Once More, Miranda

by Jennifer Wilde

  Glorious morning sunlight splattered the worn cobbles as I crossed the court to the old yellow house. Major Barnaby was tending his roses this morning, I noted. Straightening up to his full six feet, lean and ramrod stiff, he gave me an extremely hostile look as I knocked on Mrs. Wooden’s door. In his early sixties, well preserved and handsome in a stern, bristly sort of way, he stood beside the bed of opulent salmon-pink roses with clipping shears in hand, piercing gray eyes aglitter. His sandy gray hair was cut short, his mustache neat and rather jaunty. He was indeed a fine figure of a man, I thought, remembering Mrs. W.’s description, but I couldn’t imagine why he was so belligerent this morning. He had always been civil, if reserved, whenever I’d seen him before.

  A chorus of shrill yaps and noisy barks sounded in the hallway when I knocked a second time. The door flew open. Brandy leaped at my skirts, yapping joyfully. Sarge whirled and cavorted like a small black tumbler. Mrs. Wooden gave me an effusive greeting and then stared dramatically past my shoulder at our neighbor, her chin held high, her eyes full of haughty disdain. Pulling me inside, ordering the dogs to hush, she slammed the door with considerable emphasis, as though she were slamming it in the major’s face.

  “I see that dreadful man is still out there,” she exclaimed, “puttering in his precious rose beds! I suppose you heard the ruckus this morning? They must have heard it in Tower Yard. Such a tempest! Such an uproar, and that man actually threatened to use his riding crop on poor Sarge. I gave him a sizable piece of my mind, believe me!”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Sarge got out, my dear. I saw Major Barnaby working on his roses and thought I’d take a bit of fresh air in front of the house and Sarge nipped out as soon as I opened the door and darted straight for the major’s roses. He hoisted his hind leg and watered one of the rosebushes and I thought the major was going to have a seizure! His eyes blazed. His cheeks flamed pink. He began to snort and shout, carried on like a madman! I naturally rushed over to rescue my baby, and that horrible man addressed me in the most unflattering terms!”

  “What’d he say?”

  “Never you mind, my dear. It doesn’t bear repeating. I told him exactly what I thought of him, I did, told him what I thought of his roses, too! A man handsome as he is, puttering about in a rose bed! If he weren’t so unfriendly and standoffish, he just might find something better to do. He isn’t even sixty-five yet and as healthy as a horse. Full of vigor! There’s no excuse for a man so eligible closing himself up like a hermit.”

  I smiled to myself. Mrs. Wooden’s real bone of contention with the major was quite transparent. Brandy and Sarge preceded us down the hall, scampering merrily into the long, spacious room at the back of the house that served as Mrs. Wooden’s “studio.” Sunlight splashed in through a bank of windows overlooking her back garden, making patterns on the golden brown hardwood floor. A number of framed theatrical posters hung on the walls, and there was a rack of costumes she kept in perfect condition. A tall golden harp stood in one corner, and a long worktable sat beneath the windows, cluttered with books and papers. Several tall, lovely screens stood about, from India, she informed me, called Coromandel screens, their colors rich and glowing. Pepe was curled up on the long pale-blue sofa, lifting his head lazily as we entered the room.

  “Did you read the grammar book I lent you?” Mrs. Wooden inquired.

  “I read it twice,” I told her. “It—it’s peculiar, but when I’m reading I’m always aware of proper grammar—if the author makes a mistake, I spot it instantly and know what word he should have used. I always use the right words when I write, too. It’s only when I speak that I make mistakes.”

  “They’re really not mistakes,” she said generously, “they’re merely habits you’ve adopted. Everyone around you said ‘them apples’ so you said it, too, even though you knew it was wrong.”

  “Maybe so.”

  “You obviously received excellent early training, Miranda—from your mother, I assume—and then, when you moved to St. Giles you gradually took on the colors of its inhabitants, in your speech, in your mannerisms, until, on the surface at least, you were indistinguishable from them. What we are attempting to do is remove the St. Giles’s influences.”

  “I see.”

  “And you’re making excellent progress, my dear! We’ve just about restored your final ‘g’s,’ but we have a lot of work on your ‘h’s.’ We’ll concentrate on them this morning.”

  I groaned. ‘H’s’ were ’ell. Seeing my reluctance, Mrs. Wooden clucked and informed me that we must forge ahead. She was wearing a lovely yellow silk frock with a white lace fichu, a yellow silk bow atop the towering, powdered pompadour. Although it was still morning, her makeup was as vivid as ever—lips bright red, cheeks rouged, eyelids mauve, a heart-shaped black satin patch on one cheekbone. Extending her left arm out in a florid gesture, she told me to repeat after her: “How horrid to have herring.”

  “’Ow ’orrid to ’ave ’erring,” I said.

  “How horrid to have herring!” She corrected. ‘Huh! Huh! Huh! Sound those ‘h’s!’ Watch my lips! Huh-ow huh-orrid to huh-ave huh-erring.”

  “Huh-ow ’orrid to huh-ave herring.”

  “That’s better. Again!”

  “How huh-orrid to have herring.”

  “A little better, a little better, but you’re not bringing the words up and shaping them. You’re speaking from your nasal cavities, not from your chest, my dear. There’s an absolutely lovely voice there, I know there is, it’s just been warped and distorted by lazy speech habits and unfortunate associations.”

  “It ’urt—huh-urts—when I try to speak deep like that.”

  “That’s your imagination. You’re just not accustomed to using those muscles when you speak. Again now—draw them up, roll them, give them texture.”

  “How—horrid—to—’ave—herring.”

  “Have herring!”

  “Have herring,” I croaked.

  “I want you to say that sentence twenty-five times now, slowly and carefully and from the chest.”

  I groaned, but I obeyed, and after I’d said it ten times or so it seemed to come a bit easier, seemed to sound better and didn’t huh-urt so much. I was gettin’t—getting—better, getting the hang of it. Maybe it wasn’t hopeless. Maybe I really could sound like a lady, and wouldn’t Cam be proud then. Concentrating mightily, I “dre—e—ew” the words up and shaped them.

  “There!” Mrs. Wooden cried, interrupting me. “My dear, that was lovely.”

  “It was?”

  “You sounded almost human. Try not to strain so much. Relax. Let the words come up naturally.”

  I finished the twenty-five repetitions, exhausted. Never knew it was so hard to speak properly. Mrs. Wooden declared herself pleased with my progress and ordered me to say “Hannah has happy holidays” ten times, which was even more difficult to do. Hadn’t said it five times before I detested the name Hannah. Hurt like the devil, saying that word, pronouncing both ‘h’s.’ Hadn’t got one out good before you had to do another. There was a loud knock at the front door just as I finished the tenth repetition. Brandy and Sarge barked lustily, tearing down the hall, and even Pepe lifted his head to give a bored “ruff-ruff.”

  “Who could that be!” Mrs. Wooden exclaimed, clasping a hand over her heart. “I wonder if that dreadful Major Barnaby has come to apologize? You stay here, my dear. I’ll just run see who it is.”

  She left the room, and I sighed with relief, stepping over to examine one of the Coromandel screens, turquoise and coral pink and silver birds and flowers marvelously inlaid in black panels bound with silver. I heard the front door opening, and then Mrs. Wooden gave a cry of surprise as Sarge and Brandy continued to vocalize with gleeful abandon. There was hearty male laughter and an exchange of words I couldn’t make out over the racket of the dogs. Mrs. Wooden seemed to be protesting something, her guest insisting.

  “Be quiet, Sarge! You, too, Brandy! There! See how you’ve stirr
ed them up? Of course I’m delighted to see you. I’m thrilled, in fact, but you can’t come in right now. I—I’m terribly busy, and—”

  “Is this any way to treat an old and adoring friend? I know you, Maw-suh-lun. You’re hiding something. What is it?”

  “I’m not hiding anything!” she protested. “It’s just—it’s just that, well, I’ve only been back a few days and the place is in a dreadful shambles—”

  “Doesn’t matter in the least. I came to have some of your famous plum cake, my darlin’, and I don’t intend to leave until I get it. Besides, I have some extremely interesting news to relate. Come along, we’ll chat in your studio.”

  “No! No—I mean, the salon’s much more comfortable. If you insist on barging in like this, we’ll use the salon.”

  “Ah ha! You are hiding something. I knew it!”

  Purposeful footsteps strode down the hall, followed by the clattering rat-tat-tat of high-heeled slippers. The most gloriously beautiful man I’d ever seen burst into the room, followed by a very flustered Mrs. Wooden and two capering dogs. I stared in confusion as Mrs. Wooden made frantic gestures behind the man’s back.

  “And who is this?” he inquired, moving toward me.

  “Don’t open your mouth, Miranda!” Mrs. Wooden cried. “Do you hear me? Don’t open your mouth.”

  I gulped and nodded, clamping my lips tightly together. The man paused a few feet away from me and clasped his hands behind his back and leaned forward, examining me with narrowed eyes as he might examine a painting, looking for flaws. Paralyzed, I watched with considerable apprehension as he stepped nearer, studying my hair, my complexion, nodding with distinct approval as his eyes took in my bosom. I swallowed, lips still clamped.

  I recognized him immediately, of course. He was a few years older than he had been when he had posed for the Hamlet painting, and, now in his early thirties, his face was even more interesting, a lived-in face, attractively lined, mobile and expressive. It wasn’t that he was all that handsome, not really. On closer inspection his looks weren’t remarkable at all, but he had an incredible magnetism that took one’s breath away. He seemed to gather all the light to him and send it back in dazzling rays, seemed to radiate vitality and zest and virile energy. Never had I seen such remarkable presence, and, what was even more remarkable, he seemed completely unaware of it, his manner jaunty, relaxed and totally unassuming.

  On stage David Garrick might be attired in great splendor, but this morning he looked almost unkempt. His dark gold hair seemed a bit oily, as though it might need a good washing, pulled away from his face and tied with a bit of old string in back. His black leather pumps were scuffed, his white cotton stockings were clearly aged, and his dark maroon knee breeches were frightfully creased. Over a white lawn shirt with frilly white jabot he wore a disreputable forest-green frock coat with tarnished silver buttons, the skirt wide and flaring, the cuffs rather frayed, the cloth itself shiny with age. It was the sort of garment a pirate might wear, I thought, yet the overall effect was utterly disarming.

  My heart thumped as he continued to examine me, and then he moved back a pace and gave an emphatic nod.

  “Exquisite!” he declared. “Positively exquisite! Exactly the type I’ve been looking for. What’s your experience, my beauty? Have you worked in London? Not that it’s terribly important, I’ll be using you primarily for ornamental purposes. Nothing too demanding at first.”

  “She’s not an actress, Davy!” Mrs. Wooden protested.

  “With that face, that body, she doesn’t have to be. I’ll put her in velvets and satins, use her as stage dressing.”

  “She’s not interested!”

  “Why don’t you let her speak for herself?”

  “She can’t.”

  “Mute?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “A hideous speech impediment?”

  “She—she has a terrible case of laryngitis—yes, that’s it, she has laryngitis and her physician has ordered her not to say a word for at least two days or there might be dreadful consequences. Isn’t that right, Miranda?”

  I nodded, swallowing again. Davy Garrick tilted his head to one side, looking at both of us with grave doubts. My lips were beginning to hurt from staying clamped so tightly. I parted them, exhaling a great gust of breath. Mrs. Wooden gasped, alarmed, and I quickly clamped them together again. Garrick stroked his chin with his index finger, sensing a mystery and wondering how far he should pursue it. I longed for him to leave so that I could breathe normally again.

  “If she’s not an actress, who is she?” he asked sternly.

  “She—she’s my niece.”

  “Didn’t know you had any brothers or sisters. Thought you were an orphan.”

  “I was—I mean I am. Miranda’s my niece by marriage—the daughter of the late Mr. Wooden’s brother. She’s been living in Chester all these years and—and I’ve brought her to London to keep me company.”

  “I don’t believe a single word you’ve said, Maw-suh-lun, luv. I’ll let you off the hook for the time being, gentleman that I am, but I want you to know that I intend to get to the bottom of this eventually. I shall, rest assured. You haven’t promised her to some other manager, have you?”

  “Of course not!” she exclaimed, outraged. “I told you, Miranda’s not an actress. She’s never been on a stage in her life, has no desire to be. She’s—wait a minute! What do you mean, some other manager?”

  “That’s my news, ducks. I’ve just become manager of Drury Lane. Co-manager, actually, with Lacy, but I’ll be in full control.”

  “Davy! How marvelous! I thought you were going to continue at Covent Garden under Rich’s management. I never dreamed—oh, this is splendid! You’ll be able to mount your own productions, pick your own casts! Tell me quickly, who have you engaged?”

  “Haven’t engaged anyone yet. The season won’t begin till September, and the entire theater has to be redecorated, walls torn down, new mortar put up, hundreds of alterations made. Place has hardly been touched since Sir Christopher Wren designed it over seventy years ago.”

  “Who are you thinking of engaging?”

  “Haven’t given it a whole lot of thought, luv. Peg, of course.”

  “I thought that was over,” Mrs. Wooden said.

  “It is, alas, leaving me older and sadder if not much wiser. Darlin’ Peg may have the morals of a terrier and the manners of a sow, but she’s still a damn fine actress and I bear no grudges. I shall probably engage Mrs. Cibber—”

  “Of course!” Mrs. Wooden interrupted. “She’s very good.” Her enthusiasm was less than genuine.

  “Mrs. Pritchard, too, no doubt, don’t want to play favorites. I’ll round up a superlative company, ducks, the best the city’s ever seen.”

  Mrs. Wooden was clearly crestfallen. “I’m sure you will,” she replied.

  Garrick smiled a teasing smile and, sauntering across the room, flopped down on the long blue sofa and stretched his legs out. Brandy and Sarge romped over to sniff as the actor dug into one of the huge pockets of his frock coat and, seemingly by accident, pulled out a handful of doggie tidbits. Sarge leaped up onto Garrick’s lap, wildly excited. Too small to master such a titanic feat, Brandy pawed at the actor’s leg and yapped mournfully. Above such demanding antics and already snugly ensconced on the sofa, Pepe merely wagged his tail a couple of times, convinced justice would be done. Garrick casually distributed morsels to all three dogs as he continued to chat.

  “Don’t know who else I’ll engage,” he said, “but, naturally, when the right role comes along I’ll consider engaging my roguish old Marcie. We’re going to open with A Merchant of Venice, luv, and, alas, I fear you’re a bit ripe for Portia.”

  “Merchant!” she said, disgusted. “Shakespeare’s been done so much. I don’t know why you don’t open with a nice, rousing Restoration comedy. I shine in Restoration comedy.”

  “I know, ducks, and I’ll keep that in mind. That’s all, mutts. Greedy little buggers
, aren’t you? I’ll bring more next time. Now, Marcie, the least you can do is give a poor, famished genius a cup of tea and some of your famous plum cake with apricot brandy. I’ve been thinking of nothing else for days.”

  “I declare, Davy Garrick, you’re as audacious as ever! You will find a role for me, won’t you?”

  “Of course I will, ducks. You don’t think I’d forget my old sweetheart, do you? Marcelon Wooden will shine again, I promise.”

  “Restoration comedy is so much more amusing. I never felt comfortable playing all those dreary Shakespearian queens, if you want to know the truth. Give me something with a bit more dash, a bit more elan. Give me something I can—”

  “Give me some cake and tea at once!” he demanded.

  Mrs. Wooden threw up her hands in mock disgust and scurried blissfully out of the room. David Garrick smiled a radiant smile and watched her departure with fond eyes. He was an audacious rogue, scattering charm in every direction, as comfortable with his fame as he was with his old clothes, perfectly natural in everything he said and did. With our hostess out of the room, he turned that charm on me, giving me a grin that was even lovelier than his smile.

  “Enjoying London?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Much more exciting than—where was it? Chester? I should imagine you’re quite overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of our great metropolis. I know I was when I first arrived from Lichfield. Bowled me over, it did. For days I couldn’t do anything but gaze and gape. Have you ever thought about going on the stage?”

  I shook my head, terrified I’d slip up and let him hear my voice.

  “When you get over this distressing infirmity you’ll have to get Marcelon to bring you around to the Drury. It’ll be full of workmen hammering and sawing and slapping up plaster, but I’d love to show it to you just the same. Magical place, a theater. I still get goose-bumps every time I walk backstage—all those ropes, all that dust, all those painted flats, that mystery, that excitement. Nothing in the world like it. Have you ever been to the theater?”