Mr Bishop and the Actress (22 page)

‘Because it’s too late.’

She looks at me, startled. ‘If that is what you wish to think.’

I shake my head, wondering that in the space of an hour I can have experienced bliss at the anticipation of a respectable, tender courtship and marriage, and now, absolute despair: the loss of the woman I love and my imminent demise at the hands of a murderous husband. My mind flies around as I think of making a will and writing my farewell letters (my poor mother!).

She stands. ‘I may have been a fool at fifteen to elope with that man, but I assure you I have not been one since, not for any man.’

And she goes out of the room, leaving me dumbfounded.

I follow her, but she is nowhere to be seen. One of the footmen, obviously sent to wait for me, invites me downstairs to dine with the upper staff, which I do. I am not yet so much a gentleman that I consider it beneath my dignity, and I learn that Mrs Wallace dines upstairs.

Sophie

I am so angry, so hurt, that you might think I can only peck at my food. Indeed, it is not so. I eat to the extent that Lady Shad – or rather, Charlotte, for we are now on Christian name terms – asks me, sotto voce, whether there is a reason for my appetite, with a telling glance at my midriff.

‘No, ma’am,’ I say, mouth full. I certainly don’t want to tell her of the existence of Captain Wallace; Shad will tell her soon enough. ‘I am feeding a cold.’

‘What on earth is going on, Sophie?’ She stares as I help myself to a large slice of roast beef dripping gravy. ‘Is your appetite the result of a broken heart? I take it that you and Harry have not come to an understanding?’

‘Oh, I have come to a very good understanding of that gentleman.’ I dab at the bodice of my dress where an overloaded forkful of food broke free and tumbled down my front. ‘Do you think this will wash?’

‘Well enough, I should think. I’ll ask Ann’s maid.’

‘Thank you. I wish to ask Lord Shad something after dinner. I’m only warning you so that even if everyone assumes I’m flirting with him, you will know the truth.’

‘Of course, but . . .’ She shakes her head.

Across the table Charlie Fordham gazes at me.

‘Charlie,’ I say quietly to him in my most seductively thrilling tones. ‘Oh, Charlie, dear . . .’

‘Mrs Wallace?’ He quivers with expectation like a terrier at a rat hole.

‘Oh, Charlie, I should so like you to . . .’

‘Yes, Mrs Wallace?’

‘Help me to a dumpling, if you will.’

Charlotte and Claire giggle, Claire with her napkin actually stuffed into her mouth.

Charlie grins with great good nature and ladles a dumpling on to my plate. ‘And is there any other way I may be of service to you, Mrs Wallace? Some more cabbage, perhaps?’

Our hostess the Countess of Beresford gazes at us with mild, aristocratic distaste from the end of the table.

‘Oh, her,’ Charlotte whispers with a regrettable lack of grammar. ‘Sophie, you should hear her belch. Beresford taught her how to when it rained for a week in the country and they could not hunt.’

I take a mouthful of the dumpling and allow a footman to take my plate as the next cover is brought in.

‘What’s this, eh?’ Dachault says, breaking off an interminable conversation with one of the other gentlemen on the subject of dogs. In front of him is a masterpiece of the pastry chef’s creation, a towering concoction of cream and spun sugar studded with almonds, raspberries tumbling down its side.

‘It’s French. It’s a Charlotte Russe,’ the Countess of Beresford says, ‘in honour of my dear friend.’

‘A harlot something or other, did you say? Good lord. Well.’ His lordship glances at his wife and her female friends, myself included, who laugh helplessly. ‘Those Frenchies . . . did you ever run into such a thing, Shad?’

‘Not on board ship. These, however . . .’ Shad stares entranced at a pair of blancmanges, palest pink, each topped with a ripe strawberry. ‘I’ve seen something like this before.’

‘They are very fashionable!’ the Countess of Beresford says, a spot of pink appearing on each cheek.

‘Yes, but they look just like . . .’ Amelia relapses into giggles as we all hush her.

‘I’m sure every household has at least one pair like that,’ Charlotte says. ‘What do you think, Fordham?’

Dachault cuts into the Charlotte Russe and the blancmanges wobble in a most lifelike way.

The Countess of Beresford frowns as her guests burst into laughter and rises. ‘Ladies,’ she announces. ‘Let us leave the gentlemen to their entertainment.’

She leads the way to the drawing room. As we leave, Charlotte leans to whisper something in her husband’s ear, and he nods, and murmuring an excuse to the other men, accompanies us out of the drawing room.

‘What may I do for you, Mrs Wallace?’

‘Sir—’ My voice catches in my throat. ‘I beg your pardon, I believe this cold lingers still. Will you ask a footman to accompany me this evening? I must go out for a little while.’

‘Why, ma’am? Do you wish to interfere in a matter of honour between gentlemen?’

‘Of course.’

‘Very well, ma’am. It is most improper for you to call upon him.’

‘I don’t see why. I am married to him, after all; did he not say so?’

‘He did.’ He looks at me, assessing me. There’s something of the rogue about this man, and I’m halfway to blurting out the truth to him. ‘I should warn you that you may not be the only one calling upon Wallace tonight.’

‘You will be there, sir?’

‘Not I. As Bishop’s second, I must advise him, when I see him later, to let the gentleman stew, but I doubt he’ll take my advice. For all Captain Wallace’s military prowess I should not be surprised if he quietly leaves town. His sort does not want trouble. I’ll ask Beresford to send a footman with you.’

‘And another thing, sir. If you were agreeable to it, I believe I could help Amelia get a real role on the stage. I am willing to become a patron of a theatre – not the one where my father currently directs, for they are not licensed for plays, only pantomime. And as a patron I can have influence over the choice of play and the casting.’

‘That’s most generous of you, ma’am. But all in good time. She acted foolishly and she’ll cool her heels with the chickens for a while. It will do her good.’ He smiles and bows.

Later that evening, accompanied by a footman, I leave the elegance of the new part of the town and make my way into the crooked, old streets where the overhanging houses block what light there is from the stars and moon. We tread carefully to avoid the stinking gutters that run down the centre of each street. The footman is armed with a large cudgel, and figures who emerge from the shadows retreat as they see his threatening appearance.

‘You’re not going in there alone, ma’am,’ he says when we reach the Black Dog. ‘His lordship’s orders.’

‘Wait for me, if you please.’ I hand him a sixpence, and he grins at the prospect of the Black Dog’s refreshments. Since Shad has almost certainly tipped him too I wonder what sort of protection he will provide on the journey back.

I ask the surly fellow in the taproom for Captain Wallace and am led upstairs. Doubtless he has instructed any pretty woman to be sent to his chambers with no need for any questions, or else he expects me to arrive and beg him not to murder my lover. The staircase is creaking and narrow and a rat ambles across the landing, too fat and complacent to be disturbed by the arrival of myself and the boy who leads me.

‘This ’un, miss,’ the boy says, hand out, palm up. I hand over a penny and he clatters back downstairs.

I knock on the door and a grunt bids me enter.

Rupert Wallace sits, the remains of dinner on the table, a glass of wine in his hand. I suspect Shad is right in thinking that he plans to leave, for a portmanteau, lid open, and almost full, stands on the floor next to the bed.

‘Why, Sophie, my dear. Have you come to share the connubial bed once more? How charming.’ He rises to his feet, bows, and offers me a chair. Well, he never lacked manners.

‘You always were an optimist, Rupert.’ I take the chair and accept a glass of wine, which to my surprise is quite good. I am also not surprised that he keeps a second glass in the room, for doubtless he has been up to his usual tricks, cheating at cards and so on.

‘So you’ve come to beg me to spare the life of your lover? What is he, a clerk?’

‘Oh yes, the clerk who gave you that swollen nose. He’s quite prepared to fight you, whereas I see you intend to leave.’

‘Merely taking some better lodgings, my dear, which with your help I’ll be able to afford. I’m most embarrassed to receive you in such poor surroundings.’

I smile and look at him over the rim of the wine glass.

‘You’ve done quite well for yourself, haven’t you, Sophie?’

‘I have been fortunate, yes. Where have you been, Rupert?’

‘Oh, abroad. Resigned my commission, spent some time in Dublin . . . I have family in Ireland, you know.’

I didn’t know. He told me very little of himself and I’m not sure I can believe anything he says now. For all I know he could have been in London, swallowed up in the maw of that great city with all the other tricksters and rogues and rascals, spying upon me, collecting information, biding his time.

He takes my hand and kisses it. ‘I’ve missed you, Sophie. I’m not saying I’ve lived like a monk, because it wouldn’t be true, and you . . . well, enough said there. But we rubbed along together pretty well, didn’t we?’

‘I wish I could believe you. I was so very young. I’m different now.’

‘You are. More beautiful, more assured. A woman, not a girl.’ Fine words that, had he not gazed at my bosom with such interest, might have caused my heart to flutter a little, for once indeed I was desperately in love with him.

‘I was so very naïve then. And you went away and I received but a handful of letters from you.’ I take the small packet of papers, tied in pink ribbon, from my reticule.

‘But, damnation, I wrote to you, Sophie. I swear I did. You must think me the greatest scoundrel,’ he cries.

I let a long silence fall. Of course he is a great scoundrel; we both know it, as we both know that he never wrote to me once. And he seems to recollect this, and makes a great business of trimming and lighting a cigar at the candle upon the table, finally blowing out a fragrant cloud of smoke.

‘What do you want, Sophie?’ his voice has changed, become lower and more seductive, as he tries to take back the direction of our conversation. He glances at the packet of letters that lies beneath my hand on the table.

‘I was so very foolish when I was fifteen,’ I say.

‘But so very lovely.’

‘I knew little of the world or of men,’ I say; not absolutely true, given my upbringing in the theatre and the series of substitute Mamas that populated my father’s lodgings. ‘And at boarding school . . .’

‘That school,’ he says, laughing. ‘I remember the stories you told me of it. Trust your papa to choose such a worthless establishment.’

‘He thought it would make me into a lady, but indeed, my education was sorely lacking. However, Rupert,’ I lean forward and gaze into his eyes. ‘Even I, with my schoolgirl deficiency in the study of the globes, knew that Scotland was more than one day’s drive from Shrewsbury and that the inhabitants of Gretna Green did not speak Welsh.’

A silence. A coal falls in the fireplace and the flame of the candle shivers as Rupert almost drops, and then steadies, his glass on the table.

‘Clever little Sophie,’ he says finally. He glances again at the packet of letters. ‘But the world knows you as Mrs Wallace, and indeed, you’ve done pretty well with my name, have you not? So, how about a loan, my dear?’

I shake my head. ‘I don’t believe so. You see, I’d expect to be repaid.’

He stands and strolls to the fireplace. ‘A little gift, then. I daresay your besotted little clerk knows about your past as Mrs Wallace, but for the right amount of money, I’ll tell him our marriage was not legal. Coming from you, I doubt he’d believe it.’

‘Oh, Rupert,’ I say in the same tone of voice as when I asked Charlie for a dumpling earlier that evening, ‘that is so very tempting. But I don’t need your word for it. You see, after you went abroad, I met a certain Mr Bright, who much admired my performance on the stage. Imagine my surprise, for I had known him as the Reverend Mr Buckle who had officiated at our marriage. So,’ holding up the packet of letters, ‘I persuaded the gentleman to write his account of the matter.’

‘Damn you!’ George shouts and snatches the letters from me, tossing them on to the fire. He pokes them into a fierce blaze. ‘Now what, Sophie?’

‘Oh, those were laundry lists from the Earl of Beresford’s house. Bright’s statement is safely stored in my lawyer’s office in London.’

Rupert lets his breath out in a long huff, and collapses back into his chair. He frowns and then bursts into laughter, and I’m reminded of what attracted me to him in the first place (other than the dash and glamour of a gentleman in regimentals looking upon me approvingly at church while the other pupils from Miss Lewisham’s school giggled and nudged me in the ribs).

‘Sophie, Sophie. I’m not a clever fellow, you know.’ He pours me some more wine and takes another puff of his cigar. ‘Not as clever as you. But now, this Mr Bishop. What is he? I need to know he’ll treat you well, for I do care about you still – yes, you may smile and shake your head, but I was very happy with you. And the false marriage was a foolish thing, but you were a respectable pupil at Miss Lewisham’s school, and I burned for you, Sophie. I thought it was the only way to . . . well, you know. So tell me about Bishop.’

‘He’s a most respectable gentleman. He owns Bishop’s Hotel.’

‘Bishop’s Hotel, eh? I stayed there a few times. How extraordinary. So, a man of property.’

And I realize my mistake.

He stubs out his cigar and leans forward, taking my hand. ‘Consider this, then, Sophie, my love. The world knows you as Mrs Wallace and you’ve obviously committed adultery a few times. He won’t want a scandal. He’ll pay. It’s a shabby enough place but in the right hands could be worth a mint. We make a good team, you and I. What do you say?’