Mr Bishop and the Actress (24 page)

‘It’s about time!’ My mother pours me a glass of punch. We drink a toast to . . . I’m not sure who, for the next few hours pass in a happy blur.

Sophie

I return from Bath somewhat travel-weary and still concerned for Amelia, who clearly obeys her brother out of duty and making sure everyone knows she takes very little pleasure in it. Even the fulsome greeting of giggling Miss Jane Wilton failed to produce much liveliness in her, although she cheered up a little at the prospect of shopping.

Having submitted myself to Mrs Wilton’s contempt for ten minutes in her drawing room (I think the lady debated whether she should send me downstairs to the kitchen), I retired to the very respectable hotel the Trelaise family patronize when visiting that town, and subjected myself to some bowing and scraping. Yet I cannot help but notice the waiter who wipes his nose on his sleeve and the greasy fingerprints on the wine glass (I send it back) and think of Bishop’s Hotel. I wonder how Mrs Bishop fares and whether Harry has started his campaign to smarten the place up.

And then I take the coach back to Norfolk, a long journey which gives me much time for reflection, and I am glad indeed when I arrive at the crossroads. The wind ripples through the marshy grasses and skylarks twitter overhead; the occasional tree etched against the sky takes on a particular beauty in its isolation.

Ahead of me I see a familiar group of figures, Charlotte and her two sons, waving wildly at me, followed by a female servant who must be the new nursemaid carrying the infant Harriet.

‘My dear Sophie!’ She embraces me and the two little boys crowd around me, asking if I have brought them presents. ‘I trust you are not too fatigued from your journey? I could send Martha back for the trap, if you like.’

‘No need. I am cramped from sitting in that coach for so long. How is the conservatory?’

‘Splendid. John threw a cricket ball through one of the window panes and I thought Shad would kill him.’ She takes my arm. ‘Was Amelia still in a sulk? I really don’t know what to do with her although Shad talks of sending her to his fashionable sister in London for the season.’

I take Harriet so the nursemaid can take my bag and carry her upon my hip as we walk to the house. We dissuade the little boys from dabbling in the duckpond and John, who has taken over the duties of looking after Amelia’s poultry, waves to us, a basket of eggs in his other hand.

As we enter the cobbled yard surrounded by outbuildings at the side of the house (for we do not stand on formality, choosing to use the side door rather than the front door), we are greeted by Mark the footman, who wears his largest hook and seems to be directing Luke and Matthew in the transportation of some unwieldy piece of timber.

When he sees us, a furtive expression comes over his face, and he grabs the door of the nearest building and pushes Luke and Matthew and their burden inside. Thumps and cries of pain as they encounter obstacles emerge from behind the closed door, along with the shouts of an enraged woman.

‘What on earth are they doing?’

She shrugs. ‘Oh, Shad asked them to take some old things out of the attic, I believe.’

‘Into the dairy?’ I glance at Mark who stands against the door, arms spread against the wood as though at any moment we will break the door down and he must protect the contents at all cost. Inside, someone shrieks that these great oafs will spoil her butter.

‘It is strange,’ Charlotte murmurs.

‘You’re plotting something. And why is there a fire lit in the steward’s house?’ For a trickle of smoke emerges from the chimney. ‘Is Harry here?’

‘Oh, no! Certainly not! He is in London. Yes, at his hotel,’ she says with tremendous emphasis, and I am relieved indeed that she does not need to make her living on the stage.

I hand Harriet back to her mother and march to the door of the house. I rap smartly on the wood but receive no answer. So I push open the door.

I’ve never been in Harry’s house before, and I look around with great curiosity. Some cleaning seems to be taking place, for all the furniture is huddled up at one end of the single room that is a combined kitchen and parlour, and the bedchamber, the other room of the house, is completely bare.

But Harry’s possessions are still here: a steadily ticking clock on the mantelpiece, and a few books, a pen, and a bottle of ink on the small table pushed against the wall. Bundles of herbs hang from the ceiling and at the hearth a kettle, hissing and releasing a little steam, stands on a trivet. His spare coat, the one that is a little too large for him – a gift from Shad – hangs on a hook on the bedchamber door. I press my face against the wool and then against the silk lining, wishing it was still warm from his body.

The room is stark, with plain whitewashed walls, floors swept and scrubbed to a creamy smoothness. The small window, with ancient thick glass in diamondshaped panes, looks out on to green fields.

And on the windowsill, as though echoing that wavering and uncertain green, lies a piece of glass, smoothed, transformed, made magic by unknown storms.

I leave the house and walk towards the dairy, where the milkmaid continues to harangue her unwelcome guests and Mark still stands guard.

‘Get your foot out of that, ’tis ruined!’

‘Don’t you worry, Molly,’ tain’t a real leg.’

‘Girt great oaf, you think that makes it better? Cook’ll have the skin off your back.’

More thumps and the sound of a breaking vessel.

Mark presses himself against the door, his hook actually buried in the wood of the lintel.

‘I know what you’re doing,’ I say. ‘And I know you won’t tell me where Mr Bishop is, though I daresay he’s close by, but you don’t have to hide from me. Pray continue.’

He answers with a smile that probably almost matches the one on my face, nods, and wrenches his hook out with a great splintering sound. ‘Come on out, then, lads. We’re discovered.’

Harry

It’s time.

I have admired the new conservatory, made my farewells to the staff, and given instructions to the new steward. I advise him that any seamen seeking employment must be hired immediately even if they are bereft of skills or limbs, shake his hand, and wish him luck.

I accept Shad’s invitation to dine with the family later that evening and return to the steward’s house. My replacement will probably not occupy the house for a few days, for I have some unfinished business before my departure for London.

Molly, our milkmaid, passes me, a large bowl of cream balanced on her hip. She pauses to curtsy, her deference spoiled by a saucy wink.

She knows.

Outside the dairy the cats have gathered to lick up a patch of mingled butter and cream that bears footmarks and the imprint of a wooden leg.

And so to the house, where the tick of the clock sounds louder than usual, the rays of the late afternoon sun slanting in through the mullioned windows.

The bedchamber door is closed.

I open it to find the room occupied entirely by one monstrous piece of furniture I know well. The bed is huge and ancient, its posts dark with age and carved with leaves and flowers, the hangings a dark red silk. A bed made for passion.

The occupant of the bed, who mirrors in her state of undress the cavorting deities of the tester, smiles and holds out her hand to me.

‘Sir,’ Sophie says. ‘I must speak to you about my bed.’