Mr Bishop and the Actress (21 page)

I have been a fool. When I saw Sophie’s stricken face I knew what I had done and I knew I must persuade her that although I have been both an idiot and a poltroon, I shall be so no longer.

As though we have arranged to walk that way, we retrace our footsteps and descend once more on to the beach, where the only sound is that of breaking waves and the crunch and slide of stones beneath our feet.

Her face is turned away, hidden by her bonnet. ‘You proposed to Amelia. When?’

‘When I escorted her back to her lodgings. At the time it seemed the right thing to do.’

‘So you turned to the nearest woman. I suppose it makes very little difference which one, merely that she is not too proud to be proprietress of Bishop’s Hotel.’

I wish I could see her face, now further obscured by a floating lock of dark hair tugged free by the wind. We are alone on the beach, for the fishermen have gone, leaving their boats dragged up high above the tideline. ‘I love you, Sophie. Tell me you are not indifferent to me.’

She shrugs and bends to pick something from the stones, a piece of glass now rounded and frosted by the pressure of waves and sand to a delicate green opacity. ‘Maybe it’s too late, Harry. But, why? Why did you propose to Amelia?’ Her voice quivers and I realize how deeply I have injured her.

I remove my glasses, specked with sea foam, and polish them on my cuff. ‘I am sorry, Sophie. I felt it was my fault. All of it. If I had not allowed you to stay in the house, then she would not have been inspired to go upon the stage or run away to London.’

‘Oh nonsense.’ She turns to face me, and if her eyes are wet maybe it is because the wind is so sharp. ‘You heard what Lady Shad said – the whole family is wilful and do what they wish with no thought of consequences. Amelia dreamed of the stage long before she met me. You read that page in her diary. That you wished to make amends is admirable, but it was not your fault. Harry, you suffered a severe loss; did you not consider your judgement to be impaired? Do you think proposal to any woman, under the circumstances, would have been wise?’

‘My judgement has been impaired ever since meeting you.’

‘A compliment?’ She smiles a little.

I take a deep breath. ‘Maybe you are right. But the hotel . . .’

‘You’ll manage. Your mother will rally. There’s no need to rush into anything, particularly matrimony.’

She’s right. We walk along the shore and she takes my arm as though it is the most natural thing in the world, and I consider how odd it is that we have come to this understanding, this peaceful place, now we both know marriage is out of the question. Or is it?

‘Sophie, when I proposed – or you thought I did so, and I am most sorry that I did not trust you enough to confide in your properly – did you really want to marry me?’

‘I don’t know. You lacked a certain passion, but that was understandable.’ She sighs. ‘I regret to say I accepted – or I thought I did so – because I felt sorry for you, and I do like your family so very much. But then you proposed to me the time before because Lord Shad had told you to do so, which is an equally dreadful reason to consider marriage.’ She giggles. ‘I was much surprised when you invited me to bed.’

‘I did
what
?’ This I don’t remember at all, and I regret my first reaction is furious disappointment that I missed the opportunity.

‘Well.’ She laughs a little and squeezes my arm. ‘You spoke to me of marriage and then expressed an interest in going to bed. Naturally I thought the two were related, but you were feeling unwell, it turned out. The wonder of it is that I did not make an absolute fool of myself.’

‘I was the one who played the fool.’

She slides her hand down my arm and we stand, hands clasped. ‘No, you were never a fool, Harry.’

‘What shall we do, Sophie?’

‘Oh, I suppose I’ll go back to London and to my father’s theatre and darn his stockings since Amelia is no longer available.’ She smiles. ‘I shall be very near Bishop’s Hotel, Harry. I hope I shall call on your mother to take tea often.’

‘She’ll like that. I intend to improve the hotel immensely. I’ve often thought it would be a good place for society to stop for refreshment before making their grand entrance into the fashionable part of town.’

‘Why, that’s an excellent idea!’ She beams with delight.

‘Sophie, may I ask what you intend to do about Jake Sloven?’

‘I can handle him. He’s a soft fool and he’ll do anything I tell him to.’

‘And Charlie Fordham?’

‘Oh, Charlie,’ she says with a rueful smile. ‘I don’t think I need to worry about Charlie Fordham, and you certainly should not. I am a free woman. I think I’ll go back to the Ship Inn, now, Harry.’

‘May—may I call upon you in London?’ I feel ridiculously shy and, from the pinkness that steals over her face, I suspect she feels the same.

‘Of course. I should be most disappointed if you do not, although I assure you I shall throw myself in your way as much as possible on the pretext of calling on your mother.’

‘So I may yet hope . . .’ Her lips are close to mine, that wayward lock of hair blowing onto my cheek and binding me to her.

‘Sophie!’ It’s a female voice and I turn to see a tall angular woman striding over the beach towards us, followed by one of Beresford’s footmen.

‘Oh, Lord,’ mutters Sophie. She waves and calls out, ‘Lizzie!’ To me she says, ‘She is Claire’s secretary, Mrs Buglegloss. She was at school with us, too. She was always the well-behaved one.’

The woman approaches and looks upon our clasped hands with disapproval. The footman, puffing behind her, makes a grab at his wig as the sea breeze snatches it from his head, but it flies over the waves. We all watch as it lands on the water, where it floats briefly, tossed from side to side, and is investigated by a seagull.

‘Oh, bugger,’ mutters the footman, watching his wig sink to its watery grave and the seagull fly away. ‘Old Hoskins’ll fine me for sure.’

‘Lizzie, this is Mr Bishop, who—’

‘Yes, yes, I know. You must come back to the house immediately.’ Mrs Buglegloss is highly agitated and out of breath.

Sophie smiles agreeably. ‘Oh, I don’t think so.’

‘Sophie, I must insist!’

‘You’re almost as bossy as Claire these days,’ Sophie says. ‘Very well. I suppose you will not tell me what has happened? Are Lady Shad’s children well?’

‘Oh, yes. Yes.’ Lizzie grabs Sophie’s other hand. ‘Hurry!’

‘Stop pulling me about, you great beanstalk. Your legs are twice the length of mine.’

‘There is no need for indelicacy!’ Mrs Buglegloss snaps. ‘And the next time we recommend you for a position – if we ever do, which is most unlikely – I trust you’ll not create such chaos in the household you serve.’

‘I? I create chaos? Oh no, you are mistaken. Did you not hear Lady Shad say I was a model of propriety?’

‘Stop teasing, Sophie,’ I say. ‘Mrs Buglegloss, pray calm yourself. We do not want either of you ladies to twist an ankle on these stones. Let us walk on the parade.’

Sophie looks at the sea with some reluctance, and then at me with a smile. Within a few minutes we find ourselves back at the Earl of Beresford’s house. The upstairs windows glow with candlelight, for the company now dresses for dinner.

Hoskins, the butler, opens the front door to us. The door to the kitchen downstairs is open and I can hear the familiar mix of cursing and the clatter of pans that mean dinner is almost ready.

Hoskins inspects us and finds us wanting, for we are windswept and untidy, but allows the footman to escort Sophie and me to a small room at the rear of the house; Mrs Buglegloss, shaking her head, disappears upstairs.

The scatter of feminine items in the room – an embroidery frame, some magazines – indicate this is the preserve of the ladies of the house, a private parlour. But the company in the room is masculine – a tall, fair-haired gentleman who introduces himself as the Earl of Beresford, Lord Shad, and another gentleman.

The Earl rubs his hands with some glee, as though anticipating a delightful treat, but Lord Shad looks exceedingly grave. And the third gentleman, smart in regimentals, strolls towards us, pausing to toss his cigar into the fireplace.

‘My dear girl!’ he exclaims.

The room is very quiet as though none of us dares breathe. The fire snaps and crackles.

‘Do you know this gentleman, Sophie?’ Lord Shad asks.

‘Yes.’ She sways. ‘Yes, I do. What the devil are you doing here, Rupert?’

And before I can reach her she falls on to the floor in a dead faint.

Harry

‘
F
etch her some brandy!’ I shout to the nearest person, who happens to be the Earl of Beresford. He looks around helplessly as though he does not know where the brandy is kept in his house.

I kneel by her and for one dreadful moment think she is dead, she is so pale and still, and loosen her bonnet strings. ‘Sophie!’

Her eyelids flutter and she gives a strange little gasp, her lips moving as though she is trying to tell me something. I remember with horror my mother’s account of my father’s fatal swoon.

I raise her in my arms and Lord Shad, who has acquired a glass of brandy, tips some into her mouth. She splutters, coughs, and comes back to life, and I help her to the sofa. The regimental gentleman, meanwhile, stands looking on without a word, and the Earl flaps his hands in a helpless sort of way. ‘Shall I send for a woman?’ he asks.

‘What on earth for?’ I return. ‘Who the devil are you?’ I ask the other gentleman.

‘Captain Rupert Wallace, at your service, sir.’

I doubt he’s at my service at all, and acknowledge him with a nod of my head. Her husband! She had told me she was widowed.

‘You look quite splendid, my dear, if a little green around the gills,’ the Captain says to Sophie. ‘I’ve been meaning to have a happy reunion with you for some time, but when I get to London, what do I find? The fascinating Mrs Wallace has disappeared entirely, which is a bit of an embarrassment for me, my dear. For I’d heard you were living in high style, and I’m afraid I have run up some shocking debts.’

‘I thought you were dead,’ she says. ‘I read it in the newspaper. You were killed in Spain somewhere.’

‘A great exaggeration.’

‘I believe you abandoned this lady, your wife,’ Lord Shad says. ‘Pray drink the rest of the brandy, Sophie, it will do you good.’

‘No. I’ll get drunk. I suppose you want my money, Rupert?’

‘
Our
money,’ he says. ‘What’s yours is mine, my love. I heard dear old Lord Radding was very generous, and others, too.’

‘You’d best go. You can’t suddenly appear after ten years and make demands of me.’

‘I can, my dear. The law says it is a husband’s right.’ He smirks and I become enraged at him for his his arrogance and swagger, the insolence with which he speaks to Sophie –
my
Sophie. Or so I thought, but all along she has been his.

‘And I, sir, say you cannot.’ My fists clench of their own accord.

‘Who the devil are you?’ he says. ‘I see you’ve gone down in the world, Sophie, if this gentleman is your protector. What are you, sir, some sort of tradesman?’

I hit him. I haven’t hit anyone in years, not since Joseph and I were boys together, and certainly I never hit Joseph with such angry violence. My knuckles connect painfully with his nose and he staggers and falls back, landing with little dignity on his arse. His face, now covered with blood, bears an expression of great surprise.

‘Steady.’ Lord Shad grips my arm, preventing me from launching myself upon Captain Wallace and doing further damage to him.

‘Oh do stop it,’ Sophie says.

Wallace rises to his feet and dabs at his nose with a handkerchief. ‘Send me your friend, sir. I lodge at the Black Dog.’

He leaves with outraged dignity.

‘Congratulations,’ Lord Shad says. ‘You’ve been raised to the level of a gentleman, Bishop.’

‘What do you mean, sir?’

‘He’s challenged you to a duel. May I do the honours?’

I gape at him.

‘Shad’s offering to be your second, Harry,’ Sophie says.

‘Of course,’ I say, dumbfounded. ‘Thank you, my lord.’

He claps me on the shoulder. ‘Call me Shad. I’m no longer your employer.’

‘You have an excellent arm, Bishop,’ the Earl of Beresford comments. ‘I’ve rarely seen an amateur with such speed and force.’

‘I suppose it’s years of carrying trays, my lord. You build up strong muscles in your back and shoulders.’ I feel dazed and lost, as I did when my father died; one part of me talks trivialities with very little effort, while the rest of me struggles to make sense of everything. A duel? It seems trivial and ridiculous.

‘You and Sophie must talk,’ Lord Shad says. ‘Come, Beresford, we should go into dinner.’

Sophie and I are left alone in the room.

‘You seem to have a certain affinity with deceased gentlemen. First Sloven and now a husband, miraculously returned from the dead.’

‘It is unlike you to be unkind,’ she says.

She looks defeated and unhappy, her usual spirits subdued, and no wonder. She says, ‘I was very young. I thought I was in love. He went abroad to fight and I believed him dead, Harry. And now he’ll kill you.’

‘I may kill him.’

She shrugs. ‘Maybe. He’s a crack shot and he was a soldier. He’d never have let you hit him if you had not caught him unawares.’

‘What do you mean? That I should have asked his permission to hit him?’ I pace around the room; I’m in a devil of a mess now, in love with a woman married to someone else, facing my imminent demise at the hands of a jealous husband – or, if not a jealous husband, a greedy and unscrupulous one. ‘What does he want from you, Sophie?’

‘I have some money put away, in investments, and some property,’ she says in a quiet voice. ‘Doubtless he found out. I never told you of this, Harry, because it is my surety, my protection against a time when I should retire. Yet my wealth – such as it is – is not easily realized into cash, you understand, although he would insist I do so, and then squander it. Do you remember when I showed you Radding’s will? I showed you only the paragraph relating to the bed. The rest was folded under so you could not read it, for I trust no one with that information. You can be assured that any woman of middling means and low birth will find herself plagued by men intending to relieve her of what wealth she possesses. I can tell you now because . . .’