Once More, Miranda

by Jennifer Wilde

  “Two pounds?” I said.

  “I’ll sign a voucher and have my clerk pay you immediately.”

  “You really like the story?” I asked.

  He assured me that he did, that it was an amazing, remarkable piece that he would take great pride in publishing. I stood up and brushed a heavy coppery-red wave from my temple and smoothed down my blue skirt. Sheppard continued to praise the story, and when he finished I told him that since it was so good, so remarkable, he’d better pay me five pounds instead of two.

  His eyes widened in shock. He enumerated all the reasons why it would be absolutely impossible for him to pay such an outrageously high price for such a short piece of fiction, and I smiled again and politely enumerated all the reasons why I couldn’t possibly accept less. Ten minutes later, worn, flustered, wearing an expression that could only be called martyred, he signed a voucher and his clerk gave me five pounds.

  “This is robbery,” he complained.

  “I know,” I said, “but next time you can pay me ten.”

  “Ten!”

  Mr. Sheppard shook his head and informed me that all writers were in league against him, plotting his downfall, planning to bankrupt him. He was turning gray, growing old before his time, all because of these unreasonable and unruly creatures who plagued him, and he would undoubtedly end up in debtor’s prison. His tirade was quite delightful, going on at length, and when he finally finished I gave him a mischievous smile. He sighed in disgust and adjusted gold-rimmed spectacles and, finally, grinned.

  “Shameless creature. Baiting me like that.”

  “Do you really think readers will like my story?” I asked.

  “I expect it to cause a sensation. I imagine I’ll have to run off twice my usual number of copies of The Bard.”

  “Then five pounds wasn’t so steep, was it?”

  “A bargain,” he confessed. “You know, behind that very charming exterior there’s a very tough young woman. I’d as soon negotiate with Genghis Khan, I assure you.”

  I smiled again, considering his words a compliment. “I’ve had to be tough most of my life,” I told him. “It was a question of survival. Old habits die hard.”

  Mr. Sheppard took my hands again and squeezed them, then opened the office door for me. I moved past him with a soft rustle of skirts, and he escorted me down the hall.

  “You’re going to be a very successful writer, Miss James,” he told me.

  “Oh, I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to write anything else. ‘The Gin Girl’ just—just happened. It was something I had to do. I don’t imagine I could ever be a real writer, like Cam. It’d be much too difficult, I’m sure.”

  “Writing is in your blood, my dear. You’ll write more. You won’t be able not to write. By the way, we still haven’t settled the question of your name.”

  “My name’s Miranda James. Thought you knew that.”

  “No, no, I mean the name we will use on the story. We couldn’t possibly publish it under a woman’s name.”

  “Why not?” I inquired.

  “Women don’t write,” he explained cautiously. “Women cook and sew and take care of men or else they become old maids. They’re an inferior sex, you see, quite necessary and often decorative but incapable of thinking about anything weightier than hair ribbons. A few bluestockings turn up now and then, it’s true, but they’re freaks of nature and have the distinction of thinking like men.”

  We were in the front shop now, standing beside a table of books, and I was on the verge of making a very heated rejoinder when Mr. Sheppard hastily assured me that these weren’t his sentiments, far from it, but reflected the prevailing attitudes of society. If “The Gin Girl” were published under my own name, it would not be read, for no one named Miranda could conceivably write anything that would interest readers of The Bard. Though I was loath to admit it, I was realist enough to see his point.

  “I wouldn’t want to use my own name anyway,” I said. “I—I’m not sure how Cam would, react if he found out I’d written something. He’s so sensitive, and—I fear he shares the prevailing attitudes about the ‘inferior’ sex. As far as Cam is concerned, women were created soley to satisfy his domestic and sexual needs.”

  Mr. Sheppard blushed slightly at my use of the word “sexual,” prim bachelor that he was. He nervously brushed at the lapels of his frock coat and began to suggest a number of masculine pseudonyms. I didn’t like any of them at all and told him I didn’t feel like a Michael Jordon or a Malcolm Johnson and asked if we couldn’t simply use my initials. “M.J.” would be rather intriguing, I thought, and it certainly wouldn’t betray my gender. Worn down, looking martyred again, Mr. Sheppard wearily agreed.

  “I’d like to say that it’s been a pleasure doing business with you,” he said dryly.

  “I’ve enjoyed it immensely,” I assured him.

  “Please give Gordon my best regards. Tell him I’m eager to discuss the next Roderick Cane with him.”

  “After this afternoon I have the feeling it might be more profitable for him if you discussed it with me,” I teased.

  The publisher turned pale, and then, seeing my grin, he sighed and shook his head again and grinned himself. The bell jangled merrily overhead as he opened the door for me. He said he certainly hoped I would be bringing him another story before long, and I told him we would have to wait and see. I fairly danced down Fleet Street. I was a writer! Me. Randy from St. Giles, pickin’ pockets for a living less than a year ago. I had written something that was actually going to be published in a magazine, and I’d been paid for it, too. Five pounds! Five whole bloomin’ pounds! It was the very first money I had ever earned honestly, and it seemed like a bleedin’ fortune.

  I longed to rush home and wake Cam up and tell him all about it, but I couldn’t do it, of course. Cam was the creative one, the temperamental artist, a role he relished and frequently played to the hilt. He wouldn’t take kindly to having another writer under the roof. I was certain of that. Sod would probably think I was trying to compete with him, and that wouldn’t do at all. No, men being what they were—Cam in particular—“The Gin Girl” and its true authorship would have to remain my secret.

  25

  It was by far the loveliest gown I had ever seen, a deep, deep sapphire blue, the satin sumptuous, wonderfully luxuriant. Me, in a gown like this, it beat everything, but Cam had said I was to buy something fancy to celebrate his finishing the book and I hadn’t felt like arguing with him. Mrs. Wooden had helped me pick out the cloth—shrewd shopper that she was, she had taken me along to a drapers who specialized in stuffs for theatrical costumes, buying it at a tremendous savings—and then she had marched me to a seamstress who created the gown especially for me, charging next to nothing. The hat I had bought to go with it had actually cost more than the gown, but even so I hadn’t used all the money Cam had so generously provided.

  I stood in front of the mirror downstairs, preening without shame, admiring the creature in the glass: complexion radiant, blue eyes sparkling, coppery hair gleaming with rich highlights. The elbow-length sleeves were puffed, worn off the shoulder, and the snug, form-fitting bodice was cut shockingly low, exposing an inordinate amount of bosom. Mrs. Wooden had assured me it was quite the style, adding that when you had a splendid set like mine you might as well show them off, so forget the fichu. The full skirt swelled out over six black lace underskirts, the shimmering sapphire folds making a soft, swishing music when I moved. I felt elegant as could be and just hoped I didn’t catch a bad cold exposing so much smooth, creamy flesh.

  Cam had purchased a new outfit, too, at my insistence, and he was dressing upstairs in the bedroom now. Richard Bancroft would be calling for us in half an hour. We were going to go to the park and promenade with all of the swells, something I’d been longing to do, and then Bancroft was taking us to dine at one of the better coffeehouses. It was an occasion, the first time Cam and I had ever gone out together socially, and I was elated, eager to have him s
ee me in the gown, eager to watch the swells and see the interior of one of the popular eating places. He was certainly taking his time, I reflected. I had hoped he’d be done in time for us to have a glass of wine together before Bancroft arrived.

  The lazy brass clock ticked on the mantel. Getting a little nervous now, I was. I could use a glass of that lovely wine Mr. Sheppard had sent over as promised. We’d drunk only two or three bottles these past two weeks, Cam immersed in books about Japan, of all places, furiously jotting down notes as he poured over rare, exotic volumes he had scoured the city to find and purchased at great expense. He had accidently stumbled across a volume entitled Travels In The Interior of Japan and Some Curious Histories of A Strange and Barbaric Country, By An Englishman and, fascinated, had driven all the booksellers into a frenzy, demanding they find more books on the subject for him. Engrossed in his research, he had been moody and distracted of late and hadn’t paid the least attention to me, hardly aware of my presence except when he had that familiar yen. Then he was most attentive.

  Impatient now, afraid he might be having trouble with his stock, I went upstairs and stepped into the bedroom. Cam was standing in front of the mirror, scowling irritably, doing his best to fold the neckcloth properly. His new clothes were splendid indeed, and he looked like an angry young Adonis as he fumbled with the heavy silk. Standing silently just inside the doorway, I watched lovingly as, unaware of my presence, he continued to struggle with the sky blue silk.

  His new pumps were a glossy black with fine silver buckles, his stockings were the finest white silk. His knee breeches were a dark maroon, as was the frock coat, both garments expertly cut to show off his broad shoulders, narrow waist and long, muscular legs. The coat had a flaring skirt and deep cuffs, frothy cream lace spilling over his wrists. His waistcoat was heavy cream satin with deep sapphire stripes. Tall, lean, as lithe and graceful as a panther, he had never looked so handsome, the elegant clothes enhancing his virility and somehow emphasizing that aura of ruthlessness I had noted the first time I saw him at Tyburn Hill. Finally satisfied with the fold of the sky blue stock, he emitted a heavy sigh and turned around, seeing me for the first time.

  “It’s still not right,” I said.

  “What’s not right?”

  “The neckcloth.”

  “Damn thing drives me crazy. Can’t see the use of ’em. Pure folderol, serves no purpose.”

  “Here, let me fix it for you.”

  I moved over to him and fingered the heavy silk, adjusting the folds, and Cam stood very stiffly, gritting his teeth and looking exceedingly impatient. I finished and stood back and nodded with satisfaction, and then I touched his lean cheek and brushed back the ebony wave that slanted across his brow. Cam made a face, refusing to be humored. Surly Scot! Hadn’t even commented on my gown. I moved back over to the doorway and turned around, giving him an exasperated look. I wasn’t really irritated, just mildly provoked. Sod was probably still thinking about Japan and those fierce sam-ur-something warriors in their funny silk robes. Writers!

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Not a bloody thing!”

  “Shrewish minx. Need a good thrashing.”

  “Go grab yourself.”

  “I’d rather grab you,” he said.

  He was noticing me now, the randy brute. His eyes took in my bare shoulders and the swelling expanse of bare bosom, that familiar and not unflattering reaction occuring down below and spoiling the line of his breeches. I repressed a smile.

  “What are you smirking about?”

  “You.”

  “I feel like a tailor’s dummy in this rig. Damned uncomfortable. The breeches don’t fit right.”

  “They did a while ago.”

  “Know what I’d like to do?”

  “Bancroft will be here in a few minutes, so just put those gamy ideas out of your mind.”

  “Damn!”

  He tugged at his neckcloth in despair. It came unloose. Realizing what he’d done, he looked utterly helpless, then murderous.

  “You’ll have to do it yourself,” I said blithely.

  “You’re going to pay for this!”

  I made a face and went back downstairs, delighted. Might not be attentive and courtly like some men, my Scot, and he might not lavish me with compliments and words of endearment, but I had no real complaint. A veritable stallion he was, unbridled and uninhibited, and had we not been expecting a guest in a matter of minutes, he would have paid me the ultimate compliment with fierce, lusty action far more satisfying than words.

  He still hadn’t come down when Bancroft arrived a few minutes later. Bancroft gave me a long, approving look as I led him into the sitting room.

  “I can hardly believe it,” he said. “Is this the ragged, dirty-faced urchin who picked my pocket last winter? You look positively radiant, by far the loveliest creature I’ve seen all day.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Heavens! It talks differently, too. What happened to that shrill squawk that sent shivers up my spine?”

  “I’ve been taking lessons,” I said grandly, “and my voice was never that bad to begin with. Besides, a gentleman shouldn’t remind a lady of her past imperfections.”

  “I beg your forgiveness, milady. I may be a hopeless boor, but I am, I assure you, a most ardent admirer.”

  “Bugger you, Bancroft.”

  He grinned a broad grin and sat down. Big and blond and jovial, he looked handsome and dapper in knee breeches and frock coat of soft brown velvet, frothy white lace jabot and beige brocade waistcoat embroidered with brown leaves. His dark brown eyes were warm and playful, his full pink mouth designed for smiles, and his lively, sportive manner was wonderfully engaging. As he leaned back and spread his arms out over the back of the sofa I was reminded more than ever of a great friendly pup.

  “Shame on you,” I scolded, “staying away so long. It’s been weeks since we’ve seen you.”

  “I’ve been frightfully busy, alas, jaunting about the country, looking into possible investments, making heaps of money for those people who’re fortunate enough to have me handling their affairs.”

  “Modest as ever, I see,” Cam said, entering the room.

  “I say! You look quite the dandy today.”

  “I feel like an idiot. Tailor insisted on this color, this cut. I’d like to tie him over an ant bed.”

  Bancroft and I exchanged smiles, and I poured wine for all three of us. I noticed that Cam’s neckcloth still wasn’t quite right. He gave me a surly look as I handed him his wine.

  “This is good wine, Bancroft,” he said. “Sheppard sent over a whole case when I delivered the final chapters of Spoils.”

  “Finished it, did you? Phenomenal! Never known you to be so productive. I suspect the lovely Miranda has had something to do with it.”

  The lovely Miranda sipped her wine demurely, and Cam ignored the remark and began to tell Bancroft of his plans for the next Roderick Cane.

  “The coffers are almost empty, and I figure I’d better churn out another one as quickly as possible. What do you know about Japan?”

  “Absolutely nothing. Somewhere near China, isn’t it? But I do know the coffers are almost depleted. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it. You have approximately twenty-three pounds between now and starvation, and—”

  “Don’t be tedious, Dick! Anyway, I ran across this amazing book written by a chap who spent seven years in Japan, and it’s full of the most fascinating material. The Japanese are very inventive when it comes to torture. The things they can do with bamboo would chill your blood, and the whole mystique of the samurai warriors is—”

  Bancroft groaned, preparing to endure a long harangue, and I excused myself and went upstairs to put on my gloves and hat. The gloves were of frail black lace in a delicate floral pattern, the hat of black velvet with a very broad brim, a huge sky-blue satin bow on one side, white, sky blue and lushious sapphire plumes spilling down the other. It was an exquisite creat
ion, marvelously complimenting my gown, and I felt wicked to have paid so much for it. Could have stolen the thing easy as pie while the clerk stepped into the back room, had it for nothing, but Marcelon would have had apoplexy and those days were behind me.

  “—so my hero will have spent twenty years in Japan, an English samurai, and when he returns to England to win back his inheritance, he’ll use all his knowledge of the deadly arts to get his revenge. Dealer I know is trying to locate a genuine samurai sword for me, thinks he’ll be able to find one before too long—I want to get the feel of one, authenticity, you know—and I’ve discovered that bamboo will grow quite nicely in English soil. I have a torture scene in mind—”

  My bloodthirsty Scot was still going full blast, while the good-natured and genteel Bancroft listened with a combination of amusement and horror. I glanced at the clock, cleared my throat and rudely interrupted.

  “I really don’t think Richard is interested in hearing all the gory-details, Cam,” I said.

  “On the contrary,” Bancroft protested. “I find it utterly absorbing. If the book is half as exotic and violent as it sounds, it’ll be wildly successful. One thing about Gordon, he knows his readers and always gives ’em exactly what they crave.”

  “I was promised a trip to the park.”

  “And I have a carriage waiting on Fleet,” Bancroft said, climbing to his feet. “I must say,” he added, “that chapeau is stunning!”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Jesus!” Cam exploded, noticing it for the first time. “No wonder I’m going bankrupt!”

  “Come along,” I said irritably. “You certainly know how to make a girl feel appreciated.”

  It was a lovely summer afternoon, sunny and warm but not too warm, London wearing its most amiable face with mellow old buildings brushed with shadows and church spires gleaming in the sunlight and pigeons frolicking under trees in the squares. Bancroft was all affability, treating me with a teasing mock-gallantry, and, while hardly affable, Cam was less taciturn than usual. He generously informed me that my chapeau was indeed stunning and added that he’d wring my bloody neck if I bought another one.