“That might not be a bad idea. It would leave women free to accomplish all those things they’re fully capable of accomplishing. There’d be fewer wars, far less corruption.”
“And sheer havoc in the kitchen,” he added. “I must confess I found Duchess Annie damnably readable. I actually shed a tear or two.”
“I didn’t know you were capable of such a thing,” I taunted.
Johnson grimaced. “Behind this surly, formidable, offensive-to-the-eye exterior there beats, I fear, the heart of a blubbering sentimentalist. When I’m not snarling and snapping at fools, I’m a shameless softie. The world, alas, is filled with fools, most of whom seem to be here tonight.”
“Let’s sneak out,” I pleaded.
“Sniveling coward, are you? Can’t face the fire? Typical of your sex, of course, but I expected more from the notorious M.J. It won’t be so bad,” he told me. “The old bag packs the place with idiots and gibbers like a chimpanzee in heat, but she serves the finest victuals and the best wine in London. I fully intend to stuff myself like a pig, then drink myself into oblivion. I always do at these affairs.”
Johnson grumbled ominously as we were shoved forward by the crowd in back of us. In this glittering throng he was an odd spectacle indeed in his poorly mended white stockings, crumpled brown knee breeches and shabby, oversized brown coat with its bulging pockets and frayed cuffs. His long gray wig was far from clean, set slightly crooked atop his head, and his great size and lumbering gait augmented one’s impression of a sullen, ponderous bear in human guise.
“I’ve no idea why I’m here,” I complained as we inched toward the drawing room doors. “I don’t even know who the Dean of Southwark is, and I feel certain I’ll detest him.”
“What!” Johnson cried. “You’ve never heard of the swank Dean Jordon? He is the most fashionable clergyman in London, pampered and adored by the stylish ladies who flock to hear his rosy platitudes and pathetic homilies. Sleek popinjay, red-haired, the darling of the salons. A worldly cleric is always somehow reassuring. Bloke’s written a book of sermons. It’s selling out all over the city, third and fourth printings already snapped up, a fifth and sixth already on the way.”
“Have you read it?” I inquired.
“Gave me acute indigestion,” he retorted. “Felt like I’d just eaten an enormous box of bonbons. Precisely the sort of pap the ladies devour, all sugar, no substance. Bloke’s musical, too, I fear. Plays the organ with a string accompaniment.”
“Not tonight, surely?”
“Lady J. installed an organ in the music room last week, I understand. A monstrous affair, big as a behemoth—gold-plated pipes, of course.”
“Jesus,” I whispered.
Little by little we were pushed toward the drawing room doors and a few moments later found ourselves face to face with Lady Julia and her husband, a tiny little man in brown who seemed to fade to total invisibility beside his outlandish spouse. Lady J. was extremely tall and seemed even taller with three towering white egret feathers affixed to the side of her powdered coiffure with a diamond and emerald clasp. Skinny to the point of emaciation, she had a beaky nose, a great pink slash of mouth and pale, protruding blue eyes that brought to mind a startled giraffe. Never had I seen so many diamonds, so many emeralds—all needing a good cleaning, I noted.
“Miss James!” she cried, grabbing my hand. “What an honor this is! We’ve been dying to have you, haven’t we, James? I just adored your novel, so naughty, so true to life!”
“Thank you for your invitation,” I said sweetly.
“We must find a few minutes alone together, my child. I’m ever so interested in writing—I’m thinking of writing a book myself! You must tell me how it’s done.”
I made polite noises and she looked past me and saw Johnson and, letting go of my hand, clutched his and began to gush over him. Johnson made a fierce face, jerked his hand free and asked her where the food was. Lady J. tittered, delighted by his rudeness. What a marvelous eccentric he was! How wonderful of him to snap and snarl like that! She just knew his dictionary was going to be an enormous success when it was finally finished, and she fully intended to buy a copy.
“Buy ten,” he growled. “You can use ’em for doorstops.”
“Isn’t he divine!” she shrieked.
“Wretched woman,” Johnson muttered irritably as we moved on into the drawing room. “Always clattering like a cockatoo, not a thought in her silly head. Did you happen to smell her breath?”
“I’m sure she means well,” I said.
Johnson made another face, adjusted his greasy gray wig and brushed at the lapels of his shabby brown coat, glaring peevishly at fellow guests. I strongly suspected that his gruff, boorish manner was merely a smoke screen to hide an innate shyness. Davy swore that, in private, he was the kindest, most charitable of men, a cuddly old bear who was the softest touch in town, forever emptying his pockets for some needy friend.
“Every charlatan and fraud in the city must be here tonight,” he grumbled. “There’s the food over there. Come along, Miss James, let’s hit those tables before this mob eats everything up.”
The drawing room was as large as a ballroom, the molded ceiling gilded with gold leaf and dripping with chandeliers, the walls covered with pale pink brocade and hung with enormous paintings. Gigantic plants abounded, and there were quite a few Greek statues standing in niches. Because of the size of the room, the mob didn’t seem nearly as large. Johnson led me over to the three linen-covered tables where a marvelous array of food dazzled the eye. Although I protested that I wasn’t hungry, Johnson insisted on filling a plate for me.
“Prawns, aspic, a slice of that lamb, some asparagus—we’ll try those pastries later on. So you’re determined to break my friend Davy’s heart?” he said, thrusting a plate at me.
“What gives you that idea?” I inquired, taking the plate. “Really, I can’t possibly eat all—”
“I’ll help you,” he grumbled. “Here, take this plate, too. I’ll grab one of those preposterously garbed footmen who’re circulating with trays of drinks. Champagne?”
“I—”
“You’d better have some. You’re going to need it. Find us a place by the wall. I’ll join you as soon as I get our drinks.”
Johnson ambled off toward one of the footmen, and I stood there balancing the two plates and feeling extremely foolish. There must have been seventy-five people in the room, and all of them seemed to be staring at me as I finally made my way toward one of the huge Greek statues. Setting the plates on the edge of the waist-high black marble pedestal, I contemplated making a quick escape before Johnson returned. The din was deafening, voices babbling, china clattering, music playing loudly in an adjoining room. Bach. Although a row of French windows stood open, leading to the gardens beyond, the air inside was fetid, heavily laden with the odors of sweat, stale powder and cloying perfumes.
“Here’s your champagne,” Johnson said. “Glass of port for me. Where’s my plate?”
“There on the edge of the pedestal.”
Johnson took his plate, set down his port and glanced up at the naked, armless, decapitated marble statue that loomed above us.
“Abominable taste,” he muttered. “Not even genuine, nor are any of those Van Dyck’s festooning the walls. The Lelys of Nell Gwynn and Barbara Castlemaine are real enough but decidedly second rate. Now, what’s all this nonsense about your marrying my friend Davy?”
His eyes were accusatory, his tone harsh, almost hostile. Taken aback, I gazed at him for a moment in silence, and when I spoke my voice was cold enough to cause frostbite.
“Davy asked me to marry him, Mr. Johnson, but I really don’t think that’s any of your business.”
“’Course it is. Davy’s like a brother to me. These prawns are superlative, by the way. You’re not going to eat yours? He’s ready to settle down and longs for a quiet, well ordered domestic life—exactly what he needs. If he’s going to keep on working in the theater, he n
eeds a calm, serene home atmosphere, someone to cook his meals and keep his clothes in order and pay his bills and watch out for his health and protect him from the public, someone, in short, willing to devote the rest of her life to the care and feeding of Davy Garrick.”
“I agree,” I said crisply. “That’s precisely what he needs.”
Johnson finished his plate of food, indicated mine, gave me an inquisitive look and, when I shook my head, began to empty it as well. I took a sip of my champagne. I could feel spots of color on my cheeks and was finding it extremely difficult to maintain my temper. Genius he might be, London’s First Gentleman of Letters, currently engaged in a titanic undertaking that would revolutionize the language, but I found his well-known bluntness quite offensive.
“What he does not need is another artist,” Johnson continued, “and you are indeed an artist, Miss James, as excellent in your way as he is in his, I suspect. Duchess Annie genuinely moved me, moved me to tears, and it made a perfectly valid statement about the human condition. I understand your new book is even better. You must send me a copy as soon as it’s out.”
“Mr. Johnson—”
“Call me Sam. All my real friends do, and I feel quite friendly toward you, child. Two strong, creative personalities dwelling under the same roof—” Johnson paused, took a gulp of port and shook his head. “An impossible situation, as I’m sure you’ll agree.”
“I don’t see what that—”
“Of course you do,” he snapped. “You’re an extremely intelligent young woman—and that’s one of the problems, too. Davy doesn’t need an intelligent woman. He needs a dull, devoted woman who will be content to sit at his feet and look up at him with loving eyes and nurture him, not someone who thinks for herself, has her own creative endeavors. Every word I say is true, and you know it, child.”
He was right, and that’s what made it so irritating. I had given Davy’s proposal a great deal of thought, and I had reached the same conclusions myself. The shabby, shaggy old bear of a man beside me was merely verbalizing them. I sipped my champagne. Johnson finished the food, looking up occasionally to glare menacingly at fellow guests who came too near.
“Delicious!” he declared. “Must have some more of that lamb, another helping of that aspic. He’s in love with you, child, genuinely in love for the first time in his life, and that’s bad. Love’s a marvelous, maddening distraction, but it’s deadly for a true artist, saps his strength, drains his creative energy. It takes him away from the important thing—his work.”
I finished my champagne and, beckoning one of the footmen, put the glass on his tray and took another one filled to the brim with the sparkling amber beverage. Johnson straightened his wig again and brushed bread crumbs from the lapels of his coat.
“Marriage would be disastrous for both of you,” he told me. “Davy’s work would suffer. So would yours. Instead of sewing his shirts and polishing his boots and cooking hot meals, you’d be writing another book, and he would resent that. Instead of being supportive and understanding when you hit a bad patch in your book, he’d wring his hands and moan about the problems with his new production, the wretched actress he’d been saddled with, the inept stagehands and the damnable second act speech that just doesn’t work.”
Right again, you crafty old sod, I thought. I took a large swallow of the champagne.
“I suppose you have the ideal wife picked out for him,” I said acidly.
, “I have, indeed. Mademoiselle Violette, that plump Austrian dancer who’s so hot to have him. She’s in the theater, yes, but she has no dedication and would dump it all in a minute to become Davy’s wife. She’s sweet and dull and utterly undemanding, and she happens to worship Davy. Eva Maria, to give her her real name, is a stolid German hausfrau at heart. She’d be perfect for him. He doesn’t love her, but he’s quite fond of her, and I’ve no doubt that in time he would be utterly devoted.”
“You—you’ve thought everything out, haven’t you?”
Johnson nodded. “I love Davy like a brother. I want the best for him. He has a great deal to contribute to the world, and so, my dear, do you. I’d like you both to be happy.”
His voice was strangely gentle, and those eyes that could be so fierce and formidable were full of compassion now, the eyes of a kindly man who was genuinely concerned about his fellow man. He gave my arm a pat and said he was sorry he had been so blunt, hoped he hadn’t hurt my feelings too badly, and for a moment I glimpsed the Sam Johnson that Davy and dozens of others loved so well. My irritation vanished entirely.
“I haven’t given Davy my answer,” I said quietly.
“As I said, you’re an extremely intelligent young woman—I feel sure your answer will be the right one.”
“It will be,” I replied.
“I’ve been monopolizing you far too long, child,” he said amiably. “It’s time for me to go gobble up some Christians—Lady J. would feel horribly cheated if I didn’t insult at least half her guests. Sure I can’t bring you another plate of food?”
I shook my head. Johnson patted his wig, straightened his lapels and, assuming his curmudgeon character, shambled off to perform his social duties. He was soon surrounded by a group of fluttering females who recoiled in delighted horror at his remarks. Leaving the Greek statue, I got another glass of champagne and was soon surrounded myself. I smiled politely and answered the innane questions and forced myself to be civil. Yes, writing books was a difficult job. No, I didn’t find it at all unfeminine. Yes, I had just completed another novel. No, it wasn’t autobiographical. It was about whores.
A plump matron in blue velvet gasped. A stodgy gentleman with a monocle blanched. An actress tittered. A suave French painter grinned a lewd grin and asked me if I’d consider sitting for him au naturel. I asked him if he’d like a knee in the groin. All this while I had felt someone staring at me, an unmistakable sensation that was almost physical. I could feel the eyes boring into my back, and when I turned around, the tall, muscular soldier in his tight white breeches and scarlet jacket continued to stare, openly, arrogantly, with a hostility that was undeniable.
Lady Julia swooped upon me and fluttered her beringed hands and blinked her protruding eyes and told me again how thrilled she was I’d come and continued to gush for a good five minutes, a tall, breathless giraffe of a woman in soiled white satin and dusty diamonds and emeralds, harmless enough but, at the moment, extremely irritating. I had accepted her invitation, though, and gave her all my attention, as charming as I could possibly be. Lady J. asked me the usual questions and was convinced we were kindred souls.
“I must see to my other guests now, alas—being a good hostess is such a dreary chore, I’d much rather be doing something creative. We must get together for a real talk soon, without all these worrisome distractions.”
“We really must,” I said.
“I’m ever so eager for you to meet Dean Jordon—he’s a writer, too, you know. His book of sermons is so inspiring, so elevating! He’s not the least bit prudish, either—so comforting to see him tease and flirt and drink his wine just like a normal person.”
“I look forward to meeting him. Incidently, who—who is that tall soldier standing over there in front of the pink sofa? He looks remarkably like a—an old friend of mine.”
Lady J. peered across the room, her eyesight obviously bad. “Oh! That’s Captain Ramsey—Captain Jon Ramsey, a fascinating man. One of the king’s most trusted agents, utterly ruthless, they say, stationed somewhere in the country, doing a very important job—I forget the details. He’s on leave now. A stern, handsome soldier is always an asset at a gathering like this.”
“Definitely.”
“I strive for variety. It’s terribly taxing to always come up with just the right combination!”
Lady J. fluttered off to pounce upon a prominent historian, and I drank the rest of my champagne. It was going to my head. The room seemed stuffier. The noise seemed louder. The dazzling lights, the brilliant colors, the n
oxious odors were beginning to get to me, and I felt as though I’d stepped into the middle of a garish kaleidoscope. Moving over to the row of French windows, I stood there savoring the cool night air and wondering if it would be possible to slip through the gardens, climb over the wall and flee.
“How are you, Miss James?”
The voice was cultivated, distinctly upper class with an underlying hardness both harsh and commanding. I turned. Captain Jon Ramsey stood not three feet away, staring at me with brilliant blue eyes as cold as ice, his straight blond brows lowered, a deep crease between them. At least six feet tall, his superbly conditioned body shown off to advantage in the tight-fitting uniform, he had strong, even features that might have been sculpted from granite, hard and ruthless. The lips were thin, the Roman nose perfect, the cheekbones flat and broad. Tight, short blond curls covered his head like a close-fitting cap, reminding me of the head of Apollo. His was a cruel, handsome face that would intimidate his men and fascinate a number of women.
“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” I said stiffly.
“Captain Jon Ramsey, at your service. I know who you are, of course. Everyone knows the famous Miranda James.”
“Are you interested in literature, Captain Ramsey?”
“I’m interested in writers—one in particular.”
“Oh?”
Those brilliant, icy blue eyes stared at me with open hostility, the lowered brows a straight, sullen line above them. Rarely had I been stared at so intensely. Captain Ramsey made no effort to conceal his opinion of me, those eyes judging, condemning me. I wished my brocade gown weren’t cut quite so low, wished I could control the flush tinting my cheeks.
“Which writer would that be?” I inquired.
“Cam Gordon. I understand you were his woman.”
I made no reply. I could feel the anger beginning to boil.
“He’s still wanted,” Ramsey said.
“I’m fully aware of that.”
Once More, Miranda Page 54