Free Mr Bishop and the Actress by Janet Mullany Page A

on to the table. This girl, who petted and played with her fowl as though they were kittens, is entirely dry-eyed. ‘Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. I never much liked these two,’ she says. ‘I thought sooner or later we should eat them.’

    ‘Lord Shad will be expecting roast beef,’ the cook says as though inviting someone to slaughter a cow instead, but a moment later she is snapping at one of the maids to put on a pot of water so they may pluck the birds. She shoots spiteful glances at Harry all the while. It is only too obvious she would prefer to plunge him into the boiling water.

    ‘Miss Amelia. Mrs Marsden.’ Harry makes a half-bow in our direction. ‘May I be of assistance?’

    ‘I wanted to show Mrs Marsden the kitchen,’ Amelia says, oblivious of the hidden message that I certainly shouldn’t be trespassing upon Harry Bishop’s sphere of influence.

    ‘Certainly you may show her the stillroom and laundry room too,’ he says. ‘I am sure Mrs Marsden is very interested in household management. And don’t forget the brewhouse and icehouse.’

    Amelia looks from me to him, puzzled by his tone, but I thank him effusively for being allowed to visit the kitchen and pour on a little exaggerated praise about what a well-run and clean place it is. The cook swells with pride and Harry frowns.

    I escape with Amelia as soon as we can, trying not to wonder why I think of Mr Bishop as Harry.

    Diary of Miss Amelia Price
I wonder why Mr Bishop was so insistent that I show Mrs Marsden the rest of the outhouses? She liked the dairy, but I find it extraordinary that someone should not know about butter and cream, although she assured me she knew a cow when she saw one. I offered to teach her to milk, and as we began the lesson, Mr Bishop came in and told us he thought she would be very good at it, her hands having been occupied in similar fashion before.

She laughed, and he looked put out, and then the cow kicked over the bucket.

I suppose it is London manners, since both of them come from there.

Sophie

    A melia is to play for me, and she is a mess of nerves. I have never seen anyone wring their hands in real life (it happens on the stage, and in my dealings with gentlemen, fairly frequently).

    ‘I’m not very good,’ she says as though she is about to burst into tears.

    ‘Calm yourself. Pray choose a piece you like.’ I’m hoping she is indeed not too competent, for then I would have nothing to teach her. I am not so concerned about earning my keep – for sure, this is much easier than being a mistress, and I do not have to put up with snoring, among other unpleasantness, at night – but I like this young girl, her awkward charm and innocence. I want to help her.

    ‘You see . . .’ She paws miserably through the book of music. ‘I don’t know how to . . . that is, I’ve never had lessons.’

    ‘You mean you cannot read music?’

    ‘No, I don’t know how. Aunt Shad tried to teach me, but she had to keep running out to vomit.’

    ‘What! Your playing was so bad?’

    She shakes her head, taking my jest entirely seriously. ‘No, she was with child. Besides, Aunt Shad doesn’t really like to play. She likes horses and babies better.’

    ‘But you can play?’

    ‘Oh yes. It’s quite easy.’ She sits at the pianoforte and hums quietly to herself. ‘This is the Sussex Waltz.’

    And she plays, quite sweetly and simply, a tune she must have danced to. Her touch is light and delicate, but she has an instinct for when she should play loud or soft. I am charmed and impressed.

    ‘Where did you hear it?’ I ask when she has finished.

    ‘Oh, everyone knows this.’ She looks at me with astonishment as though everyone can do what she can.

    ‘I see. Would you like to sing for me?’

    She looks much happier and we browse through the volume of music together to find a song she knows, and naturally it is from Shakespeare, Feste’s song from the conclusion of Twelfth Night . I am struck