Mr Bishop and the Actress Page 9

  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.

  After a brief conversation with her friend, Amelia comes to my side. ‘Mrs Marsden, Jane – that is, Miss Wilton – has invited me to accompany her family to Bath this summer! Do help me persuade Uncle Shad that I should go! I know it is not so fashionable as Brighton, but Miss Wilton and I are such great friends already.’

  ‘Of course.’ What else can I say? In a way I am relieved, for if I were to accompany Amelia there it is doubtful whether I should meet any acquaintances from my former life. Bath is not particularly fashionable these days now that the Prince Regent has made Brighton his own.

  Amelia puts her arm in mine and takes me to meet the Wiltons. The party also includes Mrs Wilton’s brother, a military gentleman who seems somewhat ill at ease in his brand-new regimentals, Captain Dean. ‘Charmed, ma’am.’

  He gazes at me with approval and for one horrid moment I fear he recognizes me, for at first glance he is just the sort of gentleman, raffish and dandyish, convinced all females will swoon at his feet, that I should have associated with in my previous profession. But no, he is a young man who feels his uniform obliges him to flirt with any pretty woman, a sort of patriotic duty. He bends over my hand, creaking and jingling as he does so.

  ‘Oh, fie, Edward!’ His sister smacks him with her fan. ‘Take no notice, Mrs Marsden, he is an incorrigible flirt. Besides, next week his regiment leaves for Nottingham and we shall be bereft of his company. So, Mrs Marsden, is it not charming how well our young ladies get along? And to think Lord Shadderly . . . well. I must say, she is a most ladylike creature and she is a credit to him. And to you, ma’am, of course.’

  ‘I r
egret I cannot take much credit for Amelia. Her talents are mostly her own.’ I am full of admiration for Mrs Wilton’s deflection of any interest I may have in her brother; not only have I been given notice that the gentleman is not long in the neighbourhood but he is not to be taken seriously. To annoy her, I add with a sigh, ‘It is very fine to see a gentleman in regimentals among all these naval gentlemen.’

  She snaps her fan shut but at that moment we are summoned in to dinner. It is a very informal affair for we straggle into the Carstairs’ dining room and sit where we will. So it is I find myself next to Captain Dean and opposite Harry, who is deep in conversation with some other neighbours about making beer.

  Captain Dean gives me the heavy-lidded, amused smile of a man who believes he is God’s gift to women. ‘You are very interesting, Mrs Marsden. A hothouse flower set down in the country.’

  ‘La, sir!’ I affect a giggle and smack him, a little more than playfully, across the knuckles with a spoon. ‘I’ll take some of that pie by your elbow, if you please.’

  Breathing heavily, he helps me to a slice of pie, managing to drip gravy suggestively on to the tablecloth. (No, I cannot adequately describe how he does it. Suffice it to say that the pie becomes an object of carnal interest and I its unwitting votary.)

  ‘And do you enjoy military life, sir?’ I ask, briskly dumping a spoonful of carrots on to his plate. ‘Some carrots, Mr Bishop?’ For that gentleman looks upon me across the table with disapproval.

  Captain Dean stirs inside his high military collar and reddens. ‘I’ve not yet joined the regiment, ma’am.’

  ‘Oh, so you are a chrysalis of a soldier.’

  Harry Bishop drops a large slice of roast beef on to my plate while the military gentleman ponders my statement. I think he is somewhat disturbed by my implication that he is to become a martial butterfly.

  ‘Do you enjoy walking, Mrs Marsden?’

  Naturally Amelia and I spend a great deal of time splashing through puddles while she recites Shakespeare to the clouds and I try to save the hems of my gowns from mud, but I know where the Captain’s question is leading. Doubtless he imagines thickets, grassy banks, secluded spots, and my own charms laid open to his attack. My reply is hesitant. Genteel ladies enjoy walking. I am a genteel lady, so therefore . . . ‘Oh, very much so. But—’

  ‘Lord Shad wishes the ladies in his household to stay indoors until the Great Norfolk Horned Beast has been captured,’ Harry says.

  ‘The Great Norfolk Horned Beast!’ The Captain looks at him with astonishment as do I, for I am amazed that Harry has come to my rescue. ‘What sort of creature is this?’

  ‘Huge,’ I offer. ‘Possessed of great teeth and claws and the size of an elephant. And horns, hence its name.’

  ‘Mrs Marsden exaggerates. It’s the size of a small cow,’ Harry says. ‘It’s played havoc with our sheep this past month.’

  Others at the table have overheard our conversation and have taken it up, some speculating it is a creature from the Americas that has escaped from a private collection or an ancient beast haunting the fens since the dawn of time. I watch, entranced, as the topic weaves and grows in richness and inventiveness, until it reaches Lord Shad, who laughs and declares it a great piece of nonsense.

  And so dinner continues, with the amorous Captain at my elbow and Harry watchful opposite me and it is mightily uncomfortable. I am indeed glad when our hostess rises, prompting a general clatter of chairs as we all get to our feet, and shawls are disentangled, fans collected, and the gentlemen bow us out of the room. I am probably the only lady there who has some idea of what will follow, the male rituals of port and tobacco and manly jests and conversation, the sideboard door open to reveal the chamberpot.

  After we leave, our hostess discreetly lets it be known that a water closet is available for the ladies’ use, an item she seems to be rather proud of, blushingly confessing it is a new improvement to the house. Mrs Wilton laments that such an item may increase laziness among the staff, but Mrs Carstairs assures her that the usual arrangements continue in the bedchamber. Satisfied that the social order is maintained, we progress to the drawing room where we arrange ourselves prettily on the sofas and chairs, and giggling Miss Wilton fusses with Amelia’s hair. I admire the pianoforte, acquired about the same time as the water closet, Mrs Carstairs confesses.

  ‘Did you attend many concerts in London, Mrs Marsden?’ Mrs Wilton asks, an opening gambit in the game of discovering more about me, following her brother’s interest in me during dinner.

  ‘As many as I could, ma’am,’ I reply with a fine ambiguity.

  ‘Oh, London,’ Mrs Carstairs says with a sigh. ‘I’ve never been further than Norwich. I do so envy you, Mrs Marsden. But tell me, how do Charlotte and the child? I long to see her. We are godparents, you know, to little Harriet and the boys.’

  I know that in the normal course of things any fashionable lady would be expected to stay abed for at least another week, not lounge half-dressed on the sofa with her children, a contented, milky slattern, or repair to the kitchen to assist in the preparation of strawberry jam. I assure Mrs Carstairs that all is well.

  ‘I believe that is a gown from a London dressmaker, Mrs Marsden,’ Mrs Wilton interjects. ‘Most elegant. With whom were you in service before?’

  She has noticed my gown is far better than any a woman in my position should be able to afford and my mind becomes absolutely blank. Of course I have prepared a false story of my life, but her effrontery in asking me about my previous employment, as though she was considering me for a position as chambermaid, fairly takes my breath and my fabricated story away. Mrs Carstairs glances from her to me with some distress, clutching an album of music to her bosom.

  I am saved from a reply by the entry of the gentlemen led by Captain Carstairs, deep in conversation with Lord Shad, and Mrs Wilton’s attention, and that of the rest of the ladies, turns to the gentlemen. There is a fair amount of laughter and banter and a great gust of brandy accompanies them into the room. Mrs Carstairs, who has interposed herself between me and Mrs Wilton, shares a relieved smile with me, and takes over pouring tea which one of her footmen hands around.

  Amelia glances at the pianoforte. I thought she’d be nervous. On the contrary, I see she longs to perform and the thought crosses my mind that maybe she might be suited for the stage. She has talent, she has ambition, and she has what I never did, a yearning that is half passion, half steely determination. I relied on my good looks, my family’s influence, and a moderate talent to use the stage as a stepping stone to becoming a courtesan. I also possessed the fearlessness of youth, the one thing I have in common with Amelia (except that at her age I was already mistress to the elderly yet lecherous Lord Radding, of whom I still think with affection as I lie in the bed he bequeathed me).

  Amelia fidgets like a thoroughbred at the starting gate until our hostess takes pity on her and asks if she would like to play. For the first time she hesitates and I offer to accompany her while she sings. I am afraid that my insistence that she learns to read music may have set her back a little in her playing. We confer and she chooses an opera aria we have studied that week.

  She steps forward, and something twists inside me at her beauty and innocence. I shall protect her and guide her; I would say she is like a sister except my sisters needed little protection or guidance as they forged indifferent careers on the stage, somewhat more successful careers in gentlemen’s beds, and the final achievement of matrimony and respectability (all except for poor Kate, dead in childbirth).

  Of our audience, some of the gentlemen, who have succumbed to sleep in anticipation of musical entertainment, sit bolt upright, blinking in astonishment at what they hear. Of the ladies, their expressions vary between pure envy and admiration. Lord Shad listens with a proud smile.

  I wish I could like him better for it.

  But I concentrate on my playing, allowing Amelia to shine as she should, and when I raise my fingers from the keys there is as muc
h of a thunder of applause as can be raised from the company. She turns to smile at me, and there is a question in her eyes – should she sing another? I shake my head, no: Leave them wanting more, a maxim that has served me well, both on and off stage.

  She curtsies prettily and I remain at the piano in case any other young lady should like to sing. Amelia’s newfound friend the giggler slops her way through a Scottish folk song to polite applause, and then the real business of the evening begins – the dancing.

  The military butterfly alights at the end of the instrument. ‘Are you to remain at that damned, beg your pardon, ma’am, that instrument all evening, Mrs Marsden? I had rather hoped you might do me the honour, ma’am.’

  I express with great insincerity my regret that I am here to provide the music and assure the gentleman that I do not need anyone to turn pages for me. His sister regards him with disapproval and takes him under her wing so he may tread upon the feet and leave damp handprints upon the gowns of more deserving women.