I copied it, though, every single page, working late into the night. The house was still, lonely, and Greenbriar Court was very quiet. It was well after midnight when I finished, the candles burning low, casting pale golden shadows on the wall. Restless, I prowled around the rooms, wishing he would come back, feeling lost and adrift without him in the house. I had grown so accustomed to having him around—to nag, to scold, to tease, to wait on, to love—that even a temporary seperation like this left me feeling empty and disoriented. Hours might pass without my seeing him, true, him shut up in his study, me busy with my own work, but just knowing he was there gave me a sense of security. Without Cam around I felt incomplete, as though some vital part of me was missing.
I went to bed and hours passed and I watched the moonlight playing on the ceiling, making mottled silver-gray patterns, and I listened to the creaks and groans of the house settling and strained to hear the sound of his footsteps on the cobbles, and finally, exhausted, I went to sleep and woke up with that long, lean body sprawling over me, one arm curled around my shoulder, one leg slung heavily over both mine. His nose was buried in my throat. His sleek jet hair touched my cheek. He had slung his coat over a chair. His neckcloth and shirt dangled over the side, and his stockings and breeches had fallen onto the floor. It must have been dawn when he came in, I thought, for the moonlight had almost vanished when I had closed my eyes for the final time. Bright morning sunlight gilded the ceiling now.
I could hear the pigeons cooing and hear the sounds of traffic on Fleet. A church bell tolled. Ten o’clock. Time for me to be up. Mrs. Wooden would be expecting me. I stirred, trying to disentangle myself from him. Cam made a noise in his sleep, pulling me closer. I pushed at him. He held me tighter and I fretted and he opened his eyes and scowled and pulled me beneath him and pinioned me with the weight of his body and I could feel his manhood growing warm and rigid. I made a valiant effort to throw him off, remembering my anger, remembering the way he had treated me, but he was much too strong, much too determined. He entered me exuberantly, with amazing strength, and I forgot my anger, forgot everything but the glorious torment of the moment and the bliss that mounted with each savage thrust.
Cam went out with Bancroft several more times during the next two and a half weeks, and I didn’t complain, though I missed him dreadfully each time. He and Bancroft had business, he explained, for Bancroft was going to invest the money Cam had received for The Stranger From Japan and this necessitated many long conferences, always in the evening, always at Bancroft’s club, and they always went out on the town afterward. I told myself that Cam needed the relaxation, for he was still working as one possessed—the book was almost finished now, only three more chapters to go—but that didn’t make the lonely nights any easier to endure.
I kept wishing that Bancroft would come by the house and visit awhile before they went out so that I could sneak him the twenty pounds for investment, but he never did. I hadn’t seen him in weeks, and I was beginning to grow terribly impatient. Twenty pounds was a tremendous amount of money. No telling what it could be earning if it was properly invested. Cam went out with Bancroft on a Wednesday night, and the next afternoon I decided to take matters into my own hands. It was well after three, I had finished my copying duties, and Cam was working away busily upstairs after sleeping until almost noon. I changed into my brown and cream striped linen frock, brushed my hair and stepped into the study to tell Cam I was going shopping. He scowled and waved me away impatiently, so immersed in his work that he probably hadn’t even heard me.
The Bank of England was located on Threadneedle Street, a nice long walk, but it was a pleasant afternoon and the sights and sounds of London were endlessly fascinating, as always. The bank, I knew, had moved from Grocer’s Hall in 1734, its new building on the site of the house of Sir John Houblon, one of the first directors of the bank. It had been hemmed in by the Church of St. Christopher le Stocks, three taverns and several private houses, but these had been pulled down, new offices added onto the original house, and the courtyard of the church now served as the central garden of the bank. It was an imposing, intimidating building—all that money in those vaults, all those guards, all those important deals being made—but I marched across the courtyard and walked right in just as though it was something I did every day.
My courage left me when I got inside. There were so many tables, so many desks, so many clerks scribbling in ledgers, so many men coming and going and looking so important. I didn’t know where to turn. A tall, soberly dressed man finally came over to me, his pale blue eyes full of suspicion. Almost totally bald and thin as a rail, he had a smug, officious manner that put me off immediately. He asked if there were something he could do for me. I told him I was Miss Miranda James and needed to see the Honorable Richard Bancroft immediately. He smirked and said that that wouldn’t be possible unless I had an appointment. Him so patronizing and me with twenty whole pounds tucked away in my bodice—made my blood boil, it did. I informed him in my haughtiest voice that an appointment wouldn’t be necessary and added that if he knew what was good for him he’d move his ass or find it in a sling.
The man turned pale. He staggered backward. He stared at me in stark horror for a moment and then scurried away like a scared rabbit, disappearing around a corner. Bleedin’ sod! Treatin’ me like I was his inferior, and him a lowly employee. I tapped my foot impatiently, waiting for him to come back. He didn’t. Five minutes later a rather stocky young man with muscles bulging beneath his coat came and told me to follow him. He had sleek blond hair and a tough but pleasant face and seemed amused as he led me down a long hallway in one of the new wings. Probably a guard, I thought. Did they think I was going to rob the place? He finally stopped in front of a door, rapped on it jauntily and showed me into Bancroft’s office.
“That will be all, George,” Bancroft said.
The young man grinned. “You want I should stand guard outside in case she gets violent?”
“I’ll call if I need help.”
“I’d be careful,” the youth advised him. “She looks downright dangerous to me.”
Bancroft chuckled as the muscular blond left and closed the door behind him. He was wearing black pumps and white silk stockings, forest green velvet knee breeches and a thin white lawn shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his forearms. His velvet frock coat and a lovely silk neckcloth were hanging over the back of the chair behind his desk. The desk was piled high with papers and ledgers and official-looking documents with seals attached. Here in this fancy office with windows overlooking the garden, Bancroft exuded an air of confidence and authority that was most reassuring.
“What on earth did you say to Tanner?” he asked. “He was convinced you were a madwoman, refused to go back and fetch you himself, told me I’d better send a guard after you.”
“Sod wasn’t going to let me see you. I told him he’d better move his ass. Thought he was going to faint.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t. He’s currently in the cloak room, trying to recover from the shock. You’re looking wonderfully radiant this afternoon, Miss James. To what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected but highly diverting visit?”
“If you mean why am I here, I’m here on business.”
“Oh?”
I leaned forward, plucked the chamois bag from between my breasts, took out the money and handed it to him. He seemed as surprised as Sheppard had been at my place of concealment and watched with considerable interest as I stuffed the empty bag back between my breasts, yet he was visibly impressed when I told him there was twenty pounds there and I wanted him to invest it for me. He was all business then, counting the money, making out a receipt, looking very serious as he signed it. His dark blond hair was tousled, and his brown eyes were twinkling again when he handed me the receipt. I folded it up and put it with the chamois bag for safekeeping, an action he watched with not the slightest lessening of interest.
“And what kind of morning did you have?” I a
sked.
“A rather frantic one, I fear. Things were popping in Change Alley. I was there by nine, bartering with the dealers. Sugar has suddenly become a very big item. I invested in several cane fields.”
Dealers in stocks and shares in the trading companies had met in the Royal Exchange until 1698, I had learned, and then they moved to Jonathan’s Coffee House in Change Alley, and it was there that the London Stock Exchange had come into being. Bancroft spent almost as much time in the Alley as he did in his office here at the bank. Some called it the financial center of the world, activities there on any given morning affecting all Europe.
“Cam slept till noon,” I said.
Bancroft rolled down his sleeves, fastened them and slipped on the forest green velvet frock coat. “Bully for him,” he said, smoothing down the lapels. “Wish I could have.”
“It must have been difficult for you to get up so early after staying-out so late last night. What time did you get in, three? four?”
“I was in bed by eleven, lass. I’m virtuous as can be these days. It’s frightfully boring.”
“You—you weren’t out with Cam last night?” I asked carefully.
“Haven’t seen him in weeks,” Bancroft replied.
He picked up the pale yellow-tan neckcloth, fastened it around his neck and stepped over to a mirror, skillfully folding the cloth. I felt a leaden sensation in my stomach. My pulses seemed to have stopped dead still. Bancroft brushed his hair back, neat and resplendent now, a grin on his lips as he turned to me.
“I’ve worked quite enough for one day. Since you’re going to be one of my major clients, the least I can do is take you out for tea. I’ll ply you with tiny iced cakes and watercress sandwiches and—” He paused, looking at me closely. “Are you ill, Miranda?”
I shook my head. I told him I felt fine. Bancroft took me by the shoulders and sat me down in one of the comfortable chairs. I felt as though I were in a trance. There were glasses and a crystal decanter on a table beneath one of the windows. He poured brandy and forced me to drink. It tasted horrible, burned my throat going down, burned my insides, but I began to feel better almost immediately. I could feel the color returning to my cheeks, and I gave Bancroft an apologetic smile.
“I—I guess it was the long walk. It’s terribly warm out, and—I’m all right now, Dick. Stop looking as though you were staring into an open grave! You’re depressing me.”
He continued to fuss over me, and I had a difficult time convincing him I was not going to keel over in a swoon. I was hardly the type. He insisted on taking me back to Greenbriar Court in his carriage, and although I would rather have been alone in order to think, there was no way I could refuse. Hovering over me like a mother hen with a fragile chick, he helped me into the carriage he had had brought around to Threadneedle Street. Those warm brown eyes were full of concern, and he spoke in a hushed, careful voice as though I were already sinking into that final sleep. When he took my hand in his and patted it I could no longer restrain myself. I jerked my hand away and told him that if he didn’t stop clucking over me he’d soon be singing soprano. He chuckled then and relaxed his vigilance.
When the carriage stopped in front of the passageway on Fleet he helped me out, and I told him I would prefer he didn’t see me to the house. Bancroft protested. I gave him a look that should have turned him to stone. He shook his head, grinning, then gave me a hug and climbed back into the carriage. With considerable relief, I watched it drive away and I stood there for several long moments, trying to pull myself together. Fleet was as bustling as ever, carriages bowling along the cobbles, newsboys shouting, journalists scurrying, but I was totally oblivious to it. I no longer felt dazed, no longer felt the shock and hurt and disappointment. I felt, instead, a hard, cold anger and a steely determination that nothing could shake.
He had been lying to me. All this time he had been lying to me. He was as deeply involved with the rebels as ever. He was one of them, had been all along, and nothing but disaster could come of it. That trip to Scotland—he had lied about that, too, I was certain of it—and that “accidental” meeting of the red-haired man at Green’s had been carefully prearranged. They had been meeting secretly for months and months and months, ever since Culloden, working out some diabolical plot, and instinct told me that things were coming to a head. That was why Cam was so eager to finish his book. At long last they were planning to make a definite move. Thinking they could go against someone as powerful as Cumberland—it was insanity! Cam Gordon was a goddamned fool, and somehow, someway I was going to have to save him from the disaster he rushed so blindly to meet.
27
Workmen sawed, hammered, troweled on plaster, the entire theater a bustling beehive of activity, a chaos of banging, slapping, shouting, yet there was a curious order involved. As David Garrick led us down the main aisle, proudly pointing to the newly plastered and beautifully gilt ceiling, I wondered how anything was accomplished amidst this confusion, but the results were already beginning to show. A fleet of upholsterer’s apprentices were busily ripping the old covers from rows of seats, dust flying, while the upholsterer argued vociferously with a plump merchant who unfurled bolt after bolt of blue velvet, none of them satisfactory, it seemed. On the great bare stage, workmen were uncrating an enormous chandelier, crystal pendants tinkling loudly.
“Blue and gold and pale ash gray,” Garrick was saying. “The seats and curtain will be a rich, deep royal blue, the walls covered with sky blue brocade embossed with gold fleursdelis. Ivory marble pillars, gold gilt, ash gray velvet hangings—I’m bored with red, bored with garish trappings. Subdued elegance and harmony of color, that’s what I’m after.”
“It’s going to be gorgeous, Davy,” Mrs. Wooden exclaimed. “It must be costing a fortune.”
“It is,” Garrick confessed. “My first season damn well better be a roaring success. Careful with that chandelier!” he cried. “Nothing but the finest velvet, the finest brocade, genuine gold leaf gilt—the gilt work’s being done by a group of Italian artisans especially brought in for the job. All the structural changes have been completed, walls torn down, foundations reinforced, new staircases put in, boxes added—what you see going on now is the dressing up. Once the seats are covered, the chandeliers hung, the walls recovered and the carpets laid, this place is going to knock your eyes out.”
“The Drury Lane is going to be the most dazzling theater in England,” Mrs. Wooden declared.
“In the world,” Garrick corrected. “It’s also going to be the best. Come on, I’ll take you up on stage. Watch those ropes. I’m delighted you could come, Miss James. I’d given up hope of ever seeing you again.”
“Marcie insisted,” I said.
“Actually, I told her if she showed up without you, I’d strangle her on the spot,” he told me. “I’ve had plenty of practice, playing Othello so often. Do you like what you see?”
“You seem to be doing a magnificent job, Mr. Garrick.”
“Davy. Here, give me your hand, these steps are a bit tricky. Actually, I haven’t done anything myself, just hired the very best men available. A bit of a problem organizing things, but I’m good at that—good at bossing people about and getting results. Terrorize ’em, that’s my philosophy. Works with artisans and laborers as well as actors. I’m a perfectionist, I fear, believe in driving ’em till they drop.”
“Every word he says is true,” Mrs. Wooden assured me. “Working with Davy is exhausting. Exhilarating, too, of course! He brings out the very best in a person.”
“Excuse me for a moment, ladies,” Garrick said. “I’ve got to go speak to those chaps with the chandelier. Be right back.”
He sauntered off, leaving us standing in the wings. His walk was a vigorous, bouncy stride, shoulders rolling, arms swinging. He seemed to generate vitality and zest, carrying a crackling excitement along with him. His dark blond hair pulled back and tied with a string, his face aglow, one cheek smudged with dirt, he looked handsomer than ever. His thi
n white cambric shirt was loose and moist with perspiration, the full sleeves rolled up over his forearms, the tail tucked carelessly into the waistband of his tight gray knee breeches. His white cotton stockings were in deplorable condition and his black leather pumps sadly scuffed, the silver buckles tarnished, yet all this only emphasized the splendor of the man. He looked like a prince in disguise, I thought, watching him confer with the workmen across the stage.
“Isn’t this exciting?” Mrs. Wooden said breathlessly. “Oh, to be back in a real theater again! Can’t you feel the magic? Davy’s promised to get me back in harness soon. He’s going to mount a Restoration comedy this season, and I’ll have a splendid part—something showy and full of panache. He’s looking for the right play. Mrs. Cibber is a competent Shakespearian actress, I admit that, providing you don’t mind that placid, bovine expression and spiritless delivery, but she could never do comedy. I can’t understand why he ever signed her. Audiences find her comforting, I suppose. She reminds them of a sweet-faced, white-haired grandmother. Dull woman. Dull as ditch water.”
Marcelon rattled on, a spectacular sight in rust and cream striped taffeta. If the gown was outlandish, the hat she wore with it was even more so—fluttery rust ostrich plumes spilling in profusion over the wide cream taffeta brim, the crown stovepipe tall. Face painted, eyes full of animation, she was an outrageous and endearing figure, generating her own special magnetism. I felt as drab as a sparrow beside her in my simple muslin frock.
Once More, Miranda Page 43
