The Emerald Swan

by Jane Feather

  "My ward is so­mew­hat ove­ra­wed, ma­dam," he sa­id.

  "In­de­ed, I tho­ught her re­mar­kably at her ease," the qu­e­en ob­ser­ved with anot­her flic­ker of her lips, and Mi­ran­da wasn't su­re whet­her Her Ma­j­esty had gu­es­sed her pre­di­ca­ment. Had an­yo­ne el­se? She shot a swift si­de­ways glan­ce at Lady Mary. It was not re­as­su­ring; the lady was lo­oking stun­ned.

  Mi­ran­da ap­pro­ac­hed the qu­e­en. Eli­za­beth to­ok her right hand. "So tell me, Lady Ma­ude, how do­es the du­ke of Ro­is­sy ple­ase you?"

  "I can­not say, ma­dam. I ha­ve not se­en a li­ke­ness of His Gra­ce, al­t­ho­ugh he has se­en one of me."

  "De­ar me, Har­co­urt. That is an omis­si­on." The qu­e­en, still hol­ding Mi­ran­da's hand, tur­ned to Ga­reth and tap­ped his arm play­ful­ly with her clo­sed fan. "You can't ex­pect the po­or child to re­gard her nup­ti­als with en­t­hu­si­asm if she has no pic­tu­re of her in­ten­ded."

  Lu­ci­fer! Mat­ters we­re go­ing from bad to wor­se. It was a ve­ri­tab­le hor­net's nest. Why oh why hadn't she simply sa­id yes to the qu­e­en's qu­es­ti­on with a shy smi­le? Lord Har­co­urt had told her not to vo­lun­te­er an­y­t­hing and he­re she was chat­te­ring with the qu­e­en as if they we­re old fri­ends. "Oh, ple­ase do not bla­me mil… Lord Har­co­urt. The du­ke was unab­le to fur­nish a li­ke­ness and I know mi… Lord Har­co­urt will gi­ve me a ver­bal des­c­rip­ti­on if I as­ked it of him."

  "I shall draw you a por­t­ra­it, my ward," Ga­reth sa­id gra­vely. "I hadn't re­ali­zed it was im­por­tant to you. But I do as­su­re you the­re is not­hing dis­p­le­asing in yo­ur su­itor."

  "No… no, I'm su­re the­re's not," Mi­ran­da sa­id fer­vently. "I know that you wo­uld not ha­ve me wed to so­me­one dis­p­le­asing."

  "My… my. What a cham­pi­on you ha­ve in the child!" the qu­e­en dec­la­red with anot­her la­ugh. "I co­uld wish mo­re wards re­gar­ded the­ir gu­ar­di­ans with such res­pect and fa­vor… And in­de­ed had such go­od re­ason to do so," she ad­ded.

  Ga­reth's only res­pon­se was a bow of ac­k­now­led­g­ment. The qu­e­en tur­ned her at­ten­ti­on back to Mi­ran­da, who was des­pe­ra­tely wis­hing the flo­or wo­uld open and swal­low her. "I un­der­s­to­od the girl to be of a fra­il con­s­ti­tu­ti­on, Lord Har­co­urt. She se­ems ha­le and he­althy eno­ugh."

  "I be­li­eve my ward has grown out of the in­dis­po­si­ti­ons that ha­un­ted her chil­d­ho­od."

  "Ah, yes. It do­es hap­pen." Her Ma­j­esty nod­ded aga­in, then her eye was ca­ught by the bra­ce­let on Mi­ran­da's wrist. She lif­ted the wrist. "Why, this is a pretty ba­ub­le. Most unu­su­al."

  "A gift from Ro­is­sy, ma­dam. As ear­nest of his in­tent," Ga­reth sa­id smo­othly. "It be­lon­ged to Lady Ma­ude's mot­her. A bet­rot­hal gift from Du­ke Fran­cis."

  "Oh, how ap­prop­ri­ate." The qu­e­en bent clo­ser over the bra­ce­let, exa­mi­ning it with a frown. "We sho­uld be qu­ite de­lig­h­ted to find such a ba­ub­le for our­sel­ves."

  Mi­ran­da in­s­tantly mo­ved to un­c­lasp the bra­ce­let. "If Yo­ur Ma­j­esty wo­uld be so kind as to-"

  "Go­od­ness me, no, child!" the qu­e­en in­ter­rup­ted, al­t­ho­ugh she was cle­arly ple­ased. "Yo­ur su­itor wo­uld be de­eply of­fen­ded, and rightly so, to ha­ve his gift so ca­re­les­sly gi­ven away." She re­le­ased Mi­ran­da's hand.

  "I gi­ve you go­od day, Lord Har­co­urt. Bring yo­ur ward to me aga­in. I find her ref­res­hing."

  Ga­reth mo­ved im­me­di­ately. He bo­wed him­self bac­k­ward to the do­or, Mi­ran­da cur­t­s­ying in synchrony, and then they we­re be­yond the do­ors.

  Mi­ran­da stra­ig­h­te­ned, blo­wing out a re­li­eved bre­ath. "I ne­arly fell over," she sa­id as the full hor­ror of the ne­ar-di­sas­ter hit her.

  "I no­ti­ced," Ga­reth sa­id with a tiny smi­le.

  "Thank go­od­ness you did. But how co­uld it ha­ve hap­pe­ned? I'm ne­ver clumsy!" She sto­od still, he­ed­less of the crow­ded an­tec­ham­ber. "I told you I co­uldn't do this, mi­lord. Why did I say all tho­se things?" She lo­oked up at him in frus­t­ra­ti­on. "Why co­uldn't I ha­ve kept qu­i­et?"

  "You we­re cer­ta­inly mo­re for­t­h­co­ming than most yo­ung girls on the­ir pre­sen­ta­ti­on to the so­ve­re­ign," Ga­reth ob­ser­ved gra­vely. "Ah, Imo­gen." He gre­eted his sis­ter as she sa­iled thro­ugh the crowd to­ward them.

  "Well?" she de­man­ded. "How did it go?"

  "Wit­ho­ut di­sas­ter," Ga­reth re­tur­ned with a non-com­mit­tal smi­le. "We may con­g­ra­tu­la­te our­sel­ves that the worst is over."

  "Yes, in­de­ed," Imo­gen sa­id with a flo­urish of her fan. "Co­me now, Ma­ude. Lord and Lady In­g­les are an­xi­o­us to re­new the­ir ac­qu­a­in­tan­ce with you. They ha­ven't se­en you sin­ce you we­re a child." She to­ok Mi­ran­da's arm and swept her away.

  The rest of the eve­ning was one of in­ter­mi­nab­le tor­tu­re for Mi­ran­da. She se­emed to be cur­t­s­ying, nod­ding, smi­ling, me­anin­g­les­sly and wit­ho­ut ce­ase. Na­mes and fa­ces blur­red and al­t­ho­ugh Lord Har­co­urt sta­yed al­ways in her vi­ci­nity, she had no con­ver­sa­ti­on with him.

  Lady Mary, re­le­ased from at­ten­dan­ce on the qu­e­en, jo­ined them af­ter an ho­ur. "My de­ar Ma­ude, wha­te­ver we­re you thin­king of?" she de­man­ded im­me­di­ately. "Tal­king to the qu­e­en in that im­per­ti­nent fas­hi­on. I was ne­ver so shoc­ked." She sho­ok her he­ad. "My lord Har­co­urt, we­re you not shoc­ked?"

  "Not in the le­ast," Ga­reth res­pon­ded.

  "Go­od­ness, what did the girl do?" Imo­gen as­ked. "My brot­her sa­id the pre­sen­ta­ti­on had go­ne well." She lo­oked ac­cu­singly at Ga­reth.

  "So it did," Ga­reth sa­id.

  "Oh, co­me, sir, you must ad­mit yo­ur ward was un­p­le­asingly for­ward," Lady Mary sa­id.

  "Her Ma­j­esty didn't ap­pe­ar to mind, ma­dam. I tho­ught her qu­ite ta­ken with Ma­ude's unu­su­al can­dor."

  Mary didn't know what to ma­ke of this de­fen­se. It ve­xed her and yet, in ho­nesty, she had to ad­mit that Ma­ude's for­war­d­ness had not do­ne her any harm in the qu­e­en's eyes, for all that it had shoc­ked her la­di­es. But she had not ex­pec­ted Ga­reth to co­me to his ward's de­fen­se. Ga­reth was as much a stic­k­ler for the con­ven­ti­ons and ce­re­mo­ni­es as she her­self was. Or so she had be­li­eved.

  “Tell me exactly what tran­s­pi­red, Mary. Tell me at on­ce!" Imo­gen de­man­ded.

  Mi­ran­da lis­te­ned in si­len­ce as Lady Mary re­co­un­ted every de­ta­il of the in­ter­vi­ew. But she didn't se­em to ha­ve re­ali­zed how clo­se to di­sas­ter Mi­ran­da had co­me with the curtsy, and for that she sup­po­sed she sho­uld be gra­te­ful. The­re didn't se­em to be an­y­t­hing for her to say in her de­fen­se, and even the earl had tur­ned asi­de as if the su­bj­ect no lon­ger in­te­res­ted him, le­aving the two wo­men to an ani­ma­ted dis­cus­si­on that qu­ickly mo­ved from Lady Ma­ude's sins to ot­her gos­sip.

  Mi­ran­da was dre­ad­ful­ly thirsty but the­re se­emed not­hing to drink. No ref­res­h­ments se­emed on of­fer, not even a glass of wa­ter. Sur­rep­ti­ti­o­usly, she pri­ed off her sho­es, re­le­asing her fe­et from tor­ment.

  "Lady Ma­ude, what do you think of Gre­en­wich?"

  Mi­ran­da didn't re­gis­ter the qu­es­ti­on at first, un­til it was re­pe­ated. She ca­me to with a start, res­pon­ding to Kip Ros­si­ter, "I li­ke it very much, sir. The gar­dens are de­lig­h­t­ful."

  "Per­haps you'd ca­re to walk down to the ri­ver. The­re's a very ple­asant path thro­ugh the shrub­bery." He of­fe­red her his arm. He was smi­ling but his eyes we­re shrewd and wat­c­h­ful and Mi­ran­da felt im­me­di�
�ately un­com­for­tab­le. But she co­uld think of no po­li­te way of re­fu­sing. He was cle­arly an old and va­lu­ed fri­end of Lord Har­co­urt's.

  She to­ok his arm and mo­ved away with him.

  Be­hind her, Lady Imo­gen ga­ve a lit­tle shri­ek. Mi­ran­da's dis­car­ded sho­es, hid­den by her gown for as long as she sto­od still, lay re­ve­aled in the grass. Lady Mary sta­red in dis­be­li­ef. Mi­ran­da glan­ced over her sho­ul­der, then pa­led, ag­hast. Her es­cort ap­pe­ared not to ha­ve no­ti­ced the com­mo­ti­on, and swal­lo­wing hard, she con­ti­nu­ed on her way, ba­re­fo­ot ac­ross the grass. No one wo­uld know as long as she kept her fe­et con­ce­aled in her skirts.

  Ga­reth, in con­ver­sa­ti­on with Mi­les, tur­ned idly at his sis­ter's lit­tle scre­am. His as­to­nis­hed ga­ze fell on the pa­ir of kid­s­kin slip­pers lying si­de by si­de in the grass, as if in ex­pec­ta­ti­on of the­ir ow­ner's re­turn. He cast a swift glan­ce to whe­re Mi­ran­da was strol­ling on Kip's arm, her he­ad held high, her back very stra­ight. Ga­reth didn't know whet­her to la­ugh or emu­la­te his sis­ter's scre­am. Su­rely Mi­ran­da was awa­re of be­ing sho­eless. But per­haps not. It was pro­bably a very fa­mi­li­ar con­di­ti­on.

  "What are we to do?" Imo­gen his­sed, step­ping back so that she had co­ve­red the evi­den­ce with her own skirts. "She's ba­re­fo­ot."

  "Ig­no­re it," Ga­reth ad­vi­sed in an un­der­to­ne. "Kick the damn sho­es un­der a bush and pre­tend it hasn't hap­pe­ned."

  "But she's ba­re­fo­ot"

  "So you sa­id."

  "Ga­reth, wha­te­ver is yo­ur ward thin­king of?" Lady Mary re­co­ve­red her­self so­mew­hat. "She to­ok off her sho­es."

  "Ma­ude's physi­ci­an en­co­ura­ges her to walk ba­re­fo­ot to cor­rect a prob­lem in her ar­c­hes which gi­ves her so­me tro­ub­le," Ga­reth he­ard him­self sa­ying with the ut­most gra­vity to his as­to­un­ded and hor­ri­fi­ed bet­rot­hed. "I da­re­say she… she… um… slip­ped out of her sho­es for a mo­ment, on his in­s­t­ruc­ti­ons."

  "But… but this is the qu­e­en's pa­la­ce." Mary was cle­arly far from mol­li­fi­ed or con­vin­ced by this ex­p­la­na­ti­on for such in­c­re­dib­le, aber­rant be­ha­vi­or.

  "But Her Ma­j­esty is not he­re to see it," Ga­reth po­in­ted out a sha­de tartly. "I see no po­int in fur­t­her dis­cus­si­on, ma­dam. The lass is sho­eless and we'd do well to ig­no­re the fact."

  Mary step­ped back, a flush mo­un­ting from her neck to flo­od her che­eks. She tur­ned her sho­ul­der to Lord Har­co­urt, sa­ying dis­tantly, "You'll for­gi­ve me, my lord, but I must re­turn to Her Ma­j­esty."

  Ga­reth's res­pon­se was a for­mal bow. "I bid you fa­re­well, ma­dam."

  Mary wal­ked away wit­ho­ut a word for an­yo­ne and Imo­gen chi­ded, "How co­uld you be so sharp, Ga­reth? You've of­fen­ded her sadly and she spo­ke only the truth. It se­emed as if you we­re ta­king the girl's part aga­inst yo­ur fi­an­cee."

  Ga­reth brus­hed asi­de his sis­ter's an­ger with a ca­su­al ges­tu­re. " The de­ed is do­ne, Imo­gen, our task is not to draw at­ten­ti­on to it. Now, kick tho­se sho­es away whi­le I ret­ri­eve Mi­ran­da and you may ta­ke her ho­me out of harm's way."

  He stro­de off af­ter Kip and Mi­ran­da, exas­pe­ra­ted, but not, he re­ali­zed, by Mi­ran­da's mis­ta­ke. His sis­ter and his fi­an­cee had ma­de a mo­un­ta­in out of a mo­le­hill. It was qu­ite ri­di­cu­lo­us, and Imo­gen, at le­ast, sho­uld ha­ve known bet­ter than to draw at­ten­ti­on to the si­tu­ati­on. It was only to be ex­pec­ted that Mary wo­uld be hor­ri­fi­ed, gi­ven her eti­qu­et­te-bo­und, co­urt-ori­en­ted out­lo­ok on li­fe.

  Pru­dish was pro­bably the word, he ca­ught him­self thin­king, in­c­re­asing his spe­ed as he spi­ed his qu­ar­ry so­me fifty yards away.

  Kip was ma­king ca­su­al small talk, but all the whi­le Mi­ran­da was awa­re of his oc­ca­si­onal glan­ces. His eyes we­re shrewd but al­so slightly puz­zled, and she adop­ted on­ce mo­re the slight rasp in her vo­ice, ke­eping her eyes lo­we­red whe­ne­ver pos­sib­le, and an­s­we­ring only in mo­nos­y­l­lab­les. She gre­eted Lord Har­co­urt's ap­pro­ach with un­dis­gu­ised re­li­ef, des­pi­te her ba­re­fo­ot con­di­ti­on.

  "Ah, the­re you are, mi­lord." She bit her lip at the earl's in­s­tant frown. She co­ug­hed, rub­bing her thro­at. “The night air is in my thro­at, my lord," she sa­id.

  "Lady Imo­gen is re­ady to ta­ke you ho­me." He of­fe­red his arm.

  "So so­on," Kip la­men­ted. "I was enj­oying yo­ur ward's com­pany, Ga­reth."

  "The­re will be many ot­her oc­ca­si­ons," Ga­reth sa­id with a smi­le. "Now that Ma­ude has ma­de her de­but, she will be of­ten in so­ci­ety."

  Mi­ran­da shud­de­red at this pro­mi­se, but she tur­ned to ma­ke a po­li­te fa­re­well to Sir Chris­top­her, still mas­sa­ging her thro­at as if to em­p­ha­si­ze a ho­ar­se­ness that might re­aso­nably ha­ve ma­de my lord so­und rat­her mo­re French than En­g­lish.

  Kip didn't ac­com­pany them as they re­tur­ned thro­ugh the shrub­bery. He was frow­ning, won­de­ring what it was abo­ut Lady Ma­ude that puz­zled him. She lo­oked just as he re­mem­be­red her, but the­re was so­met­hing in­de­fi­nably dif­fe­rent. A sen­se of the unex­pec­ted was the ne­arest he co­uld co­me to iden­tif­ying it. But what co­uld pos­sibly be unex­pec­ted abo­ut Lord Har­co­urt's ward?

  Lord Har­co­urt's si­len­ce as they wal­ked back to whe­re Lady Du­fort and her hus­band awa­ited didn't en­co­ura­ge bre­aking, and Mi­ran­da sa­id not­hing, won­de­ring what had hap­pe­ned to her sho­es, and how she co­uld put them on aga­in wit­ho­ut dra­wing at­ten­ti­on to her­self. They we­re too tight to slip in­to even when her fe­et we­ren't swol­len.

  But the­re was no sign of her sho­es and no one sa­id an­y­t­hing abo­ut them as they re­tur­ned to the wa­ter steps whe­re the bar­ge was wa­iting. She step­ped in­to the bar­ge with ba­rely a flut­ter of her skirts so that only the most ob­ser­vant eye wo­uld ha­ve ca­ught a glim­p­se of a whi­te fo­ot, and to­ok her pla­ce on the mid­dle bench, tuc­king her fe­et well be­ne­ath her.

  "You will re­turn with us, Ga­reth," Imo­gen sta­ted, set­tling in­to a cha­ir just as Bri­an Ros­si­ter ca­me bar­re­ling out of the sha­dows.

  "Ga­reth, m'boy. We've be­en wa­iting this age. He­re's War­wick and Len­s­ter, eager for so­me ga­ming." The lords emer­ged in­to the tor­c­h­light, full of bo­is­te­ro­us la­ug­h­ter and the pres­sing in­vi­ta­ti­on to jo­in them for a night of cards and di­cing.

  "Aye, I've a mind for so­me sport," Ga­reth sa­id easily.

  "But my lord…" Imo­gen pro­tes­ted. She was bur­s­ting with the ne­ed to dis­cuss the eve­ning and all its ne­ar-di­sas­ters with her brot­her. "Su­rely you can play so­me ot­her ti­me."

  The­re was a short si­len­ce, then Ga­reth sa­id, "I be­li­eve I'll play this night, ma­dam. Lord Du­fort will es­cort you and my ward sa­fely ho­me. You can ha­ve no ne­ed of my es­cort in his com­pany."

  Mi­les lo­oked lon­gingly at the party on the ri­ver­bank but kept si­lent. Imo­gen com­p­res­sed her lips and Mi­ran­da wat­c­hed for­lornly as the earl di­sap­pe­ared arm in arm with his fri­ends.

  Imo­gen didn't spe­ak to her on the re­turn trip and Mi­les's oc­ca­si­onal well-me­aning con­ver­sa­ti­onal gam­bits fell in­to a black well of si­len­ce un­til the bo­at to­uc­hed the wa­ter steps of the Har­co­urt man­si­on.

  "Well, that was a tri­al and a tri­bu­la­ti­on," Imo­gen dec­la­red as she step­ped as­ho­re. "But I sup­po­se we sho­uld be gra­te­ful it didn't be­co­me a com­p­le­te di­sas­ter. Mi­les, gi­ve me yo­ur arm! What are you wa­iting for?" She tur­ned with a qu­eru­l
o­us frown. "I ha­ve the he­adac­he. It has be­en a most trying eve­ning."

  "Yes, yes, my de­ar ma­dam. I'm right he­re." Mi­les, who had be­en wa­iting to hand Mi­ran­da from the bar­ge, rus­hed to his wi­fe's si­de, le­aving Mi­ran­da to fend for her­self. Not that that tro­ub­led her in the le­ast. She was so ab­sor­bed in her own dark and tur­bu­lent mo­od she ba­rely no­ti­ced an­y­way.

  The wa­iting por­ter sto­od at the wic­ket ga­te with his lan­tern held high and mo­ved ahe­ad of Lord and Lady Du­fort to light the­ir way up the path to the ho­use. Mi­ran­da, ig­no­red, fol­lo­wed be­hind, cur­ling her so­re to­es in the so­ot­hing co­ol­ness of the damp grass.

  The glass do­ors to the wa­in­s­co­ted par­lor we­re ope­ned as the small party ap­pro­ac­hed and the Du­forts pas­sed in­si­de as the por­ter step­ped back. Ne­it­her Imo­gen nor Mi­les ac­k­now­led­ged the sle­epy fo­ot­man who had let them in, but Mi­ran­da ga­ve him a qu­ick smi­le as she pad­ded past him.

  He sta­red sto­ne-fa­ced at the gro­und whe­re her ba­re fe­et left wet prints on the oak bo­ards.

  Lady Imo­gen swept up the sta­irs wit­ho­ut so much as a fa­re­well and Lord Du­fort with a qu­ick go­od-night scut­tled away in­to the sha­dowy re­ac­hes of the ho­use. The fo­ot­man, ho­we­ver, was wa­iting by the do­or, hol­ding the long can­d­les­nuf­fer. He cle­ared his thro­at ex­pec­tantly as Mi­ran­da wal­ked back to the glass do­ors.

  "Oh, I sup­po­se you want to go to bed. I'll snuff the can­d­les and clo­se the do­ors."

  "It's my task to see that all's clo­sed up for the night, ma­dam. And I must snuff the can­d­les," he sa­id wo­odenly.

  "But his lor­d­s­hip is still out."

  "His lor­d­s­hip uses the si­de do­or at night. Light is left for him." The man spo­ke in­to the air, not me­eting Mi­ran­da's eyes.