Once More, Miranda

by Jennifer Wilde

  And when, the following Sunday, Davy Garrick appeared on my doorstep and begged me to take lunch with him at the park, I accepted his invitation, too, changing into the gorgeous new cream silk with its tiny floral print and thin pink and orange stripes. He stood up when I reentered the drawing room, and the look in his eyes told me that the gown was every bit as stunning as I thought it was. I had hastily brushed my hair and wore it loose and flowing. Davy gazed at me for several long moments, then assumed a pained expression and shook his head.

  “Something wrong?” I inquired.

  “I’m consumed with regret,” he told me.

  “Regret?”

  “Regret that I’m a decent fellow. Were I the rake I’ve often been painted as being, I’d ravish you on the spot. Your beauty, I fear, has driven me quite mad, and I’m using the utmost restraint, I assure you.”

  “Which play is that from?” I asked.

  “I’m sincere, Miranda.”

  “You’ve never been sincere a day in your life, David Garrick. You’ve used that same bit of dialogue dozens of times before, I’m sure.”

  “It usually works,” he complained. “You’re a cold, heartless woman, Miss James. Hundreds of lovely, amoral women throwing themselves at my head, longing to sleep with the great David Garrick, and I have to fall in love with the only virtuous woman in London.”

  “Poor darling,” I said.

  “Heartless, utterly heartless. You don’t know what all this rejection has done to me.”

  “I seriously doubt your self-esteem is in any real danger. You have enough opinion of yourself for half a dozen men.”

  “That hurt,” he said, looking quite wounded.

  I smiled. He grinned that marvelous grin and squeezed my hands and led me out to the splendid open carriage upholstered in pale tan velvet, driver perched up front in smart tan and gold livery, two muscular roans stamping in harness. It was a glorious day, brilliant silvery-white sunlight gilding the treetops, the sky a lovely blue white. Davy chatted amiably as we drove to the park, his wit and warmth wonderfully engaging. He looked unusually handsome in a dark blue velvet frock coat and breeches and a dashing white satin waistcoat embroidered with blue and silver fleurs-de-lis. Dark blond hair pulled back and tied loosely with a blue velvet ribbon, features animated, he radiated vivacity and that incredible charm that made him the idol of the English stage.

  “They’re staring at us,” he said as we drove down the Mall where the elms spread shadows over the drive.

  “You’re very famous,” I said. “They always stare.”

  “It’s not me they’re looking at. It’s you. You’re one of the Great Beauties.”

  “You mustn’t believe everything you read in the papers, Davy.”

  “We make a striking couple—the famous actor and the scandalous lady writer. Everyone assumes we’re sleeping together—if they but knew! Davy Garrick having a platonic relationship with a beautiful woman? My image would be irreparably shattered.”

  I smiled and he looked at me with crestfallen eyes that soon twinkled once more. The Mall was thronged with fashionable men and women in sumptuous attire, the leading lights of London society rubbing elbows with the most stylish courtesans. Strolling along the promenade or riding in open carriages as were we, they made a glittering assemblage, and it was hard for me to realize that I was part of the parade, gawked at by onlookers as I had gawked three years ago when I had first seen Lady Arabella.

  “How—how does it feel to be so famous?” I asked Davy.

  “You want to know the truth?”

  “Of course.”

  “It means nothing to me. There’s this dazzling fellow, David Garrick, and he’s something to behold, a glamorous chap who plays his part and does what the public expects of him, but he doesn’t have anything to do with Davy. Davy works hard and sweats a lot and wears shabby old clothes and wonders what all the fuss is about. He’s actually quite serious, often melancholy, although he takes great pains to conceal it.”

  “I think I might like him,” I said.

  “I’ll introduce you to him sometime,” he promised.

  The driver stopped the carriage and we climbed out and Davy took my hand, leading me away from the Mall with its stylish throng and into the park itself where humbler folk enjoyed themselves this lovely Sunday afternoon. We passed packs of noisy children romping on the lawns, laborers and their lasses sitting under the trees, middle class families picnicking by the ponds. The grass was a deep emerald, burnished with sunlight and spread with shadows from the trees. Swans glided elegantly on the ponds and ducks squawked near the banks. All the flowerbeds were in full bloom. A friendly, festive atmosphere prevailed, and I felt much more at ease than I had on the Mall.

  “We’ll buy sausage rolls and ale from one of the stalls,” Davy informed me, “and if you’re very good, you can have lemon ice for dessert. It’s going to be a very cheap lunch, I fear.”

  “I adore sausage rolls. I’ll skip the ale, though.”

  “Not good enough for you, is it? You expect champagne like all the other spoiled beauties. I detest the stuff. I have very common tastes—I’m just a working man, you know, toiling at my profession like a stevedore or fishmonger or shipping clerk, and, alas, I’m usually short of cash.”

  “I’d be delighted to pay for lunch,” I teased.

  “I may be poor, but I have my pride. I’ll pay, thank you very much. Like a twist of chips to go with your sausage roll?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  Davy purchased the food and led me over to a secluded spot beside one of the ponds. Willow trees sheltered us, and a family of brown and black ducks splashed about near the water’s edge. The grassy bank was soft, and there was a strong smell of moss and mud. Davy parted the curtain of willow fronds, indicating the ground as though it were a plush sofa. I sat down and spread out my silken skirts. Handing me my sausage roll and the greasy paper twist of chips, he plopped down beside me and took a hearty swig of ale.

  “Ah, pure bliss,” he declared. “What better way to spend a Sunday? Who needs the admiring hoards? How’s your sausage roll?”

  “Delicious. Lots of mustard.”

  I felt wonderfully relaxed and content as we ate our food there by the water with the ducks cavorting and the pale jade green willow fronds catching the sunlight as they dangled all around us. We were both absurdly overdressed for such an outing, but that was part of its charm. I ate all my chips and half of Davy’s, finished my sausage roll and wiped my hands on the grass. Davy lounged back with hands behind his head, staring up at the willows and savoring the contentment that filled him. Water lapped against the mossy bank. Leaves rustled. We could hear the noisy cries of children in the distance.

  “Simple pleasures are always the best,” he said lazily.

  “I agree.”

  “We look like a Watteau painting, me in my fine velvet, you in your silks, enjoying the simple life.”

  “I should be making a garland of flowers.”

  “And I should be looking at you with smoldering eyes, contemplating your firm young bosom with a lascivious smile.”

  “Watteau was always a bit gamy.”

  “Elegant pornography. As a matter of fact, I often do contemplate your firm young bosom.”

  “Do you?”

  “I long to possess you, have ever since I first saw you there in Marcie’s studio, a beautiful, mysterious mute.”

  “Poor Davy,” I teased.

  “I’m serious,” he protested.

  “You’re an incorrigible flirt who’s been deplorably spoiled by far too much attention from far too many women. A list of your conquests would fill volumes. I prefer to be remembered as the one woman who didn’t sleep with David Garrick. It’s quite a distinction.”

  He propped himself up on one elbow and gave me a disgruntled look. Lounging there on the grass in his splendid attire, he looked like a handsome, indolent pasha. I plucked a blade of grass and stroked his cheek with it, and Dav
y sighed. I felt a great affection for him, great admiration, too, for he was indeed a very hard worker and absolutely dedicated to his craft. If I allowed myself, could I feel something more as well? I wasn’t immune to his immense sexual allure, but I staunchly refused to think of him in that way.

  “Would it be so unappetizing?” he asked. “Sleeping with me, I mean.”

  “It—it would probably be appetizing indeed. I’ve no doubt you’re every bit as accomplished as they say you are, but—”

  I hesitated, gazing at the mossy bank and the water beyond. The pale green willow fronds swayed gently in the breeze, shimmering in the sunlight. Davy sat up and curled his arms around his knees.

  “But you’re still in love with Gordon,” he said.

  “It isn’t that, Davy. I—I’m just not emotionally equipped for a casual, frivolous affair. It would be diverting, yes, and it would probably be a lot of fun, but I—I’d much rather treasure your friendship.”

  “Is that what you think I want? A casual, frivolous affair?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  Davy frowned. Picking up a small, flat rock, he skimmed it across the water. The ducks squawked, paddling away indignantly. It was several moments before he finally replied.

  “I suppose it was,” he confessed, “in the beginning. You were just another beautiful woman, and I wanted to add you to that list you were speaking of. I found you titillating, intriguing, a challenge, and then—” Now it was his turn to hesitate.

  “And then?” I prompted.

  “I’m not very good at this,” he told me. “I’m just a humble player, and without a writer to give me the words, a director to give me the movements, I’m as inept as any bumpkin.”

  “You exaggerate.”

  “And then—then I got to know you,” he continued. “I discovered your intelligence, your strength, your compassion. I grew to admire you, and that initial yen to possess you developed into something—something far more disturbing. You treasure your independence. I treasure mine, too, and up until now I’ve been as unwilling to make a real commitment as you are. How am I doing?”

  “You’re doing very well.”

  “I grew to respect you, too, and I respected you far too much to resort to a cheap seduction—I’ve no doubt I could have seduced you, my beauty. You’re not that strong, and I can be very persuasive.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “I—I’m not getting any younger, Miranda,” he said glumly.

  “I know. You’ll start creaking any day now,” I teased.

  Davy ignored my quip. I brushed a stray leaf from my skirt and pushed back an auburn tendril that had fallen across my temple.

  “I’ve enjoyed my freedom, Miranda. I’ve enjoyed being adored by all the ladies, plucking them like so many rosebuds, but now I’m ready to settle down. I’m ready to put dashing Davy out to pasture and devote the rest of my life to one woman.”

  “I see.”

  “That fellow I was talking about earlier—the chap who works hard and sweats a lot, who’s serious at heart and is often melancholy—I’m introducing you to him now, Miranda.”

  He looked at me with grave, dark eyes, and I knew that I was indeed seeing another Davy, a warm, serious-minded man nearing middle-age who longed for the domestic stability that would provide the balance he was beginning to need more and more as the years passed. The glamorous, dazzling personality he wore like some splendid garment had been temporarily put aside, and I saw a basically simple man, good-hearted, dedicated to his work, willing to work ten times as hard as anyone else in order to excel in his profession. His face was attractively lined and stamped with character, and the shabby old clothes suited this Davy far better than the fine velvet suit and embroidered satin waistcoat.

  “Few people have met him,” he said. “I fear he’s rather a bore.”

  “I like him a great deal.”

  “Do you think you could love him?”

  “Davy, I—”

  “I love you, Miranda. I want you to become my wife. No, no—don’t give me an answer just yet. Think about it. Davy is a scamp, a flashy scoundrel full of nonsense, unworthy of you, but the other chap—the other chap would do everything in his power to make you the happiest woman in London.”

  I was touched, and I was flattered, too. When I told him so, Davy sighed and shook his head, looking for all the world like a little boy who has just been let out of the classroom by a particularly stern schoolmaster. He climbed to his feet and, taking my hand, pulled me to mine, the old Davy now, all vitality and jaunty charm.

  “That’s the hardest speech I’ve ever given,” he confided. “I hope I didn’t muck it up too badly. I felt dreadfully awkward without a script to follow. The mighty David Garrick stuttering and stumbling about like a moonstruck adolescent—wouldn’t my rivals love it!”

  “You didn’t need a script,” I said.

  “Bit of rehearsal wouldn’t have hurt. I believe I promised you a lemon ice. Still want one?”

  “Desperately.”

  “Something a bit stronger would suit me, but—lemon ice it shall be.”

  Davy led me through the curtain of willow fronds and across the lawn, holding my elbow in a loose grip. A burly laborer and his buxom lass were embracing passionately beneath one of the trees while a jolly family enjoyed their picnic nearby. A little boy with shaggy blond hair raced exuberantly past us, chasing a small black and white dog who yapped blissfully. Davy strolled over to one of the stalls, purchased our ices and handed one to me.

  “Took the last penny I had,” he complained. “All this high living’s going to bankrupt me.”

  “It’s delicious.”

  “You—uh—you don’t think me a bumbling fool, do you?”

  “I think you’re probably the nicest man I’ve ever met in my life.”

  “And?”

  “I feel very honored, but—”

  “Don’t say anything now!” he said hastily, cutting me short.

  “I don’t want an answer yet. Just—just promise me you’ll think about it.”

  I told him I would, and Davy looked vastly relieved as we sauntered back toward the Mall. His step was light, his manner teasing and attentive, and I felt another rush of fondness. He was the most famous man in London, already a legend in his mid-thirties. Radiantly handsome, generous, kind, he was everything a woman could want. I would be a fool to turn him down, yet … I would think about it. That was the least I could do.

  32

  A line of gleaming carriages inched slowly along Berkeley Square, each stopping in front of the majestic white marble facade of Lady Julia Copeland’s imposing, ostentatious town house. Passengers alighted with great dignity, and footmen in powdered wigs, blue satin frock coats and white satin breeches held torches aloft on either side of the narrow walk leading to the portico which resembled a Greek temple. Orange flames waved against the darkness, casting shadows over the faces of guests moving in a steady procession up the walk. Every window in the house was ablaze with light, and a babble of voices spilled into the night as I climbed out of Lord Markham’s finest carriage and moved past those rows of silent, immobile footmen.

  Why did I ever agree to come? It was going to be abysmally boring. I was going to be utterly miserable. One of the wealthiest women in London, Lady J. flaunted the fact with astounding vulgarity. The house was preposterous, dominating the square with its size and splendor and looking all the more ludicrous when compared to the simple, elegant houses surrounding it. Gold gilt and mirrors blinded the eye as I stepped into the foyer, three opulent crystal chandeliers spilling floods of brilliant light, pendants glittering like waterfalls of diamonds. A mob of chattering, sumptuously attired people filled the place like so much cattle, moving slowly toward the ornate doors of the drawing room where our hostess and her mousy, intimidated husband greeted each guest.

  I hadn’t wanted to come, had fretted all the while as Millie carefully did my hair, fastening coppery waves on top of my head, arrang
ing the long ringlets that fell in back. She had selected my gown, a rich black brocade with narrow stripes of gold, pink and silver, the full puffed sleeves worn off-the-shoulder, the snug bodice leaving half my bosom bare. The very full skirt belled out from the narrow waist, spreading over half a dozen black gauze underskirts. Ever so glamorous, Millie had assured me. She just knew I’d be the most stunnin’ woman there, and she could hardly wait to hear all about it when I got home.

  A mistake, Miranda, I told myself. You’d better make your escape while you can. Two hours in this suffocating mob and you’ll be ready to swoon. I turned around, fully intending to leave. A strong, ink-stained hand gripped my arm, restraining me.

  “No you don’t!” a gruff voice warned. “If I’m going to endure this abomination, you are, too.”

  A grumpy, puffy, pockmarked face scowled at me, dark, intelligent eyes daring me to protest.

  “Johnson!” I exclaimed. “I never expected to see you here.”

  “I’m a certifiable lion,” he grumbled. “I’ve come to eat my regular quota of Christians.”

  “I suppose I’m the first one on the menu,” I retorted.

  “You’re a colleague,” he countered, “loath though I am to admit it. I’ve always contended that a woman writing a book is like a dog walking on hind legs. It’s not done well, but you’re surprised to find it done at all.”

  “Typical of you, Johnson.”

  “Don’t know what the world’s coming to,” he complained, shaking his large, shaggy head. “Women writing books, writing them damned well, too. Next thing you know, men will be banished to the kitchen.”