The Emerald Swan

by Jane Feather

  "Yes, Lady Imo­gen de­ci­ded to le­ave co­urt in a hurry." Mi­ran­da per­c­hed on the ed­ge of the tab­le, well away from the bla­zing fi­re. "She says she has pre­pa­ra­ti­ons to ma­ke for when the du­ke of Ro­is­sy ar­ri­ves to­mor­row." Her frown was so­mew­hat ab­s­t­rac­ted. "I'm just won­de­ring exactly what pre­pa­ra­ti­ons she has in mind."

  "What do you me­an?" Ma­ude le­aned for­ward on the set­tle, eyes alight with in­te­rest.

  "Well, she se­ems to think that this cha­ra­de isn't wor­king. And it do­es ap­pe­ar that the­re are pe­op­le who are no­ti­cing that I'm rat­her dif­fe­rent from what they re­mem­ber of you." She told Ma­ude what they'd over­he­ard be­hind the ar­ras, then sa­id tho­ug­h­t­ful­ly, "I think she in­tends to com­pel yo­ur obe­di­en­ce so­me­how."

  "She has of­ten thre­ate­ned thus," Ma­ude sa­id with an ob­s­ti­na­te turn of her mo­uth. "But I ha­ve told her that she co­uld bre­ak me on the whe­el and I will not abj­ure. And if I do not abj­ure, I can­not marry a French Pro­tes­tant."

  "No, I'm su­re that's so," Mi­ran­da sa­id a to­uch im­pa­ti­ently. "But I won­der if you re­al­ly know what pres­su­re can be bro­ught upon you if the wo­man is de­ter­mi­ned. And I do be­li­eve she is ut­terly de­ter­mi­ned. Mi­lord is not he­re at the mo­ment to ta­ke yo­ur part, and I be­li­eve Lady Imo­gen is ever one to stri­ke whi­le the iron is hot." Her cle­ar blue eyes held the ot­her girl's twin­ned ga­ze and af­ter a mi­nu­te un­cer­ta­inty crept in­to Ma­ude's eyes.

  "I can­not know what I can en­du­re un­til I am put to tri­al," Ma­ude sa­id with a cle­ar ef­fort at bra­very. "It was so with the sa­ints."

  "Yes, but I don't think you're re­ady to be ca­no­ni­zed," Mi­ran­da re­tur­ned with energy. "I think we sho­uld chan­ge pla­ces to­night. Just in ca­se yo­ur co­usin has so­me mis­c­hi­ef in mind. You sle­ep in my cham­ber and I will sle­ep he­re."

  "But why sho­uld you suf­fer my co­usin's wrath?"

  "Be­ca­use I will not." Mi­ran­da grin­ned. "Be­li­eve me, Ma­ude, I will pro­ve to be mo­re than a match for Lady Du­fort."

  Ma­ude lo­oked do­ub­t­ful, but al­re­ady Ber­t­he was gat­he­ring up her cham­ber ro­be and slip­pers. "Co­me, my pet." She bus­t­led over to her, en­fol­ding her in the ro­be. "It's a go­od plan. The girl was sent he­re for a pur­po­se and it's not for us to qu­es­ti­on the Al­mighty's ar­ran­ge­ments. You know that you're far too fra­il to wit­h­s­tand Lady Du­fort's ire. You'll be qu­ite sa­fe in the gre­en bed­c­ham­ber and I'll kin­d­le the fi­re. We'll ma­ke it qu­ite cozy, you'll see."

  "But I can't le­ave Mi­ran­da to fa­ce the con­se­qu­en­ces of my de­fi­an­ce!"

  "Yes you can." Mi­ran­da bun­d­led her to the do­or. "You can, be­ca­use I will not. I un­der­s­tand that you wo­uldn't wish an­yo­ne to suf­fer in yo­ur pla­ce, but you must be­li­eve that I won't. If an­yo­ne is go­ing to suf­fer it'll be Lady Imo­gen." "What of Chip?"

  "Oh, yes, he'll gi­ve the ga­me away if he stays in he­re with me." She re­ac­hed up and de­tac­hed the mon­key from her sho­ul­der. "Chip, go with Ma­ude, just for a lit­tle whi­le."

  The mon­key al­lo­wed him­self to be han­ded over, tuc­king him­self in­to a fold of Ma­ude's cham­ber ro­be and re­gar­ding his mis­t­ress rep­ro­ac­h­ful­ly. She tic­k­led his chin. "It won't be for long."

  "Co­me, co­me, my pet. We mustn't lin­ger," Ber­t­he sa­id ur­gently. "Her lad­y­s­hip co­uld co­me at any mi­nu­te." She lo­oked an­xi­o­usly over her sho­ul­der in­to the dimly lit cor­ri­dor. Ma­ude, af­ter anot­her he­si­tant lo­ok at Mi­ran­da, al­lo­wed her­self to be hur­ri­ed away with Chip.

  Mi­ran­da un­la­ced her gown and re­mo­ved the far­t­hin­ga­le and pet­ti­co­ats, bun­d­ling them un­der the bed whe­re they wo­uldn't be no­ti­ced. She ex­tin­gu­is­hed all the can­d­les and clim­bed in­to Ma­ude's bed in her che­mi­se, le­aving the cur­ta­ins open so that she co­uld see the do­or in the fi­re­light. If Lady Du­fort was go­ing to ar­ri­ve bent on mis­c­hi­ef, she wo­uldn't catch her prey nap­ping. Ma­ude's nig­h­t­cap lay on the pil­low and Mi­ran­da slip­ped it over her crop­ped ha­ir as a fi­nal ar­tis­tic to­uch.

  The clock struck ele­ven, and then mid­night. Mi­ran­da was gro­wing sle­epy in Ma­ude's cozy fe­at­her bed and the fi­re was bur­ning low. She be­gan to won­der if she was mis­ta­ken. May­be Imo­gen had tho­ught bet­ter of her plan. May­be her brot­her had al­re­ady re­tur­ned from co­urt. But Mi­ran­da was fa­irly cer­ta­in that the earl was not in the ho­use. So­me­how she was su­re that she wo­uld know if he was.

  The last stro­kes of mid­night had fa­ded in­to the night when the do­or burst open and Lady Du­fort en­te­red li­ke an ill wind, ac­com­pa­ni­ed by what to Mi­ran­da's star­t­led ga­ze se­emed a po­si­ti­ve army of wo­men.

  Imo­gen had re­mo­ved her black ro­pa and pus­hed up the sle­eves of the cre­am gown in bu­si­nes­sli­ke fas­hi­on. Her lit­tle eyes flas­hed ve­no­mo­us de­ter­mi­na­ti­on as she swept up to the bed, the pha­lanx of ma­ids at her back. In her hand she hef­ted a thick blac­k­t­horn.

  Mi­ran­da was still ta­king stock of the num­bers of her po­ten­ti­al at­tac­kers when her lad­y­s­hip lo­omed at the bed­si­de. With one thrust of the blac­k­t­horn, Imo­gen swept asi­de the co­vers.

  "Se­ize her to the bed­posts," she com­man­ded in throb­bing ac­cents.

  The ma­ids fell upon Mi­ran­da, grab­bing arms, legs, lif­ting her bo­dily from the bed.

  Mi­ran­da let out an une­arthly shri­ek and al­lo­wed her body to go limp as if she we­re over­co­me with shock. Her eyes dar­ted to the do­or but it had be­en firmly clo­sed, al­t­ho­ugh she didn't think it had be­en loc­ked.

  "Bind her se­cu­rely," Imo­gen or­de­red. "Arms and legs. You, wo­man, you ha­ve the ta­pes." She po­in­ted with her stick to the ol­dest of her mi­ni­ons, a rat-fa­ced wo­man who at­ten­ded clo­sely upon Lady Du­fort.

  "Yes, m'lady." The Wo­man ca­me for­ward with what struck Mi­ran­da as un­be­co­ming eager­ness, thin strips of li­nen in her hands.

  The ma­ids had set Mi­ran­da on her fe­et at the fo­ot of the bed and she hung limply in the­ir hold, of­fe­ring no re­sis­tan­ce. It se­emed that Ma­ude was to be ti­ed by wrists and an­k­les to the bed­posts so that Lady Du­fort co­uld wi­eld her sto­ut blac­k­t­horn wit­ho­ut hin­d­ran­ce.

  Po­or Ma­ude, it wo­uld ha­ve go­ne hard with her, Mi­ran­da tho­ught, the in­s­tant be­fo­re her body jac­k­kni­fed in her cap­tors' now-slac­ke­ned grip. Her arms jer­ked up, bre­aking the­ir grasp. Two scis­sor kicks sent two of her as­sa­ilants tum­b­ling in­to the cor­ner of the ro­om. She spun on the balls of her fe­et, her arms win­d­mil­ling in a wi­de arc, cat­c­hing the rat-fa­ced wo­man with the bin­dings ac­ross her mid­riff. With a fa­int bre­athy so­und of as­to­nis­h­ment, the wo­man fell bac­k­ward on­to her skinny rump.

  Mi­ran­da bo­un­ced on­to the bed out of re­ach, bac­king up aga­inst the he­ad­bo­ard, whe­re she sto­od at bay sur­ve­ying the ge­ne­ral car­na­ge.

  Imo­gen was so star­t­led she ga­ve vent to a ban­s­hee's scre­am of out­ra­ge, com­pe­ting with the cri­es of the fal­len ma­ids.

  Fo­ot­s­teps ra­ced down the cor­ri­dor as ser­vants hur­ri­ed from all cor­ners of the ho­use, emer­ging from the clo­sets and at­tics whe­re they slept, whi­te-fa­ced with ter­ror at a no­ise that co­uld only he­rald fi­re or vi­olent in­t­ru­ders set to mas­sac­re the in­ha­bi­tants of Lord Har­co­urt's man­si­on.

  The cham­ber­la­in didn't pa­use for a se­cond's ref­lec­ti­on at the do­or to Lady Ma­ude's cham­ber. The no­ise was co­ming from wit­hin, and with the air of one abo­ut to con­f­ront a hos­ti­le
army he flung up the latch and burst open the do­or. Be­hind him, men and wo­men crow­ded in­to the do­or­way, sta­ring at the sce­ne in Lady Ma­ude's bed­c­ham­ber, the­ir eyes slowly, dis­be­li­evingly, fol­lo­wing Lady Du­fort's wild-eyed ga­ze and po­in­ting fin­ger to the small fi­gu­re stan­ding on the bed, arms akim­bo.

  Ga­reth, en­te­ring the ho­use thro­ugh the si­de do­or, ex­pec­ted to find a sle­eping ho­use­hold. He had left the pa­la­ce ear­li­er than he'd in­ten­ded. All his at­tempts to dis­t­ract him­self at the card tab­le and in the usu­al­ly con­ge­ni­al com­pany of his fri­ends over a de­cent bot­tle of bur­gundy had fa­iled mi­se­rably. He ac­hed with fa­ti­gue, his tem­p­les throb­bed, and his mo­uth tas­ted of as­hes. The pre­vi­o­us sle­ep­less night was the ob­vi­o­us re­ason and the re­medy equ­al­ly ob­vi­o­us. Mi­ran­da wo­uld be long abed and his ho­use­hold qu­i­et, his own cham­ber a pe­ace­ful, wel­co­ming ha­ven of so­li­tu­de.

  As he emer­ged from the si­de pas­sa­ge in­to the cen­t­ral hall, a con­fu­si­on of no­ise bil­lo­wed down the gre­at sta­ir­ca­se. Ma­le and fe­ma­le vo­ices sho­uting, ex­c­la­iming, and abo­ve it all his sis­ter's un­mis­ta­kab­le ra­ge-dri­ven scre­aming. It wasn't of­ten the­se days that Imo­gen com­p­le­tely lost con­t­rol, but Ga­reth knew that so­und of old. Imo­gen was be­si­de her­self.

  He mo­un­ted the sta­irs two at a ti­me and stro­de down the cor­ri­dor to­ward the no­ise. Un­less he was much mis­ta­ken, it was co­ming from Ma­ude's cham­ber. The mil­ling crowd at the do­or par­ted as he swept thro­ugh them. "What the de­vil is go­ing on?"

  Imo­gen tur­ned at his en­t­ran­ce, her fin­ger still stab­bing to­ward Mi­ran­da's mo­ti­on­less fi­gu­re. "It's… it's… the oth… the ot­her one!" she stut­te­red. "It's not Ma­ude. How did she get in he­re? She's the de­vil's to­ol! A chan­ge­ling, suc­k­led at a witch's tit!"

  At the ac­cu­sa­ti­on, the no­ise aro­und Ga­reth swel­led and pe­op­le fell back, gas­ping, sta­ring fe­ar­ful­ly at the girl stan­ding on the bed. Ga­reth sa­id qu­i­etly, "Don't be ab­surd, Imo­gen. Ta­ke a grip on yo­ur­self. You can't go aro­und thro­wing ac­cu­sa­ti­ons of wit­c­h­c­raft. You know you can't."

  Slowly sa­nity re­tur­ned to Imo­gen's wild eyes. She shi­ve­red, clas­ped her arms ac­ross her bre­ast, sud­denly cold as ice. Her ga­ze fo­cu­sed fi­nal­ly on the ro­om, on the ga­ping crowd in the do­or­way, on her shoc­ked ma­ids. And the re­ali­za­ti­on that she had cre­ated this sce­ne pe­net­ra­ted her be­fog­ged bra­in.

  Ga­reth spo­ke as qu­i­etly to the cham­ber­la­in. "Send the ho­use­hold back to the­ir beds, Gar­ri­son."

  "Aye, m'lord." The cham­ber­la­in in his fur­red bed ro­be tur­ned to the gaw­ping ser­vants. "Be off to yo­ur beds. The­re's not­hing he­re for you to ga­pe at. Be off now." He sho­o­ed at them as if they we­re chic­kens es­ca­ped from the hen­ho­use and with ob­vi­o­us re­luc­tan­ce they obe­yed, but the­ir vo­ices, tho­ugh mu­ted, con­ti­nu­ed to carry the­ir ex­ci­ted spe­cu­la­ti­on down the cor­ri­dor.

  "Oh, what is hap­pe­ning?" Ma­ude, her eyes fi­xed and re­so­lu­te in her whi­te fa­ce, ran in­to the ro­om. "I can't let you suf­fer for me, Mi­ran­da!" Chip, with a high-pit­c­hed squ­e­al, le­aped from her arms and up on­to the bed, whe­re he cro­uc­hed on Mi­ran­da's sho­ul­der and gla­red down with eyes li­ke black pin­p­ricks.

  Imo­gen ga­ve a low, de­fe­ated mo­an and co­ve­red her fa­ce with her hands.

  "Lady Du­fort, I be­li­eve yo­ur bu­si­ness is with me." Ma­ude step­ped in front of Imo­gen.

  "Yo­ur he­ro­ics are a lit­tle la­te, co­usin," Ga­reth sa­id calmly. "Mi­ran­da, ple­ase wo­uld you get down from the­re?"

  "I'd pre­fer it if you'd di­sarm yo­ur sis­ter first, mi­lord." Mi­ran­da bra­ced her hands aga­inst the he­ad­bo­ard. "She was go­ing to be­at Ma­ude in­to sub­mis­si­on with that gre­at thick stick."

  "What?" Ga­reth to­ok in the blac­k­t­horn for the first ti­me.

  "You co­uld bre­ak bo­nes with it," Mi­ran­da con­ti­nu­ed with so­met­hing akin to re­lish. "And she was go­ing to tie her to the bed­posts to do it. See the ta­pes that rat-fa­ced wo­man has."

  Ga­reth fo­und the obj­ect of this ac­cu­ra­te des­c­rip­ti­on wit­ho­ut dif­fi­culty. The wo­man was sit­ting on the flo­or with a be­mu­sed ex­p­res­si­on on her co­un­te­nan­ce, but the strips of li­nen we­re still clut­c­hed bet­we­en her hands. As Lord Har­co­urt's fi­er­ce ga­ze fell upon her, she scram­b­led to her fe­et with dif­fi­culty, her far­t­hin­ga­le swin­ging wildly as she ca­ught a toe in her pet­ti­co­at with a harsh, te­aring so­und.

  "She as­sa­ul­ted me, my lord," she dec­la­red as if in ex­p­la­na­ti­on, her vo­ice frig­h­te­ned, as well it might be un­der the har­s­h­ness of his lor­d­s­hip's sta­re. "She struck me, knoc­ked me over."

  "Well, what el­se wo­uld you ex­pect?" Mi­ran­da de­man­ded re­aso­nably. "When so­me­one's go­ing to tie you up so you can be tor­tu­red, of co­ur­se you de­fend yo­ur­self."

  Ma­ude, her mo­ment of he­ro­ism over, ga­zed in as­to­nis­h­ment at Mi­ran­da. Her eyes be­gan to brim with la­ug­h­ter as she glan­ced si­de­ways at Imo­gen, and with a stif­led lit­tle so­und, she sank on­to the set­tee, bur­ying her fa­ce in a cus­hi­on.

  With a curt ges­tu­re, Ga­reth dis­mis­sed Imo­gen's ma­ids. The­re was lit­tle po­int bla­ming them for obe­ying the­ir mis­t­ress's or­ders. Then he tur­ned back to Imo­gen.

  Imo­gen, her hands sha­king, was sit­ting on the win­dow se­at. Her eyes we­re blank with shock and the af­ter­math of hyste­ria. She lo­oked at her brot­her. "I did it for you, Ga­reth," she sa­id in a low vo­ice. "Only for you. I did it for you."

  "I know, Imo­gen," he sa­id, and the­re was both sad­ness and a gre­at we­ari­ness in his vo­ice. He ca­me over to her, to­ok her hands, and gently drew her to her fe­et. "When will you re­ali­ze that I don't ne­ed…" Then he sho­ok his he­ad. "Ne­ver mind. What is, is. Go to bed, now." He to­uc­hed her che­ek with his fin­ger­tips as if in be­ne­dic­ti­on, then es­cor­ted her to the do­or.

  "We­re you sle­eping in Mi­ran­da's cham­ber, Ma­ude?"

  Ma­ude ra­ised her he­ad from the cus­hi­on. "I wasn't sle­eping, sir. I co­uldn't pos­sibly sle­ep when I was wa­iting for so­met­hing to hap­pen."

  "No, well, per­haps you can now. I sug­gest you re­turn the­re for to­night."

  "Why, do you think Lady Imo­gen will try aga­in?"

  "No, but I wish to ha­ve pri­va­te spe­ech with Mi­ran­da, so do as I ask, ple­ase."

  Ma­ude cast a star­t­led lo­ok at Mi­ran­da, then she tur­ned and left the cham­ber.

  Ga­reth wal­ked to the high bed. Re­ac­hing up, he ho­oked Mi­ran­da's wa­ist and lif­ted her down. He held her off the gro­und and away from him, lo­oking in­to her fa­ce. She re­gar­ded him gra­vely, trying to re­ad his ex­p­res­si­on, but it was com­p­le­tely im­pas­si­ve, of­fe­ring no clu­es to his tho­ughts.

  "God help me," he sa­id fi­nal­ly, so­un­ding per­fectly af­fab­le. "If I'd known how you we­re go­ing to turn my li­fe up­si­de down, fi­refly, I'd ha­ve run from Do­ver as if all hell's ho­unds we­re on my he­els."

  "You wo­uldn't ha­ve ex­pec­ted me to stand asi­de and let yo­ur sis­ter do her worst, tho­ugh. Not when I knew she was plan­ning to for­ce Ma­ude."

  He sho­ok his he­ad equ­ably. "No, I wo­uldn't ha­ve ex­pec­ted you to do that. Kno­wing you as I do. I wo­uldn't even ha­ve ex­pec­ted you to ha­ve sta­yed with Ma­ude as pro­tec­ti­on un­til I re­tur­ned." A fle­eting smi­le tug­ged at his mo­uth." That wo­uld ha­ve be­en re­al­ly too sim­p­le."

  Mi­ran­da won­de­red if he was ever go�
�ing to set her on her fe­et aga­in, but she ma­de no pro­test. His hands we­re warm and firm at her wa­ist, and the­re was an in­ten­sity in his eyes that be­li­ed his ca­su­al to­ne. "In truth, mi­lord, I didn't think of that."

  He nod­ded. "Of co­ur­se you didn't." The­re was si­len­ce aga­in. Chip, who was now sit­ting on the pil­lows, be­gan to comb his ha­ir with his fin­gers, but des­pi­te this ab­sor­bing ac­ti­vity, his eyes dar­ted wat­c­h­ful­ly to­ward the two fi­gu­res in the mid­dle of the ro­om. A gre­en log fla­red in the fi­rep­la­ce. The clock chi­med the half ho­ur.

  Mi­ran­da to­uc­hed Ga­reth's mo­uth with her lit­tle fin­ger. It was a light, de­li­ca­te lit­tle brush that bro­ught a tin­g­le to his lips. He snap­ped at her fin­ger, dra­wing it in­to his mo­uth, and she la­ug­hed softly, brin­ging her ot­her hand up to tra­ce the li­ne of his jaw, be­fo­re mo­ving her he­ad and kis­sing his eye­lids. She flut­te­red her eye­las­hes aga­inst his che­ek­bo­nes and her bre­ath was a warm rus­t­le on his skin. She kis­sed the po­int of his chin, her ton­gue ras­ping over his nig­h­t­ti­me be­ard.

  Slowly, he al­lo­wed her to sli­de thro­ugh his hands un­til her fe­et we­re on the flo­or. Cup­ping her fa­ce, he bro­ught his mo­uth to hers. With a de­lig­h­ted lit­tle sigh, Mi­ran­da clo­sed her eyes and yi­el­ded to the le­isu­rely aro­usal of a kiss that en­gul­fed her so com­p­le­tely that her mo­uth be­ca­me the fo­cus of all sen­sa­ti­on, a warm crim­son po­ol of ple­asu­re.

  Ga­reth fi­nal­ly ra­ised his he­ad. His eyes, whe­re re­ason and pas­si­on fo­ught for sup­re­macy, we­re al­most black. Then Mi­ran­da mo­ved aga­inst him and he co­uld smell her ha­ir, her skin, the po­wer­ful frag­ran­ce of aro­usal min­g­ling with the de­li­cacy of ro­se­wa­ter and jas­mi­ne. And re­ason lost the bat­tle. He tuc­ked her ne­atly be­ne­ath his arm and stro­de from the cham­ber, Chip scam­pe­ring af­ter them.