The Emerald Swan

by Jane Feather

  "Rob­bie, co­me in," Mi­ran­da sa­id, stif­ling her la­ug­h­ter. She ha­uled on the back of his brit­c­hes, pul­ling him back in­si­de the lit­ter. "You'll gi­ve Lord Har­co­urt a bad na­me, thro­wing in­sults when you're tra­ve­ling un­der his li­very."

  They en­te­red the city ga­tes wit­ho­ut chal­len­ge and Mi­ran­da le­aned out of the lit­ter, cal­ling to the be­arers to stop and set them down. "You may le­ave us he­re, and wa­it for us."

  The he­ad be­arer lo­oked as­kan­ce at Lady Ma­ude as she step­ped from the lit­ter." That all right, m'lady?"

  "Yes," Ma­ude sa­id with a lofty wa­ve of her hand. "Wa­it he­re." In truth, as she lo­oked aro­und at the cha­otic sce­ne and her sen­ses we­re as­sa­iled with the smells and so­unds of the stre­ets, she wasn't su­re it was all right, but when she glan­ced at Mi­ran­da, who se­emed com­p­le­tely at ho­me, des­pi­te her fi­ne clot­hes, she felt bet­ter. It was the first ad­ven­tu­re she had ever had, and might well be the last, so she wo­uld em­b­ra­ce it.

  "Co­me." Mi­ran­da lin­ked her arm thro­ugh Ma­ude's. "You'll be qu­ite sa­fe with me." Rob­bie hob­bled be­si­de them, uner­ringly di­rec­ting them thro­ugh the war­ren of nar­row cob­bled al­leys.

  Ma­ude felt li­ke a fre­ak and won­de­red how Mi­ran­da co­uld be so he­ed­less of the glan­ces they drew from car­ters, bar­row boys, co­untry folk he­ading for the city mar­kets with flat bas­kets of pro­du­ce ba­lan­ced on the­ir he­ads. Ma­ude had ne­ver en­te­red the city ex­cept in a car­ri­age or lit­ter, with Har­co­urt he­ralds go­ing ahe­ad, cle­aring the way. And such a lofty met­hod of tran­s­port, en­c­lo­sed in the car­ri­age, iso­la­ted from the hur­rying throng, was very dif­fe­rent from be­ing on fo­ot. Down he­re, she was en­gul­fed in the im­me­di­acy of the crowds of pe­des­t­ri­ans, the so­unds and smells of la­bo­ring hu­ma­nity. She was awa­re of the une­ven, peb­ble-st­rewn, mud-rid­ged cob­bles be­ne­ath her thinly shod fe­et.

  She so ra­rely wal­ked an­y­w­he­re, even in the gar­dens, that her fe­et en­ca­sed in the­ir silk ho­se and sa­tin slip­pers so­on be­gan to ac­he. Aro­und her, ba­re fe­et slap­ped he­ed­les­sly on the sto­nes, su­re­fo­oted fe­et in cru­de clogs and pat­tens clat­te­red along, and she felt un­be­arably clumsy, as out of pla­ce in this world as if it exis­ted in anot­her re­alm.

  Chip, on the ot­her hand, was cle­arly in his se­venth he­aven. He sat on Mi­ran­da's sho­ul­der, chat­te­ring che­er­ful­ly, ta­king off his hat to all and sundry, and when they re­ac­hed a grassy tri­an­g­le at a cros­sro­ads whe­re a gro­up of men with a dan­cing be­ar we­re en­ter­ta­ining a crowd, he jum­ped down ex­pec­tantly and ra­ced for­ward.

  "No, I don't li­ke wor­king aro­und dan­cing be­ars," Mi­ran­da sa­id." They're so sad and ill-used."

  "Be­si­des, you're not dres­sed for it," Ma­ude put in with a to­uch of aci­dity. She didn't want Mi­ran­da di­sap­pe­aring from her si­de, lo­sing her­self in a world that for her was so ut­terly fa­mi­li­ar.

  "I'll not le­ave you," Mi­ran­da sa­id, in­s­tantly com­p­re­hen­ding. "Just re­lax and enj­oy yo­ur­self. The­re's so much to see."

  That was cer­ta­inly true. Re­as­su­red, Ma­ude al­lo­wed her cu­ri­osity free re­in. They clim­bed the hill to­ward Sa­int Pa­ul's, pa­using to exa­mi­ne the wa­res in the lit­tle shops li­ning the stre­et, bu­ying ap­ples and gin­ger­b­re­ad. Mu­sic ca­me from an al­ley at the back of the church and Mi­ran­da in­s­tin­c­ti­vely fol­lo­wed the so­und, drawn to it as by a mag­net. The trio of mu­si­ci­ans was pla­ying in a do­or­way, the lu­te pla­yer ac­com­pan­ying his mu­sic with a bal­lad in a de­ep te­nor. An up­tur­ned cap lay on the cob­bles be­fo­re them.

  "Let's lis­ten for a whi­le," Mi­ran­da sa­id, and they stop­ped in a do­or­way. Chip in­s­tantly jum­ped from her sho­ul­der and be­gan to strut in front of the mu­si­ci­ans, his fa­ce as­su­ming a long and mo­ur­n­ful ex­p­res­si­on as he adap­ted his mo­ve­ments to the lyri­cal sad­ness of the mu­sic.

  The mu­si­ci­an pla­ying the vi­ol chuc­k­led. "Let's see if he can dan­ce pro­perly, Ed." He strum­med, struck a no­te, and the three men la­un­c­hed in­to an Irish jig.

  Chip pa­used, lis­te­ned, then be­gan to dan­ce. A crowd was gat­he­ring and Mi­ran­da sig­hed, but she was smi­ling. "I'll ne­ver get him away now."

  "An­y­way, we're al­most the­re," Rob­bie sa­id, sit­ting down in the do­or­way, nur­sing his fo­ot.

  The crowd ap­pla­uded the mon­key's per­for­man­ce and the mu­si­ci­ans grin­ned. At the end, when they ce­ased to play, Chip di­ved in­to the crowd with his hat.

  "Eh, we'll ha­ve our sha­re of that!" the lu­te pla­yer dec­la­red, his eyes nar­ro­wing as he saw how suc­ces­sful the mon­key was in his fee col­lec­ting. He jum­ped to his fe­et and went af­ter Chip, who dod­ged him ex­pertly, re­tur­ning to Mi­ran­da's si­de, pro­udly prof­fe­ring his co­in-fil­led hat.

  "Eh, that's ours," the man an­no­un­ced, his eyes wi­de­ning as he to­ok in Mi­ran­da's cos­tu­me. Be­si­de her Ma­ude drew back in­to the do­or­way, ter­ri­fi­ed, con­vin­ced that this man was go­ing to cut the­ir thro­ats for the con­tents of Chip's hat.

  But Mi­ran­da was qu­ite un­per­tur­bed. "You may ha­ve it all," she rep­li­ed, ta­king the hat from Chip and ben­ding to empty its con­tents in­to the mu­si­ci­ans' cap on the gro­und be­si­de them. "He was only ha­ving fun."

  The lu­te pla­yer scrat­c­hed his he­ad, lo­oking be­mu­sed, then he sa­id, "No of­fen­se me­ant, m'lady."

  Mi­ran­da grin­ned. "No­ne ta­ken." She lin­ked arms with Ma­ude aga­in. "Le­ad on, Rob­bie."

  They we­re hal­f­way along a slightly wi­der tho­ro­ug­h­fa­re when a vo­ice sho­uted from ahe­ad of them. "Mi­ran­da… Mi­ran­da…!" A yo­ung man was gal­lo­ping to­ward them, as un­ga­inly as a new-fo­aled colt.

  "Lu­ke! Oh, Lu­ke!" Drop­ping Ma­ude's arm, she ra­ced to­ward the yo­uth.

  "We've be­en so wor­ri­ed abo­ut you!" he ex­c­la­imed, hug­ging her with one arm, re­ac­hing the ot­her to re­ce­ive Chip, who le­aped in­to the cro­ok of his el­bow. "But I'd ne­ver ha­ve re­cog­ni­zed you in tho­se clot­hes, if it wasn't for Chip and Rob­bie." He sta­red at her in awe, se­eming not to see Ma­ude, who had ap­pro­ac­hed ca­uti­o­usly and sto­od slightly to one si­de.

  "I saw Chip first. I was le­aning from the win­dow lo­oking along the stre­et and I knew it had to be Chip, it lo­oked so li­ke him with the co­at and hat and all, and then I saw Rob­bie, and I rus­hed dow­n­s­ta­irs and ma­na­ged to open the do­or… it was loc­ked, you see, and I co­uldn't find the key… but then I fo­und it on a ho­ok by the kit­c­hen, which I sup­po­se I sho­uld ha­ve tho­ught of, but an­y­way…" He pa­used. "Anyway, he­re I am, and Ma­ma Ger­t­ru­de and Ber­t­rand will be so ple­ased."

  "I fo­und 'er," Rob­bie put in. "I went to the 'ouse an' I fo­und 'er and bro­ught 'er back." He gla­red at Lu­ke. "You didn't find 'er, Lu­ke."

  "No… no, I know I didn't," Lu­ke sa­id im­pa­ti­ently, then his eye fell on Ma­ude. He sta­red in dis­be­li­ef.

  "Oh, this is Lady Ma­ude," Mi­ran­da sa­id, dra­wing Ma­ude for­ward. "She's Lord Har­co­urt's ward."

  Lu­ke co­uldn't ma­na­ge to do mo­re than bob his he­ad. "Is she co­ming to see the ot­hers?"

  "Yes, so let's go. Co­me, Ma­ude, don't lo­ok so be­wil­de­red."

  "We're lod­ging in the ho­use with the gray shut­ters," Lu­ke sa­id, ac­cep­ting Ma­ude now as just anot­her of Mi­ran­da's fre­qu­ently puz­zling ap­pen­da­ges. "Abo­ve a cob­bler's shop and it's very cram­ped with all of us, but it's very che­ap and we can work the stre­ets… only the­re's so much com­pe­ti­ti­on," he ad­ded with a sigh. "Sin­
ce you and Chip left, the ta­kings ha­ve go­ne down dre­ad­ful­ly. And it didn't help to spend a night in ga­ol, and we had to pay the fis­her­man a gu­inea to lo­ok af­ter our be­lon­gings."

  "Ga­ol?"

  "We we­re pic­ked up as vag­rants be­ca­use of so­me hue and cry over you and Chip."

  "Oh, how dre­ad­ful. And I tho­ught you'd ta­ken the ti­de and left me be­hind."

  "Ne­ver mind, you're back now," Lu­ke sa­id che­er­ful­ly, le­ading the way thro­ugh the dusty cob­bler's shop and up a nar­row, cre­aking sta­ir­ca­se.

  The sin­g­le ro­om abo­ve the cob­bler's shop was so full of the tro­upe's clut­ter that it wo­uld be hard for an­yo­ne unac­cus­to­med to such con­di­ti­ons to ima­gi­ne how twel­ve pe­op­le co­uld squ­e­eze them­sel­ves in­to the spa­ce. But Mi­ran­da had no such dif­fi­culty. She sto­od on the thres­hold, Lu­ke grin­ning be­hind her li­ke a ret­ri­ever who's bro­ught ho­me the din­ner.

  Fa­ces lo­oked up at the ope­ned do­or. Lo­oked, blin­ked, then as Chip le­aped in­to the mid­dle of the ro­om jab­be­ring wildly, the­re was a col­lec­ti­ve ex­c­la­ma­ti­on. Mi­ran­da was en­gul­fed. Ma­ma Ger­t­ru­de scol­ded, al­ter­na­ting slaps and pin­c­hes with kis­ses. Ot­hers de­man­ded ex­p­la­na­ti­ons, Ber­t­rand com­p­la­ined at all the tro­ub­le she'd ca­used, even as he be­amed at her and pat­ted her he­ad.

  And Mi­ran­da be­gan to fe­el that she had ne­ver left them. She slip­ped in­to the wel­co­ming maw of her fa­mily, swal­lo­wed up in the bab­ble of the­ir fa­mi­li­ar vo­ices, the ric­h­ness of fa­mi­li­ar scents, the ac­hing com­fort of fa­mi­li­ar fa­ces. Then with a gu­ilty start, she re­mem­be­red Ma­ude.

  "Ma­ude." She fo­ught her way out of the com­bi­ned em­b­ra­ces and tur­ned back to the do­or. Ma­ude was lo­oking both for­lorn and dis­t­res­sed but she co­uldn't re­sist Mi­ran­da's apo­lo­ge­tic smi­le, her warm, "I didn't me­an to neg­lect you. Co­me and me­et my fa­mily."

  "Holy Mot­her!" Ma­ma Ger­t­ru­de sa­id, fi­nal­ly ta­king in both Mi­ran­da's clot­hes and her com­pa­ni­on. "It's un­na­tu­ral, that's what it is. Un­na­tu­ral."

  Ma­ude didn't know what to do or what to say. She felt as if she'd stra­yed in­to so­me to­tal­ly ali­en world. She co­uldn't ima­gi­ne how all the­se pe­op­le co­uld get in­to this one small spa­ce; they all se­emed both lar­ger than li­fe and bur­s­ting with li­fe.

  "So, who are you, child?" Ma­ma Ger­t­ru­de de­man­ded abo­ve the re­ne­wed ca­cop­hony as the im­pact of Ma­ude's pre­sen­ce was felt. She sto­od back, hol­ding Ma­ude by the sho­ul­ders, exa­mi­ning her. "Lord lo­ve us," she mur­mu­red, then tur­ned back to Mi­ran­da. "Lord lo­ve us, but lo­ok at tho­se clot­hes!" Sud­denly she la­ug­hed, her mas­si­ve bo­som qu­ive­ring be­ne­ath the lo­ose and rat­her dingy li­nen ro­be she wo­re over her che­mi­se and pet­ti­co­at.

  "Ah, but it's a he­ap o' tro­ub­le she's ca­used us, an' I'd li­ke to know what's go­in' on 'ere," Ber­t­rand dec­la­red.

  "Well, I'll tell you as best I can." Mi­ran­da per­c­hed on the cor­ner of a ric­kety tab­le and re­co­un­ted her ad­ven­tu­res to a rapt audi­en­ce. "And when I've com­p­le­ted the task, Lord Har­co­urt will fee me with fifty ro­se nob­les," she fi­nis­hed.

  "That's a for­tu­ne, by God!" Jebe­di­ah ex­c­la­imed, for on­ce wit­ho­ut a hint of pes­si­mism. "Yes," Mi­ran­da sa­id simply.

  "And what el­se do­es this Lord 'Arco­urt want of ye?" Ber­t­rand de­man­ded.

  "Not­hing," Mi­ran­da sa­id sto­utly. What was bet­we­en her­self and Ga­reth had not­hing to do with the task she was per­for­ming for him.

  "Don't be a fo­ol, girl!" Ber­t­rand sud­denly le­aned for­ward and bo­xed her ears, not hard but with a deg­ree of em­p­ha­sis. "Don't talk rub­bish! You've no ex­pe­ri­en­ce of the no­bi­lity, girl. He'll ha­ve his way with you and dis­card you when he's had eno­ugh."

  Ma­ude cri­ed out in shock, but Mi­ran­da me­rely rub­bed her ear, not in the le­ast sur­p­ri­sed or put out by the blow. Ber­t­rand was al­ways one to act first and ref­lect la­ter. "You're wrong," she sa­id flatly.

  "He hit you," Ma­ude sa­id, her vo­ice al­most a whis­per. "He hit you, Mi­ran­da."

  "A flea bi­te," Mi­ran­da sa­id che­er­ful­ly. "It's Ber­t­rand's way."

  "I think I want to go." Ma­ude bac­ked to­ward the do­or, re­gar­ding the ro­om's oc­cu­pants as if they we­re ca­ged li­ons.

  "When are you co­ming back to us?" Lu­ke as­ked in a be­wil­de­red to­ne.

  "I don't know." Mi­ran­da spo­ke the truth qu­i­etly.

  "So you don't know 'ow long it'll ta­ke fer you to do this job?" Ra­o­ul as­ked, he­aving him­self away from the wall whe­re he'd be­en le­aning, mas­si­ve arms akim­bo, his ba­re chest gle­aming with per­s­pi­ra­ti­on in the clo­se ro­om.

  Ma­ude shrank back as the stron­g­man ap­pro­ac­hed. She didn't think she'd ever se­en such a gi­ant be­fo­re.

  "No," Mi­ran­da sa­id. "But if you stay in Lon­don, I'll co­me and see you of­ten."

  "We're 'ard-pres­sed wit­ho­ut you. Ta­kin's are down sum­mat chro­nic," Ber­t­rand dec­la­red. "An' they'll not get bet­ter 'angin' aro­und the city. Com­pe­ti­ti­on's too strong."

  "Aye," Ma­ma Ger­t­ru­de ag­re­ed, "but the girl's got anot­her job to do. An' a right go­od un, if what she says is truth, an' our Mi­ran­da's ne­ver one to lie." She to­ok Mi­ran­da's fa­ce bet­we­en her lar­ge hands. "Fi­nish the job you're do­in', child. Earn yo­ur fifty ro­se nob­les, then co­me back to us."

  Ma­ude co­ug­hed and Mi­ran­da sa­id sud­denly, "Ma­ude, how wo­uld you li­ke to see us earn our bre­ad? In fact, you can help." "Help?"

  "Yes, you can play the tam­bo­uri­ne whi­le Ber­t­rand's trying to get an audi­en­ce to­get­her. You'll be such a draw, a re­al lady pla­ying for us! Co­me on, it's ti­me you saw so­met­hing of the world out­si­de yo­ur bed­c­ham­ber, and if you're go­ing to spend yo­ur days in a nun­nery, you might as well ha­ve so­me me­mo­ri­es to ta­ke with you."

  Ma­ude lo­oked aro­und the cir­c­le of fa­ces. And sud­denly they didn't se­em so ali­en. They to­ok on the­ir own in­di­vi­du­al cha­rac­te­ris­tics and she saw the per­son be­hind the fe­atu­res. They we­re smi­ling at her with go­od-na­tu­red ac­cep­tan­ce, all ex­cept for the old man they cal­led Jebe­di­ah, who lo­oked do­ur and mi­se­rab­le, as if ex­pec­ting Ar­ma­ged­don at any mo­ment.

  "Oh, yes, play the tam­bo­uri­ne!" Rob­bie pi­ped up. "I'll play the cas­ta­nets. I'm go­od at that, but they don't ma­ke go­od mu­sic alo­ne so so­me­one has to play so­met­hing el­se and usu­al­ly ever­yo­ne's too busy."

  Ma­ude lo­oked at the small fa­ce, tran­s­for­med by ex­ci­te­ment and an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on, and a warmth blo­omed in her belly, spre­ading thro­ugh her ve­ins. She co­uld help this child, gi­ve him ple­asu­re, do so­met­hing use­ful. Mi­ran­da was wat­c­hing hex with a stran­ge lit­tle smi­le as if she co­uld re­ad her tho­ughts, and when Ma­ude sa­id, "Very well, if you wish it," Mi­ran­da me­rely nod­ded.

  "You'd best get out­ta that gown," Ra­o­ul po­in­ted out, fle­xing his mas­si­ve bi­ceps. "Can't tum­b­le in that, stands t' re­ason."

  "Yer clot­hes is all in 'ere." Ger­t­ru­de rum­ma­ged in an osi­er bas­ket. " Try them boy's gar­ments. Folks li­ke the brit­c­hes."

  Ma­ude gig­gled when Mi­ran­da pi­ro­u­et­ted in front of her, clad in a lad's brit­c­hes and jer­kin. "It's shoc­king, Mi­ran­da."

  "It draws the men," Mi­ran­da sa­id with a shrug. "Once they re­ali­ze I'm a wo­man, it has 'em sa­li­va­ting li­ke a rut­ting stag." She grin­ned at Ma­ude's ex­p­res­si­on. "For­get you're a lady for an ho­ur or two, ot­her­wi­se you won't enj­oy it.
"

  And Ma­ude to her as­to­nis­h­ment fo­und it very easy to for­get. Whi­le Ber­t­rand sto­od on his box and be­gan to ha­ran­gue the pas­sersby, she pla­yed the tam­bo­uri­ne, Rob­bie be­si­de her clic­king his cas­ta­nets. Va­ri­o­us mem­bers of the tro­upe of­fe­red exam­p­les of the en­ter­ta­in­ment to co­me and as pe­op­le slo­wed, pa­used, Ma­ude felt a sur­ge of pri­de at her part in dra­wing the audi­en­ce. Chip dan­ced in front of them, mi­mic­king Ber­t­rand with such wic­ked ac­cu­racy that the audi­en­ce be­gan to la­ugh, to set­tle the­ir fe­et, adj­ust the­ir pos­tu­res, with the tel­lta­le signs that they we­re pre­pa­red to stay put for a whi­le.

  Mi­ran­da jud­ged the mo­ment, then be­gan her turn, with Chip ad­ding his mi­te, tum­b­ling with her. She was con­s­tantly cri­ti­ci­zing and as­ses­sing her per­for­man­ce as she mo­ved, was con­s­ci­o­us that she was less than per­fect, and awa­re that if she hadn't re­li­gi­o­usly prac­ti­ced in the con­fi­nes of her bed­c­ham­ber she wo­uld be even less so. But it was so ex­hi­la­ra­ting to be back do­ing what she'd do­ne ever sin­ce she co­uld re­mem­ber, fe­eling the blo­od ra­cing in her ve­ins, the stretch of her mus­c­les, the sup­ple snap of her body, he­aring the he­ady ap­pro­val of the crowd.

  She wal­ked on her hands among the audi­en­ce, bla­tantly tan­ta­li­zing the eager, la­ug­hing men with the li­nes of her body in the tig­ht-fit­ting brit­c­hes and jer­kin.

  And then a hand gras­ped her an­k­le, hal­ting her prog­ress. Her eyes at gro­und le­vel to­ok in a pa­ir of thigh-length ri­ding bo­ots, the folds of a long ri­ding clo­ak brus­hing the bo­ots. But it was the fe­el of the fin­gers aro­und her an­k­le that told her.

  "Mi­lord?" she whis­pe­red.