Mr Bishop and the Actress Read Online Free Page B

find a mallet and a wedge there. There is not a single steel bolt or screw in the whole piece except for the curtain rails. It’s very well made.’

    I walk around the bed silently cursing myself for my arrogance. I am not sure that even the brawn of my brother-in-law Thomas Shilling, a huge ex-pugilist of some twenty stone of muscle, or even two of him, if they existed, could dismantle this monstrosity of fornication. I shall be like the minnow that swims alongside a whale. Grimly I unbutton my coat.

    How many other men have unbuttoned their coats (and more) in the presence of Mrs Wallace and her bed?

    I am spared further disturbing thoughts by the arrival of Thomas and his son Richard, a skinny beanpole of a fellow who is much the same size and dimensions as one of the bedposts. Richard stares entranced at Mrs Wallace who rewards him with a dazzling smile.

    ‘Come along, lad,’ Tom says to him. ‘Look sharp, now. Harry, they’re doing the fattened calf and all for you at the hotel; Mrs Bishop is airing the sheets for you and has the kitchen all in a tizzy. They’re that excited to see you. Now, this bed. Well, now.’

    He steps around it as though facing an opponent in the ring.

    ‘Tester off first, Father, I reckon,’ Richard says.

    ‘One moment, gentlemen.’ Mrs Wallace trips forward, beaming. ‘If I may.’ She runs up the steps again and stands on the frame of the bed, holding on to a post and reaching on to the tester. ‘I had to take the precaution – if you would not mind catching these as I throw them down—’

    Good God, she tosses down a half dozen bonnets, three gowns, a couple of shawls, and handfuls of stockings.

    ‘They took some things I owned,’ she explains, ‘so I was careful to conceal the rest. Pray be careful with the flowers on that bonnet, Mr Bishop.’

    ‘What shall we do with these, then, Uncle Harry?’ Richard asks.

    ‘Take them off!’ I snap at him, for he sports a bonnet on his head, stockings festooned around his shoulders, and a silly grin on his face.

    ‘We’ll wrap the clothes in the curtains and I shall carry the bonnets,’ Mrs Wallace says. She looks down on us, laughing, standing on one foot like a tightrope dancer, and for a moment I smile back at her, as charming and pretty as she is.

    But it’s Tom who lumbers forward and offers his hand to her and she descends as gracefully as a queen while I feel like a fool, although I cannot say exactly why.

    So the work begins in earnest. The tester, that amounts to a large painting in a wooden frame, sits atop a railing that runs around the bed, set on top of the bedposts. We lower it with some difficulty, for it is a large and unwieldy piece, and set it against the wall. Tom unfastens the rail that holds the curtains and Richard and I dart forward to become entangled with yards of brocade, from which we emerge sneezing, and which we fold under Mrs Wallace’s guidance.

    Thomas sets to work with the mallet and wedge, and Mrs Wallace runs to catch the wooden bolts in one of her bonnets. Richard and I meanwhile steady the solid pieces of wood as they loosen and sway and carry them to the side. Mrs Wallace chats to Thomas about his grandchildren and makes Richard blush by asking him if he has a sweetheart. Me she ignores, and I am not sure whether I’m thankful or resentful, but eventually the bed is reduced to a pile of lumber and brocade.

    We take the first load downstairs to the cart and discover another impediment. Thomas has promised sixpence to a boy to hold the horse’s head, and a small crowd of ne’er-do-wells and loungers has collected. The boy, a child of about six who attends his task with great pride, may prove inadequate to guarding the contents of the cart.

    I suggest Richard stays and that I assist in carrying.

    ‘Indeed no,’ Thomas says. ‘It’s not right for a gentleman and carrying is what Richard is paid to do.’

    ‘Oh, indeed!’ Mrs Wallace pats a blushing Richard on the arm.