I stood up as Thomas Sheppard came back into the office with my money. His large blue eyes were martyred as he handed it to me, woeful as he watched me take out a small chamois bag and drop the money inside. Drawing the string tight, I carefully tucked the bag away in the bodice of my sprigged muslin frock. Sheppard’s cheeks flushed a bright pink.
“Isn’t that a—uh—rather unusual place to keep your money?”
“Could be,” I admitted, “but it’s safe. No one’s going to be able to pinch it from me, not unless they plunge a hand between my teats. It’d take a brazen thief to do that, wouldn’t it?”
“I—uh—suppose so.” His cheeks grew even pinker.
“I’m on to all their tricks,” I said chattily. “I used to be a thief myself, you know. I wouldn’t dream of carrying money in a pocket or purse. That’s like asking to be robbed.”
“You’re an amazing young woman, Miranda.”
“I don’t see anything so amazing about knowing how to watch out for myself. I’d be a bloody—I’d be an idiot if I hadn’t learned something from all those years in St. Giles.”
Sheppard shook his head and moved behind his desk, idly fingering the stories he had just purchased.
“I’d say you learned a great deal from those years,” he said. “These stories are superb. I hope you’ll do more—as quickly as possible.”
“I have a couple more in mind,” I confessed, “but they have to gestate a while before I’ll be ready to commit them to paper.”
Sheppard smiled. “‘Gestate’? Your vocabulary is certainly growing.”
“I try to learn five new words a day. Mrs. Wooden helps me. We select a word, and then I have to use it in ten sentences, five spoken, five written. It’s not easy, I can tell you for sure, but after all that the word’s yours for keeps.”
“And how long will these stories have to gestate?”
“I never can tell. I thought about ‘Pockets’ for several weeks before I sat down to write it. ‘Wages’ just popped into my mind one morning. I seemed to see the whole thing all at once. I wrote it the next day, soon as I could get to it. Copying Cam’s book keeps me busy as can be.”
Sheppard frowned, thinking. “You know,” he began hesitantly, “it might not be a bad idea if we went back to our old arrangement with Cam.”
“Old arrangement?” I was puzzled.
“Hiring a copyist to decipher his manuscripts. We’d pay him ourselves,” he added hastily. “That would leave you free to do your own work. You could do twice as many stories.”
“But—”
“You’re going to be a very important writer, Miranda. I don’t think you have any idea how good you are. You’re that rare and unusual phenomenon, the natural writer. You were born with a remarkable gift, a gift you’re just now beginning to develop, and one day—one day quite soon, I feel—you’re going to be even more valuable to Sheppard & Co. than Cam is.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “Cam’s the writer. I—I just scribble.”
“Cam is a very competent novelist. He knows what his readers want. He delivers it. He does it extremely well. You, on the other hand, write from the heart, from the soul. You—”
“You’re just trying to flatter me because you want more stories,” I interrupted. My voice was light, teasing, but I was worried by what he had said and didn’t want to hear any more. “I’ll go on copying Cam’s manuscripts, Mr. Sheppard. He—he’d be terribly upset if we changed things, particularly now that he’s working so hard.”
“You love him very much, don’t you, my dear?”
“I suppose I do.”
“I hope you’re not hurt too badly.”
“What—what does that mean?”
Sheppard hesitated, and then he shook his head again and forced himself to smile and assumed a false, breezy manner that didn’t deceive me for a minute.
“Nothing,” he said cheerfully. “I’m delighted with the stories. I’ll publish ‘Pockets’ in the next issue of The Bard, ‘Wages’ in the issue after that. I’ll commission Hogarth to make more engravings, one for each story. Which reminds me, I have a gift for you.”
“A gift?”
Sheppard nodded and opened his top desk drawer and took out a piece of heavy paperboard with a tissue-thin sheet hanging over it. He handed it to me, and when I lifted the tissue I beheld the original Hogarth illustration for “The Gin Girl.” There was my Betty coming out of the gin shop, several bottles clutched to her bosom with one arm. She was holding Little Joey’s hand, and her eyes were full of grief. The proprietor of the shop was leering at her through the window, while a sodden old bawd sprawled on the pavement at the side of the steps, clutching an empty bottle. It was a scene I had witnessed daily in St. Giles, drawn to the life in all its squalor, all its sadness.
I had known little about Hogarth before The Bard appeared. Mrs. Wooden had eagerly filled me in, letting me know what an honor it was for him to have done the illustration. Although scorned by critics and connoisseurs of art, Hogarth was one of the most popular and certainly the most controversial artists of the day. The Rake’s Progress, a series of engravings finished in 1735, had caused a sensation, so critical were they of English society, and another series, Marriage à la Mode, just completed last year, wittily and savagely depicted the mating customs of the aristocracy. Hogarth was devoting more and more time to portrait painting of late, Marcelon had informed me and declared that the portrait of Garrick as Richard III he had painted two years ago, in ’45, was Davy’s favorite by far. Hogarth might be arrogant and egotistical, despised by the art world, but she, for one, considered him a wonderful artist.
“I—I don’t know what to say, Mr. Sheppard,” I told him, gazing at the beautifully executed illustration. “Hogarth is—he’s a very famous artist. Mrs. Wooden told me all about him.”
“He’s famous, all right,” Sheppard agreed, “but for the wrong reasons. I’ve known him for years—chap’s far more temperamental than any of my writers. He’s grateful for the little commissions I throw his way, ‘finger exercises,’ he calls ’em, although he doesn’t hesitate to charge an exorbitant fee.”
“This—this must be very valuable,” I said.
“Probably will be one day. I wanted you to have it.”
The publisher smiled and patted my hand. What a perplexing man he is, I thought. He looked like a timid, dried-up little pixie, yet he was one of the shrewdest, toughest men on Fleet Street. He played the martyr and grumbled about paying me twenty pounds, and then he turned around and gave me an original Hogarth that must be worth several times that amount. I was deeply moved and found it difficult to express myself.
“Thank—thank you very much, Mr. Sheppard.”
“Consider it a bribe,” he said as he led me out of the office. “Sheppard and Company want all the stories you can produce, and we want that novel, too—the novel you’re going to write in a year or so.”
“Oh, I’ve given up on novels. Lord John and Lady Cynthia were enough to convince me I’ve no knack for it. Stories are one thing, but a novel—I’ll leave that to Cam.”
“We’ll see,” he said.
“Thank you again for the Hogarth, Mr. Sheppard.”
“I’m very fond of you, my dear,” he said, opening the front door. The bell jangled merrily. “And not just because you’re going to make a tremendous lot of money for us. You’re a bewitching creature, and you’ve brought a freshness and vitality into this stuffy old firm that was sorely needed. I thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome,” I told him, “but the next story is still going to cost you twelve.”
Sheppard made an exasperated noise and shoved me playfully through the door, closing it behind me. I smiled to myself and walked blithely on down Fleet, holding the Hogarth carefully against my bosom. I’d have to hide it, of course. Couldn’t have Cam finding it and asking a lot of questions. I would wrap it in brown paper and put it in the bottom drawer of the secretary, along with my copy of The Bard and the
original manuscripts of my stories. He never looked in the secretary, considered it my territory. It’d be safe as houses there. Me, owning an original Hogarth and twenty pounds snugly tucked between my breasts in a soft chamois bag, money I had earned myself. Honestly, too. Life was downright amazing, that’s what it was.
Dodging a noisy newsboy, moving around a stout gentleman examining the books on a table in front of one of the shops, I looked at the lovely, soot-streaked row of buildings—brown, tan, dusty orange brick, all marvelously ornate with plaster molding, multilevel roofs projecting a forest of chimneypots—and I marveled at this incredible, bustling city where so much could happen so quickly. The dirty-faced urchin who had been lifting pocket watches a year ago was now the talk of the coffeehouses, albeit pseudonymously. I had met the celebrated Samuel Johnson. David Garrick wanted me to go on the stage. I was living with Roderick Cane, famous in a way—infamous, alas, in literary circles—and Thomas Sheppard wanted me to write a novel myself. It was a wonderment.
I hadn’t told Sheppard the truth about my writing a novel, not exactly. Lord John and Lady Cynthia had been an ordeal, it was true, and I had decided I hadn’t the knack, but that was before I wrote the stories. I’d never be able to write a pretty, fashionable romance for the ladies to while away their hours with, lapdog in lap, bonbons nearby, for I knew nothing about that kind of life, but a novel about a young girl who grows up in St. Giles and manages to rise above her environment … a novel, in fact, with plot line closely following my own life, with necessary changes … that was a different matter altogether. I’d call it Duchess Annie and my hero would be a painter, not a writer, and … I’d probably never write it, much too ambitious, much too scary to think about undertaking, but the idea was there, just the same, gestating away like crazy in my head. Who had time to write a novel, anyway? Snatching a few hours to dash off a story was one thing. Undertaking a major project like a novel … it was merely a foolish dream. Just as well I’d kept my mouth shut in Sheppard’s office. Wouldn’t have done to go blabbing away about such a silly idea.
Lost in thought, I stepped off the pavement and moved across the street without bothering to look. A huge lorry almost ran me down, the burly driver waving his fist and cursing me roundly. Instinctively I made a face and extended a stiff middle finger, quite forgetting for a moment that I was a well-bred young lady. He gaped and almost dropped the reins, probably because I was wearing an elegant pink frock and seemed so refined. A man on the pavement looked stunned, too. I smiled sweetly at him and moved on toward the narrow passageway leading to Greenbriar Court. The saucy urchin hadn’t been completely exorcised yet. I was going to have to work on that. Shooting the finger was definitely not done.
And then I walked directly into the woman in the violet silk cloak, almost knocked her down, I did, stumbled myself, dropped the Hogarth, let out a “Bloody ’ell!” that startled the pigeons roosting on the eaves above. Tottering, I slammed my hand over the spot where the chamois bag rested beneath my bodice, ready to scratch and kick if she tried to snatch it. Hussy might be gorgeously attired in a dark blue silk gown and that long, hooded cloak, but you never could tell.
“Are—are you all right?” she asked.
“I ain’t ’urt! Where’s my drawin’?”
The woman picked up the Hogarth from the pavement. I snatched it out of her hand, and I recognized her then. The hood of her cloak had slipped back over the lustrous blue-black waves. A soft pink flush suffused those creamy magnolia-smooth cheeks, and the blue, blue eyes were full of concern. Close up, Lady Arabella Dunston was even more beautiful, so beautiful I could hardly believe it.
“I fear it was my fault,” she said. Her voice was soft and low, a lovely voice. “I was—preoccupied. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“Oh, no,” I protested. “It was my fault. I charged right into you, almost knocked you down.”
Lady Arabella smiled a gentle smile and pulled the hood back up around her face. The deep violet silk made her eyes seem violet blue. I marveled at the long, curling lashes, the lids faintly etched with pale mauve shadow, the smooth, perfectly arched brows. She emanated compassion and kindness, an aura of gentility and goodness that was as intangible as perfume and just as real. There was quiet sadness, too, in her eyes, in her manner, and I found it hard to believe this woman was the mistress of the treacherous Cumberland. No hard, calculating courtesan, this, no haughty, high-born trollop with the instincts of a guttersnipe and a heart of stone.
“Are you certain you’re all right?” she murmured in that low, musical voice. “You look rather stunned.”
“I’m fine. I—I must apologize for sayin’ what I said. Sometimes I forget myself.”
“No apology is necessary. I’ve heard that expression used quite often, though never with such quaint inflection. Is your drawing undamaged?”
I lifted the sheet of tissue up. Protected by the stiff paper-board on which it was mounted, the Hogarth hadn’t been harmed. I sighed with relief, smoothing the tissue back down. When I looked back up at her, Lady Arabella averted her eyes, and I had the fleeting impression that she had been studying my face, that she knew who I was. That was absurd, of course. How could she possibly? There was a moment of silence, and then she smiled again, nodded and moved past me. I turned, watching her as she walked on down Fleet to where a dusty, undistinguished coach stood waiting, obviously a common hackney hired by the hour. Glancing around apprehensively, as though fearing surveillance, she pulled the hood closer about her face, opened the door of the coach and climbed inside.
The coach drove away. I stood there, only a few yards from the passageway to Greenbriar Court, puzzled by the incident. What was the gorgeous Lady Arabella Dunston doing on Fleet Street at this time of the afternoon, and why had she been wearing a long, concealing cloak on such a warm summer day? Why would the acknowledged mistress of the Duke of Cumberland be riding in a dusty, mud-splattered coach? Her manner had been … almost furtive. It was a puzzlement indeed. Fine ladies didn’t skulk around London on their own in hired coaches unless … unless there was a very good reason for wanting to go undetected. Some man was probably involved, I thought. Could the Duke’s mistress have a secret lover, someone she had met in one of the coffeehouses on Fleet? That would explain the cloak, the coach, the furtive manner.
Who could blame her? I thought, strolling down the narrow brick passageway toward the court. She might be the Duke’s mistress, but I didn’t imagine she had much choice in the matter. A widow alone and penniless would have no defense when the King’s son decided he wanted her. I suspected she had been totally unwilling, yet unable to put off a man so very powerful. Those lovely eyes had been so sad that afternoon I had seen her in the carriage, sad today as well. If she had a secret lover—some young man as impoverished as she, probably—I wished them well. How horrible to be in the clutches of a man like Cumberland, a victim of his lust. Gave me the shivers just to think about it. Poor Lady Arabella. I certainly didn’t envy her.
Cam was still upstairs in his study when I got in. I hid the Hogarth in the secretary, hid the money, too. I’d have to give it to Bancroft the first chance I had. He had already invested the five pounds I had earned from “The Gin Girl” and told me it was sure to double itself before long. Glancing at the clock, I saw that it was almost five. Time to start thinking about Cam’s dinner. There was half a beef pie in the pantry. I could heat it up for him, or I could pop around to the chophouse and bring him back something more substantial. He hadn’t eaten any lunch today, had irritably shooed me out of the room when I went up to ask him what he wanted. He was working too hard, not eating properly. He was going to have a proper meal tonight, I vowed.
He wasn’t working when I entered the study. He was standing at the window with arms folded across his chest, staring moodily out at the court. Something was bothering him, I could see that as soon as he turned to face me. His eyes were a dark blue, a deep crease between his brows, and his facial muscles were t
aut. The afternoon light spilling through the window behind him created deep blue highlights in his jet black hair. He moved over to the desk, sullen, displeased to see me. He looked leaner, I thought, looked drawn, faint smudges beneath his eyes. I longed to go over to him and brush that heavy wave back and stroke that lean cheek and comfort him, but he had thrown that invisible wall up again and I knew I couldn’t reach him.
“Is something wrong, Cam?” I asked quietly.
He shook his head and picked up the lopsided pewter owl that perched atop the pages he had written today. A sizable stack, I observed. He stared down at the pages, but something told me he wasn’t thinking about the book. After a moment he set the owl back down, scowled and looked up as though surprised to find me still standing there.
“I came to see about your dinner,” I told him. “There’s some beef pie I could warm up, or I could go round to the chophouse and—”
“I won’t be eating in tonight, Miranda.”
“You’re going out?”
“Bancroft came by while you were gone. I’m meeting him at the club, and after we dine we’ll probably make a night of it. I’ve no idea how late I may be out.”
“I—I see.”
“I want to finish this chapter before I leave. I’ll leave the pages on your secretary. You can copy them after I’m gone.”
His manner was cold and remote. He was clearly dismissing me. I turned and left, livid. He might have something on his mind, might be bothered, but that was no reason for him to treat me like I had some highly contagious disease. Me so concerned about him, wanting to get him a proper meal, and him dismissing me like I was a bothersome servant. Sod him! I was on the sofa in the sitting room, reading, when he came in shortly before eight. He was wearing his handsome new maroon frock coat and breeches, his striped waistcoat and the sky blue neckcloth. His face was still drawn. He looked tense. The smudges beneath his eyes seemed even more pronounced. He glanced at me, set the pages on top of the secretary and left without a word. A real charmer, he was. If he thought I was going to work my ass off copying his bloody manuscript while he enjoyed a night on the town, he was sadly mistaken.
Once More, Miranda Page 42