Mr Bishop and the Actress (8 page)

‘But my mother is no bluestocking.’ I interrupt Lady Shad’s assessment of me as some sort of stud animal. ‘She cannot keep accounts, and she reads only the fashion papers, but she has great determination and energy and sense. I attribute that to the discipline of education.’

‘I didn’t offend you, I hope.’ Lady Shad lays a hand on my arm.

‘Not much, ma’am.’ We smile at each other.

Harriet, in the crook of my arm, releases a large belch.

‘I don’t want to make an absolute fool of myself calling out my house steward,’ Lord Shad comments. ‘Pray leave him alone, ma’am.’ He turns to Mrs Marsden (for so I must think of her now, or for at least as long as she’s in the house, which hopefully will not be more than an hour or so) and says, to my horror, ‘Bishop is on somewhat intimate terms with Lady Shad. He delivered our daughter.’

‘He fainted,’ Lady Shad says, nudging me.

Oh God
.

Sophie

I know Bishop will reveal my secret. I know he suspects I followed him here for some purpose, and I wish I had had the foresight to ask his mother where he was in service. (But if I had done so, would she not have assumed I was in pursuit of him?)

I sit in the shabby drawing room and although I have been in the house less than one hour, I do not want to leave. I like this family – the children are charming and Lord Shad kindly. And I very much like Lady Shad, who for all her bluntness and indiscretion has good sense and a ready wit, and beauty too, although she does not strike me as a woman who cares overmuch for her appearance. Together they are delightful; surely this was a love match, and yet despite three children and his frequent absences in London, their affection seems undimmed.

To my surprise, Amelia is no country clod. She is modest and charming and I hope her singing voice is as sweet as her speaking voice.

I shall not leave. I am aware of Bishop’s discomfort, how he tries to catch his employer’s eye. I find myself admiring him a little for his confession, and for his praise of his mother, and intrigued by the idea of him as a man midwife. I suspect he is a little in love with Lady Shad – certainly they seem most comfortable with each other, she even nursing her child with him present – and that Lord Shad is aware of it too.

Harry places his cup and saucer on the small table with the other tea things. He clears his throat and stands, and so do I, ready to defend myself.

‘If you’ll excuse me, my lord,’ he says. ‘I—’

‘Of course, you must see Mrs Marsden settled in. You’ll both dine with us, if you please.’

Harry’s back is stiff as he walks to the drawing room door and opens it. I bow my head in acknowledgement and smile at him.

Once we are outside we turn on each other like a pair of dogs about to fight.

‘Why the devil did you come here?’ he says.

‘I was offered this position through the services of the Countess of Dachault.’

He looks unimpressed. ‘You must leave immediately.’

‘Certainly not.’

‘You’re under an assumed name. Is that the action of an honest woman?’

I shrug. ‘It’s my maiden name so there’s little false about it.’

‘Ma’am, you should not be here. It’s not decent. Do you really think Lord Shad would welcome the former scandalous Mrs Wallace into his house?’

‘No sir, but I consider I played that part. Now I play a different part, and remember, it was you who suggested I change professions. So I have done. I have as much right as you to be here, sir.’

We have crossed the hall and now ascend the staircase.

‘Why are you coming with me?’ I ask.

‘I shall instruct my footmen to disassemble that wretched bed, ma’am, for you must leave this house.’

‘That is not very honourable.’

‘If I were to take the honourable path, ma’am, I should leave this house myself.’ The misery on his face takes my breath away.

‘You may do so if you wish, sir. But the only person who can tell me to leave is Lord Shad, and if I find you have told him of my past, I will tell him that you debauched me in London, taking a most ungentlemanly advantage of your position at the hotel.’

‘What!’

We are at the top of the stairs now and I fear we may both tumble down together as we come to a violent stop.

We both glare at each other and I am strongly tempted to slap him.

‘Ma’am—I—you—that is—
you
debauched
me
!’

‘Oh, certainly. And I may also mention that you harbour a
tendresse
for Lady Shad. She’s a very lovely woman; I should not blame you one bit for it. Her husband may jest about it, but if I were a man I should not care to cross Lord Shad.’

‘Enough.’ He turns away and marches towards my bedchamber. I follow a little more slowly.

‘What, not finished yet? Come, Matthew, look lively, man. The piece you have in your hand does not fit there, Mark, it’s as clear as the nose on your face. We serve dinner in an hour and you have yet to change into your livery . . .’

It seems I am to stay. But I have to confess it is a hollow victory.

The next morning Amelia and I are to begin our lessons, but first she takes me to meet her parents, the coachman and his wife, Mr and Mrs Price. There is much affection between them and pride that their daughter has risen in the world, and their other child, John, sees fit to do the same. They have a third child of about six, a pretty fair-haired girl named Emma. Surely she cannot be yet another of Lord Shad’s by-blows? She looks nothing like the others, but I remember Lady Shad’s example of the ginger tomcat. I am surprised that Lord Shad has reformed so thoroughly; I could see that although he looked upon me with appreciation (even such a dowd as I am now) there is only one woman for him and that is his wife.

‘But we must see the poultry and collect the eggs!’ Amelia cries. She dons an apron and a wide-brimmed straw hat and, basket in hand, takes me outside. ‘Do you like chickens, Mrs Marsden?’

‘I like to eat them,’ I say.

‘They are very silly creatures.’ She unlatches a gate to an enclosure where a variety of fowl roam and peck.

A goose rushes at us, wings out and hissing.

I shriek.

‘He can’t hurt you. Stop it, Oberon!’ She flaps her apron at the creature and it runs off.

With great pride she introduces me to the poultry. My head reels with their Shakespearian names – there is a cockerel as aggressive as Oberon named Titus Andronicus whose neck she threatens to wring. Hens run over my feet and peck at the laces of my boots, thinking they are worms. They have a wooden enclosure and a trough full of hay, and Amelia invites me to push nesting hens aside to take their eggs. Their bodies are warm and soft and they make soft crooning sounds that remind me of the infant Harriet.

Ducks swim in and waddle around a muddy pool, and Amelia searches for more eggs. Ducks, she assures me, are far more clever than chickens, although I suspect they are clever at being ducks and that is all.

‘So you are an admirer of Shakespeare,’ I comment, after having been introduced to her best layer, Portia, and a duck matriarch called Juliet.

‘Oh, yes. It is my greatest wish to appear on the stage.’

I wonder what Lord Shad will think of that.

‘Are you by any chance related to Mr Marsden, the theatre manager? His touring company visited here last summer. It was quite splendid.’

Now I have learned that lies are best if you stick close to the truth, so I reply that yes, indeed, Mr Marsden is a relative, but go into few details. It is not widely known that the scandalous Mrs Wallace is the daughter of that gentleman, but I shall take no chances.

‘It is a hazardous profession,’ I tell her. Hazardous indeed; she might well find herself fighting off an amorous Othello. ‘Certainly not one for a lady.’

‘But, Mrs Marsden—’ she pauses in counting the eggs in her basket. ‘I am not a lady, nor can I become one. The position of poultrymaid is a kindness for which I am most grateful, for I am paid by the kitchen for eggs and fowl. But I am not sure I wish to do this all my life and be a dependant on Uncle Shad. Possibly I may marry, but I cannot count on it. Do you think I should marry Mr Bishop?’

‘Mr Bishop? Has your—I mean, Lord Shad – has he suggested you should?’ For some reason this makes me extremely uneasy.

‘Oh, no. But Mr Bishop is here, and he is a real person.’

‘Both those factors are certainly in the gentleman’s favour,’ I say.

‘You see, I should really like to marry Benedict in
Much Ado About Nothing
. Or Henry the Fifth. Not Hamlet, for he is too melancholy. I should not like to marry a gentleman who spends so much time talking about himself.’ We walk back towards the house, she with her basket of eggs, while we discuss the merits of various heroes from Shakespeare as husbands.

‘Mrs Marsden, forgive me for asking, but were you ever on the stage yourself?’

I could kick myself for revealing myself so. ‘Only in a very few amateur productions. It was all very genteel.’

‘So Mr Marsden never invited you to perform?’

‘He is a very distant sort of relative.’ Despite our proximity to the fowl, no cock crows as I deny my fond if absent sire.

Fortunately at this point we have entered the kitchen and I am spared having to tangle myself further as some sort of crisis seems to have occurred, with the cook and Harry Bishop facing off on opposite sides of the kitchen table while the staff gather around, wide-eyed and awed, like children watching their parents quarrel.

A large iron pot stands on the table and this is the cause of their disagreement.

‘I assure you, Mr Bishop, this is how it is done in this household. Mr Roberts never had cause to interfere.’

‘Maggots!’ Harry reaches into the pot and flicks something on to the floor that wriggles until he steps on it. ‘This will not do, ma’am.’

‘His lordship is used to food from foreign parts.’

‘Even in foreign parts, ma’am, they do not eat rotting food.’

‘Indeed they do, sir. It is why they add spices.’ The contempt and horror on the cook’s face demonstrate that maggots represent all that is good about England, whereas spices are the horrid epitome of the foreign sensibility.

‘I must disagree. They add spices because they like them.’

‘Impossible!’

‘And how many times have you served meat crawling with maggots to the family? It is a wonder they are still alive. Consider, ma’am, you may end up on the gallows. Would you serve such to downstairs?’

Her face expresses eloquently that she would serve the maggots without the meat to him and her grip tightens on her wooden spoon.

Harry nods to one of the footmen. ‘Take this out. Give it to the pigs.’

The footman sidles forward, keeping a close eye on the cook as though she may spring to the rescue of the meat, and takes the pot. A sour odour arises from its depths.

‘Well,
I
shan’t be held responsible for a half-empty table,’ the cook says.

‘Roast chicken,’ Amelia says and darts out of the door.

After a very short time she returns with two limp corpses that she tosses on to the table. This girl, who petted and played with her fowl as though they were kittens, is entirely dry-eyed. ‘Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. I never much liked these two,’ she says. ‘I thought sooner or later we should eat them.’

‘Lord Shad will be expecting roast beef,’ the cook says as though inviting someone to slaughter a cow instead, but a moment later she is snapping at one of the maids to put on a pot of water so they may pluck the birds. She shoots spiteful glances at Harry all the while. It is only too obvious she would prefer to plunge him into the boiling water.

‘Miss Amelia. Mrs Marsden.’ Harry makes a half-bow in our direction. ‘May I be of assistance?’

‘I wanted to show Mrs Marsden the kitchen,’ Amelia says, oblivious of the hidden message that I certainly shouldn’t be trespassing upon Harry Bishop’s sphere of influence.

‘Certainly you may show her the stillroom and laundry room too,’ he says. ‘I am sure Mrs Marsden is very interested in household management. And don’t forget the brewhouse and icehouse.’

Amelia looks from me to him, puzzled by his tone, but I thank him effusively for being allowed to visit the kitchen and pour on a little exaggerated praise about what a well-run and clean place it is. The cook swells with pride and Harry frowns.

I escape with Amelia as soon as we can, trying not to wonder why I think of Mr Bishop as Harry.

Diary of Miss Amelia Price

I wonder why Mr Bishop was so insistent that I show Mrs Marsden the rest of the outhouses? She liked the dairy, but I find it extraordinary that someone should not know about butter and cream, although she assured me she knew a cow when she saw one. I offered to teach her to milk, and as we began the lesson, Mr Bishop came in and told us he thought she would be very good at it, her hands having been occupied in similar fashion before.

She laughed, and he looked put out, and then the cow kicked over the bucket.

I suppose it is London manners, since both of them come from there.

Sophie

A
melia is to play for me, and she is a mess of nerves. I have never seen anyone wring their hands in real life (it happens on the stage, and in my dealings with gentlemen, fairly frequently).

‘I’m not very good,’ she says as though she is about to burst into tears.

‘Calm yourself. Pray choose a piece you like.’ I’m hoping she is indeed not too competent, for then I would have nothing to teach her. I am not so concerned about earning my keep – for sure, this is much easier than being a mistress, and I do not have to put up with snoring, among other unpleasantness, at night – but I like this young girl, her awkward charm and innocence. I want to help her.

‘You see . . .’ She paws miserably through the book of music. ‘I don’t know how to . . . that is, I’ve never had lessons.’

‘You mean you cannot read music?’