Mr Bishop and the Actress Read online

  ‘Who the devil gave them permission?’ Lord Shad shouts.

  ‘You did,’ says Lady Shad. She rests her elbows on the back of her chair. ‘Bishop, when you get there, make sure you see the mermaid.’

  ‘What mermaid?’ her husband asks.

  ‘There’s a mermaid . . .’ A long pause as she bends her forehead to her fists. ‘And dancing dogs and a talking horse.’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ Lord Shad drains his glass of claret and bangs it on to the table. ‘Bishop, be on your way.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ Lady Shad says. ‘He’ll get lost. You go, Shad.’

  Lord Shad looks from me to his wife and back again. He shakes his head. ‘I see I have no choice. Very well. Bishop, do whatever she says. My dear, pray try not to have the child for an hour.’

  They kiss each other with a tenderness that makes me uncomfortable, for clearly they are much in love and I feel like an interloper.

  ‘Go away, Shad.’ His lady pushes him from her. ‘And don’t forget the mermaid.’

  He runs from the room, leaving me frozen in terror while Lady Shad bends her head to the back of the chair again. I believe we are the only people in the house other than the children asleep upstairs. This was certainly not how I expected to begin my duties in the household. I had envisioned a quiet evening in the steward’s house (now mine) and to bed early to make up for the last two nights: sleepless nights in which I travelled from the north of England to take this position.

  ‘May I be of some assistance, ma’am?’ I ask when she straightens up again.

  ‘Give me your arm. I want to walk.’ This is so unlike my very limited knowledge of childbirth – overheard, whispered fragmentary accounts of hours and days of screaming and clutching bedposts – that I am relieved, fool that I am. She leans on my arm and we pace up and down the room, pausing when her fingers grip my arm and she leans on me, breathing heavily. Now and again she curses.

  ‘Do you think the mermaid is a girl with a fish tail?’ she asks.

  ‘Or the other way round, ma’am.’

  She laughs a little and then groans and clutches my arm. ‘Bishop, is the bowl the cabbage was served in empty?’

  ‘You’d like some more cabbage, ma’am?’

  ‘No. Hand me the damned bowl.’

  She pushes past me to grab the bowl from the table and vomits copiously into it, to my horror. She appears most unwell, flushed and sweaty, but she looks at me with a weak smile. ‘Don’t be so alarmed, Bishop. We will not have much longer at this. I always puke at around this time.’

  ‘That hardly reassures me, ma’am.’ I take the bowl from her and hand her a napkin. ‘What should I do?’

  She shakes her head and takes my arm again. We resume our perambulation of the room while I hope desperately that her husband will return soon with the midwife who will take over from my male incompetence.

  How long did he say he would be? An hour? There is no clock in the dining room. We walk and stop at her pains, and it seems to me that there is less walking now and more stopping.

  ‘Ma’am, should you not retire to your bed?’ Isn’t that how women are supposed to do it?

  ‘No. Don’t want to mess up the bed hangings.’ She stops at a sofa. ‘I must sit.’ I try to help her but she seems to have turned into a madwoman, pushing me away and cursing at me, and I fear the pangs of childbirth and the attentions of a stranger may have addled her mind.

  ‘Don’t touch me!’ she shrieks. Then, quite rationally, ‘Have you ever attended a birth before?’

  ‘Only kittens.’ And that was a much neater and tidier business, with the mother cat purring and producing a tidy bundle of kitten every minute or so.

  ‘It hurts! Where’s Shad?’ She writhes and slips off the edge of the sofa on to the floor, landing on her knees. At a loss, I moisten a napkin from the table with water and wipe her forehead, and as she does not scream at me I assume this helps.

  ‘My skirts.’ She rocks from side to side, attempting to free her skirts from under her knees. There is nothing for it now; apparently I am to become a man midwife whether I wish to or not, despite my terror.

  ‘Pray don’t distress yourself, ma’am.’

  ‘You whoreson!’ she screams at me, or her absent husband, or no one in particular. ‘Get my skirts up, you fool. You know how to do that, don’t you? This is no time for modesty.’

  I can see that. ‘To be perfectly honest, ma’am—’

  ‘Hold your tongue!’ Then, very loudly and with a deafening shriek, ‘Do something!’

  I tear off my coat for better access to her ladyship’s nether regions.

  ‘I shall die!’ she screams.

  And then her husband will kill me for sure, which he may do anyway.

  She grabs my ear with one hand, the sofa with the other – the ancient brocade gives way under her nails – and dear God, someone else has joined us in a great rush of warm fluid. That is, I believe it to be a person, smeared in blood and some sort of wax, creased and hideous, slippery in my hands.

  She stops screaming and the room is tremendously quiet. ‘What is it?’

  How can I tell her she has given birth to a monster? A twisted blue rope obscures its sex. ‘I don’t know. A boy? No, it’s a girl. Yes, a girl.’

  ‘Give her to me!’ she screams very loudly, but it’s a different, exultant sort of cry. The strange creature in my arms now flails its limbs and turns from grey to mottled red as it opens its mouth to shriek almost as loudly as its mother. From one second to another, everything is transformed.

  ‘You’re crying, Bishop,’ Lady Shad says and reaches for the child we have just delivered.

  I am, to my surprise. I also seem to have forgotten how to breathe and I can’t see properly. Mother and child, the dining room with its cobwebbed comices and dark paintings on the wall, all spin around and away from me as I fall into an unmanly swoon.

  ‘Bishop?’ Lord Shad kneels at my side. He’s smiling although somewhat wet around the eyes, and holds a glass of brandy. ‘My apologies for leaving you in such a damnable situation, sir, and my most heartfelt thanks for the safe delivery of my daughter. Lady Shad has sung your praises this past quarter hour. We thought it best to let you sleep for a while.’

  ‘The baby,’ I croak. ‘Lady Shad. Are they well? I beg your pardon for falling asleep. I am somewhat fatigued.’

  ‘They are both well, thanks to you. Come and drink my daughter’s health.’ He pats my shoulder and retreats.

  The room is transformed. Before, I saw a slightly shabby dining room with dingy faded walls and indifferent portraits, dark with age, hung around it. Now it glows golden in lamplight, and Lady Shad sits on the couch, her daughter at her breast, her two little boys awed and adoring at her side, as beautiful as any portrait painting. A woman, who from her lack of teeth must be Mrs Simpkins, clucks over them all and urges Lady Shad to drink ale.

  ‘My deliverer!’ Lady Shad holds her hand out to me and laughs at her own joke. ‘I must not laugh. It hurts my—well, never mind where it hurts, Bishop. Look at this child you and I produced.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am. I believe I had some previous involvement in the matter,’ Shad says. ‘What shall we name her? What is your Christian name, Bishop?’

  ‘Henry, my lord. My family call me Harry, but I beg of you, do not feel obliged—’

  ‘Harry! Then she must be Harriet,’ Lady Shad says. ‘And we owe you a coat, Bishop. I’m afraid yours is ruined.’

  The child, although still somewhat creased and red, has been wiped clean and looks slightly less like a goblin. I feel a great surge of pride and affection as though she were my own, and for Lady Shad too, whom I believe I must be halfway in love with, despite the indignities of our association. And I am more than halfway in love with the whole family, if such a thing is possible. I see now why Shad (and referring to him thus seems natural and easy) is so highly regarded downstairs, this man who has treated me with
such kindness, and now sits with his two sons upon his lap gazing upon his wife and new daughter.

  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.

  2

  Mrs Sophie Wallace

  Sorry, 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 f
oolish 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.’