Once More, Miranda

by Jennifer Wilde

  I got up in the morning, lighted the fires, fetched water for coffee, and put the kettle on to boil. I popped around the corner to fetch fresh rolls, buttered them, carried rolls and coffee in to him on a tray. He scowled and yawned and sat up, quite, naked under the sheets, and muttered a sullen good-mornin’. After he’d had his breakfast—I took mine in the kitchen, all the rolls I wanted, sweet rolls with butter, at least two cups of coffee—he had to have water for washing and shaving and it had to be warm, not hot, woe unto the poor bond servant who brought him water too hot. Dressed, still sullen and grumpy, he either left for Fleet Street to harangue his publisher for more money or else settled down to work, the latter always with great reluctance.

  In my neat black shoes, thin white stockings, plain cotton petticoat, and pink cotton dress, white apron tight around my waist, frilled cotton cap atop my head, I set about my tasks, cleaning, scrubbing, straightening. It gave me great satisfaction to see the grimy windows shine like diamonds after I finished with them, to discover that the kitchen floor wasn’t brown at all, was, in fact, a rich, dark-gold wood gleaming after I scoured it and washed it with soap and water and lemon juice. What satisfaction to see the kitchen cabinets all neat, everything in place, tins aligned, dishes clean. I took pride in my work from the first and bitterly resented it when, after I’d cleaned his bedroom and had everything looking smart and respectable, Cam Gordon came marching in to change and in a matter of minutes had it looking like a cyclone had blown through.

  Dust and dirt and litter were my enemies, and I waged a battle against them. It was a perpetual battle, for London was a filthy city full of smoke and soot and grit, and it seeped in and settled on windowsills and walls no matter how hard you tried to keep it out. And having someone like Cam Gordon underfoot so much of the time didn’t make things easier, either. Didn’t know things had a proper place, that one. Didn’t know clothes belonged in the wardrobe, dishes in the kitchen, books on the shelf. He’d leave a hunk of cheese in a saucer, leave the saucer on the floor beside the sofa. Might as well send the mice engraved invitations. He’d leave his boots in the middle of the floor, his neckcloth on the table, his frock coat tossed over the arm of a chair. I picked up and picked up and picked up and put things back in their proper places and then he’d yell because he couldn’t find whatever it was he happened to want at any given moment. It was frustrating and often infuriating, but it was never dull.

  I shook the rugs out in the courtyard. I lined the cabinets with paper. I polished the furniture with beeswax. I swept and mopped and scrubbed, and although it was wearying, it was strangely exhilarating as well. I was determined to please him, but you might as well expect blood from a turnip as praise from a dour, sullen Scot. Sure, he was aware how hard I was working, couldn’t help but be, but that was what I was supposed to do, work like a bloody slave, and he never deigned to express approval. He never addressed me at all unless it was to complain about something or vent his rage on a poor, ’elpless slavey who ’appened to be on ’and to absorb his wrath. He never came up to my room again after that first night, and, in fact, he hardly seemed to notice me at all most of the time. I was there for his convenience, a kind of machine whose only purpose was to make things comfortable for him—to clean his flat, do his laundry, polish his boots, darn his stockings, fetch his meals. Bleedin’ sod! Took all the restraint I ’ad to keep from tellin’ him what for several times a day.

  At noon I brought his lunch in to him on a tray—cheese, buttered bread, sausage, a bunch of grapes, another mug of coffee—and most of the time he just grunted when I set it down on the table where he was working, never said a word. Other times he’d start, mutter a curse and glare up at me with murderous eyes because I’d interrupted him and broken his chain of thought. I longed to dump the whole tray in his lap then, longed to tell ’im ’e wudn’t so bleedin’ special, but I never did. I was as meek and ’umble and timid as a mouse, though I had to bite my tongue. It was a kind of game, ever so amusing. I was playing a part, and I wondered how long red-’aired Randy with her wicked tongue was going to be able to keep it up without tearin’ into him.

  Around four every afternoon Gordon changed and went out, rarely came back until late. He took his evening meal at one of the eating houses, leaving me to fend for myself. I’d either find something in the kitchen or pop down to the chophouse for something a mite tastier. Gordon left money for household expenses in an orange and white ginger jar that set on the mantel beside the lazy brass clock, and I was expected to purchase all the necessary provisions. It wasn’t that he trusted me, it was just that he believed he had me thoroughly intimidated, believed I wouldn’t dare do anything that would cause him to send me back to Bow Street. I wouldn’t think of takin’ any of the money in the ginger jar for private purposes, but an occasional juicy chop or a tasty meat pie for Randy were necessary provisions if I was to maintain my strength to do his bleedin’ work.

  When he was gone and I had the place to myself I could rest a bit, prowl around, investigate. To my credit I must say that I spent much of that time darning his stockings, brushing his coats, polishing his boots, trying my best to make his shabby wardrobe as spruce as possible, but I wasn’t above snooping. I was naturally consumed with curiosity about the book he was writing, but who could read his handwriting? It’d take you hours to decipher those small, messy black hen-tracks—his publisher, I knew, screamed and raged about that unreadable script and had to hire an extra man whose sole job was to figure out the words and make a decent copy for the printers. I gave up after a few extremely bothersome attempts, couldn’t make out one word in ten, and with all the other books in the place, who needed to read something written by such a thorny Scot? Probably wudn’t worth readin’ anyway.

  Those other books I had dusted so carefully and arranged so neatly were a bitter disappointment. Books about warfare. Books about weapons. A book on medieval torture with gruesome woodcuts. A History of Public Executions. Military books telling you how to kill your enemy with knife, gun, garotte or bare hands. Books about soldiers, pirates, bloodthirsty Roman emperors, and a whole collection about Famous Criminals and their foul deeds—nothing I’d care to curl up with for a cozy read. They were all thumb-marked, well read, several of them with little strips of paper stuck between the pages to mark special passages. When he was working he’d frequently fetch one of the books, open it to the pages marked with the paper strips and read with great concentration, a deep frown creasing his brow. He would jot down notes, nod, put the book down and go on with his work. If he wrote books like the ones he kept around him, it was just as well I couldn’t read his handwritin’, I thought, wishing I had my beloved Shakespeare to pour over.

  There were, in addition to the others, several books written by someone named Roderick Cane, and they looked brand new, hadn’t been read at all, the pages fresh and crisp, the bindings still smelling of glue. Unlike the rest of the books, these were novels, thundering tales of blood feuds and furious revenge. They were written, I discovered, with great verve and dash, exploding with incident. The heroes were always bold, ruthless scoundrels charging through adversity with bloodthirsty relish and a singular disregard for human life. Villains were dispatched on every side, their deaths described in vivid detail. This fellow Cane seemed to delight in violence, the bloodier the better, and the books were littered with corpses. Women, when brought in at all, were invariably treacherous creatures who tricked, entrapped and deceived before getting their just deserts.

  Although I could see why the books would appeal to Cam Gordon—all that bloodshed, all those murders—Roderick Cane wasn’t to my taste at all. Who wanted to read about the no-bleman-turned-outlaw who lured his wicked kinsmen into dark alleys and whipped a garotte around their necks, smiling as he strangled them to death? Who wanted to read about a soldier-turned-assassin who tracked down foes of Good Queen Bess and slit their throats with a knife, sometimes torturing them beforehand to get information? No, they didn’t delight me at all, b
ut they were the only books on hand besides those gruesome histories and military books. At least this Cane knew how to hook his readers and make ’em keep turnin’ the pages, however appalled they might be by the action described.

  I was curled up on the delapidated blue sofa late one afternoon resting my feet and finishing The Curse of Hesketh. The hero had just dumped the deceitful Lady Hesketh in an oubliette and, ignoring her cries, was waiting for the villainous Lord Hesketh to return, planning to drag him to the dungeon and give him a taste of the rack upon which the hero’s brother had been broken in an earlier chapter. Caught up in the story in spite of myself, I didn’t hear the footsteps on the landing, didn’t hear the door opening.

  “I say,” Bancroft remarked, “the wench is reading.”

  I jumped, startled out of my wits. Bancroft and Gordon stood just inside the room, the door still open behind them. Bancroft was splendidly attired in dark green velvet breeches and frock coat, silky white lace spilling at wrists and throat. This was the first time I’d seen him since that night three weeks before when I’d first come to Holywell Street. He looked delighted to see me. Cam Gordon looked livid.

  “I—I done my work,” I said defiantly. “I was just restin’ a bit before fetchin’ my meal. I—I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”

  “That’s obvious,” Gordon retorted.

  “I ’aven’t ’urt your bleedin’ book. See, it ain’t damaged at all.”

  “The Curse of Hesketh,” Bancroft read, peering at the title. “Hmmm. Interesting.”

  “Where’d you learn to read?” Gordon demanded.

  “I’ve been readin’ ever since I can remember. Your boots an’ breeches are all splattered with mud,” I observed, trying to change the subject.

  “That’s why I came back. Damn coach splattered me all over. I have to change before Bancroft and I go out to dine. So you can read, can you? Understand all the words?”

  “This bloke Cane uses words anyone could understand. Nothin’ fancy or poetic about ’is prose.”

  Bancroft chuckled, giving his friend a sly look. Mischief danced in his dark brown eyes as I stood up, putting the book aside.

  “I polished your other boots this mornin’,” I said. “There’s a pair of clean black breeches in the wardrobe.”

  “You enjoying the book?” Bancroft inquired.

  “’Ardly,” I replied. “Nothin’ but blood an’ thunder, just like all th’ rest of ’is books. Th’ characters ain’t real at all—’eroes just dash about killin’ foes, don’t ’ave no genuine feelin’s, an’ th’ women are sticks, not a one of ’em believable. This Cane fellow knows ’ow to tell a story all right, but ’e dudn’t know diddle about ’uman nature.”

  Cam Gordon hadn’t left the room. He looked even more livid, mouth tightening, eyes like blue ice.

  “Looks like we have a literary critic on our hands,” Bancroft said, “a very astute one at that.”

  Gordon ignored him. “Roderick Cane happens to be one of the most popular writers in London,” he informed me in a chilling voice. “His readers clamor for more. His publishers can’t keep him churning them out fast enough.”

  “That dudn’t make ’im a good writer,” I said airily. “It just means a lot uv people ’aven’t any taste.”

  “I suppose you do?”

  “I know a good book when I read one. Moll Flanders for example. Fellow who wrote it knows ’ow a woman feels, an’ ’er ’ardships an’ ’eartaches are all the more movin’ because Moll’s a real, livin’ person. We care about ’er, want ’er to find ’appiness. If she was a stick like them women in Cane’s books, we wouldn’t even bother finishin’ th’ book.”

  “Bravo!” Bancroft explained. “The wench has a brain, Cam. Who’d have thought it?”

  “She’ll be quoting Shakespeare next,” Gordon snapped.

  “’E’s my favorite,” I confessed. “I’ve read all ’is plays dozens-a times, ’is poetry, too.”

  Cam Gordon clenched his hands, longing to wring my neck. Richard Bancroft found it almost impossible to contain his mirth. Gordon gave him a threatening look, longing to wring his neck, too. Bancroft perched on the arm of the green chair, mightily amused, though I couldn’t rightly tell why.

  “What would you suggest ‘this fellow Cane’ do to improve his books?” Gordon asked. His voice was vicious.

  “Well,” I began, “’e may be popular, but I’d bet my bottom most of ’is readers ’re men. Lots-a-ladies like readin’, too, an’ if ’e were to put in a little romance an’ some tender feelin’s, ’e’d appeal to th’ ladies, too. ’Is ’eroes are monsters. If they genuinely loved some fair ’eroine—not one of them evil trollops ’e’s always creatin’—an’ if they ’ad moments of weakness an’ doubt, if they felt remorse about ’avin’ to kill so much, they’d be appealin’ to both sexes. Cane could double ’is readership.”

  “I say,” Bancroft said.

  “Do you know this Roderick Cane?” I asked him.

  “Oh, I know him very well indeed, wench.”

  “Bet ’e’s a bastard,” I said. “Bet ’e’s cold-blooded as they come.”

  “Unquestionably,” Bancroft said.

  I turned to Gordon. “Do you know him?”

  “Intimately.”

  “Dudn’t surprise me at all,” I said. I couldn’t resist it.

  He stormed out of the room then. I could hear him slinging things about in the bedroom. A boot slammed into the wall. A vase crashed to the floor. The wardrobe door slammed so loudly I jumped. Couldn’t figure out why he was so mad. He’d asked my opinion. I’d given it. Bancroft was laughing merrily, just like it was the grandest joke ever. I frowned, looking at him, and then I looked at the writing table and the pile of finished pages settin’ there so neatly with the pewter owl on top. I could feel the color leaving my cheeks. Jemminy! I should ’ave guessed!

  “‘E—’e—,” I stammered.

  “Right you are, lass,” Bancroft chuckled. “He’s Roderick Cane. Wouldn’t dream of publishing that rubbish under his real name.”

  “Lord,” I whispered. “’E’ll murder me for sure.”

  Cam Gordon didn’t murder me. He came storming out of the room in clean boots and breeches and told me in thunderous tones that when he came home he expected to find the other breeches dried and brushed, the dirty boots shining and that bloody mess in there cleaned up or he’d have my hide. I nodded meekly, not daring to speak. Bancroft grinned. Gordon shoved him viciously toward the door, and I could hear the big blond’s hearty laughter long after Cam Gordon had slammed the door behind them.

  I was particularly cheerful the next morning when I brought his breakfast in to him. The rolls were generously buttered. The coffee had an extra spoonful of sugar. There were kippered herrings as well. Gordon grunted sleepily, sat up, shoved the hair out of his eyes and took the tray without so much as looking at me. He seemed bothered when he finally settled at his writing table, but I was convinced it had nothing to do with me or what I had said the night before. He wasn’t even aware of my presence. He sat there moodily, staring at the empty paper, the familiar frown making a deep furrow above the bridge of his nose.

  I soon learned what was on his mind, for later that morning a Mr. John Beaumont came to call, a stout, fussy, officious man with thinning brown hair and a cheery smile that wasn’t reflected in his cold gray eyes. Mr. Beaumont was the associate of Mr. Sheppard, Gordon’s publisher, and handled all those tiresome business matters which had nothing to do with books or writing but kept Thomas Sheppard & Co. financially prosperous. Toying with the gold fob dangling across the expanse of his flowered waistcoat, Beaumont cheerily reminded Gordon that the new Roderick Cane novel was to have been delivered to his publisher two months ago, that a substantial amount of money had been advanced for it and that, if the book weren’t delivered by the end of the month, every penny of that money must be returned.

  Gordon was civil. Barely. He reminded Mr. Beaumont that Thomas Sheppard & Co. had
made a bloody fortune from the Roderick Cane novels and were still reaping a hefty profit from same. He told the little man that writers were not clerks, that books depended on a creative process that couldn’t be regulated by the clock and added that, if Thomas Sheppard &Co. were unhappy with his work, he would be delighted to take future Cane epics to any one of a dozen other publishers who would be damned pleased to get them, on time or not. Unfazed, Mr. Beaumont gently reminded the errant author that there was a little matter of personal loans advanced periodically on the strength of projected future earnings, said loans not yet fully repaid by said earnings. With a subtle reminder that debtor’s prison might not be entirely out of the question, Mr. Beaumont took his leave.

  Gordon didn’t rant and rave as I had expected him to do. He sank deeper into gloom, muttering inaudible phrases under his breath and completely unable to work the rest of the day. I wondered why, if the Roderick Cane books were so popular and made so much money, the man who wrote them had to live in run-down lodgings on Holywell Street and why he had only three frock coats to his name. All those loans, all those advances—what had happened to them? The pseudonymous Roderick Cane should be living in splendor, living like a prince, and instead he lived like the humblest scribbler with ink-stained fingers. That question was answered the next night when Richard Bancroft came to call. I was in my attic room, darning stockings by candlelight, but I had left the door partially open and could clearly overhear everything the two men said in the big room below.

  Gordon heatedly described Beaumont’s visit, angrily recounting all that had been said, then launched into a loud and lengthy tirade against publishers, publishers’ assistants and the whole bloody business in general, employing a few choice words I hadn’t even heard in St. Giles. Bancroft listened patiently and, when his friend had finally run down, casually remarked that ranting like a madman wasn’t going to help matters at all.