Once More, Miranda

by Jennifer Wilde

  He gave me a hug and climbed back into the carriage and drove off. I stood on the steps, watching the carriage grow smaller and smaller as it moved down the drive, and the old sadness swept over me anew, stronger now than it had been for a long time. I had everything … and I had nothing. Damn, I thought. Damn, damn, damn. Why can’t you be happy? Why must you still long for … I wasn’t going to think of him. I wasn’t. I was Lady Miranda now, and I didn’t need anyone, certainly not a moody, volatile Scot who … Silently I damned him, and then I went inside to get on with my life.

  35

  I was in the library three weeks later, busily sorting out books and putting them into stacks. They had all been dusted, the fine leather bindings properly oiled, but they had been jammed onto the shelves in hodgepodge fashion, with no respect to author or subject matter. Greek histories stood alongside Elizabethan journals. Books on botany leaned chummily alongside Restoration memoirs. Putting them all into some semblance of order was a gigantic task, further complicated by the fact that all my own books had recently come from London. I had been devoting several hours a day to the job and, in truth, I was quite grateful to have it. Douglas spent most of the day at the factory, most of his evenings at Morrison Place, and I saw little of him. Work on the house had been completed. The staff I had employed was wonderfully efficient, everything was running smoothly and there was not much for me to do.

  Day followed day, serene and peaceful, lovely, sunny days that were perfect for long walks, but one could take just so many walks. I was thoroughly familiar with the moors now—I had even taken a pilgrimage to the old Roman ruins—and I had walked along the cliffs and climbed down the rocks to stroll on the beach below. Restless, vaguely discontented, I seemed to be in a state of suspension, waiting for something to happen—I knew not what. Working on the library helped. I lined the books on geology on an empty shelf and placed the books on tin mining beside them. It was after three now, bright afternoon sunlight slanting through the windows, making silver yellow pools on the fine parquet floor. I pulled the bell cord and a plump, pleasant maid came scurrying into the room a few moments later, her pink cheeks flushed, her jet black hair untidy beneath a hastily donned white mobcap.

  “Hello, Polly,” I said. “Do you think I might have a cup of tea?”

  “Oh, yes’um!” she exclaimed. “I’ll bring one right away. You shouldn’t be workin’ in ’ere so ’ard. Me an’ Nan ’ud be more’n ’appy to put all of them books back up.”

  “I’m sure you would, Polly. I appreciate your offer, but I prefer to do it myself.”

  “Ain’t fittin’, th’ mistress of th’ ’ouse luggin’ all them books around, gettin’ ’erself all perspiry.”

  “The tea, Polly.”

  “Cook’s just made some scones, they’re still ’ot. Want I should get you some with fresh butter an’ strawberry jam? Bring ’em with your tea? You didn’t ’ave any lunch, Lady M.”

  “I’m really not hungry. Just tea will be fine.”

  Polly gave me a disapproving look and left the room. The servants I had hired were as concerned with my welfare as Lord Markham’s had been and longed to spoil me as they spoiled Douglas. He, of course, adored the attention and treated them with a casual amiability that inspired near-worship from one and all. I was a puzzle to them, neither stern and dictatorial nor helpless and incompetent. I was polite and friendly and kept an efficient eye on things, but I left the running of Mowrey House to Ned who, with a full staff at his command, was in his element and did a superb job, though I suspected he was something of a tyrant belowstairs.

  Stepping around several piles of books, I sat down in one of the comfortable leather chairs near the fireplace. A half-emptied crate set beside the chair, and I began to take books out of it, fondly examining the volumes of Tom Jones and the copy of An Account of the Life of Mr. Richard Savage that Sam Johnson had personally inscribed to me. Setting them on the small table on the other side of the chair, I pulled out the plays Marcelon had given me and a battered but beloved copy of Moll Flanders. I took three more books out of the crate, and my heart seemed to turn over. The Curse of Hesketh. Gentleman James. The Stranger From Japan. Why had I kept them? Oh, Dear God, why hadn’t I disposed of them? There was a hollow sensation in the pit of my stomach, a dry tightness at the back of my throat. The three volumes acted as a kind of catalyst, and it all came flooding back, the pain as strong, as real as it had been three and a half years ago when Cam Gordon marched out of my life.

  The Curse of Hesketh … I had been reading it that day in the dilapidated flat on Holywell Street and Bancroft and Cam had come in and Bancroft had expressed amazement that I could read and I had launched into a criticism of the works of Roderick Cane and Cam had grown chillier and chillier as I passed judgment. I remembered his anger and my own dismay when I discovered that Roderick Cane and the surly Scot who held my article of indenture were one and the same. Gentleman James … how happy I had been during the time he was writing that, totally, passionately in love for the first and only time in my life, discovering all those exquisite new sensations, elated, enraptured, moving in a golden haze of happiness, waiting on him hand and foot and delighted to be able to do so. The Stranger From Japan … I had started my own writing and he was heavily involved with his cousin and Robbie and the other rebels and moodier than ever and there was constant tension and quarrels and he finished the book just before that dreadful night when.… I set the books aside and closed my eyes for a moment, fighting the emotions that possessed me.

  You’re not going to cry, damn you. You’re not! He isn’t worth it. He isn’t worth it. No man is worth this kind of anguish. You loved the son of a bitch with all your heart and soul and gave him your heart and soul and he rejected that gift, he abandoned you without a moment’s hesitation and he’ll never, never, never find anyone else who’ll love him like that. He’ll be miserable and alone and one day he’ll realize what he tossed aside and … and you’re better off without him. You survived. You made a new life for yourself. Pull yourself together, Miranda. It’s over.

  “Your tea, Your Ladyship,” Polly said.

  “Oh, I—I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “I took th’ liberty of bringin’ you some of them scones I was tellin’ you about, some butter an’ a pot of strawberry jam, too. Thought you just might be tempted, even if you said you didn’t want ’em.”

  “Thank you very much, Polly.”

  “An’ a surprise. A letter. Came all th’ way from London, it did. Chap from th’ village brought it up just a few minutes ago. Addressed to you, it was, not Lord Mowrey. I thought you’d want to see it right away.”

  She set the tea tray down beside me and handed me the letter, filled with ardent curiosity she could scarcely conceal. That a letter could come all the way from London was still amazing to a girl like Polly. I thanked her again in a dismissive voice, and she reluctantly left the room. I poured a cup of tea. I drank it slowly. It was very hot, very strong. It helped. I put the three Roderick Cane books back into the crate and put Cam Gordon out of my mind and, pouring another cup of tea, opened Marcelon’s latest missive.

  My dear!

  I have so much to tell you and, as usual, I’m rushed, rushed, rushed and, frankly, not much good at letters to begin with! The past few weeks have been absolutely frantic, what with the new production getting underway—Wycherley, my dear, at the Haymarket, a Restoration romp, and you should see my costumes, maybe you’ll get up to London sometime during the run. Also, and this is the really important news, Thomas and I have done it! We got married!

  The dear man almost got cold feet—I had to drag him to the altar at the last minute—but everything’s been bliss ever since! He’s so patient and so tolerant and he adores the dogs, takes them for walks in the park every morning. I had to give up the house on Greenbriar Court, alas, it simply wouldn’t do, and we’ve moved into his place, which is large and comfortable and which I’m currently redecorating like mad. Thomas grumbles
a lot and he has a lot of fussy little habits I’m gradually breaking him of, but we’re so happy. (Entre nous, there’s not a great deal of romance in our marriage, if you know what I mean, but we’ve both reached the age when companionship is far more important.)

  Thomas struts around like a peacock, he’s so proud of himself for bringing out Betty’s Girls. The book is still selling wildly, my dear, and making tons of money which, if I understand correctly, you get a hefty share of. Johnson has declared it the most important book of the year, as you probably know—I did send you all the newspaper clippings, didn’t I?—but he added that it should be kept under lock and key lest it fall into the hands of impressionable innocents. That, of course, caused sales to soar even more! The really interesting thing is that Betty’s Girls has stirred up a number of public-spirited souls who are appalled at the conditions those unfortunate creatures live under, and they’re forming committees to see what can be done to help them and also to prevent other girls from slipping into the same plight. Dean Jordon is heading one of the committees, and I’ve lent my name, although I’m much too busy with Wycherley to be of any real help.

  I assume you’ve heard about Davy. He finally married his Austrian dancer, who has retired from the stage and is devoting herself to the care and feeding of D. Garrick. He was desolate when you left London, Miranda, and Mademoiselle Violette or Eva Maria or whatever was there to hold his hand and comfort him and move in on him. Never liked her much myself, too cold, too Germanic, but apparently she’s exactly what Davy needs and, if it’s not a particularly blissful match, its an eminently sensible one-for both of them. Davy’s already become a placid, domestic creature, staying at home with his slippers and hot toddy, no more gadding about London, no more late hours at the coffeehouses. He’s conserving all his energy for his work, which, though dull, is wise indeed.

  So … I hope things are going well with you, Miranda, dear. Bancroft told me all about the opening of the pottery factory when he returned from Cornwall. (He gave me away, incidentally, at the wedding, I mean. A bit too eagerly, I might add.) He’s done nothing but rave about your brother. Lord Mowrey, he says, is sharp as a tack, bright and businesslike and a wonderfully gifted designer as well. He’s going to make a raging success of things, Dick declares. How incredible it is, your finding each other after all these years! (I gave my husband hell for leaking the story to the press, my dear, even if it has generated incredible sales. Anyway, you’re “Lady Miranda” now and more famous than ever. They’re still writing articles about it.)

  I must dash now. All three dogs are barking and Thomas is patiently waiting to take me out to dinner and the new maid has made an absolute chaos of my wardrobe! Do write, my dear, and do try to get to London soon—bring that fascinating brother of yours with you. We all love you very much, Miranda, and we miss you dreadfully. Ta ta for now, luv.

  Marcelon might well have been there in the room with me, so completely did that bright flow of words capture her shining, eccentric personality. I missed her, too, and I finally admitted to myself that I missed London as well, missed the excitement and stimulation only that crowded, noisy, filthy city could provide. Cornwall had its own special grandeur, true—the moors mysterious, the seacoast rugged and magnificent—but the tang of salt and the screech of gulls couldn’t take the place of those noxious smells and the brawling din that gave London its boisterous character.

  I was still thinking of Marcie’s letter late the next afternoon as I returned from a long walk on the moors. It was a dreary day, the sky the color of old pewter, what sunshine there was falling in thin white rays. The stiff, tarnish-gray grass that covered the moors had a pale purple cast and the rusty streaks on the boulders reminded me of dried blood. It was turning cooler. A brisk wind tossed my hair about and caused the skirt of my violet blue frock to whip about my legs. The heavy blue cloak I was wearing lifted in the wind and flapped behind me like indigo wings.

  Marcie had sounded so happy, bursting with verve and vitality, more zestful than ever. I was very pleased for her, pleased for Thomas, too, for both, for all their success, had been essentially lonely people. Now they had each other, and their autumn years would be bright with color and warm with companionship. Marcie would undoubtedly lead him a merry chase and Thomas would undoubtedly grumble and fret, but both would enjoy every rocky, riotous moment. Thomas needed a few fireworks in his life, and Marcie needed a bit of sobriety. They would complement each other beautifully, I felt, and I wished I were there to hug them both and give them a splendid party.

  The sky was growing darker, a distinct purple hue tinting the pewter gray, and clouds were roiling about, casting moving shadows over the moor. Although it couldn’t be much later than four, the sunlight was fading fast, even thinner now. It was going to storm, I thought, shoving a silken skein of hair from my cheek. The brooding, ominous weather was a welcome relief after all the weeks of dazzling clarity. I walked slowly over the spongy ground, moving around the ancient gray boulders and skirting the patches of bog that gleamed tarry black in the ghostly white light. Mowrey House stood in the distance, a solid gray block surrounded by the green of lawns and shrubbery.

  I was also pleased for Davy, for he had married the woman who was apparently right for him, who would provide the stable background he needed in order to concentrate on the most important thing—his work. Davy had loved me, I knew, and he had been hurt by my letter turning down his proposal, but in hurting him I had spared him a much greater harm. I would always be fond of him, but I could never have loved him as he deserved to be loved, nor could I have given him the home life the new Mrs. Garrick could give him. Davy was a genius, and a man with his complex nature required total devotion, constant attention. That, to all appearances, was precisely what his wife was giving him, and he would ultimately be much happier than he could ever have been with me.

  The cloak whipped behind me as I left the moor and moved across the lawn in back of the house, passing the new trellises covered with dark green leaves that rattled noisily in the wind. I opened the back door and stepped into the enormous hall where Mowreys used to exercise their horses. Although it had been thoroughly cleaned and new rush matting laid on the cold stone floor, it was still dim and ugly and faintly sinister. No way to cheer up a great, grim cavern of a hall like this, I thought. Shadows shrouded the walls, and the damp, sour smell hadn’t been entirely banished. Still gave me the shivers, it did, this gigantic hall, and it was with relief that I opened the narrow wooden door and stepped into the hallway that ran alongside the main staircase, moving past the spot where my father had crashed to his death almost a quarter of a century ago.

  “There you are, mum!” Polly exclaimed, hurrying toward me. “We’ve all of us been in a terrible tizzy, we ’ave. No one knew where you were. I told Mrs. Clemson you’d probably gone for a walk, but she was upset just the same, flutterin’ about like a nervous ’en—I know I shouldn’t be sayin’ that, ’er bein’ ’ead ’ousekeeper an’ all, but it’s true!”

  Her dark eyes were bright with excitement, her manner extremely agitated, and I felt a tremor of alarm.

  “What is it, Polly? What’s wrong? My brother—has something happened to—”

  “’E’s at the factory,” she said quickly. “Mrs. Clemson thought maybe we should send for ’im, but it’s you the soldier wants to see. ’E specifically said ‘Lady Miranda Mowrey,’ and Ned—” Polly blushed and nervously twisted the hem of her apron.

  “Yes?” I prompted.

  “Brown said you wudn’t in,” she continued, “an’ th’ soldier said ’e’d wait. ’E’s in th’ drawing room right now, still waitin’. ’E’s been ’ere an ’our already.”

  “In that case it won’t hurt him to wait a bit longer,” I said. “I’ll go upstairs and change. You may tell him I’ll be down shortly.”

  Polly skittered off down the hall, in agony over her careless slip, and I smiled ruefully as I went up to my bedroom. Our Ned Brown was quite the Lothario, I reflected,
removing my cloak, taking off the violet blue frock. I knew he was topping Mary, the buxom blonde who did the laundry, and I had once happened upon him in the pantry, hotly embracing Coral, one of the kitchen maids, but I hadn’t known he was servicing Polly as well. Had his own harem, it would seem, but as long as he continued to run things with such stern efficiency, his sexual exploits were not my concern.

  Ten minutes later, wearing a rich garnet silk gown, my hair neatly brushed and gleaming with coppery highlights, I went back downstairs and stepped into the drawing room to greet my mysterious guest. He was standing at the window, staring out at the gray sky, his back to me. He was tall and superbly built, the scarlet tunic accentuating his broad shoulders and slender waist, the snug white breeches covering long, muscular legs like a second skin. His black knee boots were polished to a high gloss, and his head was covered with short, tight blond curls. I cleared my throat. He turned.

  “We meet again,” Captain Jon Ramsey said.

  Those brilliant blue eyes were as hard and icy as they had been when I had encountered him at Lady Julia’s reception, the cruel, handsome face as hostile. During the intervening months I had almost forgotten that disturbing encounter, but it all came rushing back to me now as he stood there in front of the window with his legs spread wide, fists resting on his thighs. I stared at him, and a totally unreasonable alarm stirred inside. Several moments passed before I was able to control it.

  “Captain Ramsey,” I said. “How—how unexpected.”

  “Is it?” he asked.

  It was an accusation, not a question. His voice was like a saber slashing the air.

  “Won’t you sit down, Captain Ramsey? I’ll have one of the servants bring some tea. Or perhaps you’d prefer something stronger?”

  “This isn’t a social call, Miss James.”

  “It’s no longer ‘Miss James,’” I told him.