Once More, Miranda

by Jennifer Wilde

  “Does it indeed?”

  “Indeed it does,” I retorted.

  “You seem to know a great deal about children, Miss James.”

  “Have you complaints, Lord Robert?”

  It was better to brazen it out. It was better to get it over with at once. I wasn’t going to let him toy with me. I refused to be intimidated. Lord Robert might dislike me, might disapprove of me, but he couldn’t truthfully say I hadn’t performed my duties more than adequately. I stood my ground, waiting for the ax to fall.

  “I believed you were too young.” His voice was flat, emotionless, and his eyes were as critical as ever. “Contrary to my expectations, you have done an excellent job with my nephew.”

  He paused, waiting for my reaction. I showed none.

  “I talked with him at length yesterday when I came in from the factory. Not only has his speech improved one hundred percent, but his manners have as well. I questioned him quite thoroughly and found him to be well versed in a wide variety of subjects. He spent a full five minutes telling me all about Captain John Smith and Pocahontas.”

  “That’s one of his favorites.”

  “He also told me the plot of A Midsummer Night’s Dream and brayed noisily when he came to the part about Puck and the donkey’s head. It seems he’s getting an unusually diversified education.”

  His words were complimentary enough, but his eyes continued to stare at me as though I were some wretched creature beneath his notice. Perhaps he was merely being sarcastic.

  “My brother will be returning to Mowrey House at the end of the week,” he said. “I feel sure he’ll be pleased with the improvements in his son. When he left, young Douglas was an unruly little savage.”

  “I look forward to meeting your brother.”

  “I’m afraid you shan’t have that privilege, Miss James.”

  “Oh?” I didn’t understand at first.

  “I shall give you a very good letter of recommendation,” he told me. “I shall also give you a full year’s wages. I don’t wish to be unfair.”

  I turned pale. The ground seemed to vanish beneath me, and it took me a moment to regain my composure. He watched me closely, noticing my reaction, and there was a glimmer of cruel satisfaction in his eyes.

  “I’m to be dismissed, then?” I said. My voice seemed to come from a long way off. “May—may I ask why?”

  “The results have been satisfactory enough, Miss James, but I find your methods a bit too unconventional. Douglas needs a much firmer hand. He needs a figure of authority.”

  I didn’t reply. I couldn’t. He wanted to get rid of me. Why? Why was I his enemy? What had I done to merit that harsh disapproval? Was it merely because I was young? No, no, there was more to it than that. Once again I felt I presented some kind of threat to him, and I couldn’t comprehend it. He stared at me coldly, waiting for me to make some objection. I didn’t intend to give him that satisfaction.

  “I will have your money and a letter of recommendation ready first thing in the morning,” he said after a moment.

  “Very well,” I replied.

  “I have also taken the liberty of hiring a coach that will take you directly back to Bath. You’ll travel at my expense. You won’t have to use any portion of your wages.”

  “I’ll start packing immediately.”

  Lord Robert stepped aside, and I passed into the dimly lighted back hall. It was very wide and ran all the way across the back of the house, the flagged stone floor covered with rush matting. There was no elegance here. The hall was purely functional, originally designed so that horses could be exercised inside during inclement weather, a feature not at all unusual in houses as old as this. I moved slowly toward the narrow back stairs and climbed them wearily, hardly aware of what I was doing.

  Douglas was in the nursery, sitting at the worktable and eagerly studying the figures I had drawn for him that morning on stiff pieces of paper. I had been telling him the story of The Tempest, and he had insisted we make cutouts of all the characters and “do” the play in the tiny cardboard theater we had constructed. I had promised him we could color the figures and cut them out this afternoon. He looked up as I entered, his eyes merry with anticipation, a wide grin on his lips. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, burnishing his thick blond hair.

  “Here you are!” he exclaimed. “I’ve been waiting.”

  “Douglas, there—there’s something I must tell—”

  I hesitated. How could I tell him? How could I bear to? He had come to depend on me, and he had grown very fond of me, almost as fond as I was of him. My departure was going to shatter him, and from his child’s point of view it would be all my fault. I would be deserting him. I cast about for the right words, the right explanation.

  “Let’s color ’em, Honora!” he insisted, not noticing my mood. “We’ll color ’em and cut ’em out this afternoon and tomorrow we’ll do the story. I want-a be Calleyban.”

  “Cal-i-ban,” I said. “Want to. Them, not ’em. I’ve told you repeatedly to pronounce each word fully.”

  Doug gave an exasperated sigh, very put upon, and then he grinned again and reached for the colors. I sat down at the table, in a trance, it seemed, unable to focus. Later. I would tell him later. I couldn’t face it now. I needed to think clearly. I needed time. I took the colors from him and began to color the figures, taking great care, desperately trying to concentrate, and Doug chattered all the while, telling me what color to use on Prospero’s hose, informing me that Ariel’s tunic should be pink, Caliban’s skin green and brown and it might be nice to give him horns as well. When I had finished these, he handed me the drawing of Miranda.

  “Her dress ought to be blue, like yours,” he insisted, “and let’s make her hair red brown. She’s going to be beautiful, isn’t she? She’s going to be almost as beautiful as you are, Honora.”

  “Douglas—”

  “Miranda’s a pretty name, almost as pretty as Honora. Prettier, maybe. If I had a sister, I’d want her to be named Miranda. There. Now color her cheeks pink and make her eyes gray, like yours. Mine, too.”

  I finished coloring the figure. I took the scissors and cut it out, Doug watching with the tip of his tongue between his teeth, fearful lest I make some mistake and spoil what he clearly considered a masterpiece. When I was done, I handed the stiff paper doll to him, and he examined it with thoughtful eyes.

  “She looks exactly like you,” he said.

  I stood up and brushed a heavy auburn wave from my temple, looking around at the spacious, sun-filled room where we had spent so many happy, productive hours. The walls were now adorned with scratchy, brightly colored pictures Doug had done these past weeks—a lopsided green tree, a horse that looked more like a buffalo, a gigantic red apple. I looked at the globe, the pile of picture books, the worktable littered with scraps of paper and colors and cutout figures. We had worked so lovingly on the tiny replica of the Globe Theater that stood amidst the litter. I had indeed been happy here, and for the first time in my life I had felt truly worthwhile as I worked with this child.

  “She’s my favorite of all,” he told me, still examining the paper doll of Miranda. “Know what? I’m going to keep her always to remind me of you. I promise I will.”

  “It’s almost time for your dinner,” I said. “You’d better go wash up.”

  “And we’ll do the play tomorrow? Remember, I get to be Calley—Caliban. I love you, Honora.”

  He hurled himself against me and flung his arms around my legs and hugged me so tightly, so abruptly that I almost lost my balance, and then he scrambled out of the room. A few minutes later I checked his face and hands to make sure they were clean, and when he had passed inspection I sent him downstairs to have his dinner, telling him I wasn’t hungry tonight and wouldn’t be joining him. The child was puzzled, but he didn’t question me. I was grateful for that.

  I returned to my own rooms. I would have to ask one of the footmen to bring my trunk down from the attic, but I co
uld do that later. First I would take all my clothes out and put them on the bed. I didn’t. Instead, I went into the sitting room and sat down and let the grief sweep over me. I heard a noise outside. It sounded like horse hooves pounding on the drive, but I was too anguished to pay it much mind. Time passed. The room was growing dark. I lighted a lamp, wondering why Doug hadn’t come back upstairs. He should have finished his meal half an hour ago.

  Perhaps he was with his uncle. Perhaps Lord Robert was sparing me the task of telling the child I was leaving. Would Doug come back upstairs distraught and teary-eyed? I longed to flee this very moment. I heard footsteps on the stairs. They weren’t light and pattering. They were heavy, an adult’s footsteps; moving down the hall now. One of the servants must be coming up with a message for me, I thought, and I turned to the door.

  The most beautiful man I had ever seen stood in the doorway. Jeffrey Mowrey had returned home earlier than expected.

  4

  Many have scoffed at the theory of love at first sight. Rightfully so, I suppose. It does indeed seem unreasonable, improbable, but I loved Jeffrey Mowrey from the moment I saw him standing there in the doorway, a gentle smile on his lips, his blue eyes smiling, too. I had never seen him before, but he was no stranger. It was as though we had known each other in another lifetime, as though for twenty years I had been unconsciously waiting for this moment, this reunion, and emotions I had never felt before rose within me. I didn’t understand it at the time. At the time it took the form of confusion, and I was extremely disoriented. Understanding would come later.

  “Miss James?” he said.

  I nodded, unable to speak, and he stepped into the room, the smile still curving on that pale pink mouth that was wide and somehow vulnerable. He was tall, though not so tall as his brother, and he had the lean, muscular build of the Greek athletes I had seen in picture books. His hair was dark blond, thick, an unruly wave spilling over his brow. He was a beautiful man. His features were strong and undeniably virile but beautiful nonetheless, the jaw firm, the cheekbones broad, the nose straight, flaring at the nostrils. Beneath smooth dark brows his eyes were gentle, full now of inquiry.

  “Are you ill?” he inquired.

  I gazed at him, speechless, and it seemed I was seeing him through a haze, as though this were something remembered in a dream, not real at all. He wore a sapphire blue coat and matching knee breeches, white stockings, black pumps. His white satin waistcoat was embroidered with black and blue silk leaves, and a lace jabot cascaded from his throat. The elegant clothes were slightly rumpled from travel, and he smelled of leather and damp silk and perspiration. I passed a hand across my brow, hoping-to brush away the bewilderment. He was no dream figure. He was flesh and blood, standing here before me, and no doubt he thought me an utter fool.

  “Can I get you something?” he asked.

  “I—I’m all right. I—a headache—”

  “Perhaps I should summon Mrs. Rawson.”

  “No. Please. It—it’s much better.”

  “Douglas told me you weren’t feeling well. I’ve been talking with him. Listening to him, rather. He could speak of nothing but ‘Honora.’ He said he liked you better than anyone except me, and I’ve the feeling he added that last bit just to be polite.”

  “He—he should be in bed,” I stammered.

  “I know, but I have a new horse and he was eager to see it and I permitted him to take a lantern and go to the stables with one of the footmen. I’ll not interfere with his routine again, I promise.”

  I should have made some reply, but no words would come.

  “Douglas sang your praises,” he said, “and I also spoke to Mrs. Rawson before I came up. She candidly admitted that you’re a saint.”

  “And—and did you speak to your brother?” I asked.

  “Briefly. I was too eager to see my son to do more than exchange greetings with Robert. I’m going to join him in his office in a few minutes, but I had to come up and meet this person my son babbled about so enthusiastically. Are you certain you’re not ill, Miss James? You’re quite pale.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I owe you a great deal,” he continued. “I left an illiterate little savage when I departed for Europe. I’ve returned to discover a chatty young gentleman who can spell his own name and recite the alphabet with lightning speed. He also told me all about The Tempest.”

  “He’s a very exceptional child.”

  “And you’re an exceptional young woman to have wrought such changes.”

  “He learns quickly.”

  “He obviously has a very good teacher.”

  The smile flashed again. It would have melted the heart of an ice maiden. He came across the room and took both my hands in his, holding them loosely, and my soul seemed to lift and soar to dizzying heights. I was barely able to draw breath.

  “Douglas didn’t tell me you were so pretty,” he said.

  “I—I’m hardly pretty.”

  “I beg to differ with you.”

  I blushed. Jeffrey Mowrey laughed quietly and squeezed my hands, closing his fingers tightly over mine in a moment of brief, painful contact that caused my heart to leap.

  “It seems you’re modest as well. Tell me, Miss James, are there any flaws in your character?”

  “You’d better ask your brother about that.”

  “Robert?”

  “He dismissed me this afternoon. I’m leaving Mowrey House in the morning. He’s hired a coach to take me back to Bath.”

  His expression changed immediately. A frown creased his brow. He let go of my hands. My fingers still smarted from that moment of crushing pressure.

  “Dismissed you? May I ask why?”

  “I—I really don’t know. He said my work has been satisfactory, but—I really don’t know. I—I must ask you to leave me now. I must get one of the footmen to bring my trunk down. I must pack—”

  “That won’t be necessary, Miss James.”

  The frown had deepened, making a long furrow above the bridge of his nose, and his blue eyes were dark, disturbed. Jeffrey Mowrey was a sensitive man, I had seen that immediately. There was a tender quality about him, a vulnerability that was enormously appealing, but for a moment, in the dim golden light of the one lamp, I saw another side of him. He would never tolerate injustice, I felt, and if the need arose, he could be utterly unyielding.

  “I’ll speak to my brother,” he said.

  “No, please. If—if he doesn’t want me here, I should leave.”

  I had trouble controlling my voice. Try though I might to maintain composure, I was on the verge of tears, and Jeffrey Mowrey sensed it. His frown vanished. He took hold of my arm and gave it a reassuring squeeze, and his eyes, those beautiful, expressive eyes, looked into mine.

  “My brother is a very stern man,” he said quietly. “He frequently expects too much from people, acts too hastily. I’m sure there’s merely been a minor misunderstanding. You’re not to worry, Miss James.”

  “Please. I—I don’t want to cause trouble.”

  “There’ll be no trouble,” he assured me. “You get some rest now. I’ll see you in the nursery in the morning.”

  He reached for my hands, squeezed them again. Again he smiled, and I felt a strange confusion as his eyes held mine. In that brief moment I once more had the sensation that we had known each other in some other lifetime, that he was aware of it, too, and then he let go of my hands and nodded gently and left the room. Several minutes must have passed before I finally moved into the bedroom and bathed my cheeks with cool water. I was bewildered, apprehensive, yet underlying it all was a curious elation that was even more disturbing.

  Hearing merry footsteps racing down the hall, I went back into the sitting room and managed to assume a severe expression as Doug came tearing through the door.

  “Did you see my daddy?” he cried.

  “I saw your father,” I retorted. “I also heard you running down the hall like a hooligan.”

  “He sa
id he was coming up to meet you. He has a new horse. He let Bradley take me out to the stables to see it. I carried the lantern myself.”

  “Indeed?”

  “It’s a splendid, horse, Honora. I’m gonna get to ride it. Daddy said so. He said he’d let me sit up in front of him and hold the reins. If I behave.”

  “Then I suggest you start behaving. That means no more running inside the house.”

  Doug tilted his head to one side and peered up at me with narrowed eyes. “You look strange,” he observed. “I guess you’re excited about Daddy coming home, too. He and Uncle Robert are having a talk in Uncle Robert’s office. I heard ’em. They were talking about you.”

  “You—you shouldn’t have eavesdropped,” I scolded.

  “Oh, I wudn’t. I was just passin’ by when I came in from the stables, but Mrs. Rawson, she was eavesdroppin’. She was pretendin’ to arrange some flowers in a vase on that table in the hall, but she wudn’t even lookin’ at ’em, and her ear was tilted toward the office door. She shooed me off.”

  “It’s past your bedtime, Douglas. We’d better get you ready.”

  “Aw, heck.”

  “Douglas!”

  He groaned but made no further protest as I marched him into his room and helped him change into his nightclothes. He said his prayers and climbed into bed reluctantly and told me he knew he wasn’t going to sleep, he just knew it, he was much too excited, and it really wasn’t fair to him to have to go to bed this early when his daddy was home and it had been so long since he’d seen him. His eyes began to blink and his voice turned groggy and in less than a minute he was sound asleep. I smoothed the wisps of hair from his forehead and tucked the covers around him and returned to my bedroom.

  Douglas may have gone right to sleep, but I didn’t. Once in bed I watched the moonlight stream through the windows and watched the shadows lengthen on the walls. I listened to the distant murmur of waves and kept seeing that handsome, already beloved face, and I slept hardly at all.

  Lord Robert Mowrey summoned me to his office early the next morning, and I went downstairs with considerable apprehension. Pale, weary from lack of sleep, I wore my soberest dress, a long-sleeved sky blue cotton with a white lace fichu and matching lace at the wrists, and I had put my hair up and fastened it in a tight bun in back, hoping to more closely resemble my idea of what a governess should look like. I moved slowly down the staircase, running my hand along the smooth, polished banister, feeling as though I were going to my doom.