“It’s that Marcelon Wooden,” he grumbled as the carriage turned into the park. “The woman’s a dreadful influence.”
“Wooden?” Bancroft said. “The actress?”
“She lives in the yellow house across the court,” I told him. “She’s the one who’s been giving me lessons. Do you know her?”
“I’ve never had the honor of meeting her, but I have seen her—uh—act. Must have been ten years ago—I was a mere lad, of course. Saw her in Tis A Pity She’s A Whore.”
“And?”
“Twas a pity,” he said.
We left the carriage in the designated area, Bancroft gave instructions to the driver, and the three of us strolled leisurely up the shady pathway to the promenade. The rhododendrons were in full bloom, blazing pink and white and pale blue-purple on either side of the pathway. Bees droned lazily. The trees cast cool gray-blue shadows over the lush green grass, and leaves rustled pleasantly in the breeze. The promenade was a veritable parade of wonderfully attired men and women taking the air, ambling at a snail’s pace the better to show off their splendor, while open carriages moved slowly up and down the roadway adjoining, their occupants in even more splendid attire. I was agog as we took our place in the procession and found it difficult not to gape. Jemminy! So many swells! So many velvets and satins and plumes! It was a pickpocket’s paradise, but a plethora of stalwart soldiers and guardsmen assured one that this rarified air wouldn’t be contaminated by the undeserving poor or the raffish hoi polloi.
You’ve come a long way from St. Giles, Randy, my girl, I told myself as I sauntered along in my satin gown and fancy new hat. My gloved hand rested in the crook of Cam’s arm, and Bancroft strolled beside me on my left, attentive as could be. Two handsome gentlemen, and me looking just as grand as any of these haughty ladies with their chins so high. Beat all, it did. Big Moll and the girls would hardly believe it. I could hardly believe it myself. If I ’adn’t—hadn’t gone to Tyburn that day, I’d still be in rags, lifting pocket watches and snipping off shoe buckles to keep body and soul together. Bless my good fortune, and bless my Scot, too, for he was responsible for it all.
“I say, Cam,” Bancroft remarked, “here comes an old friend of yours. Lady Evelyn Greenwood herself—a vision in watered green silk and black egret feathers.”
“God! Where?”
“Luxuriously ensconced in that carriage approaching. Elegant rig, isn’t it? Must have cost her a fortune.”
Cam peered uneasily as the grand open carriage moved slowly toward us on the roadway, two gleaming ebony steeds prancing in harness. Lady Evelyn was indeed a vision, her green silk gown cut daringly low, diamonds and emeralds sparkling at wrists and throat. The wide-brimmed green silk hat atop her dark gold waves was literally awash with midnight black egret, the feathers sweeping dramatically. The young man at her side was strikingly handsome with dark brown hair, roguish brown eyes and the build of a champion pugilist. Modishly attired in the finest male plumage, he couldn’t be older than twenty or so, and his dewy youth made his patroness seem even riper than she was.
“Who’s that with her?” Cam asked.
“Her head footman, I believe. Lad named Todd. I didn’t recognize him at first without his livery.”
“When would you have had occasion to see her footman, Bancroft?”
“Oh, after you tossed her aside Lady E. developed an inordinate passion for yours truly. She came to discuss investments and invited me to come home with her. The flesh is weak, I fear.”
“I’m shocked, Bancroft! I had no idea you went in for that sort of activity.”
“I went in, all right. Lady E. was mad for me for all of seven days. It was the most exhausting week I’ve spent in years.”
As the carriage drew nearer both Cam and Bancroft assumed sheepish expressions and averted their eyes. Lady Evelyn looked livid. I gave her a radiant smile and nodded ever so warmly, would have given her the finger if I weren’t a well-bred young lady now. Two bright pink spots blazed on her cheeks as the carriage moved on past. I felt glorious. Lady E. might have a title and jewels and fancy carriages, but I had Cam, and I wouldn’t trade places with her for all the wealth in England.
“Sticky, that,” Bancroft sighed. “The lady still hasn’t gotten over your cruel abandonment. I, alas, was just a passing fancy. You she wanted to marry.”
“She’ll get over it,” I said.
“She frequently did,” Bancroft retorted.
I smiled at his wit, but Cam turned all stiff and sullen, not one to appreciate that kind of humor, particularly if he happened to be the butt of it. Bancroft delighted in teasing him almost as much as I did, and I suspected that few were allowed such liberty. At the moment he looked as though he would enjoy murdering both of us.
Cam’s humor wasn’t improved when, a short while later, a troop of militia came into view, their scarlet coats vivid in the sunlight, their powerful white horses pacing impatiently under the restraint imposed upon them. The soldiers rode in front and in the rear of a dazzling white open carriage with a coat of arms emblazoned on the side. Everyone on the promenade stopped dead still. A buzzing of whispers filled the air, for the carriage contained the Duke of Cumberland and the most spectacularly beautiful woman I had ever seen.
Fat, sluggish, pouting, his tiny pig eyes squinting, the Bloody Duke wore white satin breeches and frock coat with diamond buttons, fine white lace cascading from his throat and wrists. His white satin waistcoat strained around his girth like an exquisite sausage skin, and his puffy hands clutched a silver-headed cane propped between his knees. His powdered wig was slightly askew. His numerous chins shook with the movement of the carriage. Plump mouth curling disdainfully, he looked neither left nor right and seemed to be miserable despite the presence of the woman at his side.
She wore a gown of pale pink satin, simple and elegant in style, the skirt spreading out like the petals of a rose. Her complexion was flawless, her features those of a goddess. The fragile, beautifully shaped pink lips seemed to droop sadly, and the lovely blue eyes were decidedly pensive. Her dark raven hair gleamed with lustrous blue-black highlights, worn in an unpretentious arrangement of waves and ringlets. One might have expected her to be wearing a fortune in diamonds, but she wore no jewels whatsoever. She needed none. I fancied that Helen of Troy must have looked like this, absolutely breathtaking, so lovely she scarcely seemed real.
“Who is she?” I whispered.
“Lady Arabella Dunston,” Bancroft told me, “impoverished widow of the late, unlamented Lord Peter Dunston. Because of Lord Peter’s mounting debts and his inability to stay away from the gaming tables, the Dunstons retired to the country over eight years ago—at the King’s request. Some claimed that Cumberland’s interest in Lady A. was a contributing factor.”
“They were—” I hesitated.
“Oh, no,” Bancroft said. “Young Cumberland was eager, but Lady A. was most unwilling. The King was eager to avoid a scandal, as well as remove a gentleman who was becoming an open embarrassment to the court. Dunston went to his reward two years ago, and Lady A. has only recently returned to London. Cumberland lost no time in renewing their acquaintance.”
“And the King no longer objects?”
“There’s a vast difference between a thirty-year-old widow without a penny to her name and the demure young wife of a dissolute but exceedingly blue-blooded nobleman. Besides, Cumberland has long since ceased to pay heed to his father’s wishes.”
During this exchange Cam had been standing as rigid as a statue, seething with hostility that seemed to crackle in the air around him. His hands were balled into tight fists, knuckles white as chalk, and his eyes were a frightening, steely blue. As the first band of scarlet-coated soldiers rode past us, he forced himself to relax, assuming an impassive, inscrutable expression. The gorgeous white carriage came nearer, only yards away now, the coat of arms in gold and ivory, gleaming. Cumberland stared straight ahead. Lady Arabella looked directly at Cam, their eyes meetin
g, holding. Subtly, almost imperceptibly, she nodded. Cam gave no indication that he’d seen it. The carriage passed on, another band of soldiers bringing up the rear.
Did he know her? Had the nod been merely a gracious gesture? A dozen questions popped into my mind, but instinct told me I’d best not ask any of them. Deeply disturbed by seeing the hated Cumberland, Cam was in a dangerous mood and was likely to remain so for some time. Playful surliness and mock ferocity and artistic temperament were one thing, easy to deal with and frequently stimulating, but this mood was the real thing, the kind of mood he had been in at Tyburn: cold, contained, lethal. Bancroft and I exchanged looks, and he quickly suggested that we move on to Green’s Coffee Shop.
“I’m famished,” he confessed. “I could eat a whole side of beef all by myself.”
“Me, too,” I said.
“You’ll like the place, Cam. It’s just recently opened and already the literati have taken over—place is packed with poets and novelists and journalists. Food’s the best in London, coffee’s the strongest, the atmosphere wonderfully convivial. I picked it with you in mind.”
“It sounds marvelous!” I exclaimed.
“Stop trying to humor me!” Cam snapped. “Both of you!”
We returned to the carriage, and though Bancroft and I chatted amiably, Cam remained grim and silent as we drove through the city. Bancroft talked about the new Corn Exchange just built in Mark Lane and the fortunes to be made there if one invested shrewdly. The smell of fish was overwhelming as we passed Billingsgate, and there was a delay on the Strand due to an overturned lorry. Whips cracked. Horses neighed. Angry voices cried out. We finally moved on, and the carriage stopped in Covent Garden Square a few minutes later. Bancroft dismissed the driver, and we began to stroll through the area, stepping over cabbage leaves and wilted marigolds as we passed the stalls that were closed for the night.
It was growing late. Shadows were gathering. The sky was a pale gray with spreading stains of pink and gold. I admired the mellow, majestic old buildings built by Inigo Jones over a hundred years ago as Bancroft led us through a twisting labyrinth of narrow passageways and alleys until we finally reached Green’s. Located in a cul-de-sac impossible to reach by carriage, it had a crumbling Tudor front with soot-blackened oak beams and tan plaster. It was unprepossessing, looked almost disreputable, in fact, but Bancroft led us inside with jaunty confidence and considerable pride at his discovery.
I tried to conceal my excitement as a be-aproned proprietor greeted us rather gruffly and led us toward a choice corner table. I had never been inside a coffeehouse before, had never eaten in a public eating house, although I’d fetched plenty of victuals and carried them back home. What luxury to sit down at a table and have someone wait on you, even if the table was plain oak rubbed smooth with age, the utensils heavy tin, the mugs common pewter. Nothing fancy about Green’s, I noted. The flagstone floor was sprinkled with sawdust. The dark oak walls were adorned with battered copper plates. Candles burned in wheel-shaped wooden fixtures suspended from the ceiling, yet the room was still dim.
Filled with smoke, too, it was. A great many men were smoking tobacco, only a few taking snuff, and all of them seemed to be talking at once, angrily, exuberantly, arguing about poetry and philosophy and publishers. Manuscripts abounded, their merits being heatedly discussed, and many tables were littered with the books and pamphlets and newspapers the patrons had brought along with them. I noticed with some alarm that I was the only woman in the place, with the exception of three buxom, jovial barmaids who scurried about pouring drinks and fending off advances.
“I thought this was a coffeehouse,” I remarked. “Everyone seems to be having ale or port.”
“Coffee’s served during the day, coffee and delicious cakes, cheese and bread,” Bancroft explained. “In the evenings regular fare is served and we have coffee afterward. Shall we start with oysters on the half shell?”
I nodded, terribly stimulated, drinking in the atmosphere and the wonderful smells of beer and pickles, sawdust and smoke, roast beef and freshly baked bread. The men at the next table were arguing loudly about Christopher Marlowe, comparing him to Shakespeare, and at another table nearby a thin-faced poet with unkempt hair was reading his latest sonnet to a group of shabbily dressed journalists with ink-stained fingers. Cam was sullen and uncommunicative, but Bancroft ignored his mood, intent on showing me a good time. I was uneasy about the oysters. Never had any before. Didn’t know how to eat them. Bancroft grinned, squeezed lemon on one, speared it with a fork and twisted it out of its shell. I followed his example, and as the first oyster slid down my throat I had to admit to myself that I’d had greater gastronomical thrills. I forged ahead nevertheless until my plate contained nothing but six pearly, empty shells and a squeezed lemon rind.
“How were they?” Bancroft asked.
“Delicious,” I lied.
“They’re an acquired taste,” he admitted.
“We—we’re not having artichoke by any chance, are we?”
“Hadn’t planned on it,” he told me.
Thank goodness, I said to myself.
The roast beef that followed was marvelous, pink and tender and dripping with natural gravy, the green peas and potatoes lavishly buttered, the bread coarse and crusty and wonderfully tasty. The men drank port with their meal, but I suspected it wouldn’t be ladylike for me to have any, so I took off my black lace gloves and placed them in my pewter mug, an action that caused Bancroft to grin again but brought no comment. He insisted that I have the custard for dessert, and it was a revelation, thick and creamy, served with a delectable sauce of brandy, butter and brown sugar poured bubbling hot over the custard.
“I’ve never had such a meal,” I confessed. “I didn’t know it was possible to eat so well.”
“Ordinary fare,” Bancroft said, “though superbly cooked. You’ll have to dine at a really grand eating house—gooseliver paté, pheasant, nightingale tongues.”
“Nightingale tongues?”
Bancroft nodded gravely, but the merry look in his eyes told me he was teasing. Dark blond hair burnished by candlelight, full pink mouth curving into a grin when I reproved him, he was the most engaging dinner companion imaginable, unlike Cam who had scarcely said a word since we sat down. One of the buxom barmaids came back to the table with a bottle of port, but the men both shook their heads and my black lace gloves still rested limply in the pewter mug. The girl shrugged her shoulders and sauntered away, heavy hips swaying. Our dessert dishes were removed a few minutes later, small plates set before us, and cheese, biscuits and an enormous platter of fruit were brought to the table.
“It was so kind of you to bring us here, Dick,” I said.
“The pleasure’s all mine. It’s not often that I have the privilege of dining with such delightful company.”
“Some of us are more delightful than others tonight.”
“Excuse me,” Cam said abruptly, “there’s a chap over there I need to see.”
He left the table and moved across the room to speak to a lean, sharp-faced man with rich red-brown hair, frosty blue eyes and thin lips. Sitting all alone against the wall, wearing brown, the man looked to be in his early thirties and, for some reason, reminded me of a fox. He seemed tense, disapproving, and he was almost as sullen as Cam. They exchanged a few words, and then Cam sat down at the table and they huddled together, discussing a very grave matter from the looks of it.
“He’s been impossible,” I said. “I—I apologize for his rudeness.”
“Oh, I’m quite accustomed to Cam’s moods, pay no attention to ’em. I learned a long time ago just to ignore him when he turns all silent and surly.”
“Seeing Cumberland this afternoon upset him dreadfully.”
Bancroft nodded, gazing across the room at the red-haired man with such harsh features.
“I wonder who that can be,” I said.
“Probably another scrivener,” Bancroft replied. “They’re probably comparing not
es on bamboo torture. Want some grapes?”
I shook my head. “Do—do you think it could be one of the rebels?”
“Chap does look like a Scot,” Bancroft admitted, “that red-brown hair, that sharp, dour face, but not all Scots are bloodthirsty conspirators. I’ve known one or two who were actually quite genial.”
“I think—I think Cam’s broken with the rebels.”
“Indeed? High time, I should think. Dangerous business.”
“He gave them an awful lot of money.”
“I know,” Bancroft said, reaching for a pear. “I tried to reason with him, but he wouldn’t listen. Broke my heart, it did, seeing all that money going to that lot.”
“He hasn’t gone out at night for a long time—no secret meetings. I just hope he’s come to his senses.”
Bancroft picked up a knife and began to peel his pear. I watched the two men across the room. The dour redhead had taken out a piece of paper, and both of them were studying it. So he was a writer, after all, showing Cam a poem or a page of manuscript. I turned back to Bancroft, relieved, eager to talk to him in private now that we had a chance.
“You should try one of these pears,” he said. “They’re delicious.”
“I couldn’t eat another bite. I—there’s something I—I’d like to discuss with you, Dick.”
“At your service.”
“I—I’m a writer, too. I wrote a story. It’s going to be published in The Bard. Cam mustn’t know about it,” I added hastily. “You have to promise me you won’t tell him.”
“Pas un mot,” he said.
“What?”
“Not a word, milady. You’re secret’s safe as houses with me. What’s your story about?”
I told him about “The Gin Girl” and how I had come to write it and how it was to be published with just my initials. He listened intently, not at all dismayed, and when I had finished he congratulated me and said he wasn’t surprised that I should have brains and talent along with so much beauty. I thanked him for the compliment and glanced around apprehensively, afraid Cam might be returning. He and the red-haired man were still sitting at the table across the room, talking intently.
Once More, Miranda Page 40
