“And how is the ardent Mr. Garrick?” Bancroft inquired. He must have been reading my mind.
“Performing commedia dell’arte at the Drury Lane—Queen Mab, to be exact. He’s a most impressive Harlequin, all verve, vitality and audacious dash. Johnson calls him the greatest Harlequin of the century.”
“Still pursuing you?” Bancroft asked.
“I—I see him occasionally, not nearly as often as he would like. I’m extremely fond of him, as you know, but—Davy’s not content to settle for a close friendship.”
“Can’t say that I blame him, not if you sashay around before him in gowns like the one you’re wearing now. Everyone in London knows he’s pining for you, perishing with unrequited love.”
“Mr. Garrick loves to play a role, and at the moment it amuses him to play the forlorn suitor. He sees other women much more frequently than he sees me. In fact, he’s quite taken with Lady Burlington’s young protegé.”
“That Austrian dancer?”
“Mademoiselle Violette—that’s a stage name, of course. Her real name is Eva Maria Veigel, and I understand she’s quite charming. Lovely, too.”
“Doesn’t hold a candle to you, lass. I saw her dance. She’s pretty, all right, if you like ’em plump and winsome, but no one would give her a glance if you were in the same room.”
“You’re a loyal friend, Dick.”
“Also a damned good judge of female pulchritude. I’ve had a lot of experience along those lines.”
Bancroft finished his wine, set his glass down and gave me a long, searching look, his warm brown eyes serious now. I knew that he longed to talk about the past and all that had happened three years ago, but there was a silent understanding between us that Cam Gordon’s name would never be mentioned. I felt sure that the two men had kept in touch ever since Cam fled the country—Bancroft had subtly intimated as much on more than one occasion—but I refused to question him. I wanted only to forget.
“I worry about you sometimes, Miranda. You’re too much alone.”
“I’m quite content with my lot, Dick.”
He frowned. “I know. That’s what worries me. You’ve become more and more reclusive, more and more set in your ways. You’re young, Miranda—what? twenty-two? twenty-three?—and you might as well be forty. I can understand why you don’t want to become too seriously involved with a chap like Garrick, but—” He hesitated, searching for words, extremely uncomfortable.
“I appreciate your concern, Dick,” I said lightly, “but—you’re not to worry. I’m the luckiest woman in London, thanks largely to your shrewd management.”
“Just doing my job,” he muttered.
“Making me a very wealthy woman,” I added, “and, incidentally, driving my poor publisher to desperation. You’re a darling, Dick, the most amiable of men, but when it comes to business you’re a—a veritable shark.”
“Have to be. You’ve gotta go for the throat when you’re dealing with someone like Sheppard or he’ll eat you alive. When you asked me to take over your business affairs, in addition to handling your money, and when I saw what he was doing to you—”
Bancroft scowled and shook his head, and I smiled to myself. Having successfully changed the subject, I offered him more wine. Thomas Sheppard arrived a few minutes later, looking dapper and unusually sober in blue black broadcloth, a white silk neckcloth providing a touch of relief. Sandy hair a bit thinner, complexion like old parchment, he greeted me with a warm smile and adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles. When he saw Bancroft standing in front of the fireplace the smile vanished and he assumed the weary, put-upon expression he always wore when my jovial but hard-as-steel business manager was present. Bancroft nodded politely. Sheppard emitted a martyred sigh.
“Bancroft,” he said.
“Sheppard.”
“Come to bully me some more, I see.”
“Hadn’t planned on it, Thomas.”
“You’re half my age and twice my size, Bancroft. I should think you would be ashamed to terrorize and victimize a fragile old party like me, taking advantage of my frail health and failing memory.”
“You’re about as frail as a barracuda, Thomas, and as for your memory—you can account for every penny you ever earned from a hapless writer and relate in detail how it was invested. Rubbing your hands as you do so,” he added. “You may not carry a knife, but you’re as greedy as any cutthroat in London and probably even more vicious.”
“I resent that!” Sheppard protested.
Both men enjoyed these sparring matches tremendously and found them wonderfully stimulating sport. Though bitter adversaries on the surface, each secretly nourished a fond regard for the other, and each received all the respect due a worthy opponent. When Bancroft took over my business affairs he had made a thorough study of the publishing business, and then he had gone to Sheppard with a revolutionary and—to Sheppard—absolutely scandalous proposal. It was standard practice on Fleet Street for an author to receive a lump sum for a book, the amount based on past success and projected sales, and, after that amount was paid, the author never received another penny, no matter how successful the book might prove to be. Bancroft refused to take a lump sum for Duchess Annie, insisting, instead, that I receive a percentage on each copy sold. Sheppard shrieked wildly in protest, claiming such a precedent would threaten the very foundations of Fleet, but in the end Bancroft had won, the agreement had been signed and I had become the wealthiest writer in London.
“Miranda’s almost finished with Betty’s Girls,” Bancroft remarked. “I’ve read what she’s done. It’s remarkable.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“It’s going to create another sensation. She has the temerity to suggest that whores have heart, have soul, feel pain and grief and anguish like the rest of us. She dares to imply that they’re frequently the pathetic victims of society instead of its scourge. It’s going to sell even better than Annie.”
“You’re going to start twisting my arm,” Sheppard groaned. “I can see it in your eyes. You’re going to tyrannize me and—”
“We let you rob us with Annie, Thomas. We agreed to accept a measly fifteen percent on each copy sold. For Betty’s Girls I fully expect twenty-five. You’re going to make thousands of pounds, hundreds of thousands, if it sells as well as I think it will, and I intend to see that my client—”
Sheppard’s cheeks had paled. Bancroft’s voice had taken on a brutal edge, and his eyes gleamed with cruel delight as he watched his victim squirm. Sheppard took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and readied for the fray. I reminded them gently that this was a social occasion and no time to discuss business. Both looked disappointed, as though I had interrupted them in the middle of a particularly rousing game of chess, yet both were as amiable as one could wish as we went into the dining room.
Lord Markham’s cook had surpassed herself tonight. There was oxtail soup, a marvelous fillet of sole, a rack of pink, juicy lamb and tiny quails cooked to a golden, buttery brown, with vegetables and wine suitable to each course. For dessert there was a sumptuous pudding with brandy sauce flambé, wickedly delicious: Served by the officious but impeccable Pearson, with Tom and Bob standing by in their best livery, it was a superb meal, the conversation as satisfying as the food, and both my guests were in a mellow mood as we returned to the drawing room.
“By the way,” Sheppard said as I served him a glass of after-dinner brandy, “I’ve been seeing quite a lot of one of your friends.”
I handed Bancroft his glass and turned around. “Oh? Who might that be?”
“Mrs. Marcelon Wooden. She came into the shop about two weeks ago for extra copies of Duchess Annie to give to some actor friends and, for some reason, felt that, as she was your oldest and dearest friend, she shouldn’t be required to pay for them. I happened to be passing through the shop while she was arguing with my clerk and she—uh—pounced.”
“That’s our Marcie,” Bancroft observed.
“She told me she was del
ighted to see me again—I had just met her that one time, when we were—uh—when you left for Stratford—so I told her I would be delighted to give her a few complimentary copies of the book and she felt obligated to give me complimentary tickets to her play and—well, one thing led to another and we’ve—uh—been seeing each other fairly often. She’s a remarkable woman.”
“She is indeed,” I agreed.
“Absolutely intolerable ever since The Way of The World,” Bancroft added. “She stole the play, you know. Poor Mrs. Cibber, Garrick himself hadn’t a prayer of being noticed once she flounced onstage and started shooting off her fireworks.”
“She was marvelous, Dick!” I protested.
“Didn’t say she wasn’t. I’m just saying she’s been intolerable since she became ‘The Sensation of The Season,’ to quote the journals. I handle her finances,” he explained to Sheppard, “and, let me tell you, she has some very eccentric ideas about banks.”
“You adore her,” I told him.
“I’m also turning gray. Watch yourself, Sheppard. She thinks it a crime for any man over twenty to be unmarried. Poor Major Barnaby had to flee the country to get away from her.”
“He went back to India to refresh his memory and gather material for his memoirs,” I corrected.
“Had him in her clutches, she did. Poor man made his escape in the nick of time.”
“Pay no attention to him, Thomas. Marcie’s a darling. I don’t know what I would do without her.”
Sheppard seemed slightly uncomfortable at the turn the conversation had taken, but there was a wry little grin on his lips nevertheless as he thought of the exuberant and colorful creature who had come storming into his life and threatened to disrupt his staid, fussy bachelor habits. Marcie’s success was a source of great delight to me. Ever since her dazzling performance as Lady Wishfort in the Congreve play, she had been in constant demand by managers eager to mount productions tailored for her unique talents. No one had any illusions about her acting abilities—she was, in truth, an atrocious actress, as critics were quick to point out—but she had an outrageous, audacious, larger-than-life quality that enchanted audiences and had made her one of the great personalities of the English theater, ardently adored by the multitudes who packed the house whenever she performed.
“It’s growing late,” Sheppard remarked, glancing at the clock. “I have a manuscript to finish reading tonight. I’d better take my leave, Miranda.”
“I have my carriage out front, old man,” Bancroft said. “I’ll drop you off.”
Sheppard looked dubious. Bancroft grinned. “No strong-arm tactics, I promise. We won’t even discuss business.”
“Well—”
Bancroft slung an arm around the tiny little man’s shoulders and gave him a hearty squeeze.
“Come along, Thomas. Miranda looks a bit weary. It’s been a lovely evening, love. Food delicious, hostess enchanting, conversation stimulating. I enjoyed it.”
“Me, too,” Sheppard said as Bancroft half-dragged him out of the room. “I’ll be in touch.”
“So will I,” Bancroft called.
I stepped outside with them and we made our final farewells. The lawn was brushed with pale silver. The square was black and silver and blue gray, misty golden lights glowing in windows. Bancroft and Sheppard walked toward the waiting carriage, two black silhouettes against the silver, and I stepped back into the foyer. Pearson appeared to inquire if I would be needing anything else. I shook my head and thanked him and, after he had departed, put out the candles downstairs and went wearily up to my bedroom.
Millie had turned back the bedcovers and laid out my nightgown. The French windows were open. A soft evening breeze caused the thin silk curtains to billow. They made a whispering sound as I took off the bronze gown and its matching petticoat and hung them up in the lovely Boulle wardrobe. Slipping on the frail, creamy beige gauze nightgown, I sat at the dressing table and took down my hair and brushed it. The curtains whispered. The clock ticked quietly. It was after midnight now. Six and a half hours until dawn. It was coming over me again, that melancholy that always came over me when I was alone in the evening. The days were fine. The days were filled with work and there wasn’t enough time to accomplish all I wanted to accomplish, but the evenings … the evenings were filled with a subtle, persistent sadness that, while never acute, was always there, waiting to claim me.
Blowing out all the candles except those on the bedside table, I climbed into bed and settled back against the pillows and picked up the final volume of Tom Jones. When it had come out last year it had created almost as great a sensation as Duchess Annie, scandalizing readers and selling enormously well. Its author, Henry Fielding, had been a magistrate on Bow Street for the past year and a half, and, in poor health already, he was virtually killing himself trying to establish a respectable police force and clean up the corruption in our legal system. Dedicated, compassionate, he was making tremendous reforms that would benefit every man, woman and child in England, and he wrote his “foolish little epics” merely for relaxation. I suspected that the novels he considered such trifles would be read long after his work on Bow Street was forgotten.
Although I adored the book and was reading it now for the second time, the rollicking adventures of Fielding’s gamy young foundling could not distract me tonight. I set the volume aside and blew out the candles and gazed at the silvery flecks that began to dance on the ceiling. The curtains billowed, in and out, in and out, whispering, and the sadness swept over me once again. The bed was large and cool and there was no body beside mine to cling to, to caress. I was but half, and the man who had once made me whole was … was out there in the world somewhere and I would never see him again.
I was over him. Yes, yes, of course I was. I had hardened my heart. The wounds had healed. The pain, that terrible anguish, had eventually disappeared, and I could think of him without that wrenching, tearing sensation, but the sadness still came, and … and the longing, even now, even after three years. I gazed at the ceiling and watched the silvery flecks of moonlight dancing on the blue black and the memories came, try though I might to resist them. Don’t, Miranda, I warned myself. Don’t remember. Don’t. Think about the book. Think about … Damn him. Damn him. Why couldn’t I hate him, as I had tried so often to do? Why couldn’t I forget? Why? The memories came and finally I slept and memories merged into dreams.
31
Brandy barked lustily as Madame Valentina’s assistant came in with the gowns over her arms. The celebrated and terribly exclusive couturier forced a thin smile on her lips and made a comment about how adorable the little creature was. Marcelon beamed proudly. Brandy cavorted across the plush carpet, reflected in the multiple mirrors. The assistant grimaced. Pepe was curled up on a bolt of blue velvet, sleeping soundly, and Sarge was busily destroying a piece of discarded lace Valentina had given him. She clearly detested the poodles and would have loved to toss them out of her grand fitting room, but even Valentina didn’t dare offend the famous and beloved Mrs. Wooden whose patronage brought in a great deal of business. Besides, Marcie and I were two of the very few customers who paid promptly and in cash.
“Scrumptious!” Marcelon exclaimed as the assistant handed Valentina one of the gowns and hung the other up. “Absolutely scrumptious! Do be quiet, Brandy! I had hoped he’d calm down with age,” she confessed, “but he’s still as frisky as ever. Go play with your little brother, darling.”
Valentina smiled another forced smile, waved the assistant away and helped me into the sumptuous honey-colored velvet trimmed at bodice and hem with glossy black fox fur. Tall and thin with a pinched, painted face and improbable silver blonde hair piled atop her head in messy waves, Valentina invariably wore black, a pair of stunning emerald earrings her only adornment. Shrewd, sharp, snobbish and rapacious, she was a superb businesswoman who had struggled for years to attain her position in the world of fashion and would fight like an alleycat if it were threatened. She was, unquestionably, the
best couturier in England, better than many in France, and she charged accordingly.
“It’s a dream, Miranda!” Marcie assured me as Valentina finished hooking the gown in back. “That velvet—I’ve never seen its equal.”
“Especially imported,” Valentina told us. “Only the one bolt. The Duchess of Hartford was determined to have it, said she must have a gown made from it. I told her it was reserved. She said she didn’t care, said she would pay double for it. I finally convinced her it wasn’t her color.”
“Shouldn’t think so,” Marcie remarked. “She has a complexion like a lemon.”
“The bane of my existence,” Valentina sighed, stepping back to observe me. “She insists on dressing like a twenty-year-old—pink silk, pale blue, ruffles and sashes and lacy garlands. She’s pushing seventy, poor thing. It takes all my tact to keep her from looking like a gaudy maypole. Perfect, Miranda,” she said, squinting her shrewd green eyes. “Almost perfect. I don’t usually care for long sleeves on you, but these are just right.”
I studied myself in the mirrors. Although I loved buying these exquisite creations, fittings were always an ordeal. Standing around interminably while someone tugged and pulled and draped and poked pins into cloth wasn’t my idea of bliss. The gorgeous honey-colored velvet seemed to glisten with a rich golden-brown sheen. The long off-the-shoulder sleeves fit glove-tight, and with its snug, low-cut bodice, tight waist and swelling skirt, the gown was undeniably a masterpiece, the glossy black fur edging the bodice and skirt hem adding a luxurious touch.
Once More, Miranda Page 51
