Mr Bishop and the Actress (3 page)

Shad raises his glass to me. ‘Your health, Bishop. I regret I must send you to London to deal with my family matters, but there’s no need to rush off soon. If Charlie’s ruined, another week won’t make much difference, and you should be here for your namesake’s christening.’

Our raised glasses clink together. I am determined to do my utmost for the family that now feels like my own.

Mrs Sophie Wallace

S
orry, darling, it’s either you or the horses.’

We both flatten ourselves against the stairwell as two sweating bailiffs angle the sideboard, a hefty piece of furniture that Charlie chose but apparently never paid for, a florid masterpiece of inlay and gilding and bowed legs.

‘At least, that’s what my uncle’s fellow downstairs says,’ he adds, giving me the sort of smile that still makes me fizz a bit inside, charming, slightly lopsided, rueful, as he runs his hand through his blond hair. I remind myself that Charlie Fordham, my soon-to-beex-protector, is only twenty, almost a decade younger than me. This is his first year in London, and he has proved a delightful companion. I’m pretty sure his family will insist on finding him an heiress to marry, now Charlie has got into trouble and disgracefully into debt.

But he won’t be married to me. I am not the sort of woman men like Charlie marry.

He’s gazing at the sideboard, which is now stuck at the elegant curve of the stairs with one leg protruding through the wrought-iron banister while the men shove and swear. He rubs his chin absently. ‘Do you think I should shave, Sophie?’

‘If they haven’t taken your shaving brush and razor.’

There’s a sharp crack, indicating that the sideboard has suffered a precipitate drop in value, a clatter as the leg falls to the marble floor beneath, and some swearing from the bailiff’s men.

‘Well, I must look my best for my family, and—’

‘Charlie, your family can go hang. What about me? Where am I to live?’

He ponders this. He, of course, is to be sent back to the country to cool his heels until he succeeds to his inheritance. ‘We’ll ask Bishop.’

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous.’ Dear, sweet Charlie, always so willing to think the best of people; when I consider the mistresses he could have chosen instead of me, I shudder. ‘And, Charlie, I’m cheaper to keep than your horses. Everyone knows how expensive it is to stable horses in town.’

He scratches his chin. Stubble glows gold on it and I think with a pang that I shall never see it again – or at least that particular stubble on that particular face. ‘You do have a lot of gowns, Sophie. And bonnets and gloves and whatnot.’

‘Of course I do. I have to be fashionable. You wouldn’t want some frump on your arm. And I’m not a truly extravagant woman. I didn’t ask for my own carriage and equipage, did I?’ I grab at one of the bailiff’s men, descending the stairs with an armful of gowns. ‘Wait, I bought some of those. Let me show you the receipts.’ I rummage in my reticule.

‘No point, miss, for we’re taking them all.’

‘That’s Mrs Wallace, if you please.’

The man smirks and continues on his way.

‘Charlie, he is taking my gowns! Stop him!’

Charlie smiles again, a ploy that has released him from many a tricky situation. ‘My good man, must you take those?’

‘Yes, sir, I am afraid I must.’

Charlie looks so woebegone – someone doesn’t like him! – that I almost want to kiss him.

‘My uncle’s a very good sort of fellow,’ he says apologetically.

‘I thought you said he was a miserly old bugger.’

‘Well, he’s that too. How about my neckcloth, Sophie?’

I reach to retie it for him. I should make an admirable valet with my knowledge of gentlemen’s clothing and buttons.

‘Oh, Charlie.’ I tuck the ends of the cravat inside his waistcoat. ‘We were happy, weren’t we?’

He blinks. ‘Well, of course we were. You’re a splendid girl, Sophie. Top-notch.’

It’s as close to a declaration of love as he’s ever come, apart from ludicrous things he’s said in bed. His handsome face blurs as tears fill my eyes. ‘I’ll miss you.’

‘I’ll miss you, too.’

Just to make sure he will miss me as much as he should, I kiss him and he responds with his usual enthusiasm.

‘Oh God, Sophie, have they taken the bed yet?’ he groans into my ear, one hand hoisting up my skirts.

Two men, carrying chairs, snigger as they pass us. One calls down the stairs, ‘The bedchamber’s all but done, except for the bed, sir.’

I push Charlie’s hand away. ‘They can’t take the bed. It’s mine.’

‘It’ll take a good two hours to take apart, miss, but it must go,’ the man replies, taking a good look at my exposed ankles.

‘No. Absolutely not. It’s mine, and the furnishings. I have the papers here.’ I break away from Charlie and follow the two men downstairs. ‘Where is Mr Bishop? I must speak with him.’

The hallway is crammed with furniture, statues, curtains, the silver tea service and the pretty china I chose. (Charlie chose the statues, most of which are of naked women.) We had a lot of possessions for our three rooms – dining room, drawing room and bedchamber on the first floor – and now we are losing them all, with Mr Bishop, arrived from the country today, to take charge of the disbursement of the furniture and of Charlie.

I know men, or so I like to think – but if I had, I would not have trusted Charlie so. I might have asked him about his seemingly bottomless pockets; I should have known. Now I see it as a quite ordinary kind of stupidity – two sorts of stupidity, to be exact: Charlie’s carelessness with money and mine with my heart.

‘Mrs Wallace, I presume.’

I spin around and dip a curtsy. ‘Sir.’

Mr Bishop, who appears from behind one of the statues, is possibly a little younger than me – not so young as Charlie, of course – slight and fine-boned, a pair of gold spectacles perched on his nose. His hair is an uninteresting brown, his eyes dark grey and his coat appears a little too big for him. So this is the factotum of the ogre, the miserly old bugger, and I wonder how much of our conversation he has overheard. ‘Sir, I must talk to you about my bed.’

Harry

This wicked seductress defies my expectations. I’d expected she would be a raddled tart of a certain age, and I had rather hoped that she had fled to her next protector and so I’d be spared the embarrassment of a meeting.

Mrs Wallace is, in fact, a rather slender, pretty young thing – older than Mr Charlie Fordham, of course, redlipped (not entirely thanks to Nature, I suspect), with a mop of dark curls held in check with a red ribbon. At the moment she’s somewhat damp around the eyes – I suspect she intends to appeal to my better nature, or, if her opening statement is any indication, my baser nature.

‘If your business is concluded here, ma’am, may I call you a hackney carriage?’

She grins. ‘No, you may call me Mrs Wallace. Beg pardon, Mr Bishop, it was a dreadful joke. The bed, sir. It is
my
bed. Here are the papers to prove it.’

She thrusts a crackling sheaf of papers at me, with an extravagant dangle of blood-red seals, and one slender finger inserted between the folded sheets. ‘This is the spot, here. It is the part of the will where it says the late Lord Radding left it to me.’

I read the appropriate paragraph. Her finger rests on the page, creating an odd sort of intimacy. Sure enough, the ancient and wicked Lord Radding left his best bed to his mistress – younger than he by at least five decades – and all its appurtenances.

‘It is a beautiful bed,’ she says with a great deal of earnestness, and folds the will closed. ‘Will you not come and see it?’

I am sure – fairly sure – she means nothing improper in her statement; besides, I need to speak to her to make sure that young Mr Fordham made her no foolish promises. ‘Very well, ma’am.’

‘Oh, capital, sir!’ She skips – there is no other word for her agility and lightness of step – up the marble staircase, dodging a large clock as it is carried down.

She grasps Mr Fordham’s hand. ‘Come, we must show Mr Bishop my bed and decide what’s to be done.’

Mr Fordham shuffles along behind her, sighing heavily.

I clear my throat to get his attention and whisper, ‘Sir, I think it best if I speak to Mrs Wallace alone. Lord Shadderly needs to be sure she’ll make no further claim on you.’

He nods and lets go her hand. For one moment she looks absolutely forlorn, but the moment passes and she disappears around the corner with a flutter of muslin.

I follow her.

I don’t trust her an inch.

The bed is the only piece of furniture in the room, which is decorated otherwise with a few drifts of dust and what must be a garter, lying sad and abandoned on the bare floorboards. The bed is huge and ancient, its posts dark with age and carved with leaves and flowers, the hangings a dark red silk. A bed made for sin.

She trots up the wooden steps necessary to get into the behemoth, and arranges herself on the red coverlet, ankles prettily on display.

‘Look, Mr Bishop, how beautiful the painting of the tester is!’ She points above her head and pats the bed with the other hand, as though inviting me to join her.

I take a step forward and angle my head to catch a glimpse of cavorting fleshy gods and goddesses, protected inadequately by wisps of cloud and surrounded by beaming fat putti.

‘Very fine. And when do you intend to move this bed out, Mrs Wallace?’

She rests on one elbow. ‘They say Queen Elizabeth slept on it.’

‘And you must sleep on it elsewhere, ma’am.’

She twirls a lock of hair around one finger. ‘Regretfully at the moment I cannot afford to move the bed.’

‘Until you have another protector, I suppose.’

‘Precisely.’ She smiles, not quite shamelessly, but as though this is all just business for her. I suppose it is. I don’t like the idea of this woman skipping carelessly into the arms of the highest bidder; she looks too fresh and pretty.

‘If you were my sister . . .’ I begin.

‘If I were your sister, sir, you would arrange for me to enter into a similar arrangement blessed by the Church; nay, a lesser arrangement, for I’d be trapped for life with nothing of my own, not even a bed such as this.’ She pats the coverlet, this time as though caressing a favourite dog.

I walk across to the window and prop myself up on the sill, wanting to move as far as possible from her and the huge bed. ‘Why, ma’am, you would have nothing but your honour.’

‘And very nice for them that can afford honour, I say.’

I wonder what this woman’s story, is, that she came to such a pass; and who, and where, Mr Wallace is, even if such a person exists. She is not repentant, she is not resorting to tears or threats; she is remarkably stoic – or giving that impression – about her plight.

‘I quite loved Charlie,’ she says, taking me aback even further.

‘Indeed.’

‘Oh, yes. But it’s possible, Mr Bishop, to love someone who you know is not the right person for you. Are you married, sir?’

‘No, ma’am, I am not.’ The last thing I need is a philosophical discussion with this woman. Or is she eyeing me up as her next protector? ‘I presume we can expect no unfortunate results of this liaison?’

‘Oh, sir!’ She looks quite shocked. ‘Do you talk, sir, of babies? Unfortunate results, indeed.’

I ignore her. ‘Well, are there?’

She looks me in the eye. ‘No, sir. I have made sure of it.’

‘I presume Mr Fordham owes you no money?’

‘No, sir. He owes me nothing.’

‘Very well. You’ll remove that bed, Mrs Wallace, and I trust you will have no further commerce with Mr Fordham.’

She smiles. ‘Of course, sir, although is that not up to Mr Fordham? He does achieve his majority in a few months, I believe.’

‘I hope he has better judgement.’

She pouts and twirls a loose curl between her fingers. ‘You are not very flattering, sir. I am a woman of good sense and, whatever you think of my profession, I have a sense of honour. He’d do better with me than anyone else, and I’d keep an eye on his accounts next time.’

‘Mrs Wallace, I don’t intend to flatter you. My instructions are to make sure that you will not come to Mr Fordham with any claims of a financial nature in future; in short, that you are out of his life. As for your honour, I think you will find the rest of society does not concur with your definition, so I advise you, ma’am, to find another profession.’

This room, with the looming great bed and its pretty occupant, is becoming a trifle close for my tastes.

‘Oh, an excellent idea, sir.’ She beams at me. ‘You know, I have always fancied the law. Or perhaps I should try for a commission in one of His Highness’s more fashionable regiments? I should look well in an officer’s uniform, I think.’

Of course I should be outraged by her frivolity. I should bow with outraged dignity and stride from the room. I should certainly not be thinking of Mrs Wallace’s slender neck rising from a black gown, a horsehair wig atop her curls; or worse, flaunting a set of regimentals, tight-trousered as any shameless actress. Good God, the woman is impossible – and possibly more accomplished in her current profession than I had first thought.

‘Or,’ she continues, ‘I could return to the stage. I was quite good.’

Good
is not the word I would have chosen. I clear my throat. It sounds horrendously loud in the quiet room. ‘Enough, Mrs Wallace. May I enquire as to the whereabouts of Mr Wallace?’

She raises one foot a few inches – the drapery of her gown slips from her ankles – and flexes her silk slipper. ‘Since you apparently must enquire, sir, the late Captain Wallace is in hell, and I wish you godspeed there, too.’

In the blink of an eye we have travelled from (mostly) good-natured wrangling to downright animosity. She has the last word and we both know it.

I bow with all the courtesy I can muster. As I pass her, I catch a whisper of her perfume, sultry and intoxicating – and doubtless expensive and not yet paid for, I remind myself.

Mr Fordham, heaving sighs, lurks on the stairs.

‘Come, Mr Fordham, you should leave now. I’ll call you a hackney carriage. Your mother and sisters are most anxious to see you back at home.’