Once More, Miranda

by Jennifer Wilde

  She had a marvelously vivid imagination, was constantly asking me to tell her stories, would make up stories of her own when I ran dry. At four she was skittering around Lichfield like a ray of sunlight, romping with the other children, spurring them on. She was, I fear, frequently naughty. The children of Lichfield loved to trail after the awkward, ungainly, deplorably unattractive young schoolmaster, Sam Johnson, making fun of his elephant gait and his pale, puffy, misshapen face. Miranda was the ringleader in this taunting. I spanked her quite soundly when I found out and then took her across the square and made her apologize to the unfortunate Sam. Absentminded, befuddled, lost in a world of books and ideas, the bookseller’s son blinked in surprise, amazingly unaware that the children had been taunting him.

  His companion David Garrick was another matter. He was indeed as handsome as a young god and incredibly magnetic. Davy seemed to draw the sunlight to him, and wherever he was, whatever he was doing, it was impossible to take notice of anyone else. Merry, mercurial, he seemed to burst with vitality, yet one sensed a brooding dissatisfaction beneath the surface, an impatience to explore wider horizons and conquer new worlds. Davy exuded charm and had a special way with children. When she was four years old Miranda declared quite matter-of-factly that she was going to marry him when she grew up. Davy said she was the prettiest little minx he’d ever seen and had promised to wait for her.

  Miranda had always loved books and loved to curl up in my lap and gaze at the pictures while I read to her, but at four and a half she was no longer content with merely listening and looking. She wanted to learn to read by herself. She already knew her alphabet and could pick out a few words, but once she decided that wasn’t enough, she seemed to learn to read overnight. At five she marched sassily across the square and confronted a startled Michael Johnson, informing him that his books were all for big people and he should sell books that children would like, too.

  She was precocious, everyone said so. She adored hearing the stories of Shakespeare’s plays, would ask me to tell them over and over, and even though she couldn’t comprehend six words out of ten, she wagged the battered volume of plays around with her, pouring over it. She didn’t care for math any more than Douglas had, but she took to history and geography with great relish and blithely informed me that she wanted to know everything about everybody, particularly those bloodthirsty kings of old and those beautiful ladies who wore such enormous skirts and had so many jewels.

  Captivating, capricious, strong willed and remarkably intelligent, Miranda drove away the shadows, and those years in Lichfield seemed to pass in a golden haze of contentment. I enjoyed my work with Maggie and became a competent seamstress myself, taking on a heavier and heavier load of work as Maggie’s strength began to ebb. There were books to read and musical events to attend, for Lichfield’s citizens prided themselves on their appreciation of the arts. There was merriment and gossip, exercise and activity and the constant enchantment of my wonderful child.

  It ended so very quickly. Maggie came grumbling into the parlor, claimed she’d never be able to get Miss Stewart’s bloody tea gown done in time and added that she felt a bit short of breath. She looked rather pale that evening as she told me good night, and I made a vow to make her take it easier for a while. Maggie had always pushed herself much too hard and flatly refused to admit she was getting older. I never had a chance to keep that vow. Maggie died peacefully in her sleep, and all of Lichfield grieved for the gruff but kindly old woman who had been so much a part of the town.

  Nephew Lambert was much too busy to come down for the funeral. He sent an emissary instead, a callous young man who went over every inch of the house with a notebook in hand, jotting down estimates. Lambert intended to sell the place, he informed me. All the furniture and goods would be auctioned off. I had two weeks in which to “make other arrangements.” It was completely cold-blooded, so much so that I could hardly believe it, but it was true nevertheless. In exactly two weeks everything went under the block. I couldn’t bear to stay and watch it. Miranda and I were on our way to London where I would get my money from Lambert, find us a place to live and open my own business as seamstress.

  Lambert was very smooth and ever so sincere when I visited his office. He patiently explained the intricacies of investment and showed me why he couldn’t put his hands on my money “just yet.” As Maggie had provided room and board and had been paying me a small salary as well for the work I did, I hadn’t collected a penny from Lambert. Oh, yes, he assured me, my initial thousand pounds had already earned quite a lot, quite a lot. As I had only three pounds left after paying for our fares to London and for our room at the inn upon arrival, Lambert quite generously advanced me enough to rent a tiny apartment and pay our expenses for a few weeks until he could “consolidate” and give me a draft for the full amount.

  And that was the first step toward St. Giles, for I was never able to collect a penny from Lambert Hibbert. After months of taking in sewing and saving all I could, I was finally able to pay an advocate’s fee and take Lambert before a magistrate, and there I learned what a mockery justice has become in our age. Lambert was crowned with laurels, an altruistic soul who, at great sacrifice, had taken time from much more important business to help a young widow, while I was unreasonable, ungrateful, vindictive and, by rights, should have been thrown into Bridewell for prosecuting such an upstanding citizen. As I was stepping outside after this humiliation I saw Lambert chatting amiably with my advocate. He handed the man some money, and then the two of them sauntered off down Bow Street together.

  I was defeated, but I refused to give up. Somehow, some way, I would survive. It would be impossible for me to have my own place of business, but I could take in sewing as I had been doing these past months and hope eventually to build up a clientele. The city was such a large, noisy, crowded place, frightening, heartless—certainly no place for a woman alone with a spirited and curious child. Miranda made friends everywhere, taking to London immediately, loving the noise and excitement, but I was worried about her every minute she was out of my sight.

  I worked. I struggled. I tried to take care of Miranda and make a living for us, but my strength began to fail and I was unable to take in as much sewing as before. I felt weak, lethargic, and it took the greatest effort to complete a hem, to trim a bodice. We had to move to cheaper rooms. A few months later we had to move again, then again. I developed a bad cough. I couldn’t seem to get rid of it. I made a valiant effort to put on a good front for Miranda’s sake, chatting brightly, keeping up with her lessons, having her read aloud to me while I sewed, but I couldn’t completely conceal the desperation I felt each day. Things grew worse and worse … and eventually we were forced to take this squalid room in St. Giles, and I discovered the first spot of blood on my handkerchief.

  Reverend Williams, I am speaking to you directly now. I should have written to you a long time ago, I know, but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to do so. You were so kind to me, so kind, but when I left Cornwall … I wanted to put everything behind me, Reverend Williams. I wanted to begin a new life, and writing to you would have brought it all back … all that I wanted to forget. Maggie wrote to you from Lichfield and kept you informed about me and Miranda, I know. She frequently mentioned the letters. That seemed enough, somehow, and after I came to London I had too much pride. I couldn’t write to you, asking for help, not after I had failed to write during those years when everything was going so well. I can no longer afford the luxury of pride. I am desperate, and you are my only hope.

  Yesterday I had a terrible siege. It was the worst yet. I couldn’t stop coughing, and the blood … I was so grateful that Miranda was out and didn’t see. Mrs. Humphreys helped me as best she could. She’s a querulous woman, malicious and prying, but, in her way, she has been kind to me these past weeks. She detests Miranda, and Miranda is indeed hateful to her, sassing her, making faces, but the woman has taken it upon herself to “look in” on me, and I can’t refuse her help. She ke
eps saying I must send Miranda to the parish workhouse for her own good. She knows one of the nurses. She will make all the arrangements. I can’t allow that. I can’t. I know what happens to children who end up in those dreadful places, and though I shudder at the thought, I know Miranda would be better off fending for herself on the streets.

  Miranda came in very late yesterday, bringing a pail of milk, cheese, two small meat pies. Her rich auburn hair was dirty and sadly in need of a brush. Her face was streaked with dirt. Her bare feet were dirty, too, and her blue dress was in deplorable condition, more gray than blue, mottled with soot, but her smile was as cheerful as ever, her eyes as bright and lively. She chatted blithely about her adventures with the other children. They had played games. She had seen another puppy. A kind old man had asked her to run an errand for him and, in gratitude, had given her money to buy food. She was making it all up, I could tell that, but I was too weak, too weary to protest.

  My daughter has become an adept liar. She is shrewd and crafty and sly, tough and independent and as rowdy as any of those urchins she runs with. She is as dirty, and when she forgets herself she drops her ‘h’s’ and final ‘g’s’ and peppers her sentences with the crudest slang, her voice taking on a peculiar nasal twang. I fear for her. She is so very intelligent, so resourceful and quick, and that makes it all the more frightening. What kind of trouble will she get into if she is not taken from this hideous place?

  I sat up in bed, trying to be vivacious, trying to hide my pain, and she poured milk into the cup and watched while I feebly sipped. It was difficult to swallow anything, even the milk, and I couldn’t eat a bite. I told Miranda I wasn’t hungry, making light of it, but she wasn’t deceived. Her blue eyes full of concern, she eased me back onto the filthy pillows and stroked my brow and frowned.

  “It’s going to be all right, Mum,” she promised.

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “You are going to get well.”

  Darkness fell. Miranda lighted the candle and picked up the battered old volume of Shakespeare and began to read aloud to me. Her voice was rich, melodic, without a trace of the twang. She was reading The Tempest and paused to ask me if she had been named after the Miranda in the play. I nodded, smiling, but tears began to spill down my cheeks as I remembered another time, another child, a colored paper doll that so resembled the woman I had been, the woman Miranda would become.

  She continued to read and I eventually drifted off to sleep. She was already gone when I awoke this morning, and even as I write these words she is out on the streets, running with her pack of urchins, scavenging, learning things no child should ever know.

  You must save her, Reverend Williams.

  I am so much weaker after yesterday’s spell, so weak I can hardly hold this quill, but I must finish. I don’t have long, I know that. A few more weeks perhaps. Perhaps less. I can join my Jeffrey then … I can go peacefully, even willingly, if I know my Miranda will be taken care of. She is a Mowrey, Reverend Williams. She doesn’t know that. She knows nothing about Cornwall or her father or Lord Robert Mowrey. I merely told her that her father was in heaven, and she never asked any more questions. I want her to know. When you deem her old enough to understand, I want you to let her read this.

  You will take care of her, won’t you? Perhaps you will even see that she receives a share of what is rightfully hers. She is my child, yes, but she is also Jeffrey’s child, and Lord Robert … I can understand why he would hate me, but surely he wouldn’t transfer that hatred to an innocent child.

  I am weak, so weak. Only a few more words …

  This morning, after I finished the pages you’ve just read, I made arrangements with Mrs. Humphreys, and she has promised to get this to you. I am going to wrap these pages up in a neat parcel and address it to you. I’ve given Mrs. Humphreys money, and she told me she would personally see that the parcel will be on the next chaise to Cornwall. I pray you will receive it. I pray you will come and fetch my Miranda and save her.

  I pray you will arrive in time.

  BOOK TWO

  Duchess Randy

  1746

  12

  I rubbed my eyes and sat up and stared at the cat. He was black and scrawny and stared at me with accusing eyes, as though blaming me for not whipping out a bit of mackerel and a saucer of milk.

  “Sorry, cat,” I told him. “If I ’ad milk, I’d drink it meself, and if I ’ad a bit of mackerel I’d be in ’eaven. Tough life, ain’t it?”

  He leered at me and waved his tail arrogantly, prancing over the great pile of coal and making his exit through the half-open window. Bloody window. I had forgotten to close it last night. No wonder I was half frozen. I yawned, gathering the smelly brown sacks around me and snuggling once more in my cozy nest of straw. No need complaining. I had the coal cellar all to myself, didn’t have to share it with anyone, and old Hawkins only charged me a penny a night for the use of it. The cellar might be tiny and filthy and there might be rats, but it was much better than those reeking doss houses where as many as twenty slept in a single cubbyhole—men, women and children all clambered together on the straw, lice everywhere. Besides, a girl wasn’t safe there.

  A girl wasn’t safe anywhere in all of St. Giles, not unless she knew how to take care of herself. I did. I’d been taking care of myself ever since my mum’s death and doing a bleedin’ good job of it, too. I didn’t have a twang looking out for me, bossing me around and smacking my backside when I failed to bring in enough shillings. I didn’t need one. Why should I go out and sell my tail to strange men and take the money to some brutal pimp? I was too independent, always had been, and whoring didn’t interest me. A girl might make a living for a while that way, as long as she was young and didn’t get a disease, but I didn’t fancy ending up an ancient crone at twenty, clutching a gin bottle in some alley and starving to death because my looks were gone.

  No, stealing was much easier, as long as you didn’t get caught. I’d never been caught, although I’d had a couple of close calls. A thief-taker had grabbed me once, clamping his rough hands on me right after I’d snipped off a fine gentleman’s jeweled shoe buckles, but he’d let go soon enough, as soon as I kneed him in the groin. There wasn’t a thief-taker or a watchman or a constable in all London smart enough or fast enough to nab me. I was much too nimble, much too sly, and I knew every single hiding place in St. Giles.

  The cat crawled through the window again, scampering over the coal and shivering. It was bloody cold out. What wouldn’t I give for a nice warm cloak and maybe a pair of shoes? The cloak would be lined with wool and have a fur collar, and the shoes would fit snug, made of kidskin with elegant little heels, and I would admire them as I warmed my feet before my own private fire. I smiled to myself, imagining how it would be. I’d have bread and cheese and a hunk of beef. No, a box of chocolates, each one of ’em wrapped up in a crinkly gold paper. I’d seen a box like that in a shop window once, next to a tray of candied fruit frosted with sugar and looking so tasty I’d almost broken the glass to snatch some.

  Fancy people eating candied fruit. And cakes. People ate delicate little cakes with creamy white icing. They ate peaches, too, and lovely grapes and oysters and chickens roasted to a crisp golden brown. I closed my eyes, seeing the table with the feast spread out and me there to eat it all and sip wine from a crystal goblet. I’d eat it all and then wipe my fingers ever so daintily and tell ’em I might take just a smidgin more of the soup and a nice juicy pear. My stomach began to growl. Wasn’t any use daydreaming about food. Victuals like that weren’t for the likes of me. Folks who lived in St. Giles considered themselves lucky to get a bowl of gruel and a few crusts of bread. Most of them lived on gin, which was cheap as cheap could be, a penny a half quart.

  Me, I didn’t like gin. Didn’t care for the taste, and I didn’t fancy what it did to you. Here in St. Giles they mixed it up in foul basements and served it in filthy glasses and you were lucky if you didn’t go blind. Children drank it same as grown
ups and you’d see kiddies of five or six staggering around with eyes all glazed. Helped you forget your misery, gin did, but a girl couldn’t pick pockets properly or snip off fancy shoe buckles if she was half out of her mind. I didn’t want anything fogging up my senses. An independent thief like me, with no gang to back her up, needed to be as alert as possible.

  I yawned. The cat came over to sniff my hair. He mewed in disgust, curling his nose up and moving back to the pile of coal.

  “You don’t smell like no bleedin’ rose garden yourself, mate,” I informed him. “One of these days I’m goin’ to steal me a bar of soap and get some water and take a proper bath, but I don’t see much profit in it. I’d just get dirty again, sleepin’ in this coal cellar, roamin’ these streets. Besides, bathin’ too often ain’t ’ealthy.”

  The cat began to dig into the coal, hoping, no doubt, to find something edible. Poor creature. If I had a scrap of food, I’d give it to him. I hated to see anything suffer, and there was suffering all around you in St. Giles. People dying in basements. Unwanted babies tossed into the gutter. Corpses of dogs and cats slung onto refuse heaps, stinking something awful.

  “Tell you what, luv,” I said, “I’ll find us somethin’. Today’s bound to be a good day—there’s goin’ to be a ’angin’ at Tyburn—and I’ll make that bleedin’ receiver pay me proper this time and I’ll buy us a loaf of bread and a big pail of milk and bring it back tonight. That suit you?”