late.

The door swings open and an imposing butler, who I am sure believes he is the future heir to a dukedom, stands there. He says nothing but the eloquent lift of his eyebrows expresses dismay and profound sorrow that such a person should wish for admittance. The only thing that spoils his dignity is a handful of leashes, at the end of which prance a collection of small, yipping dogs, straining to leave the house.

A very familiar collection.

‘Why,’ I say in delight, ‘is the Countess of Dachault here?’

Amelia bends to pat the dogs, who fawn over her, licking her hands and face. ‘Oh, what lovely dogs! Are they yours, sir?’