Once More, Miranda

by Jennifer Wilde

  “Bugger you,” Elsom growled.

  The two of them led me to a set of double doors at the end of the foyer. The clerk rapped on the rough wooden panel. A burly constable threw open the doors, took hold of my arm and pulled me inside. Elsom and the clerk retreated. The constable closed the door and led me down a narrow aisle between two rows of heavy benches. At the end of the aisle was a low wooden railing, beyond it a cleared area with chairs and a ponderous table littered with musty, leather-bound tomes and rolls of paper tied with dusty ribbon. The wall behind was paneled in dark wood, a low door leading into the chambers beyond.

  The courtroom was empty. It smelled of sweat and smoke and fear. Candles flickered dimly in tarnished brass wall sconces. Plaster was flaking from the low ceiling, and the heavy wooden beams were worm-eaten. It was a stifling, oppressive place, the foul air stagnant. The constable stood at my side in front of the railing, holding my elbow firmly. My knees shook. I felt they were going to give way beneath me. Several long-moments passed. The skinny clerk entered, gave the constable the key and then, opening the gate in the railing, took his place in a flimsy chair beside the table.

  The door to the chambers opened. The magistrate came out followed by Bancroft and Cam Gordon and a fourth man whom I took to be an advocate, though he was much better dressed than those usually seen on Bow Street. He and the magistrate spoke together for a moment in low voices, the advocate very smooth, the magistrate snappish and impatient. Bancroft and Gordon came on through the gate and sat down on one of the benches. Gordon looked bored. Bancroft looked very pleased with himself. He winked at me. After a few more moments of conversation, the advocate joined the two men on the bench and the magistrate settled himself importantly behind the table.

  He was quite old, sixty at least. His face was very thin, grayish yellow, deep pouches beneath his cold gray-blue eyes, flesh hanging loosely about his jaw. His nose was long and sharp and humped, his thin lips colorless, and his long white wig seemed much too heavy. He shuffled some papers, spoke irritably to the clerk and then fixed his icy gaze on me. My knees were still shaking, and I could feel all hope evaporating. Magistrate Fletcher looked as though he would relish pulling the wings off a fly before crushing it under his thumb. I took a deep breath, valiantly trying to still the trembling.

  “Miranda James,” the constable announced.

  “Yes. You may go, Peters,” Fletcher snapped.

  “Have him take those bloody shackles off her first,” Bancroft insisted.

  Fletcher shot a freezing glance at the large blond and then nodded to the constable. The shackles were removed. There were large red welts on both my wrists. The constable left. I stood alone in front of the railing, staring at the man who was to decide my fate. The magistrate cleared his throat and shuffled some more papers, pursing his thin lips as though he had just been sucking a particularly sour lemon.

  “Miranda James, you have been found guilty of a grievous crime,” he began in that parchment-dry voice. “It is my duty to pass sentence upon you, and the penalty for thievery is grave indeed. If crimes such as yours were permitted to go unpunished, this great country of ours would soon be uninhabitable—”

  He droned on, speaking by rote, repeating words he had said so many times that they had lost all meaning. I stood very still, holding my chin high, and the stuffy, oppressive room seemed to whirl slowly, dark panels moving around, candle flames blurring. The dry, indifferent voice seemed to come from a very great distance. I closed my eyes, willing myself not to pass out.

  “—hung by the neck until dead,” he concluded.

  I stared at him. I was going to hang. I felt nothing.

  “However,” he continued, “you are a very fortunate young woman. I have made a generous and very unusual concession in your case.”

  “Con—concession?” I stammered.

  “These gentlemen have interceded on your behalf. We are not without compassion,” he said, pompously employing the royal “we.” “After due consideration we have agreed to make an exception in your case.”

  “I ain’t goin’ to ’ang?”

  “You have been sentenced, instead, to a period of seven years of indentureship. Ordinarily indentured servants are transported to the colonies to be sold at public auction, but in this instance other arrangements have been made.”

  “I—I don’t understand.”

  “Your article of indenture has been assigned to Mr. Cameron Gordon, and you are officially bonded to him.”

  “You—you mean I belong to ’im? Like a bleedin’ slave?”

  “For a period of seven years,” Fletcher said.

  “Bloody ’ell!”

  “Should you displease him at any time, should you attempt to flee his premises and resume your old life of crime, you will be turned back over to the court and the original sentence will be duly carried out.”

  The weak, dizzy feeling vanished. The room was still now, and I could feel the color flooding back into my cheeks. A fine kettle of fish! Th’ bleedin’ sod would do anything to keep a housemaid! I brushed damp auburn tendrils away from my temples and adjusted the bodice of my grimy violet-blue dress, a flood of relief sweeping over me. I wasn’t going to ’ang! I wasn’t going to be pilloried! I wasn’t even going to be sent to prison.

  “Do you understand this arrangement?” Fletcher inquired.

  I nodded. “I’m ’is,” I said. “If ’e finds me unsatisfactory, ’e runs me back to court and I swing.”

  “You should be extremely grateful.”

  “Oh, I am,” I assured him. “I’m so bloody grateful I could dance a jig. Thank you, your ’onor. You ’ave a ’eart big as a ’ouse.”

  Bloody bastard would ’uv ’ad me strung up in a minute if ’is pockets ’adn’t been padded good an’ proper. How much ’ad it cost ’em? Twenty pounds? Thirty? More than that, probably. Maybe as much as a ’undred, and they’d have to pay that fancy advocate, too. They? No, Cam Gordon wouldn’t spend a penny to save me from ’angin’. It was the blond, Bancroft. This was ’is idea. That was why ’e’d jabbered on about maids an’ such when they were takin’ me to the roundhouse yesterday. Bless ’im! ’E was a sport, all right.

  The clerk stood up. “Court is now adjourned,” he announced in his prissy voice. The magistrate said something to him, and then they both went into the magistrate’s private chambers, closing the door behind them. I sighed, feeling feisty now and so hungry I could eat a horse. The three men stood up. Bancroft shook the advocate’s hand, patted him on the shoulder and told him he’d see him soon. The advocate left. Bancroft winked at me again and grinned. Cam Gordon still looked bored.

  “Well, lass,” Bancroft said, “how do you feel?”

  “’Ungry as ’ell,” I retorted.

  He chuckled, those brown eyes dancing with amusement. I longed to give him a great big hug. He crooked his arm, offering it to me just like I was a bloomin’ lady. I tucked my hand in it, and he escorted me up the aisle and into the dusty foyer, Gordon trailing silently behind us. Three Runners and their prisoners crowded the foyer. Poor wretches, I thought. Weren’t any of ’em goin’ to be as lucky as I was. The three of us stepped outside, me still holding on to Bancroft’s arm. His velvet sleeve was ever so soft. He smelled like a bloomin’ garden. Wind ruffled his dark golden locks as he moved to the edge of the pavement and raised his arm in signal.

  “I hope you’re satisfied, Dick,” Gordon said dryly.

  “Oh, I am. You should be, too. Look at it this way, Cam, my lad, your domestic problems have been solved and you’re not out a single penny. Your friend Richard Bancroft has done you a great service.”

  Cam Gordon looked at me with cold speculation. “I’m not so sure of that,” he retorted.

  “I’m goin’ to be th’ dandiest maid you ever ’ad,” I told him, lying through my teeth. “I’ll fetch your meals an’ darn your stockin’s and polish your boots an’ keep your ’ouse so tidy you’ll ’ardly recognize it.”

  “And if she
doesn’t, you can beat her,” Bancroft promised.

  “Don’t think I won’t.”

  Probably enjoy it, too, the bastard. Not that ’e’d ’ave the chance. This lass wasn’t about to be a bodyservant to Mr. Cam Gordon, no indeed, but I’d play along with them for a while, at least until we got out of this neighborhood with so many constables and Runners about. A grand carriage pulled up in front of us, all polished teak with brass trimmings, two spanking bays in harness. A liveried groom popped down jauntily and opened the door for us. Bancroft handed me inside with mock gallantry. Soft tan leather upholstery. Amber brown velvet curtains. It was bloody wonderful, fit for a queen. Bancroft sat across from me, and Gordon was forced to sit beside me. He wasn’t any too pleased about that, sniffing audibly.

  “She smells like a goat stable,” he said as we drove away.

  “Nothing a good scrubbing won’t take care of,” Bancroft replied.

  “She probably has lice as well.”

  “I ’aven’t!” I protested. “I’m very careful about lice!”

  “This is a wretched idea, Bancroft. I should never have let you talk me into it.”

  “You needed a maid, Cam.”

  “Quite true. A maid, not some vicious little guttersnipe who’d gladly slit my throat for a handful of pennies.”

  “You afraid of her?” Bancroft teased.

  Cam Gordon didn’t deign to reply to such an outrageous suggestion. He sat with his arms folded across his chest, those clear blue eyes without expression. His face was all sharp planes and angles, the forehead high, the cheekbones broad and flat, jawline firm. It really wasn’t an unattractive face, too sharp and severe to be handsome, of course, but undeniably striking, and that thick straight hair was glorious, black as ebony and glossy as could be, one heavy wave perpetually slanting across his brow like a lopsided ‘V’ with the point an inch or so above his right eyebrow. Men would be leary of Cam Gordon, would give him a wide berth, and certain women would find him wildly intriguing.

  “I must say,” Bancroft remarked, “Old Fletcher was easy enough to manage. Soon as he caught a sniff of all those gold sovereigns Hampton mentioned he was ready to do anything we wanted. Lass could have been an ax murderess, wouldn’t have mattered a bit.”

  “They’re all corrupt, worse than the felons they sentence. Fletcher’s no exception.”

  “Hampton assured me it’d be a snap. He had all the papers drawn up before we even went to Bow Street.”

  “I know, Dick,” Gordon said dryly. “I was there. Quite reluctantly, I might add. I still think the whole idea is pure folly, but one indulges one’s friends.”

  “Hampton made himself a nice fee, Fletcher collected a fat bribe, you have yourself a permanent servant.”

  “And you’re seventy pounds poorer.”

  “What’s money when one has a chance to do a good deed?” Bancroft inquired eloquently. “No need to be so morose, Cam. You wouldn’t have the poor child hang, would you?”

  “At the moment it would give me considerable pleasure.”

  “You don’t mean that. Your bark’s much worse than your bite, Gordon. I’ve been on to you for a long time. Look at her,” he continued, “pale as a ghost, weak as a kitten, covered with scratches and bruises. You’re frightening her to death with all this scowling. She’s your property, man. You own her now, lock, stock, and barrel.”

  “I’m less than enchanted.”

  “You shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Cam,” Bancroft said breezily. “This little lass is going to work her fingers to the bone for you. She’s going to be your adoring, obedient slave. Aren’t you, lass?”

  “Oh, yessir!” I assured him.

  “See? You’ve won her heart already.”

  Gordon made a snorting, disdainful noise. He was wearing the same clothes he’d been wearing the day before: the worn pumps, the poorly darned black stockings, the black breeches and coat and tattered maroon silk neckcloth. He smelled of leather and sweat and damp linen, and I noticed that the fingers of his left hand were lightly stained with ink. He was left-handed, then, like me. Although he wasn’t nearly as tense and wrought-up as he’d been yesterday, one still sensed the energy and violence pent up inside. If, yesterday, he’d been like a dangerous animal, taut, ready to spring, today he was indolent, no longer on the prowl. But just as dangerous, I told myself, remembering the way he’d handled me.

  “By the by,” Bancroft said, “how is the beauteous Lady Evelyn? She still haunting your humble abode?”

  “With irritating regularity.”

  “I suppose she still wants to save you from the squalor and whisk you away to the splendors of Grosvenor Square. Wish I had a savior like that, gorgeous and experienced and rich as Croesus. Widows are always your best bet, I hear, and Lady E.’s panting to make an honest man of you.”

  “I’m well aware of that.”

  “Trouble with you, Cam, is you don’t like women. After you’ve laid ’em you can’t get rid of ’em fast enough.”

  Cam Gordon didn’t disagree. “I’ve never met a woman who didn’t bore me to distraction after an hour or so. Their minds are full of frippery. Their chatter is inane. They’re good for one thing only, taking care of men, seeing to their needs. If it weren’t for biology, I’d have made a good monk.”

  Or a Grand Inquisitor, I said to myself.

  “Where—where are we goin’?” I asked in a pitifully meek voice.

  “Holywell Street,” Bancroft replied. “Delightfully raffish neighborhood. Lincoln’s Inn Fields and the Courts of Justice are nearby, and Fleet Street’s just around the corner. You get draymen and costermongers, publishers and printers, down-at-heels actors, journalists, penmen, writers by the score—most of ’em mad, of course. Never met a scribbler who was sane.”

  Cam Gordon didn’t rise to the bait. He continued to stare into space with clear blue eyes focused on interior scenes. Perhaps he was thinking about one of ’is bleedin’ novels. The elegant carriage had slowed down considerably. We were inching down a narrow, congested street, and as I peered out through the sparkling glass pane I saw a whole group of food vendors hawking their wares on the pavement. A plump, jovial fellow was handing a bacon roll to a grand lady in stiff pink taffeta. It was a luscious-lookin’ roll, dripping with mustard. I clutched my empty stomach, eyes full of longing.

  “I—I think I’m goin’ to faint,” I moaned. “Them bacon rolls—”

  Richard Bancroft immediately tapped on the window above his head and told the coachman to stop. He opened the carriage door and hopped out. Traffic was forced to a standstill.

  “You want a bacon roll, a bacon roll you shall have,” he said jauntily.

  “You might get me a twist of them boiled shrimp, too, and some chips ’ud be ’eaven.”

  “Anything else?” he inquired.

  “I think I see ’em sellin’ lemonade.”

  Whips cracked. Horses neighed. A burly drayman with a cartload of barrels filled the air with some splendidly inventive curses, but our coachman refused to budge. Cam Gordon clamped his fingers around my wrist, his eyes still gazing into space. Thought I was goin’ to leap out of th’ coach. Wudn’t a thing further from my mind. I ’ad to get some of my strength back before I did anything like that. Three street urchins came running up to peer into the interior of the coach, standing on tiptoes to gaze through the windows.

  Bancroft returned, shooing the urchins away. His arms were laden with a marvelous array of food. He handed me a bacon roll and took his seat, careful not to spill the lemonade as the coach started to move again. I devoured the bacon roll—sheer bliss with great hunks of bacon and globs of tangy mustard rolled up on a bun. I devoured the chips next, eating them by the handful, and then I quickly laid waste to the plump pink shrimp twisted up in a piece of paper. The lemonade was delicious, sweet and tart and ever so satisfying. When I finished it, Bancroft handed me a big, crisp apple. I sank my teeth into it, crunching noisily.

  “Greedy little bagg
age,” Gordon remarked. “It’ll cost me a fortune to feed her.”

  “Poor thing was starving,” Bancroft told him.

  “Ain’t never ’ad such a fine meal,” I said.

  Dropping the apple core onto the floor of the carriage, wiping my hands on the hem of my dress, I settled back contentedly against the soft leather padding. Amazin’ what a good solid meal could do for you. Except for a, few aches and bruises I felt fit as could be and saucy as ever. Fancy me ridin’ in a swell carriage like this, just like a real duchess, a ’andsome gent grinnin’ at me an’ pullin’ a surprise sack of sugared almonds out of his pocket. I gave him a dazzlin’ smile and began to plop the almonds into my mouth. If it was Bancroft, now, I’d settle right in with ’im an’ polish ’is boots without a single complaint.

  “You live on ’olywell Street, too?” I asked him.

  “Heavens, no,” Bancroft replied in mock horror. “Patrician chap like me would be a fish out of water in such a disreputable milieu. I have swank bachelor quarters on Leicester Square, as befits the second son of an earl.”

  “Jemminy! You’re an earl’s son?”

  “Afraid so,” Bancroft admitted, “not that it does me much good. Forced to toil in the fields of Mammon, alas. My brother’s lord of the manor now and has an amazingly fertile wife; Four brats already she’s spawned, all of ’em male. Algernon considers me the blackest of sheep, washed his hands of me a long time ago. I have to work for a living like poor Cam here.”

  “You write books, too?”

  “Perish the thought. No, I’m an upstanding employee of the Bank of England, investments my specialty. You ever want to double your money, give it to me. I’ll invest it in a Peruvian gold mine or a cannon factory in Germany and make you a wealthy woman. I seem to have this magic touch where money is concerned. Beats me why I should.”

  “Fancy workin’ in a bank.”

  “Nothing fancy about it, I fear, and I spend as little time as possible in those hallowed halls. Much prefer to rag about with my unsavory friends, chaps who write blood and thunder epics and live on Holywell Street.”