Mr Bishop and the Actress Read online

  ‘My dear! You do not accuse me of pandering, I hope.’

  ‘I hope not, too, Pa.’ I wonder what Harry is about and look round to see him gazing at Sylvia and her beard with profound admiration.

  ‘The thing is, my petal, I would not have counted Sloven as one of my intimate acquaintances until a month or so ago. He suffered some sort of mishap and had his head bound up for a few days and emerged from his suffering a changed man; and, according to him, an engaged man, and engaged to you. The last thing he remembered before his fall was your acceptance of his advances. Naturally, I gave my consent, a formality only, for you are of age. I was surprised.’ My father glances at Sloven’s unlovely person. ‘He is perhaps not the most handsome of fellows, but he has a good heart, and you, my dear, should settle down, eh? No more gallivanting around in the height of fashion on the arms of your sprigs of the nobility, not at your advanced age.’

  ‘I am nine and twenty, sir!’

  ‘Precisely.’

  I sink on to a bench, my head in my hands. ‘I do not believe this, Pa.’

  ‘Well, think about it, my dear. With your fall from grace – not precisely grace, I should say rather your fall from fashion – you may find your future uncertain. Why, I haven’t seen a mention of you in the newspapers for weeks. What have you been up to?’

  ‘I’ve been in the country. I have been a teacher of singing.’

  ‘Have you now!’ He regards me with paternal pride. ‘And why did you return?’

  I shrug and decide to entrust him with the whole sorry story – I leave out the more lurid details of my association with Harry – and he shakes his head.

  ‘Dear, dear,’ he intones. ‘You should not imagine, my child, that every gentleman you meets pursues you. And who did, in fact, give you the shawl?’

  ‘Mr Bishop.’ Despite my whisper, that gentleman looks my way at the mention of his name.

  ‘He is an admirer, then?’

  ‘Yes. No. I don’t know. He proposed and I turned his offer down.’

  ‘At your age and with your reputation, my dear, you should not be so precipitate, yet since you have another suitor, indeed are all but married, it is just as well. I’ll tell Sloven we shall call the banns, then.’

  ‘No!’ But seeing my father’s look of dejection, I add, ‘Give me time to accustom myself to the idea, Pa. I don’t want to do anything to upset your financial arrangements, but I’m quite sure I don’t want to marry Sloven.’

  ‘I assure you, he will grow on you.’

  I fall silent at the unpleasant images that come to my mind. For sure, Sloven had achieved a high degree of unpleasantness all on his own, but this new, reformed Sloven, the sentimental, sighing, adoring Sloven who gazes at me like a hungry spaniel – I do not want him, or any part of him, growing in any way in my presence.

  ‘But I have another surprise for you, my dear,’ my fond parent says. ‘Come with me. There is someone you must meet.’

  ‘You have sold me to yet another gentleman?’

  ‘Sharper than a serpent’s tooth!’ my father cries. ‘Oh, Sophie, how you pierce my heart.’

  ‘You might have a little more concern for mine before selling me to the highest bidder.’ Not a quarter hour in his company and already I am exasperated by my theatrical sire.

  He casts a look of deep sorrow at me that does not affect me in the least. ‘Mr Bishop, sir, if you please, you should accompany us.’

  Harry, receiving a juggling lesson, looks up at the sound of his name, and wooden balls fall and roll on the floor around him.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done, Billy,’ says Sylvia. ‘And he was doing so well.’

  My father leads us backstage, rubbing his hands together with glee.

  ‘What is he about?’ Harry asks me in a whisper as we cross the stage. He has assessed my father and found him wanting, and I am infuriated that Harry should do so (while agreeing with his verdict).

  I shrug. I think longingly of punch and a fireside and Mrs Bishop fussing over me, and a clean handkerchief.

  ‘And, behold!’ My father flings open a door.

  Amelia sits darning stockings. When she sees us she jumps to her feet with a cry of joy and flings herself into my arms.

  14

  Sophie

  Oh, you’re safe. Thank God.’ And then relief gives way to anger and tears from us both. ‘How could you do this, you foolish, foolish girl? We have been worried half to death over you.’

  ‘Forgive me. I am so sorry, Mrs Marsden. I know it was a mistake and I have been so lucky. I know now how wrong I was.’ She draws away from me. ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘Pure chance.’ In the one theatre in London I had hoped to avoid. ‘And you left behind your diary.’

  She blushes, affronted. ‘Some of that was very private.’

  ‘But how did you arrive here?’ Harry says.

  ‘It’s very simple,’ Amelia says. ‘On the journey to London, I found a newspaper, only a couple of days old, at one of the inns and read that Mr Marsden planned a new production in the Theatre Royal in Poplar. So I made my way here and told Mr Marsden that I knew you, Mrs Marsden. I did not realize you were father and daughter.’

  Indeed, no. Why should she? I had told her myself Billy Marsden and I were only distantly related and at this moment I wish it were so.

  I turn on my father. ‘And you did not think to send word to anyone?’

  ‘These are the thanks I get? She is perfectly safe here and proves herself a treasure. And such a pretty singing voice. She will be an asset to the company.’ My father beams upon her. ‘Is this not a delightful surprise for you? She has told me all about you, and we have been expecting you. Why, but an hour or so ago we sent word to Bishop’s Hotel – a fine establishment, sir – that if anyone came seeking Miss Amelia, they were to come here directly.’

  ‘An hour ago!’ I cry.

  ‘I would not tell him where I came from before,’ Amelia says. ‘Does Lord Shad know? I fear he will be angry.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Harry says. ‘Someone, Miss Amelia, must tell him.’

  I turn on him. ‘If anyone other than we three know of this she will be ruined.’

  ‘But—but I intend to stay here,’ Amelia says. ‘Mrs Marsden, this is what I want to do and you as much as suggested I should become an actress.’

  Harry looks at me, eyebrows raised, and then back at Amelia. ‘You are Lord Shad’s ward, Miss Amelia. I am his lordship’s trusted servant and I should be derelict in my duties if I were to let you remain here. Mrs Marsden, I trust you do not suggest we lie to Lord Shad.’

  ‘If necessary, yes.’

  ‘I regret it has nothing to do with you, Mrs Marsden. You are no longer a member of the household.’

  ‘Miss Amelia, your guardian does not know you are here?’ my father says. ‘Dear, dear. This is not well done. I shall have to send you back home, you wicked girl.’ But he smiles as he says it.

  ‘I will not go.’ Amelia sits down in her chair and picks up her discarded darning.

  ‘What else have you done while you were here?’ I ask.

  ‘Yesterday I hemmed costumes,’ she says with great pride.

  ‘And has Mr Marsden offered you a contract? Or any money?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Think of it as an apprenticeship in the theatre, my dear,’ my father says. ‘After all, Sylvia and I are supplying room and board, and that counts for something. You, my dear Sophie, spent years absorbing the art of the stage along with your mother’s milk – that woman of blessed memory, ah, how I miss her – and this is much the same.’

  ‘Oh, certainly, except that she is not your daughter and apprentices have a contract and some protection. How are we to know you do not expect Miss Amelia to darn your stockings for the next ten years?’

  ‘My dear, I think I have an eye, nay a gift for nurturing young talent. Why, she reminds me so of you when you were a girl, Sophie!’ He lays a paternal hand on Amelia’s head and she b
eams up at him.

  ‘Indeed? You intend to sell her when she is past her prime so you may stage a pantomime?’

  ‘Sophie, that was unworthy of you.’ My father heaves a sigh. ‘This child will in time progress to a small role and then greater roles, and meanwhile she learns about the theatre under the tender care of Sylvia and myself. And Sophie, if you would not mind, pray remember Amelia is my niece, for Sylvia is of a somewhat jealous temperament, and I value the peace of hearth and home. Or of our lodgings, rather.’

  Harry says, ‘Mr Marsden, Amelia must come with us. She is a member of the family of Viscount Shadderly, related to the Earl of Beresford, and it is most improper for her to be here.’

  ‘Shadderly . . . Beresford. Well, well. Are either of those two gentlemen interested in the theatre, Mr Bishop?’

  I answer for him, recognizing the avarice in my father’s eyes. ‘No, they are not. His lordship is certainly not interested in seeing his ward on the stage or being employed in a dubious capacity in the theatre. She has signed no agreement, Pa. You can’t keep her here.’ To Amelia I say, ‘Perhaps Mr Marsden omitted to mention that this theatre is not licensed to perform plays. He will have you, at best, in tights and performing in a pantomime.’

  ‘But Mr Marsden said . . .’ Amelia looks from me to my father and back to me. ‘Mrs Marsden, you said I was good enough to sing and act professionally.’

  ‘Well, there you are!’ murmurs my dear papa.

  ‘I did not say that exactly. I said with application and hard work you would be as good as anyone on the London stage. I certainly did not intend you to take this most unwise step, to run from those who love you and who have your wellbeing at heart. And for what? Not to become a respected Shakespearian actress, but to perform in low comedy . . .’ I stop, seeing the contempt on Harry’s face; he thinks I encouraged Amelia to take this rash action and I fear I may well have filled her head with all sorts of fanciful notions. Did I not advise her that one could be an actress and a lady too?

  ‘We are upsetting the young lady,’ my father says. ‘Come, Sophie, my dear, the hour of twilight, that time of fairies and ghosts and magic, is almost upon us and the cost of candles is something shocking. Mr Bishop must advise Miss Amelia on the best course of action.’ He sighs. ‘To see such a treasure slip through my hands! It is hard, my dear Sophie, very hard.’

  We all return to the stage, a strange procession indeed. Amelia clasps her darning as though it was a playbook for one of Shakespeare’s tragic roles, Harry close beside her, avoiding my gaze. To my surprise I see Richard is in the auditorium, staring around him with the look of delight and horror that those unaccustomed to the theatre wear when they view it at any other time than during a performance.

  ‘Uncle Harry!’ He approaches, hat in hand, and his nervousness has gone. Although he has the shocked appearance of a rabbit at the approach of a large and hungry dog, he is quite calm and steady. ‘Sir, Uncle, you must come home.’

  ‘What’s happened? I thought I told you to go back to the hotel.’

  ‘I did, sir, and they sent me to get you.’ He swallows. ‘It’s bad, sir. Very bad.’

  ‘My mother?’ Harry says in a shocked whisper.

  Richard shakes his head and Harry straightens his shoulders and addresses my father. ‘You sent word to the hotel with the address for your lodgings, Marsden? Very good. I shall call upon you and Miss Amelia as soon as I am able to. Your servant.’ He bows, ever correct.

  My father nudges me. ‘Go with him, girl. He needs you, it’s as plain as the nose on your face.’

  I take a step towards Harry, but he turns a look upon me of such contempt that I fear what he will say or do if I come any nearer. He inclines his head in the approximation of a bow and leaves with Richard.

  ‘Well!’ my father says, rubbing his hands. ‘What did you do to that nice young man, Sophie? For you’ve injured him, ’tis plain to see.’

  ‘He blames me for Amelia’s escape to London, Pa.’

  ‘I thought he had more sense than that.’

  ‘Well, chances are he’ll be sacked now, and that’s my fault for sure. I asked him to come with me to find her, and he knew who I was when I arrived at the house and he did not reveal my identity to the family. He blames himself for that, that I am a corrupting influence.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ my father says. ‘What, you, a corrupting influence? Of course he could have told Lord Shad who you were and he didn’t, and I think I know the reason why.’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘You are mistaken, Pa.’ I lean my head against his shoulder for what comfort my father affords, for I find I am sorely in need of it, weary and sick at heart.

  My nose is stuffed up and I should like to retire to bed. ‘Amelia, my dear, would you mind if I went back to the hotel?’

  She smiles. ‘Of course you should, Sophie. Mr Bishop would like to have you there, I am sure, if there is some sort of family trouble. And Mrs Marsden, I am indeed sorry I have put you and Mr Bishop to all this trouble. You have both been so good to me. Please thank him from me.’

  ‘I shall. And I am so glad you are safe.’

  ‘I like your papa very much,’ she says. ‘He has been very kind.’

  Well, of course she does, poor child, bereft of the father she thought she had, and horrified to learn of her real sire. Even Billy Marsden seems a paragon of parenthood compared to the wicked old Viscount.

  I bid my father a fond farewell and set off for the hotel, a scant half-mile walk.

  When I arrive, I find a coach has just arrived and is disgorging passengers who throng inside, ordering food and drink. I am relieved that at least the building has not burned down. Mr Bishop, though, is not in the yard to welcome guests; instead one of the waiters is there performing that role.

  I enter the building too, and find my way to the private quarters of the inn, where I tap on the door of the family’s parlour.

  A woman with floating dark hair and deep brown eyes answers, signs of weeping upon her face. ‘This part of the hotel is not open to guests, ma’am.’

  ‘I’m Sophie Wallace.’

  ‘Oh.’ She looks at me with sudden comprehension. There’s something about her that reminds me of Harry; the sharp cheekbones and something in the shape of the jaw, perhaps. ‘Ma’s spoken of you.’

  ‘Are you Harry’s sister?’

  She nods. ‘I’m Mary Shilling. You’ve met my husband and son, I believe.’

  ‘I don’t wish to intrude, but may I be of some assistance to you?’

  She attempts to smile. ‘You’re very kind, Mrs Wallace. My father is grievously ill of an apoplexy. The surgeon is with him now.’

  ‘Is that Sophie?’ a voice cries from the room behind Mrs Shilling.

  ‘Yes, Ma.’

  ‘Well, let her come in.’ But Mrs Bishop’s voice lacks its usual vibrancy and is hoarse as if she too has wept.

  Mary opens the door and I enter. Mrs Bishop sits upon the sofa, tears spilling from her eyes. ‘My dear Sophie,’ she cries. ‘I was hoping you would come.’

  ‘Mrs Bishop, I am so very sorry.’

  ‘Will you sit with us a little, my dear? Mary, pray pour Sophie some tea. Harry will be glad you are here.’

  I doubt it, but take her hand.

  ‘Mr Bishop was here, taking some tea with me,’ she says, and I know it is a story she will repeat over and over in disbelief as the reality of her loss sinks home. ‘He said to me, “Mrs Bishop, you look most handsome today,” and then a strange expression came over his face.

  ‘I said, “What is wrong, my dear? You do not look quite the thing.”

  ‘And he started to say something and dropped like a stone, here.’ She points to the floor. ‘Like a felled tree. It was a dreadful thing to see. And I knelt by him and took his hand and said, “Peter, my dear” – for it is only under the most intimate of circumstances that I use his Christian name – “you must speak to me.” But his hand was cold, cold as a stone, and I called the girl for hot b
ricks but he said not a word more to me and did not open his eyes again.’ She falls silent, biting her lip. ‘I wonder what it was he tried to tell me. Why did he leave me so?’

  ‘He’s not gone yet, Ma,’ Mrs Shilling says. She hands me a cup of tea and sits down next to Mrs Bishop. ‘The surgeon said he has known some in these cases rally. We’ll see what he says when he and Harry come back downstairs.’

  So we wait, and after a while, a gentleman who must be the surgeon and Harry come into the room, their faces grave.