The Emerald Swan

by Jane Feather

"The very sa­me," the earl of Har­co­urt sa­id, as dry as se­re le­aves.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ber­t­he had ta­ken her pa­nic­ked res­pon­se to Ma­ude's unin­for­ma­ti­ve scrib­ble to Lord Har­co­urt. Eno­ugh sen­se re­ma­ined des­pi­te her ne­ar-hy­s­te­ria to ke­ep her from run­ning to Lady Du­fort with such a ta­le.

  Ga­reth had al­lo­wed the wo­man's shrill words to tum­b­le aro­und him… So­met­hing had hap­pe­ned to Lady Ma­ude sin­ce the ar­ri­val of the im­pos­ter, the chan­ge­ling. Ne­ver be­fo­re wo­uld she ha­ve do­ne so­met­hing li­ke this, left the ho­use wit­ho­ut at­ten­dants, wit­ho­ut even sa­ying whe­re she was go­ing. The ot­her girl had per­su­aded her, had pro­bably even for­ced her to go with her. Lady Ma­ude wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve do­ne such a thing of her own free will.

  Ga­reth re­ad Ma­ude's hasty script. It cer­ta­inly didn't tell him much, but it wasn't dif­fi­cult to fill in the blanks. The lad, Rob­bie, wo­uld ha­ve ta­ken Mi­ran­da to her fa­mily in the city, and for so­me coc­ke­yed re­ason she'd ta­ken Ma­ude with her.

  He sent Ber­t­he back up­s­ta­irs with the calm inj­un­c­ti­on to ke­ep Ma­ude's ab­sen­ce to her­self, then don­ned ri­ding clot­hes and went to the mews for his ri­ding hor­se and the in­for­ma­ti­on that the Lady Ma­ude and two com­pa­ni­ons had ta­ken a lit­ter in­to the city.

  He fo­und his li­ve­ri­ed lit­ter be­arers ta­king the­ir ple­asu­re and ease on an ale bench out­si­de the Dog and Par­t­rid­ge at the bot­tom of Lud­ga­te Hill. From them he le­ar­ned the di­rec­ti­on his qu­ar­ry had ta­ken, and he ro­de up the hill to­ward the church. The so­unds of mu­sic, ap­pla­use, and la­ug­h­ter drew him to the grassy squ­are be­hind the church.

  Hor­se­back ga­ve him a van­ta­ge po­int and he co­uld see over the he­ads of the crowd. He re­cog­ni­zed Ger­t­ru­de, Ber­t­rand, Lu­ke and his lit­tle dog, but his ga­ze was ri­ve­ted by the sight of his ward, flus­hed and la­ug­hing, her ha­ir es­ca­ping its pins to fall in un­tidy rin­g­lets to her sho­ul­ders. She se­emed to be pla­ying a tam­bo­uri­ne! Hol­ding it abo­ve her he­ad, sha­king it with all the rhythmic gus­to of a gypsy!

  For the mo­ment, he co­uld see no sign of Mi­ran­da. The­re was a lad tur­ning car­t­w­he­els… But no, it wasn't a lad, it was Mi­ran­da. He'd know that lit­he body an­y­w­he­re. He co­uld see even from this dis­tan­ce that she was in­f­la­ming the men in the first ranks of the audi­en­ce, and he knew damn well that it was de­li­be­ra­te. She was pla­ying with them, thro­wing that wic­kedly de­fi­ned body at them, then wit­h­d­ra­wing just when it se­emed they co­uldn't help but to­uch her.

  Ga­reth dis­mo­un­ted, han­ded the re­ins to an eager ur­c­hin, and pus­hed thro­ugh the crowd. Mi­ran­da was wal­king on her hands thro­ugh the front rows of the audi­en­ce, fla­un­ting her en­t­ran­cing lit­tle re­ar tightly en­ca­sed in tho­se dam­nab­le brit­c­hes. With a le­isu­rely mo­ve­ment, Ga­reth gras­ped one slen­der an­k­le, hal­ting her prog­ress.

  The­re was a rum­b­le of la­ug­h­ter.

  "Mi­lord?" Mi­ran­da sa­id.

  "The very sa­me." He ope­ned his hand and she flip­ped up­right, sha­king back her ha­ir, gi­ving him the won­der­ful pri­va­te smi­le that fil­led him with min­g­led ap­pre­hen­si­on and the de­ep de­light he didn't da­re to ac­k­now­led­ge. The crowd be­gan a slow han­d­c­lap­ping, ex­p­res­sing the­ir di­sap­po­in­t­ment at the ab­rupt end of the show. The tam­bo­uri­ne pla­yer ce­ased her mu­sic, and the per­for­mers we­re for a mo­ment stun­ned in­to inac­ti­on.

  Then Ger­t­ru­de prod­ded Lu­ke with the end of her pa­ra­sol and he jum­ped for­ward with Fred, who gle­eful­ly be­gan to go thro­ugh his ro­uti­ne. Chip le­aped in­to the crowd with his hat, col­lec­ting for Mi­ran­da's per­for­man­ce, and the show pic­ked up aga­in.

  "Co­me and me­et my fa­mily," Mi­ran­da sa­id. "I was hel­ping them out be­ca­use ta­kings ha­ven't be­en very go­od." She slip­ped a hand in­to his arm and drew him with her to­ward the tro­upe. "Did you see how well Ma­ude pla­yed the tam­bo­uri­ne? She co­uld ha­ve be­en born to it." She la­ug­hed, still ex­hi­la­ra­ted by her per­for­man­ce.

  Ga­reth re­ali­zed that it ne­ver oc­cur­red to her that he might ta­ke ex­cep­ti­on to her mor­ning's work. But Ma­ude was anot­her mat­ter. She was whi­te as a she­et as he ap­pro­ac­hed, her eyes wi­de with dis­may.

  "L- Lord Har­co­urt" was all she ma­na­ged to say.

  "My ward, I see you ha­ve so­me hit­her­to un­re­cog­ni­zed mu­si­cal ta­lents," he sa­id with an equ­ab­le smi­le. "Don't let me stop you."

  Ma­ude was as­to­un­ded. She lo­oked at Mi­ran­da, who was smi­ling, com­p­le­tely un­per­tur­bed, then back at her gu­ar­di­an. His lazy-lid­ded brown eyes we­re crin­k­led with amu­se­ment, his mo­uth qu­ir­ked in a smi­le. With an ex­pan­si­ve ges­tu­re, he sug­ges­ted she ta­ke up her in­s­t­ru­ment aga­in.

  "You all right, girl?" Ber­t­rand's gruff vo­ice spo­ke from be­hind Ga­reth. He didn't lo­ok at the earl, strol­ling pla­yers didn't ad­dress nob­le­men wit­ho­ut in­vi­ta­ti­on, but the ob­li­que qu­es­ti­on re­fer­red to the lord's in­ti­mi­da­ting pre­sen­ce.

  "Yes, of co­ur­se. This is Lord Har­co­urt. Mi­lord, this is Ber­t­rand. You pro­bably re­mem­ber se­e­ing him at Do­ver. I fe­el so bad. They we­re thrown in­to ga­ol be­ca­use of the hue and cry."

  Ber­t­rand bo­wed but his eyes we­re wary. "Ple­ased to me­et yer 'onor."

  "What's go­in' on 'ere?" Ger­t­ru­de sa­iled over, the plu­mes in her ha­ir wa­ving fran­ti­cal­ly. "The­re's no to­uc­hin' of the per­for­mers, sir."

  " This is Lord Har­co­urt, Ma­ma Ger­t­ru­de," Mi­ran­da sa­id has­tily. Ger­t­ru­de was no res­pec­ter of per­sons and wo­uld think not­hing of ta­king a lord to task if she be­li­eved she was in the right.

  "Ah." Ger­t­ru­de exa­mi­ned his lor­d­s­hip clo­sely. "You'll be do­ing right by our Mi­ran­da, m'lord?"

  "Ger­t­ru­de!" Mi­ran­da ex­c­la­imed.

  But if Ga­reth was ta­ken aback by such a qu­es­ti­on from such a one as this mo­un­ta­ino­us lady of the ro­ad, he didn't show it. "Of co­ur­se, ma­dam," he sa­id gra­vely. "Has Mi­ran­da told you of our ag­re­ement?"

  "Aye, that she has, m'lord," Ber­t­rand sa­id. "An' fifty ro­se nob­les she sa­id you pro­mi­sed 'er." The­re was a qu­es­ti­oning, chal­len­ging in­f­lec­ti­on to the sta­te­ment.

  "That's so," Ga­reth ag­re­ed as gra­vely as be­fo­re.

  "An' the­re's no con­di­ti­ons?" Ma­ma Ger­t­ru­de de­man­ded. "No­ne what 'er fa­mily ought to know abo­ut?"

  Ga­reth glan­ced at Mi­ran­da, who was lo­oking de­eply mor­ti­fi­ed at this ca­tec­hism. "No­ne," he sa­id.

  "No of­fen­se ta­ken, I trust, m'lord," Ber­t­rand mum­b­led.

  "On the con­t­rary. Mi­ran­da sho­uld con­si­der her­self very for­tu­na­te to ha­ve such a ca­ring fa­mily."

  Ger­t­ru­de and Ber­t­rand lo­oked gra­ti­fi­ed, Mi­ran­da ta­ken aback. Ma­ude, her tam­bo­uri­ne for­got­ten, had lis­te­ned in stun­ned dis­be­li­ef to this ex­c­han­ge. The earl was pla­inly amu­sed by the­ir ad­ven­tu­re, not in the le­ast di­sap­pro­ving of the com­pany in which he'd fo­und his co­usin. Not even ve­xed at fin­ding his ward, the Lady Ma­ude d'Albard, pla­ying a tam­bo­uri­ne in the stre­ets for the en­ter­ta­in­ment of a com­mon rab­ble. It was as­to­un­ding, a si­de of her gu­ar­di­an she wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve be­li­eved exis­ted. In fact, at this mo­ment, he even lo­oked dif­fe­rent. His eyes we­re la­ug­hing, his fe­atu­res sof­te­ned, no sign of the harsh cyni­cism that nor­mal­ly stam­ped his co­un­te­nan­ce.

  "Ho­we­ver," Ga­reth was con�
�ti­nu­ing, "if you co­uld spa­re Mi­ran­da now, she sho­uld re­turn to the ho­use. She still has a job to do the­re."

  "Oh, aye, m'lord. She'd best be off stra­ig­h­ta­way," Ber­t­rand sa­id. "You'd best go back to the lod­gin' and fetch that fi­ne gown o' yo­ur'n, girl. Ger­t­ru­de, you'd best go with 'er. An' if 'is lor­d­s­hip wo­uld ta­ke a drink with a wor­kin' man, then I'd be glad to buy ye a tan­kard, sir, whi­le we're wa­itin'." Be­aming, he in­di­ca­ted a ta­vern ac­ross the stre­et.

  "The ple­asu­re will be all mi­ne," Ga­reth sa­id easily. "And the drink's on me." Wit­ho­ut a bac­k­ward glan­ce at Mi­ran­da, he strol­led off with Ber­t­rand.

  "My co­usin is go­ing to drink with him," Ma­ude sa­id in awe.

  "Ber­t­rand's as go­od com­pany as an­yo­ne el­se," Mi­ran­da sa­id, al­t­ho­ugh she was as as­to­un­ded as Ma­ude. She was less sur­p­ri­sed than Ma­ude at Ga­reth's easy ac­cep­tan­ce of the tro­upe, she'd se­en that si­de of him of­ten eno­ugh, al­t­ho­ugh it was new to Ma­ude. But ac­cep­tan­ce was one thing, fri­endly drin­king qu­ite anot­her.

  Ga­reth fo­und him­self in the com­pany of Ra­o­ul and Jebe­di­ah as well as Ber­t­rand and, whi­le he gu­es­sed that Ma­ma Ger­t­ru­de was the one he re­al­ly ne­eded to charm, he set abo­ut put­ting the men at the­ir ease. He ne­eded the­ir ab­so­lu­te trust and ac­cep­tan­ce if he was to suc­ce­ed in what he had de­ter­mi­ned to do. And if he had the men on his si­de, then Ma­ma Ger­t­ru­de might be easi­er to per­su­ade when he ma­de his ap­pe­al.

  When Ma­ude and Mi­ran­da re­ap­pe­ared, Mi­ran­da on­ce mo­re in her tan­ge­ri­ne da­mask gown, they fo­und the earl spraw­led non­c­ha­lantly on the ale bench, a tan­kard at his el­bow, lis­te­ning with ap­pa­rent amu­se­ment to one of Ra­o­ul's ri­per sto­ri­es.

  Mi­ran­da's puz­zle­ment in­c­re­ased. Lord Har­co­urt had no ne­ed to be so very fri­endly with the tro­upe; no ne­ed to put him­self out so much. And yet he se­emed per­fectly at ease. Per­haps he just enj­oyed low com­pany, per­haps he was en­ter­ta­ined by them. That ex­p­la­na­ti­on didn't amu­se Mi­ran­da in the le­ast, but ne­it­her was she re­al­ly con­vin­ced by it. It to­ok a me­an spi­rit to ma­ke fun of tho­se less for­tu­na­te than one­self and Ga­reth was too ge­ne­ro­us, too open­he­ar­ted, for such me­an­ness.

  Ga­reth ro­se to his fe­et, tos­sing a sho­wer of co­ins on­to the sta­ined plan­king of the ale bench. "Drink he­arty, gen­t­le­men. I wish I co­uld stay but I must es­cort the la­di­es ho­me be­fo­re the­ir ab­sen­ce draws any mo­re re­mark." Amid a cho­rus of fa­re­wel­ls, he of­fe­red Ma­ude and Mi­ran­da his arms with a co­urtly bow.

  Mi­ran­da hung back for a mi­nu­te. "I'll co­me back so­on," she sa­id. "I'll bring so­me new clot­hes for Rob­bie. Lu­ke…" She so­ught out Lu­ke, who was stan­ding a lit­tle way away from his el­ders. "Lu­ke, lo­ok af­ter Rob­bie. He gets so ti­red."

  Ga­reth wa­ited with Ma­ude whi­le Mi­ran­da ma­de her fa­re­wel­ls. He ga­ve no in­di­ca­ti­on of his im­pa­ti­en­ce, of his cold de­ter­mi­na­ti­on to se­pa­ra­te Mi­ran­da from the­se folk as so­on as he co­uld. Tho­se links, both emo­ti­onal and physi­cal, had to be bro­ken if he was to suc­ce­ed. They wo­uld do Mi­ran­da no go­od in the long run, the­ir ti­me was over; she had to for­ge new links in a new world.

  She was pre­oc­cu­pi­ed when she fi­nal­ly jo­ined them and they ma­de the­ir way back to whe­re the ur­c­hin still held the earl's hor­se. Chip pran­ced ahe­ad of them and Ga­reth didn't at­tempt to pun­c­tu­re Mi­ran­da's ab­sor­p­ti­on. He felt that she was con­fu­sed, and if that was so, he was wil­ling to let the con­fu­si­on do half his work for him.

  Inde­ed, Mi­ran­da didn't know what she felt. Ple­asu­re in fin­ding her fa­mily aga­in was mu­ted by the fe­eling that she no lon­ger re­al­ly be­lon­ged to them. She co­uldn't un­der­s­tand how such a short se­pa­ra­ti­on sho­uld ha­ve wor­ked such chan­ges in her, but she felt so dif­fe­rent from them now, so re­mo­ved. It was as if last night in the gar­den she had be­en re­ma­de. But the tro­upe we­re her fa­mily, she lo­ved them, and she owed them her lo­yalty and her help. Yet she was so po­wer­ful­ly awa­re of Ga­reth be­si­de her, of his body, his skin, every ha­ir on his he­ad, as po­wer­ful­ly as if he we­re a part of her own body, a part of her so­ul.

  How to re­con­ci­le two such lo­yal­ti­es? The emo­ti­onal de­mands of two such worlds?

  "I can't be­li­eve my co­usin was so ag­re­e­ab­le," Ma­ude sa­id, when she and Mi­ran­da and Chip we­re on­ce mo­re en­s­con­ced in the lit­ter. "He se­emed to be amu­sed in­s­te­ad of ve­xed. I'd ne­ver ha­ve be­li­eved he co­uld be so ple­asant, such go­od com­pany."

  Mi­ran­da only nod­ded. She too was sur­p­ri­sed that

  Ga­reth had shown no di­sap­pro­val of Ma­ude's ad­ven­tu­re. It was all very well for her­self to ta­ke part in a stre­et per­for­man­ce, but for the Lady Ma­ude d'Albard, ward of the earl of Har­co­urt… it was out­ra­ge­o­us. So much so that Mi­ran­da was only just re­ali­zing it her­self. Ga­reth had had every right to be angry, and yet he'd ta­ken it in his stri­de.

  When they re­ac­hed the mews, Ga­reth was wa­iting for them. "Ma­ude, you had best en­ter the ho­use by the si­de do­or. My sis­ter may ha­ve vi­si­tors and it wo­uld be aw­k­ward if you en­co­un­te­red them."

  He la­id a res­t­ra­ining hand on Mi­ran­da's arm as she ma­de to fol­low Ma­ude. "We shall go in to­get­her." Tuc­king her hand un­der his arm, he strol­led with her out of the stab­le yard. "I re­ali­ze that you we­re trying to gi­ve Ma­ude so­me amu­se­ment, but if an­yo­ne who knows the fa­mily had se­en the two of you to­get­her to­day, it wo­uld ha­ve ru­ined my plans."

  "I tho­ught you had to be a lit­tle ve­xed," Mi­ran­da sa­id, so­un­ding al­most re­li­eved.

  "I'm not ve­xed exactly. The sight of Ma­ude pla­ying the tam­bo­uri­ne was worth a gre­at de­al," he sa­id with a light la­ugh. "Of co­ur­se it co­uld ha­ve be­en in­con­ve­ni­ent if the two of you had be­en se­en."

  "Yes, for­gi­ve me, I didn't think," she sa­id with a ru­eful smi­le. "I don't se­em to be ab­le to think cle­arly at all af­ter…"

  It had to co­me so­me­ti­me, they co­uldn't go on pre­ten­ding it had ne­ver hap­pe­ned. Ga­reth spo­ke qu­i­etly, as des­pe­ra­te to con­vin­ce Mi­ran­da as to con­vin­ce him­self. "Mi­ran­da, you ha­ve to for­get what hap­pe­ned last night. We both ha­ve to for­get it. God knows, I'd be­en drin­king long and la­te and was less than cle­ar­he­aded…"

  "I can­not for­get," she sa­id, softly but de­fi­ni­tely. "It was the most won­der­ful thing and I co­uld ne­ver for­get it. I don't want to for­get it."

  Ga­reth clas­ped the back of her neck, hol­ding her hard, spe­aking with fi­er­ce in­ten­sity. "Lis­ten to me. It was a dre­am, Mi­ran­da. No mo­re than that. Just a dre­am. A be­a­uti­ful dre­am, but day­light brings an end to all dre­ams. This one too will fa­de with the sun."

  Mi­ran­da pres­sed her he­ad back aga­inst his palm. "No," she sa­id. "No, this one won't." She bro­ke away from him, wal­king in­to the ho­use.

  "God's blo­od!" Ga­reth swo­re, run­ning a hand dis­t­rac­tedly thro­ugh his ha­ir. She didn't know what she was sa­ying, didn't know what she was do­ing to him.

  "It is as­to­nis­hing to me that the wench sho­uld ha­ve such fa­ci­lity in for­mal dan­ce," Imo­gen mur­mu­red. "Whe­re co­uld a strol­ling pla­yer ha­ve le­ar­ned to per­form such in­t­ri­ca­te steps with such gra­ce?"

  "She's a na­tu­ral dan­cer, ma­dam," Mi­les of­fe­red.

  Imo­gen mut­te­red tardy, "I'm won­de­ring if she's not a na­tu­ral who­re. Ha­ve you se­en how she flirts? And she tre­ats my brot­her with un­com­mo
n fa­mi­li­arity. And he per­mits it. I don't un­der­s­tand it at all."

  Mi­les stro­ked his chin tho­ug­h­t­ful­ly, wat­c­hing Mi­ran­da in the gal­li­ard. She was ex­cep­ti­onal­ly light on her fe­et and it was true that her re­ady smi­le and me­lo­di­o­us vo­ice we­re brin­ging her qu­ite a cir­c­le of gal­lants. And Imo­gen cer­ta­inly had a po­int abo­ut her fa­mi­li­arity with Ga­reth. But he co­uldn't ima­gi­ne that Ga­reth was dal­lying with her.

  "So­me­ti­mes I think Ga­reth has no mo­re sen­se than a baby when it co­mes to wo­men!" Imo­gen sa­id, her fa­ce dark. "You'd think af­ter Char­lot­te that he'd ha­ve le­ar­ned to re­cog­ni­ze a who­re when he saw one."

  "I don't think that's just, my de­ar," Mi­les sa­id, stung in­to Mi­ran­da's de­fen­se. "Mi­ran­da is li­vely and fri­endly. But she's not li­ke Char­lot­te."

  Imo­gen lo­oked re­ady to bi­te, but to Mi­les's re­li­ef Lady Mary was se­en ap­pro­ac­hing the dan­ce flo­or. "Imo­gen, Lord Du­fort." She cur­t­si­ed, her eyes mo­re gray than gre­en this eve­ning aga­inst her gown of do­ve-gray silk. "I was wat­c­hing Lady Ma­ude. I hadn't re­ali­zed what a go­od dan­cer she is. I se­em to re­mem­ber se­e­ing her at the Chris­t­mas re­vels only last ye­ar hardly ca­ring whe­re she put her fe­et. As li­fe­less and… well, per­haps not gra­ce­less… but cer­ta­inly li­fe­less." She fan­ned her­self.

  "I da­re­say Ma­ude's re­co­very from her va­ri­o­us ail­ments ma­kes a dif­fe­ren­ce," Mi­les of­fe­red.

  Lady Mary tur­ned sharp eyes upon him. "It is a most mi­ra­cu­lo­us re­co­very, my lord."

  "You re­fer to Lady Ma­ude?" Kip Ros­si­ter mo­ved away from the gro­up be­si­de them. "It is in­de­ed a mi­ra­cu­lo­us re­co­very. And as­to­nis­hing to me that one who was bed­rid­den or con­fi­ned to her cham­ber for so many months of her li­fe sho­uld spring forth with all the agi­lity and energy of a but­terfly out of its chrysa­lis. You must gi­ve me the na­me of yo­ur physi­ci­an, Lady Du­fort. A man su­rely to be cul­ti­va­ted."