“You might break a few sticks of furniture,” he added. “That sometimes works, I hear.”
“What am I going to do, Dick? The vultures are closing in. I wouldn’t put it past Beaumont to actually have me thrown into debtor’s prison. I owe Sheppard over a thousand pounds. I owe everyone, as a matter of fact.”
“As your banker, old chap, I’m fully aware of your financial embarrassment. I know where every penny of it has gone.”
“I have two widowed sister-in-laws, Dick, two young nieces and four nephews who were left penniless. I had to make provisions for them.”
“And you did so, most adequate provisions. With the trusts I’ve set up in their names, none of them should want.”
“It was the least I could do.”
“And your aunt and spinster cousin—”
“I couldn’t let them starve!” Gordon said defensively. “When my uncle was killed they—”
“I know, I know,” Bancroft interrupted. “You sent them the money to open a tea shop, and I’ve no doubt they’ll make a grand success of it. I’m not begrudging you the money you’ve lavished on relatives, Cam—I quite admire you for it. It’s the money you’ve given to this—this secret organization of unruly Scots.”
“It’s my business, Dick.”
“Hundreds of pounds they’ve milked from you. Hundreds of pounds, Cam, and most of the men with prices on their heads, most of them on Cumberland’s list of traitors to the crown. You realize, mate, that if your financial aid to them was ever discovered—”
“You know too bloody much!”
“You needn’t have confided in me. You needn’t have trusted me.”
“I’d trust you with my life, you amiable bastard. I’d kill any man who so much as hinted that Dick Bancroft would ever betray a friend. Ever since we were at Oxford together you’ve been like a brother to me, much closer than either of my real brothers ever were, and—”
“Careful, Cam,” Bancroft said lazily, “you’re growing dangerously close to expressing genuine affection for another human being. It isn’t your style, mate.”
“Go to hell!”
“You’ve paid your dues, Cam. You refused to fight for Prince Charles on principle—principle that took a lot of courage for a Scot whose whole family passionately supported him. Your own kin considered you a traitor and disowned you. And now, after it’s all over, you turn around and join this pack of rabble who—”
“Be careful, Dick. You may be my friend, but—”
“—who plot and scheme to pull off some wild act of retribution that’s certain to get you all killed. Cut your ties with that lot, Cam. I feel as you do about Cumberland, you know that. He’ll go down in history as one of the greatest military butchers of all time—rightfully so—but let history settle the score. Give up this madness, mate. It’s destroying you. It’s already gotten you into dire financial straits, and before it’s over—”
Bancroft cut himself short and emitted a weary sigh. “I might as well talk to the wall as talk to a thorny, stubborn, obstinate Scot! Pour me another mug. I desperately need it.”
Needle still now, the stockings limp in my lap, I listened to the sound of pewter clinking against pewter, of wine splashing. I was learning a great deal about my Scot tonight, things that explained much that had been puzzling me. The candle flickered in its holder, the yellow orange flame dancing wildly and casting nimble shadows on the walls. Cam Gordon paced back and forth, I could hear those restless footsteps, and Richard Bancroft sighed again, his velvet frock coat rustling as he shifted position in his chair.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” Gordon said. “What am I going to do, Dick?”
“The way I see it, you have three choices.”
“What are they?”
“First of all you can finish this bloody book you’re writing, finish it as quickly as possible, then write another one just as fast. Sheppard is a greedy bastard, but he’d gladly turn loose a sizable chunk of money if he had one Roderick Cane book in hand and the assurance that another was on the way.”
“My second choice?”
“You can forget all about writing and marry Lady Evelyn Greenwood. The lady would be delighted to keep you in luxury for the rest of your life, you know. She has an awesome passion for you—beats me why she should—and she happens to be one of the richest widows in London.”
“Evelyn Greenwood doesn’t want a husband. She wants a pet Scot who can keep her amused during the day and bang hell out of her at night.”
“She’s terribly fetching,” Bancroft said idly. “A bit ripe, perhaps, a trifle bruised, but there’s not a man I know who wouldn’t love to put his boots under her bed. Tell me, Cam, is she really as good as they say she is?”
“She’s good,” Gordon said. His voice was flat.
“And so rich! There’s your answer, man.”
“What’s my third choice?”
“You can always slit your throat.”
“You’re a great help, Bancroft!”
“I try, mate. I try.”
After Bancroft left that night, Cam Gordon went back to his writing table, working till dawn. He worked almost nonstop for the next three days, pausing only to wash, shave, catch a few hours of sleep. He ate very little. The food I brought to him on trays remained untouched for the most part, but he consumed cup after cup of coffee, couldn’t get enough. He was scarcely aware of my presence, and I realized that he was in another world. The flat, my movements, the noises coming up from the courtyard, the bells of St. Clement Dane’s—London itself had ceased to exist for him, and nothing was real but the violent world he created on paper.
Shortly after noon of the fourth day, Gordon reached for another blank page, dipped his quill in ink, scribbled two paragraphs and then emitted a great sigh of relief. He jotted down two more words—“The End”—beneath the paragraphs and, lifting the pewter owl, placed the page on top of the by now huge pile of finished pages. He stood up. He seemed to be in a stupor. He looked weak, so exhausted he could barely stand, and his face was terribly drawn, deep shadows under his eyes. He looked pale, too—complexion a waxy white, the heavy black wave dipping crookedly across his high forehead. He glanced around the room as though he’d never seen it before, looked at me as though I were a stranger.
“You look ill,” I said.
“Just—just tired—” His voice was hoarse, barely audible.
“You ’aven’t ’ad anything to eat. I’m goin’ to fetch you some ’ot soup an’ you’re goin’ to eat all of it an’ then you’re goin’ to sleep. Workin’ all night an’ all day for four days—it ain’t ’ealthy.”
“Can’t—can’t sleep. Have to take the manuscript to Sheppard.”
“You ain’t leavin’, not in th’ shape you’re in. You’d never make it down th’ stairs, you’d fall an’ break your bloody neck. I’ll take the manuscript to your publisher an’ I’ll stop by th’ chop’ouse on th’ way back an’ fetch some soup.”
Gordon stared at me, trying to look stern. “I give all the orders around here, wench.”
“Not today you don’t.”
Cam Gordon didn’t argue. He was dazed, not himself at all. I led him into the bedroom. He sat down on the bed. I asked him where Thomas Sheppard &Co. was located. He told me. I left him in the bedroom, went up to the attic and washed my face and brushed my hair and changed into the silk petticoat and sprigged muslin frock. I wrapped the manuscript in brown paper and tied it with string and then stepped back into his bedroom. He was sprawled out on the bed, already fast asleep. Clutching the manuscript tightly, fully aware of its value, I left Number Ten and headed up toward Fleet, feeling very important and businesslike.
Fleet Street was as exciting as I remembered from glimpsing it through the carriage window. Ragged newsboys waved their sheets, shouting about Scandal in Surrey and the latest “’Orrible Crime.” Journalists thronged the pavements, hurrying here and there and breathlessly exchanging snippets of news with each
other as they dashed. Booksellers arranged their wares in shop windows, and learned, loquacious gentlemen argued volubly as they left the coffeehouses. The torrent of words poured forth with bustle and bravado, the whole street charged with a tense, hurried atmostphere that was marvelously stimulating. It was an exhilarating business, this makin’ of words, and me almost a part of it, ’urryin’ along like everyone else, carryin’ a book that, soon as it was printed, would be read by ’undreds an’ ’undreds of people.
Thomas Sheppard & Co. was only five streets down from Holywell on Fleet, a short walk. Brown brick, squeezed in between a tan brick printers’ establishment and a dun brick stationer’s, it had plate glass windows in front with the name of the firm in gold across them. A bell jangled sassily as I stepped inside. This front part was a book shop, shelves lined with gorgeous new books, a glorious smell of leather and fresh ink and glue filling the air. A clerk in black scurried over to assist me. I told him I had to see Mr. Thomas Sheppard on Very Important Business. He looked doubtful. Putting on my haughtiest expression, I told him I was Miss Miranda James, Cameron Gordon’s assistant, and ’e’d better move ’is arse if ’e didn’t wanna loose ’is bleedin’ job. He looked stunned. Hesitating only for a moment, he hurried through an archway and then down a long hall, returning a few moments later to lead me to one of several offices in back.
It was ever so grand, the grandest room I’d ever been in. Dark green velvet curtains hung at the windows, and the walls were a rich golden-brown wood, panels gleaming. Chairs were covered in soft brown leather, just invitin’ you to sit in ’em, and thick, elegantly patterned rugs were scattered over the parquet floor. Mr. Thomas Sheppard’s desk was as big as a ’ouse, mahogany surface smooth as a lake, silver and onyx inkwell catchin’ a sunbeam and makin’ glittery spokes. The bookshelves behind it contained beautiful volumes bound in red and brown and gold leather. I longed to touch ’em. Jemminy! Imagine Duchess Randy in a room like this!
Mr. Thomas Sheppard sat behind the desk, a tiny, dried-up lookin’ man who, when he stood up, wasn’t nearly as tall as I was. No wonder I ’adn’t seen ’im at first. His sandy hair was thin, sprinkled with gray, and his skin was like old parchment. Large blue-gray eyes twinkled amiably behind gold-rimmed spectacles. He bowed, polite as could be, and small as he was, he looked extremely dapper in his wonderfully tailored leaf brown frock coat and green silk neckcloth.
“Miss James?” he said.
I nodded, still haughty and grand, not about to be intimidated. The publisher came around the desk to shake my hand. I carried it off as though I’d been shakin’ ’ands all my life. Mr. Sheppard indicated one of the big leather chairs and asked me if I’d care to sit down. I shook my head. Those friendly eyes examined me with considerable appreciation, me in my finery, my hair all brushed an’ shinin’.
“I wasn’t aware Cam had an assistant,” he said. “I must say I envy him having one so young and attractive. What can I do for you, Miss James?”
“I ’ave ’is new book ’ere,” I said.
Sheppard blinked. He seemed taken aback at the sound of my voice. Couldn’t imagine why.
“Uh—uh—you have the new Roderick Cane?”
“Right ’ere,” I said, “an’ it’s ’is best. ’E’s been workin’ night an’ day to finish it so you can ’ave it printed up an’ sell ’undreds an’ ’undreds of copies an’ make a bleedin’ fortune.”
“Cam’s books are extremely successful,” he admitted, “far and away the most successful we publish.”
“An’ ’im practically starvin’,” I snapped.
“Oh?”
“Ain’t fair, ’im workin’ so ’ard an’ that Mr. Beaumont comin’ and threatenin’ to put ’im in debtor’s prison. ’E was dreadfully upset, ’e was, an’ all them people waitin’ for th’ new Roderick Cane book. It’s a bloody wonder ’e got it finished at all.”
“I—uh—wasn’t aware Beaumont was quite so severe,” Sheppard. said.
“’E was an arse’ole, ’e was. Sheppard an’ Company makin’ a bleedin’ fortune from ’is books an’ treatin’ ’im like ’e was a criminal ’cause ’e ’appened to be a few weeks late.”
“I’ll speak to Beaumont,” Sheppard promised.
The blue-gray eyes were twinkling now behind the gold-rimmed spectacles, and a tiny grin played on the publisher’s lips. He liked me, I could see that. I liked him, too. Wudn’t at all like that prissy Beaumont.
“’Ere’s th’ book,” I said, handing him the parcel. “’E’s already started th’ next one,” I lied, “started it last night, an’ ’e wants two ’undred an’ fifty pounds in advance.”
Sheppard was taken aback again, his eyes widening. “Two hundred and fifty pounds! We’ve never advanced that much.”
“’E ’as to buy paper,” I said matter-of-factly. “’E ’as to buy ink, too, an’ quills, an’ ’e ’as to pay ’is rent an’ buy food an’ ’e needs new clothes. ’E can’t work if ’e’s worried about things like that.”
Sheppard didn’t reply. He looked concerned, and not about the welfare of his top writer.
“This book you ’ave in your ’ands is gonna make a lot, idn’t it?” I asked crisply.
“It—I imagine it will make enough to completely clear Cam’s debt to us. If it sells like the last one, I’m certain it will.”
“An’ th’ next one’ll sell like that, too, won’t it? ’Is share uv th’ profits oughta be a lot more than two ’undred an fifty pounds.”
“Undoubtedly. Much more than that.”
“So?” I said.
Sheppard hesitated, looking at me with doubtful eyes, and then, after a moment, he began to grin again. I maintained a tough, stubborn demeanor, determined to argue some more if necessary. It wasn’t. The publisher shook his head, chuckling, and then he put the parcel down on his desk and took my hand in both of his, squeezing it affectionately.
“I’ve no idea where Cam found you,” he said, “but I hope he realizes what a treasure he has. He’ll have his two hundred and fifty pounds. He’ll have it before the end of the week. You drive—uh—an extremely hard bargain, Miss James.”
“Somebody’s gotta look out for ’im,” I said.
Thomas Sheppard himself escorted me down the hall and to the front door. He was still grinning, delighted by our encounter and, for some reason, vastly amused. These publishin’ blokes weren’t so ’ard to deal with, I told myself. You just ’ad to know ’ow to ’andle ’em. The bell jangled as the head of Thomas Sheppard & Co. opened the door for me. He took my hand and said he certainly hoped to see me again. I said it’d been enchantin’, cool and dignified as could be. You’d ’uv thought I was one of th’ bloomin’ gentry.
“Don’t forget about ’is money now,” I cautioned.
“I’m not likely to forget a—uh—single moment of this most remarkable interview, Miss James.”
“Well, ta ta for now.”
Sheppard was grinning again as I stepped out the door.
I fairly danced down Fleet Street. Th’ bleedin’ Scot was goin’ to ’ave quite a surprise when he got ’is two ’undred an’ fifty pounds. He was goin’ to be pleased, too. ’E might even thank me, might even start noticin’ me an treatin’ me like a ’uman bein’. It was barmy, I know, but I was actually beginnin’ to … to like workin’ for ’im. I looked forward to seein’ ’im each mornin’, looked forward to waitin’ on ’im an’ makin’ ’im comfortable, and when he looked at me with those harsh blue eyes I got a peculiar feelin’ inside, a feelin’ I couldn’t quite understand. It was kind of scary and kind of thrillin’, and it was kind of pleasant as well. Beat anything I ever ’eard of, it did. It just beat all.
18
When he finally woke up well after noon the following day, Cam Gordon had no memory of what had transpired between us after he scribbled those final words on the paper. After he had washed, shaved, dressed and eaten the lavish lunch I carried in to him, he sauntered idly into the front room to examine the manuscri
pt before carrying it to the publisher. Finding it gone, he turned pale. I cheerfully explained what had happened. Horrified, he flatly refused to believe that he could have done anything so wildly improbable and foolhardy, and, convinced I was up to some diabolical mischief, he seized my shoulders, shaking me viciously, interrogating me in a savage, trembling voice.
I protested my innocence. I assured him I had delivered the book to Thomas Sheppard himself, that he, Cam Gordon, had given me the publisher’s address. He shoved me away from him so forcefully that I stumbled and crashed onto the sofa. He tore out of the flat, thundering down the stairs. My upper arms were hurting where he had gripped them. My neck and head still felt wobbly. I’d cracked the back of my leg on the edge of the sofa when I fell. Bloody savage! You try to be good, you try to be ’elpful, an’ what does it get you? Screamin’ an’ shakin’ an’ sore arms. I hoped th’ bleedin’ sod was run down by a carriage or, even better, one of them great ’eavy lorries loaded with barrels of ale. Serve th’ brute right, it would.
He was in quite a different mood when he returned two hours later. Cool and self-possessed, he strolled idly into the kitchen where I was washin’ ’is bleedin’ dishes and informed me in an indifferent voice that he owed me an apology. Face streaked with coal dust after lugging a bucket upstairs, hair all damp and tumbling over my brow, arms up to the elbows in warm, soapy water, I resolutely ignored him, pretending he wasn’t there. I scrubbed a plate, dipped it into a second tub of hot water to rinse it, set it aside for drying, and then I started on a cup, giving it my undivided attention.
“You needn’t sulk, wench,” he said.
“I ’appen to be a ’uman bein’!” I snapped. “I ’ave a name. It’s Miranda. I—I ain’t a ‘wench’!”
He elevated one brow. “Oh? I beg your pardon.”
“Shakin’ me like that! Yellin’ at me! My ’ead still dudn’t feel like it’s on right. I’m goin’ to ’ave bruises on my arms where you gripped ’em!”
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