Once More, Miranda

by Jennifer Wilde

  “—needed to get out for a spell,” she was saying. “I’ve been quite worried about you, my dear, I may as well confess it. These past two weeks you’ve been—distracted, preoccupied. Something’s been worrying you, I can tell. It isn’t like you to be so listless.”

  “I—I’ve been working very hard.”

  “Much too hard,” she declared. “All that writing, all that copying. You need some amusement, Miranda. You stay cooped up in that house, working like a slave for that awful man—he terrifies me, my dear, so dour and scowly, so volatile. He’s handsome, of course, in a lean, ruthless sort of way, but he doesn’t appreciate you.”

  “You don’t know him, Marcie,” I said quietly.

  “I know what he’s doing to you, my dear. Men! How complicated they make our lives. How much better off we’d be without them! Did I tell you I had another run-in with Major Barnaby?”

  Mrs. Wooden launched into her account of the latest spat with great enthusiasm, and though I appeared to listen, my mind wandered. Two weeks it had been since I had learned of Cam’s deception, since I had vowed to do something about it, and I had done nothing but worry myself sick. He hadn’t gone out even once during all that time, had devoted every waking hour to his work, and I tried to tell myself that I had overreacted, that there was some other explanation for those nights when he had supposedly been with Bancroft. With any other man I would have suspected another woman, but in Cam’s case that would be absurd. He was a thorough misogynist, actively disliked women, distrusted them. They were a necessary evil, and as long as he had one at home to take care of all of his needs, he wasn’t about to seek the company of another. No, I knew in my heart he was conspiring with the rebels, and I had merely been procrastinating, keeping quiet because I so dreaded a major confrontation.

  I wouldn’t be able to put it off much longer, I knew that. He was almost finished with the book, had been working on the last chapter when I had finally gone to bed last night. Once the book was finished, he would devote all his energy to the conspiracy, and that disaster I dreaded would be upon him. I had to do something, but what? For two weeks that question had plagued me. It was always there, making it impossible for me to relax, to sleep properly, to concentrate on my work. I had hoped my coming to the theater with Mrs. Wooden this afternoon would prove distracting and get my mind off things, but it didn’t seem to be working out that way.

  “And I was absolutely dumbfounded, my dear! I couldn’t believe he was actually asking me to dinner. He’s going to do the cooking—he says my plum cake with apricot brandy can’t hold a candle to his almond delight—and later we’re going to play cards. He was very dry and fussy about it, said he was asking me over just to get me off his back, but I know he secretly longs for company. A good-looking man like that has no business being alone.”

  I smiled, making an effort to be cheerful. “I’m sure you’ll captivate him, Marcie,” I said brightly.

  “Oh, my dear, I have no desire to do that!” she protested. “I’m just being kind to a poor, lonely old man.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m an artiste, my dear. I’ve no time for romance.”

  Garrick rejoined us and showed us samples of the deep blue velvet that had been selected for the curtains and pointed out the elegant gilt work on the proscenium while workmen continued to bang and bustle and shout. The great chandelier tinkled as it was carried off the stage, pendants shimmering, crystal ropes swaying. Garrick wiped his brow and looked about him with satisfaction, visibly pleased with the wonders he had wrought. Mrs. Wooden made exclamations and said she’d never seen anything like it and it would be a joy and honor to act in such a theater, and then, abruptly, she cut herself short and stared as a middle-aged woman in pink approached us from across the stage.

  The woman was plump, with a round, moon face and great dark eyes and fluffy white hair pulled away from her face and fastened in a bun in back. She had the placid, sweet expression of a contented cow, I thought, yet there was an undeniable warmth about her, a curious allure that made one feel cozy inside just seeing her. Her pink silk gown was exquisitely simple, her pleasant face free of makeup. As she drew nearer Mrs. Wooden bristled, a bright, false smile forming on her lips.

  “Mrs. Cibber!” she cried. “How lovely to see you!”

  Mrs. Cibber smiled sweetly and took Marcelon’s hands and squeezed them and said the pleasure was all hers. She had left a script in her dressing room, she explained, had come back to fetch it and had heard her dear old friend’s voice coming from the stage. Mrs. Wooden winced at the “old” and smiled all the more and gave the plump actress a hug. Garrick introduced us and Mrs. Cibber said I was enchanting and asked if I was going to join the company. Her voice was very soft, reminding me of mellowed old velvet.

  “Miranda doesn’t act,” Mrs. Wooden said quickly, sounding quite shrill in comparison. “You already have your dressing room? I imagine it’s very grand, isn’t it? I’d love to see it, my dear.”

  “Davy’s been very generous,” Mrs. Cibber told her. “I don’t know how I’ll ever adjust to so much luxury and space after years of changing in those drafty old broom closets we used.”

  “How well I remember,” Mrs. Wooden sighed. “Mildewed walls, the smells of stale powder and grease paint, a rack of mothy old costumes abandoned by the previous occupant, and the mirror was always too small and murky as mud. They were always freezing cold, too, those dressing rooms. How many times did I go onstage with chilblains, shivering in an elegant velvet costume.”

  “My new dressing room is nothing like that. Come, I’ll show you.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it! I’ll join you in a few minutes, Miranda.”

  The two women left, the one so serene, the other so animated. Davy Garrick watched them depart with a thoughtful look in his eyes, a half-smile playing on his lips. His clothes might be disreputable, his face smudged, and that thick blond hair might be a bit too oily, but he was still the most attractive man I had ever seen, the unpretentious attire somehow enhancing that virile charm and personal radiance. As Marcelon and Mrs. Cibber disappeared, he turned to me and gave the smile full play.

  “Poor Marcelon,” he said. “She’s so transparent.”

  “You are going to find a part for her, aren’t you? You—you aren’t merely stringing her along?”

  “Would I do that?” he asked teasingly.

  “I’ve no idea, Mr. Garrick.”

  “Do you think you could possibly call me Davy?”

  “I don’t know you that well.”

  “We’ll have to do something about that, my beauty.”

  “Getting back to Marcie—”

  “I’m planning a revival of The Way of the World. Marcelon isn’t the greatest actress in the world, but in the right role, one suited to her own particular talents, she’s capable of giving an amazing performance.”

  “She’d be perfect as Lady Wishfort,” I said.

  “You know the play, then. Congreve might have written Wishfort with Marcelon in mind—it’s pure Marcie, all flash and fireworks and frippery. She’ll be sensational. I haven’t mentioned any of this to her yet, don’t want to get her all stirred up until everything’s definitely set.”

  “I won’t say anything,” I promised. “She’s going to be thrilled when she finds out, though. It’s very kind of you to—to take such an interest in your friends.”

  “It’s my nature,” he confessed. “I’m the kindest, most thoughtful, most lovable chap in London—don’t believe all those stories you hear to the contrary.”

  The smile was still curving on those full pink lips, and he was looking into my eyes with a disconcerting intensity. David Garrick had sexual allure that was almost overwhelming in its power, and even though I was immune to it, I could feel its potency. As those dark, gleaming eyes looked into mine I realized that he would like to sleep with me, and that took me aback. Loving Cam as I did and so totally immersed in that love, I was incapable of thinking of any other man
in that way, even one as glorious as David Garrick. I lowered my eyes, not really perturbed. I felt he was paying me the ultimate compliment, but I didn’t want to give him the wrong impression.

  “Come,” he said lightly, “I’ll show you the Green Room.”

  He led me backstage, a dim, cavernous area full of dust and shadows, ropes dangling down like vines, old crates stacked haphazardly, painted flats leaning against the walls in tattered sections. He took my arm, holding it lightly just above the elbow and guiding me around the various obstacles. Holding back a section of mothy red velvet curtain, he led me down a narrow corridor that smelled of metal and rust and peeling paint. The bustle and noise out front seemed distant, sound muted, and the air here was cool and rather clammy. I had the feeling we were being observed by the ghosts of all those famous performers who had thronged here in days of yore. It was an eerie sensation, discomfiting but not at all alarming.

  “All the improvements and embellishments have been made out front,” he explained, “where they will show. Backstage the Drury’s the same old barn, vast and drafty, though I’ve redone the principals’ dressing rooms. Wouldn’t want to tamper with the atmosphere back here. The ghosts might get me.”

  “Ghosts?”

  “Place is full of ’em,” he said. “Didn’t you see that weeping lady in her pointed hat and medieval veils? Wringing her hands as we passed her, longing to play Guinevere just one more time. I’ll probably haunt the place too some day. Couldn’t think of a nicer way to spend eternity. Be careful of these steps. I fear they’re a bit uneven.”

  The Green Room was cozy and comfortable and had obviously not been tampered with. Everything was slightly worn and mellow, fabrics a bit threadbare, woods gleaming with the soft patina of age. Candles glowed warmly, and the low tables in front of the sofas were littered with old programs and yellowing handbills and discarded scripts. The room wasn’t green at all. The walls were covered with old rose silk that had faded to a pale gray-pink, adorned with the portraits of actors and actresses of days gone by in ornate but tarnished gold frames. An ancient purple velvet cloat trimmed with false ermine hung in a tall glass display case. Garrick told me that it was said to have belonged to the great Richard Burbage, worn by him the night he first performed Lear.

  “Just think,” I said, truly impressed. “Shakespeare himself might have handled it, might even have tried it on.”

  “Quite likely,” Garrick agreed. “You know Shakespeare?”

  “I grew up on him,” I replied. “I know all the plays, know parts of some of them by heart.”

  Garrick smiled and opened the glass case, carefully removing the aged, once sumptuous cloak, the purple velvet nap worn, the ermine sadly yellowed. Stepping behind me, he placed the cloak over my shoulders and reached around to fasten it at my throat. I was amazed, in awe, too, as the heavy folds engulfed me, falling to my feet. Me, Miranda, wearing a cloak that might once have been worn by the greatest writer of all time. It made me feel terribly humble, made me feel nervous, too. Garrick took my hand and led me over to a long mirror so that I might see myself.

  “It suits you,” he said softly. “You look very regal, like some sad, lovely princess.”

  He was standing behind me, a little to one side, and I could see him in the mirror, tall, handsome, smiling a gentle smile as his eyes met mine in the glass. I turned to face him. His eyes were glowing with open admiration, and there was desire as well, subtle, good-natured, yet unmistakable.

  “I wish you’d reconsider joining my company,” he said.

  “I’m not an actress, Mr. Garrick.”

  “I could make an actress of you, Miranda. You have intelligence, it shines in your eyes. You have sensitivity and soul as well, and, most important of all, you have remarkable presence.”

  “Indeed?”

  “You’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, and you have a special magnetism that is extremely rare. You must know that. You must have seen the way men look at you.”

  “I appreciate your interest, but—” I hesitated.

  “You’re not tempted?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I said quietly.

  “That’s a great pity—a great disappointment, too. Personally, I mean. I find you utterly fascinating, Miranda. I’d like to know you—much better.”

  The husky, caressing tone of his voice left no doubt as to what he meant by that. How many women would have given anything to become the mistress of the famous David Garrick? Hundreds. Thousands. And he wanted me, Miranda, late of St. Giles and still not entirely free of that environment. I wasn’t the woman he believed me to be, but somehow I felt my background would make no difference whatsoever to him. He was an amiable man, kindhearted, generous—totally unaffected for all his fame. Virile, charged with energy, he would be a wonderfully passionate lover—playful, considerate, showering his woman with attention and robust affection. I sensed all this, and I was almost sorry my heart irrevocably belonged to another.

  “I hate to see you wasting yourself, Miranda,” he said.

  “Wasting myself?”

  “On a surly, volatile writer of cheap fiction who is utterly incapable of appreciating you. I know all about Gordon. I made it my business to find out about him. The man’s little better than a thug, obsessed with violence.”

  “That isn’t true.”

  “You wait on him hand and foot. He treats you like a chattel. He’s unworthy of you.”

  I carefully removed the cloak and handed it to him. “That may be so,” I replied, “but I happen to love him.”

  Garrick gazed into my eyes for a moment longer, and then he smiled and shook his head and replaced the cloak in its case. There was no tension whatsoever between us. Closing the glass door, latching it, he turned to look at me with fond eyes. I suspected that he had rarely, if ever, been turned down, but he was handling it with wonderful aplomb.

  “The human heart is mysterious indeed,” he observed woefully.

  “And mine belongs to Cam Gordon.”

  “Alas! Would that it were not so. I’d like to dress you in velvets, cover you with jewels, smother you with attention.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’d spoil you deplorably, Miranda.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  He stood there with his arms folded across his chest, his head cocked to one side, a gentle, thoughtful smile on his lips. His dark eyes gleamed, still fond, disappointed as well. Tall, with the lean, muscular build of an athlete in superb condition, he exuded energy and good nature and sexual allure in his worn, shabby attire. David Garrick was golden, touched with genius, one of the great men of our day, and I felt something very like regret as I gazed at him. He sighed, running a hand over his sleek blond hair, and when he spoke his voice was wonderfully persuasive.

  “Why settle for crumbs, Miranda, when you can have a kingdom?”

  “You’re offering me a kingdom?”

  He nodded slowly. “All that I have. I think it’s quite likely that I’m in love with you.”

  “You don’t even know who—who I am.”

  “I’d like to spend the rest of my life finding out.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr.—” I hesitated, smiled gently. “I’m sorry, Davy.”

  He sighed again, heavily this time, quite dramatically. The mood lightened. He looked utterly crestfallen, playing the rejected suitor with just the right touch of exaggeration.

  “I intend to suffer,” he told me, “but I shan’t do it in silence. I shall pine for you, Miranda.”

  “No doubt you will.”

  “And I shall wait,” he added.

  It was mere badinage, I knew, light and playful repartee that came easily to a man like him, but I was flattered nevertheless. Garrick grinned and led me out of the Green Room and chatted pleasantly about the further improvements he hoped to make and the production of A Merchant of Venice that would inaugurate his reign as manager of the Drury Lane. Mrs. Wooden joined us on stage a few minutes later, enthusi
ng volubly about the wonders of Mrs. Cibber’s dressing room, stoutly declaring that she was positively thrilled for her friend’s good fortune and adding that no one was more deserving of it than that dear, sweet, relatively competent actress.

  Garrick put us into a carriage, and Mrs. Wooden continued to chatter nonstop as we rode through the city. Her stiff taffeta skirts crackled as she shifted position. The rust plumes on her preposterous, endearing hat billowed. Gazing out the windows of the carriage, I only half-listened to her. Sunlight gilded the dome of St. Paul’s, turning it a bright silver-gold. Pigeons fluttered against the pale blue sky like scraps of gray silk. Noxious fumes assailed our nostrils as the carriage drove past a row of squalid tenaments. I was in a thoughtful, rather pensive mood when we finally turned down Fleet. Why settle for crumbs when you can have a kingdom? he had asked. Was that what I had done? Jewels, velvet gowns, things of that sort meant a lot to some women, but I was content with the kingdom in my own heart. As long as I had Cam I needed no such fripperies.

  It was almost five o’clock when we got back to Greenbriar Court. The poodles were barking lustily in the front hall of the yellow house, eagerly awaiting their mistress’s return. Mrs. Wooden gave me a hug and then hurried across the cobbles to open her front door. The dogs spilled out onto the doorstep, leaping joyfully, hurling themselves against her striped taffeta skirt. She scolded them and shooed them inside, gave me a wave and disappeared behind the door. I was rather apprehensive as I opened our front door and stepped into the small foyer. We had been gone much longer than I had thought we would be, and Cam was sure to ask questions. Knowing the way he felt about actors—David Garrick in particular—I hadn’t told him I was going to the Drury Lane. Our encounter with the actor at Green’s Coffee House had put him in a foul mood indeed, and I knew that he would be furious if he found out I’d seen the man again.

  I smiled to myself as I went upstairs. Cam Gordon might be thorny and gruff, might never woo me with tender words or mention the word love, but he was extremely possessive and wanted me completely under his thumb. Though he would never admit it, he had a violently jealous nature. Perhaps I’d tell him where I had been after all, just to stir him up. We hadn’t had a real rousing quarrel for quite some time. We would fight, we would make up, and then … and then he would be in a conciliatory mood and I would bring up the matter of the rebels that had been plaguing me all this time. My smile vanished. I should have brought it up immediately, as soon as I returned from the bank, but he had been working so hard, and he was always so testy when he was in the final stages of a book. If he worked at all well today, he should have the book finished by this time. He had been working on the final pages when I left.