Once More, Miranda

by Jennifer Wilde

  “Then your father got into a terrible argument with your uncle,” I continued. “There was an accident. He—the banister broke and he fell to the floor and—. He and my mother had gone to the village that afternoon. They were married in the church. Reverend Williams performed the ceremony. That’s what they were quarreling about. I—my mother was already expecting me when—”

  I couldn’t go on. Douglas took my hands and squeezed them so tightly I almost gasped.

  “I always wondered,” he said. “I lost my father and lost Honora, and I always suspected there was something—something I didn’t know. My uncle wouldn’t tell me anything, you see, and he had forbidden the servants to mention her name. All these years I’ve—and now, now I have a sister.”

  We looked at each other, silent, and the bond was there between us, drawing us together already. Both of us felt it and all restraint vanished and my brother gave me an exuberant hug that nearly snapped my spine. He was not one to hide his emotions, my brother, and he clearly didn’t know his own strength. If things went on like this, I’d be bruised all over and battered beyond repair. I pulled myself away from him and straightened my hair and tried to maintain a modicum of dignity.

  “You may be my brother,” I said testily, “but that—that doesn’t give you the right to maul me.”

  “No?”

  “We don’t even know each other yet.”

  Douglas grinned. “Seems my sister has a temper.”

  “I do, indeed.”

  “Marvelous! Brothers and sisters are supposed to fight a lot, I understand. It’s tradition.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that.”

  “Come on!” he cried. “We’ll go back down and I’ll have Ned make us a pot of tea and you can tell me all about yourself and I’ll tell you all about me and we can make plans! You’re staying here, of course. The place is tumbling down on my head and I’m afraid it’s not horribly comfortable but now that I’ve found you I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

  “I—my coach is outside. The driver is waiting. My bags are—maybe I’d better go to the inn and—”

  He propelled me back downstairs, manhandling me with rough affection. He thrust me down onto a sofa in the yellow and white drawing room and raced back into the hall to shout for his servant. I heard him barking amiable orders in a deep, merry voice and then there were noises and more voices and all my bags were brought in and carried upstairs. Douglas appeared to inform me that everything was being taken care of. He ordered me to sit still. I did so gladly, dazed, unable to think clearly.

  “Never seen so many bags,” my brother said, coming back into the room a few minutes later. “I sent your driver away. He said he’d already been paid, which is a good thing, I might add.”

  “It seems I’m to stay here.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “I might have other plans. I might—”

  “Let’s not get into a really big fight yet, at least not until we’ve had our tea.”

  I gave him a peevish look. Douglas grinned and rested one shoulder against the mantelpiece, slouching there like a lanky, virile imp. I tried to be angry. I couldn’t. He was altogether too engaging.

  “Ned’s making the tea now,” he informed me, “and then he’s going to get your room ready.”

  “You—just have the one servant?”

  My brother nodded, rubbing a smudge of dust from his cheek. The threadbare white silk shirt was slightly moist from all his exertions, tucked loosely into the waistband of the snug gray breeches. He really was quite dazzlingly good-looking, I thought, but he was much too lean and lanky. I wondered if he got enough to eat.

  “Ned’s stuck by me through thick and thin—and it’s been mostly thin for a long time. He practically raised me, Ned did. He was a footman here and he was the only one who could handle me when Mrs. Rawson left to marry her blacksmith—you don’t know who she was, of course—”

  I did, but I didn’t interrupt him.

  “Anyway, after she left, Ned brought me up—saw to all my needs, took me fishing, taught me how to box—he’d done some boxing when he was in his teens, amateur champion of Cornwall, he was, got his nose broken just the same. I had tutors, of course, and there were all sorts of servants, but Ned was the one who paddled my bottom when I misbehaved and sat by my bedside when I had fever. My uncle raised his wages and turned me over to him. He—my uncle didn’t have a great deal of time for me himself, you see. Nor any interest in me,” he added quietly.

  The burly servant with the broken nose came in with the tea things—cups, teapot, creamer and sugar bowl on a tarnished silver tray. Although the china was very fine, both cups were chipped. There was no bread and butter, no tiny cakes, just tea and that quite weak. Douglas slouched down into a yellow silk chair and watched as I poured.

  “Now,” he said as I handed him the cup, “I want you to tell me everything—how you’ve lived, why you’ve never tried to contact me before.”

  “I didn’t know of your existence until two weeks ago. I found out—quite by accident.”

  “So tell me,” he insisted.

  Tell him I did, speaking quietly in a carefully unemotional voice. I told him all I had learned from my mother’s document, of my years in St. Giles as a street urchin roaming wild, picking pockets for a living. He was clearly horrified, fascinated, too, listening intently, rarely interrupting. I told him of my year with Cam Gordon, and he accepted that without even elevating an eyebrow, passing no judgments. I described my apprenticeship as a writer and the publication of the first stories and, ultimately, Duchess Annie. I described the reception I had gone to at Lady Julia’s, my encounter with Dean Jordon and what I had learned from him.

  “When I finished reading my mother’s pages, I—I knew I had to come here. I didn’t know exactly why, but—I had to come. I thought I would meet my uncle. I thought—I wanted to see—”

  I fell silent then, my careful composure beginning to slip. Douglas was silent, too, those lovely gray eyes thoughtful again. He had been deeply moved by my story. I could see that. Jaunty, ebullient, high-spirited he might be, but there was a deep sensitivity as well. The little boy my mother had written about had grown up to become a virile, engaging man, but much of the little boy remained. Douglas was not afraid of emotions, not afraid of showing them. He looked at me now and slowly shook his head.

  “It—it’s an incredible story.”

  “I suppose some people might think so.”

  “I feel we’ve both been cheated,” he said, another deep frown creasing his brow. “If I’d been there, none of those things would have happened to you—I’d have protected you. If you’d been here, I wouldn’t—I’d have had someone besides Ned. I wouldn’t have felt so lonely, so lost, so unwanted.”

  He was silent again, sad, resentful, still amazed by this sudden appearance of a sister he had never known. He stretched his long legs out, gazing into the sooty white marble fireplace filled with heaps of cold gray ash. A ray of misty sunlight played across his face, touched that thick blond hair. He sighed deeply after a few moments and, shaking his head once more, brought himself back to the present.

  “More tea?” I asked. “Mine’s quite cold.”

  “So’s mine,” he replied, “but I’m afraid there isn’t any more. I’ll send Ned down to the village and have him try to cajole the shopkeeper into extending us a bit more credit. If that doesn’t work, Ned’ll probably get him in a stranglehold and choke credit out of him.”

  “Ned sounds quite resourceful.”

  “He is. I couldn’t get along without him.”

  “You—you’re not very well off, are you?”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” he admitted. “My uncle made some very unwise investments in his later years. He’d lost interest in the factory, finally shut it down. When he died—well, let’s put it this way, I have an abandoned pottery factory and I have Mowrey House. You can see the shape it’s in. Anything worth selling was sold a piece at a
time—the good furniture, the paintings and plate, the carpets—it’s a long, dreary story. I’ll tell you later. Right now I’m going to take you up to your room and let you catch your breath.”

  “I would like to freshen up a bit.”

  “I thought so. Come along.”

  The room my brother had assigned me was on the second floor, the only bedroom besides his kept in livable condition. Large, with windows looking over the front drive, it had a bed, a dressing table and wardrobe of golden oak polished to a dark honey sheen. Counterpane and curtains were faded yellow brocade embroidered with tiny white silk flowers. The hardwood floor was bare, the wood black brown with age. The room smelled of polish, lemon and camphor and, though clean, had obviously not been used for quite some time. My bags were stacked up beside the wardrobe.

  “Keep the place up for guests,” Douglas told me. “Haven’t had many recently. Hungry?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Good. I’ll tell Ned to forget lunch. Never eat it myself. There’s water and a ewer and such behind that big white screen over there. I’ll be knocking about downstairs—if you need anything, just shout and Ned or I’ll come running to do your bidding.”

  He grinned and sauntered breezily out of the room. Two hours later, rested and refreshed, having unpacked one bag and changed into a frock of pale tan muslin sprigged with tiny pink and brown flowers, I went back downstairs to join my brother. Unable to find him, I took the opportunity to explore some of the huge rooms. Denuded of their finery, filled with dust and cobwebs for the most part, they still retained their sound structure and grand proportions. In my mind’s eye I could see them as they must have been twenty-four years ago when my mother had given lessons to the boisterous young Doug and given her heart to his father.

  Leaving the library, crossing the hall, I opened a door and stepped into my uncle’s old office. There was the crudely executed painting of the Mowrey pottery works hanging over the fireplace. There was the shelf of cheap blue cups, saucers and plates, the set of more expensive dishes, milky white china adorned with pale orange flowers outlined in gold. There was the desk where Lord Robert Mowrey had poured over his accounts. It was littered with papers now, and a big leather-bound ledger lay open. Though messy—wads of paper on the floor a pair of muddy boots in one corner, an apple core and a small chunk of dried cheese on a chipped plate beside the ledger—the office was free of dust. No silken cobwebs festooned the ceiling.

  “Have a nice rest?”

  I gave a little cry and whirled around. My brother grinned at me. He had been in the smaller office adjoining this one. The connecting door stood open. I hadn’t heard him come into the room.

  “Did I startle you?”

  “I—I was thinking about the past.”

  “Lovely frock you’re wearing.”

  “Thank you. I—I came downstairs half an hour ago. I called. There was no answer.”

  “I sent Ned down to the village to see if he could harass, cajole or bully the grocer into giving us a few provisions on credit. I’ve been in Parks’ old office, fantasizing.”

  “Fantasizing?”

  “Indulging myself in foolish dreams. Come, I’ll show you.”

  He took my hand and led me into the smaller office. It had been cleared of all furniture but an enormous battered worktable covered with a wild jumble of large white sheets. They were drawings, I saw—some of them in pencil, some in charcoal, some of them colored. A box of watercolors and a cup of dirty water set on the edge of the table, two wet brushes dripping onto the floor. Douglas picked up a still damp sheet and handed it to me.

  “My fantasy,” he said.

  It was the design for a plate, the most beautiful plate I had ever seen, exquisitely done in watercolors. Garlands of tiny, pale-blue flowers and delicate jade leaves were worked around the rich pink rim outlined in gold. The center of the plate was white, scattered lightly with the same flowers and leaves as though one of the garlands had been shaken loose. I gazed at it with something like awe, amazed at the superb detail, the incredible craftsmanship.

  “You—you did this?”

  “Afraid so. I’ve got designs for cups, too, saucers, side dishes, teapots, platters, you name it—all the same pattern. There are other patterns, too, but this is my favorite. I’ve also designed some new pottery. It’s not nearly so fancy, of course, but it’s much nicer than that drab blue stuff Uncle Robert used to produce.”

  He handed me sheet after sheet, each design as beautifully done as the first I had seen, and my sense of wonder grew. There were wonderful soup tureens, covered vegetable dishes, coffee urns, soup bowls—an endless array of fine china executed in marvelous detail.

  “But—these are amazing,” I said. “I’ve never seen anything like them.”

  “You write books. I design china. It keeps me occupied.”

  “You’re incredibly gifted.”

  “I was always interested in the factory,” he confessed, “even as a little boy. My uncle could hardly keep me away from the place. I learned everything I could about the business, worked alongside the men when my uncle wasn’t looking, and later on, instead of going to Oxford, I went to France and spent four years as an apprentice to the masters there.”

  “Why France?” I inquired.

  “The factory at Vincennes produces the best china in the world, better than Dresden, finer than Meissen. It’s a favorite of Madame de Pompadour’s—she intends to move the factory to Sevres, the village just below her estate at Bellevue, so she can personally supervise things. They’ve created new colors—Rose Pompadour, Bleu du Roi, apple green. They’ve intented highly original shapes, too—fluted spouts, scalloped edges, porcelain filigree reminiscent of silver. The things I learned there—”

  Douglas sighed, and there was a sad, defeated look in his eyes as he began to stack the sheets neatly together on the table.

  “I dreamed of turning our own factory into—into something similar, on a much smaller scale, of course. Why can’t English pottery be as fine as French? I asked myself. I planned to make a great many changes when I took over. When he was about the age I was then, my father had drawn up a set of plans for renovating the factory, modernizing it, making it safer, healthier to work in. He made a list of proposals, too, that would alleviate the hardships of the workers, give them more incentive. I found them one day in my uncle’s bottom desk drawer, all curling and yellow with age.”

  “He had a dream, too,” I said quietly.

  “And I hoped to make it come true. I hoped to renovate the factory, make all those changes as—as a sort of tribute to him—and realize my own dream at the same time.”

  Doug shoved the stacks away from him and turned to me with a wry smile on his lips.

  “It wasn’t to be,” he said. “When I returned from France Uncle Robert had already given up on the pottery works. He—things had been going downhill ever since my father died. Uncle Robert immersed himself in work, but he had lost all interest, all initiative. He just didn’t care any longer. Things went from bad to worse and—well, he finally shut it down. All those people out of work—”

  I could tell from his expression that the fate of those men and women who lost their jobs bothered him a great deal. Douglas clearly had Jeffrey Mowrey’s compassionate nature and concern for his fellow man. He emitted another heavy sigh and pushed the mop of blond waves from his brow.

  “It’s stuffy in here,” he said. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  “I’d love to see the moors.”

  “See them you shall.”

  Douglas led me down the hall, past the staircase and through a narrow door and into the great back hall where former generations of Mowreys had exercised their horses on inclement days. It was like a vast, chilly cavern, I thought, the ancient rushes on the stone floor exuding a sour smell. I almost expected to see bats hanging from the ceiling. After the eerie gloom of the back hall, the sunshine seemed all the brighter, although it was paler now, the brilliant silver faded
to a thin yellow-white.

  “What happened after that?” I asked as we moved through the gardens.

  “After my uncle closed the factory? He died a few months later. I think he was glad to go. He—I had a feeling he had just been marking time ever since my father’s death. He was a very unhappy man, my uncle, strangely twisted.”

  We had cleared the back gardens now, and the moors stretched out before us in all their stark splendor, rising slowly to the hills where the Roman legions once had their camps. The sky was a pale gray-white now, watery with sunlight, arching high over that rugged expanse of uneven ground covered with brown gray grass that had a faint purple tinge, patches of tarry black bog making a sharp contrast. There were enormous gray boulders streaked with rust and dried green moss. As we walked over that spongy earth, a light breeze caused my skirts to billow, caused silky tendrils of coppery red hair to blow across my cheeks. My brother moved in a loose, bouncy stride, loping along with his hands thrust into the pockets of his breeches.

  “There was no money,” he continued. “I had the factory, I had the house and barely enough to buy food. I—I held on. I began to sell things, paintings and furniture and ormolu clocks, anything I could get a few pounds for. I kept believing that someday, somehow, I’d be able to reopen the factory. I’ve received several offers for it—the clay here is superb, some of the best in England. Other factory owners have toured the place, seen the potential and made generous offers, hoping to expand, but—”

  “You refused to sell,” I said.

  “Guess I’ll have to eventually. Ned and I have been scratching along for the past few years, but I realize it can’t go on much longer. Besides, now I have you to consider.”

  The land had begun to slope upward now, gradually rising, and we stopped beside a large, flat gray rock. I sat down on it, spreading my muslin skirts out, and Douglas stood there gazing pensively at the land around us, his hands still in his pockets. A large brown bird—was it some kind of hawk?—circled slowly against the sky, growing smaller and smaller. Mowrey House looked like a child’s toy house in the distance, an ugly gray block set among those tangled gardens. I thought of my parents, remembering that picnic on the moors my mother had written about when young Douglas had scampered about looking for colored stones and my father had told her of his dream.