The Emerald Swan

by Jane Feather

  "Ah," Lord Du­fort re­pe­ated. "Pre­ci­sely."

  Ma­ude smi­led. "Are you not sur­p­ri­sed, sir?"

  "Not pre­ci­sely," Mi­les sa­id, ta­king up his tan­kard. "But I'd gi­ve my im­mor­tal so­ul to know how he's go­ing to ex­p­la­in to the world the sud­den ap­pe­aran­ce of yo­ur do­ub­le."

  "My twin,' Ma­ude sa­id.

  Mi­les lo­oked at her sharply. Then he let out his bre­ath with a lit­tle pop­ping so­und. "Ah," he sa­id. "Pre­ci­sely."

  Epilogue

  "You know what you ha­ve to do?" "Bra­zen it out," Mi­ran­da sa­id. "Lie," Ma­ude sa­id.

  Ga­reth ac­cep­ted the sis­ters' res­pon­ses with a wry smi­le. "Words to that ef­fect," he ag­re­ed.

  "But will it work?" Imo­gen de­man­ded from the do­or­way, plying her fan with vi­gor.

  "If it's bra­ze­ned out, as Mi­ran­da sa­id, I don't see how it can fa­il to work, ma­dam." Her hus­band bob­bed up from be­hind her. "Let me lo­ok at you, my de­ars." He ca­me in­to the cham­ber and Ga­reth step­ped asi­de, gi­ving way to the ex­pert.

  "Oh, what a stir you will ca­use," Mi­les dec­la­red, rub­bing his hands with glee as he wal­ked aro­und the sis­ters. "It was a bril­li­ant con­cep­ti­on to dress you so ali­ke and yet so dif­fe­rent."

  The idea had be­en his, but his de­light was so unaf­fec­ted that no one co­uld ac­cu­se him of self-con­g­ra­tu­la­ti­on.

  "Cor, you don't 'alf lo­ok li­ke a prin­cess, M'ran­da," Rob­bie ob­ser­ved in awe from the win­dow se­at whe­re he was per­c­hed with Chip. A very dif­fe­rent Rob­bie: a ro­un­der, shi­ni­er, mer­ri­er Rob­bie al­to­get­her. "Can I co­me wi you?

  "No, you ha­ve to stay and lo­ok af­ter Chip," Mi­ran­da sa­id. "But I'll tell you all abo­ut it when I get ho­me." Rob­bie ap­pe­ared sa­tis­fi­ed with this and re­tur­ned his at­ten­ti­on to the dish of ra­isins he was sha­ring with Chip.

  "Let us ta­ke a lo­ok at our­sel­ves, Ma­ude." Mi­ran­da re­ac­hed for her twin's hand and step­ped up to the mir­ror. The two sto­od si­de by si­de exa­mi­ning the­ir wa­very ref­lec­ti­ons. Des­pi­te the im­per­fec­ti­ons of the ref­lec­ti­on, the ef­fect was stun­ning. The gowns we­re of iden­ti­cal de­sign, but Mi­ran­da's was of eme­rald gre­en vel­vet stit­c­hed with gold thre­ad and en­c­rus­ted with di­amonds, whi­le Ma­ude wo­re tur­qu­o­ise vel­vet, sil­ver thre­ad, and sap­phi­res. The nec­k­li­ne of the gowns plun­ged to the bo­som, and ro­se be­hind the he­ad in a small jewe­led ruff. The only ot­her sig­ni­fi­cant dif­fe­ren­ce lay in the­ir ha­ir. Each wo­re her ha­ir lo­ose, bo­und with a fil­let, sil­ver in Ma­ude's ca­se, gold in Mi­ran­da's. No at­tempt had be­en ma­de to hi­de Mi­ran­da's short, glo­wing bob that cur­ved be­hind her ears and clung to her neck. Ma­ude's rip­pling auburn-tin­ted locks cur­led on her sho­ul­ders.

  "They won't sus­pect," Mi­ran­da sta­ted. Then she tur­ned to Ga­reth, her eyes fil­led with do­ubt. "Are you su­re they won't, mi­lord?"

  "Why sho­uld they?" he sa­id, smi­ling. He re­ac­hed for her hand and bro­ught it to his lips." The mis­sing d'Albard twin has be­en mi­ra­cu­lo­usly res­to­red to her bir­t­h­right."

  "But if they do sus­pect," she per­sis­ted. "If the qu­e­en sho­uld… or Henry sho­uld… then you'll be ru­ined."

  "And as I've al­re­ady told you mo­re ti­mes than I can co­unt, lo­ve, it wo­uldn't mat­ter."

  Imo­gen me­wed softly, but no words emer­ged from her tightly com­p­res­sed lips.

  "We sho­uld go," Mi­les sa­id. "The bar­ge awa­its and Henry will be im­pa­ti­ent."

  "Aye, I da­re­say he's pa­cing the halls of Gre­en­wich al­re­ady," Ga­reth ag­re­ed with a chuc­k­le. "Co­me, my wards, let us en­ter the li­on's den."

  Ma­ude cast Mi­ran­da a lo­ok that was both ner­vo­us and ex­ci­ted be­fo­re they left the bed­c­ham­ber. Mi­ran­da squ­e­ezed her hand.

  Chip chit­te­red from Rob­bie's lap as they went out, then be­fo­re the boy co­uld re­act, he le­aped on­to the sill and drop­ped thro­ugh the win­dow.

  "Oh, Chip! Co­me back!" Rob­bie le­aned out af­ter him but the mon­key was al­re­ady clam­be­ring down the ivy and me­rely ra­ised a scrawny arm in fa­re­well. Rob­bie, who knew his li­mi­ta­ti­ons whe­re Chip was con­cer­ned, wit­h­d­rew his he­ad and be­gan to con­tem­p­la­te what new de­lights he co­uld ex­p­lo­re in this pa­la­ce. The kit­c­hen was as go­od a pla­ce as any to start, and had pro­ved fru­it­ful al­re­ady. The co­ok and one of the ho­use­ke­epers had ta­ken a fancy to him and they we­re ba­king ap­ple tarts this af­ter­no­on…

  "Don't for­get that you're not sup­po­sed to know the du­ke is re­al­ly Henry," Imo­gen mur­mu­red in a harsh, ur­gent whis­per as they step­ped in­to the bar­ge.

  Ma­ude and Mi­ran­da me­rely ex­c­han­ged a lo­ok and Imo­gen sa­id no mo­re. So­met­hing had hap­pe­ned to chan­ge the Lady Imo­gen du­ring the sis­ters' ab­sen­ce. No one sa­id an­y­t­hing abo­ut it and the earl had dis­mis­sed all Mi­ran­da's ten­ta­ti­ve pro­bing in such fas­hi­on that she'd lost in­te­rest in the exer­ci­se.

  As the bar­ge pul­led in­to mid­s­t­re­am, a small cre­atu­re in a red jac­ket sprang from the bank to land amid­s­hips with a gle­eful cry. "Oh, Chip!" Mi­ran­da ex­c­la­imed. "You're not sup­po­sed to co­me. I told you to stay with

  Rob­bie… no, don't jump on me, you'll ma­ke me all dirty!"

  Chip ig­no­red this and wrap­ped his arms aro­und her neck, di­sar­ran­ging her ruff. His bright eyes dar­ted aro­und the cir­c­le of fa­ces, lo­oking for pos­sib­le obj­ec­ti­ons to his pre­sen­ce. Ga­reth sig­hed and held up a hand to si­len­ce Imo­gen's em­b­r­yo­nic pro­tests.

  "He'll ha­ve to stay on the bar­ge at Gre­en­wich, Mi­ran­da. Can you con­vin­ce him of that?"

  "I'll try," she sa­id a sha­de do­ub­t­ful­ly, di­sen­tan­g­ling Chip's arms from her neck. She held him up away from her and he put his he­ad on one si­de, such a pic­tu­re of sup­pli­ca­ti­on that she burst out la­ug­hing, qu­ite unab­le to scold him. Chip grin­ned in res­pon­se and jum­ped down. So­lemnly, he went aro­und the gro­up, hol­ding out his hand to be sha­ken. But he didn't at­tempt to ap­pro­ach Imo­gen, who had ret­re­ated to the ra­il with an air of re­sig­ned dis­gust.

  Henry of Na­var­re was not wa­iting in the halls of Gre­en­wich but an­xi­o­usly pa­cing the qu­ay­si­de at the pa­la­ce wa­ter steps. He had be­en sta­ying as a gu­est of the qu­e­en sin­ce his bet­rot­hed's il­lness had co­in­ci­ded with his host's ab­sen­ce on ur­gent fa­mily bu­si­ness. Now he eagerly awa­ited the Lady Ma­ude, newly res­to­red to he­alth and on­ce aga­in ab­le to ta­ke her pla­ce at co­urt.

  And he'd be­en told to ex­pect a sur­p­ri­se.

  When the two yo­ung wo­men step­ped from the bar­ge flying the Har­co­urt stan­dard, Henry sta­red, dum­b­s­t­ruck for the first ti­me in a very even­t­ful li­fe. Which one of them was his? Then he saw the ser­pent bra­ce­let on the wrist of the girl in tur­qu­o­ise. His eyes flew to the earl of Har­co­urt, who smi­led, to­ok Ma­ude by the hand, and drew her for­ward.

  "You see that the Lady Ma­ude is fully res­to­red to he­alth, sir…oh, and pray al­low me to pre­sent the re­ason for my ab­sen­ce-Ma­ude's twin sis­ter, the Lady Mi­ran­da d'Albard."

  Mi­ran­da cur­t­si­ed with a de­mu­re smi­le and Henry, still stu­pe­fi­ed, bo­wed over her hand.

  "You must be qu­ite as­to­nis­hed, my lord du­ke," Imo­gen dec­la­red, her vo­ice strong, her smi­le con­fi­dent. "As are we all. My brot­her dis­co­ve­red that Ele­na's ot­her da­ug­h­ter has be­en li­ving in a con­vent sin­ce that dre­ad­ful night when nuns fo­und her, a po­or aban­do­ned ba­be and-"

  "In­de­ed, Du­ke, it is an a
ma­zing story," Ga­reth in­ter­rup­ted smo­othly be­fo­re Imo­gen co­uld be­co­me en-mi­red in de­ta­il. "I had news of Mi­ran­da's whe­re­abo­uts so­me we­eks ago, but sin­ce I wasn't su­re how I wo­uld find her, it se­emed best to in­ves­ti­ga­te the si­tu­ati­on be­fo­re ma­king the de­ta­ils pub­lic."

  "In­de­ed," Henry sa­id, still qu­ite unab­le to grasp the re­ality of this glo­wing pa­ir of yo­ung wo­men who had the iden­ti­cal gle­am of mis­c­hi­ef in the­ir iden­ti­cal blue eyes. "Her Ma­j­esty is una­wa­re of this… this sur­p­ri­se?"

  "For the mo­ment," Ga­reth sa­id with so­met­hing ap­pro­ac­hing a grin. "If you will es­cort Ma­ude, Du­ke, 1 shall es­cort her sis­ter. The qu­e­en is ex­pec­ting us."

  Ma­ude slip­ped her hand in­to Henry's arm and smi­led up at him, her long las­hes flut­te­ring. "I ha­ve mis­sed you, my lord," she mur­mu­red.

  "Not ne­ar as much as I ha­ve mis­sed you, ma che­re," Henry res­pon­ded, his eyes spar­k­ling with ple­asu­re at her ad­mis­si­on. "You're qu­ite re­co­ve­red?"

  "Oh, yes, in­de­ed, sir," Ma­ude sa­id blit­hely. "I've ne­ver felt bet­ter in my li­fe."

  "Cu­ri­o­usly, I don't think I've ever se­en you lo­oking bet­ter," Henry ob­ser­ved, with a slight frown. "You se­em to ha­ve ca­ught the sun… ac­ross the brid­ge of yo­ur no­se… he­re." He lightly brus­hed the fe­atu­re in qu­es­ti­on. "I do be­li­eve you ha­ve a dus­ting of frec­k­les the­re. Now, how did you ac­qu­ire tho­se on a sic­k­bed?"

  "I sat in the win­dow, my lord," Ma­ude rep­li­ed de­mu­rely. "I fo­und the sun go­od for my spi­rits. I trust you don't find the frec­k­les dis­tas­te­ful?"

  "No… no… not in the le­ast," he sa­id has­tily. "Qu­ite de­lig­h­t­ful… just a lit­tle sur­p­ri­sing," he ad­ded in an un­der­to­ne.

  Ma­ude smi­led.

  The party con­ti­nu­ed up the ti­led pat­h­way to the swe­ep of lawn in front of the pa­la­ce. The sce­ne was now fa­mi­li­ar to Mi­ran­da and held no­ne of the ter­rors of her first ap­pe­aran­ce at co­urt, but on this oc­ca­si­on the­re we­re ot­her wor­ri­es. Henry ap­pe­ared to ha­ve ac­cep­ted the earl's "sur­p­ri­se" but how wo­uld ot­hers re­act? The an­s­wer ca­me swiftly.

  The Ros­si­ter brot­hers we­re the first to see them. Bri­an was ren­de­red mu­te, his mo­uth ope­ning and clo­sing, his eyes on stalks, dar­ting bet­we­en the two iden­ti­cal vi­si­ons. Kip's smi­le was that of a man who has be­en pro­ved right. He bo­wed over Mi­ran­da's hand and cast a qu­ick com­p­li­cit glan­ce at Ga­reth, who me­rely re­tur­ned it with a bland smi­le of his own.

  "Her Ma­j­esty will re­ce­ive the earl of Har­co­urt." Ga­reth nod­ded to the cham­ber­la­in. "My wards…" He of­fe­red an arm to each. Henry re­lin­qu­is­hed Ma­ude with cle­ar re­luc­tan­ce, and his eyes con­ti­nu­ed to fol­low them with frow­ning spe­cu­la­ti­on.

  They prog­res­sed thro­ugh the se­ri­es of an­tec­ham­bers to the qu­e­en's privy cham­ber, ap­pa­rently ob­li­vi­o­us of the sta­res and whis­pers that ac­com­pa­ni­ed them. But Ga­reth was awa­re of the sis­ters' ten­si­on be­ca­use he was so awa­re of his own. This was the acid test. If the qu­e­en ac­cep­ted the story then no one wo­uld ever qu­es­ti­on it. And for all his pro­tes­ta­ti­ons, it did mat­ter to him. His am­bi­ti­on was as po­wer­ful and dri­ving as ever. It had simply ta­ken on anot­her di­men­si­on. Mi­ran­da.

  Eli­za­beth was ra­rely star­t­led but when the earl of Har­co­urt pre­sen­ted the Lady Mi­ran­da d'Albard she simply sta­red in si­len­ce for what se­emed an eter­nity. Then she ro­se from her cha­ir and de­man­ded, "Expla­in, my lord. I do not un­der­s­tand this."

  "I ha­ve be­en trying for many ye­ars to dis­co­ver what had hap­pe­ned to Ma­ude's twin sis­ter, ma­dam," Ga­reth sa­id smo­othly. "I've had pe­op­le as­king the length and bre­adth of Fran­ce and I've fol­lo­wed va­ri­o­us re­ports, but un­til a few months ago they all pro­ved fru­it­less. But then I re­ce­ived news of a yo­ung wo­man li­ving with the Cis­ter­ci­an nuns in Lan­gu­edoc. I to­ok the op­por­tu­nity to fol­low up the re­port on my re­cent so­j­o­urn in Fran­ce. You can ima­gi­ne my de­light when I fo­und Mi­ran­da." He drew Mi­ran­da for­ward. "You can see, ma­dam, that the­re can be no do­ubt that she is the mis­sing d'Albard twin."

  The qu­e­en exa­mi­ned Mi­ran­da clo­sely. She wal­ked all aro­und her as Mi­ran­da re­ma­ined in a de­ep curtsy, pra­ying that this«ti­me she'd be ab­le to re­co­ver wit­ho­ut aw­k­war­d­ness. "Well, I must con­g­ra­tu­la­te you, Lord Har­co­urt," Her Ma­j­esty pro­no­un­ced even­tu­al­ly. "The re­sem­b­lan­ce is qu­ite ex­t­ra­or­di­nary. But you must ha­ve be­en ama­zingly vi­gi­lant in yo­ur pur­su­it of the mystery. I won­der why I had no idea that the girl exis­ted?" Her pluc­ked eyeb­rows ro­se and her vib­rant eyes flas­hed. Her Ma­j­esty was not best ple­ased. She didn't li­ke sur­p­ri­ses.

  Ga­reth bo­wed and humbly apo­lo­gi­zed. "An over­sight, ma­dam. The se­arch was so­met­hing of a hobby of mi­ne. I ne­ver ex­pec­ted it to suc­ce­ed. I as­su­med as did her fat­her that Mi­ran­da had be­en mur­de­red with her mot­her and her body had so­me­how di­sap­pe­ared."

  "I see." Her Ma­j­esty con­ti­nu­ed to exa­mi­ne Mi­ran­da with a frown. Ma­ude sto­od si­lent and un­re­gar­ded. Mi­ran­da won­de­red des­pe­ra­tely how long she wo­uld ha­ve to re­ma­in in a curtsy. The po­si­ti­on was gro­wing in­c­re­asingly un­com­for­tab­le, even for an ac­ro­bat. Fi­nal­ly, the qu­e­en tur­ned away from her and she was ab­le to ri­se. She glan­ced si­de­ways at Ma­ude, who gri­ma­ced sympat­he­ti­cal­ly. The qu­e­en had not ac­k­now­led­ged Mi­ran­da's pre­sen­ta­ti­on; she might just as well ha­ve be­en ina­ni­ma­te.

  "So you'll be ma­king anot­her ad­van­ta­ge­o­us con­nec­ti­on for the d'Albards," the qu­e­en sa­id. "Do you ha­ve an al­li­an­ce in mind, my lord?"

  "Not as yet, ma­dam. Lady Mi­ran­da is still very new to the world out­si­de the con­vent. I had tho­ught to gi­ve her so­me ti­me to be­co­me ac­cus­to­med to her new li­fe be­fo­re lo­oking for a su­itab­le hus­band."

  "I see." Eli­za­beth's mo­uth was very small, her eyes still flas­hing dis­p­le­asu­re. "And on that su­bj­ect, I un­der­s­tand from Lady Mary Aber­nathy that yo­ur en­ga­ge­ment is bro­ken."

  Ga­reth bo­wed aga­in. "To my reg­ret, ma­dam. But Lady Mary felt that we wo­uld not su­it."

  "I see," Eli­za­beth sa­id aga­in. "I find that pas­sing stran­ge, my lord. Such an ad­van­ta­ge­o­us con­nec­ti­on will not co­me her way aga­in."

  Ga­reth sa­id not­hing. Mi­ran­da held her bre­ath, awa­re that Ma­ude was do­ing the sa­me. Then the qu­e­en sa­id, "Well, I'll ha­ve to see if I can't find so­me­one for her. She's be­en lan­gu­is­hing at co­urt for too long." She wa­ved a hand in ir­ri­tab­le dis­mis­sal and Ga­reth bac­ked to the do­or. Mi­ran­da and Ma­ude ne­eded no en­co­ura­ge­ment to fol­low su­it and fi­nal­ly they we­re sa­fely on the far si­de of the do­or.

  Ga­reth ex­ha­led slowly. "Christ and his sa­ints! May I ne­ver go thro­ugh an­y­t­hing li­ke that aga­in."

  "But it was all right?" Mi­ran­da as­ked. "She did ac­cept the story."

  Ga­reth smi­led down at her and brus­hed the cur­ve of her che­ek with his knuc­k­les. "Yes, she did, lo­ve. But what she will do when she he­ars that you and I are to be wed, I da­ren't ima­gi­ne."

  "I do­ubt it'll be as bad as when she dis­co­vers that the du­ke of Ro­is­sy is re­al­ly Henry of Fran­ce," Ma­ude sa­id.

  "Oh, she'll get over that," Ga­reth sa­id de­fi­ni­tely. "Her Ma­j­esty is a very prag­ma­tic so­ve­re­ign. The ad­van­ta­ges to her­self in such a con­nec­ti­on will so­on out­we­igh any an
­no­yan­ce she may fe­el at be­ing de­ce­ived. And you may be as­su­red she'll un­der­s­tand ab­so­lu­tely why Henry felt it ne­ces­sary to dis­gu­ise his pre­sen­ce in En­g­land… Co­me, let's re­turn to the gar­den, I find this at­mos­p­he­re a trif­le op­pres­si­ve." He la­ug­hed and he didn't so­und in the le­ast op­pres­sed as he swept them ahe­ad of him back out­si­de to whe­re Henry was wa­iting for them.

  "You se­em a trif­le ab­s­t­rac­ted, my lord du­ke," Mi­ran­da ob­ser­ved as they re­j­o­ined Henry.

  He sho­ok his he­ad in dis­c­la­imer, but his eyes we­re still spe­cu­la­ti­ve as he lo­oked bet­we­en the two sis­ters. "I am just won­de­ring," he sa­id slowly, "if I ha­ve ever met you be­fo­re, Lady Mi­ran­da."

  This king of Fran­ce was far too sharp for an­yo­ne's go­od, Mi­ran­da tho­ught, even as she smi­led and sa­id, "I as­su­re you, sir, that if you ha­ve, it was wit­ho­ut my know­led­ge."

  "Mmm." He so­un­ded un­con­vin­ced. "Ma­ude, let us ta­ke a walk." He to­ok her hand ab­ruptly and mar­c­hed away with her, Ma­ude ha­ving to skip to ke­ep up with his long stri­de.

  In the sec­lu­si­on of a qu­i­et ar­bor, do­mi­na­ted by an an­ci­ent oak tree, Henry stop­ped. He tur­ned Ma­ude to fa­ce him and lo­oked gra­vely in­to her eyes. "Now, tell me the truth. Has it al­ways be­en you?"

  Ma­ude's ce­ru­le­an blue ga­ze met his ste­adily. "Always, my lord. How co­uld you do­ubt it?"

  "I re­qu­ire con­vin­cing," Henry sa­id, and pin­p­ricks of light be­gan to flic­ker be­hind the gra­vity in his black eyes.

  "In this fas­hi­on, my lord du­ke?" Ma­ude in­qu­ired as she re­ac­hed up to hold his fa­ce bet­we­en her hands and then sto­od on tip­toe to kiss him. She had in­ten­ded a light, brus­hing kiss but Henry gat­he­red her to him, crus­hing her aga­inst his bro­ad chest, his ton­gue aga­inst her lips de­man­ding en­t­ran­ce, and Ma­ude ope­ned her mo­uth to him with a lit­tle sigh of ple­asu­re. This kiss was li­ke no­ne that had go­ne be­fo­re. Henry was de­man­ding so­met­hing from her, a com­mit­ment, a pro­mi­se, a dec­la­ra­ti­on of her own pas­si­on. For a fle­eting mo­ment, Ma­ude tho­ught of the Be­ne­dic­ti­ne con­vent. It was the last ti­me she ever ga­ve the re­li­gi­o­us li­fe a se­cond tho­ught.