Mr Bishop and the Actress Page 10

  10

  Sophie

  Mrs Marsden, you must be tired of playing the piano while everyone dances. You have been here a good hour at least. I insist, my dear, I shall play this last one so you may dance.’

  ‘You’re most kind, Mrs Carstairs, but I assure you there is no need . . .’ But my hostess waves me away and takes my place on the bench. Across the room, the amorous Captain sets his sights and begins a march towards me as though I were a besieged fort ready for the final attack. Even worse, Lord Shad rises from the sofa where he sits with Amelia, and begins his own advance. I look around and see assistance is at hand.

  ‘Harry! I need you!’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Marsden?’

  I grab his arm and smile upon him although my teeth are gritted. ‘Dance with me.’

  He raises his eyebrows.

  ‘If you please, sir,’ I say, my dignity thrown to the winds. Both of my would-be suitors are closing in for the kill.

  ‘Mrs Marsden, may I beg the honour of this dance.’ He looks the advancing Captain in the eye and bows to me. Fortunately he cannot see, over his shoulder, that he has bested his employer also.

  ‘I should be delighted, sir,’ I reply. I have seen him dance, of course, that time with Amelia, and tonight, where to my surprise he was in great demand as a partner, for he moves gracefully and I am convinced has trod on few feet.

  I am aware also that the only time Harry has partnered me in any sense – other than the uneasy truce we maintain – was in far more intimate circumstances. And there, it is true, he performed with some clumsiness, but an endearing sense of amazement and eagerness to please; and, oh yes, a certain mastery and confidence as the long hours of that night wore on, which pleased me greatly. And it’s Harry as he was then that I’m reminded of as we dance, as he guides and turns me, and I give myself to him with a perfect trust. The dance becomes a stylized flirtation, every touch of hand and glance containing a perfect amorous significance, and the other dancers fade into insignificance as we weave a pattern of desire.

  So when the music ends, and after we have bowed and curtsied to each other, we stand for a moment looking at each other and I see a sense of wonder on his face. Do I look the same? For the first time since that night, or possibly for the first time ever, we smile at each other.

  And then it is as though we both awake and come to ourselves, laughing a little as we see we are the last couple on the floor, the other having retreated to the sides of the room. The evening is quite definitely breaking up now, with the guests moving in the general direction of their host and hostess to bid them farewell. It is time to go home.

  ‘Mrs Marsden?’

  ‘My lord?’ I spin around at the tap on my shoulder.

  ‘Forgive me for intruding, but I wished to let you and Bishop know that Amelia and I have been offered a lift home in the Wiltons’ carriage, and as she’s somewhat fatigued, I thought it best to accept it. Will you join us?’

  ‘No thank you, sir. I prefer to walk.’ I certainly don’t want to risk being interrogated by Mrs Wilton or have his lordship press his leg against mine in a crowded carriage.

  ‘If you’re certain, then, for there is plenty of room. Bishop will see you safely home.’

  It does cross my mind then that possibly he had approached me, not to ask me to dance, but only to offer me a lift home. Even so, he does not seem angry that I kept him waiting, and Amelia is busy chatting with her new friend; they hang upon each other as though they have known each other for years.

  So Bishop and I find ourselves outside, beneath the light of a moon that is almost full, its light competing with the magical green light of ranks of glow-worms in the fields, and with the scent of honeysuckle strong upon the air.

  He tells me he has given the footman leave to visit his friends in the kitchen of the house, so we are alone. He compliments me on my music.

  I compliment him on his dancing.

  He clears his throat.

  ‘Did you enjoy Amelia’s singing?’

  ‘Very much. Lord Shad was pleased, too.’

  ‘I shall probably not stay long in this position.’

  ‘Indeed? Why is that?’

  ‘I think Amelia will spend the rest of the summer with the Wilton family, and it would not be appropriate for me to accompany her.’ Not after the way Mrs Wilton snubbed me. And I certainly cannot go to Brighton.

  ‘And the Captain . . . ?’

  ‘Oh, he’s a fool. I think Mrs Wilton was concerned that he had any serious interest in me, which I am sure he hasn’t, and I certainly don’t in him. My thanks again to you for coming to my rescue. I am afraid my skirts would have been ruined by his spurs. He seeks to amuse himself while he is in the neighbourhood, but it will not be at my expense.’

  ‘I am glad to hear you say it,’ he says and turns to me, clasping my hand.

  At that moment, a bird, which even I recognize (from its frequent depictions in opera) as a nightingale, bursts into song nearby. The moon is so bright it casts our shadows on to the ground.

  ‘I regret I have not been fair to you, Sophie. I made some rash judgements concerning your character, yet from what I have observed of you . . . and, damn it, Sophie, ever since you and I—’

  He stops talking for the very good reason that he kisses me.

  Is it only the influence of the dancing, the excellent punch served by our hosts, the moonlight, and the nightingale? I think not. It is something far more profound, a true connection, and although I know I should pull away and stop this, I will not, cannot. Just a little more, a little more, of his taste and scent and delicious strength. For at that moment I feel most romantically inclined towards Harry Bishop, who from the expression in his eyes – handsome eyes behind those spectacles, I notice as if for the first time – has succumbed also to similar madness.

  But after a few delightful seconds or weeks or some immeasurable segment of time, I come to my senses. I detach myself from his person although I am extremely reluctant to do so; whatever else I had to teach him, Harry knew how to kiss and still does. ‘I beg your pardon. This is unseemly.’

  To my relief he does not mock me, but merely steps away with a slight inclination of his head. The only expression of any agitation is that he removes the spectacles and gives them a thorough polishing. ‘Of course. You are quite right and I should beg your pardon.’

  ‘I don’t know why. There is no need. Shall we agree to forget this regrettable incident?’

  ‘I’m not sure I can, or even that I want to.’

  ‘A very pretty speech, sir.’

  ‘On the contrary, Sophie, it is not mere prettiness. It is the truth.’

  Although we are quite capable of apologising to – or bickering with each other, for I’m not sure which it is – until the sun rises the next morning, we set off on our way home, he taking my arm to guide me over the worst of the ruts in a most gentlemanly way.

  He escorts me to the house, where one of the footmen, yawning, opens the front door and looks upon us both with interest. I am sure our polite farewell disappoints the footman, and I admit, as I trudge upstairs to my bed, I feel a certain disappointment myself. But I am a reformed character, the polite and respectable Mrs Marsden, and the only obstacle I have in my career is my employer.

  I lie awake in my bed looking at the cavorting immortals above – to be sure, I have not yet become accustomed to viewing them so alone – and think about kissing Harry Bishop, and what a mistake it was, compounding my first, earlier mistake, and how nothing of the sort must ever happen again. I must certainly avoid Harry, moonlight, and nightingales in the future, or at least all three together.

  As an afterthought, I rise from my bed and jam a chair beneath the door handle in case Lord Shad comes a-wandering, a gentleman clearly not in need of moonlight or nightingales.

  Diary of Miss Amelia Price

  Such an evening! Dear Jane admired my hair and gown and she is all that is delightful and although I have a hole in
my new stocking and a slight blister from dancing I do not care. And they liked my singing. My first public performance!

  But Jane whispered a very foolish thing to me, that she thinks Mrs Marsden and Mr Bishop are lovers! How absurd! They do not even like each other. They did look well dancing together, though.

  Sophie

  I am inclined next morning to give notice, something I hate to do, but what choice do I have? I cannot escape to Bath with Amelia and the dreadful Mrs Wilton, nor to Brighton where the ton gather, and there is also the matter of my amorous employer, in whom I am deeply disappointed. Naturally I avoid the decision, but then Amelia and I are summoned into his lordship’s study, a rather plain, masculine room enlivened by nautical clutter and some pencil studies, presumably by his lordship, of his children.

  ‘So,’ Lord Shad begins, ‘this matter of you going to Bath, Amelia. You wish to go with your new friend rather than to Brighton with the rest of us? For Mr and Mrs Price and Mrs Marsden will come with us to the sea. Mrs Wilton made it very clear that she will chaperone both you and Miss Jane, so Mrs Marsden’s presence is not required in Bath.’

  ‘Indeed yes, sir. I shall be sorry to be parted from everyone, but I do so like Miss Wilton. That is, sir, if it is agreeable to you.’

  ‘Very well.’ He rises and paces, hands beneath his coat-tails. In any other man I should have interpreted this as nervousness. ‘You’ll have some pin money, of course. Lady Shad says you should probably buy gowns and so on there. But. . .’

  If Amelia were a little younger I believe she would jump up and down for joy, but she merely clasps her hands tight in her lap and beams with delight.

  ‘You’re very young,’ Lord Shad continues. ‘I don’t expect you to return engaged or with half a dozen beaux, merely to have some pleasure there. However . . .’ He pauses again and I see now he is indeed nervous. ‘Although you are young, I think it is time for you to learn of your parentage. No, Mrs Marsden, you may stay—’ for I have made a movement, half rising, not wishing to intrude upon a family conversation.

  ‘If you are sure, sir,’ I say.

  ‘I am indeed. Amelia, what do you remember of your mother?’

  She shakes her head. ‘You do not mean Mrs Price, I think. My mother . . . I remember her voice a little. She gave me a toy, a little wooden lamb, when she left, and told me to stroke its fleece and think of her. I wore the fleece out and then the woman I served threw it on the fire. And then, sir, you found me.’ She looks at him with sweet trust and love and I have the feeling that Amelia is about to suffer a great loss.

  ‘And you have never heard more of her, or of who your father is?’

  ‘No, sir. Oh, sir, has she come back?’

  ‘No, I regret not. I fear she may be dead.’

  ‘I think so, too.’ She says it with great composure. ‘But I have not needed her. I have Mr and Mrs Price and you, sir. And Aunt Shad, too. I am fortunate indeed.’

  ‘The thing is this, Amelia.’ Lord Shad stops in front of her. ‘You and I, we share the same father. I am your half-brother.’

  Her hands, clasped together in joy, now tighten so her knuckles turn white. I, sitting next to her, place my hand over hers. ‘You mean I’m the wicked old lord’s get?’

  ‘Indeed, yes. As am I.’

  ‘But—but I thought—’ I can feel her tremble. ‘I thought you were my father.’

  ‘Amelia, my love.’ He pulls a chair close and sits next to her. ‘I went to sea when I was a boy. I didn’t set foot in England again for years, not until my brother – our brother – died and I inherited the title. And that’s when I found you, a little child beaten and abused as a parish servant, and knew I must take you in.’

  ‘Out of duty?’ Her voice shakes now.

  ‘Duty and love. I’d like you to take the family name, Amelia, so I may acknowledge you properly.’

  She shakes my hand away and jumps to her feet. ‘So all may know me as your father’s bastard!’

  ‘No, so all may know you as my sister and an honoured member of the family. I intend to settle some money on you; not a large dowry, for I don’t want you to be the prey of fortune hunters, and I certainly don’t want you to consider marriage for a few years yet. You—’

  ‘No!’ She backs away from him. I go to her side and take her hand but she pushes me away. ‘My true mother and father are Mr and Mrs Price. It has pleased you, my lord, to keep me as a—a plaything. You should have told me before!’

  ‘You are right. I probably should have done.’

  ‘Is John truly my brother?’

  ‘By upbringing, yes. He is my nephew. Yours too. He is the son of my late brother.’

  ‘I hate you,’ Amelia says. Lord Shad flinches. ‘I want to go away. I want to go to Bath and I have my own money, sir. I don’t need yours and I don’t need your name either.’

  She turns and flees, the door to the study banging behind her, and I’m left alone with Lord Shad.

  He drops into a chair and puts his face into his hands, his elbows on his desk. ‘Oh dear God,’ he says. ‘What did I do wrong, Mrs Marsden?’

  ‘I can hardly say, my lord.’

  I don’t quite know how one is supposed to break that sort of news. Amelia’s world has been shattered, for I believe she thought all this time Lord Shad was her father; indeed, I did so, for the resemblance between them is so strong.

  I hesitate for one moment. I do not want to desert Amelia but I certainly cannot go to Brighton. ‘Sir, I wish to give you notice.’

  ‘What!’ He leans back in his chair now. ‘Why? Why do you wish to leave us?’

  ‘I think you know, my lord.’

  ‘What?’ He gazes at me with astonishment, and at that moment a footman comes into the study, bearing a handful of letters for his lordship, and I make my escape.

  I go upstairs and tap on the door of Amelia’s bedchamber. I can hear the sound of weeping but she will not let me in. Back downstairs, Lady Shad is fast asleep with Harriet on the sofa. I find Master Simon and Master George in the kitchen where the entire staff seems to know what has transpired, and activities revolve around supplying Miss Amelia with treats – pastries, a posset, a glass of wine, sweetmeats.

  John is there, too, eating bread and jam at the kitchen table. ‘Well, I knew that,’ he says with all the lordly superiority of a brother. ‘She is a silly girl. Of course Uncle Shad isn’t her father.’ From the smugness in his voice I can tell he believes he is Lord Shad’s natural son, and my heart sinks at the thought of yet another child about to suffer disillusion. However, that is Lord Shad’s affair, not mine.

  The house is in an uproar with rooms being closed and the family’s possessions packed for the departure to Brighton. I take the three boys outside and let them play with sticks and stones and splash in puddles. We are joined by a couple of dogs that submit with good humour to tail-pulling and other indignities, and obligingly chase after thrown sticks. I am filled with melancholy for Amelia and for having to leave this house and family. There is nothing for it; I must return to London and find my errant father. I shall throw myself upon his generosity and tread the boards once again, a prospect that does not fill me with much pleasure.

  Once the little boys are thoroughly dirty and tired enough I take them back inside the house, where the kitchen staff clean their hands and faces beneath the kitchen pump, and ply us all with food. Soon after the two smaller boys become listless and yawn, and I take them upstairs to the parlour where it is warm and cosy, and they curl up with the dogs in front of the fire. Of Lady Shad and her daughter there is no sign.

  John wanders in with a book and sprawls on the sofa where he too falls asleep.

  To my relief, when I tap on Amelia’s bedchamber door next, she allows me to enter. She is hard at work sorting and packing clothes for the trip to Bath with a rather forced imitation of being in good spirits, chatting brightly about assemblies and concerts and whether her gowns will reveal her to be a country mouse indeed.

  ‘
I wish you could come with us,’ she says. ‘I suppose you will go to Brighton.’

  ‘No. I am afraid, Amelia, I will be leaving this house.’

  ‘But why?’ She sits on her bed, a pair of half-rolled stockings in her hand. Her lip trembles. ‘I – I thought you would be here when I return.’

  ‘I was hired as your companion and to teach you what little I could of music. I think my work here is done, although I am most sorry to leave you.’

  ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘I shall find another position.’ At least I hope I shall.

  ‘But—but we like you. We want you to stay. I want you to be here when I come back.’ She bursts into tears.