“It’s about corn,” I said, returning my attention to Bancroft.
He looked startled. “Corn?”
“What you were talking about earlier, in the carriage—the new Corn Exchange and the fortunes to be made. That’s what I wanted to discuss with you. Mr. Sheppard paid me five whole pounds for the story and I want you to invest it for me.”
“Five whole pounds?” He sounded amazed.
“And there’ll be more, too. I have another idea for a story, all about a little boy who becomes a pickpocket and part of a gang and gets caught and thrown into prison. I should get even more for that one. Seven pounds maybe. Maybe even ten.”
“Ten? Incredible.”
“I thought I’d turn all my earnings over to you and let you invest them for me. I—I’m sure you get some kind of commission, but that’s all right with me. You have to make a living, too.”
“Would that all my clients were so understanding,” Bancroft said.
He smiled to himself, amused for some reason, and then he shook his head and assured me that he would study the market and invest my money as shrewdly as possible.
“Rely on me, lass. I’ll make a wealthy woman of you.”
Visions of riches filled my head, and I saw myself riding in a fine carriage I’d paid for myself, wearing lovely clothes I’d purchased on my own. I would buy all the hats I wanted, and I’d buy new furniture, too, and presents for Cam and Mrs. Wooden. Imagine havin’ your own money, makin’ it yourself, not havin’ to rely on anyone else. I’d have my very own ginger jar and would never have to ask Cam for anything. All this from scribbling stories.… I vowed to write the story about the pickpocket as soon as possible and then do another and yet another and another after that.
“I’m so glad we came today,” I said. “Cam’s been so engrossed in those books about Japan I was afraid he’d refuse.”
“Refuse?” Bancroft looked surprised. “It was his idea.”
“His idea?”
“I sent him a message saying I’d like to take the two of you to Green’s whenever it was agreeable. I expected him to put me off. He didn’t. He replied almost immediately, suggesting we come this evening. He added that you had been wanting to see the promenade, suggested we go there before dining.”
“I thought—” I paused. “I thought you had to insist.”
“Not at all,” Bancroft replied, cutting another slice of pear. “I was surprised, frankly. He’s not usually so amenable.”
He certainly isn’t, I thought, and I frowned, a niggling suspicion beginning to grow. Cam had chosen today for our outing, yet he had led me to think it was a terrible inconvenience, a cause for much grumbling and complaint. He reluctantly tore himself away from his books, reluctantly donned his fine attire. He could easily have put Bancroft off until he had completed his research, and yet … Why had he chosen today? Why all that pretense? Was there something I didn’t know about?
I turned to look at the two men across the room. They were standing now, the red-haired man preparing to leave. He hadn’t ordered a meal, I saw, just a glass of ale. Could … could he have come here especially to meet Cam, the “casual” meeting carefully prearranged? That piece of paper they’d been studying so closely, could it have something to do with the plot to assassinate Cumberland? Could Cam have known beforehand that Cumberland would be at the park today with Lady Arabella? No, no, the whole idea was ridiculous. The red-haired man was undoubtedly a poor scrivener, as Bancroft had said, and Cam would never have gone to the promenade if he had even suspected Cumberland would appear. The mere sight of the Bloody Duke had put him in the blackest of moods.
“Is something wrong?” Bancroft asked.
“I—I was just thinking.”
“Frowning, too.”
“Please forgive me. I was being—quite foolish.”
Cam returned to the table a few moments later. The fruit and cheese were replaced by a plate of tiny iced cakes and large brown cups filled with steaming hot coffee. It was rich and strong and delicious. Cam was in a much improved humor as we drank it, talking with Bancroft and actually making an effort to be agreeable. Foolish indeed to have entertained those suspicions, I thought. He had made a great to-do about going out today, yes, grumbling and carrying on, but Cam loved to dramatize himself and was frequently disagreeable just for the sake of being disagreeable, hoping to aggravate me. It was a kind of teasing, a game both of us enjoyed and played to the hilt. He had had no ulterior motives in choosing today for our outing. I had been terribly unfair to him, thinking those thoughts, but I would make it up to him when we got home, I vowed, and he would never know what brought on the sudden amorous onslaught.
He looked so elegant in the maroon frock coat and striped waistcoat and sky blue neckcloth. The neckcloth was still a bit crooked, bunched up under his chin. The harsh, handsome face was all lean planes, sharp and formidable, a face that would intimidate strangers, fascinate women. The frosty blue eyes gleamed with intelligence as he talked to Bancroft, and somehow the heavy ebony wave slanting across his brow emphasized that air of ruthlessness. Not exactly a charmer, my Scot, not warm and amiable and engaging like Bancroft, but I wouldn’t change a thing, I decided. Watching him, proud and full of love, I was eager to get home, eager to tease him and cause that bulge in his breeches again and engage in another of our passionate wrestling matches that he always won.
“More coffee?” Bancroft asked.
“None for me,” I told him, reaching for my gloves.
“Nor me,” Cam said. “We’d better leave, Dick. I want to make some more notes tonight.”
“You’re really enthused about this Japanese book, aren’t you?”
“I want to start it as soon as possible, write it as quickly as I can. I need to replenish the coffers.”
“Won’t argue about that, mate.”
We got up to leave. Bancroft went over to pay the bill and speak to the proprietor as Cam led me toward the door. The candles flickered, casting wavering yellow-gold light over the dark oak walls. The place wasn’t nearly so crowded now, not nearly so noisy. As we reached the open area beyond the tables, the front door opened and two men came in, one of them stout and grumpy, wearing a shabby, poorly fitting navy blue coat and a dirty gray wig like a barrister’s, the other man tall and blond and magnetic, laughing at some remark his companion had just made. He turned. He saw me standing there with Cam. His wonderfully expressive eyes filled with surprise, then delight, and my heart seemed to leap as he hurried over.
“The fair Miranda!” he exclaimed.
Cam bristled. Oh, Jesus, I thought. Bancroft sauntered over to join us, one brow arched in inquiry.
“We meet again,” Garrick said.
I nodded. I tried to smile. I couldn’t. David Garrick looked at me, looked at Cam and Bancroft, sizing up the situation. His eyes were full of speculation now, full of mischief, too, and a smile played on those marvelously chiseled lips. He was wearing dark blue velvet breeches and matching frock coat. Both had seen better days, and the lace that spilled from neck and wrists was definitely tattered. One sleeve was badly ripped, and flakes of dried plaster were sprinkled across his shoulders. Looked as though he’d put in a hard day of manual labor, he did, and he smelled of sweat and dust and wood shavings, yet David Garrick seemed to carry his own radiance along with him. Although the room was still dim, I had the feeling that we were all bathed in light.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he said. “Thought you were going back to—Chester, was it?”
I felt my cheeks coloring. “I—I changed my mind.”
“She can speak! Lovely voice, too. Sam! Sam, come over here. I want you to meet the lass I was telling you about a few weeks ago.”
His companion lumbered over, heavy, cumbersome, looking extremely unsociable. His great jowly face was pasty pale and pockmarked. His fleshy lips were petulant, his nose enormous, and his huge, myopic eyes seemed to stare right through me, shrewd and critical and missing nothing. The long, e
laborately curled gray wig was greasy, and his dusty navy blue coat was at least two sizes too large. His black silk stock was threadbare. The famous Sam Johnson did indeed resemble a great, disgruntled bear, I thought. Garrick introduced us. Johnson grunted.
“Was I not right?” Garrick asked. “Is she not the fairest creature you’ve ever feasted your eyes on?”
Johnson studied me, scowling, and several moments passed before he finally passed judgment.
“Passable,” he growled. “I’ve never trusted a woman with red hair. Invariably shrewish, every last one of ’em. I want my poached salmon and mutton with red currant jam, Davy.”
“I’ve heard a great deal about you, Mr. Johnson,” I said in an angelic voice. He stared at me as though amazed I would have the effrontery to address him.
“None of it was highly flattering,” I continued. “I fear I must agree that you are the rudest man in London.”
“Touché, Sam! Touché Isn’t she a joy?”
“Impertinent wench, if you want my opinion. It’s that red hair.”
“Not impertinent, Mr. Johnson,” I said sweetly, “merely unintimidated by your impressive reputation and your boorish manner. I’ve read several of your pieces and enjoyed them immensely. I found them full of warmth and wit and wisdom.”
“Did you, indeed?” he snorted.
“Qualities sadly unapparent in their author,” I added.
Johnson blanched, at a loss for words. The surly old bear was clearly unaccustomed to such impertinence, particularly from the lips of a snip of a girl like me. Constantly assured by colleagues and cronies that he was a Great Man of Letters with a tremendous future ahead of him, he took them at their word and played the role with carefully cultivated eccentricity. He was unquestionably a great writer—I had loved his poem “London,” had been deeply moved by his account of the life of Richard Savage—but he was also a posturing old fraud.
“Touché again, Sam!” Garrick cried, delighted. “Seems you’ve finally found someone to call your bluff.”
“Bluff, indeed!”
“Sam, you see, is actually the kindest, gentlest of men,” Garrick explained. “He lives in constant fear that the world will find him out.”
“His secret’s safe with me,” I said.
Garrick grinned. Johnson glowered, but he looked at me with a new interest, and I thought I detected a tiny gleam of amusement in those shrewd, myopic eyes. Cam was stony-faced. Bancroft was finding it hard to conceal the merriment he felt. There was a moment of awkward silence, and then, remembering Mrs. Wooden’s instructions on how to make a proper introduction, I introduced Cam and Bancroft to the other men. Johnson grunted. Garrick made an exaggerated bow.
“Mr. Garrick’s an actor,” I said.
“That’s obvious,” Cam snarled.
“I’ve seen you perform,” Bancroft said. “I understand you’re forming a new company.”
“That I am, and I hope to persuade the fair Miranda to sign up with me. Such beauty would illuminate any stage she cared to grace.”
“Miranda is not interested in the stage, Garrick,” Cam told him.
“No.”
“Not in the least.”
Garrick turned to me. “Your uncle, I assume?”
“I’m Miranda’s protector,” Cam said coldly.
“I’m just a friend,” Bancroft added.
“Protector?” Garrick said, eyes twinkling. “It seems our Marcelon was prevaricating quite outrageously that day. I must give her a severe scolding, and you, my beauty, must come to the Drury Lane and see what I’m doing with the place.”
“I’m afraid Miranda won’t have an opportunity to accept your invitation, Garrick,” Cam said. His voice was steely. “She’s going to be far too busy, I assure you.”
Garrick ignored these remarks and, taking my hand, lifted it to his lips and said that seeing me again had been an overwhelming pleasure. Cam tensed at my side, but Garrick was totally unperturbed by the Scot’s open hostility. Releasing my hand, he told me that he hoped to have the pleasure again quite soon, and then he took the grumbling Johnson by the arm and led him toward a table in the back of the room. Bancroft said that our carriage would be waiting at Covent Garden Square and tactfully suggested that we move on. Cam nodded curtly, and I felt a strange exhilaration as he took my elbow and marched me outside. He was jealous, actually jealous. You couldn’t be jealous unless you cared. I wanted to skip back inside and give Davy Garrick a big hug for bringing this about, but under the circumstances it would have been most ill-advised.
26
Mr. Sheppard sighed wearily, adjusted his spectacles and reluctantly agreed to pay me twenty pounds for the two stories. “Pockets” was the story I had described to Bancroft at Green’s three weeks ago, and “The Wages of Sin” was all about a very young prostitute forced to go on the streets at the age of nine, wasted away by disease and drink at fourteen, finding relief at last when she leaps from Tower Bridge and drowns in the Thames. Not happy stories, neither of them, but they reflected the life I had known in St. Giles, and both characters were typical of thousands who struggled to survive in the slums of London. Like “The Gin Girl,” they seemed to have written themselves, words coming in great torrents. I had spent an afternoon on each.
“You’re going to bankrupt me,” Sheppard grumbled as he wrote a voucher. “Ten pounds a story! If my other contributors ever found out—” He shuddered at the thought and waved the paper to dry the ink.
“I’d be happy to submit the stories elsewhere,” I said sweetly. “After ‘The Gin Girl,’ I feel sure there are other publishers who would be interested in M.J. Might even pay me more than ten. Might pay twelve. If it’s such an imposition—”
“Don’t even consider it!” he protested. “You wait here. I’ll go fetch the money myself.”
I had to smile as the dapper, flustered little man scurried out of the office. Sheppard might grumble as a matter of course—I suspected that all publishers grumbled from habit as much as anything else—but he wasn’t going to risk losing me, not after “The Gin Girl” had proved to be such a tremendous success. The issue of The Bard that contained it had come out three days after our dinner at Green’s, and it had sold out within hours, had gone back to press not once but three times, all because of “The Gin Girl.” The story seemed to have taken literary London by storm, the chief topic of conversation in all of the coffeehouses, the true identity of the mysterious M.J. hotly debated. Several minor scriveners had modestly implied that they were responsible for the piece, though none could provide proof, and Sheppard refused to provide so much as a hint as to the author.
I had been amused to hear that many claimed Samuel Johnson had written it, an allegation the old bear had hotly denied. It was a remarkable piece of work, he declared, worthy of Defoe at his best, gripping, powerful, written in vigorous, moving prose, but he couldn’t take credit for it, much as he might like to. The author was obviously middle-aged, he added, for the story reflected half a lifetime of observation of the human condition. The feeling and compassion in the piece indicated that the author might well be a man of the cloth, which would explain the pseudonym. While compassionate, “The Gin Girl” was grittily realistic and would cause the powers that be to look askance at any clergyman who had penned it. Johnson concluded by saying that he would greatly like to meet M.J. and treat him to dinner. I wondered what his reaction would be if I rapped on his door and told him I had come to accept his invitation. Apoplexy, probably.
Sheppard had conveyed much of this information to me, Mrs. Wooden the rest, for I couldn’t resist sharing my secret with her. It was very exciting to have caused such a furor, to be the subject of so much speculation, but it seemed an awful lot of fuss over such a simple little story, and, besides, I was much too busy copying Cam’s new book and keeping the household going to pay much mind to it. Occasionally I would take my copy of The Bard from its hiding place and gaze at it, and each time I felt that same wonderment I had felt when I had
first seen it. I turned the sleek, expensive pages. I read the beautifully printed words and studied the Hogarth engraving especially commissioned to illustrate my story, and the wonderment swept over me anew, yet somehow it didn’t seem to have anything to do with me, Miranda, living on Greenbriar Court.
Just as well, I thought ruefully. One writer on the court was trouble enough. Cam had begun The Stranger From Japan the morning after our evening with Bancroft, and he had been working furiously ever since, working like a man possessed, driving himself deplorably, almost as though he were in some kind of race with himself. For some reason he felt he had to finish it before the end of July, and in three weeks he had already done three hundred pages. Written at white-hot speed, the pages were charged with passion and filled with thundering action, the most exciting he’d ever done, and those exotic details about Japan and barbaric Japanese customs added a new spice that was going to enchant his readers. Jeremy Hammond, the English samurai warrior who wreaks havoc in stately homes, was Cam’s most vivid hero, and he had never employed the revenge motif more powerfully … or with such violence. Dispatching villainous foes with samurai sword or spread-eagling them over razor-sharp bamboo stakes, Hammond was sure to delight all those Roderick Cane readers who relished such bloodthirsty fare. Lurid, thundering melodrama the book might be, but it was written with great vigor and undeniable panache.
Working so furioulsy, often going without sleep for forty-eight hours at a time, Cam had been in an unusually volatile mood, flaring up at the least provocation, throwing things about, yelling, or else he was grim and silent, brooding, reminding me of a keg of gunpowder about to explode. I had had my hands full, no question of that. Feeding him, fetching things for him, picking up after him had kept me hopping, and copying the flood of pages that came from his pen took up the rest of the time. I had barely been able to squeeze in my daily lessons with Mrs. Wooden, and the fact that I had been able to write two stories of my own still amazed me. The mysterious M.J. might be the current sensation of the coffeehouses, but Miranda James had precious little time to indulge herself with fantasies about fame and fortune. I was too busy coping with Cam Gordon and his alter ego.
Once More, Miranda Page 41