Once More, Miranda

by Jennifer Wilde

  “You’re going to have bruises on your backside if you continue in this particular vein.”

  “Go on! Threaten me! I’m littler ’n you are an’ weaker, too. You can afford to play the bully, you sod!”

  “Bancroft’s right. You do have a tongue on you.”

  “I ain’t afraid of you, Cam Gordon!”

  The faintest suggestion of a smile flickered on his lips. “You’re not?” he said. “What have I been doing wrong?”

  I turned my back on him, plunging my arms deeper into the soapy water, grabbing a greasy pot and scrubbing it vigorously. I could feel his presence there in the doorway behind me, could feel him watching me with thoughtful eyes. Why didn’t he leave? Scots! Bullyin’ sods, th’ whole lot of ’em! I rinsed the pot and washed a pan and then, finished with the washing, dried my hands, took up a fresh cloth and began to dry the dishes.

  “Sheppard was quite impressed with you,” Gordon said.

  I didn’t ’ear ’im. ’E wudn’t there.

  “He said you were extremely persuasive, and, I must say, I was quite startled to learn I was going to be two hundred and fifty pounds richer. I’ve never had an advance that generous before. If you don’t put down that cloth and listen to me,” he continued, “I fully intend to grab you by the throat and squeeze your lights out.”

  His voice hadn’t changed by a single inflection. It was calm and reasonable, almost polite. I hurled the cloth down and, whirling around, glared at him with blazing eyes.

  “Then who’d do your bleedin’ dirty work!”

  “You have a point there,” he admitted. “Perhaps I shouldn’t squeeze your lights out. Perhaps I should just choke you into insensibility. Your neck would be sore for a while and your voice would be quite hoarse, but you’d still be able to perform your duties.”

  His voice dry, his manner detached, he looked at me with those cool, indifferent blue eyes, and again a hint of a smile played on his lips. He was teasin’ me. Th’ sod was actually teasin’! I could hardly believe it. Assuming an irritable expression, I brushed damp ringlets from my cheeks and continued to dry the dishes.

  “He congratulated me on having so remarkable an assistant,” Gordon said.

  “’E did, did ’e?”

  “I was, naturally, quite surprised. I owe you an apology, Miranda.”

  “You sure as ’ell do,” I snapped.

  “You needn’t get snippy about it. I’m trying to be decent.”

  “Dudn’t come easy for you, does it?”

  “Listen, goddammit—”

  “Go on, yell at me again.”

  “Women!”

  He whirled around and stormed off, and I smiled to myself, curiously delighted with this exchange. He left shortly afterward and didn’t come back until very late, long after I’d retired to my attic room. He was in an extremely sullen mood the next few days, moping around, staring into space or else reading one of those gruesome books, scowling, jotting down notes. I went about my duties as quietly as possible, and he seemed hardly aware of my presence. I might as well have been invisible. On the fifth day, after an inordinate amount of moody staring, he suddenly slammed shut the book in his lap, moved resolutely over to his writing table and began to scribble furiously, filling page after page with those indecipherable black hen-tracks.

  The new Roderick Cane novel seemed to be coming with remarkable ease, I noted four days later. Gordon had gone out early in the afternoon, the first time he’d left the flat since beginning the book, and I had made myself a cup of tea. Sipping it contentedly, I picked up the pile of finished pages and began to examine them. The hero seemed to be someone named Burke, James Burke—squinting, I could make out that much—and he’d been deprived of his inheritance by a wicked uncle and had taken to a life of crime, becoming a notorious underworld figure incredibly like Black Jack Stewart, only Burke was tall and handsome and women were always trying to seduce him. Burke had no use for them, treated them with shocking rudeness, was interested in nothing but making a fortune and eventually having his revenge on the uncle and his four vicious cousins.

  My tea had grown cold. I set the cup down, still holding the last page, and it was with amazement that I realized I’d actually been able to read his handwriting. I had struggled at first, squinting and frowning, and then, without my even being aware of it, the crazy black tracks had suddenly begun to make sense, shaping themselves into recognizable letters and words. Caught up in the story, I had read on, oblivious to paper, scrawls, tea. It was a bloomin’ miracle, that’s what it was. The tiny, squeezed-together scratches made perfect sense now, easy as pie to read. Picking up the cup of cold tea, I felt very pleased with myself. It was kinda thrillin’ to read a book in progress, long before anyone else saw it, and I had to admit that this new Roderick Cane was excitin’ indeed, even if some of the details about receivin’ ’ouses were wrong. I wondered if I should mention it to him … and then it happened.

  I turned to take the cup of tea into the kitchen. I stepped on the edge of a rug. I slipped, stumbling back into the table, and the cup flew out of my hand and great streams of cold, mahogany-colored tea rained down on the pile of pages, soggy leaves tumbling after. For a moment I was paralyzed with horror, and then I whipped up my skirt and began to dab at the pages before the ink ran too much. Ten minutes later I had the pages seperated and spread out over the table, limp, splotchy, barely legible.

  I wondered how he would do it. Would he hurl me out the window and send me crashing to my death on the courtyard below? Would he choke me? Would he smother me with a pillow? More than likely he’d seize the poker and beat me to death with it. Run, Randy. Flee for your life. Get away now while you still ’ave the chance. You can’t go back to St. Giles, not with Black Jack Stewart on the prowl, but London’s a big city, you can lose yourself in it, an’ you can always take up your old trade.

  Panic gradually subsided. The pages were beginning to dry, wrinkling up as they did so, mottled with blurry, gray splotches where the ink had run and orange splotches from the tea. I carried them over to the fire two at a time and held them up until they were thoroughly dry, and when all of them had been dried this way I piled them back up in order, a crinkly, uneven pile. I cleaned the table off and straightened everything up, and then I sat down in his chair, reaching for the pot of ink, a quill, a clean sheet of paper. I placed the first page of manuscript beside the clean sheet, dipped the quill into the ink, shaky, my nerves all ajangle.

  A foggy haze seemed to fill my mind, shutting out everything else, and this haze was gradually penetrated by a curious golden light, and I saw a little girl in pink frock and white muslin pinafore, long auburn ringlets bouncing as she turned to look up at the lovely woman who so resembled the woman I was now, her eyes a serene gray instead of blue, her hair more brown than red. It was my mum, and we were in a room with blue wallpaper and sunlight was streaming through the window. I was impatient, eager to take some crusts of bread and toss them to the ducks, eager to be with my friends, but first I had to practice my handwriting, had to copy two full pages from the book opened on the desk while my mum supervised. “No, no, darling, that won’t do. Start over again. Each letter must be clear, must be elegant. A lady’s handwriting is a thing of beauty.…” And I sighed with exasperation and started over again and the haze returned, the scene evaporating, merging with the haze.

  I began to copy the first page. My hand was shaking. The ink splattered, making jiggly black dots all over the paper. I started again, forming each letter carefully, linking it smoothly with the next, gradually getting the hang of it. How long had it been since I’d written anything? Couldn’t remember. Must’ve been years an’ years ago, but ’andwritin’ wudn’t somethin’ you forgot. After I finished the first page I examined it carefully. Clear, real clear, elegant, too, almost like copperplate, just a mite shaky because I’d been so nervous. I copied the page over again, and this time it was indeed a thing of beauty. Wonderfully pleased with myself, I reached for another fr
esh sheet and the second page of manuscript.

  The afternoon sunlight faded as I worked. I got up to put another shovelful of coal on the fire and another log. I lighted the candles, my back aching just a little, my left hand feeling stiff and cramped. I flexed my fingers and sat back down and continued to work and almost before I knew it the candles had burned down and I had to get new ones. The old brass clock on the mantel ticked lazily. It was after ten. The fire had died down, coals glowing in a bright red-orange, log charred and flaky, and through the skylight overhead I saw a black, black expanse lightly sprinkled with stars. My back felt as though someone had driven a knife into it and my hand seemed ready to drop off at the wrist, but I just had a few pages left to copy now. I longed for a bite to eat or a cup of tea, at least, but I didn’t dare take time to fetch it.

  I had two pages left to copy when the door opened and Cam Gordon came in. I turned in the chair, looking up at him guiltily, quill still poised over the page. He was wearing his black breeches and frock coat and a lovely blue neckcloth a few shades darker than his eyes. His face looked drawn, pale, the heavy black wave slanting crookedly over the right side of his forehead. He shut the door and looked at me and I started to tremble, my nerves snapping at last, tears welling.

  “May I ask what you’re doing?” he inquired.

  “I—I—”

  I started sobbing then, and the tears splattered and somehow I managed to tell him what had happened, sobbing miserably all the while, tears blinding me, streaming down my cheeks, and he stood there like a statue, icy cold, immobile, his face expressionless, and I told him he could kill me if he wanted to, I didn’t care, I didn’t care, it was an accident, an accident, and he was awful, awful, cold and cruel and I tried so hard, so hard to please him and I was just a bleedin’ machine to ’im, not ’uman at all, not someone who ’ad feelin’s, and he marched across the room and pulled me put of the chair and held me, smothering my face against his shoulder, his arms crushing me.

  “Get hold of yourself,” he said. “Get hold of yourself.”

  “I can’t ’elp it! I didn’t mean to—it was an—”

  “Hush!” he ordered.

  I continued to sob, continued to tremble, and then, when it seemed I could sob no more without tearing myself apart, I shuddered and grew still in his arms and grew painfully aware of that tall, hard body, those arms holding me so tightly, the wonderful, musky smell of sweat and silk and leather and tobacco. I felt an altogether new sensation, felt faint as well, felt I would surely crumple to the floor if he didn’t hold me. I caught my breath. My cheek was resting on his chest, just below his shoulder, the black broadcloth rough against my skin, and I tilted my head back and looked up at him.

  “Your eyes are swollen,” he said gruffly.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Your face is dirty.”

  I brushed my cheek with my fingertips. He was still holding me tightly. I could hardly breathe. I didn’t want to. I wanted to keep on feeling this magical sensation that filled my being, a strange and marvelous ache that was like silent music throbbing in my veins. I didn’t fully understand it, but I didn’t want it to stop. It had something to do with that body, those arms, the smell, that harsh, handsome face inches from my own. I frowned, disturbed. Cam Gordon released me and stepped back, frowning himself.

  “I’m not a monster, Miranda,” he said.

  “Yes, you are. You’re ’orrible, ’orrible.”

  “Did you actually believe I’d kill you merely because you spilled tea on the manuscript?”

  “I felt pretty sure you’d try.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “I—I was readin’ it, an’ I got caught up in th’ story an’ then—then it just ’appened. I—I was scared. I knew I ’ad to do somethin’ so—so I copied it all over. I still ’ave two pages to go—”

  Cam Gordon picked up one of the freshly copied pages and idly examined it, his face betraying no emotion whatsoever. It might have been a mask, sharp and lean and curiously beautiful.

  “You did this?” he inquired, his eyes still on the page.

  “I—I tried to make it neat as I could. It ain’t perfect, I know, but at least a person can read it.”

  “You have a beautiful hand,” he said.

  “My writin’ ain’t bad either.”

  “You know, of course, that Sheppard has a man on the payroll whose sole job is to decipher my handwriting and make a legible copy for the printer. His salary is deducted from my share of sales. As of today that man is out of a job.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that you have just become my copyist.”

  “You expect me to copy everything you write?” I exclaimed. “You expect me to do that on top ’uv everything else! It’s bleedin’ ’ard work, it is! My ’and near dropped off. My back’s near broken, an’ I ’ave dots dancin’ in front of my eyes from strainin’ to read them bleedin’ ’en tracks! I ain’t doin’ it! I ’aul your water up all them bloody stairs an’ I empty th’ slops an’ bring up th’ coal an’ light th’ fires an’ fetch your meals. I clean this flat, scrub th’ floors, wash th’ windows, darn your stockin’s an’ polish your bleedin’ boots, but if you think—”

  “You’ll do it,” he informed me.

  “Like ’ell I will!”

  I started the next afternoon, carefully, lovingly copying everything he had written during the day, and when he returned that evening I proudly displayed my handiwork. His spelling was awful, I told him, you spelled soot with two ‘o’s, them simple words tricked you every time, and he grew testy and asked me where I learned to spell and I told him it was some-thin’ that just came naturally, maybe because I read so much. Some people could spell and some people were good with addin’ an’ subtractin’ an’ things. Me, I was bewildered by numbers, but I ’ad a gift when it came to spellin’.

  “You’ll be writing the goddamn things for me next!” he predicted.

  “Not for a while,” I replied. “I ’aven’t got th’ knack uv it yet, but I probably will after I’ve studied it enough. I’m beginnin’ to see ’ow you do it. You set th’ characters an’ get th’ story rollin’ an’ then—”

  “Jesus!”

  “Dudn’t seem so ’ard,” I said airily.

  “I’ve never murdered a woman. I’ve wanted to, God knows, I’ve been strongly tempted on more than one occasion, but—but—” He cut himself short, glaring at me with blazing blue eyes. “That you’re breathing at all is one of the great miracles of our time!”

  “You’re terribly touchy,” I told him. “I guess maybe all writers are. By th’ way, you made a mistake about th’ receivin’ ’ouses. James Burke wouldn’t demand a tariff from th’ owners, ’e’d own ’em ’imself an’ ’ave ’is men runnin’ ’em for ’im. That’s ’ow Black Jack Stewart does it.”

  “Oh?” His voice was laced with sarcasm. “I suppose you know the notorious Stewart personally.”

  I shook my head. “I ain’t actually met ’im, but ’e knows me, knows who I am at least. That’s th’ only reason I’m ’ere right now.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I hesitated, realizing I’d said too much. Cam Gordon waited, those eyes demanding an answer to his question. Reluctantly, I told him about that frightening encounter the morning of the execution. I described the way Black Jack Stewart had stared at me and told him everything Sally had said that evening in the shadows of St. George’s. I cautiously admitted that if Stewart hadn’t been looking for me, I would never have returned to Holywell Street. Gordon showed no reaction to this confession, might not even have heard it.

  “He meant to abduct you?”

  “Still would if ’e could. ’E probably still ’as ’is men out lookin’ for me. It ain’t been all that long.”

  Gordon said nothing, but he looked angry, that familiar frown cutting a deep furrow above the bridge of his nose.

  I had forgotten all about this conversation early the next afte
rnoon as I strolled back to Holywell Street with my arms laden with packages. Noticing that my stocking had a run in it, that my one work dress was getting a bit bedraggled, Gordon scowled, took two pound-notes out of the ginger jar and told me to go buy some new things. Elated, I left on winged feet and had an enchanting two hours spending the money. I bought not one dress but two, a lovely blue cotton printed with small purple flowers and a pale orange-pink cotton with scooped neckline and puffed sleeves. I also bought a violet silk shawl with shiny silk fringe, a heavy dark-blue woolen cloak lined with gray silk, four pairs of stockings and the loveliest kid leather shoes, dark purple with heels two inches high. They fit, too.

  You ’ad to know ’ow to go about it, I thought, traipsing down the street with a smile on my lips. Some folks’d take th’ two pounds an’ go to a shop an’ buy all new stuff, one dress maybe, maybe a skimpy cloak, but that didn’t make sense when you could get things second ’and, good things, too. I’d bargained furiously with the old bawd who ran the secondhand shop. She’d wanted extra for the shawl, extra for the shoes. I told her she could take ’er bleedin’ rags an’ stuff ’em an’ I’d take my two pounds an’ spend ’em elsewhere. She backed down rapidly, though she claimed I was robbin’ ’er as she wrapped the things up. When I got back I’d launder the clothes carefully, ’ang ’em out to dry in the courtyard and then iron ’em with the heavy flatiron I used on ’Is ’Ighness’s shirts an’ things. They’d be good as new then.

  It had been a long walk to the secondhand shop, and I was still quite a way from Holywell Street when I got a funny feelin’ on the back of my neck, a feelin’ difficult to describe but so strong it was almost physical. Someone was watchin’ me. Sharp instincts developed from years on the streets told me I wasn’t mistaken. I slowed my step, dawdling, and I could feel it between my shoulder blades now. I dawdled even more, finally pausing in front of a shop window to admire a collection of dusty porcelain vases and ornate brass pots. The pavement was extremely crowded, people passing behind me, carriages rumbling noisily up and down the street.