Once More, Miranda

by Jennifer Wilde

  “Miranda! Miranda, dear, we’re ready!” Mrs. Wooden cried cheerfully from the foot of the stairs.

  “Coming,” I called.

  I said good-bye to the room. I said good-bye to the life I had known. Calm, beautifully composed on the surface, suffering terribly inside, I went downstairs and smiled at my friends and began the business of surviving.

  BOOK FOUR

  Lady Miranda

  1750

  30

  Lord Markham’s peacock screamed shrilly as it strutted regally across the lawn of Markham House, by far the most elegant mansion on the ultraelegant Grosvenor Square. Bloody peacock, I thought, glancing out the window. He was beautiful with his tail feathers all spread out like that, sure, but I’d still enjoy shooting him. Always shrieking and squawking, that bird, frequently pecking on my windowpane and peering in at me with arrogant eyes. I was fortunate indeed to be able to lease Dower House, a small gem of a house Lord Markham had built in back of his property, to the right side of the big house and separated from it by a spacious sweep of lawn, but that bleedin’ bird was a constant irritation. Drove all the neighbors crazy, he did, but the powerful Lord M. was deaf to all complaints.

  Originally built as a wedding present for Lord Markham’s daughter, then engaged to a polished young nobleman with the bluest of blood, Dower House had its own drive, its own small garden, and it was truly exquisite, with drawing room, dining room, kitchen and pantry on the ground floor, a small spiral staircase in the foyer leading up to the bedroom and sitting room above. Although the rooms were small, each was tastefully and magnificently appointed in the most luxurious style, the grandeur subtle, scaled-down, an elegant, unobtrusive background lovingly created for the soon-to-be newlyweds. Alas, Lord M.’s daughter failed to appreciate her father’s efforts. Wantonly tossing aside her aristocratic fiancé, she had run off to Rome with a handsome but impoverished Italian painter, eventually succumbing to the fever. Dower House had been carefully kept up for twenty years, but it had remained vacant until Lord M. decided to lease it to me on a yearly basis.

  Seventy-eight years old, querulous, cantankerous, wildly eccentric, Lord M. had taken particular delight in thumbing his nose at his haughty and aristocratic neighbors by leasing Dower House to the celebrated, notorious M.J., author of those scandalous stories and the even more scandalous Duchess Annie, the most shocking, the most successful novel in years. The other residents of Grosvenor Square were absolutely appalled at having such a creature in their midst, for it was well known that Duchess Annie was largely autobiographical, that I had grown up in St. Giles, had been a pickpocket, the mistress of the rebel Cam Gordon and God knew who else. When the novel had come out two years ago, it had been impossible to keep my identity a secret, and the gentlemen of Fleet Street had written reams about the saucy waif who had sprung from the slums to pen the most popular book of the day. I had been totally frank with them from the first, and they had been utterly enchanted, deeming me the most fascinating personality in London, a Great Beauty, more elegant and refined than the highest born damsels, filling the papers, in short, with florid and flattering nonsense that intrigued the public, delighted my publisher and amused me mightily.

  Me, Miranda, a celebrity. It did indeed beat all. People Stared and whispered on those rare occasions when I went out in public—Hogarth’s portrait of me, done shortly after the novel appeared, had been reproduced in all the papers and thousands of prints of it had been sold in stationers’ shops all over London. I was a phenomenon, a freak, and famous hostesses bombarded me with invitations, vying with each other to show me off in their salons, but I staunchly refused to be lionized. I led a very quiet life, rarely going out and devoting almost all my time to Betty’s Girls, the novel I would soon be finished with if that screeching bird would just shut up.

  It squawked again, nearer the house now. I was tempted to open the window and hurl my inkwell at it. Damned nuisance, that creature, and me laboring on the very last chapter of the book. Another noise! What was this? Was I destined to be driven out of my mind? Betty had died and the brothel had been besieged by a band of roistering aristocrats who raped the girls and set torch to the house. Molly and Jill had been abducted by Big John Cantrell and forced to work for him, and Nancy, Mary and pathetic little Belle were left alone to face the freezing winter cold. Closer than sisters, they were, lost without Betty’s loving protection, clinging together like.… More noises! Banging about upstairs, footsteps clattering down the stairs, rap-tap-tapping on the black and white marble tiles of the foyer. What in hell was going on?

  “Law, Miss Miranda! You still sittin’ there at that desk, coverin’ them pages with words, and it’s already after six! What can you be thinking of?”

  “Precious little in all this racket,” I retorted. “What are you doing here, Millie?”

  “Mrs. Beresford sent me over, said you wuz entertainin’ tonight, said I wuz to get your bath ready an’ help you dress. Cook’s preparin’ the dandiest meal, ever so fancy. Bob an’ Tom are bringin’ everything over at seven-thirty an’ Pearson is goin’ to serve.”

  “Damn! I’d forgotten Sheppard and Bancroft were coming tonight.”

  “You’d forget your own head if it wudn’t fastened on good,” Millie said tartly. “If you didn’t have us to watch over you, no tellin’ what would happen. Put them pages away now. You gotta get bustlin’.”

  I groaned. Not five full feet tall, her freckled face stern, a white mobcap askew atop carroty red curls, Millie was as bossy and officious as ever, a pint-sized, green-eyed tyrant. Needing little attention himself, spending most of his time traveling abroad, Lord Markham nevertheless maintained a full staff of servants. Convinced they hadn’t enough to do, considering them a lazy shiftless lot to begin with, he had decreed that they should take care of Dower House and its tenant in addition to their other duties. Left alone in the big house nine months out of twelve while their employer journeyed from spa to spa nursing nonexistent infirmities, the staff of Markham House overwhelmed me with constant attention and loving care. I was their adored pet, which definitely had its disadvantages when I was trying to work.

  “I didn’t realize it was so late,” I said, putting my quill aside.

  “I should think not! Sun already beginnin’ to go down, light gettin’ dimmer an’ dimmer an’ you strainin’ your eyes. I don’t know why you want to spend all your time cooped up in here anyways—it ain’t healthy. All them beautiful gowns hangin’ in th’ wardrobe upstairs, that dashin’ Mr. Garrick always beggin’ you to go out with him, an’ you writin’ books all th’ time—I could understand it if you wuz old an’ ugly, Miss Miranda, but—”

  I groaned again, getting to my feet. For all her sass and bossiness Millie would gladly have gone to the stake for me, and there were many times when I would gladly have lighted the kindling. This was one of them.

  “I’ve got your bath all ready, water hot an’ scented, soap an’ towels all laid out. I’ve selected a gown for you, an’—”

  “I’m perfectly capable of selecting my own gown, Millie,” I informed her in icy tones. “You may go now. I won’t be needing you any more.”

  “Yes, you will,” she retorted. “I’m goin’ to do your hair.”

  “Jesus!”

  “No one does your hair like I do, you gotta admit it. I have a touch. You run on and have your bath, an’ I’ll tidy up down here and be up to do your hair in half an hour or so.”

  “Don’t you dare touch my manuscript!” I warned.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, missy. The last time I moved one of them pages you screamed and carried on for a week.”

  I gave her an exasperated look and went on to my bedroom, passing through the small, elegant foyer with its black and white marble floor, pale, pale blue silk walls, molded white ceiling and small but sumptuous chandelier, the crystal pendants glittering like diamonds. The walls of the bedroom were covered with the same pale silk, the blue of a light summer sky, and there was a white marb
le fireplace. French windows opened onto a miniature balcony with white marble balustrade. Through them I could see the green sweep of lawn, spread with shadows now, and part of the square.

  The water was indeed warm and wonderfully scented, and I luxuriated in the glory of it, so relaxing after endless hours at my desk downstairs in the drawing room. I smiled at Millie’s scolding. Why did I stay “cooped up” and refuse to go out except on rare occasions? Why was I “writin’ books all th’ time?” Because that was what I wanted to do. Writing had been my salvation when Cam Gordon fled to France, leaving me behind, and during that year in the tiny cottage outside Stratford I had learned just how much it meant to me. It was something all my own, something no one could take away from me, and stepping into that world that I created on paper made the real world with its grief, its anguish, its sorrow and disappointments much easier to bear.

  Millie wouldn’t be able to understand that, of course. Few people would, I thought, stepping out of the porcelain tub, drying myself off. I had something special that few people were blessed with, and it … it was marvelous compensation for all those things that were missing in my life. I might not be happy, true, but only fools expected to live in a rosy haze, a perpetual state of happiness. I was content, pleased with my life, proud of my achievements, and if there was no bliss, there was no turbulence, no torment either. The serenity and calm in which I passed my days had been hard won. I was alone, but I was independent as well, beholden to no one. I was sad on occasion, but I was a success, and I had done it on my own. How many women in this day and age could say the same?

  Millie had laid out the bronze brocade gown, a gorgeous creation I had never worn. I put on the frail, leaf-brown petticoat that went with it, the bodice form-fitting, cut extremely low, ten skirts belling out from the tight waist and swirling in gauzy brown layers. No more secondhand clothes for Miranda. No more bargain gowns for the notorious M.J. Madame Valentina created all my clothes, incredibly lovely gowns, beautiful frocks, and, unlike the duchesses and countesses and highborn dames who flocked to her establishment, I paid my bills promptly. Clothes and books were the only thing I indulged myself with, though I had few occasions to wear the former and, busy with my own, precious little time to read the latter.

  Sitting at the elegant dressing table, I gazed at my reflection in the silvery glass. The woman who gazed back at me bore little resemblance to the naive, vivacious girl abandoned by Cam Gordon three years ago. The sauciness was gone, that radiant glow of youth replaced by the smooth patina of maturity. The sapphire blue eyes that had flashed with anger and sparkled with joy were full of new wisdom, observing the world without illusion, and the full pink mouth had a soft, sad curve that was new as well. A Great Beauty, the papers claimed, cool and poised with high sculpted cheekbones and patrician nose. What nonsense, I thought, lifting the brush to the rich coppery-red waves that gleamed gold in the candlelight.

  “I’ll do that,” Millie exclaimed, bustling into the room. “You just sit there an’ relax an’ look lovely. Such hair, like molten copper. Where are the pins? Where’s my curler? You’re going to look gorgeous, Miss Miranda.”

  I sighed wearily and let her have her way, and Millie worked happily with brush and comb and curlers, stacking smooth, heavy waves atop my head in a marvelous arrangement, leaving three long ringlets to dangle in back. The candles glowed softly, filling the room with an amber haze. Night had fallen outside, and a cool evening breeze blew across the balcony and stirred the silk curtains hanging at the opened French windows.

  “There!” Millie declared, giving the ringlets a final pat. “Looks lovely, dudn’t it?”

  “You’re a marvel, Millie.”

  “Bob an’ Tom’ve brought the dinner over, keepin’ it warm in all those silver dishes with candles burnin’ under ’em. Pearson’s downstairs, lookin’ prissy an’ important in his best black velvet coat. Here, I’ll help you into your gown.”

  I slipped it over my head and smoothed it down, and Millie began to fasten the tiny, invisible hooks in back. The luxurious bronze brocade was embroidered with floral patterns in darker bronze-brown silk, the cloth shimmering richly as I spread the full skirt out over the gauzy leaf-brown underskirts. Madame Valentina was an artist in her own right, creating a special style for each of her clients. Disdaining the long, tight sleeves, the lace fichus, the flounces and the paneled skirts currently in fashion, she insisted on elegant simplicity for my gowns. The short, narrow sleeves were off-the-shoulder, the bodice cut extremely low, skirt swelling from a narrow waist.

  “You look—you look just like a vision,” Millie declared, stepping back a few paces. “Ain’t never seen anything lovelier, an’ I mean it.”

  “Thank you, Millie.”

  “Shame to waste it all on that dried-up old gentleman an’ that hefty blond toff who handles your business. Cocky, that one. Altogether too playful. Know what he did last time he was here? Pinched my backside, he did, reached out and gave it a whoppin’ pinch as I was showin’ him in.”

  “Oh? And what did you do?”

  “Grinned at him,” she confessed. “Can’t help likin’ him, even if he ain’t all that proper. What I meant, though, is you should be dressin’ up for a lover, Miss Miranda, not your publisher an’ your banker.”

  “That will be quite enough, Millie.”

  My voice was crisp, sternly informing her that she had gone too far, but as I moved down the lovely white marble staircase I repressed a rueful smile. Millie wasn’t half as saucy as I had been a few short years ago, and her impudence was prompted by a genuine affection and concern for my welfare. Pausing for a moment in the foyer, I observed the cool, patrician woman in the sumptuous, shimmering bronze gown that left shoulders bare and bosom half-exposed, the form-fitting bodice, tight waist and swelling skirt emphasizing her tall, slender build. Who was she? Not Duchess Randy. Not the lovesick girl of Greenbriar Court. Others might see her a celebrated, scandalous creature who was wildly successful in her chosen field, but that glamorous image had nothing to do with the woman who spent hours and hours each day toiling at her desk with ink-stained fingers and tumbling hair.

  If I wasn’t Randy or naive Miranda nor the notorious M.J. imagined by the public, who … who was I? A lonely, hardworking woman of twenty-two years, though much older in spirit, at heart. Lonely? Yes, I admitted to myself as I moved on into the drawing room. I was lonely at times, but I had my friends and I had my work and I was … I was much better off than I had any reason to expect. I had no lover, true, but that was by choice. Any number of men would be delighted to assume that role, and one in particular had been ardently wooing me for three years, though in vain. I didn’t want a lover. Mrs. Wooden grimly predicted I would become a dried-up old maid if I didn’t mend my ways and described that state to me in horrific detail, but was it so dreadful, so tragic, for a woman to lead her own life? I didn’t need a man to support me, to take care of me, to rule my life.

  You’ve become far too introspective of late, Miranda, love, I scolded myself, probably because the book is coming to an end and you haven’t yet begun thinking of the next. You’d be much better off planning a third M.J. than moodily examining your soul. You’re damned lucky, and don’t you forget it. If something is missing from your life, you’ve got far more than you deserve, so buck up and stop being so bloody pensive!

  There were voices in the foyer, and a moment later a sober-looking Pearson in black velvet coat stepped into the room to announce the “Honorable Richard Bancroft” in sepulchral tones. Dick came bustling in behind him, full of energy and hearty good cheer. A bit heavier than he had been three years ago, he was wonderfully attractive in his soft brown velvet breeches and frock coat, a wide grin on his lips. Warm brown eyes atwinkle, dark blond hair gleaming in the candlelight, he more than ever resembled a sleek, prosperous pup. He seemed to bound across the room and gave me a hug that almost cracked my ribs.

  “You’re not on a playing field, Dick,” I complained, brushing back
a lock of hair his hug had dislodged, “and I’m not your opponent. Look what you’ve done to my hair.”

  “Looks better that way,” he informed me. “Lord, Miranda, that gown you’re wearing is—are you sure it’s legal to show that much flesh?”

  “Madame Valentina assures me the ladies in France show much more.”

  “I must pop over to Paris soon as I can, see for myself. That miserly old fogy hasn’t arrived yet? Probably in his office counting the profits Duchess Annie and the book of stories are still bringing in.”

  “You’re terribly hard on poor Sheppard,” I said.

  “Have to be. Once I became your business manager, he became the enemy. I have to keep an eye on him. Bloke’d rob you blind if I didn’t. Are you going to be a proper hostess and offer me a glass of wine, or are you going to let me perish of thirst while we wait for him to come tottering in?”

  I made a face at him and stepped over to the enameled white cabinet to get his wine. Hands thrust into his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels, he exuded energy and confidence and good cheer, and the drawing room with its beige and white walls, white marble fireplace and beautifully molded white ceiling seemed much too small to contain him. My collection of Hogarth engravings hung on the walls in simple black frames and pale blue mats, each one illustrating a scene I had written, and his portrait of me hung over the mantel. Bancroft examined it as he sipped his wine.

  “Chap did a magnificent job with that portrait,” he remarked. “Never can get over how lifelike it is.”

  Hogarth had painted me sitting at my desk, quill in hand. I was wearing a deep blue frock, and my hair was slightly disarrayed, my blue eyes thoughtful as I exaimed the manuscript before me. The background was done in misty shades of blue, gray and black, depicting, on my left, a sordid street in St. Giles and, on my right, slightly below the other, a bustling section of Fleet. The rich blue of my frock, the brilliant coppery red of my hair, the pink of my lips and the creamy flesh tones seemed to glow all the more against the sober hues behind me. The painting had created a sensation when the artist exhibited it, and I had had to bid viciously against David Garrick in order to obtain it. Cost me twice what it should have and would have cost even more had he not finally, reluctantly given in.