Once More, Miranda

by Jennifer Wilde

  “I—I’m afraid I’ve bored you quite enough,” she said, placing her cup on the tray. “I don’t usually talk about myself this way. Please forgive me for running on so.”

  She stood up and brushed the skirt of her pink and gray striped frock, a soft, lovely garment that, from its cut, was clearly several years old. Probably her best, I thought, getting to my feet.

  “I’ve enjoyed your visit a great deal, Miss Morrison,” I said. “I hope you’ll call again—often.”

  “And I hope you’ll come to Morrison Place. My father reads quite a lot. There’s not much else for him to do. He’s an admirer of yours, too.”

  “I look forward to meeting—”

  I cut myself short as the front door banged open noisily and clattering footsteps echoed in the hall. “Miranda!” my brother shouted. “Where’s my sister!” he barked. A maid told him I was in the drawing room, and a moment later he burst in, boots dirty, snug tan breeches dirty, too, his white silk shirt bagging loosely over the waistband, threatening to come untucked. He stopped short when he saw the two of us standing in front of the sofa, his handsome face registering acute surprise.

  “Jesus!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t expect you to have a guest!”

  Linda Morrison bristled at my side. Appalled by my brother’s rudeness, I was momentarily unable to speak. Douglas shoved a heavy blond wave out of his eyes and peered at Miss Morrison with intense scrutiny, a frown digging a deep furrow above the bridge of his nose.

  “I know you,” he said. “I’m sure I do.”

  “Linda Morrison,” she said crisply. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Linda? Linda? The skinny little girl I used to run into on the moors all those years ago.”

  “The skinny little girl you used to torment quite cruelly,” she retorted.

  “Always had a book with you, I remember. Always sitting on a rock, gazing dreamily up at the sky. What happened to those long pigtails? What happened to those freckles?”

  “The same thing that happened to your short pants and slingshot. I grew out of them.”

  “Seems like I did have a slingshot. Seems like I used to—” He hesitated, then grinned. “I guess I wasn’t exactly an angel in those days.”

  “Far from it,” she assured him.

  Her voice was decidedly icy, her manner just short of hostile. The grin that continued to play on his lips didn’t help matters a bit.

  “Thought you were still in Brussels,” he said.

  “I’ve been back half a year.”

  “Really? Didn’t know that. I’ve been out of touch with everything for a long time. Did you know we’re reopening the factory? We just finished installing the conveyor belts—that’s what I wanted to tell you, Miranda. You ought to see them! These great long belts—they’re attached to pulleys, you see, and they’ll bring the clay up in buckets and—it’s fantastic! I was in the pits myself, helping the men install ’em, and—”

  I gave him a severe look. Douglas managed to contain his enthusiasm.

  “You’ll have to forgive me,” he told Linda. “I’m afraid I get carried away sometimes. It’s all so exciting. So you’re back in Cornwall? I guess you got tired of teaching English to bored young misses. Must have been terribly dreary. Never could understand why you’d want to do such a crazy thing in the first place.”

  “You wouldn’t,” she said dryly. “I really must go now, Lady Mowrey.”

  “We’re having the opening ceremonies in two weeks,” Doug said casually. “It’s going to be quite a bash—food and ale for all the villagers, a puppet show for the children, investors coming in from all over England, lots of festivity. Miranda’s going to cut the ribbon to officially open it, and I’m going to light a furnace. You might want to come.”

  Linda Morrison didn’t reply, but the look she gave my brother was answer enough. He shrugged and sauntered nonchalantly over to the fireplace. I accompanied her out to her small, spanking neat cart, a handsome gray standing in harness. He whinnied. Linda stroked his neck and told me that she had enjoyed her visit and hoped she hadn’t imposed. I assured her the pleasure had all been mine. She climbed into the cart, took up the reins and clicked them smartly. I watched her drive away and then went back inside to give my brother hell.

  “I’ve never seen such rudeness!” I cried. “It’s inexcusable!”

  “Rude? Me? You’re imagining things.”

  “You come charging in here like a madman, covered with dirt, looking like a—a crazed ruffian, and then you stare at her and act like she was some kind of intruder and—”

  “You must be talking about someone else,” he protested.

  “Then you start teasing her! You’re—I swear, Douglas Mowrey, sometimes you’re an absolute oaf!”

  “I resent that!”

  “I wouldn’t blame her if she never spoke to you again!”

  “Wouldn’t bother me in the least,” he replied. “Brainy women make me uneasy, never could abide ’em. What’s it matter to me if a twenty-eight-year-old spinster got her feathers ruff—”

  “Douglas!”

  “All right, all right—I’m sorry!”

  I glared at him and he gave me an exasperated look that clearly conveyed he didn’t know what I was making such a fuss about. I longed to hurl something at him, preferably something heavy.

  “It’s beneath you to make such remarks,” I continued. “I happen to be a spinster myself, if you must use such a denigrating term, and most people would call me brainy as well. Do I make you uneasy?”

  “At the moment—very.”

  “Damn you, Douglas! That pixie charm of yours wears very thin! Linda Morrison happens to be an absolutely charming young woman and she’s had an extremely difficult time. If I weren’t a lady, I’d shake you for treating her in such a shabby, cavalier—”

  “All right, Miranda. What do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to apologize to her. I want you to go upstairs and scrub yourself and put on those new clothes I had you buy in London when you stopped there on your way to France. I want you to brush your hair and pick a bunch of flowers from the garden and drive to Morrison Place and—”

  “Jesus!”

  “I mean it, Douglas!”

  “Can’t today,” he replied. “I have to go back to the factory. I’ll probably be there till—oh, it’ll be after dark, I’m sure. I’ll do it tomorrow afternoon.”

  “You’d better,” I warned.

  And so, the following afternoon, he came dragging downstairs looking marvelously handsome in tan breeches and frock coat, beige satin waistcoat and a yellow silk neckcloth. His unruly blond waves were temporarily subdued. His gray eyes were repentant, his expression suitably grave, though I suspected that was mostly for my benefit. He had the new groom bring his horse around, sulkily plucked a bunch of flowers and rode off. He was gone an inordinately long time, barely returning in time for dinner. When I questioned him, he grudgingly admitted that Miss Morrison was indeed charming, if somewhat snappish, and she had grown up into a fine figure of a woman. She was a rose, all right, if you liked ’em thorny, but he wasn’t at all interested.

  “Women like that want to take you in hand,” he grumbled.

  “In your case, brother, dear, it’s high time someone did.”

  “Women! Never give you a moment’s peace!”

  Nevertheless, he rode over to Morrison Place twice during the following week and professed amazement that a woman could do so much, be so efficient. The Morrison tenant farms were the best in the county, the cleanest, the most productive, and Linda supervised everything herself, driving out in that cart of hers, looking lovely and feminine and never raising her voice. The farmers worshiped her, too, worked like the devil for her, didn’t seem to mind at all taking orders from a woman. You had to admire her, even if she was cool and reserved and much too brainy for a man to feel really comfortable with her.

  Bancroft arrived the week after that, looking spruce and prosperous and optimistic.
He hugged me exuberantly and gave Douglas a hearty handshake and told us things looked bright indeed. Word of Mowrey pottery works and its big potential had already gotten out, and he was having to turn down investors, shrewd businessmen who smelled a good thing and wanted to get in on it. If he cared to, he could sell his ten percent interest in the business for double, maybe triple the money he had put into it, but he wasn’t about to. Douglas took him on a final tour of the factory before its official opening the next morning, and that evening Bancroft told me that, from the looks of things, I stood to be an even richer woman a few years from now.

  “It’s going to be a great success, Miranda. That brother of yours might be whimsical about a lot of things, but when it comes to business he knows what he’s doing.”

  “I’m fully aware of that.”

  “Shrewd, intelligent—incredibly gifted, too. You’re going to be extremely proud of him.”

  “I already am, Dick.”

  I was especially proud of him the next morning during the opening ceremonies and the festivity that followed. Handsome in gray breeches and frock coat, dark blue brocade waistcoat and a sky blue neckcloth, he was amiable but subdued, very much the man of business. There was an enormous crowd. Almost everyone from the village turned up, for the factory had already transformed their lives and would provide a healthy livelihood for the majority of them. Their bright, smiling faces were far different from the grim visages I had seen four months ago when I arrived in Cornwall. Several of the investors had come down for the occasion, staying at the inn, and a number of the local gentry arrived in their best carriages, their curiosity about Lord Mowrey’s refurbished factory momentarily stronger than their prejudice against his scandalous sister.

  Linda came in her cart, cool and elegant in a lovely pink silk frock and a wide-brimmed white straw hat trimmed with pink velvet ribbons. The crowd cheered when I cut the blue satin ribbon stretched across the main door and cheered again when Douglas lighted the first furnace, almost burning his fingers in the process. The kegs of ale were rolled out. The tables were spread with food. Noisy merriment ensued. Children consumed lemonade and shrieked over the antics of the puppets. Douglas and I were toasted repeatedly, Bancroft, too, and the three Frenchmen from the factory at Vincennes were robustly embraced, even if they were bloody foreigners who didn’t speak a word of English. Rowdy bonhomie prevailed under the clear blue-gray Cornish sky, and things grew even rowdier when later on an amateur boxing match was set up with Ned officiating.

  Wearing a rust and cream striped satin gown, my coppery red hair tumbling to my shoulders in loose, natural waves, I smiled and shook hands with the villagers and accepted their thanks for “savin’ us all, an’ that’s a fact.” I rescued the Frenchmen, saw that they had white wine and chatted pleasantly with the investors, stout, rather dour men who were blatantly out of place amidst all this noisy provincial festivity. I noticed in passing that Douglas was devoting a great deal of attention to Linda Morrison, personally showing her around and explaining points of interest. The gentry, I observed, were the first to attack the tables of food. They stared at me, the women passing judgment behind their fans. I nodded politely to one and all, so well-bred it almost hurt.

  I sipped champagne with the investors. I drank a mug of ale with the villagers. I spent over half an hour with the children, watching the puppet show set up under a brightly colored striped awning. Three hours passed, four, five. My feet were beginning to hurt. My back ached. Being charming and well-bred every single minute was bloody difficult, I thought, longing to sit down in a quiet place. I smiled. I shook more hands. I chatted with Linda for a few minutes until Douglas whisked her away to show her his designs. It was after three o’clock in the afternoon when Bancroft finally came to my rescue.

  “You’re looking a bit ragged, lass,” he said.

  “You always did know how to give a girl confidence, Bancroft. If you want to know the truth, I feel ragged.”

  “Why don’t you let me take you back to Mowrey House,” he said. “It looks as though this is going to last till nightfall—and tomorrow’s the first working day at the factory,” he added. “I’m not so sure all that ale was a good idea.”

  “Always thinking of your investments, aren’t you?”

  “That’s why I’m a wealthy man.”

  “Do you really think it would be all right for me to leave?”

  “Your brother already has. He and that fetching brunette in pink rode off in her cart over an hour ago. Something brewing there, I suspect. Come along, Miranda. Much more of this and you’ll start snipping and snapping and showing your true character. I know you, lass.”

  “Being a lady definitely has its drawbacks.”

  “Hard work, isn’t it?”

  “You’ve no idea,” I said.

  He took my hand and led me through the crowd toward the area reserved for the carriages. The fine open vehicle we had come in stood with the others, a flaxen-haired lad with freckles watching the horses. Bancroft tossed him a coin, helped me up onto the plushly upholstered seat and, climbing up beside me, took the reins. In a few minutes we had left the noise and confusion behind and were moving slowly along the winding road that led through the village. It was virtually empty this afternoon and was already beginning to show signs of prosperity. The inn had been refurbished, the front whitewashed, a brightly painted new sign swinging invitingly over the door. The horses’ hooves tapped on the cobbled street. The sound echoed eerily through the village.

  “Pleased?” Bancroft asked.

  “Very,” I replied. “Mostly for my brother’s sake. It’s a dream come true for him. I’m glad I was able to help him see it come true.”

  “Your father’s dream as well,” Bancroft said.

  “That, too.”

  “Your parents would have been very proud of both of you, Miranda. You’ve already done so much good for so many. Look at this village. Look at those people back there.”

  “I wish I could feel noble about it. At the moment I merely feel exhausted. These past four months have been so—so incredibly busy.”

  “You’ve accomplished wonders.”

  “I suppose we have.”

  We had left the village now and were moving along the road where I had seen the redcoats. It was a lovely afternoon. Sunlight sparkled on the water, making silvery patterns on the blue. Waves washed quietly over the sands below, and the gulls circled lazily overhead. We were silent for a while, Bancroft clicking the reins lightly. I could see Mowrey House in the distance, wearing its new splendor proudly. The lawns were neatly trimmed, the gardens abloom. It was hard to believe it had been so grim and forbidding such a short time ago.

  “Do you miss London?” Bancroft asked.

  “I—I’m not sure, Dick.”

  “Oh?”

  “I love my brother very much, but—he has his own life to live, and I’m not sure I can—” I hesitated. “I’m not sure I can fit into it. I’ve discovered who I am at last, it’s true, but—”

  “You’re not sure it’s who you want to be,” he said.

  “You do know me, Bancroft. All too well. I think perhaps I’ve scrapped and struggled to survive for too many years to settle for being the gracious lady of Mowrey House. It’s my heritage, but—I’m not sure it’s in my blood. Am I making sense?”

  “Perfect sense,” he told me.

  “I suppose I sound ungrateful for all that has happened to me. I’m not. It isn’t that at all.”

  “I know, lass.”

  The carriage was moving down the drive now. The rhododendron shrubs growing in front of the house, on either side of the portico, were in full bloom now, the pale purple-blue blossoms making a soft contrast to the weathered gray stone. I could smell their subtle fragrance as Dick tugged gently on the reins, bringing the horses to a halt in front of the wide stone steps. He climbed down and gave me his hand, helping me alight, and we stood there on the steps for a few moments. He had to go back to confer with the investors, bu
t he would be returning to dine and spend the night. I hated to think of his leaving for London tomorrow morning. This tall, hefty, attractive blond with his strength, his warmth and wisdom meant a great deal to me, and I would miss him dreadfully. He probably knew me better than anyone else, and he knew what I was feeling now. He knew the reasons why as well.

  “You’ve come a very long way, Miranda,” he said.

  “I suppose I have.”

  “Hard to believe you were once a dirty-faced little urchin with a voice like a squawking duck.”

  “My voice was never that bad, you bastard.”

  “It was worse. Never will forget that morning at Tyburn when you picked my pocket. Crafty little minx, you were. Not quite crafty enough as it turned out. Filthy, foul-mouthed, wild as could be—and look at you now.”

  Remembering, I made no reply. I could feel the sadness growing inside, and I tried my best to stem it. This should be one of the happiest days in my life. I should be filled with elation over all we had accomplished. Bancroft took my hand and squeezed it. His warm brown eyes were understanding and full of affection.

  “Cheer up, lass,” he said. “Everything is going to work out.”

  “It already has. That may be the problem.”

  “This isn’t an ending, Miranda. This is merely a beginning. Things happen to you—you’re that kind of person—and I have the feeling they’re going to go right on happening. The journalists claim your life has been like a fairy tale. I suppose it has in a way, but the tale isn’t over yet, lass.”

  “What would I do without you?” I asked quietly.

  Bancroft allowed himself a grin. “Go to debtor’s prison, more than likely, the way you’ve been spending money of late. Go on inside, lass. Get some rest. Things will look brighter tomorrow.”