The Emerald Swan

by Jane Feather

  "A fra­ud… you me­an li­ke fo­is­ting a tra­ve­ling pla­yer on them as an ho­nest-to-God nob­le lady?" Mi­ran­da's eyes spar­k­led, so­me of her tre­pi­da­ti­on di­sap­pe­aring.

  "Pre­ci­sely." Ma­ude smi­led, a to­uch ma­li­ci­o­usly. "Just think of how easy it is to de­ce­ive them, and you'll see how stu­pid they are and you won't be in the le­ast in­ti­mi­da­ted."

  "But what of the qu­e­en?" Mi­ran­da sa­id so­berly now. "Don't tell me she's stu­pid, too."

  Ma­ude sho­ok her he­ad. "No, but it wo­uld ne­ver oc­cur to her that an­yo­ne, let alo­ne Lord Har­co­urt, co­uld do so­met­hing so… so tre­ac­he­ro­us as to fo­ist an im­pos­tor on her. Even if she di­sap­pro­ves of you a lit­tle, even if you ma­ke a tiny mis­ta­ke, she still wo­uldn't sus­pect an­y­t­hing."

  "But if she di­sap­pro­ves of me, mi­lord will be di­sap­po­in­ted," Mi­ran­da sa­id, al­most to her­self.

  "You won't ha­ve to say an­y­t­hing. Just curtsy, lo­ok suf­fi­ci­ently hum­b­le, and wa­it un­til she dis­mis­ses you."

  It so­un­ded sim­p­le eno­ugh… too sim­p­le." Tell me if I'm cur­t­s­ying cor­rectly. Lady Imo­gen ma­de me so con­fu­sed this af­ter­no­on, I can't re­mem­ber abo­ut all the dif­fe­rent depths. But at le­ast I sho­uld get it right for the qu­e­en."

  She slid off the bed, to­ok se­ve­ral steps back, po­in­ted one toe, and sank gra­ce­ful­ly on­to her re­ar, her eme­rald skirts set­tling in a co­rol­la aro­und her.

  Ma­ude exa­mi­ned her cri­ti­cal­ly. "You ne­ed to lo­wer yo­ur eyes, ke­ep yo­ur he­ad down for a few mo­re se­conds, hen ri­se slowly, lif­ting yo­ur he­ad at the sa­me ti­me."

  Mi­ran­da did so. "But was the depth right? Was it low eno­ugh? Any lo­wer and I'm af­ra­id I'd sit down."

  Ma­ude chuc­k­led. "That re­al­ly wo­uld ca­use a stir. One's not per­mit­ted to sit un­bid­den in the qu­e­en's pre­sen­ce, and if she do­es tell you to sit, you ha­ve to ri­se the mi­nu­te she stands up."

  “That se­ems lo­gi­cal."

  "Yes, and it won't hap­pen an­y­way. I've he­ard it sa­id that the qu­e­en de­lights in ke­eping am­bas­sa­dors and co­ur­ti­ers on the­ir fe­et for ho­urs be­ca­use she do­esn't ca­re to sit her­self. So she stays up­right, wal­king aro­und, un­til the pe­op­le in her pre­sen­ce are drop­ping with fa­ti­gue. She par­ti­cu­larly enj­oys do­ing it with men,"

  Ma­ude ad­ded with anot­her lit­tle chuc­k­le. "I be­li­eve she li­kes to pro­ve that she's stron­ger than men in every way."

  Mi­ran­da, with a pi­er­cing stab of loss, tho­ught of Ma­ma Ger­t­ru­de. It was she who held the tro­upe to­get­her. She who ma­de the de­ci­si­ons, kept up the­ir spi­rits, ma­na­ged the fi­nan­ces. Ra­o­ul was physi­cal­ly stron­ger, but then so was a cart hor­se. Whe­re we­re they? We­re they thin­king of her? Wor­rying abo­ut her?

  "Why do you lo­ok sad?" Ma­ude as­ked.

  Mi­ran­da sho­ok her he­ad. "I'm just wis­hing my fe­et didn't hurt so. I don't know how I shall be­ar it all eve­ning." She bent aga­in to the lit­tle mir­ror. "Can you tell how short my ha­ir is?"

  She to­uc­hed the high front of the de­li­ca­te jewe­led cap that sat low on her fo­re­he­ad, le­aving vi­sib­le only an inch of smo­ot­hed-back dark ha­ir. A nar­row pa­le gre­en ve­il de­pen­ded be­hind, fal­ling down her back to form a tra­in.

  "Not at all," Ma­ude as­su­red her, her eyes nar­ro­wed slightly. "But you did lo­ok sad." She frow­ned, a lit­tle puz­zled. "In fact I felt that you we­re sad abo­ut so­met­hing. As if I was fe­eling it myself."

  Mi­ran­da lo­oked aj her, a frown in her eyes, then she sa­id, ab­ruptly chan­ging a su­bj­ect that ma­de her fe­el con­fu­sed and un­cer­ta­in, "Are you cer­ta­in you don't wish you we­re co­ming to co­urt? It must be so dre­ary lying he­re whi­le ot­her pe­op­le are lis­te­ning to mu­sic and dan­cing and fe­as­ting."

  "I ha­ve my psal­ter and my bre­vi­ary," Ma­ude sa­id sto­utly. "And Ber­t­he and I shall say our ro­sa­ri­es to­get­her. In fact…" A light fla­red in her eyes. "Can I trust you… yes, of co­ur­se I can. Fat­her Da­mi­an is to co­me when you've all left. He'll he­ar my con­fes­si­on and say mass."

  "How… how…" Mi­ran­da se­ar­c­hed for a su­itab­le adj­ec­ti­ve, but ca­me up short. For all the­ir un­can­ny si­mi­la­ri­ti­es, even the stran­ge mo­ments of con­nec­ti­on when they se­emed to be thin­king the sa­me thing, she co­uld not be­gin to ima­gi­ne how Ma­ude co­uld find ple­asu­re and sa­tis­fac­ti­on in the mi­se­rab­le pros­pect of con­fes­sing sins and re­ce­iving pe­nan­ce.

  "Un­til you an­s­wer God's call, you will con­ti­nue to li­ve in dar­k­ness," Ber­t­he pro­no­un­ced with what se­emed to Mi­ran­da li­ke a deg­ree of sa­tis­fac­ti­on. The el­derly wo­man lo­oked up from her men­ding, her eyes glit­te­ring with ne­ar-fa­na­ti­cal con­vic­ti­on. "But our Holy Mot­her is wa­iting for you. You must open yo­ur he­art, my child, of­fer yo­ur­self in all hu­mi­lity, and gi­ve yo­ur­self up to the Ma­don­na's in­ter­ces­si­on."

  Mi­ran­da do­ub­ted she had suf­fi­ci­ent hu­mi­lity to ac­cept an­yo­ne's in­ter­ces­si­on, but she didn't say so. "Will you be ab­le to lo­ok af­ter Chip whi­le I'm go­ne, Ma­ude? Will Fat­her Da­mi­an mind, do you think?"

  "No, he lo­ves all God's cre­atu­res," Ma­ude res­pon­ded, stro­king Chip, who was sit­ting on her pil­low, nur­sing Mi­ran­da's old oran­ge dress and lo­oking very for­lorn. He was well awa­re he was abo­ut to be aban­do­ned aga­in.

  The clock struck three and Mi­ran­da stif­fe­ned her sho­ul­ders, her ner­vo­us­ness re­tur­ning. "I had bet­ter go 'own."

  "J­ust re­mem­ber who­se ten­der re­pu­ta­ti­on you hold in yo­ur hands," Ma­ude sa­id. "Don't do an­y­t­hing I wo­uldn't do." Then she lo­oked as­to­un­ded, re­ali­zing that she had ma­de a joke, the first she co­uld ever re­mem­ber ma­king.

  Mi­ran­da grin­ned, bent to kiss Chip, who stro­ked her che­ek and mut­te­red un­der his bre­ath.

  “The­re, the­re," Mi­ran­da sa­id. "Ma­ude will lo­ok af­ter you.

  "Yes, see what I ha­ve for you, Chip." Ma­ude slip­ped a hand un­der her pil­low and drew out a fol­ded la­ce han­d­ker­c­hi­ef. "Su­gar plums and al­mond com­fits."

  Chip, with an ex­ci­ted jab­ber, re­ac­hed out a hand and de­li­ca­tely se­lec­ted a swe­et­me­at from the palm of Ma­ude's hand. Mi­ran­da smi­led and slip­ped qu­i­etly from the cham­ber.

  Ma­ude sta­red at the clo­sed do­or. The ro­om se­emed li­fe­less all of a sud­den. The pros­pect of Fat­her Da­mi­an's ar­ri­val to­ok on a gray cast, and she felt as le­aden as the gray sky be­yond the win­dow. It was the ble­eding, she told her­self re­so­lu­tely.

  Mi­ran­da's smi­le fa­ded when she re­ac­hed the he­ad of the sta­irs le­ading down to the raf­te­red hall. The ma­ids who had dres­sed her in her fi­nery had told her she was bid­den to pre­sent her­self in the hall at three o'clock. Her he­art was be­ating un­com­for­tably fast. She wi­ped her palms on her skirt, flic­ked open her fan and wa­ved it vi­go­ro­usly to co­ol her sud­denly bur­ning che­eks. Then, swal­lo­wing her, tre­pi­da­ti­on, she des­cen­ded, one hand hol­ding the wo­oden ba­nis­ter, fe­eling its smo­oth co­ol­ness gro­un­ding her.

  Three pe­op­le sto­od in the hall at the fo­ot of the sta­irs and they tur­ned as one to lo­ok up as Mi­ran­da re­ac­hed the bend in the sta­ir­ca­se.

  For a mi­nu­te Ga­reth al­most do­ub­ted what he knew to be the truth. Su­rely this was Ma­ude. It co­uld be no one el­se. Be­si­de him Imo­gen's bre­ath whis­t­led thro­ugh her te­eth as she too sta­red, as­to­un­ded. Lord Du­fort, ho­we­ver, saw no mo­re than the suc­cess of the cos­tu­me he had se­lec­ted.


  "Ah, how char­mingly you lo­ok, my de­ar," he sa­id warmly, clap­ping his hands softly to­get­her. "Is she not char­ming, Har­co­urt? Is not the gown per­fect for her?"

  "Per­fect," Ga­reth ag­re­ed. This was Mi­ran­da, not Ma­ude. Her co­lo­ring was too ro­bust for the wan in­va­lid, her fra­me too sup­ple. But that mor­ning, he'd enj­oyed the won­der­ful con­t­rast of the lady and the va­ga­bond con­ta­ined in the one per­son. Now the va­ga­bond had di­sap­pe­ared com­p­le­tely and only the lady re­ma­ined, the per­fect co­ur­ti­er. And for so­me per­ver­se re­ason, he fo­und him­self dis­li­king the very per­fec­ti­on of the im­pos­tu­re.

  Mi­ran­da pa­used three steps from the bot­tom. Lord Har­co­urt wo­re a short clo­ak of sil­ver cloth li­ned with pe­acock blue. His do­ub­let was of sil­ver em­b­ro­ide­red with tur­qu­o­ise, his very bri­ef trunk ho­se of dar­ker blue slas­hed to re­ve­al bands of sil­ver from his un­der­ho­se. A jewe­led belt clas­ped his hips, and one glo­ved hand res­ted on the gem-stud­ded hilt of his sword.

  Her co­lor ro­se, pu­re de­light was po­uring thro­ugh her ve­ins, all her tre­pi­da­ti­on van­qu­is­hed by the sa­me tur­bu­lent sen­sa­ti­ons she'd ex­pe­ri­en­ced in the inn at Roc­hes­ter, when she'd wat­c­hed him was­hing, chan­ging his shirt, every sim­p­le mo­ve­ment fil­ling her with the stran­gest hun­gers.

  She ra­ised her eyes to me­et his and re­ad the shock of re­cog­ni­ti­on in the lazy-lid­ded brown eyes. She mo­is­te­ned her lips, tig­h­te­ned her thighs, trying to con­t­rol the­ir qu­ive­ring.

  "Do I ple­ase you, mi­lord?" But she knew the qu­es­ti­on as­ked much mo­re than it ap­pe­ared to.

  "It is a most re­mar­kab­le tran­s­for­ma­ti­on," Ga­reth res­pon­ded de­li­be­ra­tely. "Is she not most ama­zingly tran­s­for­med, sis­ter?"

  "Yes, in­de­ed," Imo­gen sa­id. "I con­g­ra­tu­la­te you, brot­her. I wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve se­en such a com­p­le­te match in the girl when I first la­id eyes on her."

  Ga­reth ex­ten­ded his hand in in­vi­ta­ti­on and Mi­ran­da la­id her own in it, des­cen­ding the last three steps. The ser­pent bra­ce­let glit­te­red on her wrist. Ga­reth tur­ned it aro­und with one fin­ger. "Are you mo­re com­for­tab­le with this now?"

  "Go­od he­avens, why sho­uld she be un­com­for­tab­le with it?" Imo­gen ex­c­la­imed. "It's the most be­a­uti­ful pi­ece."

  "I don't ca­re for the bra­ce­let," Mi­ran­da sa­id firmly, "but the swan charm is ex­qu­isi­te." She lightly tra­ced the sha­pe of the eme­rald swan.

  "Well, how very for­tu­na­te that you sho­uld find it so," Imo­gen sa­id was­pishly. "I da­re­say you've se­en many such jewels and are well qu­ali­fi­ed to jud­ge of the­ir qu­ality."

  Mi­ran­da flus­hed and Ga­reth sa­id, "Co­me, it's a go­od ho­ur along the wa­ter to Gre­en­wich and we ha­ve no ti­me to was­te."

  Mi­ran­da sa­id no mo­re un­til they we­re all se­ated in the bar­ge. Two li­ve­ri­ed fo­ot­men ac­com­pa­ni­ed them and two of Imo­gen's ma­ids. Lady Imo­gen to­ok one of the two cha­irs in the stern and the ma­ids ar­ran­ged her skirts, set­tled the clo­ak aro­und her sho­ul­ders, and then bac­ked off to stand in the bow.

  "Sit with me, Ga­reth." Imo­gen ges­tu­red im­pe­ra­ti­vely to the cha­ir be­si­de her.

  "I be­li­eve my ward has so­me qu­es­ti­ons for me and they will be best as­ked qu­i­etly," her brot­her res­pon­ded.

  "We shall sit on the bench amid­s­hips. Mi­les, do ta­ke the cha­ir be­si­de yo­ur wi­fe."

  Mi­les didn't lo­ok too happy abo­ut the ar­ran­ge­ment, but has­te­ned to se­at him­self, exa­mi­ning the duck-bo­ards be­fo­re ca­re­ful­ly pla­cing his fe­et in the soft red le­at­her slip­pers ne­atly si­de by si­de. "Do be ca­re­ful of yo­ur sho­es, my de­ar ma­dam. I be­li­eve the­re is so­me mo­is­tu­re just be­ne­ath yo­ur cha­ir and kid­s­kin sta­ins so badly."

  Imo­gen glan­ced down, her no­se twit­c­hing. "You… man… co­me he­re and wi­pe the bo­ards," she com­man­ded one of the men­ser­vants, who rus­hed over with a can­vas cloth, sli­ding on the slick bo­ards as he drop­ped to his kne­es to mop up the few er­rant drops.

  Mi­ran­da to­ok her pla­ce whe­re the earl in­di­ca­ted on a wi­de bench in the mid­dle of the bar­ge. The bench was thickly cus­hi­oned and a ca­nopy had be­en erec­ted al­t­ho­ugh it was no lon­ger ra­ining and a fit­ful sun now flir­ted with the clo­uds. The black-and-yel­low pen­nants flew the Har­co­urt co­lors from both stern and bow, and the fo­ur bo­at­men wo­re black-and-yel­low li­very, plying the­ir long po­les as the bar­ge slid in­to the mid­dle of the ri­ver, we­aving thro­ugh the traf­fic.

  "Will Ma­ude's su­itor co­me so­on?" Mi­ran­da as­ked as Lord Har­co­urt sat be­si­de her, swin­ging his sword to the si­de.

  "I ima­gi­ne so. He in­ten­ded to start off from Fran­ce so­on af­ter me."

  Mi­ran­da pla­yed with the bra­ce­let. “The qu­e­en will ap­pro­ve this match?"

  "Most cer­ta­inly."

  "And pe­op­le will be­li­eve me to be Ma­ude?" Des­pi­te Ma­ude's re­as­su­ran­ces, she ne­eded to he­ar it from the earl's lips.

  “They ha­ve no re­ason to be­li­eve ot­her­wi­se." He con­fir­med Ma­ude's re­aso­ning. "My co­usin has not yet ma­de her de­but at co­urt. You are ma­king it for her this af­ter­no­on."

  "Will the qu­e­en wish to talk with me?"

  "She will talk at you, if she no­ti­ces you be­yond a me­re nod," he told her. "You will ha­ve no ne­ed to spe­ak, in­de­ed, it will be con­si­de­red un­se­emly for you to do so. You will curtsy, ke­ep yo­ur eyes lo­we­red, and spe­ak only if as­ked a di­rect qu­es­ti­on. And you will ke­ep yo­ur an­s­wer very short and sim­p­le."

  This was just as Ma­ude had sa­id, but her ap­pre­hen­si­on wo­uld not be stil­led. "Will you stay be­si­de me, mi­lord?"

  He glan­ced at her. "Lady Imo­gen will be yo­ur cha­pe­ron."

  "But I think I will ne­ed you be­si­de me. For con­fi­den­ce… to tell me what to do if I'm in do­ubt." She won­de­red if she so­un­ded as des­pe­ra­te as she felt.

  "You will not be in do­ubt," he sa­id in bra­cing ac­cents. "You will find that you'll know exactly what to do. But re­mem­ber to call me by my na­me."

  Why was he so im­per­vi­o­us to her fe­ars? Just what ma­de him think this was all so easy? "Ga­reth?" she in­qu­ired in­no­cently.

  Ga­reth lo­oked mo­men­ta­rily star­t­led, then an­no­yed, then slowly he smi­led. "To­uc­he, fi­refly. I'll stick clo­ser than yo­ur sha­dow."

  Mi­ran­da was sa­tis­fi­ed.

  It was clo­se to fi­ve o'clock when the bar­ge ar­ri­ved at the wa­ter steps of Gre­en­wich pa­la­ce. A long li­ne of bar­ges wa­ited to un­lo­ad the­ir pas­sen­gers, and bo­at­men, joc­ke­ying for po­si­ti­on, sho­uted out the­ir em­p­lo­yers' na­mes as they as­ser­ted the­ir rights of pre­ce­den­ce.

  Ga­reth, much mo­re un­con­cer­ned at be­ing kept wa­iting than his ser­vants, sto­od in the bows, as­ses­sing the crowd, lo­oking for fa­mi­li­ar fa­ces, for an­yo­ne who might, ha­ving se­en Ma­ude, lo­ok as­kan­ce at the pre­sent em­bo­di­ment of Lord Har­co­urt's ward. Ma­ude had be­en se­en by so few pe­op­le and was in­ti­ma­tely known to no­ne but the­ir own ho­use­hold, so he was not ex­pec­ting any dif­fi­cul­ti­es, ne­ver­t­he­less he was awa­re of a qu­ic­ke­ning of his blo­od as his eyes ra­ked the throng.

  "This is dis­g­ra­ce­ful," Imo­gen dec­la­red. "Who is ahe­ad of us? We must ta­ke pre­ce­den­ce over al­most ever­yo­ne he­re."

  "Not over the du­ke of Suf­folk, ma­dam."

  "Nor His Gra­ce of Arun­del," Mi­les put in.

  Imo­gen sub­si­ded but Mi­ran­da jum­ped
to her fe­et with such energy that the bar­ge roc­ked alar­mingly. Gat­he­ring her skirts, she pic­ked her way to stand be­si­de Lord Har­co­urt.

  "Sit down, girl!" Imo­gen ex­c­la­imed. "Sit down un­til we are re­ady to di­sem­bark! It's most un­se­emly to ga­pe and gawk in that fas­hi­on."

  Mi­ran­da he­si­ta­ted, re­sen­ting Lady Imo­gen's to­ne. It wo­uld ha­ve be­en so sim­p­le to ha­ve as­ked her to re­turn to her se­at, but the lady didn't se­em to know how to ask.

  "Co­me," Ga­reth sa­id pa­ci­fi­cal­ly. "Let us both sit down. We'll be in the way when the bar­ge­men ha­ve to tie up."

  Mi­ran­da co­uldn't see that this wo­uld be so, but she re­cog­ni­zed the com­p­ro­mi­se. She'd no­ted be­fo­re that mi­lord cho­se to avo­id di­rect con­f­lict with his sis­ter. "Co­ward," she whis­pe­red, but with a catch of la­ug­h­ter in her vo­ice.

  "On oc­ca­si­on, dis­c­re­ti­on is the bet­ter part of va­lor, fi­refly," Ga­reth ob­ser­ved in the co­ol, dry to­ne that al­ways ma­de her la­ugh. He pla­ced a hand in the small of her back, ur­ging her re­turn to the bench.

  Mi­ran­da felt the warm pres­su­re thro­ugh the la­yers of gown and pet­ti­co­ats. The fi­ne ha­irs on her na­pe lif­ted, lit­tle pric­k­les of sen­sa­ti­on ran down her spi­ne, and a jolt of so­met­hing akin to fe­ar shi­ve­red in her belly. Wit­ho­ut vo­li­ti­on, she lo­oked over her sho­ul­der, up at his fa­ce.

  Ga­reth met the de­ep blue ga­ze. Her eyes we­re al­ways open and ho­nest, easily re­ad by who­ever cho­se to do so. And they we­re no dif­fe­rent now. He in­ha­led sharply at the na­ked de­si­re they con­ta­ined. A de­si­re min­g­led with con­fu­si­on and ap­pre­hen­si­on. A cu­ri­o­usly in­no­cent de­si­re that stir­red him to his co­re. Mi­ran­da didn't know exactly what it was she was fe­eling.