“’Is—’is name ain’t really Roderick Cane. ’E just uses that name for ’is books. ’Is real name is Cameron Gordon, ’e’s a Scot, an’ I’m Miranda James.”
Now it was her turn to look dismayed. The blue eyes widened, and the painted black brows arched even more. Her mouth formed a round, scarlet ‘O’. The pompadour listed perilously to the left, ringlets bouncing.
“My dear!” she exclaimed. “We’re going to have to do something about that!”
“’Bout what?”
“That hideous voice, my dear. You’re positively charming, loveliest creature I’ve seen in years, sweet and warmhearted, too, I can tell that—we’re going to be great friends, my dear—but that voice! That shrill, discordant screech! It has to go, no question about it. And you drop your h’s,’ too! It’s inexcusable! Sends shivers up my spine. We’ll change all that soon enough! I’ve done quite a bit of coaching in my day, and it’ll be a joy working with you. Give me something to do while I’m resting.” I’m resting.”
“Restin’?”
“Between engagements, my dear, a situation that occurs all too frequently in my autumn years. I’m an actress, didn’t I tell you? You must come over for tea. I was just setting things up when I discovered Brandy had disappeared. We’ll have a long, lovely chat and get to know each other and you can meet Pepe and Sarge. I fear things are in a bit of a mess, I’m terribly disorganized, always was, and I’m without a maid at the moment, but we’ll manage.”
“I—I ain’t sure you—you understand.”
“Understand what?”
“My situation. Cam an’ I ain’t married.”
“La! We of the theater understand such things, my dear. I wasn’t married myself for ever so long, wouldn’t have married Mr. Wooden if he hadn’t been so terribly stuffy about such things. He wasn’t in the business, you see. Owned a fleet of fishing boats, he did, but he was a dear, kind man just the same, much too good for me. Passed on ten years ago, the angel. Stop licking Mother’s chin, dearie, you’re spoiling my powder. Come along, Miranda dear, I’m longing for some company, it’s always so dreary when you get back from a tour. I didn’t offend you, did I, speaking about your voice that way?”
“I—I know I ain’t got a refined voice, but—I’d like to speak better.”
“So you shall, my dear. So you shall! We’ll have you speaking in an elegant lilt in no time at all. We’ll work on the grammar, too.”
Mrs. Wooden reached up to adjust the listing pompadour, which I now realized was a wig, and, closing the door behind me, I followed her across the cobbled yard to the old yellow house. She was a fantastic creature with her outlandish attire and nonstop chatter, her dogs and her painted face, but there was something immensely engaging about her just the same, even if she had made all those comments about my voice. I wondered if she really could teach me to speak properly. Now that I was living with Cam I longed to make him proud of me, and wouldn’t he be pleased if I suddenly started talkin’ like a lady.
Opening the front door, Mrs. Wooden set Brandy down, and he scurried down the hall, yapping blissfully. Another dog joined in, barking much more maturely. We followed the tiny poodle into a large salon cluttered with beautiful battered old furniture and absolutely awash with books. They were stacked on the mantel, piled on the floor, crammed helter-skelter into shelves that covered two walls floor to ceiling—books of every shape, size and description, leather bound, cloth bound, dusty and enchanting. My eyes fairly boggled. A small black poodle leaped about with frantic abandon, barking fiercely now, and another poodle, small and white, curled lazily on a faded rose brocade sofa, looking immensely bored.
“Sarge!” Mrs. Wooden cried, clapping her hands together. “Hush! You, too, Brandy! They encourage each other, I fear. Sarge is seven years old now, but ever since I brought Brandy home, he’s been acting just like a pup himself, showing off something awful, vying for attention. Behave yourself! Pepe, now, he’s ten and an absolute darling, sweetest disposition you could hope for. Mother’s favorite baby, aren’t you? You just sit right down, Miranda dear. I’ll run bring in the tea cart.”
She fluttered out of the room, and I sat down on the sofa, a bit dazed. Pepe looked up at me with vaguely suspicious eyes and after a moment, deciding I was a friend, moved over to snuggle next to me, resting his head on my leg. I stroked his long silky white ears while Sarge tore about the room with a much-chewed red ball and tiny Brandy burrowed under a stack of newspapers. Crowded, cluttered and dusty, the room was an enchanting place, full of character. A huge piano stood in one corner, its case gleaming a dark, dull gold, the varnish peeling. Small, beautifully framed paintings were arrayed on top of it, all of them of Mrs. Wooden at various ages and in unusual costumes. One of them depicted a radiantly lovely girl in Elizabethan ruff and bejeweled skullcap, her features only vaguely resembling those of my hostess. She must have been acting for a very long time, I reflected as Pepe sighed and nuzzled my skirt.
Above the elegant but soot-streaked white marble fireplace with its peacocktail brass screen hung an immense painting of a very handsome young man. The bottom part of its heavy, ornate gold frame was half-concealed by the books piled on the mantel. Against a stormy gray background, the man in the painting moodily contemplated the human skull he held in one palm, and I knew at once that the man was an actor, portraying Hamlet, and the skull was that of poor Yorick whom, alas, he had known well. Dressed all in black, a black velvet cloak lined with gray silk falling from his shoulders, the actor had unruly gold hair and the features of a young Adonis. The pink lips were full and sensual, the nose Roman, the brow undeniably noble. The eyes were dark and brooding, and as I gazed at the painting I had the curious feeling that those eyes had once gazed into mine, full of merriment, that this pale, godlike youth was someone I had once known. That was absurd, I knew, but the feeling persisted.
“Mr. Garrick,” my hostess said, wheeling in a noisy wooden cart laden with a sumptuous array of food. “I was his very first Gertrude, and he was a marvel, my dear. There’s never been a Hamlet like his, never will be again. Such soul! Such emotion! Such magic! Davy Garrick is a genius, one of the miracles of our age, and I consider myself fortunate to have been on the same stage with him.”
Davy? The name seemed to touch a distant chord of memory, but I wasn’t able to pin it down. Davy Garrick with merry mouth and dancing eyes, said he was going to marry me one day.… The memory flashed in my mind for half a second before submerging in gray. I couldn’t possibly have known anyone like him, and he certainly wouldn’t have promised to marry me. I decided my mind must be playing tricks on me.
“The press and the public went mad over him as Hamlet,” Mrs. Wooden continued, pouring tea into exquisite china cups. “Unfortunately, I didn’t fare quite so well. Colley Cibber wrote that ‘As Gertrude, Mrs. Wooden gave a performance befitting her name,’ and ever since, when an actor isn’t up to his role, they say he gives a ‘Wooden’ performance. Oh, the slings and arrows! The humiliation of it all. I would like to be remembered, my dear, but certainly not for that! Colley Cibber’s a brilliant man, I can’t deny that. He’s Poet Laureate, and he was manager of the Drury Lane for a long spell, but, entre nous, he’s a perfect beast to work with. Have you read his book?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Mrs. Wooden handed me a cup of tea. “An Apology For The Life of Colley Cibber,” she said, “came out six years ago. I’m mentioned in it several times, and the little worm certainly should apologize. I’ll lend you a copy.”
“All these books,” I said, gazing around the room. “There must be thousands of ’em. It—it’s like bein’ in ’eaven.”
“My brother left them to me. He was a dear man, quite the scholar, his nose always in a book. Spent a fortune on them, he did. He’d go without food to buy a book. I like having them around, but I must confess I don’t read all that much myself. Haven’t the time. I read plays, of course. I have them stashed all about the house. Always looking for a
n interesting new part.”
Mrs. Wooden began to regale me with marvelously colorful anecdotes about her forty years in the theater—witty, amusing, frequently touching stories peppered with exciting names I felt I should have recognized. As she talked she kept refilling my teacup and plying me with the most delicious treats: small slices of bread spread with a creamy past of cheese and chopped walnuts, tiny anchovies on top, a helping of coral-colored smoked salmon, squares of buttered bread covered with watercress and, to top it off, a rich plum cake soaked in apricot brandy. I had never eaten such wonderful food nor listened to such fascinating talk.
“More cake? No? You’re certain? Another cup of tea, then. No, nothing for you, Sarge! You had your snack earlier on. Go play with your ball! Pepe adores you, my dear. He never takes up with strangers like that. See, he’s licking your hand. They always know whom they can trust, unlike us poor humans who are always kicked in the derrière because of our blind faith. So you see, my dear,” she continued in that grand dramatic voice, “I was never a name, but I worked with all of them and had steady employment while some of your glittering names were waiting for the right vehicle and being forgotten by the fickle public.”
“It—it must have been terribly exciting, Mrs. Wooden.”
“You must call me Marcie, my dear, all my friends do. No one calls me Marcelon, and I’m ‘Mrs. Wooden’ only to my public. It was terribly exciting, I’ll not deny it, but there’s been a heap of heartache and grief as well. Always is in the theater. Still, I wouldn’t have missed a minute of it. Things are a bit sketchy at present—not many roles around for a ripe old party like me, and when you’re forced to tour—” She clacked her tongue, a sad and thoughtful look in those expressive blue eyes.
“But you’re marvelous,” I said, touched. “I just know there’s going to be a wonderful role coming up soon.”
“Davy keeps promising he’ll find one for me. We’ve remained extremely close all these years—he gave me that painting, said there was no one in London he’d rather have have it. Put his friend Sam Johnson’s nose quite out of joint, that did. Johnson wanted the painting himself. Dreadful man, Johnson. The manners of a bear, the disposition of a bull, but a marvelous talker, holds you absolutely spellbound at the dinner table or in a coffeehouse.”
“Is he an actor, too?”
“Oh, no, my dear. He’s not much of anything yet. Wrote a magnificent poem, ‘London,’ and a very fine book called The Life of Richard Savage, a bit wordy to my way of thinking. Mostly he’s a drudge, churning out articles for The Rambler and The Gentleman’s Magazine, but he has this grand scheme of compiling a dictionary of the English language. He’s the most brilliant man in London, I suppose, certain to be famous one day. He’s coarse and boorish and gruff, ugly as sin, too, by the way—sometimes I wonder what Davy sees in him, but then they grew up together and came to London together and I guess that counts for something.”
“You certainly know some interesting people,” I remarked.
“One does meet them in my profession, that’s one of the rewards of being in the theater. But here I’ve been rattling on for over an hour, my dear, talking about myself, and I want to know all about you! How is it that a lass so lovely and charming and refined-looking has such a horrendous voice? Where do you come from, and how did you come to be the companion of such a famous, successful writer?”
“I—actually I’m ’is bond servant,” I admitted.
Her eyes widened, brows shooting up. “Oh?”
“I—I was pinched, you see. I was pickin’ ’is pocket an’ ’e caught me an’ I was tossed in th’ round’ouse an’—are you sure you want to ’ear this?”
“My dear,” she drawled, “I’m all ears! Start at the beginning. Tell me everything.”
I hesitated, uncomfortable now, reluctant to go on, but as she poured herself more tea I began to tell her about my mum, about St. Giles, about Big Moll and all that had happened to me up until the time we moved to Greenbriar Court. Mrs. Wooden listened with rapt attention, absolutely fascinated, the cup of tea growing cold in her hand. Once I started to talk it seemed I couldn’t stop, and for some reason I found myself telling her things I had never told another living soul. I told her of my hopes, my fears, my dreams, my desire to make something of myself, make Cam proud of me, and when I finally fell silent Mrs. Wooden was visibly moved.
“My dear,” she said, “I—I’ve never heard such a tale. Why, you’re remarkable!”
“Me? I don’t see ’ow you figure that. Ain’t nothin’ remarkable about me. I just—just wanna do somethin’ with my life. I wanna accomplish things an’—an’ be somebody worthwhile.”
“And so you shall, my dear!” she exclaimed. “So you shall! You’re bright and intelligent, far more intelligent than you realize, I suspect. You’re young, engaging, perfectly beautiful—why, you’re a diamond, my dear, a genuine diamond in the rough!”
She was growing very excited now. You could hear it in her voice and see it in her eyes. Brandy scampered across the floor and scratched at her pink skirts. She scooped him up onto her lap. Sarge began to race around the room in a frenzy, cavorting with the red ball, demanding attention. Pepe sighed again and looked up at me as though to disassociate himself from such boring antics. Mrs. Wooden gave me a thrilled, excited look.
“I need a project at the moment, and, my dear, you’re it!”
“What—what do you mean?” I asked, rather alarmed by her enthusiasm.
“We’re going to polish you, my dear. We’re going to work and work and turn you into the person you were meant to be. What fun we’ll have! You’re going to shine, my dear. You’re going to dazzle them! Before we’re finished you’re going to set this town on its ears!”
“Me?”
“You. Miss Miranda James! What a lark it will be, bringing you out, giving you polish! What a challenge! It’ll be very hard work, of course, my dear, but, oh, how rewarding!”
“I ain’t afraid of work,” I assured her.
“Am not,” she corrected.
“In the meantime, I was just wonderin’, could—could I borrow some of them books?” I asked timidly.
“Those books!” she cried. “My dear, I insist!”
22
Cam would be returning tomorrow. In one sense it seemed he’d been gone forever, the nights so long, so lonely, yet the days had clipped right by, full to overflowing with activity, thanks to Mrs. Wooden. I’d never worked so hard in all my life, but how thrilling, how exciting, how challenging it all was. Nine days we’d been working, and already I was making distinct improvements. Mrs. Wooden declared herself delighted with our progress, then sternly added that we must redouble our efforts. She was a marvelous teacher, patient, persistent, encouraging, always colorful, given to breathless outbursts and flights of fancy I found wonderfully amusing. She was an outlandish creature, true—chatty and overdramatic—but she had a huge heart and, beneath the frippery, a kind, compassionate nature rare as unicorns in this day and age. I felt myself blessed to have such a fascinating new friend.
Standing in front of the full-length mirror in our upstairs bedroom, I wondered if Cam had missed me as much as I had missed him. Probably not, probably hadn’t given me a single thought, the sod.… No, no, I wasn’t going to start backsliding already. A well-bred young lady never called anyone a sod. It was shockingly vulgar. A well-bred young lady didn’t even know such words. Bloody and bleedin’ were forbidden, too, and I must never make mention of arse, my own or anyone else’s, nor refer to certain bodily functions and the product resulting from same. Such a lot to remember. I’d never make it, I thought, brushing a heavy auburn wave from my temple.
I’d never even look like a lady, I admitted, gazing at my reflection with a critical eye. Ladies were soft and pink and blonde and ever so delicate. I was too tall, my waist too slender, my bosom too full, and my coloring was much too vivid: eyes too blue, lips too pink, hair a blaze of coppery red-brown. Fragile and frail and elegant I’d n
ever be, though at least I had high cheekbones and a patrician nose. The ragged, filthy street urchin had vanished completely. Skin glowing from my bath, hair aglow with shiny highlights, I was wearing a frock of brown and cream stripped linen, the cloth very fine, the stripes thin. The elbow-length sleeves were tight, ending in white ruffles, and the bodice had a modestly low scooped neckline. The full skirt swelled in two puffed flounces that parted in front to reveal the ruffled white underskirt. Well, Randy, I thought, you may never be a lady, but at least you ain’t a St. Giles ragamuffin any longer.
Aren’t a ragamuffin. A well-bred young lady never said ain’t, under no circumstances, and she said isn’t, not idn’t, doesn’t, not dudn’t. She knew when to say them and when to say those and, if not, simply kept her mouth shut. She carefully pronounced her final ‘g’s,’ never dropped her ‘h’s’ and spoke from her diaphragm, dra-a-a-a-w-ing the words up and giving them resonance and shape. She didn’t speak through her nose and squawk like an agitated duck. Mrs. Wooden could be quite succinct in her criticisms. I never sounded like a duck, I protested. She calmly begged to differ with me.
Giving my hair a final pat, I turned away from the mirror, picked up the book I had borrowed and hurried downstairs. It was after ten already, and Mrs. Wooden would be waiting. It was marvelous of her to be devoting so much time to me. She airily brushed away any protests on my part that she surely must have better things to do. I was doing her a favor, she insisted and then candidly confessed that when you were down on your luck in the theater your friends had a habit of vanishing into the woodwork, except for a rare, rare few like Davy Garrick, bless his generous soul. Mrs. Wooden had not performed in London in over four years, and the tour she had just completed was with a distinctly third-rate repertory company that couldn’t get a theater in the metropolis if they worked for free. Some, like that dreadful Colley Cibber, claimed that Mrs. W. was past her prime, but she staunchly refused to believe such nonsense and patiently waited for the right role that would place her back into the thick of things.
Once More, Miranda Page 33
