Once More, Miranda

by Jennifer Wilde

  “So you’re Miss Honora James,” he said.

  I nodded, a faint blush tinting my cheeks.

  “The curate assured me he knew a suitable woman for the post,” he observed in a dry, emotionless voice. “I took him at his word. He sends me a blushing maiden. How old are you?”

  “I—I’m twenty.”

  “You don’t look it. You look much younger.”

  “I assure you, sir, I—”

  “You’re much too pretty,” he said, interrupting me. “I should have gone to London and hired someone myself. I understand the Reverend Mr. Williams is a friend of yours.”

  “He—he knew my—my parents when he was in Bath. When they died he was very kind. He helped me get into the school. I was twelve years old. He left for Cornwall soon after, but we’ve kept in touch through letters.”

  “So you’re a poor orphan?”

  A sardonic smile flickered on his thin lips. My cheeks flamed.

  “Yes,” I said, “I’m an orphan, but that has nothing to do with it. Reverend Williams suggested me for this post because he knew I would be suitable. I speak French. I know Latin. I taught geography and spelling to the younger girls, and I intended to become a full mistress at the school. Reverend Williams felt a post like this one would be much nicer for me.”

  “I see. You’ve a taste for finer things.”

  “I’d rather live here than in an attic room in Bath, yes. I assume I would have my own apartment. Reverend Williams said—”

  Lord Robert waved my words aside, an irritable expression on his lean, pitted face. I felt a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. I would have to go back to Bath, back to that bleak attic room, to those chattering, frivolous girls far more interested in hair ribbons than in spelling, to the condescending smiles of the school authorities who, though always kind, had never let me forget that I was a charity case.

  “I expected an older, more experienced person, Miss James. You can understand my position.”

  “Of course,” I retorted. “If you find me unsuitable, I’ll return to the inn. Reverend Williams will give me the fare back to Bath.”

  He frowned, examining me once more with those critical eyes. He seemed to be debating whether to allow me to stay, and I waited for his decision with a cool composure that belied my inner turmoil.

  “My young nephew is a willful lad,” he said, “full of mischief and bad habits. I’m afraid his father has spoiled him deplorably. The boy’s father has been traveling for some time now, and Douglas has become even more unmanageable. Time is of the essence in this case, I fear. He needs stern supervision, and he needs it now.”

  I maintained my silence, my frosty composure. Lord Robert hesitated before continuing, the frown still digging a furrow between his brows, and then he moved over to one of the windows to pull a bell cord.

  “I am summoning Mrs. Rawson, the housekeeper. She will show you up to your rooms and explain your duties. I shall epxect you to teach my nephew some manners, Miss James. I shall expect a decided improvement within a month. Consider yourself on trial.”

  The door opened. A plump, jovial woman bustled in with much rustling of taffeta. It was garnet colored, extremely plush, and her apron was white organdy. Though her hair was gray, it spilled over her head in outrageous ringlets, a girlish garnet ribbon perched atop in lieu of a cap. Her brown eyes sparkled merrily. Her mouth was small, a bright, unnatural cherry red. She greeted me effusively while her employer stood by with a stony expression. The housekeeper wasn’t the least bit intimidated, I observed. Her manner was quite familiar.

  “Don’t you worry a bit, Lord Bobbie. I’ll take care of everything. Come along now, child, I have your rooms all ready. You’re quite young! I think it’s splendid. Dougie is expecting a dragon, he told me so. When he sees how pretty you are he’ll take to you right away.”

  I managed a quick curtsey to Lord Robert before the woman dragged me out of the room, chattering nonstop as she led me up the grand staircase. There was a servants’ staircase, she informed me, but she certainly didn’t use it, nor should I. It was for the maids and the footmen, riffraff like that. She’d been here at Mowrey House ever since she was an infant, long before Lord Bobbie was born. She’d been scullery maid and parlor maid and then ladies’ maid to the boys’ mother, bless her soul, dear Lady Mowrey, and then she’d become housekeeper, oh, ages ago, and “that man” didn’t scare her none, far from it. She’d whacked his bottom when he was a baby and wiped pudding from his face when he was a wee lad and he didn’t give her no guff, no indeed.

  “I keep this house sparklin’, that’s why. He knows he’d never be able to replace me. He can intimidate the footmen and terrify the maids with his cold, chillin’ stare, but me, I pay him no mind. Oh, while I’m at it I’d better tell you about Beresford. He’s the butler, luv, stiff as a poker and very taken with hisself, know what I mean? Snooty as all get out. Me, I do my job and do it dandy and he gets uppity with me I give him the finger.”

  “The finger?”

  “La, we’ve an innocent on our hands. You wouldn’t know what I mean, luv. Let’s just say I put him in his place. Here’s your rooms. Dandy, ain’t they? Nice sky blue wallpaper, rose and gray carpet, white furniture. I picked out the furniture myself, took three of the footmen up to the attic and had ’em haul it down and polish it up. That lilac satin counterpane and them matchin’ curtains? I made ’em myself, luv, altered ’em from the draperies that used to hang in Lady Mowrey’s bedroom. They took quite a bit of airin’, I don’t mind tellin’ you.”

  “It—it’s charming,” I said.

  “You ain’t used to much, I know. I know all about-ja. The curate is a friend-a mine. I ain’t religious, mind you, but I occasionally nip over and have a chat with him. I carry him a bottle of port now and then, too. He told me you were little better than a servant yourself at that musty school, said he wanted to get you out of there.”

  “They were very kind to me,” I protested.

  “Kind, my ass. Had you doin’ chores when you were barely fourteen, had you washin’ dishes and scrubbin’ floors, that ain’t my idea of kindness. Sure, they let you teach some of the younger ones later on, but that’s because you’re smart as a whip and they was savin’ the wages they’d of had to pay another mistress. I know all about it, luv. You’ll get better treatment here.”

  “Lord—Lord Robert seems—rather stern,” I said hesitantly.

  “I won’t deny that. There’s lots-a things about the man I don’t admire, can’t pretend I do, but he ain’t so bad if you keep outta his way. He spends most of his time at the factory, overseein’ the work, else he’s shut up in his office, goin’ over accounts with his secretary. He don’t get underfoot much, thank the Lord. He’s a peculiar one, I readily admit it.”

  I remembered all the things Mollie had told me at the inn last night, and I saw that the amiable, gossipy housekeeper was more than willing to talk about her employer.

  “Peculiar?” I said.

  “Almost unnatural, I’d say, though a-course it ain’t my place. Always was a cold, secretive one, even when he was a tot, keepin’ to hisself, brooding all the time. Married when he was twenty three—poor woman, she didn’t last long. The fever took her away two years after they was married, and I had the impression Lord Bobbie wudn’t all that grieved. He ain’t worn nothin’ but black ever since her death, but theirs wudn’t no love match I can assure you. Lord Bobbie never loved anyone but his brother.”

  I smoothed down the satin counterpane, not wishing to seem too inquisitive, but Mrs. Rawson needed no encouragement to continue.

  “The boys’ parents died when Lord Bobbie was twenty. Master Jeffrey was a mere tot at the time, barely five. Lord Bobbie devoted himself to that child, raisin’ him like he was his own. I always said the only reason he married Lady Betty was because he wanted the boy to have a new mother. Lady B. wudn’t interested in takin’ on a ready-made son, though. She was interested in parties and frocks and fripperies,
couldn’t care less about the child. She and Lord Bobbie had some terrific rows about it. He seemed almost relieved when the fever carried her away. It left him more time for the boy.”

  Mrs. Rawson paused, shaking her head, and then she bustled over to the dressing table to rearrange the crystal bottles and the silver comb and brush set. I assumed she had finished her gossip, but I was wrong. After a moment she sighed and looked at me with bemused brown eyes.

  “Ordinarily folks’d say it was admirable for a man to take so much interest in his poor orphaned brother, ordinarily it is, but in Lord Bobbie’s case there was somethin’ twisted about it. He was jealous, possessive, smotherin’ the boy with his love. No mother hen ever watched over her chick like he watched over Master Jeffrey. He didn’t want the boy to have any friends, didn’t want him to see anyone else, go anywhere without him. Unhealthy. Unnatural. He refused to send the boy to school, hired tutors to come here instead, and Master Jeffrey finally rebelled when he was eighteen, passed all his examinations and went off to Oxford. Escaped to Oxford, I always said.”

  Mrs. Rawson patted her girlish steel-gray ringlets, and a tender look suffused her eyes. “Master Jeffrey, now he ain’t nothin’ like his brother. He’s fifteen years younger for one thing, just turned twenty-five last month, and a finer youth ain’t ever walked this earth. He’s sensitive, soft-spoken, kind, everything his brother ain’t. Always readin’ books, he is, always takin’ up for the factory workers and beggin’ his brother to improve their lot. Handsome, too, like one of them poets, painted in soft strokes, if you get my meanin’.”

  I didn’t, but I was far too intrigued to interrupt her flow of talk.

  “He met Lady Agatha in Oxford. An angel, she was, blonde and delicate and eyes as blue as cornflowers. Lord Bobbie liked to had a fit when Master Jeffrey wrote to him and told him he was goin’ to get married. Raced off to Oxford, he did, did everything he could to change the boy’s mind, said he was too young to get married, said it would be an awful mistake, but Master Jeffrey was twenty years old then, he’d been at Oxford for two years, and he wouldn’t listen. Lord Bobbie finally gave his consent on condition they come to Mowrey House to live. They had the weddin’ here, and it was somethin’ to behold, everybody smilin’ and celebratin’ and her in miles of white tulle with orange blossoms in that silvery blonde hair. I ain’t never seen Master Jeffrey lookin’ better. Made my old heart melt, it did, just to see him lookin’ so handsome and proud.”

  She paused, remembering, a tender smile on that plump red mouth, and then the smile faded and her eyes grew sad.

  “He got her with child the first rattle outta the box. Master Jeffrey may be sensitive and all, but he’s a virile one. I always knew that. He never did chase the girls, but he knew what to do with one and did it good ’n proper, too. Her belly started swellin’, and they was both pleased as punch and started makin’ plans. She had the nursery redecorated and they was always discussin’ names and it was the baby this and the baby that and when the baby comes we’ll do such and such and then her time came. It was a breech birth, and Lady Agatha had these real thin hips, she wudn’t meant to have children—”

  The housekeeper shook her head again and seemed to stare into the past.

  “He almost died from grief hisself, the lamb. He didn’t want to live after she was gone. Mourned around for months and months—he’s still mournin’ her and that’s a shame. He needs another wife, young Dougie needs a mother. He needs a father, too, for that matter. Master Jeffrey hadn’t paid enough attention to the lad, been too busy mournin’ and travelin’ to ease his grief. He’s travelin’ now, somewhere in Europe—Italy, I think. Should be back in a few weeks.”

  “I’m eager to meet the child,” I said.

  “He knows you’re here. Bendin’ over the banister peekin’ at you when you arrived. He was in here lookin’ at your things when the maid was unpackin’ ’em and puttin’ ’em away. He’ll probably pop in to say hello after a while. You look all tuckered out, luv, and here I’ve been rattlin’ on when you probably want to get some rest. Tell you what, I’ll have Cook send some lunch up on a tray. Will that be all right?”

  “That will be fine.”

  “You’ll eat in our dining hall. Me and Beresford and Parks, Lord Robert’s secretary—we have our own dining hall. The rest of ’em eat belowstairs, as is only fittin’. I’ll scurry out now. You want anything, you just let me know. We’re goin’ to be great friends, luv. The rest of ’em ain’t smart enough to enjoy a good chat.”

  Mrs. Rawson smiled her merry smile and left, garnet taffeta skirts crackling, and I sighed, exhausted and still uneasy in my new surroundings. The room was pleasant indeed, luxurious compared to what I was accustomed to, and I had a friend already in the gossipy, exuberant housekeeper, yet my uneasiness remained. I kept thinking of the tall, too slender man with the pale, pockmarked face who had so reluctantly allowed me to remain at Mowrey House “on trial.” Harsh, severe, every bit as sinister as the serving girl at the inn had claimed he was, Lord Robert had taken an immediate dislike to me. It was … it was almost as though I presented some kind of threat, I thought. How could I possibly present a threat to him? What could he possibly have to fear?

  I was to have the answers to those questions all too soon.

  It was very late now. I sat at the dressing table brushing my hair, drawing the brush through the long, coppery brown waves. I studied the reflection in the mirror with my customary disapproval. My hair was too red and much too thick. My cheekbones were too high, my mouth too wide, and there was a scattering of pale golden-brown freckles across my cheeks. The girls at school had made fun of me because I was too tall, my bosom was too full, my lips so pink. They had teased me mercilessly, claimed I wore pink lip rouge, said my hair was the color of new pennies and my eyes as gray as the sea.

  For years I had longed to be blonde and petite and pink and white, and I was cursed with this bizarre coloring, this tall frame with its embarrassing curves. Yet Lord Robert had said I was much too pretty to be a governess. How peculiar. Did the gentry have a different standard of beauty? I didn’t know, but I was certain he hadn’t meant the words as a compliment. It was impossible to imagine Lord Robert Mowrey paying anyone a compliment, much less a penniless young woman who had come to seek employ in his household.

  I had spent a leisurely day. After lunching in my room, I had explored the nursery and browsed around in the vast, extremely well stocked library downstairs, examining the musty leather-bound volumes with great interest. Later on I had written a short note to the curate, explaining my “temporary” status and adding that I looked foward to lunching with him on Sunday. He had extended the invitation last evening when he met me at the posting station and escorted me to the inn. He had intended to bring me to Mowrey House this morning, but unfortunately there had been a death in his congregation and he had to conduct a funeral, which was why I had had to face Lord Robert alone, with no support.

  Putting the brush down, I sighed and stood up, cool in my thin white cotton nightdress. I stepped over to the window and looked out at the night. A mellow silver moon glowed dimly in a pewter gray sky filled with gently moving clouds. The gardens and the woods beyond were etched in black ink, only a few pale rays of moonlight washing the lawns. To my right I could see the great cliffs, half a mile away, beyond the woods, and I could hear the waves crashing against the rocks. The huge old house was silent, the silence merely amplified by the occasional creaks and groans natural to a house this age.

  I heard a faint scratching noise behind the wall. Mice? I moved over to the bed and picked up the volume of Shakespeare I had set out earlier. I would read for a while and perhaps sleep would eventually come.

  The scratching noise increased as I folded back the bedcovers. I paused, frowning. The noise was coming from behind one of the lilac satin curtains, and as I watched the curtain moved, fluttering visibly. The scratching stopped. I shook my head and started to climb into bed, and then there was a blood
curdling shriek and the curtain belled out and a figure all in white rushed toward me with the speed of lightning.

  “WOOOO! WOOOO! YEEOWWWWW!”

  I stood my ground and calmly plucked the pillowcase off the tiny little boy. He looked up at me with total dismay.

  “You ain’t scared?” he asked.

  “Aren’t,” I corrected. “Not a bit.”

  “Hell! It always works on the maids.”

  “Did you say ‘hell’?”

  “I sure as hell did.”

  “I thought so. I shouldn’t say it again if I were you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because if you do, I’ll slap you silly.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “Oh, I would,” I said firmly. “I wouldn’t like it, but I’d do it without a moment’s hesitation.”

  “You talk funny.”

  “I speak correctly, like a lady.”

  “La de da, you ain’t no lady.”

  “Aren’t,” I said. “If you say ’ain’t’ again, you’ll get a slap, too.”

  “You’re not so tough!” he blustered.

  “I’m very tough,” I assured him. “I’m very nice, actually, but I can be very tough if I have to be. You and I can be friends and have a grand time together, or we can fight. If we fight, I’ll win. Every time.”

  He grinned. I could tell that he didn’t want to grin, but he couldn’t help himself. He had thick blond hair badly in need of cutting, and his eyes were a lovely slate gray. His cheekbones were broad, his nose already distinctly Roman, and his mouth was a saucy pink. He was very small, stocky and pugnacious and utterly ridiculous in his blue and white striped nightshirt. I wanted to pick him up and hug him, but that would have been a grave tactical error.

  “I sneaked in while you were brushin’ your hair,” he confessed. “You was studyin’ your face and didn’t see me. I crawled. I should-a waited till you put out the candles to jump out. Then you’d-a been scared.”