The Emerald Swan

by Jane Feather

  It was to be ho­ped he'd set­tled the bu­si­ness now. Re­as­su­red her, re­ga­ined her trust. He co­uldn't be­ar her dis­t­ress. And even mo­re, he co­uldn't be­ar her ac­cu­sa­ti­ons of bet­ra­yal.

  But he didn't ha­ve ti­me now to pur­sue this tra­in of tho­ught. He was pla­ying host to Henry of Fran­ce. He lo­oped the she­ath of his dag­ger over his belt, set­tled it on his hip, and went dow­n­s­ta­irs, com­po­sing his ex­p­res­si­on to one of ge­ni­al hos­pi­ta­lity.

  Imo­gen was in the di­ning ro­om with the­ir gu­ests, lo­oking much res­to­red, and pla­ying the at­ten­ti­ve hos­tess to per­fec­ti­on.

  "I gi­ve you go­od day, Lord Har­co­urt." Henry wa­ved a mut­ton chop in gre­eting. "Did you pro­mi­se me a stag hunt in Ric­h­mond fo­rest to­day?"

  "Most cer­ta­inly, if you wish it, my lord du­ke." Ga­reth bo­wed be­fo­re hel­ping him­self to the co­ve­red dis­hes on the si­de­bo­ard. He was ra­ve­no­us. Lo­ve­ma­king did much to sti­mu­la­te the ap­pe­ti­te. He bro­ught his fil­led plat­ter to the tab­le. "When do you wish to ri­de out, sir?"

  "Oh, at yo­ur com­mand, Har­co­urt," Henry sa­id af­fably, gna­wing con­ten­tedly on his chop. "Do­es yo­ur ward hunt?"

  "Ma­ude is not a com­for­tab­le hor­se­wo­man." Ga­reth fil­led his tan­kard from the ale pit­c­her.

  "And she do­es not par­ta­ke of bre­ak­fast, eit­her?" "She sho­uld be he­re," Imo­gen sa­id. "Per­haps she over­s­lept. If you'll ex­cu­se me, my lord, I'll go and sum­mon her."

  Mi­ran­da was dres­sing in her bor­ro­wed plu­ma­ge be­ca­use she co­uldn't think what el­se to do. Her mind whir­led in con­fu­si­on. She tho­ught she had ac­cep­ted the earl's as­su­ran­ces that she co­uld trust him, that all wo­uld be well. But now she knew she hadn't… or did she me­an, co­uldn’t. She ne­eded to know whe­re her fa­mily had go­ne. She ne­eded to know that she co­uld find them aga­in. Ga­reth hadn't se­emed to un­der­s­tand that. May­be it was ex­pec­ting too much to think he wo­uld un­der­s­tand it. Af­ter all, they ca­me from such very dif­fe­rent sphe­res, and fa­mily fe­eling wasn't too ob­vi­o­us aro­und the Har­co­urt man­si­on.

  It sho­uld be easy eno­ugh to track down the tro­upe whi­le the­ir tra­il was still fresh. They wo­uld be ma­king for one of the Chan­nel ports: if not Do­ver, then Fol­kes­to­ne. On­ce she dis­co­ve­red the­ir des­ti­na­ti­on, then she wo­uld send a mes­sen­ger, as­king them to wa­it for her. She wo­uld be brin­ging fifty ro­se nob­les with her so any ex­pen­ses in­cur­red in a pro­lon­ged wa­it co­uld be set­tled when she ar­ri­ved.

  When Imo­gen en­te­red the gre­en bed­c­ham­ber, as usu­al wit­ho­ut knoc­king, Mi­ran­da lo­oked at her as if she didn't re­cog­ni­ze her for a mi­nu­te, she was so ab­sor­bed in her plan­ning.

  "You must co­me down to bre­ak­fast," Imo­gen an­no­un­ced. " The du­ke is as­king for you."

  "Very well." Mi­ran­da adj­us­ted the ker­c­hi­ef in the neck of her gown and tuc­ked her ha­ir in­to the jewe­led cap. She was a per­for­mer and the show must go on re­gar­d­less of per­so­nal di­lem­mas. "Let us go, ma­dam."

  She des­cen­ded the sta­irs, cros­sed the hall, and en­te­red the di­ning ro­om. Her smi­le was gra­ci­o­us, her vo­ice soft as she gre­eted the gen­t­le­men. She had no ap­pe­ti­te and to­yed with a pi­ece of bre­ad and but­ter, trying to ma­ke it lo­ok as if she we­re eating it.

  "No ap­pe­ti­te, Lady Ma­ude?" Henry bo­omed. His dark eyes we­re shrewdly as­ses­sing as he hel­ped him­self li­be­ral­ly to a dish of ste­wed eels. "Yo­ur gu­ar­di­an ke­eps a splen­did tab­le."

  Mi­ran­da smi­led fa­intly. The du­ke's mo­uth was glis­te­ning with mut­ton fat. Oddly eno­ugh, it wasn't re­pel­lent. It se­emed in ke­eping with the po­wer­ful physi­ca­lity of his pre­sen­ce. His do­ub­let was tight over his sho­ul­ders, se­emed to stra­in ac­ross his chest, as if his clot­hes co­uldn't con­ta­in him. He was not a man with the ni­ce ha­bits of a co­ur­ti­er; he was, as he'd sa­id, a ro­ugh-hewn sol­di­er, hap­pi­er on a bat­tle­fi­eld than ma­king ple­asant con­ver­sa­ti­on in an ele­gant di­ning hall.

  "I ha­ve lit­tle ap­pe­ti­te in the mor­ning, my lord du­ke," she sa­id.

  "We're ri­ding out to Ric­h­mond to hunt stag. Will you not ac­com­pany us?"

  Mi­ran­da sho­ok her he­ad. "I do not ca­re to hunt, sir."

  Henry frow­ned and his gen­t­le­men re­ad the flash of dis­p­le­asu­re in his eyes. The king co­uldn't en­du­re to pass a day idly in and aro­und the ho­use, but he had co­me to woo the Lady Ma­ude, and ri­ding to ho­unds in Ric­h­mond fo­rest wit­ho­ut her wo­uldn't ad­van­ce that ca­use.

  "We shall re­turn well be­fo­re din­ner, sir," Ga­reth sa­id.

  "But we're bid­den to the qu­e­en's tab­le," Henry mut­te­red, stab­bing at a he­el of bre­ad with his kni­fe, brin­ging it to his mo­uth.

  "I had it in mind to re­qu­est the Qu­e­en's Ma­j­esty to ac­cept an in­vi­ta­ti­on to my ho­use in­s­te­ad," Ga­reth sa­id.

  "And Her Ma­j­esty will ac­cept?" Henry lo­oked rat­her less put out.

  "I be­li­eve so," Ga­reth sa­id with one of his sar­do­nic smi­les. The qu­e­en was ne­ver lo­ath to ac­cept in­vi­ta­ti­ons that wo­uld sa­ve her the ex­pen­se of en­ter­ta­ining her own gu­ests. "I will send my he­rald with the in­vi­ta­ti­on stra­ig­h­ta­way." He ro­se, bo­wed, and stro­de from the hall.

  Henry lo­oked rat­her mo­re che­er­ful. He con­si­de­red the Lady Ma­ude. She co­uld be ta­ught the arts of a hor­se­wo­man, she didn't stri­ke him as a fa­in­t­he­ar­ted ma­iden. She lo­oked up as if awa­re of his ga­ze and her eyes stun­ned him with the­ir be­a­uty. Her long hands res­ted on the tab­le, the ser­pen­ti­ne bra­ce­let glis­te­ning aro­und her wrist. With a fa­int smi­le, she tur­ned her he­ad to an­s­wer a qu­es­ti­on from Lord Mag­ret, and the pu­re whi­te co­lumn of her swan's neck stir­red Henry with the ur­ge to kiss her na­pe, to plant his lips aga­inst the pul­se at her thro­at.

  Lord Har­co­urt's ward was ever­y­t­hing her por­t­ra­it pro­mi­sed. And an im­pec­cab­le al­li­an­ce for the king of Fran­ce. He re­mem­be­red he­aring her la­ug­h­ter thro­ugh the do­or the pre­vi­o­us night. A lusty, joy­ful so­und. And one fil­led with pro­mi­se for a hungry man.

  He to­ok up his tan­kard of ho­ne­yed me­ad, a smi­le now flit­ting ac­ross his glis­te­ning lips. "I ha­ve a bet­ter idea, my lady, than hun­ting at Ric­h­mond. We shall go on the ri­ver, you and I. The sun's shi­ning, the ri­ver is spar­k­ling. And we shall ha­ve ti­me to get to know each ot­her a lit­tle bet­ter. What say you, Har­co­urt?" He wa­ved ex­pan­si­vely at the earl, who had just re­tur­ned to the cham­ber. "A ri­ver ex­cur­si­on with yo­ur ward. Do we ha­ve yo­ur per­mis­si­on?"

  "Wil­lingly, my lord du­ke," Ga­reth rep­li­ed.

  Chapter Twenty

  "Ta­ke yo­ur pla­ce?" Ma­ude was stun­ned. "Why? What's the mat­ter with you?"

  "I ha­ve so­met­hing el­se to do." Mi­ran­da pa­ced Ma­ude's bed­c­ham­ber. "I went in­to the city this mor­ning to see my fa­mily and the cob­bler sa­id they had had to le­ave in a hurry. I'm af­ra­id they're in so­me kind of tro­ub­le and I ha­ve to find out whe­re they've go­ne." She tur­ned back to Ma­ude. "You un­der­s­tand that, don't you?

  "Well, yes," Ma­ude ag­re­ed. "But I can't ta­ke yo­ur pla­ce with the du­ke."

  "It's just a ri­ver trip. If I say I'm ill, ever­yo­ne will ask qu­es­ti­ons and…" Her vo­ice tra­iled off as she lo­oked at Ma­ude. "You co­uld do it, Ma­ude."

  The in­ten­sity in her vo­ice star­t­led Ma­ude in­to con­si­de­ring the qu­es­ti­on. " Ta­ke yo­ur pla­ce, pre­tend to be… Pre­tend to be me!" She fell back on the bed with a who
­op of la­ug­h­ter. "You want me to pre­tend to be me."

  Mi­ran­da ma­na­ged a res­pon­ding smi­le. "Put li­ke that it so­unds ri­di­cu­lo­us, but the­re's no re­ason why it sho­uldn't work." She ca­me over and sat on the bed. "You mustn't spe­ak French, tho­ugh, not un­less you spe­ak it flaw­les­sly, as if it's yo­ur na­ti­ve ton­gue. Do you?"

  Ma­ude sho­ok her he­ad. "I spe­ak it well eno­ugh, but an­yo­ne wo­uld know I'm not French."

  "Then you mustn't spe­ak an­y­t­hing but En­g­lish." Mi­ran­da frow­ned. "We'll ha­ve to ma­ke su­re yo­ur ha­ir is pi­led on top of yo­ur he­ad so the­re's not the slig­h­test chan­ce of its fal­ling down."

  Ma­ude lo­oked do­ub­t­ful. She didn't think she'd ag­re­ed to an­y­t­hing and yet Mi­ran­da was tal­king as if it was all set­tled. "What will he talk abo­ut?" She was so­be­ring ra­pidly.

  "Oh, this and that. Not­hing that you won't be ab­le to ma­na­ge. Just be yo­ur­self and don't say much. I was very qu­i­et at bre­ak­fast, so he won't ex­pect you to be dan­cing a jig or an­y­t­hing."

  "But I've ne­ver be­en alo­ne with a man." Ma­ude re­ali­zed that so­mew­he­re along the li­ne she had im­p­li­citly ag­re­ed to this mad sub­s­ti­tu­ti­on.

  "You won't be alo­ne. The­re'll be the wa­ter­men and a ma­id­ser­vant as cha­pe­ron." Mi­ran­da to­ok Ma­ude's hands. "You know you co­uld do it, Ma­ude. And you can sa­tisfy yo­ur cu­ri­osity abo­ut the du­ke at the sa­me ti­me."

  Ma­ude che­wed her lip. The idea ter­ri­fi­ed her, but it al­so ex­ci­ted her. She lo­oked aro­und her cham­ber and sud­denly it se­emed con­fi­ning in­s­te­ad of com­for­tingly fa­mi­li­ar, bo­ring in­s­te­ad of re­as­su­ring. She wo­uldn't be ex­po­sing her­self to any risks. She wo­uldn't be com­p­ro­mi­sing her po­si­ti­on in any way. She was just do­ing Mi­ran­da a fa­vor… and sa­tis­f­ying her cu­ri­osity. One might as well ta­ke a lo­ok at what one was re­j­ec­ting.

  "I don't know how go­od I'll be at de­cep­ti­on," she mur­mu­red..

  "But it's not a de­cep­ti­on," Mi­ran­da po­in­ted out. "I'm the de­cep­ti­on, you're the re­al one."

  Ma­ude sta­red down at her fe­et swin­ging cle­ar of the flo­or as she still sat on the bed, then sud­denly she lo­oked up with an air of re­so­lu­ti­on. "All right, I'll do it. I've ne­ver do­ne an­y­t­hing truly da­ring in my li­fe, and if it will help you, then I'll do it." She jum­ped off the bed and went to the li­nen press. "What sho­uld I we­ar? What wo­uld be su­itab­le for a mor­ning upon the ri­ver? What do you think of cherry stri­pes?"

  "Per­fect," Mi­ran­da sa­id, trying to en­ter in­to Ma­ude's en­t­hu­si­asm. But she felt as if a gre­at le­aden we­ight was in her chest, a we­ight of un­hap­pi­ness, a who­le oce­an of un­s­hed te­ars, and ke­eping that from Ma­ude was one of the har­dest acts she'd ever had to per­form.

  Ma­ude, ar­ra­yed in the cher­ry-st­ri­ped silk gown, her ha­ir con­ce­aled be­ne­ath a jewe­led co­if, exa­mi­ned her wa­very ima­ge in the be­aten-ste­el lo­oking glass. "Co­me he­re and stand be­si­de me. Let's see just how ali­ke we are… Oh, it's un­can­ny." She put her hand to her mo­uth, sta­ring at her twin­ned ima­ges. "No one co­uld ever tell us apart if we we­re we­aring iden­ti­cal gowns."

  Mi­ran­da felt a stran­ge shi­ver run up her spi­ne as she sto­od be­si­de Ma­ude and sta­red with her in­to the mir­ror. It su­rely wasn't na­tu­ral. "You're to me­et the du­ke be­low­s­ta­irs at ten o'clock," she sa­id, mo­ving away from the dis­tur­bing ima­ge. She un­c­las­ped the ser­pen­ti­ne bra­ce­let from her wrist and held it up to the light." The du­ke will ex­pect to see his gift on yo­ur wrist."

  She fas­te­ned the bra­ce­let aro­und Ma­ude's slen­der wrist. Ma­ude held up her wrist to exa­mi­ne the bra­ce­let mo­re clo­sely. "I don't li­ke it," she sa­id with a puz­zled frown. "I don't li­ke we­aring it."

  "Per­haps be­ca­use it be­lon­ged to yo­ur mot­her," Mi­ran­da sa­id. "But I own I don't li­ke we­aring it, eit­her. It's very be­a­uti­ful… or per­haps that's not qu­ite the word for it. But it's uni­que, I'm su­re." She re­ac­hed to to­uch the eme­rald swan. "The charm is be­a­uti­ful, tho­ugh. But it do­esn't se­em to ma­ke the bra­ce­let any the less si­nis­ter, do­es it?"

  "No," Ma­ude ag­re­ed. "It fe­els stran­gely fa­mi­li­ar, but how co­uld it be?"

  Mi­ran­da frow­ned. "I tho­ught that, too. How very odd." Then she sho­ok her he­ad, dis­mis­sing what she had con­si­de­red from her own po­int of vi­ew to be a fan­ci­ful if po­wer­ful re­ac­ti­on to the pi­ece of jewelry.

  "The du­ke's co­ur­t­s­hip se­ems to be go­ing very well, my lord. He tells me he's to ta­ke Ma­ude on the ri­ver this mor­ning."

  Ga­reth lo­oked up ir­ri­tably at his bet­rot­hed's su­gary to­nes. She had pe­net­ra­ted his own pri­va­te san­c­tum, so­met­hing that even Imo­gen did spa­ringly." This is an unex­pec­ted ple­asu­re, ma­dam."

  Mary had be­en abo­ut to step far­t­her in­to Ga­reth's privy cham­ber, but chan­ged her mind and re­ma­ined in the do­or­way. "Ha­ve I dis­tur­bed you, sir?" She ga­ve a tinkly lit­tle la­ugh. "For­gi­ve me. I was so an­xi­o­us to ha­ve pri­va­te spe­ech with you. We've hardly had a mo­ment to our­sel­ves sin­ce you re­tur­ned from Fran­ce."

  Ga­reth for­ced him­self to smi­le. He ro­se from be­hind the tab­le to bow.

  "Go­od­ness, what a mud­dle," Mary sa­id, in­di­ca­ting the pa­per-st­rewn sur­fa­ce of the tab­le. "You ne­ed a wi­fe, my de­ar lord, to ke­ep you tidy. When we are mar­ri­ed, I shall en­su­re that all yo­ur do­cu­ments are fi­led away whe­re you can easily lay hands upon them. I sho­uld, think this must dri­ve you to dis­t­rac­ti­on."

  "On the con­t­rary," Ga­reth sa­id. "If you tidy them away, I as­su­re you that that will dri­ve me to dis­t­rac­ti­on."

  Mary la­ug­hed aga­in, but a lit­tle un­cer­ta­inly this ti­me. "I was sa­ying that the du­ke's co­ur­t­s­hip is go­ing well. You must be fe­eling very ple­ased." Now she step­ped in­to the ro­om, lo­we­ring her vo­ice con­fi­dingly. "I do trust that Ma­ude will not do or say so­met­hing in­dis­c­re­et when she's alo­ne with His Gra­ce."

  "Why wo­uld you think she might je­opar­di­ze her chan­ces for such a splen­did match?" Ga­reth in­qu­ired, ta­king up his pi­pe from the man­tel.

  Mary clo­sed her eyes aga­inst the smo­ke and waf­ted it away with her fan. "Such a ter­rib­le ha­bit, my lord."

  "I smo­ke only in the pri­vacy of my own san­c­tum," he sa­id po­in­tedly.

  "I am dis­tur­bing yo­ur pri­vacy," Mary tit­te­red un­com­for­tably. "But I fe­el the­re is so much we ha­ve to talk abo­ut. The wed­ding ar­ran­ge­ments, for in­s­tan­ce. You ha­ven't sa­id when you wish the ce­re­mony to be per­for­med. I had ho­ped be­fo­re May Day, may­be even in the new ye­ar. If we we­re mar­ri­ed be­fo­re Ma­ude, then I co­uld as­sist Imo­gen with the ar­ran­ge­ments… help to pre­pa­re yo­ur co­usin."

  Ga­reth rat­her do­ub­ted that Imo­gen wo­uld wel­co­me Mary's col­le­gi­al as­sis­tan­ce. He al­lo­wed Mary's chat­ter to wash over him, but he he­ard lit­tle or no­ne of it. His tho­ughts for so­me re­ason we­re cir­c­ling en­d­les­sly aro­und Henry's ri­ver ex­cur­si­on with Mi­ran­da. But they we­ren't cir­c­ling to go­od ef­fect. For so­me re­ason, he co­uldn't set­tle on what was tro­ub­ling him abo­ut the ex­pe­di­ti­on. But so­met­hing was."

  "So, I shall ask Her Ma­j­esty for le­ave to ce­leb­ra­te our nup­ti­als on Twelfth Night, then?"

  Ga­reth ca­me back to the ro­om with a start. "What? I beg yo­ur par­don?"

  "Twelfth Night?" Mary re­pe­ated. "We ha­ve ag­re­ed to ce­leb­ra­te the wed­ding next Twelfth Night."

  Fo­ur months away. A me­
re fo­ur months away.

  Mary to­ok an in­vo­lun­tary step back at the lo­ok in Ga­reth's eye. He se­emed to be sta­ring at her, and yet she was su­re he co­uldn't be se­e­ing her. He had the air of one who'd co­me fa­ce to fa­ce with the de­vil.

  "Let us wa­it un­til I've drawn up the bet­rot­hal con­t­racts bet­we­en the du­ke of Ro­is­sy and my ward," Ga­reth sa­id, his vo­ice dis­tant and dis­cor­dant. "Once Her Ma­j­esty has gi­ven her le­ave, the ar­ran­ge­ments will be set in sto­ne. I must ta­ke ca­re of Ma­ude's fu­tu­re first."

  "But su­rely our mar­ri­age ne­edn't wa­it upon Ma­ude's?" Mary's to­ne was sud­denly aci­dic." The girl can­not ex­pect her li­fe to ta­ke pre­ce­den­ce over her gu­ar­di­an's."

  "My ward is my res­pon­si­bi­lity." Ga­reth set down his pi­pe. "You wo­uld not ha­ve me re­ne­ge on such a res­pon­si­bi­lity, ma­dam. It wo­uld not bo­de well in a fu­tu­re hus­band."

  Mary was stymi­ed. She ma­na­ged a stiff smi­le and an even stif­fer curtsy. "I'll le­ave you to yo­ur pri­vacy, my lord. Per­haps we can dis­cuss this aga­in when Ma­ude's bet­rot­hal con­t­racts are sig­ned."

  She left Lord Har­co­urt and went in se­arch of Imo­gen, ho­ping that the earl's sis­ter wo­uld say so­met­hing, of­fer so­me re­as­su­ran­ce to com­bat Mary's gro­wing une­ase, this cre­eping sen­se of fo­re­bo­ding. The gro­und was sud­denly very slip­pery be­ne­ath her fe­et and she didn't know why. But she lo­oked with ill-con­ce­aled ve­nom at Lady Ma­ude, who was cros­sing the hall on the arm of the du­ke of Ro­is­sy, on the way to the wa­iting bar­ge at the wa­ter steps.

  Ma­ude had be­en fe­eling very sick as she'd des­cen­ded the gre­at sta­ir­ca­se when the clock chi­med ten. She knew that even to her own eyes, her re­sem­b­lan­ce to Mi­ran­da was com­p­le­te, and yet her kne­es we­re still knoc­king, her palms still damp. Only the length of her ha­ir wo­uld bet­ray the de­cep­ti­on, but her co­if was fas­te­ned se­cu­rely eno­ugh to wit­h­s­tand a mid­win­ter ga­le on the ri­ver. Not­hing co­uld go wrong. The­re was not­hing that co­uld go wrong.