Mr Bishop and the Actress (6 page)

She strokes a spaniel that has clambered on to her lap and gazes at her with adoring eyes. ‘Lizzie is widowed and employed by me as my secretary. She has been most active in my work assisting gentlewomen in distressed circumstances – why, she was one herself.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so.’ I wrinkle my nose. ‘I’m not sure I’m a gentlewoman. Maybe I’d better go and see my father and beg for a role with his company.’

‘As you wish,’ Claire says in the maddening sort of way that means she expects me to do whatever I am told. ‘A little remorse for your life of debauchery might make Lizzie more approachable. She can be such a stickler for good behaviour. You had best start acting.’

‘Very well,’ I say. ‘But I am an
actress
. Why, pray, do you need an onion?’

She gives me a shrewd look. ‘And when was the last time you were on the stage, Sophie?’

Regretfully, I enjoy the following scene immensely. The only drawback is that I am drenched in rosewater to cover the onion smell, and the dogs sneeze whenever they are near me.

Lizzie enters the drawing room to find me slumped on the sofa, with Claire posed in the act of offering me her vinaigrette.

‘Why, she is quite overcome!’ Claire says.

‘Oh, I have been wicked, wicked,’ I sob through onion-inspired tears.

The dogs, who seem to come to the decision that the comfort of the sofa is made unpalatable by the rosewater, run over to Lizzie to see if she smells better.

‘What is this?’ Lizzie asks with deep suspicion.

‘You know of what we were speaking, Lizzie,’ Claire says.

‘Indeed?’ As Lizzie speaks, I steal a glance at her through my tearing eyes. She stands almost as far away as the footman, which is just as well. Her arms are folded, an expression of perplexity on her face. It could be worse.

‘How may I ever reclaim my lost honour?’ I weep piteously. ‘It is impossible.’

‘Lizzie, we must help her!’ Claire declaims.

‘Yes, but. . .’

Accompanied by the dogs, Lizzie approaches. ‘Oh, my dear Sophie, I am saddened by your plight. And to think that we encouraged you on your path to ruin by helping you to elope at such a tender age!’

A dog sneezes.

So does Lizzie. ‘Phew, open a window. You’re using an onion, aren’t you?’

I discard the reeking vegetable and blow my nose. ‘We never could fool you; I admit it, Lizzie. I’m afraid I don’t really repent, but I don’t want to be a courtesan any longer. I’m too old.’

Lizzie crosses to a desk and draws out a hefty quarto volume bound in leather, bursting with scraps of paper and with ribbons marking places. She and Claire pore over the book together. ‘How about this one? No, that would never work. Sophie is far too pretty and his lordship has a wandering eye.’

‘What are you talking about?’ How typical of Claire and Lizzie, talking over my head when it is my fate to be decided.

‘Can you sew a straight seam?’ Lizzie asks. ‘Do you like children?’

‘Yes, of course I can; old Lewisham taught us. And no, not in general.’

The icy stares that meet me indicate that I have made a rash statement to two proud mothers. ‘I have met some children whose company I enjoyed very much,’ I add in a placatory way. ‘You must understand that in my circles children are seen as an unfortunate accident, and in fact very few children are to be met with.’

‘How dreadful,’ Lizzie says.

‘Surely you do not suggest I become a governess!’ Despite the lingering effects of onion, I laugh uproariously.

‘Have you read any books at all since leaving school?’ Lizzie asks.

‘Oh, lots. You spend rather a lot of time waiting around as a courtesan.’

‘Pray do not elaborate,’ Lizzie says, on her high horse once more.

‘You always had very nice handwriting,’ Claire says with approval. ‘And you used to play the piano and sing very well.’

‘I still do.’ Although possibly not the sort of songs performed in the Countess of Dachault’s drawing room.

‘If you’re to be a governess you’ll need some good, plain gowns,’ Lizzie says, looking at my plainest day gown with distaste. ‘And you must keep your bosom covered. Perhaps one good gown, although not the one you’re wearing, for it is far too revealing, in case you are asked to dine with the family. You must look respectable, Sophie.’

‘And I think it best if she uses her maiden name, don’t you, Lizzie?’ Claire says.

‘But I was married!’ God knows I have no wish to honour the name of the late unlamented Captain Wallace, but it seems unfair to blot him out entirely.

‘It does not seem entirely honest,’ Lizzie says. ‘But—’

‘You shall be a widow,’ Claire proclaims.

‘I
am
a widow. I think.’

‘Ah!’ Claire snatches a letter from between the pages of the book. ‘Here’s one that would work. Lord Shadderly seeks a lady to accompany his ward to assemblies and events in the country and teach her music. Lady Shadderly, it seems, breeds frequently and has no interest in society.’

Lizzie frowns. ‘Is the Viscount not a relative of your, er, Mr Fordham?’

‘Pay no attention to that. It’s a very obscure connection,’ Claire says. ‘I expect it was Beresford, the head of the family, who told Fordham to drop you. So it’s not exactly a governess position, more of a companion. I think it would be excellent. They live in Norfolk.’

‘I’m not sure . . .’ It sounds dreadful. Some highhanded Viscount deciding he wants to push his illegitimate daughter up the social ladder, his wife sulking that he should put his by-blow before his legitimate children, and hours of country entertainment.

‘Then it’s all settled,’ Claire says. ‘I’ll write a letter introducing you, Sophie. Let’s have some wine. We should drink to Sophie’s success.’

Lizzie, who seems to be softening a little, exchanges glances with me. Fifteen years may have passed but Claire is still telling us what to do, Lizzie is our conscience, and I—I don’t even know that this is what I want. I’m delighted to be back in the company of my dear friends but setting myself up as some sort of bastion of respectability in the country (mud! Cows!) does not sit well with me.

Sophie

W
hen I leave the Countess’s house I instruct the driver of the hackney carriage to take me to the theatre where my father’s company played last, when they did a pantomine at Easter. Not a particularly successful engagement, following some unpleasantness with actresses and my father’s roving eye, it was at a rundown theatre in the same unfashionable area as Bishop’s Hotel. Despite its impressive name, the Royalty Theatre is decidedly plebeian in nature.

‘Oh, yes, ma’am, left weeks ago,’ the doorkeeper informs me. He removes his pipe from between yellowed teeth and pokes at its contents with the stub of a pencil.

I smile brightly and inwardly curse my improvident parent for not sending me word. On the other hand I have not seen him for six months, since I wanted to keep Charlie away from actresses other than myself.

‘Mr Sloven’s inside. He’s rented the theatre for the summer.’ The doorkeeper replaces the pipe in his mouth and puffs out a pungent cloud of smoke.

Jake Sloven! The manager who is notorious among actresses for developing half a dozen extra hands and for conducting auditions in a horizontal position.

‘Good heavens, is that the time? Pray give my regards to Mr Sloven.’

‘Not so fast,’ booms Jake Sloven who has appeared behind the doorkeeper. He sports a napkin and grease stains; eating is his other interest in life. ‘Why, Sophie Wallace, my dear! I heard your young man threw you over.’

‘Mr Sloven, I regret I—’ But the stage door swings open and I am hauled inside by Sloven, who takes a good leisurely look down my bosom, plants another hand on my arse, and manages to rub his grease-scented body against me all in one dexterous move.

‘But you must read for me, my dear. Why, your dear papa said to me only a few days before he left town, “You must look out for my little Sophie. There’s no one who sings and dances quite like her, and her voice! She can whisper from the back of the stage and make them weep in the gallery!”

‘How charming.’ I dodge the thick arm around my waist and another snakes out to capture me.

‘How about a kiss for your old friend? Why, I feel almost like another father to you, my dear.’

This is disturbing for so many excellent reasons that I am dumbstruck. ‘Do you know where my father is, sir?’

‘Up north. No, he said Bath and Bristol, I think . . .’ he leers into my bosom to refresh his memory. ‘Or did he mention Bury St Edmunds?’

His lips descend to my face. He has had onions for dinner, it seems.

‘Goodness!’ I drop my reticule and duck, a dire mistake as I find when he assists me to an upright position. ‘Why, certainly I’ll read for you. What would you like to hear?’

By this time, in a ballet of gropes and evasion, we have reached the stage.

‘In my office,’ he says, breathing heavily.

‘Oh, no. Here, surely. There will be more room for me to dance.’ I swish my skirts and he breathes heavily at the sight of my ankles and licks his lips as I remove my bonnet.

Foolishly I let him choose the play and he thrusts a playbook of
Othello
at me.

‘Fair Desdemona.’ He removes the napkin from his waistcoat and dabs his thick lips. ‘And I shall play Othello.’

There is a sofa on the stage. Well, of course there would be. The noble Moor hitches at his breeches and gestures to me to recline.

‘Should I not be praying?’ I’m not sure I want to be on my knees in front of Jake Sloven – at least, I had not intended to assume the position so early – and it crosses my mind that I should run out screaming. But I am an actress! There is no reason why Sloven should not hire me (and doubtless he has dozens of prettier women in his employ).

I outwit him by standing with my palms together, eyes raised heavenward. Of course this way I cannot see what he is about – for a large man, he moves quietly (from long practice) – and I shriek as pudgy hands land on my hips and I drop my playbook.

‘
Down, strumpet!
’ he trumpets in my ear.

I fall to my knees and scrabble for the playbook, bringing myself on a level with the fall of his breeches, and it is not a pleasant sight, gravy stains and straining buttons. Having found my place again, I respond with throbbing pathos, ‘
Kill me tomorrow: let me live tonight!
’

‘
Nay if you strive
—’ Othello strives to get his hand into my bosom.

‘
But half an hour!
’ I must be the only Desdemona who wishes the scene to last but half a minute.

Sloven hauls me to my feet, a firm grip on bosom and thigh. ‘
Being done, there is no pause
.’

And there certainly is not. I scramble to my feet and run around the couch. ‘
But while I say one prayer!
’

Sloven lumbers after me, breathing heavily with the effort. I grab a pedestal, a good two-foot length of sturdy wood painted to look like marble, and thrust it in his direction.

‘
It is too late!
’ Sloven says with gusto, but not as Shakespeare intended, tossing his playbook aside and bearing me on to the couch, hoisting my skirts.

I swing the pedestal and it meets the side of his head with a loud thud.

He drops like a stone on to the couch that cracks beneath his weight, and slowly subsides to the floor in a ruin of gilt wood and velvet. Blood spreads in a dark pool on the floorboards.

I stand shocked and out of breath. Is he dead? He is certainly unconscious. I do not want to investigate lest he rear to life and ravish me on the floor in revenge.

Why have I been such a ninny? This is not the first time I have had to fight off an amorous manager. Why did I not flirt and smile and tease a little instead of taking Sloven as a serious threat to my (somewhat threadbare) virtue? I am an actress. This is how business is done. Sloven is a lecherous brute, but I knew that.

The pedestal falls to the floor and I am aware of how very quiet the theatre is.

Oh, God. I am undone. I am a murderess. I retrieve my bonnet with shaking hands and tie the ribbons as I run for the stage door.

‘Mr Sloven has had an accident,’ I babble to the doorman, who has fallen into a peaceful slumber and comes awake with a start, spilling ash from his pipe down his waistcoat. ‘Please assist him.’

I wave down a hackney carriage and collapse on to the seat. I must leave London. I shall stay at Bishop’s Hotel, keeping quietly to my room, and accept the position as the governess-companion (mud! Cows! How I welcome them!) and become a new and virtuous person.

My plan of meditating alone upon my newly minted character as a murderess and my usual one of a corrupter of honest men, both of which I long to reform, is foiled by the mother of the honest man I most recently debauched, Mrs Bishop.

She catches me when I come downstairs later that day with a note I have written for Claire, expressing my extreme thanks and my great interest in the governess-companion position. I even gritted my teeth and added my affectionate regards to Lizzie.

‘Why, Mrs Wallace! You wish to send a letter?’ She plucks it from my hand and peruses the name and address. ‘Oh, certainly! I shall send one of the boys to the Countess of Dachault’s immediately. And you must take tea with me.’

She grasps my arm in a way that reminds me uncomfortably of that of a Bow Street Runner making an arrest and escorts me into her sitting room. After she has brewed and poured tea, she looks at me expectantly, and I oblige with a description of the Countess of Dachault’s house.

‘’Tis a pity Harry did not have the chance to bid you farewell,’ she says, pouring tea. ‘He left for the country very early this morning. He has a brand-new position as house steward, you know. And he is doing remarkably well when you consider that he became a butler only three years ago when he was three and twenty. All say he is a clever and most capable young man, and not only his proud mother – why, Mr Bishop, do you wish for tea or shall I send for some ale?’

Mr Bishop senior, wearing his long linen apron, settles on the chair opposite mine where he can resume the perusal of my ankles and accepts tea.