Once More, Miranda

by Jennifer Wilde

  “Something is missing,” Valentina complained, squinting still. “It’s stunning, of course—primarily because of you, Miranda, dear. It’s such a joy to work with someone who has so magnificent a form—but it needs—” She made a clicking noise with her tongue and nodded briskly. “More fur, the cuffs should be trimmed with fur like bodice and hem. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Wooden?”

  “Definitely,” Marcie said. “Do stop that, boys! They’re fighting over the piece of lace. Let him have it, Brandy! There. They’re really being unusually naughty today. I must apologize.”

  “Perhaps one of the girls could take them out for a walk,” Valentina suggested with another forced smile.

  “Heavens, no! There’s far too much traffic.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Valentina lied.

  Brandy and Sarge settled down, Pepe continued to snooze and Valentina made a few minor adjustments to the gown and helped me out of it. Brandy growled at her as she carried it back to the workroom. Marcie shuffled about in her chair, blue and gray striped taffeta crackling. Pulling her black lace shawl closer around her shoulders, she sighed and looked at me with fond eyes. Considerably plumper than she had been three years ago, she still wore her towering powdered pompadour, adorned today with tiny black velvet bows, and her face paint was as outrageous as ever: bright pink lips, pale blue eyelids, far too much rouge and powder, a heart-shaped black satin beauty mark on one cheek.

  “I really should buy a couple of new gowns myself,” she confided. “I’ve been going out quite a lot of late, and you’ll never guess with whom.”

  “Thomas Sheppard,” I said, brushing the skirt of my cream silk petticoat. “He and Bancroft came to dine last week. He told me about it.”

  “He did? My dear, what did he say?”

  “He said that you were a very remarkable woman. I’ve a feeling he’s smitten, Marcie.”

  “Really? He’s a love, my dear, so shy and attentive and thoughtful and so rich. He’s much too short, of course, I feel like a giantess beside him, but I must confess I’m terribly fond of him. He brings me chocolates in fancy boxes, sends flowers backstage, is so sweet to me—not at all like that detestable Major Barnaby.”

  “Thomas is a dear. And a confirmed bachelor,” I added.

  “Not for long, my dear. I have designs on him, I might as well admit it. A man like that has no business being a bachelor, and I’m growing a bit weary of my single state. I have my career, of course, and it’s wonderfully satisfying—I don’t know what I’d do without my work—the applause, the laughter, all that love pouring across the footlights—but a woman needs something more, my dear.”

  “Indeed?”

  “You’ll discover that soon enough, if you haven’t already. Writing books is all very well, but—”

  “Don’t start in on me, Marcie.”

  “Davy’s mad about you, and when I see that dreadful little Austrian dancer moving in on him—” She shook her head, pompadour tilting. “She’s already giving herself airs, thinks she’s going to snare him. He’d give her the gate in a minute if you gave him the least—”

  “I adore you, darling, but sometimes your mania for matchmaking drives me to distraction.”

  “I just want you to be happy, Miranda.”

  “I am happy,” I protested.

  “You’re content, my dear. There’s a vast difference.”

  Marcie adjusted her pompadour as Valentina returned and helped me into the second gown. Brandy was happily shredding the piece of lace Sarge had abandoned in order to admire himself in one of the mirrors. He barked. The poodle in the glass barked back. Sarge scurried under Marcie’s skirts, peeked out from under the taffeta and growled menacingly at the mirror. Valentina grimaced and pretended to be as amused as the mutt’s mistress was.

  “This silk comes from Lyons,” she told me, “and I have it on the best authority that Pompadour herself had her eye on it. It’s gorgeous, and with your hair—” Valentina clicked her tongue to indicate bliss.

  The cloth was indeed gorgeous, a rich creamy beige with pencil-thin orange and pink stripes and, between them, rows of tiny brown, pink and rust flowers, the colors soft and subtle against the beige. The gown had full puffed sleeves worn off-the-shoulder, a low, heart-shaped neckline and form-fitting bodice. I turned this way and that, and the extremely full skirt belled out, rustling with a lovely silken music.

  “I thought about burnt orange velvet bows,” Valentina said, “or perhaps a brown velvet sash, but no, no, I told myself, the cloth is so rich and spectacular anything else would distract. Pompadour’s dressmaker would festoon it with garlands of silk flowers and rows of lace and all sorts of gewgaws. The French have never really understood fashion—simplicity! That’s the key!”

  “Lord!” Marcie exclaimed. “You’re absolutely breathtaking, my dear! I’ve never seen you look so lovely. It’s your masterpiece, Valentina, no doubt about it. Would that I could wear such a creation.”

  “You have your own style,” Valentina assured her.

  “Alas, I’m all too aware of that. Long sleeves, lace fichus, must hide the neck, cover the arms. Oh, to be twenty again. Oh, to be fifty, for that matter. Time does take its toll.”

  “A few minor alterations, Miranda. I want to take the waist in just a fraction more and realign the hem in back. Both gowns should be ready in a couple of days. I’ll have them delivered.”

  I removed the gown and put on the simple blue silk I had worn to the shop, and a few minutes later Marcelon and I were driving away in her elegant closed carriage, driver and footman in golden brown livery. Pepe curled up in my lap, occasionally giving my hand a sleepy lick. Sarge perched his forelegs against the side of the coach and peered out the window while Brandy surreptitiously chewed on the edge of Marcie’s black lace shawl.

  “Such gorgeous gowns,” she sighed, “and what will you do with them? You’ll hang them up in the wardrobe with all the others and no one will ever see you in them. It’s still early, my dear, and I don’t have to be at the theater until seven. Why don’t you come back to Greenbriar Court with me for tea? There’s my plum cake, as usual, and that girl I have working for me makes marvelous cucumber and watercress sandwiches.”

  “I—I’d rather not, Marcie.”

  “I’ve been trying for months to get you there. You wouldn’t recognize the place, white wainscoting throughout, thick blue carpets, mirrors in gilt frames and such chandeliers, my dear. Pink and gray striped silk curtains, chairs upholstered in the same silk. I’ve discovered a marvelous furniture maker, Thomas Chippendale. He opened his workshop in Long Acre a few years ago, and he’s going to become the rage, just wait and see. Such simplicity, such elegance of line! You must come, Miranda.”

  Marcie sighed and gave me a disgusted look, but she didn’t persist, understanding all too well my reasons for not wanting to return to Greenbriar Court. I knew I couldn’t move down that narrow brick passageway, couldn’t see that mellow gray house with the peach tree in front without a flood of memories sweeping over me. The grief, the anguish that had almost destroyed me those first months had finally been controlled, contained, locked away inside me, and I didn’t dare risk reopening the wounds.

  All three dogs barked with delight as I unlocked the front door and let them into the house. They danced down the foyer and scampered into the drawing room, eagerly awaiting the delicious snacks they always received at Miranda’s. Not only did they visit two or three times each week, but I always kept them when Marcelon went on tour with one of her plays. Millie hurried over from the big house when she saw us arrive and, fifteen minutes later, appeared with a heavily laden tray: a silver pot of tea, two delicate porcelain cups, scones, strawberry jam, Devonshire cream, bread and butter sandwiches, slices of ham, slices of tongue. The poodles were in ecstacy.

  “You do spoil them so,” Marcelon complained. “They’re absolutely impossible for hours whenever they get back from your house.”

  “They were deplorably spoiled l
ong before I ever met them. Here, precious, have another bit of tongue. You two, too. No carrots, Brandy. You’re going to have to settle for this.”

  Marcie piled thick clots of cream and strawberry jam on her scone. “Started your new book yet?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “I just finished Betty’s Girls last week—I’m still in a state of exhaustion.”

  “Thomas says it’s even better than Duchess Annie. He says it’s going to be a phenomenal success.”

  “He’s rushing it to press as soon as possible. I suppose I’ll be besieged by journalists again, by painters wanting to do my portrait and readers wanting me to sign their books and society hostesses wanting to show me off in their salons. I may run away.”

  “Being in the public eye has its disadvantages,” Marcie agreed. “I often have to fight my way out of the theater, all those adoring hoards jumping about, craning their necks for just one more glimpse. I always blow kisses,” she confessed.

  “You love the attention. I detest it.”

  Marcelon shook her head and piled jam and clotted cream on another scone. “I’ll never understand you, Miranda. All this fame, all this critical acclaim, all this wealth you’ve acquired, and you keep yourself shut up like a prisoner. You’re so young, so lovely, and you’re letting life pass you by.”

  “I’ve had quite enough of life,” I informed her. “I prefer my work and my—my own amusements. I have books to read and friends to see and a charming place to live and—”

  “You’ve got to get over him,” she said flatly.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Marcelon set down her teacup and put on a very severe expression. “You know very well what I’m talking about. I’m talking about Cam Gordon. I know you don’t want any of us mentioning his name, but I think it’s high time you face the truth.”

  “And what, pray tell, would that be?”

  “The truth is you’re ruining your life over a man who was never worthy of you to begin with. He treated you abominably, he used you deplorably, he was surly, temperamental, violent, never appreciated you. He kept you around because you were a convenience to him, and—”

  “That will be quite enough, Marcelon.”

  “And then, after you saved his life, he blamed you for it, abandoned you without a qualm.”

  “He had to get out of the country immediately. He—”

  “Of course he did,” she interrupted, “and he could easily have taken you with him. I’m glad he didn’t, naturally, but if he had truly loved you, he would never have—”

  “I don’t care to talk about it!”

  “And I don’t give a hang whether you do or not. He’s never tried to get in touch with you, never tried to send a message of any kind, and—”

  “He’s a rebel. There’s a price on his head. He wouldn’t dare step foot on English soil.”

  “He’s done it a number of times,” she informed me.

  “What—what do you mean?” I asked. My voice was barely a whisper.

  “You don’t want to talk about it,” she said airily. “I’ll just finish my tea and be on my way.”

  The peacock squawked outside. The dogs barked. Marcelon lifted the cup of tea to her lips and looked at me with great self-satisfaction. I longed to hurl the silver pot at her head. Instead, I calmly picked up a knife and began to cut up the tongue into even smaller strips. All three poodles hurried over and pawed my skirt anxiously. I fed them the tongue, ignoring their smug mistress.

  “He’s been in touch with Bancroft,” she said.

  “Has he?” I was terribly indifferent, concentrating on the dogs.

  “Dick told me all about it when we had lunch the other day. He’s received several letters over the past three years. Gordon always used a false name in case Dick’s mail was being watched.”

  I finished feeding the tongue to the poodles and then got up and went over to one of the windows. Holding the curtain back, I peered out at the sweep of lawn, sun-brushed now, dark green grass tinged with silver. Marcelon chattered on, and though I pretended not to listen, I absorbed every word, grateful to her for breaking the silence at last. I had desperately wanted to know about him, rarely a day passing without my wondering where he was, what he was doing, but pride had always prevented me from asking Bancroft for information.

  “Prince Charlie has his own little court in France,” she told me, “surrounded by his loyal supporters. He’s something of a thorn to the French, an embarrassment they could easily do without, but they welcomed him with open arms and continue to tolerate his presence, albeit begrudgingly. Apparently the Bonnie Prince is a royal pain in the ass, neither bright nor brave and far from being the heroic figure his countrymen believe him to be. He’s spoiled, stupid, arrogant, and a wretched coward—it’s fairly common knowledge. Anyway, Gordon and his friend Robbie Bruce spent precious little time at the court of the Bonnie P.”

  She paused, and I could hear the rustle of taffeta and the clatter of china as she poured herself another cup of tea. The peacock strutted slowly across the lawn, tail feathers spread. The big house cast soft blue-gray shadows over part of the grass. Two of Lord Markham’s footmen idled near the back door, making eyes at one of the parlor maids who was dusting a rug.

  “They were there less than three months,” Marcie continued, “and then set sail for the American colonies—under assumed names, of course. Lady Arabella Dunston went to Rome at about the same time. Seems she met an Italian nobleman who was young and rich and handsome to boot. He married her, I understand, and she’s now the darling of Roman society, living in a plush palazzo with fountains and gardens and servants galore. Things didn’t go so well for Gordon and young Robbie in Virginia. They were penniless, of course. Robbie apprenticed himself to a blacksmith, and Gordon eventually became chief foreman on a tobacco plantation.”

  The maid had finished dusting the rug. She started back toward the house. One of the footmen pinched her backside. The other pulled her into his arms and gave her a lusty kiss. The girl made a token struggle, then melted against him as the other man fondled that portion of her anatomy he had so recently pinched. The three of them finally went inside, abandoning the rug on the back steps, and I imagined they would spend a delightful hour or two in one of the roomy closets belowstairs. I felt a pang of something very like envy.

  “Behave yourself, Brandy! You know Miranda doesn’t allow you to chew on her sofa cushions. Why can’t you take a nap like Pepe? Anyway,” she continued in a weary voice, “Gordon soon realized he could never really succeed in America without capital. He returned to France a year ago and joined a band of men who have a tremendously profitable and extremely dangerous trade.”

  Marcelon paused for dramatic effect, waiting for me to respond. After a few moments of silence I turned away from the window and gave her an impatient look. She smiled.

  “Thought that would hook you,” she said.

  “Well?”

  “He’s become a smuggler, my dear! Working off the coast of Cornwall, bringing goods in from France in the dead of night. The band he belongs to is notorious, a bloodthirsty crew, it seems, little better than pirates. The poor people of Cornwall are in league with them, of course, and the countryside is thronging with the King’s agents whose job it is to capture the smugglers and stop the nefarious trade which is cheating the throne of a great deal of revenue. A whole army of redcoats patrols the coast, a ruthless band of the King’s toughest men, and quite a number of them have been found with their throats slit.”

  I made no comment. Marcelon stood up and brushed her skirts.

  “Gordon is apparently making money left and right as a smuggler, and he’ll soon have enough to return to America and set himself up in style—if he isn’t butchered by redcoats, that is. I always knew the man was criminal—all that violence in his novels. You’re well out of it, Miranda.”

  “What does Dick think of all this?” I asked.

  “Oh, he’s appalled, of course,
says Gordon’s a damn fool, but there’s nothing Dick can do. He can’t even get in touch with Gordon—Gordon’s never given him an address. His letters have been arriving periodically at the rate of one every three months or so.”

  “I see.”

  “I felt you should know, my dear,” she said, concerned now. “I do hope I haven’t upset you.”

  “Not at all,” I replied. “I—I’m glad you told me, Marcie.”

  “Forget him, my dear,” she said quietly.

  I’ve been trying to for three years, I said silently. I squeezed her hand and walked back to the carriage with her, poodles prancing around us, and I promised to think over all she’d said and stop brooding and go out more often. Marcie leaned out the carriage window to kiss my cheek, and then the carriage drove away and I returned to Dower House and thought about him and felt the old grief, the old pain. He was a smuggler, part of a notorious band, and he was often in Cornwall, risking his life every time he stepped foot on English soil. Hundreds of redcoats infested the coast, looking for the smugglers.… He was going to get himself killed.

  Damn him. Damn him! Hotheaded, impetuous, foolhardy. He couldn’t do something sensible, could he? No, no, he couldn’t find some safe, respectable work, couldn’t be content with anything as mundane as that. He had to become a bloody smuggler, landing on the Cornish coast in the dead of night, clambering over the treacherous rocks in darkness with a case of illegal merchandise on his shoulder, dealing with criminals, slitting the throat of any redcoat he happened to chance upon. The books he had written with such facility had been classic male fantasy, and he had vicariously savored each bloodthristy adventure. Now, by God, he was actually living out one of those fantasies. The fool. The bloody, idiotic fool! One of these nights he was going to stumble into a nest of redcoats and get himself captured and.… To hell with him!

  Marcie was right. I was still young. I had my whole life before me, and I needed to start living it again. I was content, true, and my work gave me great satisfaction and a sense of fulfillment, but I was alone far too much and in danger of becoming a total recluse, growing more eccentric by the day. Social life held no appeal for me, but when an elaborate gold-encrusted invitation arrived the next day from Lady Julia Copeland, requesting my presence at a reception for the Dean of Southwark, I accepted by return message. Lady Julia was a voracious lion hunter, ever athirst for new celebrities to adorn her salon, and I had been turning down her invitations for months. There was bound to be a crush at her reception and it was bound to be a dreadful evening, but I convinced myself it would be good for me.