Free Mr Bishop and the Actress by Janet Mullany

stage.’

    I wonder what Lord Shad will think of that.

    ‘Are you by any chance related to Mr Marsden, the theatre manager? His touring company visited here last summer. It was quite splendid.’

    Now I have learned that lies are best if you stick close to the truth, so I reply that yes, indeed, Mr Marsden is a relative, but go into few details. It is not widely known that the scandalous Mrs Wallace is the daughter of that gentleman, but I shall take no chances.

    ‘It is a hazardous profession,’ I tell her. Hazardous indeed; she might well find herself fighting off an amorous Othello. ‘Certainly not one for a lady.’

    ‘But, Mrs Marsden—’ she pauses in counting the eggs in her basket. ‘I am not a lady, nor can I become one. The position of poultrymaid is a kindness for which I am most grateful, for I am paid by the kitchen for eggs and fowl. But I am not sure I wish to do this all my life and be a dependant on Uncle Shad. Possibly I may marry, but I cannot count on it. Do you think I should marry Mr Bishop?’

    ‘Mr Bishop? Has your—I mean, Lord Shad – has he suggested you should?’ For some reason this makes me extremely uneasy.

    ‘Oh, no. But Mr Bishop is here, and he is a real person.’

    ‘Both those factors are certainly in the gentleman’s favour,’ I say.

    ‘You see, I should really like to marry Benedict in Much Ado About Nothing . Or Henry the Fifth. Not Hamlet, for he is too melancholy. I should not like to marry a gentleman who spends so much time talking about himself.’ We walk back towards the house, she with her basket of eggs, while we discuss the merits of various heroes from Shakespeare as husbands.

    ‘Mrs Marsden, forgive me for asking, but were you ever on the stage yourself?’

    I could kick myself for revealing myself so. ‘Only in a very few amateur productions. It was all very genteel.’

    ‘So Mr Marsden never invited you to perform?’

    ‘He is a very distant sort of relative.’ Despite our proximity to the fowl, no cock crows as I deny my fond if absent sire.

    Fortunately at this point we have entered the kitchen and I am spared having to tangle myself further as some sort of crisis seems to have occurred, with the cook and Harry Bishop facing off on opposite sides of the kitchen table while the staff gather around, wide-eyed and awed, like children watching their parents quarrel.

    A large iron pot stands on the table and this is the cause of their disagreement.

    ‘I assure you, Mr Bishop, this is how it is done in this household. Mr Roberts never had cause to interfere.’

    ‘Maggots!’ Harry reaches into the pot and flicks something on to the floor that wriggles until he steps on it. ‘This will not do, ma’am.’

    ‘His lordship is used to food from foreign parts.’

    ‘Even in foreign parts, ma’am, they do not eat rotting food.’

    ‘Indeed they do, sir. It is why they add spices.’ The contempt and horror on the cook’s face demonstrate that maggots represent all that is good about England, whereas spices are the horrid epitome of the foreign sensibility.

    ‘I must disagree. They add spices because they like them.’

    ‘Impossible!’

    ‘And how many times have you served meat crawling with maggots to the family? It is a wonder they are still alive. Consider, ma’am, you may end up on the gallows. Would you serve such to downstairs?’

    Her face expresses eloquently that she would serve the maggots without the meat to him and her grip tightens on her wooden spoon.

    Harry nods to one of the footmen. ‘Take this out. Give it to the pigs.’

    The footman sidles forward, keeping a close eye on the cook as though she may spring to the rescue of the meat, and takes the pot. A sour odour arises from its depths.

    ‘Well, I shan’t be held responsible for a half-empty table,’ the cook says.

    ‘Roast chicken,’ Amelia says and darts out of the door.

    After a very short time she returns with two limp corpses that she tosses