Once More, Miranda

by Jennifer Wilde

  I shook my head.

  “Never? Amazing! We’ll have to do something about that. I don’t know what Marcie has in mind for you, my beauty, but she isn’t going to be able to keep you under wraps for long, I assure you. Once the bucks in London get a glimpse of you they’re going to pursue you in droves, but they’ll have to get up before breakfast to beat out Davy Garrick. I’ve first dibs, my beauty, and don’t you forget it.”

  “What kind of nonsense are you prattling now?” Mrs. Wooden demanded, wheeling in the old tea cart.

  “I’ve been telling yon beauty that I have plans for her, Marcie luv. I intend to sweep her off her feet.”

  “You might as well forget it, Davy,” she said, slicing cake and placing it on saucers. “Miranda’s a good girl. She’d never have anything to do with an actor, I can tell you that right now. Besides, she’s going back to Chester first thing next week. Isn’t that right, Miranda?”

  I nodded. Davy Garrick made a mournful face. Mrs. Wooden poured tea and carried a cup to the actor along with a slice of cake. She served me next, and I sat down on one of the straight chairs nearby, holding myself very rigid, hardly daring to breathe, much less eat cake and sip tea. Garrick downed his tea and tore into the cake with gusto, holding out the empty saucer a few moments later. Mrs. Wooden gave him a second slice.

  “Always were fond of my plum cake,” she declared. “I remember how you used to eat it backstage when we were doing Hamlet. How’s your good friend Sam Johnson, by the way? Boorish as ever, I assume.”

  “All involved with his grandiose plans for the dictionary,” Garrick replied. “He’s signed a contract to do it now and can’t talk of anything else—I take that back. He can and does, interminably, but the dictionary’s his chief subject nowadays. Holds forth about it in all the coffeehouses.”

  “Insufferable man,” Mrs. Wooden said, “but fascinating. I’ll have to admit that, even if I can’t abide him.”

  “Sam’s quite fond of you, luv,” Garrick told her.

  “He is?”

  Garrick grinned, forking another bite of cake. “He says you remind him of a painted maypole. Says he feels like breaking into a jig every time he sees you.”

  “He would say something like that, and I’m not at all sure I like it. I wish him well on the dictionary, at any rate. It’s bound to be a herculean task, and if anyone can pull it off, Samuel Johnson can.”

  Teacup and saucer of cake balanced in my lap, I sat with my back as straight as a ramrod, listening to them discuss the eccentricities of the irascible writer. Garrick had a marvelous voice, rich and melodious, a lovely lilt that was soothing to the ear yet completely unaffected. Finished with tea and cake, he set the cup and saucer on the floor and lolled back against the cushions, stretching his legs out even more. They were very well shaped, I observed, long and muscular. Garrick had the physique of an athlete in superb condition, and he moved with jaunty grace as natural with him as breathing. What an impression he must make on the stage, I thought.

  “Yon beauty has a faraway look in her eyes,” he said. “I fear we’re boring her with all this talk about Sam.”

  The remark startled me out of my reverie, startled me so much that I darn near dumped the cup of tea onto my lap. Very, very carefully I got up and took the cup and saucer of cake over to the worktable, setting them down. Garrick watched me, studying my movements. I was extremely self-conscious, felt clumsy as an ox under that amiable, speculative gaze. Resuming my seat, I folded my hands in my lap and tried to look pleasant, convinced I looked like an idiot. Garrick casually stroked Pepe, who had snuggled up against him in a small white ball. Sarge was begging his mistress for a taste of cake, and Brandy was now curled up on top of a stack of papers, fast asleep.

  “What exactly does your ravishing young niece do in Chester?” Garrick asked. “Besides chatter nonstop, I mean.”

  Finally relenting, Mrs. Wooden gave Sarge a bite of cake. “Oh, she does a lot of things—embroidery, needlepoint, a bit of watercoloring, a dab of botany, keeps herself quite occupied.”

  “Sounds frightfully dreary. You really should persuade her to stay in London, luv.”

  “Oh, her parents would never allow that. I had a difficult enough time persuading them to let her visit this long.”

  The actor stretched his arms out and rested them along the back of the sofa, the skirt of his forest green frock coat falling back to reveal a worn black silk lining. Head tilted to one side, he looked at his hostess, one dark brow slanting up in a quizzical arch. Mrs. Wooden busied herself with the tea things, clattering cups and saucers nervously. She was not a skillful liar, and her guest clearly knew her well enough to know when she wasn’t telling the truth. An amused grin curled on his lips, and he stood up and ran a hand through his thick dark-golden hair.

  “There’s a mystery here, ducks,” he declared. “Would that I had time to pursue it, but, alas, I have several more visits to make this afternoon—must spread the good news, you know.”

  “It’s been lovely seeing you, Davy. I do hope you’ll come again.”

  “You can be sure of it.”

  He gave her a vigorous hug that caused her to gasp and caused her pompadour to tilt alarmingly. She shoved him away from her with mock disgust and quickly adjusted her head piece, her cheeks flushed with pleasure. David Garrick strode over to my chair, took my hand and pulled me to my feet. I looked up at that dazzling face with apprehension. He smiled a lovely smile, eyes gleaming.

  “It’s been a pleasure, my beauty,” he crooned.

  He squeezed my hand then, and then he lifted it slowly to his lips and turned it and kissed my palm. I was speechless. Under the circumstances, it was just as well.

  “I don’t believe any of this nonsense Marcie has been telling me about you,” he said. “You’re the most enchanting vision I’ve laid eyes on in many a day, and I have a feeling you and I are going to see each other again. Until then I shall dream of the fair Miranda.”

  That was quite enough to turn a girl’s head, but then Davy Garrick was a professional charmer and he probably talked that way to all the girls, even the ones who squinted. Full of blarney, he was, audacious as could be, yet I coudln’t help but feel flattered. Cam Gordon had certainly never talked to me like that. Never would, either, dour, undemonstrative Scot that he was. Garrick gazed into my eyes a moment longer and then released my hand. Mrs. Wooden led him to the front door, and as he left he seemed to take all the sunlight with him.

  “Jemminy!” I exclaimed as Mrs. Wooden returned. “It was ’ard as ’ell, keepin’ my mouth shut all that time. I didn’t think th’ bleedin’ sod was ever gonna leave.”

  Mrs. Wooden winced, appalled by my words and the voice in which they were spoken, but she was much too enraptured by the actor’s visit to scold me. She beamed with pleasure, patting her pompadour, her eyes all aglow.

  “I knew Davy wouldn’t fail me. Manager of the Drury Lane! And him so young! To think it was just ten years ago that he came up from Lichfield to go into the wine business with his brother.”

  “Lichfield?” I said.

  “His birthplace,” she explained. “He and Sam Johnson grew up there. Eager to get away from the place, both of them. Eager for broader horizons.”

  “Does—” I paused, frowning. “Does this Lichfield have a cathedral?”

  “I believe so. Seems I’ve seen an engraving of it.”

  “Does—does it ’ave a pond? With ducks?”

  “Have, Miranda. Huh huh huh. Pronounce those ‘h’s!’”

  “Does Lichfield have a duck pond?”

  “I wouldn’t know, my dear. I’ve never been there myself. What a peculiar question, though. Why do you ask?”

  “I—I just wondered,” I said.

  Mrs. Wooden shrugged, far too full of the visit to be distracted by my questions. Voice rolling dramatically, she regaled me with information about the actor.

  “Not quite six years ago it was that Davy made his first real appearance on the
English stage. October 19th, 1741, a historic night it was, too! He played Richard III at Goodman’s Fields—no one had ever heard of him, no one expected anything, the doorman only took in thirty pounds that evening, a paltry take, let me assure you. He stepped on stage, and before he uttered a single word Davy was Richard—he didn’t rant, he didn’t orate, he didn’t proclaim, he simply was the wicked hunchback. He set a new standard in acting that night, Davy did. No actor in history has received such an enthusiastic reception.”

  “Were you there?”

  “Indeed I was—pure chance, my dear. I was between engagements and I hadn’t seen Richard III in a while, and so I went to Goodman’s Fields—an out-of-the-way theater, quite déclassé, looked down upon by the West End snobs. I was there for Davy’s debut, and I knew immediately that here was a genius the likes of which we had never seen before—and probably won’t see again.”

  “’E—he’s—that good?”

  “He’s amazing! Incredible! Words can’t express, my dear. In that one night he established himself as our greatest tragedian, and then he astonished everyone by turning to comedy just to prove his versatility. There’s no role he can’t play with absolute perfection—a villain, a fop, a fool, a brooding romantic hero, a scheming merchant, a bumbling oaf. He’s sheer magic.”

  “Who’s this Peg you were talkin’ about?” I asked.

  Mrs. Wooden made a face. “Peg Woffington,” she replied, settling down on the sofa with much rustling of yellow silk skirts. “A great tall girl with large, irregular features—ugly as a mud fence, actually, but when she’s on stage you never notice it. A brilliant actress—hurts me to say it, but it’s true. Abounding vitality. Incomparable zest. She excels in comedy and has a penchant for roles allowing her to masquerade as a boy—when she appeared as Sylvia in The Recruiting Officer, masquerading as Jack Wilful for half the play, they said such exuberance hadn’t been seen on stage since the death of Nell Gwynn.”

  Sarge trotted over to the sofa with the red ball in his mouth, his black tail wagging. Mrs. Wooden took the ball and tossed it. Sarge darted after it. Brandy woke up and scampered after him with a blissful yap.

  “Many say Peg’s the reincarnation of Nell,” Mrs. Wooden continued. “She has the same careless brio and, I might add, the same deplorable morals. Drinks like a fish, swears like a trooper, takes lovers by the score. I can’t abide the creature myself, but neither can I deny her talent. Davy was head over heels in love with her, of course. It was quite a tempestuous relationship—such fights, such jealousy, such clashing of wills. He’s just now getting over it, poor lamb. Quite the ladies’ man, Davy is, an outrageous flirt, but he was serious about Peg.”

  Gathering Pepe onto her lap, she began to stroke his soft white fur. “I must say, my dear, he certainly was smitten with you.”

  “Was he?” I said casually.

  “Completely smitten. Mystified. Intrigued.”

  “Ain’t gonna do him much good,” I retorted.

  “Miranda! Young ladies don’t—”

  “Isn’t gonna do him much good,” I corrected myself. “A chap like that, all charm and dazzle—a girl’d ’ave to be crazy to ’ave anything to do with ’im.”

  “Huh huh huh! Your ‘h’s!’”

  “I’ll never get it,” I said woefully. “I try and try, but I keep slipping up. It’s so huh-hard. Who wants to speak like a bleedin’ duchess, anyway?”

  “You do,” she assured me, putting Pepe aside and climbing to her feet. “You mustn’t be discouraged, my dear. We’ve made remarkable progress already, and in a very short while you’ll be speaking in a voice as elegant as can be.”

  “It’ll still hurt,” I complained.

  “It won’t hurt at all. Once you learn to use the proper muscles you’ll speak quite naturally, won’t even be aware of it. Let’s get back to work, my dear. You were doing quite well earlier. Hannah has happy holidays.”

  “Hannah has hap—do we have to do this?”

  “We have to. No arguments now. Get to work!”

  Mrs. Wooden drove me with stern but amiable determination, and after a while I found that ‘h’s’ weren’t really all that difficult once you got the hang of saying them. I worked with renewed enthusiasm, and Mrs. Wooden was elated, declaring me a superb pupil. When I finally went home late that afternoon I was quite pleased with myself. I had a bite to eat and settled down at my secretary and labored on the book for a while, but thoughts kept distracting me and it was almost impossible to concentrate on the boring Lord John and the insipid Lady Cynthia. Try though I might, I couldn’t make them breathe today.

  Finally putting the quill aside, I stared through the window at the yard and the lovely old yellow house across the way. Sunlight faded, dark yellow-gold on the cobbles, and shadows were beginning to thicken. I thought of David Garrick, so handsome, so charming, so overwhelming. I couldn’t get over the feeling that I had known him before. An elusive memory seemed to flicker around the edges of my mind, never quite clear enough for me to grasp it. Lichfield. A great cathedral. A pond with ducks. Handsome young Davy with the merry grin and lively blue eyes. Could I have lived in Lichfield when I was a little girl?

  The room grew dim as sunlight vanished, and a curious melancholy took hold of me as I realized just how little I knew about myself. I vaguely remembered a small town, and I remembered my mum, of course, saw flashes of her in memory, but everything else was a misty blur besides the years in St. Giles. I had no idea who my father may have been and wasn’t even certain of my name. Had Mum married someone named James, or was I a love child? It didn’t matter, I told myself, lighting the candles. It didn’t matter at all. I was Miranda James and I lived on Greenbriar Court and I was the luckiest girl alive, for I had Cam. Davy Garrick might dazzle and charm, but compared to my Scot he faded to insignificance.

  I had my Scot and he was returning tomorrow. One more night in my lonely bed and I would be in his arms. There could be no greater bliss.

  23

  Six o’clock in the morning it had been when he finally came home. Six o’clock in the bloody morning, sunlight streaking the sky in cool pink strokes, shadows evaporating, him staggering up the stairs and coming into the bedroom looking worn and haggard, pulling off his clothes, climbing into bed without a word, falling asleep almost immediately. Damn him to hell. Back from Scotland two weeks now and going out almost every night to his bloody secret meetings with his bloody conspirators, leaving me all alone. You’d think I was still his bleedin’ maid, think I was just a piece of furniture for all the attention he’d given me. Sod hadn’t even brought me a present from Scotland. Wouldn’t have hurt him. Hell, a simple bit of purple heather would’ve done, would’ve said something, would’ve meant the world.

  It was one o’clock in the afternoon now and he was still asleep and I longed to march upstairs and grab him by the feet and drag him out of bed so forcefully he’d crack his head on the floor. I’d enjoy that. Maybe I wouldn’t drag him out of bed. Maybe I’d take a pan of ice cold water and dump if over his head. Serve the sod right, it would. Ignoring me, treating me like I wasn’t there, neglecting his book and traipsing all over London to plan and conspire with those bloodthirsty rebels when he knew how I felt about it, knew how scared I was. The bastard hadn’t even noticed my elegant new voice. Never dropped my final ‘g’s’ anymore, carefully pronounced each ‘h,’ spoke with a lovely resonance. Like dark velvet, Mrs. Wooden said it was, said it was a blooming miracle, one day I’m squawking like an agitated duck and the next I’m speaking in a soft, refined drawl that would put a duchess to shame. Still needed work, of course, a few burrs here and there, but a miracle all the same, and Mr. Cam-sodding-Gordon was so preoccupied I might just as well have been jabbering in Hindu.

  Sleeping away upstairs he was, in the middle of the day. Downright immoral, and me with my hair just washed, thick and soft as silk, gleaming like molten copper with shiny red highlights. I was wearing one of my nicest frocks, too, lovely sky-blue silk with
deep sapphire stripes that matched the color of my eyes, skirt belling out over my petticoat, waist snug, bodice cut modestly low with the puffed sleeves off the shoulder. Why bother to make myself attractive for him? I might as well be dressed in rags for all the good it did, might as well have dirty hair and a face streaked with soot.

  Damn him! Two weeks he’d been back and four times he’d slept with me. Slept? Much too dignified a term. Grabbed me, banged away lustily, rolled over and then he slept while I fumed. More like rape, it was, all four times, and I wasn’t Lady Evelyn, I wasn’t a whore conveniently on hand to serve him when he felt the need to release some of his pent-up anger. Things were going to change. They were going to change this very day, I vowed, or else … or else I’d know the reason why. I wasn’t going to drag him out of bed, no, and I wasn’t going to dump water over him, much as I longed to. Well-bred young ladies didn’t do such things, and I was going to be a lady if it killed me.

  Fuming, I sat at my secretary in the front room and stared at the half-filled page before me, utterly stymied. I had written thirty-three pages now, two and a half chapters, and my lovers were locked in. an embrace and as dry as dust, as lifeless as two corpses. What had ever possessed me to think I could write a novel in the first place? It was unmitigated torture, every word an ordeal, and who would want to read such artificial folderol anyway? The plot was trite. The characters were stiff, the dialogue stilted, the whole thing a tremendous waste of time. What did I know about noble lords and ladies and elegant mansions and love in high places? Might as well destroy the evidence of my folly and leave the writing to Cam, I decided, and I was stacking the pages together when someone knocked briskly on the front door.

  Abandoning the pages, I hurried into the hall lest repeated knocks awaken the slumbering Scot. When I opened the door Mr. Thomas Sheppard blinked, looking most ill at ease away from the snug confines of his office. Somehow one didn’t visualize him in the open air, in the bright afternoon sunlight. Indeed, he seemed vastly relieved when I showed him inside and closed the door. Leading him into the sitting room, I smiled politely, trying my best to hide my surprise.