Once More, Miranda

by Jennifer Wilde

  As soon as we reached the gardens Douglas raced on to the house to show his finds to Mrs. Rawson. His father and I proceeded at a more leisurely pace, pausing beside one of the trellises. Vine leaves rustled with a faint rattling noise and insects hummed.

  “I can’t remember when I enjoyed a day more,” he said.

  “It was pleasant,” I agreed.

  “We’ll have to do it more often.”

  “Douglas would enjoy that.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of Douglas,” he replied.

  His blue eyes held mine. I felt the familiar confusion and tried valiantly to stem it. What did he mean? Was it possible that … that he enjoyed my company as much as I enjoyed his? I put the thought aside. No, no, he was merely being polite to a dull young governess who had told him far too much about herself. It had been foolish of me to talk so much, but I wasn’t so foolish that I would allow myself to misinterpret his natural politeness.

  “Reverend Williams is eager to see you,” he told me.

  “I’d like to see him, too,” I replied. “He met the coach when I arrived from Bath, but I’ve not been able to attend services yet. There was no transportation to the village, and—”

  “I plan to attend services next Sunday. Why don’t you accompany me?”

  “I—I’m not sure I should.”

  “Whyever not?”

  I could think of no suitable reply, so I mumbled something about not having a proper dress to wear. Jeffrey Mowrey laughed merrily at this age-old female complaint. He blithely informed me that anything I had would do and added that he looked forward to my company. He took my hand in his, gave it a squeeze and then strolled on to the house, swinging the near-empty basket at his side. I stood watching him as the leaves rattled quietly and the afternoon sun cast pale blue-gray shadows across the lawns.

  Several minutes passed. Conflicting emotions held me captive, a wild, unreasonable hope springing alive inside. He did enjoy my company, and he wanted more of it. I hadn’t imagined that look in his eyes, that inflection in his voice. I gazed at the house, and it was then that I noticed Lord Robert Mowrey standing at one of the windows, staring at me. He turned away, letting the curtain fall back in place.

  I wondered how long he had been watching.

  6

  Mrs. Rawson quite agreed that I had nothing suitable to wear to Sunday services. She went through my wardrobe thoroughly, sniffing disdainfully at the collection of old, altered garments. The puce was much too drab, I should never wear anything so bleak, and gray wasn’t my color, not at all, and besides, the nap was beginning to wear. The pink? Pretty enough but too plain. I needed something splendid. The blue muslin was fetchin’, real fetchin’, but it wouldn’t do for church. I’d simply have to have something new.

  “I haven’t had anything new since I was a little girl,” I told her, “and I couldn’t possibly buy a dress. Even if I were able to get to a shop, I haven’t a pound to my name. Lord Robert hasn’t given me my wages yet.”

  “I didn’t mean buy somethin’ new, luv, I mean we should make somethin’. I’m a whiz with needle and thread, just look at them curtains, that counterpane, and you’re mite handy at sewin’ yourself. We’ve got four days. That’s plenty-a time to whip somethin’ up.”

  “From an old curtain in the attic?” I asked dryly.

  “Don’t get lippy, lass. I’ve a mind to do you a favor, got a bolt of cloth I’ve been savin’ for a special occasion. Bertie Johnson gave it to me last year in return for a little somethin’ I gave him in his hayloft one fine evenin’. It would look smashin’ on you, that satin. A bit pale for me, ivory’s not my color. Give me red or purple any day.”

  “I couldn’t let you—”

  “I don’t intend to argue with you, time’s a wastin’. You stay right here. I’ll be back in no time.”

  She hurried out of the room, returning a few minutes later with a huge bolt of creamy ivory satin printed with tiny, delicate pink and brown flowers, a sumptuous cloth that gleamed beautifully in the candlelight as she unfurled it with a dramatic flourish.

  “Just the thing!” she exclaimed. “A mite fancy for an old party like me, told Bertie so at the time. ‘Why didn’t-ja get red?’ I says to him. ‘You know I’m fond-a red.’ Men don’t have no sense when it comes to colors. Me, I’d look plum foolish in an ivory satin frock printed with them exquisite little flowers, but you got the youth and beauty to go with it, lass.”

  “It’s a lovely piece of cloth, Mrs. Rawson.”

  “There’s plenty here for a nice full skirt. Bertie bought big thinkin’ it’d be a dress for me. ’Spect we’ll have to whip up some underskirts, too. Them old white silk sheets in the trunk’ll do nicely, they got real lace trimmin’, too. You’re gonna look a treat, luv, that’s no lie. We’ll start workin’ tomorrow evenin’ soon’s you get the brat to bed. I’ll be thinkin’-a styles an’ such.”

  We met the next evening in her sewing room. A fire was crackling pleasantly in the fireplace, and her work table was a bright magpie’s nest of scraps and ribbons and laces, all jumbled together in a multicolored heap. She set to work immediately, taking my measurements, cutting out a pattern of brown paper, fitting it to me to make certain she’d cut correctly. Her head was tilted to one side, outrageous gray ringlets bobbling, her cherry red lips pursed in concentration.

  “We’ll start with the underskirts,” she informed me. “I washed and ironed them old sheets I was tellin’ you about—they look like new, the finest white silk you ever seen. I took all the lace off, washed and ironed it, too, handmade by a bunch-a nuns in France, it was, I remember Lady Mowrey tellin’ me. I’ll do all-a the cuttin’ and we’ll stitch together.”

  Her purple taffeta skirt rustled loudly as she scurried about, fetching scissors and sheets, snatching up a handful of fine Valenciennes lace, kicking a piece of paper out of her way. She cut the silk carefully, the tip of her tongue between her teeth, her eyes narrowed, and soon we were ready to sew.

  “You’ll want ’em very full,” she said. “You want to show off that tiny little waist of yours. Would you believe I once had a waist like that? I did, luv, and everything to go with it, too. The men were fairly wild, they still are, the older ones. It ain’t just a fine figure they’re interested in, I don’t mind tellin’ you. I keep ’em hoppin’ even though my figure’s a thing-a the past.”

  “You’re outrageous,” I teased.

  “I know what I like, lass, and I don’t see no harm in havin’ it whenever I get the chance. Keeps the juices flowin’. I could be just as prim and proper as the next one if I was a-mind to, but I don’t see much profit in it. Long as they like what I got to offer, I’m gonna enjoy myself. Jim Randall, that blacksmith I was tellin’ ya about, he says I’m in my prime and I couldn’t agree with him more.”

  We were sitting in two comfortable overstuffed chairs on either side of the fireplace. White silk flowed luxuriously over her lap as she stitched pieces together for the skirt. I worked on the bodice; the silk cool and slippery between my fingers.

  “We’ll want to make a lace insert across the bosom,” she told me. “Never know who’s gonna see it.”

  “I doubt anyone shall.”

  “I ain’t so sure, luv. I got eyes in my head. I know what’s goin’ on.”

  “I—I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You’re in love with him, lass, head over heels.”

  “You’re mistaken,” I said primly.

  Mrs. Rawson smiled and shook her head, gray ringlets bobbing. “I’m mistaken about a lot of things, luv, but when it comes to matters of the heart, I’m always right. It’s my specialty, you might say.”

  “I—didn’t know it showed.”

  “It’s plain as day to someone like me, luv. I expected you to fall in love with him, would-a been surprised if you hadn’t.”

  She paused to rethread her needle, her manner extremely casual. I knew I could trust her with my secret, and in a way I was relieved that someone else kne
w what I felt. Mrs. Rawson was vastly experienced, and perhaps she could help me understand what was happening to me.

  “I didn’t intend to fall in love with him,” I told her. “It happened all at once, the moment I saw him.”

  She nodded. “Happens that way sometimes, has to do with chemistry. There ain’t much you can do when it hits you like that. It becomes a part of you, in your blood, so to speak.”

  “That’s exactly how it feels.”

  “He’s smitten, too, you know.”

  I gazed at her, stunned.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, nodding again. “He’s real taken with you. I seen it at once. Guess I know why he’s hangin’ around the nursery so much.”

  “He just wants to—”

  “Reckon I know what he wants,” she interrupted, “but he ain’t one for a quick tussle in the broom closet. He takes it real seriously, Master Jeffrey does. He’s in love with you, and it’s more than just a bit-a fun he’s interested in. You want to be careful, luv.”

  “Nothing—nothing’s going to happen.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that. Nature takes its course. What you want to do, you want to be sensible about it. You want to enjoy it while it lasts and not go expectin’ the moon.”

  “I don’t expect anything.”

  “He’ll want to marry you,” she continued. “That’s the way he’s made, but of course Lord Robert would never permit that. He’d find some way to prevent it happenin’.”

  Mrs. Rawson stood up and shook out the silk, a great length of it all sewn neatly together. “Now comes the hemmin’,” she said, “and then we’ll gather it and fasten it to the waistband, add the lace trimmin’ when we’ve finished everything else. The way I see it, luv, you got two choices. You can resist him when he starts wooin’ in earnest, or you can become his mistress and consider yourself lucky to have a man like Master Jeffrey on them terms, knowin’ there’ll be heartache later on.”

  “I still think you’re mistaken,” I said. “He—he merely asked me to go to church with him.”

  “And you’re goin’ to look smashin’,” she replied. “When we’re done with these new things you’re goin’ to look like a bloomin’ duchess. Here, luv, I’ll let you do the hemmin’, that part always bores me. I’ll cut the satin for the gown.”

  She said no more on the subject of love, preferring instead to gossip about the household staff. We worked industriously, finishing the underskirts that evening, and we continued to meet in the sewing room each evening, finishing the gown late Saturday night. It had elbow-length sleeves and a low, scooped bodice. The skirt belled out beautifully over the lace-trimmed underskirts. Mrs. Rawson had found some pale coral-pink velvet ribbon and trimmed the bottom of the sleeves and the edge of the neckline with it, three inches of ruffled lace dangling beneath the rim of ribbon. I modeled the gown for her, and she clapped her hands in delight.

  “Cunnin’!” she declared. “Just cunnin’! You do look like a duchess.”

  “You don’t think it’s a—a bit low in front?”

  “They’re wearin’ ’em that way,” she informed me. “It wouldn’t do for some of them fine ladies to sneeze, they’d pop right out.”

  “I feel—rather uneasy. I’ve never worn anything so low.”

  “With a bosom like yours, luv, you oughta feel proud as punch. Dudn’t hurt to show off your assets.”

  “I just wonder if I should show quite so much.”

  Mrs. Rawson cackled and gave me an exuberant hug, and I thanked her again for her kindness.

  “Hadn’t enjoyed myself so much in a long time,” she vowed. “Lordy!” she exclaimed, eyeing the clock. “It is ten o’clock already? I promised Jim I’d meet him at The Red Lion tonight, and it’ll take me a good twenty minutes to get there. I’d better start toddlin’, luv.”

  She bustled across the room, skirts crackling noisily, and at the door she turned, a mischievous grin on her lips.

  “He says he’s got somethin’ to show me,” she explained. “I’d be willin’ to bet I’ve seen it a number-a times already!”

  I smiled at her ribaldry and later, in my bedroom, hung the gown and petticoat in the wardrobe and thought about our conversation. I wondered if Jeffrey Mowrey would indeed begin to woo me “in earnest.” Surely Mrs. Rawson was wrong about that. He was merely being kind to his son’s governess. But what if she was right? I knew that any kind of relationship between Jeffrey Mowrey and me could only lead to grief. If he did begin to woo me, would I be able to resist him?

  I doubted I would even try.

  I was extremely nervous next morning as I went downstairs to meet Jeffrey Mowrey. I had brushed my hair until it gleamed with a rich coppery sheen, and Mrs. Rawson had helped me arrange it in a particularly attractive style, waves stacked artfully on top of my head, three long ringlets dangling down in back. The satin gown made a soft, silken rustle as I moved down the steps. I might not look like a duchess, but I certainly felt like one. It was the most splendid garment I had ever worn.

  He was waiting for me in the hall, dressed all in black except for a white lace jabot that spilled over his vest. The knee breeches and coat were a sumptuous black brocade, but the effect was not at all sober. He looked incredibly handsome, young, radiant, a gentle smile on his lips as he took my hand. For a moment it seemed as though I could hardly breathe.

  “I see you found a dress,” he remarked. “Have you a cloak? I’m afraid the road might be dusty.”

  “There wasn’t time to—” I caught myself. “I don’t have a cloak that would go with the gown.”

  Jeffrey tilted his head slightly, thinking, and then he clicked his tongue. “You’ll need one,” he informed me. “Perhaps one of mine will do. There’s a rather elegant brown silk. It’ll be much too large, of course, but it’ll keep the dust from spoiling that—uh—most remarkable gown.”

  He told me to wait and strode briskly down the hall, disappearing and returning a few moments later with a heavy brown silk cloak which he wrapped around my shoulders, tying the laces at my throat. The heavy folds covered me completely, sweeping to the floor. He put on the black silk cloak he had tossed over one of the chairs earlier, and we went outside to the open carriage that was waiting. A footman stood holding the reins.

  “It’s a lovely morning,” Jeffrey said, helping me up onto the seat upholstered in dark blue. “The sky is clear. The sun is shining. Great morning for a drive.”

  He climbed up beside me and took the reins, clicking them sharply, and the handsome grays started around the drive. I was acutely aware of his nearness, his leg almost touching mine, and I was fascinated by those strong, beautifully shaped hands that handled the reins with such ease and authority. I was thrown against him briefly as the wheels jostled over a rut. Once we reached the main road to the village the horses clipped along at a steady pace. A vista of great beauty opened up before us.

  Far, far ahead the village rested in a fold of the land, looking like a toy village from this distance, gray and brown and rust and tan, tiny green puffs the tops of trees, a tiny copper spire catching the morning sunlight and throwing it back in bright spokes. To our right the land sloped to the edge of the majestic cliffs, the waves slashing at rocks below, and to our left were the moors I had come to appreciate. The only blemish on the landscape was the huge factory that squatted bleak and black and gray beyond the village. Even on this Sunday morning the furnaces glowed a fierce red orange in the distance, and spirals of ugly black smoke rose from the stacks.

  “Still interested in seeing the Roman ruins?” Jeffrey asked.

  “Very interested,” I replied. “I find such things fascinating.”

  “There were some fierce battles on those slopes,” he informed me. “In olden days the Romans had a garrison on top of the hill, and a great wall ran along the top. They were in constant danger from the Druids, never knowing when those blue-painted savages were going to come screeching up the hill with their spears and axes.”

  “That must
have been terrifying.”

  “I used to love to visit the ruins when I was a little boy,” he told me. “I played among the stones and walked along the remains of the wall, pretending I was a Roman legionnaire in breastplate and plumed helmet. Mrs. Rawson made me a fine red cape to wear. Other times I’d streak my face with blue paint and creep up on the ruins with a stone ax I’d made. I felt very savage. Later on, when I was much older, I used to go to the ruins with a knapsack of food and a bottle of wine and a volume of poetry. I’d sit on the stones and read poetry for hours, often aloud, I fear. I loved the music of the words.”

  “I love poetry, too,” I confessed.

  “I knew you would,” he replied. “I sensed it. We’ll visit the ruins this week.”

  “Douglas will enjoy that.”

  “Oh, I don’t imagine we’ll take him along. I want to show them to you properly, and that means a great deal of walking and climbing and clambering over the stones. He’d tire out much too soon, and there’s danger of falling when you walk along the wall.”

  “I see.”

  He had played among the ruins himself when he was not much older than Douglas, but he clearly didn’t want the boy to come along. He wanted to be alone with me, and I knew full well what that signified. As the carriage bowled along behind the spanking grays with their gleaming coats, I had the feeling I was in the middle of a dream. The movement of the carriage, the music of the wheels skimming over the road, the strength and warmth of the man beside me: All seemed part of a romantic dream that must surely evaporate when I awakened.

  The village was nearer now. I could make out details of thatched cottages and rows of ancient stone dwellings that had been old when Elizabeth reigned. We were soon moving beneath the oak trees, passing shops and the village green. Jeffrey left the carriage in the yard across from the church, tossing a coin to the flaxen-haired lad who looked after the horses. The church was very old, the rough-hewn brown stones mellow with age, faintly green with moss. Oak trees grew on either side, their limbs casting blue-gray shadows over the walls. There was a walled cemetery in back, the yard in shadow, dingy white marble tombstones visible behind the low wall.