The Wild Swans

by Peg Kerr

Elias nodded.

  “Do you have any skills or hobbies? Anything that could help you get a job?”

  Elias chewed his lower lip for a moment. “I’m ... not sure.”

  “Well, what did you do for extracurricular stuff at that school of yours?”

  “I don’t know—just things. You know ... drama club. Photo club, chess club—”

  “Wait. Photo club, you said? You do photography?”

  Elias nodded. “Yeah. I took some courses, learned how to develop my own pictures.”

  A slow smile curved Sean’s face. “I got a cousin who manages a photo shop.”

  Elias just stared at him.

  “In fact,” Sean continued, the smile growing wider, “maybe I could help you get a job there. I think I remember him saying something about being shorthanded.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Elias said uncertainly.

  “No. You can come home with me. I’ll call him for you tomorrow.”

  Elias looked down at his plate. The outline blurred, and the few remaining french fries seemed to drift and swim across his field of vision. “Why are you doing this?” he said, his voice a husky thread. “Why are you helping me?”

  Sean hesitated for a moment before answering. “Because I’m gay, too.”

  “Oh,” Elias said faintly. He looked at the man sitting across from him, one hand resting casually on his almost empty beer glass, the other on his knee, and he felt a sudden lurch in his chest, a warm glow of happiness. “But,” he said cautiously, “that still doesn’t explain why you should take in a kid from the streets. Why you should... trust me.”

  “No, it doesn’t.” Sean rolled the last jigger of his beer around in his glass. “I guess,” he said, choosing his words with care, “it’s just that... I don’t believe in passing by on the other side of the road.”

  Elias frowned. Something about the choice of words sounded vaguely familiar. “Is that from a song or something?”

  Sean grinned and swallowed the last of his beer. “You should finish off those french fries.”

  Elias did, and Sean pulled money from his wallet for the check. “It’s okay. I’m happy to put you up tonight.” He raised an eyebrow. “On the couch. Just so you understand.”

  Chapter Five

  We enjoin thee,

  As thou art liegeman to us, that thou carry

  This female bastard hence; and that thou bear it

  To some remote and desert place quite out

  Of our dominions; and that there thou leave it,

  Without more mercy, to its own protection,

  And favor of the climate. As by strange fortune

  It came to us, I do in justice charge thee,—

  On thy soul’s peril, and thy body’s torture,—

  That thou commend it strangely to some place,

  Where chance may nurse, or end it.

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, THE WINTER’S TALE

  After storming from the West Rose Room and retreating to her own private rooms, the Countess had to struggle for a good quarter hour before managing to slow her breathing and school her features to her customary expression of calmness. Her loss of control shocked and rankled her, as much as her spell’s failure. An unaccustomed fear added a chill to her racing thoughts as she paced the length of her chamber, wondering furiously what to do next.

  She had underestimated the girl, badly, she realized, clenching her hands into fists at the thought. The Countess appreciated the value of timing, and she found it utterly galling to realize she had moved too quickly and been careless enough to show her cards prematurely. She despised mistakes, particularly her own—but this one, she hoped, would not be fatal. Further pondering offered one crumb of consolation: at least the Earl had not been there to witness her discomfiture.

  If only, she thought in vexation for what seemed the hundredth time, the Earl had not been so insistent upon seeing the girl. For years he had been gratifyingly pliable, leaving almost all decisions to his wife. But he had suddenly taken it into his head that the time had come to put his affairs in order, including settling a marriage portion upon his daughter. The Countess had never dreamed that he would react to her long awaited and desired pregnancy in such a way. She had resisted him as much as she had dared, hoping it to be only a passing whim. But the Earl proved unexpectedly stubborn, and so she was forced to arrange to have Eliza brought back to her childhood home. The Countess hoped to use the opportunity to rid herself of the girl once and for all.

  And now her first attempt had failed.

  The child inside her lurched, and the Countess placed a calming hand over her belly, resolving silently not to make such a blunder again. Until she could be entirely sure of the Earl, she decided, her lips thinning, she would have to recover and repair the damage as best she could. A knock at the Countess’s door interrupted her thoughts. “Enter,” she called absently, and a footman came in.

  “Begging your pardon, my lady,” he said, bowing, and gesturing apologetically with a serge-wrapped bundle, “but you were wanting to see the young lady’s baggage before it was brought up to her?”

  “Yes. Put it down on the floor over there. Thank you, Willoughby.” She walked over to it as he left and looked down at it thoughtfully, the first tendrils of a new scheme beginning to coalesce in her mind. The Countess suspected that even though the spell had failed, the girl wouldn’t remember much of what had happened. And, she reflected, if she could win and hold the brat’s trust just long enough—there might still be a chance to turn father against daughter irrevocably. She reached for a bell rope and rang for the maid.

  For quite some time after the Countess left, Eliza remained kneeling in the bathtub, staring at the poppy petals bobbing on the water’s surface. At first, she felt giddy and disoriented, as if awakening after several days of delirious fever, but slowly, the sensation of vertigo eased. In bewilderment, she looked around the room, wondering how she had come to be in this luxurious apartment. She remembered following the Countess into the Kellbrooke Hall stillroom. And then, suddenly, she was here, in the bath, and the Countess stood a few feet away, saying—Eliza frowned, trying to remember. The words hovered just out of reach of her memory, like a bubble skittering away from her touch on the surface of a brook. The Countess had been angry, though— decidedly so. That Eliza did remember, and she felt cold at the thought. She shivered violently. The bathwater was cooling down. She reached for a towel on the marquetry table beside the tub, wrapped it around herself hastily, and stepped carefully out of the tub. One of the maids had left a dressing gown draped over a chair to warm by the fire. After drying herself, Eliza pulled it on and sat down to stare into the flames and wonder: what could she have said or done to offend her mother-in-law so?

  As the blaze in the fireplace in the West Rose Room began dying down into softly glowing embers, the sound of the door behind her opening made her turn her head and then stand to face the door. Two maids came in, one carrying several linen-wrapped bundles, and another a portable dressing case; they put their burdens down on a small table set between two of the windows and bobbed their curtseys.

  “May we fetch you aught else, my lady?” the first one said. “A bottle of rose lotion, perhaps?”

  “Or do you desire some orange water, my lady?” asked the second.

  Eliza barely restrained herself from curtseying in response. “Nay, indeed, thank you,” she replied, turning faintly pink and feeling rather overwhelmed. “That is—if I might ask—where is my gown, please?”

  “I have it here,” the first maid replied. She unpinned and unwrapped the folds of linen from one of the bundles and shook out the folds of a gown dyed in bright shades of blue.

  “But I mean my own dress. I do not see it here. Was it taken away, then?”

  The two maids exchanged glances. “The Countess bade us do so,” one replied uncertainly. Eliza opened her mouth to protest and then checked herself, reflecting that her gown had been travel-stained, and that the Countess must have seen
that and sent it to a laundress. Now that she had bathed, the idea of changing seemed quite agreeable. “But I have another gown,” Eliza said. “It is in my bundle that I brought with me in the carriage.” She looked around uncertainly. “Mrs. Warren directed it should be brought into the house, and yet I do not see it. What might have happened to it?”

  The maids knew, and exchanged another look. They had seen the Countess rummage through Eliza’s possessions with an expression of contempt and then order the entire bundle consigned to the fire. Neither servant, however, particularly wished to admit this awkward fact to the Earl’s daughter. “ Tis no matter, my lady,” the second maid said smoothly. “We have here at hand everything my lady might need—a chemise with Flanders lace and a striped underskirt. And look, here is a stomacher, with the loveliest echelle ribbons.”

  “We have brought several pairs of shoes of different measures, so surely one will fit,” added the other eagerly.

  “They are all exquisite,” Eliza replied with polite stubbornness, “but I do assure you, I would most prefer my own clothes.”

  “Of course, my lady,” the second maid said, driven to the last ditch by necessity, “but the Countess has sent you this gown as a gift, and most particularly desires you to wear it.”

  “Oh,” Eliza said blankly. “I see.”

  “She would understand, of course, if you refuse,” the second maid added, managing to convey within her reassurance a note of doubt.

  “Undoubtedly she would,” agreed the first after a moment’s hesitation, and her nod made the ribbons on her cap rustle.

  “I would not wish to offend,” Eliza said, her certainty ebbing away. She remembered the Countess’s angry tone the last time she had seen her and wished again, vainly, that she could remember what the quarrel had been about. Yet if the Countess was sending such a fine gown now, she reflected, surely it meant that she regretted their disagreement as well, and wished to give her a peace offering. She did not wish to be seen as ill bred and churlish for refusing such a gesture of reconciliation.

  “Very well, then. I shall put it on. Although,” she added doubtfully, “I believe I shall need some help. Faith, I am not accustomed to such fastenings.”

  Accordingly, after Eliza had removed the dressing gown, the maids busied themselves around her, helping her draw the chemise over her head and fasten the gathers of the striped, quilted underskirt around her waist. One helped her put on the stomacher and laced the ties up the side as the other held the outer gown ready for Eliza to slip her arms through. “Pray, my lady, permit me. Now, pluck the sleeves of the chemise through—there, below the engagement ruffles. You see? A bit of frill from the chemise sleeve peeps out below the lace.”

  “Lovely!” exclaimed the other maid. “Here is a ribbon for the waist to match.” They wrapped the outer gown over the edges of the stomacher, drew the edges together at the waist with the ribbon, and carefully folded and tied back the edges of the overskirt to show the brocaded lining. One of the maids kneaded the sweet bags sewn into the skirt split’s edging with her fingers, perfuming the air with the cloying fragrance of jasmine.

  “It is so heavy!” Eliza gasped and glanced behind herself as she pivoted. “Why—this gown has a train.”

  “Aye,” said the first maid, smiling. “ ‘Tis the very latest mode.”

  “The cut of the corsage is wide,” the other maid observed under her breath to her companion, “and the stomacher may be rather short.”

  “Why then, simply pull it down. We may adjust the lacing to suit.”

  “But then might the décolletage be a trifle ...” Her words trailed off doubtfully as she frowned. Eliza glanced down to where her locket rested upon bare skin and crossed her hands over it, exclaiming, “Oh! Surely I must have a whisk, or a pinner. I cannot be seen like this!”

  Just then, a rap sounded against the door and the Countess walked in, a set smile on her lips. “Well then!” she said with brisk cheer. “What do you think of— Ah, I see you have put it on already.”

  “Madam, I give you my humblest thanks,” Eliza said, curtseying. “It is far more grand than any gown I have ever been given. Your kindness—”

  “Not at all, not at all, my dear,” the Countess replied. One swift, searching look at Eliza’s face convinced her that her hope had been correct: the girl remembered little, if anything. Relief made the Countess’s smile grow even wider. “I own I felt uncertain about the color, but I must congratulate myself: that sapphire suits you admirably. Will you not turn around so I may see the whole?”

  Obediently, Eliza did so. “It is truly lovely, madam,” she ventured shyly as she faced the Countess again, “but... do you not think the neck should be more ... more modest?” Her hand strayed up to cover her locket again.

  “La, do you wish to let all the world think you the veriest bashful country miss?” the Countess replied with a laugh. “Nay, blush not, child. You must wear all your gowns like this—and most particularly when you meet your suitors.”

  “My suitors?” Eliza echoed, a little hollowly.

  “Oh, indeed, my dear. Your father made shift bring you home, after all, because the gentlemen must see what it is they are considering buying, must they not?” Despite her resolve to speak lightly so the girl would suspect nothing, a tinge of venom crept into the Countess’s voice. She could not help it. The mere thought that any part of the Earl’s estate might be diverted to the girl’s marriage portion rather than settled on her own babe made her throat tighten with anger. But she quickly spied the look of faltering dismay spring up in Eliza’s eyes, and, cursing her own weakness, she hastened to inject some semblance of warmth back into her voice. “Why, see how the dress displays your charms! Lud, we shall have every lord in the land vying for your hand.”

  She gestured to one of the maids to open the dressing case and drew Eliza over to a chair. “And now let us see what we can do with a bit of ceruse. And perhaps a patch or two.”

  Eliza’s eyes widened as the maid pulled out stoppered bottles of Venetian glass, pomatum and cream pots, colored crayons and rouge rags. She leaned forward with a quick intake of breath, a troubled line appearing between her eyebrows. “Are you ... do you mean to paint me?”

  The Countess gave her a sharp look. “If you wish to take your rightful place among the ladies who appear at Court,” she replied, still smiling but with a warning edge to her words, “naturally you must paint.”

  “But—”

  “It is expected.” She placed her hands firmly on Eliza’s shoulders and held her breath at the tension she felt there. A heartbeat passed, and then another and another. No one moved. The maids stood at either side, watching surreptitiously out of the corners of their eyes.

  Eliza felt the command in her mother-in-law’s touch, and it puzzled her as much as it made her uneasy. She sensed an odd urgency underlying the Countess’s friendly manner. Troubled, she ran a finger along the pleat of the gown’s skirt.

  The touch of the fabric made her think again of the Countess’s generosity. She sighed and sat back again, and the Countess slowly released her own breath, too. “As you will, then, madam,” Eliza said. The Countess nodded, taking care to keep her face expressionless. “That jar, there, Fletcher. Let us begin with that.”

  The Countess worked quickly, dusting Eliza’s face with white lead ceruse powder to bleach it to a ghostlike hue.

  Then, she rubbed the rouge rag into a pressed cake of cochineal-tinted paste and grimly spread it in thick, garish patches over the girl’s cheeks. “The lip crayon now,” she said as she stepped back to study the effect. The maid Fletcher proffered a crayon of rose pink, and the Countess shook her head and waved it away, pointing to another of a vibrant scarlet hue still nestled in the box. “No, that one.”

  Fletcher hesitated, glancing with a troubled expression at the swatches of bright rouge on Eliza’s cheeks. “Madam ... perhaps you might consider—”

  But the Countess held up her hand and forestalled her with a freezi
ng look. “And then you may go, Fletcher.” After a pause, Fletcher placed the scarlet pencil in the Countess’s hand, made her curtsey, and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

  The application of lip color was but the work of a moment. After affixing several gummed black taffeta patches to Eliza’s temples and cheeks, the Countess declared herself satisfied. “And now,” she said, wiping her fingers clean on a rag, “it is time for you to come pay your respects to Lord Grey.”

  “Now, madam?” Eliza said, startled.

  “Why, naturally. Of course the Earl will wish to see you tonight.”

  Eliza sat silently, watching as the remaining maid placed the jars and bottles back into the dressing case and shut it again. She flinched at the snapping of the latches, like an animal starting at the slam of a cage door.

  She fought down a panicked urge to flee. She had intended to be wearing her own clothes when she first met her father and asked that he compensate Nell and Tom for then-sacrifices for her. But now ... her cheeks suddenly felt hot, and she put her hands to them, wishing desperately for a mirror. The gritty touch of powder under her palms made her jerk them away again quickly. How, she wondered despairingly, could she have let this happen?

  The maid brought over several pairs of shoes, and after several tries, Eliza found one that fit. “Come,”

  said the Countess, holding her hand out imperatively, and Eliza helplessly rose to follow her, like a ghost compelled against its will.

  The Right Honorable Lord James Grey, Earl of Exeter, sat nursing his port before a low fire in the marble withdrawing room next to the Great Parlor. Robert Owen and the steward, Thomas Griggs, were in attendance, with a sheaf of tenants’ rolls and quarterly accounts spread out on the table before them. The Earl listened to them absently as they wrangled about the best methods for improving the drainage in the southwestern fields. On the whole, however, the port commanded a better portion of his attention. Finally wearying of the discussion, he set his glass down on the table with a thump. The other two men looked at him in surprise, and the steward, who knew the exact price of the glass, winced slightly.