The Emerald Swan

by Jane Feather

  The con­s­tab­le of Do­ver Cas­t­le ro­de down him­self to wel­co­me the du­ke of Ro­is­sy and his en­to­ura­ge. He se­emed mo­men­ta­rily stun­ned to find his nob­le vi­si­tor con­sor­ting in the pub­lic tap­ro­om with the fis­her­men and la­bo­rers of Do­ver, but the­re was so­met­hing abo­ut his gu­est, so­met­hing in his pre­sen­ce, that kept any com­ments stil­lborn.

  He es­cor­ted his gu­ests to the cas­t­le and im­me­di­ately sent a co­uri­er to Lon­don with the du­ke's re­ve­ren­ce to Her Ma­j­esty and his re­qu­est to at­tend her at co­urt, and a se­cond let­ter to the earl of Har­co­urt, an­no­un­cing the du­ke's ar­ri­val and con­ta­ining the im­p­li­cit cla­im of hos­pi­ta­lity un­der the Har­co­urt ro­of.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mi­ran­da saw Rob­bie the next mor­ning. She was wal­king in the long gal­lery, alo­ne with her tho­ughts, which we­re as con­fu­sed as they had ever be­en. Con­fu­sed and yet in­fu­sed with ex­ci­te­ment, with a sen­se of physi­cal won­der that fil­led every cell and po­re of her body. She lon­ged to see Ga­reth, and yet de­li­be­ra­tely kept her­self out of his way. She didn't know whet­her that was be­ca­use she was af­ra­id, or be­ca­use she wan­ted to tre­asu­re this glo­ri­o­us fe­eling alo­ne for as long as pos­sib­le. It was a fe­eling cen­te­red not just on the won­ders of the­ir lo­ve-ma­king but on the de­ep cer­ta­inty of her lo­ve. She knew what it was to lo­ve her fa­mily, but this fe­eling was very dif­fe­rent. The­re was no ob­li­ga­ti­on, no ra­ti­ona­lity, it was a fact, a hu­ge gol­den ball of con­vic­ti­on that both fil­led her and en­com­pas­sed her. And she knew her li­fe wo­uld ne­ver be the sa­me aga­in.

  So now she wal­ked alo­ne, whi­le Chip wat­c­hed her from the man­tel­pi­ece, his en­ti­re de­me­anor ex­p­res­sing his une­ase and di­sap­pro­val. Mi­ran­da hadn't even vi­si­ted Ma­ude that mor­ning. She che­ris­hed this new­born emo­ti­on, sen­sing that on­ce it was ex­po­sed to the out­si­de world, it wo­uld be al­te­red in so­me way, and for as long as she co­uld ke­ep it pris­ti­ne and sec­ret she wo­uld.

  It was warm and muggy in the gal­lery. The day was still over­cast but clo­se and thun­dery. Mi­ran­da dab­bed at a be­ad of swe­at gat­he­ring in the cleft of her bo­som and went to open one of the long win­dows over­lo­oking the front co­ur­t­yard.

  And then she saw the small fi­gu­re stan­ding ac­ross the nar­row ro­ad­way that ran past the Har­co­urt ga­tes. Her he­art jum­ped with shock. How co­uld it be Rob­bie? The tro­upe wo­uld be sa­fe in Fran­ce by now. Then with a wa­ve of de­lig­h­ted sur­p­ri­se, she knew that it was. Even at this dis­tan­ce, the small fi­gu­re was un­mis­ta­kab­le. Her fa­mily we­re not in Fran­ce, they we­re he­re, in Lon­don.

  She ran from the gal­lery, lif­ting her skirts cle­ar of her fe­et, Chip bo­un­ding at her he­els.

  Imo­gen emer­ged from the par­lor as Mi­ran­da hur­ri­ed ac­ross the hall to the front do­or. "Whe­re are you go­ing, girl? You can't go out wit­ho­ut an at­ten­dant."

  Mi­ran­da ba­rely he­ard and pa­id her no at­ten­ti­on. She wres­t­led for a mi­nu­te with the gre­at do­ub­le do­ors, then flung one of them wi­de and le­aped down the steps to the co­ur­t­yard. She flew ac­ross to the ga­tes, de­man­ding of the por­ter even as she ran, "Open the wic­ket for me."

  The por­ter sta­red at Lady Ma­ude. It was Lady Ma­ude, des­pi­te the stran­gely short ha­ir and the od­dity of the mon­key at her fe­et. Her vo­ice was im­pe­ri­o­us and im­pa­ti­ent, her eyes snap­ping. He has­te­ned to open the wic­ket ga­te and she slid thro­ugh be­fo­re he'd ope­ned it wi­de. He sta­red in as­to­nis­h­ment as she ran ac­ross the ro­ad­way, dod­ging a car­ter's wa­gon, nar­rowly avo­iding a por­ter with a la­den bas­ket on his he­ad, then she was lost to vi­ew be­hind a knot of traf­fic and he didn't see the re­uni­on.

  Rob­bie ga­zed up­ward at the mag­ni­fi­cent fi­gu­re that was and was not Mi­ran­da. She swept him in­to her arms, he­ed­less of his grubby hands grab­bing the crisp la­ce par­t­let at her bo­som, or his filthy ba­re fe­et cur­ling in­to the folds of her richly em­b­ro­ide­red tan­ge­ri­ne da­mask skirts.

  "Rob­bie… Rob­bie." She la­ug­hed as she kis­sed him. "Whe­re did you spring from?"

  "We co­me lo­okin' fer ye," the child sa­id, when he co­uld ma­na­ge to spe­ak." They sa­id in Do­ver that you was ta­ken by a lord to Lun­non and we co­me lo­okin' fer ye."

  "Ever­yo­ne's he­re?"

  "Aye, we got lod­gin's abo­ve a cob­bler's in Lud­ga­te. Oh, the­re's Chip." He strug­gled to get down and when Mi­ran­da set him on his fe­et he em­b­ra­ced the dan­cing mon­key. Chip chat­te­red ex­ci­tedly, cle­arly de­lig­h­ted, as he wrap­ped his scrawny arms aro­und the boy's neck.

  "Oh, I must go and see them. The­re's so much I ha­ve to tell you all." Mi­ran­da exa­mi­ned Rob­bie as he whis­pe­red to Chip, and so­me of her ela­ti­on fa­ded as she ab­sor­bed his pin­c­hed whi­te fa­ce, sun­ken eyes, the li­nes of pa­in and fa­ti­gue aro­und his lit­tle mo­uth. "Has no one be­en lo­oking af­ter you, Rob­bie?"

  "Lu­ke 'as."

  Mi­ran­da nod­ded in com­p­re­hen­si­on. Lu­ke wo­uld do his best but it wasn't eno­ugh in this in­s­tan­ce. "Co­me," she sa­id, hit­c­hing him on­to her hip. "We'll go in­to the ho­use and get you so­me bre­ak­fast."

  "In the­re?" Rob­bie squ­e­aked, his eyes ope­ning wi­de. "In that lord's 'ouse? We can't go in the­re, M'ran­da."

  "I've just co­me out of it," Mi­ran­da sa­id with a la­ugh. "So I see no re­ason why we can't go back in it."

  "But 'e'll 'ave me ta­ken up and 'anged," Rob­bie whim­pe­red.

  "Who will?"

  "Lord 'Arco­urt. Jebe­di­ah says so." "Oh, pah!" Mi­ran­da dis­mis­sed Jebe­di­ah with an in­dig­nant ges­tu­re. "What do­es he know abo­ut an­y­t­hing?"

  She plun­ged back in­to the ro­ad­way, ex­pertly dod­ging and we­aving un­til she ga­ined the sa­fety of the Har­co­urt ga­tes just be­hind Chip.

  The por­ter's jaw drop­ped, but he ope­ned the wic­ket aga­in and Mi­ran­da hur­ri­ed ac­ross the co­ur­t­yard to the ho­use. Rob­bie clung tightly to her. "Is it an 'ore­ho­use, M'ran­da?"

  "What?" She til­ted her he­ad to get a go­od lo­ok at his fa­ce. "Don't be ab­surd, Rob­bie."

  "Ma­ma Ger­t­ru­de sa­id it don't lo­ok li­ke one," the child sa­id. "But Jebe­di­ah-"

  "Oh, fi­end ta­ke Jebe­di­ah!" Mi­ran­da mar­c­hed in­to the hall and ran stra­ight in­to Imo­gen, who was still stan­ding in the par­lor do­or, trying to de­ci­de what to do abo­ut Mi­ran­da's sud­den di­sap­pe­aran­ce.

  "God in His he­aven! What ha­ve you got the­re?" She flung up her hands in hor­ror. Rob­bie be­gan to cry and bu­ri­ed his he­ad in Mi­ran­da's neck.

  But be­fo­re Mi­ran­da co­uld reply, Ga­reth ca­me down the sta­irs. "What in the world-"

  "Oh, mi­lord, see who I fo­und. It's Rob­bie." Mi­ran­da hur­ri­ed ac­ross the vast hall to the fo­ot of the sta­irs. "My fa­mily are he­re. They didn't go to Fran­ce and le­ave me be­hind af­ter all. They ca­me lo­oking for me and they're he­re, in Lon­don." Her eyes sho­ne as she lo­oked up at him, and he Co­uld see that she was thin­king of not­hing but this new de­ve­lop­ment. And then con­s­ci­o­us­ness flo­oded her ga­ze, and she smi­led at him, a smi­le of such de­vas­ta­ting can­dor and joy that it roc­ked him to his co­re.

  "Ga­reth, what is go­ing on he­re?" Imo­gen de­man­ded. "What's that filthy vag­rant do­ing he­re? He's ru­ining the girl's gown."

  Mi­ran­da ig­no­red this. "I'm go­ing to ta­ke him up to see Ma­ude. Is it all right if I ha­ve bre­ak­fast sent up for him, mi­lord? I ha­ven't be­en the­re to lo­ok af­ter him and I don't sup­po­se he's had eno­ugh t
o eat."

  "Of co­ur­se." What el­se was the­re to say? Mi­ran­da ra­ced up the sta­irs, her spe­ed un­c­hec­ked by her bur­den, le­aving Ga­reth strug­gling with this new com­p­li­ca­ti­on.

  His ca­re­ful­ly con­s­t­ruc­ted sche­me was al­re­ady tot­te­ring on the ver­ge of col­lap­se; it didn't ne­ed anot­her at­tack on its fo­un­da­ti­ons. He hadn't slept, hadn't even at­tem­p­ted to go to bed, re­ma­ining in­s­te­ad in the gar­den un­til day was full bro­ken, wres­t­ling with the con­se­qu­en­ces of what had su­rely be­en no mo­re than a fit of mad­ness. He'd fal­len in­to so­me trap sprung by his over­s­t­ret­c­hed mind, and he had to find a way to mi­ti­ga­te the con­se­qu­en­ces. It was as sim­p­le as that, wasn't it? But his tho­ughts had cir­c­led wit­ho­ut ce­ase, not­hing cle­ar co­ming out of his des­pe­ra­te se­ar­c­hing for a way out of the ghastly tan­g­le.

  His eyes felt full of sand, his limbs ac­hing, his he­ad too thick and muzzy to wres­t­le fur­t­her… and now this. Mi­ran­da's fa­mily had re­tur­ned to her li­fe just when it was vi­tal that she see her­self as a d'Albard, that she be­co­me a d'Albard, that she for­get as far as pos­sib­le her pre­vi­o­us li­fe and im­mer­se her­self in the one that was to be her fu­tu­re. But Ga­reth knew Mi­ran­da well eno­ugh to know that she wo­uldn't for­sa­ke her fri­ends now that she'd fo­und them aga­in.

  "Ga­reth!" Imo­gen's vo­ice to­ok on an ed­ge of des­pe­ra­ti­on. She co­uldn't re­ad her brot­her's ex­p­res­si­on but it fil­led her with une­ase. "Ga­reth, what is go­ing on? Who was that boy she was car­rying?"

  Ga­reth sho­ok his he­ad as if to cle­ar it. "So­me­one from Mi­ran­da's past. Le­ave it to me, Imo­gen, I'll sort it out." He swung away from his sis­ter and ma­de for the pe­ace of his own privy cham­ber at the re­ar of the ho­use. Flin­ging him­self in a cha­ir at the do­cu­ment-st­rewn tab­le, he res­ted his ac­hing he­ad in his hands.

  He had ta­ken the vir­gi­nity of the wo­man des­ti­ned to be­co­me the wi­fe of Henry of Fran­ce. That ne­ed not be a di­sas­ter in it­self. Henry was too lusty and prag­ma­tic him­self to mind over­much if he dis­co­ve­red the bri­de in his bed was no vir­gin. And it wo­uld be ob­vi­o­us to her hus­band that Mi­ran­da was still far from ex­pe­ri­en­ced. If not­hing was sa­id, Henry wo­uld say not­hing.

  As long as the­re was no child. Ga­reth thrust that hi­de­o­us pos­si­bi­lity from him. It was not a use­ful an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on.

  The cold, cal­cu­la­ting part of his bra­in told Ga­reth that if the sim­p­le loss of vir­gi­nity was the only is­sue, then the si­tu­ati­on was ret­ri­evab­le. But he knew that he had ta­ken mo­re than Mi­ran­da's vir­gi­nity in that won­d­ro­us, ma­gi­cal en­co­un­ter in the gar­den. He'd ta­ken her so­ul. He had se­en it in the way she'd lo­oked at him be­fo­re she'd left him last night, and aga­in this mor­ning, just be­fo­re she'd ta­ken Rob­bie up­s­ta­irs. She didn't know how to con­ce­al her emo­ti­ons, even if she wan­ted to. And his tres­pass on her ho­nesty and her in­no­cen­ce was un­for­gi­vab­le.

  And yet… and yet he co­uld fe­el no sha­me. When he tho­ught of tho­se mo­ments of joy he felt only a vib­rant sur­ge of re­ne­wed joy. Mi­ran­da had gi­ven him so­met­hing he had tho­ught wo­uld ne­ver be his. She had to­uc­hed his own so­ul. The­ir physi­cal fu­si­on had be­en but the ex­p­res­si­on of a de­eper, al­most mysti­cal uni­on. And his en­ti­re be­ing throb­bed with the lon­ging to re­pe­at it.

  Ga­reth pus­hed back his cha­ir, and re­ac­hed for the fla­gon of wi­ne on the si­de­bo­ard be­hind him. He put the fla­gon to his lips and drank de­ep, ho­ping it wo­uld cle­ar his he­ad. The­re was Mary, too. He'd bet­ra­yed Mary, not by the car­nal act, she wo­uld ne­ver con­si­der that in it­self a bet­ra­yal, not even af­ter the­ir mar­ri­age, but by that ot­her con­nec­ti­on, the know­led­ge that in Mi­ran­da he had fo­und so­met­hing so pre­ci­o­us he co­uldn't be­ar to con­tem­p­la­te let­ting it go. But he must.

  He scow­led as so­me­one knoc­ked at his do­or. He had no wish to talk to an­yo­ne but he ba­de the knoc­ker en­ter and tri­ed to lo­ok ne­ut­ral­ly at his sis­ter, who was bur­s­ting with ex­ci­te­ment. She flo­uris­hed a rol­led par­c­h­ment. "A let­ter, Ga­reth. It be­ars the se­al of the con­s­tab­le at Do­ver Cas­t­le. It must me­an that Henry has lan­ded."

  "We sho­uld find him so­me new clot­hes. The­se are all rags." Ma­ude ho­ve­red over Rob­bie. "Ber­t­he, see what you can find. The­re must be a spa­re set of clot­hes that wo­uld fit him in the ser­vants' qu­ar­ters. I'll pay well for them." Ber­t­he left with an audib­le sniff that Ma­ude eit­her didn't no­ti­ce or cho­se to ig­no­re. She sat on a sto­ol be­si­de Rob­bie and stir­red a spo­on­ful of jam in­to the con­tents of a sil­ver por­rin­ger. "Try so­me of this with jam, Rob­bie. It will ma­ke you strong."

  Rob­bie sho­ok his he­ad; his lit­tle belly was tight as a drum. "Can't eat no mo­re." He ga­zed in con­ti­nu­ed won­der­ment at this pretty lady who was so exactly li­ke Mi­ran­da he co­uldn't tell them apart.

  Ma­ude lo­oked di­sap­po­in­ted, but she set the spo­on down. "We shall ke­ep him he­re, Mi­ran­da. Don't you think we sho­uld?"

  "I'd li­ke to," Mi­ran­da sa­id do­ub­t­ful­ly. "At le­ast whi­le I'm he­re." She bit her lip. Un­til last night, she had se­en this epi­so­de in her li­fe as just that, a bri­ef in­ter­lu­de that wo­uld bring her fi­nan­ci­al se­cu­rity for ye­ars to co­me. But now things had chan­ged. How co­uld they not ha­ve do­ne? She co­uldn't le­ave he­re now. Ga­reth wo­uld know that as su­rely as she did. Wo­uldn't he?

  The ima­ge of Lady Mary Aber­nathy ro­se un­bid­den to her mind's eye. That per­fect lady of the co­urt. The per­fect wi­fe for the earl of Har­co­urt. But men had mis­t­res­ses as well as wi­ves. She co­uld not be a wi­fe, but she co­uld be a mis­t­ress.

  "Mi­ran­da… what's the mat­ter, Mi­ran­da? You se­em mi­les away this mor­ning."

  "I didn't sle­ep very much last night," Mi­ran­da of­fe­red in par­ti­al ex­p­la­na­ti­on. "I sup­po­se I was too ex­ci­ted abo­ut se­e­ing the qu­e­en."

  "The qu­e­en!" Rob­bie's mo­uth fell open. "You saw the qu­e­en, M'ran­da?"

  "Mmm," she sa­id with a smi­le. "And I didn't just see her, I spo­ke to her as well."

  That was too much for Rob­bie. He sta­red, open-mo­ut­hed, trying to ima­gi­ne his Mi­ran­da, the ac­ro­bat who suc­ked le­mons to ma­ke Bert's mo­uth go dry and squ­ab­bled with Lu­ke, ac­tu­al­ly tal­king to the qu­e­en.

  "Ha­ve you fi­nis­hed eating, Rob­bie? We must go in­to the city and see the ot­hers." Mi­ran­da lif­ted the boy off his sto­ol. "You can re­mem­ber the way?"

  " 'Co­ur­se."

  "How will you go?" Ma­ude in­qu­ired.

  "Walk, of co­ur­se."

  "Walk!"

  "Yes. What's wrong with that?" "But you can't pos­sibly walk," Ma­ude sa­id in the pa­ti­ent to­ne one might use to the com­p­le­tely mis­gu­ided. Mi­ran­da frow­ned. In her pre­sent gu­ise, per­haps she co­uldn't. Lady Ma­ude d'Albard cer­ta­inly wo­uldn't walk an­y­w­he­re, and most par­ti­cu­larly not in­to the city.

  "You can go in a lit­ter," Ma­ude sa­id. "It's how I ta­ke the air."

  "Why don't you co­me with us?" Mi­ran­da sa­id sud­denly. "I'll in­t­ro­du­ce you to my fa­mily."

  "What? Ac­ro­bats?" Ma­ude's eyes wi­de­ned.

  " They're as go­od as you," Mi­ran­da dec­la­red with a dan­ge­ro­us glit­ter in her eye.

  "Yes… but…" Ma­ude sho­ok her he­ad.

  "Co­me on," Mi­ran­da co­axed. "You've ne­ver se­en an­y­t­hing of the re­al world. I'll show you the stre­ets, the way pe­op­le li­ve on the stre­ets. We can eat pi­es and gin­ger­b­re­ad from a s
tall. Ma­ma Ger­t­ru­de will die of shock when she se­es us to­get­her." Her eyes spar­k­led. "You've shown me yo­ur world, Ma­ude, now co­me and see mi­ne."

  Ma­ude's ga­ze wan­de­red bet­we­en Mi­ran­da and Rob­bie, who was re­gar­ding her with in­te­rest, fol­lo­wing the con­ver­sa­ti­on and yet not re­al­ly un­der­s­tan­ding it. In fact, he un­der­s­to­od lit­tle ex­cept the won­der­ful sen­sa­ti­on of sa­tis­fi­ed hun­ger.

  "Shall I?" Ma­ude mur­mu­red, glan­cing al­most gu­il­tily to Ber­t­he's empty cha­ir. Then she sa­id, in won­der at her own auda­city, "All right, I will. But let us go qu­ickly be­fo­re Ber­t­he co­mes back." She hur­ri­ed to the li­nen press and pul­led out a clo­ak, flin­ging it aro­und her sho­ul­ders, dra­wing up the ho­od. "We'll le­ave by the si­de do­or and go di­rectly to the mews and tell them to re­ady the fit­ter for us. Then no one will know."

  "I think we ha­ve to tell so­me­one," Mi­ran­da sa­id. "They'll be fran­tic if you di­sap­pe­ar wit­ho­ut a word. Ber­t­he will go in­to hyste­rics."

  This was too strong a pos­si­bi­lity to be ig­no­red. Ma­ude has­tily scrib­bled a no­te for her ma­id. "Qu­ickly," she sa­id. "Be­fo­re so­me­one stops us."

  "Co­me, Rob­bie." Mi­ran­da swung the boy in­to her arms aga­in and whis­t­led for Chip, who was traw­ling thro­ugh the bre­ak­fast dis­hes in se­arch of go­odi­es. The mon­key le­aped from the tab­le with an ex­ci­ted jab­ber and fol­lo­wed the pro­ces­si­on from the ro­om.

  The li­ver­y­men lo­oked as­kan­ce at Lady Ma­ude's com­pa­ni­ons. But Ma­ude co­uld pro­du­ce a sa­tis­fac­to­rily ar­ro­gant de­me­anor when re­qu­ired and they obe­yed her or­ders wit­ho­ut com­ment. Rob­bie bur­b­led with ex­ci­te­ment at fin­ding him­self in a lit­ter, just li­ke the one he'd se­en emer­ging from the ho­use the pre­vi­o­us day. He pul­led back the cur­ta­ins and thum­bed his no­se at pas­sersby. Chip ca­ught on qu­ickly and be­gan to imi­ta­te him. The lit­ter be­arers, in the black-and-yel­low Har­co­urt li­very, had no idea why they we­re fol­lo­wed by yells of in­dig­na­ti­on as they trot­ted along.