Mr Bishop and the Actress (10 page)

‘Do not concern yourself, Amelia. I have a perfectly acceptable gown. Besides, I shall play the piano while the guests dance, and I do not wish to outshine the guests.’

‘And very proper for a widowed lady, ma’am,’ Mrs Henney comments, almost certainly a widowed lady herself. She sports a monstrosity of a cap, lace and starch with strange side flaps that make her look like a goat. ‘Now then, let us see . . .’ Business is concluded, for she scribbles on a piece of paper, with the ragged piece of newspaper at her elbow for inspiration.

Sophie pauses to examine a Kashmir shawl, vividly patterned.

‘Oh, you should buy it!’ Amelia cries.

Mrs Henney looks up from her calculations. ‘Indeed, ma’am, you should. Very few ladies have the complexion to carry off such bright colours.’

Sophie drapes the shawl over one shoulder and gazes at herself in the mirror. ‘It’s very pretty.’ She shakes her head. ‘No, I think not.’

She gives a regretful glance to the shawl, placing it back on its stand, before beginning a discussion with Amelia about the bonnet in the window with as much dedication and energy as members of the Royal Society pondering a scientific specimen. Now it is my turn at the counter to arrange for payment (billed to Lord Shad) and delivery of the gown and its odds and ends.

‘How much is the shawl Mrs Marsden admired?’ I ask Mrs Henney.

She mentions a sum that makes me blink, adding, ‘Such a pretty young woman should not hide her light under a bushel.’

‘True, ma’am. Please add it to the purchases, with Mrs Marsden’s name on the package.’ I slide a guinea on to the counter. ‘We need not encumber his lordship with the cost.’

‘I see, sir,’ she says, her voice heavy with meaning, and I realize that my plan already has consequences I should have considered. From what I have seen of Mrs Henney, word will spread like wildfire that Mr Bishop has intentions towards pretty little Mrs Marsden. I wave away the change. ‘It shall be our secret, eh, Mrs Henney?’

The coin disappears into the lady’s lace mitten. ‘Certainly, sir. Certainly.’

Sophie

T
he next week passes pleasantly enough. I see very little of Harry, whose frowning countenance unsettles me. I know he plans some mischief and it is probably against me, but I cannot dwell upon his intentions. I spend about half of each day with Amelia, teaching her how to read music. She is somewhat put out to discover that not only are there sharps, but that she must also deal with flats too, and grumbles a little. She learns a couple of songs which were all the rage in London a year ago, printed in another newspaper yellowing with age that the children have not yet purloined.

Occasionally she wonders why his lordship is so very insistent that this invitation be treated with such great care. After all, she has been to Captain Carstairs’ house a dozen times before. We speculate on the possibility that young gentlemen, new to the neighbourhood, have been invited also, or even a party from London; or that it is practice for her social engagements in Brighton.

‘Do you think I need to learn to flirt?’ she asks with absolute sincerity.

‘I think you will find out how to do it.’

‘Maybe I should practise on Mr Bishop.’

‘On Mr Bishop!’ I echo. ‘Oh, surely not.’

‘I don’t think he would mind. He is very good-natured. Just yesterday he spent all afternoon making a hutch for John’s rabbits.’

‘I don’t think it would be proper. Flirting is hardly the female equivalent of carpentry.’ The claim of impropriety is the best way to end an argument with Amelia, particularly one where I am not sure what my high moral ground should be. And Mr Bishop good-natured? I have yet to see him so, but he is always most proper on the rare occasions we meet. He dines a couple of times with the family that week, unfailingly polite, meeting Lady Shad’s teasing with a fine ironic air and discussing work to be done on the house with Lord Shad.

One afternoon I look out of the window to see him, in his shirtsleeves, playing cricket with John and the two little boys. He may keep my secret, but all in all he seems far more at home in this house than I do. I find I must second-guess every thought and gesture. I sigh and watch Harry carefully miss an easy catch and go chasing after the ball while little Simon, skirts tucked up, runs between the wickets and Master George jumps up and down with excitement, crying encouragement to his brother.

It is with great excitement that Amelia and I receive the package from Mrs Henney, only a few hours before we are expected at the Carstairs’ house.

From her usual place on the sofa, Harriet on her lap, Lady Shad directs the unwrapping, thriftily stowing away the brown paper in which the gown is wrapped. ‘I almost wish I could come,’ she murmurs. ‘If only this sweet little wretch did not occupy my person all day and all night.’

Lord Shad, fingers stained with watercolours, strolls in and bends to kiss his wife. ‘We’ll hire a wet nurse.’ He tickles his daughter’s stomach. ‘She’s smiling.’

‘Certainly not! To both of your suggestions. That is wind, you should know by now.’

‘Oh!’ Amelia holds up the gown and smiles at herself in the mirror above the fireplace and I’m gratified to see that the blue was the right choice for her. ‘Oh, Uncle Shad, this is the most lovely gown I have ever had. Thank you, sir.’

‘You do me credit, my dear.’ Lord Shad sits on the sofa next to his wife and takes their daughter on to his knee.

‘Wait. What’s this?’ Lady Shad draws a small parcel from among the swathes of brown paper. ‘Why, Mrs Marsden, something for you.’

‘For me? I bought nothing.’

I take the brown paper parcel and regretfully my mind leaps to the immediate conclusion, that there is only one person who could have made such a gesture, and that is my employer. He has been perfectly proper towards me although he is obviously a man who appreciates a pretty woman; I have seen admiration in his glance from time to time, but not nearly as often as I have seen pure adoration directed towards his wife and children. But this . . . coming as I do from a world where gentlemen, married or not, give women like myself gifts for one purpose, what else can I think? He is a handsome man, and however fond he may be of his wife, she has but recently given birth, and I know all too well that gentlemen in that situation often look elsewhere for gratification.

And I thought he might be different!

My face heats.

‘Oh, do unwrap it,’ Amelia says.

I take a deep breath. ‘Surely this is a mistake. It must be something for you, Amelia, an appreciation of your patronage of Mrs Henney’s establishment.’

Amelia giggles. ‘Your name is written on it.’

‘Oh. So it is.’

Lady Shad watches with bright interest and I cannot bear that she is to suffer embarrassment and disillusion.

I hate that Amelia is to witness this also and her evening will in all likelihood be ruined. ‘Amelia, why don’t you go to my bedchamber and ask one of the maids to help you change into the gown? We should like to see you wear it, and we may have to check the hem.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Marsden.’ She gives another glance at the parcel that is burning a hole in my conscience. Surely I have not encouraged his lordship? Or am I so used to playing the whore that without an awareness of what I do I have made my intentions and profession clear?

The door closes behind us. Harriet burbles quietly.

‘Is something wrong, Mrs Marsden?’ Lord Shad asks.

I shake my head, hoping I am mistaken.

‘Mrs Marsden?’ With a smile, Lady Shad offers me a pair of embroidery scissors.

Resisting the temptation to plunge the scissors into the bosom of her faithless husband, I cut the string and unwrap the parcel. Folds of scarlet and blue and cream tumble and drape on to my lap. It is the Kashmir shawl that I admired and I wonder how on earth Lord Shad knew of it. Did Harry tell him how I admired it?

I stand, folding the shawl over my arm. I cannot resist stroking the gorgeous sheen of the fabric. ‘My lord, I regret I cannot accept this gift.’

I wait to be told to pack my bags and leave.

‘Eh?’ Lord Shad looks up from playing with his daughter’s hands. ‘Very pretty, Mrs Marsden, but there’s nothing I can do if it displeases you. Return it, I’d suggest, although the colours look remarkably well on you. Besides, you’ll need something of the sort in Brighton, won’t she, my dear?’

‘Oh, of course you should keep it.’ Lady Shad reaches out a hand to touch the shawl. ‘It’s beautiful. I wish it were mine, but it would only be covered with puke or the boys would borrow it for a tent. So who bought it for you, Sophie? Surely it is not from a secret admirer?’

Lord Shad yawns. ‘Harry Bishop, I expect.’

Harry Bishop? I cannot believe my employer to be so underhand as to implicate his steward! ‘I assure you, my lord, I have no intentions of any sort towards Mr Bishop or any other gentleman!’

He shrugs. ‘I trust you’ll wear it tonight, ma’am.’

I dare not look at Lady Shad, who must surely be aware of her husband’s proclivities, and wonder again at her nonchalance but she has taken the child again.

To my great relief at that moment Amelia enters the room, resplendent in her finery, and we exclaim over her beauty and that of her gown but the evening is spoiled for me.

Harry

I have regretted my folly a dozen times already this past week, although kept busy enough with the house and in particular Lord Shad’s plan to make the parlour modern, knocking out part of the wall to accommodate a room for plants and thence building steps and flowerbeds leading to the garden itself. He has produced several sketches and we are both eager to demolish the wall without bringing the house down around ourselves. I am sworn to secrecy for it is a gift for Lady Shad, to be accomplished while the family is at Brighton.

I spend more time than a rational man should dressing for the evening. This is the country so silk knee breeches are not required (fortunate for I own none) but I take care with the knot of my neckcloth and brush my coat. I do not intend to impress Sophie, merely to maintain my dignity if she spurns the shawl. What, indeed, was I thinking in the purchase of such an extravagant item? Extravagant for me, that is. I daresay she has owned a dozen such shawls, all finer.

All three footmen, Matthew, Mark and Luke, wish to accompany us, for naturally they have friends in the Carstairs’ house, but a mile or so away, and I choose one-eyed Matthew, who boasts two arms and two legs. Mark, who has assumed his best false hand, a strange, lumpy appendage forced into a glove, looks particularly disappointed.

Lord Shad and I wait with Matthew in the hall for Sophie and Amelia. He frowns and consults his watch. ‘What the devil are women that they cannot be on time?’ And then he breaks into one of those smiles that I imagine has made many a woman tremble as he sees his ward and her companion descend the staircase.

Yes, Sophie wears the shawl and her beauty takes my breath away.

Sophie

I really do not care at all for the way Harry Bishop looks at Amelia as we descend the staircase. It is most improper. And I refuse to look at Lord Shad in whom I am deeply disappointed. I pity his wife.

Since the house is so close, we walk over the fields, with a footman carrying our dancing slippers in a burlap sack. We keep country hours here, so dinner is at four and it is still bright and sunny, with great clouds floating above.

‘If they ask me to sing or play, sir, what shall I do?’ Amelia asks her guardian.

‘Accept, if you feel like it,’ he says, smiling upon her with great fondness. ‘You must begin sometime, and why not here, where your friends are?’

‘I suppose so.’ She bites her lip. ‘What do you think, Mrs Marsden?’

I think she’ll outshine any provincial miss there but I don’t want to make her more nervous than she is already, or too overconfident. ‘I think Lord Shad is correct.’

She smiles. ‘And there’ll be dancing, too!’

We arrive shortly at Captain Carstairs’ house, and our host, a former Navy man, greets us with great warmth, kissing Amelia’s cheek and shaking hands with Lord Shad. His wife is an affable, friendly woman who takes Amelia’s arm and I realize that most of the guests are from the neighbourhood and have looked forward to seeing the new gown with great anticipation. Doubtless Mrs Henney has made sure all know of it. The young men present look upon Amelia with some interest.

Do they know also that Lord Shad has designs upon me?

Some of the ladies give me curious glances, assessing my dress and the way I have arranged my hair. The gown, which seemed so very modest and plain, now feels all too revealing, proclaiming that its wearer has embraced London fashions, the cut of the bosom a little too low, the hemline revealing a little too much ankle. The shawl seems a brazen declaration of my reputation, a pity indeed for it is a garment I fell in love with when first I saw it at the dressmaker’s shop. I believe one can be said to fall in love with a piece of fabric, but I am sure I am not the only woman who does, and, unlike the male sex, a woman knows where she is with such an item.

Since Amelia knows most of the company present she does not need to be under my wing for our hostess has taken over that duty. Lord Shad and Captain Carstairs are deep in conversation.

To my surprise it is Harry Bishop who steps forward and introduces me to the Reverend and Mrs Dimmock and their curate, Mr Dibble, the author of the ill-advised love poem to Amelia. Mr Dibble gazes at my bosom (I am used to this sort of attention and take no notice). The Reverend and Mrs Dimmock are full of praise for John and Amelia and by extension to Lord Shad and his family. I summon up polite affability and answer their questions. Yes, indeed, it is a very fine part of the country (flat, muddy, altogether too much water and sky) and the family most welcoming (so much so that his lordship expects to be welcomed into my bed at any time).

Amelia has attached herself to another young woman, the daughter of the Wilton family, so I am told by the Dibbles. Miss Jane Wilton is a pretty giggler with a headful of springy golden curls and I am glad to see that in her company, Amelia becomes something of a giggler and whisperer herself. I am reminded of meeting Lizzie and Claire for the first time at boarding school and how we knew all at once that we were to be best friends.