Mr Bishop and the Actress Read Online Free

we must show Mr Bishop my bed and decide what’s to be done.’

    Mr Fordham shuffles along behind her, sighing heavily.

    I clear my throat to get his attention and whisper, ‘Sir, I think it best if I speak to Mrs Wallace alone. Lord Shadderly needs to be sure she’ll make no further claim on you.’

    He nods and lets go her hand. For one moment she looks absolutely forlorn, but the moment passes and she disappears around the corner with a flutter of muslin.

    I follow her.

    I don’t trust her an inch.

    The bed is the only piece of furniture in the room, which is decorated otherwise with a few drifts of dust and what must be a garter, lying sad and abandoned on the bare floorboards. 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 sin.

    She trots up the wooden steps necessary to get into the behemoth, and arranges herself on the red coverlet, ankles prettily on display.

    ‘Look, Mr Bishop, how beautiful the painting of the tester is!’ She points above her head and pats the bed with the other hand, as though inviting me to join her.

    I take a step forward and angle my head to catch a glimpse of cavorting fleshy gods and goddesses, protected inadequately by wisps of cloud and surrounded by beaming fat putti.

    ‘Very fine. And when do you intend to move this bed out, Mrs Wallace?’

    She rests on one elbow. ‘They say Queen Elizabeth slept on it.’

    ‘And you must sleep on it elsewhere, ma’am.’

    She twirls a lock of hair around one finger. ‘Regretfully at the moment I cannot afford to move the bed.’

    ‘Until you have another protector, I suppose.’

    ‘Precisely.’ She smiles, not quite shamelessly, but as though this is all just business for her. I suppose it is. I don’t like the idea of this woman skipping carelessly into the arms of the highest bidder; she looks too fresh and pretty.

    ‘If you were my sister . . .’ I begin.

    ‘If I were your sister, sir, you would arrange for me to enter into a similar arrangement blessed by the Church; nay, a lesser arrangement, for I’d be trapped for life with nothing of my own, not even a bed such as this.’ She pats the coverlet, this time as though caressing a favourite dog.

    I walk across to the window and prop myself up on the sill, wanting to move as far as possible from her and the huge bed. ‘Why, ma’am, you would have nothing but your honour.’

    ‘And very nice for them that can afford honour, I say.’

    I wonder what this woman’s story, is, that she came to such a pass; and who, and where, Mr Wallace is, even if such a person exists. She is not repentant, she is not resorting to tears or threats; she is remarkably stoic – or giving that impression – about her plight.

    ‘I quite loved Charlie,’ she says, taking me aback even further.

    ‘Indeed.’

    ‘Oh, yes. But it’s possible, Mr Bishop, to love someone who you know is not the right person for you. Are you married, sir?’

    ‘No, ma’am, I am not.’ The last thing I need is a philosophical discussion with this woman. Or is she eyeing me up as her next protector? ‘I presume we can expect no unfortunate results of this liaison?’

    ‘Oh, sir!’ She looks quite shocked. ‘Do you talk, sir, of babies? Unfortunate results, indeed.’

    I ignore her. ‘Well, are there?’

    She looks me in the eye. ‘No, sir. I have made sure of it.’

    ‘I presume Mr Fordham owes you no money?’

    ‘No, sir. He owes me nothing.’

    ‘Very well. You’ll remove that bed, Mrs Wallace, and I trust you will have no further commerce with Mr Fordham.’

    She smiles. ‘Of course, sir, although is that not up to Mr Fordham? He does achieve his majority in a few months, I believe.’

    ‘I hope he has better judgement.’

    She pouts and twirls a loose curl between her fingers. ‘You are not very flattering, sir. I am a woman of good sense and, whatever you think of my profession, I have