Once More, Miranda

by Jennifer Wilde

  “I’ll close the door from inside, Lady M.,” Ned explained, “and all you’ve got to do is swing the wine rack back against the wall, make sure it clicks into place and then put the bottle back.”

  “I understand.”

  “If you’ll hand me that candlestick, sir.”

  Cam gave him the candlestick, and Ned used the flame to light a torch he had removed from a niche inside the tunnel. There was an acrid smell as the material caught fire. Smoke billowed. Ned handed me the candlestick and stood waiting inside the tunnel for Cam to join him. My hand trembled slightly, the flame leaping at the end of the candle. Cam looked at me, and I forced myself to meet his gaze with level eyes. I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t. My heart was going to be torn out of my body all over again.

  “Cherbourg,” he said. “Le Dauphine. It sails in two weeks.”

  “Good-bye, Cam.”

  “I love you, Miranda. Remember that.”

  His voice was flat, that harsh, handsome face without expression. He hesitated a moment longer, looking into my eyes, and then he turned and stepped into the runnel and Ned shut the door and the light of my candle washed over the damp stone wall. Tomorrow, I told myself. Tomorrow I will cry. Tomorrow I will grieve. I couldn’t afford that luxury now. I pushed the wine rack back. It was surprisingly heavy. There was a soft click as it locked into place, and I slipped the dusty brown bottle back into its slot and started back through the labyrinth, the pain a vital force inside, destroying me from within.

  He was safe now. That was all that mattered. With Ned’s help he would get to the fishing village and take the boat and safely cross the Channel and be out of harm’s way. I moved slowly past the racks of wine, cobwebs waving in the air, brushing my face and hair. I wiped them away. He was safe now and the soldiers would continue to search the house and later Ramsey would get word from the village and they would all be on their way to Dover. I stopped a few feet from the door and forced back a sob as the pain swept over me. I closed my eyes and sent up a silent prayer for strength. Several agonizing moments went by before I finally left the cellar and went upstairs to join my brother.

  38

  Why must the sky be a pure pale blue unfurling overhead like fine blue silk and shimmering with silver sunlight? Why must the air be clear and sharp and clean, silver-stained and marvelously invigorating? The sunlight gilded the gray rocks with silver sheen and made rippling sunbursts on the water. The water was calm, waves washing gently over the shore below, a darker blue than the sky and tinted a deep purple on the horizon. The gulls were silver-winged today, and they circled and soared high against the blue as though in celebration of a rare and radiant day. Why, when my soul was bleak, must the beauty of the afternoon spread out before me as though in mockery? I strolled along the edge of the cliffs, my heart numb with grief as the gentle breeze tossed tendrils of auburn hair across my cheeks and caused my dusty rose skirt to billow over the ruffled white petticoats beneath.

  I paused for a moment to gaze across the water at that misty line where sea met sky in a blur of blues and purple. Three days had passed, and Cam was safely in France now, awaiting his departure for a new land, a new life. Ned had returned late that afternoon to inform me that all had gone well, without a single mishap. They had followed the tunnel to the abandoned tin mine and the carriage had been waiting. Even as Ramsey and his men continued to search the house, they had reached the fishing village and made arrangements with Ned’s smuggler friend who had readily agreed to “help out a colleague” and “put one over on them bleedin’ redcoats.” He and Cam had departed immediately in his sturdy boat on waters smooth and becalmed after the previous night’s storm, Ned watching from the pier until the boat was a mere speck on the horizon. Shortly after one in the afternoon Ramsey had received word from a concerned villager that a man fitting Cam’s description had purchased a ticket to Dover and taken the nine o’clock coach and he and his men had hastened to the village to confirm the report before charging off after the coach.

  They hadn’t overtaken it. Young Tim had come back home yesterday afternoon to regale his uncle with amusing tales of the chaos in Dover as the redcoats ran through the town, turning it upside down in their anxiety to find the wanted man. Ramsey had been in a panic, Tim reported. The lad had audaciously volunteered to help the soldiers search the docks, laughing to himself as the ashen-faced Ramsey barked orders and deployed his men in all directions. Ramsey knew full well that if he failed to deliver the rebel Gordon, Cumberland’s wrath would know no bounds. It gave me great satisfaction to visualize that meeting when the nervous captain made his report to the livid, apoplectic prince. Instant demotion was going to be the least of his worries.

  It was over now. In eleven days that ship would sail from Cherbourg, taking Mr. James Ingram to his new position as owner of a newspaper in Philadelphia, and the rebel Cam Gordon would no longer exist except in my heart. Leaving the sundrenched cliffs, I walked slowly toward the trees separating them from the grounds of Mowrey House. He would make a brilliant editor, I reflected. All the fire and fury that had gone into his novels would go into his paper now, and it would crackle with controversy. How exciting it was all going to be for him, how challenging and stimulating. James Ingram would soon make a name for himself, and I felt sure he would be enormously successful, a firebrand in a country of firebrands, a rebel in a country where rebellion was the norm. There would be constant crises, but it would never be dull.

  Sunlight slanted through the tree limbs, spreading deep blue-gray shadows over the ground. A bird warbled gleefully overhead. I touched a tree trunk, gray bark dotted with rusty flecks, knobbed with dark gold lichen. And me? No more crises, no more confusion, no more exhilarating highs and shattering lows. I would write another book, then another, and … and my work would sustain me. I would continue to play the chatelaine of Mowrey House and life would be calm and peaceful, each day serene and … and duller than the one before. I had my own identity now, it was true, but now, as I rubbed the rough bark and listened to the bird, I realized that that hard-won identity was a hollow thing and had little to do with the woman within.

  I was a Mowrey by birth, Lady Miranda by right, but Duchess Randy had grown up on the streets of St. Giles, tough and fearless and living off her wits, often hungry, always on the alert for danger, and the education she had received on the streets was an integral part of the woman. M.J. had toiled endlessly to perfect her craft, to achieve a goal, and the need for work was deeply ingrained now, the need for achievement as well. While I had been renovating the house and helping my brother to realize our father’s dream, I had been able to play the role of Lady Miranda with relative ease, but now … now I realized I could never be the refined, elegant creature I would have become had my father not died, had my uncle not sent my mother away. I may have been born a Mowrey, but fate had decreed I become the woman I was today.

  And that woman was only half alive. Part of her had died when that stone door swung to and locked into place. A vital, invigorating force had suddenly ceased being, a flame snuffed out, for fate had decreed I love Cam Gordon, too. Without him I was incomplete, a part of me—perhaps the most important part—simply unable to function. I had survived for three and a half years, and during that time I had accomplished much, but I had been living in a state of suspension, that vital part of me numb. Four nights ago, in the black hall, while the storm raged furiously, I had sprung to life again, wildly, gloriously, passionately alive, every fiber of my being alert and aglow. As the sunlight streamed through the trees in wavering silver columns, as the blue-gray shadows spread beneath them, I faced that truth. I had used my head, yes, and I had condemned myself to a life in limbo.

  Leaving the shelter of the trees, I walked slowly toward Mowrey House, passing through the gardens. The house stood bleak and gray, yet clothed in its own rugged grandeur. Behind it the moors stretched out, gray and tan, brown and mossy green, brushed with a hazy patina of silver this afternoon, rocks gleaming, patches o
f bog a flat silver-black. I could see the old Roman ruins atop the hill, mere specks in the distance, and I thought of my mother and that stormy afternoon when she had become a woman in the arms of Jeffrey Mowrey. There had been but one man for Honora, too, but … she hadn’t been given a second chance.

  “Miranda!”

  I turned to see my brother tearing out of the house and racing toward me, that unruly mop of blond hair flopping over his brow. The tail of his light tan frock coat flopped, too, bouncing behind him, and he was swinging a flat leather case by the handle. Dashing past a row of rhododendrons, he knocked against them with one shoulder and scattered pale lilac and lilac-pink blossoms onto the path. His lean, lanky body lent itself superbly to the sprint, loose and nimble if not precisely a portrait of grace in motion.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you,” he said irritably, drawing up in front of me.

  “I decided to take a walk. Why aren’t you at the factory?”

  “I left early. I have something to show you.”

  The irritation was merely a pose. Exuberant, bursting with high spirits, he grinned, his gray eyes aglow with excitement. I felt a wonderful rush of affection for this exasperating and engaging creature who seemed so much younger than I. Smiling, I reached up to adjust the folds of his yellow silk neckcloth, tucking it back into the top of his wheat-colored waistcoat. Douglas grimaced, eager to spring his surprise.

  “I have something to show you.”

  “You said that already.”

  “You might show a little interest.”

  “I’m wildly interested, Douglas.”

  “Moping around these past three days, going for long walks, silent and sad, not even spatting with me—I’ve been worried about you, Miranda.”

  “You needn’t be.”

  “I’m not as dense and unobservant as you think I am. What’s a brother for if you can’t talk to him and let him comfort you and give you advice and—”

  “You said you have something to show me,” I said, cutting him short.

  “We really ought to make an occasion of it. We ought to open a bottle of champagne and be real festive, but I was so eager to show you I couldn’t wait. I looked all over the house and couldn’t find you anywhere and I ran into Polly and she told me you’d gone for another of your moody walks and I rushed out to find you. This is a very auspicious moment, Miranda.”

  “Indeed?”

  “It bloody well is!”

  Genuinely irritated now, he gave me an exasperated look, prepared to sulk. I smiled again and touched his cheek and told him I was sorry, and after a moment he grinned, his sunny disposition shining anew. He opened the flat leather case with considerable flourish and held the top back so I could see what it contained Inside, resting on a nest of heavy cream velvet, was the plate I had first seen in watercolor the day I arrived. It gleamed against the velvet like some priceless treasure, incredibly beautiful, and I gazed at it for several moments, unable to speak.

  “Well?” Douglas inquired.

  “It—Douglas, it’s even more beautiful than I imagined it would be.”

  It was indeed. Outlined in gold, the pink rim was a rich, dark pink unlike any I had ever seen, a sumptuous pink glowing with warmth, and the tiny garlands of pale blue flowers and jade leaves were done in exquisite detail, colors delicate and distinct, and the flowers and leaves scattered lightly over the smooth white center of the plate looked as though they had fallen there by accident, so superbly had they been done. Touched by the afternoon sunlight, gold glittering and colors aglow, it was so lovely I felt tears welling in my eyes.

  “The rest of the service is finished, too—our first complete set—but I just brought the one plate.”

  “It’s going to make you famous, Douglas.”

  My brother beamed, full of pride. “We did do rather a nice job,” he admitted. “It’s going to make you famous, too, Miranda—or more so, I should say.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Douglas grinned again as he closed the case very carefully and made sure it was secure, and then he held it at his side by the thick leather handle, beaming even more.

  “As you know, I hadn’t settled on a name for this pattern. I have one now. I’ve decided to call it the ‘Lady Miranda.’ You’re responsible for it, Miranda. If it hadn’t been for you, none of this would have been possible.”

  I was touched, so touched the tears brimmed over my lashes. Douglas looked at me with lovely gray eyes, pleased with the honor he had just bestowed, and he looked startled when I shook my head. I couldn’t accept the honor. No. It belonged to someone else, the person who was truly responsible for it all. It belonged to the woman who had come to Mowrey House so many years ago, who had tended him with such care, who had given herself to our father that afternoon in the Roman ruins, who had brought me into the world, a product of that love which had sustained her even unto death.

  I wiped the tears away, and it seemed she was here in the gardens with us, a loving, invisible presence watching over us both. Douglas felt it, too, and he turned his head to follow my gaze, looking with me at the ruins atop the distant hills. He understood. He took my hand in his and squeezed it tightly, remembering, perhaps, a quiet afternoon in the nursery, a five-year-old boy and a gentle young governess who patiently colored the tiny cutout of a figure who so resembled the sister who stood beside him now.

  “She was responsible, Douglas,” I said quietly. “It should be called ‘Honora.’”

  He nodded in silent agreement, and we stood there for a few moments as the bird warbled again in a tree behind us and the light breeze stirred the rhododendron blossoms, scenting the air with their fragrance. My brother sighed and gave my hand another squeeze, then released it. A ray of sunlight touched his thick blond hair, giving those unruly locks a silver gold sheen. His gray eyes were thoughtful.

  “It’s strange, isn’t it? She came here almost a quarter of a century ago, and she fell in love with my father, and because—because of her, his dream has finally come true. Mine, too.”

  “She would have been very proud of you, Douglas,” I said. “Both of them would have been proud.”

  He brushed errant locks from his brow and sighed again, clutching the handle of the case. My dusty rose skirt billowed in the breeze, the silk settling back over the petticoats with a soft rustle. There was a hesitant look in his eyes now, and he seemed suddenly ill at ease. I gave him a questioning glance. He frowned.

  “I—uh—I have something else to tell you,” he confessed.

  “I rather imagined you did.”

  “It’s about Linda.”

  “I rather imagined it was.”

  “Dammit, Miranda, I have something very important to say, and I’d be grateful if you wouldn’t make fun of me!”

  “I couldn’t help it, darling. You look so very grave.”

  “Something happened the other night—the night of the storm. As you know, I was forced to spend the night at Morrison Place and—well, I’m afraid I made a bloody fool of myself.”

  “Oh?”

  “Her father retired early. We’d been discussing Shakespeare and some chap called Marlowe and he had two full glasses of port and started nodding—I was terribly relieved, Shakespeare’s not my best subject—and, well, anyway, after a few more minutes he went on up to bed and left Linda and me alone there in the parlor.”

  “I see.”

  “There was a fire in the fireplace and the rain was pouring and it was all cozy and romantic and she was wearing a pink dress—not the one she wore to the factory opening, another one. It left her shoulders bare and part of her bosom and she looked so lovely I—well, I made a bloody fool of myself.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I lunged. I grabbed her and kissed her quite savagely—I’d never kissed her before. I’d wanted to, of course, but I always managed to restrain myself. Linda—Linda’s not the sort of girl you grab and kiss.”

  “I shouldn’t think so.”

&n
bsp; “You have to play it very cautious with a girl like Linda. You don’t want to go too fast. She’s a thoroughbred, you see, and they shy easily.”

  I repressed a smile. For all his experience—and I suspected that it had been extensive, primarily with barmaids and the like—my brother knew very little about women. In that respect, he was no different from most other men.

  “And what did the thoroughbred do?” I prompted.

  “She kissed me back.” He shook his head, still amazed. “She asked me what took me so bloody long. You could have knocked me flat with a feather.”

  “And then?”

  “Then I put my hand on her breast and gave it a squeeze. She slapped me so hard my ears rang for a full ten minutes. She said there’d be none of that sort of thing until we were properly married.”

  “Smart girl,” I said.

  “So like a bloody fool I asked her to marry me and she said yes and I spent the night in the guest room feeling trapped and miserable. Jesus! One kiss and she expects me to marry her!”

  He looked utterly abject, exactly like a little boy who was being punished for reasons unknown, and I allowed the smile to play full on my lips. He saw it and scowled, ready to explode. I gave him a hug. He stood stiff and unresponsive, mouth pouty, the scowl digging a deep furrow above the bridge of his nose. I stepped back, smiling still.