Once More Miranda
Jennifer Wilde
BOOK ONE
Honora
1727–1737
1
There is so much to say and so little time there is so much Miranda must know, so much she must understand, and one day she will, I trust. One day she will be old enough to understand and to forgive. I’d like to take her into my arms right now and explain it all to her in my own voice and let her see my eyes and what is in my heart, but I dare not. I know I would break down and the tears would flow, and that would upset her. At any rate, I doubt she would comprehend it all. She is wise beyond her years, true, far too wise, but there are certain things a girl of nine can’t possibly grasp.
No, this way is better. I’ll write it all down for her to read when she’s a few years older. Perhaps by that time she will have experienced some of the same emotions. Only the good ones, I pray. I pray she knows the burst of happiness that floods the soul with bliss like sunlight, and I pray she never knows the desolation when the sunlight is taken away and darkness pervades those regions once shimmering with brightness. May she never know the grief and the pain and the loss of hope.
I will write it all down and send the papers to the Reverend Mr. Williams. He will, I know, come to my aid. He’ll come to London before it’s too late and fetch my child and take her back to Cornwall and see that she has the proper upbringing, and, when he feels the time is right, he’ll give her these papars so that she might understand. He’ll use his influence and see that she receives that which is rightfully hers. You’ll do that, won’t you, Reverend? I’m writing this for you, too, as well as for Miranda.
She’s out now, playing with those wretched children, learning all of their tricks, becoming as sly, as devious as they. I wish there were some way I could prevent it, but there isn’t. I haven’t the strength. I’m confined to this terrible, squalid room with its brown walls and soiled rug and sour smell, so weak I can barely scribble these words. She has no idea how ill I am. When I realized how bad it was, I resolved to be bright, to be merry, to keep it from her as long as possible. She thinks I’m getting better, and, indeed, when I see myself in the mirror, I do look better. The pallor is gone. My cheeks are a vivid pink, my eyes full of sparkle. I laugh at her prattle. I smile. I’m very vivacious, and when I cough I always use my handkerchief and she never sees the blood.
There has been so much blood.…
I shan’t go on about my illness. It is God’s will, and I have made my peace with him. I’m not sad. I refuse to be sad. Last night I dreamed of Jeffrey. He was standing there on the hillside near the old Roman ruins, and he was smiling. His blue eyes were filled with happiness. His thick golden-blond hair was tumbling in the breeze, and as I climbed the hill toward him he extended his hand to me, and as I took it I could almost feel those strong fingers grasping mine and drawing me to him. I know that I shall soon be with him.
My only concern is Miranda. That horrible Humphreys woman who lives across the hall has already been after me to send the child to the parish workhouse. “You ain’t able to take care-a ’er,” she claims. “They’ll see she ’as food an’ a roof over ’er ’ead. They got ’undreds-a kiddies at th’ work’ouse.”
I know about the workhouses, hellholes of horror for any child unfortunate enough to be sent to one. They sleep twelve to a bed, are beaten, half-starved, shipped off to be treated even worse by the monsters to whom they are apprenticed. A boy of four will be apprenticed to a chimney sweep and forced to perform the most hideous and dangerous tasks. A girl will be sent to one of the factories to work fifteen hours a day at a spindle in a crowded, unventilated room with barely enough light to see by, given barely enough food to sustain her frail body.
The mortality rate of those children confined to the workhouses is shocking, shocking, and no one seems to be concerned about it. Those poor mites deemed unfit for apprenticeship are sent out onto the streets to beg, their poor limbs horribly twisted and mutilated in order to make them even more pathetic. No, no, Miranda will never go to a workhouse, particularly the one here in St. Giles, the worst in all London I hear. You’ll see to that, Reverend Williams, won’t you? When you read these pages, hear my plea. Please come. Please save my little girl from that fate.
She has changed so much since we were forced to give up the room in Battersea and move here to St. Giles. The merry, mischievous, enchanting child who used to skip down the streets of Lichfield and toss crumbs to the ducks in the pond has grown wily, crafty, sly. Her face is always smudged with dirt. Her dress is always soiled. She’s begun to use the most shocking expressions, and of late she’s begun to drop her “h’s” as well, speaking exactly like those urchins she roams the street with. She never tells me where she goes, what she’s been doing. No matter how I question her, she always manages to avoid answering, nimbly changing the subject, refusing to be pinned down.
She’s much too clever, much too feisty, far too independent for a child her age. That worries me dreadfully, but I suppose, under the circumstances, it might almost be called a blessing.
Several months ago the money ran out completely, and I feared we would be evicted from even this wretched hovel, feared we would starve, and that was when Miranda began to bring coins home, only a few each day, but enough to keep us in this room, keep us from starving. She claimed that she “ran errands” for people, but when I asked her what kind of errands she ran, she grew extremely evasive.
“Don’t you worry none, Mum,” she said brightly. “You’re gonna get well soon and then you can take in sewin’ again and we’ll be able to move to a better place. Till then, I’ll take care-a us.”
“Miranda—”
“I saw the cutest puppy in the street today, Mum. He was all wiggly and frisky, just adorable! When we ’ave a place of our own again, could I ’ave a puppy of my own?”
Too weak to protest further, I began to cough wretchedly, seizing my handkerchief, terribly afraid she would see the specks of blood. Miranda hastily fetched my medicine and gave me a spoonful and then helped me into bed. She held my hand, stroking it tenderly, and later on, when the medicine began to take effect, she read to me from our beloved Shakespeare, reading the sonorous phrases with wonderful ease, pronouncing the most difficult words without making a single error. I drifted off to sleep to the sound of that sweet voice, to the sound of those beautiful phrases.
Ever since that day, Miranda has continued to bring in coins, and now that I am no longer strong enough to go out, she pays the rent and buys all our food and runs to the pharmacist for the ever-more-frequent bottles of medicine. It is as though our positions have been reversed, I the child now, Miranda the devoted parent. She takes care of me, chattering vivaciously, doing her best to make me smile with her amusing, imaginative tales, and I pretend to be stronger than I am, assuring her that I will soon be well.
A week ago the most outlandish creature came to visit me, a woman who called herself Moll. Extremely rotund, she was wearing a shockingly low-cut purple gown trimmed with tattered black lace, and her hair was an absurd shade of orange with jaunty ringlets bouncing on either side of her face. Her plump cheeks were heavily rouged, her mouth a bright scarlet, and her perfume was so overwhelming I longed to throw open the window. Her voice was coarse, husky with gin, but she was wonderfully kind nevertheless. She told me that “Little Randy” had done her “a small service” and she wanted to thank me in person. Before I could protest she thrust some money into my hand and bustled out of the room, her high heels clattering noisily down the stairs.
Miranda grew very cagey when I asked her about the woman. She claimed that the creature had lost her purse and that she, Miranda, had found it and returned it to her. When I asked where the woman lived,
Miranda hesitated before answering, finally telling me that Moll lived in a lodging house. I fear it’s another sort of house altogether, and I forbade Miranda to see the woman again, however kind she might be. Mrs. Humphreys is a notorious busybody and prides herself in knowing everything that goes on in the neighborhood. She informed me with malicious glee that my visitor is known as Big Moll and that her house is indeed a brothel, one of a string of such establishments owned by someone named Black Jack Stewart.
“That brat-a yours ain’t gonna come to no good,” she predicted, “runnin’ th’ streets with that pack-a little ’ooligans, associatin’ with a creature like Big Moll. You gotta send ’er to th’ work’ouse. Let me arrange it, luv. I know one uv th’ nurses ’oo ’elps run it.”
“I—I can’t send her there, Mrs. Humphreys. Miranda—Miranda is a good child. She wouldn’t do anything—”
“Saucy minx, if-ya ask me. Sassin’ me every time she gets th’ chance, refusin’ to answer my questions. Stuck ’er tongue out at me just this mornin’ as I wuz passin’ ’er on th’ stairs.”
“She’s a spirited child. She didn’t mean any harm. She—”
“She ain’t gonna come to no good, I tell-ya. If she ain’t caught pickin’ pockets she’ll end up workin’ in that creature’s ’ouse, mark my words,”
“I—I appreciate your concern, Mrs. Humphreys, but—I’m not feeling very well just now. I—I think I’d like to take a nap.”
“Guess I know when I’m not wanted!” the woman snorted.
She flounced out of the room, slamming the door lustily behind her, but I didn’t go to sleep. I was much too worried. I thought about what she had said and realized there was a certain amount of truth in it. What chance did a child like Miranda have in a place like St. Giles? If she didn’t end up in the workhouse, she might well end up in even worse circumstances. If only there were some way of saving her. If only I had money. If only there were someone to turn to. Writing to Lord Robert would be futile. I knew, even if my pride allowed me to contemplate such a course. If only … it was then that I thought of you, Reverend Williams.
With the money Big Moll gave me I had Miranda purchase this ink, this paper, this quill. I decided to write to you and tell you everything, to ask for your help, to write to Miranda at the same time.… You will show her these pages when the time is right, and she’ll understand. She’ll know who she is. She’ll understand at last how we came to be in this squalid slum, with no money and no prospects. By the time she reads this she will, I pray, through your help, have attained her rightful position in the world.
I had a very bad turn this afternoon while she was out. I couldn’t seem to stop coughing. The blood.… Will I have the strength to finish these pages? Will there be time to complete the job and bundle the pages together and send them off? I must go on. I must find the strength somehow. I can only write a few pages each day, and there is so much to say.… Miranda returned with a wedge of cheese, a loaf of bread, a pail of milk. She smiled that beautiful, radiant smile and began to chatter merrily as she sliced the bread and cheese and poured milk into our solitary mug. I wanted to burst into tears. Instead, I laughed and hugged her to me and said we’d pretend the bread was cake and have a party, just the two of us.
I could eat only a few bites. I could hardly swallow the milk. Miranda sat down on the stool and watched me, her lovely blue eyes full of concern, her rich auburn hair spilling over her cheeks in tangled curls, her dress filthy and patched. She hasn’t a pair of shoes. My darling is barefoot and wearing rags when she should be wearing velvet. She is roaming wild in the streets when she should be living in a fine mansion with her own governess, her own pony, a private park to ride in. One day, God willing, she will have those things which should be hers, but now … now I must write it all down so that she will understand.
When she was smaller she used to crawl into my lap and beg me to tell her a story, and I used to make up fanciful tales to amuse her. Miranda, my darling, I am going to tell you another story. There is a fairy maiden and a handsome hero, a wicked villain as well. There is a little lost princess, too, but this story isn’t made up. Every word of it is true.
2
I was twenty years old when I first saw Mowrey House, and as the carriage moved up the drive I couldn’t help but be impressed. It had its own bleak splendor—a great, sprawling place with leaded windows, the pale gray stone bleached almost white by the elements. Cornwall seemed a wild, rugged place after the restrained elegance of Bath, and this aged mansion seemed to blend in perfectly with the windswept moors, the crumbling boulders and treacherous cliffs I had seen during the journey. The house was surrounded by wild gardens and great, twisted trees, and as I stepped out of the carriage I could hear the crash of waves in the distance.
A liveried servant showed me into the great hall. Another led me into a vast drawing room all done in faded white and yellow brocade. A man was standing at the fireplace, gazing sullenly into the flames, and though the servant had announced me, he didn’t turn. He continued to gaze at the fire for a full two minutes.
I waited, trembling inside. He was extremely tall and so slender that he seemed even taller. His knee boots were of fine black leather, his breeches and jacket of dark charcoal broadcloth, and his jet black hair was streaked with gray, pulled back from his brow and fastened in a short tail in back. It was not powdered. He would disdain such foppery. The Reverend Mr. Williams had told me that Lord Robert Mowrey was a harsh, severe man, and I could sense that harshness already, even before I saw his face.
Another minute passed before he finally deigned to turn away from the fire and acknowledge my presence. I should have curtseyed. I was much too intimidated. His eyes were so dark a brown they seemed black, glowing like dark coals as they examined me. His thin face was pale, pitted, his nose long, his mouth a thin, severe line.
Lord Robert Mowrey. Robert the Devil, they called him in the village. I had heard all about him from one of the serving girls at the inn. The Mowrey pottery works was the mainstay of the village, providing work for the majority of its people, and Lord Robert was a stern employer who paid pitiful wages and couldn’t care less about working conditions at the factory. Men were expected to work twelve hours a day in front of blistering open furnaces, with only a short break for lunch. Women and children toiled in stuffy, unventilated rooms that were cluttered and poorly lighted, rooms so hot you wanted to pass out, and there were no facilities, either. If you had to piss or do the other, you had to slip out to one of the stinking wooden sheds in back, and woe unto any employee who didn’t do the required quota of work. Out on ’is ear, ’e was, an’ no mercy given.
The pottery was pretty enough, the girl informed me, but if you knew what poor souls had to endure in order to produce it—she shook her head and said she’d rather wait on tables th’ rest-a ’er days than work in that ’orrible factory. People were always gettin’ sick, what could you expect, breathin’ that air, them fumes, not a breath-a fresh air. People were gettin’ ’urt, too, all them scorchin’ furnaces, them clay pits with their flimsy wooden ramps shakin’ every time a barrow was pushed over ’em. She’d done her stint when she was a mite, eight years old, packin’ pottery in great ’eavy boxes, stuffin’ ’em with sawdust. Accidentally tumped a box over one day, broke six plates, four cups and two of them fancy saucers. Thrown out immediately, she was, and no wages either, they went to replace the dishes. Eight years old, bawlin’ ’er eyes out and scared Robert the Devil was goin’ to ’ave ’er ’ide, but she was one of th’ lucky ones—got a job sweepin’ up at the inn, eventually started drawin’ mugs of ale and ’andin’ ’em to the customers. Others weren’t so fortunate.… Most of the village would starve if it weren’t for th’ factory. Lord Robert ’ad ’em exactly where ’e wanted ’em, and no one dared complain. They just did their work, sufferin’ in silence, makin’ them fancy dishes for folks who didn’t ’ave to worry where th’ next meal was comin’ from.
Master Jeffrey, now, ’e
was different. Full-a shockin’, revolutionary ideas, ’e was, wanted to pay folks more wages, wanted to improve working conditions, put in windows, put in facilities, make things safer, buy new furnaces, stronger ramps. Didn’t want children workin’ there, either. If you paid their parents enough, children wouldn’t ’ave to slave alongside ’em. Robert the Devil wouldn’t listen to none of it, called ’is younger brother a fool, a dreamer, so Master Jeff ’ad as little as possible to do with th’ factory, wanted to get away from th’ place, away from Cornwall, too, for that matter. ’Ad a ’eart, ’e did, ’ad compassion, and there wudn’t no place for such lot in a pottery factory, she could assure me, not if you were only interested in makin’ more an’ more money like Lord ’Igh an’ Mighty Mowrey, th’ sod.
Gave ’er th’ willies, ’e did, she didn’t envy me a bit, workin’ up at th’ big ’ouse. An’ another thing, Mollie added, she didn’t trust a man who didn’t ’ave an eye for th’ lasses, and Lord Robert ’adn’t the least bit-a interest in the fairer sex. Sure, ’e was married once a long time ago, but his poor wife died not more’n two years after th’ weddin’, an’ ’e hadn’t looked at a woman since. All th’ daughters of th’ local gentry had vied for his attention, for ’e was quite a catch, ’im ’avin’ a title an’ all, all that money comin’ from th’ factory, but ’e treated ’em one an’ all with utter disdain, not even botherin’ to be civil. Lord Robert didn’t care for no one on earth but his younger brother. Master Jeffrey … oh, a dream, ’e was, kindest man you’d ever ’ope to meet. ’E was a widower, too, poor thing.
I already knew that, for I had come to Cornwall to serve as governess to his four-year-old son.
I thought of all Mollie had said as Lord Robert stared at me with those dark, glowing eyes taking in every detail of my person. His mouth curled at one corner. I grew more and more uncomfortable. He disapproved of me. I could see that. I swallowed, trying to find the courage to speak.
Once More, Miranda Page 1
