Once More, Miranda

by Jennifer Wilde

  The coach windows were open, and I marveled at the clean, invigorating air in Cornwall. It was laced with a salty tang and laden with pungent, earthy smells I seemed to recognize instinctively. That was peat, yes, and that had to be lichen. That was the smell of sun-washed grass, and that was mossy rock, damp sand, seaweed. I hadn’t seen the sea yet, but I could feel its presence just beyond the horizon to my left, a vast body of water that gave this part of the country its unique character, dominating the land, alternately providing sustenance or wreaking havoc, Bleak though it might be, Cornwall had its own kind of beauty, I thought, stark and clean and uncluttered. There was a curious grandeur as well, something sensed, not seen, a feeling of centuries past, of ancient rituals, of violence, unheaval and survival, as though the land retained invisible impressions of all that had gone before.

  Leaning back against the shabby leather cushion, shaken about as the coach rumbled over a particularly bad rut, I tried to hold back the tension that had been mounting ever since I had left the inn this morning. I had dressed very carefully, selecting a sapphire blue silk frock with narrow black stripes. I wore long black velvet gloves and a wide-brimmed black velvet hat with a large sapphire silk bow on the left side of the crown, a cascade of sapphire plumes sweeping over the right side of the brim. Expensive, elegant, restrained without being sober. When I finally came face to face with my uncle I wanted him to see a strong, composed, self-sufficient woman who was fully capable of holding her own. When I met the man who had destroyed my mother’s life I wanted him to know he was not dealing with a timorous girl he could intimidate as he had intimidated that gentle young governess who had trembled before his cold stare almost twenty-five years ago.

  I had no idea what I was going to say, no idea what I was going to do. I only knew I had to see him and confront him with what I knew, yet I had closed up the house in London and put all my personal things in storage, and the bags strapped on top of the coach in three weighty heaps contained all the clothes I owned. Would I leave in three or four days? Would I stay in Cornwall indefinitely to fight my uncle for a portion of the inheritance I neither wanted nor needed? I didn’t know, yet I had made my farewells to Marcelon, Bancroft, and Sheppard as though I expected to be gone for quite some time, and I had written a long, painful letter to Davy, giving him the answer I had known I must give, even before my talk with Johnson, wishing him the best life had to offer and adding that I hoped we would always remain friends. That letter had undoubtedly hurt him when he read it, but Davy would recover soon enough, and he would eventually come to see why such a match would have been disastrous for both of us.

  How startling it had been to learn that I had known Davy Garrick when I was a saucy, mishievous little girl in Lichfield, feeding bread crumbs to the ducks and “skittering around Lichfield like a ray of sunlight, romping with the other children, spurring them on.” Young Davy had called me the prettiest little minx he had ever seen and, at four, I had announced that I was going to marry him when I grew up. The ironies of life, I thought as the coach bounced over a series of ruts. I had known Sam Johnson, too, tagging after the gawky, ungainly bookseller’s son and taunting him quite cruelly along with the other children. What changes the years had brought into the lives of all three of us, and now my life had changed dramatically once again.

  I gazed out the window of the coach, thinking about that remarkable document my mother had written with the very last strength in her body. How different my life would have been had she been able to finish it and mail it off two or three weeks earlier, had Reverend Williams arrived in St. Giles a few days sooner.… How I had wept when I read that sad, heartbreaking story. Like a magical key, it had unlocked the doors of memory, and hundreds of long-forgotten incidents came flooding back. I remembered Lichfield, remembered the pond, the cathedral, saw that bright, rowdy little girl, that sad, beautiful, loving woman who was so patient and tender, who spoke so softly. I remembered those early years in London when, a happy child, I had rarely been aware of the horrible struggle to survive that plagued each day for my mother until we finally ended up in St. Giles, utterly destitute. I knew now all that had gone before, and, at last, I knew who I was.

  Before leaving London I had gone to visit Dean Jordon in his swank parish and we had talked for hours. He had told me all he could about my mother, my father, my uncle and that great gray stone house with leaded windows where the tragedy occurred. An intelligent, compassionate man with a sincere dedication to his work despite the fripperies and his stylish facade, Dean Jordon agreed that I must journey to Cornwall to discover my roots, but he had added that I must not go for the wrong reasons. I must put all hatred out of my mind, must realize that my uncle had endured a terrible punishment all these years. His life had been utterly destroyed when he lost his brother, my father, the only person on earth he had ever loved. I mustn’t hate him, Dean Jordon told me. I must pity him, and I must try to understand.

  I could see the cliffs now, and as the road curved I had my first glimpse of the sea, steel gray waves surging turbulently, capped with foamy white, not a touch of blue in evidence today. Over the plodding of horse hooves and the skimming of wheels I could hear a swooshing, sweeping sound and the splattering explosions as waves crashed against the rocks below. Gulls squawked overhead, swirling in the air like flapping scraps of white paper. The smell of salt was much stronger now, a sharp, zesty tang. I could smell wet rock and sand, moss and gull droppings, too, and it was all somehow exhilarating. The air here in Cornwall had a brisk, bracing quality, such a contrast to London and the noxious odors one learned to live with.

  The road turned inland again. A few minutes later I saw the clay pits, great, gaping excavations, dusty gray, adorned with a flimsy network of rotten brown wooden ramps. The pits were deserted, empty, ugly eyesores. The factory beyond was deserted, too, a squat, hideous structure, several windows broken out, the tall black smokestacks streaked with rust. The out buildings were in pitiful shape, several of the sheds tumbling down. Sprawling there in the brilliant sunlight, the place looked as though it had been abandoned a dozen years ago. So the Mowrey pottery works had closed down? What were the villagers doing for a livelihood now?

  Very little, it seemed, for when the coach entered it a short while later, the village had a depressed, impoverished appearance, everything unkempt, run-down. A grim atmosphere seemed to hang over the whole place, and the people I saw through the coach windows had a defeated air, as though they had given up all hope of a better life. Almost a quarter of a century had passed since my mother first arrived here, spending her first night in that now desolate-looking inn with its wooden sign hanging ajar, colors long since faded. Many changes had obviously taken place during the past twenty-five years, none for the better.

  The driver stopped at the inn to ask directions to Mowrey House. I waited in the coach, the object of many curious—hostile?—stares. Who is this woman with all those bags strapped on top of her coach, those stern, weather-beaten men seemed to ask. The women with their worn garments and lined faces clearly wondered what such an outlandishly attired creature was doing in this part of Cornwall. I sensed their resentment, and I couldn’t help feeling relieved when the driver climbed back up on his seat and we drove on.

  Half a mile or so from the village we passed four soldiers on sturdy black horses who were riding back toward town. They were tough, fierce-looking men in their polished black boots, tight white breeches and scarlet tunics, faces tan, wary, eyes hard. One of them tugged on the reins and stopped, turning around to stare suspiciously as the coach moved on around the curving road. Looking out the window, I could see him behind us, motionless, watching, growing smaller and smaller as the distance between us increased. Did he imagine I had come here on some nefarious mission? Sod the bastard. I’d give him the finger if he weren’t too far away now to appreciate the gesture. Cornwall certainly wasn’t a friendly place, I thought, but then I hadn’t come here to make new friends.

  Five minutes passed
, cliffs to our left again, waves crashing below, rugged terrain to our right, and then the road curved once more. I saw Mowrey House for the first time. It was exactly as my mother had described it, a great, sprawling place with leaded windows, the gray stone bleached by the elements. The gardens had gone wild, vivid—multicolored flowers choked by tangled underbrush, trees wind-twisted. The place looked ominous indeed, and as we drew nearer I saw that several of the windows were broken. The roof badly needed repairs. Was Mowrey House deserted, too? It certainly looked so. Had I come all this way for nothing? The coach moved up the drive. The driver stopped in front of that massive portico. My throat felt suddenly dry.

  I climbed out. The enormous, weighty bulk of the house seemed to loom over me, threatening to crush me. The dark, leaded windows seemed to stare like hostile eyes. Although the sunlight was still brilliant, there was none here, the huge house casting deep shadows over the drive. I gazed up at it, trying not to shiver. All right, Miranda, I told myself. You’re here now. Let’s get on with it. You’re not going to be intimidated. I straightened my hat and brushed dust from my skirt and turned to the driver with cool composure.

  “Wait here,” I told him. “I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

  The driver nodded. I moved up the flat gray steps and under the heavy portico and knocked on the large dark-oak door. Several moments passed. I knocked again. Sure, I had a lot of courage, and yes, my chin was held high, but I felt a nervous tremor inside just the same. What was I going to say to him? What was I going to do? Why had I come in the first place? Frowning, I knocked yet again, impatiently this time. No one was home. I was almost relieved. No, wait, those were footsteps, barely audible out here. There was the loud, metallic click of a bolt being shoved back. The door swung open, creaking badly.

  A tall, solidly-built man in his early forties stared at me with wary brown eyes. His brown hair fell a thick, monklike fringe over his broad, low forehead. He had strong, rugged features and might even have been considered attractive had his nose not been broken at least twice. Tough, muscular, with enormous hands and very broad shoulders, he looked like a retired pugilist who longed to get back into the ring. Wearing a thin black leather apron over a coarsely woven white shirt and worn brown breeches, he smelled of garlic and furniture polish. There was a sooty smudge on his left cheek. He glared at me as though I had come to rob the place.

  “Yeah?” he asked sullenly.

  “I wish to see Lord Mowrey,” I said.

  “Yeah? What for?”

  “That’s none of your soddin’ business,” I snapped.

  You could carry this being well-bred just so far. It didn’t extend to taking impudence from a surly menial who looked like he’d spent most of his life in a boxing ring. He scowled. His hands curled into fists. Was he going to strike me? I stared at him with imperious blue eyes, daring him to try. Was that the suggestion of a grin on those wide pink lips?

  “Guess you ain’t a bill collector,” he said.

  “Are you going to fetch Lord Mowrey, or shall I go find him myself?”

  “You’d have to get past me first.”

  “That wouldn’t be difficult, I assure you.”

  It was a grin. The dark brown eyes were amused. The brute was obviously a watchdog, and from the looks of the place he’d probably glared down his share of bill collectors. The Mowrey wealth had clearly vanished. The great front hall was in a deplorable state, and the drawing room the man led me into was in even worse shape. The faded white and yellow brocade covering the walls was in tatters. The floor was bare of rugs. Any object of the slightest value had been removed, and the furniture that remained was battered and worn. Dust was everywhere. Ancient gray ashes filled the fireplace, spilling out onto the hearth. Lord Robert Mowrey had fallen onto hard times indeed.

  “Wait here,” the watchdog said. “I’ll get him. Who shall I say is calling?”

  “I prefer not to give my name. Let me surprise him.”

  “Oh, he’s gonna be surprised, all right. Don’t steal any of the silver,” he warned.

  I just managed to hold back a tart, graphic rejoinder as the man sauntered casually out of the room. I could hear him moving heavily up the staircase in the hallway beyond. What had happened to the family fortune? Why had the factory been shut down? The house was a ruin. Would Lord Robert Mowrey be a ruin, too, or would he still be thin and harsh and icy, dressed all in black? I heard footsteps on the staircase again, coming down this time, lighter footsteps that seemed to bound down the stairs. I turned. A perfectly dazzling young man in threadbare white silk shirt and old gray breeches swung jauntily into the room, coming to an abrupt halt when he saw me standing there near the fireplace.

  “Jesus!” he exclaimed. “Ned was right! You are a stunning piece.”

  “You—you must be Douglas,” I said. My voice was strangely tight.

  He grinned and gave me a mocking bow. He was tall and extremely thin, a loose, lanky youth with merry gray eyes and a gorgeous mop of thick blond hair that tumbled over his brow in unruly waves. His virile, wonderfully handsome features were those of an amiable but distinctly mischievous angel. He would be twenty-eight years old now, but he looked younger. My brother. I stared at him, unable to speak, emotions I’d never felt before sweeping over me. My brother. All grown up now. Not at all perturbed by my rude stare, he gazed back at me with one dark arched brow cocked.

  “I—I came to see Lord Robert Mowrey,” I finally stammered.

  “I’m afraid you’re a bit late.”

  “Late?”

  “My uncle died five years ago.”

  “He—he’s dead?”

  “I’m almost positive,” he said.

  “And—and you’re all alone?”

  “The place looks spooky, I know, but I’ve got Ned to protect me.”

  “I—I see.”

  I wasn’t making good sense. I realized that. He must think me a complete idiot. I stared at him, my nerves all atremble. I wanted to cry. I felt suddenly very shy, afraid to tell him who I was. Douglas moved closer and studied me intently, a frown beginning to make a crease between the fine arched brows. The gray eyes filled with recognition, and his face became that of a bewildered little boy, lips parting, frown deepening. Without being asked, I removed the hat with its wide brim and spilling plumes and set it aside so that my brother could have an unobstructed view.

  “It—it isn’t possible,” he whispered.

  “Douglas—”

  “It’s just not possible!”

  He took hold of my wrist then and led me roughly out of the room and up the stairs. Too startled to protest, I tripped along behind him, his fingers digging into my wrist like iron bands. I stumbled. He didn’t notice. Caught up in his own excitement, Douglas dragged me along, up the stairs, down another hall and, finally, flung open a door and pulled me into a long room with windows looking out over the side gardens and the land beyond, the sea just barely visible through the wind-twisted trees. Dust was so thick it rose in clouds as we entered. Cobwebs festooned the walls in silky patterns and dangled from the ceiling.

  Douglas released my wrist, an intent, determined look in his eyes now as he began to open cupboard doors. I recognized the nursery from my mother’s descriptions. There was the old worktable, there the bookcase with its clutter of dusty volumes. There was the globe she had used, and there on the wall were the pictures my brother had done for her—a lopsided tree, a horse that looked more like a buffalo, a gigantic red apple. The paper was yellow, brittle with age, but the colors were still vivid. He emitted a curse, slammed a cupboard door, yanked open another.

  “I know it’s here somewhere! I always treasured—I haven’t been in here for years, but I know I couldn’t have thrown it—”

  He gave a cry of triumph then and took out a piece of paper and blew on it to remove the dust. He gazed down at it tenderly and then turned to show it to me. It was a small, beautifully colored cutout of a young woman with sad gray eyes and auburn hair. She was
wearing a blue gown. I might have posed for it. The resemblance was startling.

  “She’s—you’re exactly—” Douglas cut himself short. “No, your hair’s redder than hers was, and her eyes were gray, not blue, but—you’re—other than that you’re—you might be her twin.”

  “She was my mother,” I said quietly.

  “Honora was your—”

  I nodded, and a tear trickled slowly down my cheek as I gazed at the lovely paper figure.

  “Miranda,” I whispered.

  “How did you know her name was—”

  “My name’s Miranda, too.”

  Douglas put the cutout back into the cupboard, placing it carefully beside a dusty cardboard replica of the Globe Theater. He closed the cupboard door and looked at me for a long moment, a new kind of recognition in those beautiful gray eyes. Sunlight filtered through the dirty windows, creating a soft yellow haze that filled the old nursery. The past was here with us, both of us thinking of the rowdy, sensitive little boy, the lovely, demure young woman who had been his governess.

  “You’re my sister,” he said.

  I nodded again, not trusting myself to speak.

  “I—that day she—she was gone for such a long time. I loved her so very much, you see, and when she didn’t come back and didn’t come back—” He paused, remembering. “When she finally got home I was here in the nursery, looking at the paper doll of Miranda. She—Honora told me she had a surprise for me, and later on, after I had eaten, she told me we were going on a trip together and my father would be coming, too, and then—”

  He cut himself short, his eyes full of remembered grief.