The Emerald Swan

by Jane Feather

  "Are you awa­ke now, mi­lord?"

  He sat up, awa­re that the she­et was tan­g­led aro­und his thighs, le­aving the best part of his body ex­po­sed. He tug­ged the co­vers up to his wa­ist and lay back aga­inst the pil­lows wa­iting for his he­art to slow and his rag­ged bre­at­hing to ease.

  "Did I wa­ke you? For­gi­ve me," he sa­id af­ter a mi­nu­te.

  "Rob­bie had dre­ad­ful nig­h­t­ma­res, too, so I'm used to it," Mi­ran­da sa­id, ho­ve­ring by the bed. "Is the­re so­met­hing I can get you?"

  "In my sad­dle­bag… a fla­gon of brandy…"

  Mi­ran­da went to the cor­ner to fetch the sad­dle­bag.

  "My thanks." He un­s­c­re­wed the top and put the fla­gon to his lips. The fi­ery li­qu­id bur­ned down his gul­let and set­tled war­mingly in­to his cold belly.

  "Do they hap­pen of­ten?" Mi­ran­da as­ked softly.

  "No," he sa­id curtly. He put the flask to his lips aga­in.

  What co­uld this fresh-fa­ced in­no­cent know of a wo­man's mad­ness, of all-con­su­ming se­xu­al ap­pe­ti­tes that had to be sa­tis­fi­ed just as the body ne­eded fo­od and wa­ter to go on li­ving? Mi­ran­da co­uld ne­ver know what it had be­en li­ke to watch hel­p­les­sly as the cru­el sic­k­ness des­t­ro­yed the wo­man he had on­ce lo­ved… what it had be­en li­ke to know that only Char­lot­te's de­ath wo­uld free him.

  What co­uld Mi­ran­da know of such things? And what co­uld she know of the dre­ad­ful mo­ment when his cold, pur­po­se­ful hands had felt for and fa­iled to find the pul­se of li­fe and he had wan­ted to sho­ut for joy that this be­a­uti­ful, vib­rant yo­ung li­fe had be­en ex­tin­gu­is­hed? How co­uld she jud­ge a man who had pra­yed da­ily for his wi­fe's de­ath to free him from tor­ment; who knew who­se vi­olent hands had an­s­we­red his pra­yer? How co­uld she jud­ge a man who in­ten­ded to ta­ke that sec­ret know­led­ge to his gra­ve?

  Mi­ran­da tur­ned asi­de to pick up Chip, who was still lo­oking alar­med on the win­dow­sill. If Lord Har­co­urt didn't wish to talk of his nig­h­t­ma­res, so be it. May­be, li­ke Rob­bie, he didn't un­der­s­tand them or know what ca­used them. Rob­bie co­uld ne­ver even des­c­ri­be them af­ter­ward. All he co­uld ever say was that he'd fal­len in­to a black ho­le. She le­aned out of the win­dow to bre­at­he the fres­h­ness of the night air, ob­ser­ving the very fa­in­test pe­arly sha­dow in the east. "It'll so­on be dawn."

  Ga­reth set the fla­gon on the tab­le. "I've a mind to try for an ho­ur's pe­ace­ful sle­ep, then. Do you do the sa­me, Mi­ran­da."

  Mi­ran­da sta­yed at the win­dow for a mi­nu­te lon­ger, then she re­tur­ned to bed. But she was no lon­ger sle­epy and lay wat­c­hing the dar­k­ness be­yond the win­dow lig­h­ten slowly, lis­te­ning as the dawn cho­rus he­ral­ded the new day with all its jubi­lant song. Whe­re wo­uld she be at the end of this new day? In so­me pa­la­ce in Lon­don in a world she knew not­hing abo­ut… a world she had ne­ver ex­pec­ted to know an­y­t­hing abo­ut. How co­uld she pos­sibly ex­pect to play the part of this Lon­don lady, Ma­ude? She was a strol­ling pla­yer, an ac­ro­bat. It was ri­di­cu­lo­us to think she co­uld pre­tend to be so­me­one so very dif­fe­rent from her­self. But the earl se­emed to think she co­uld do it.

  Chip, with a low chat­te­ring, jum­ped from the bed to the win­dow­sill and va­nis­hed in­to the spre­ading bran­c­hes of a mag­no­lia tree.

  It was no go­od, she was not go­ing to be ab­le to sle­ep aga­in. Mi­ran­da flung asi­de the co­vers and sto­od up with a lu­xu­ri­o­us stretch. She dres­sed qu­i­etly then glan­ced aro­und the cham­ber. Mi­lord's clot­hes lay scat­te­red on the flo­or, so­me half on, half off the chest at the fo­ot of the bed whe­re he'd thrown them. She bent to pick them up and her no­se wrin­k­led at the fa­mi­li­ar odor clin­ging to his do­ub­let and shirt. It was one that clung to Ra­o­ul af­ter one of his nig­h­t­ti­me fo­rays in­to town. He'd co­me back ble­ary-eyed, lo­ose-lip­ped, dis­he­ve­led.

  "You smell li­ke a who­re­ho­use, Ra­o­ul," Ger­t­ru­de had com­p­la­ined one mor­ning when the stron­g­man in a fit of al­co­hol-in­du­ced be­ne­vo­len­ce had at­tem­p­ted to lift her in his po­wer­ful em­b­ra­ce.

  Men and who­re­ho­uses we­re one of li­fe's na­tu­ral co­nj­un­c­ti­ons, but Mi­ran­da was oddly di­sap­po­in­ted to think mi­lord had ta­ken com­fort the­re.

  She sho­ok out the so­iled gar­ments vi­go­ro­usly. So­met­hing flew out of the sil­ken folds of the do­ub­let and fell to the flo­or. She bent to pick up the small vel­vet po­uch. The la­ces had lo­ose­ned and she ca­ught the glit­ter of gold wit­hin.

  She la­id the do­ub­let and shirt ne­atly on the chest and then sho­ok the con­tents of the po­uch in­to her hand. A gold pe­arl-en­c­rus­ted bra­ce­let most in­t­ri­ca­tely wor­ked in­to the un­du­la­ting cur­ves of a ser­pent lay on her palm. She held the obj­ect up to the light. A ser­pent with a pe­arl ap­ple in its mo­uth. From the gold links de­pen­ded a gol­den swan in­set with per­fect eme­ralds. The jewel was both be­a­uti­ful and for­bid­ding. The­re was so­met­hing si­nis­ter abo­ut its ex­qu­isi­te si­nu­o­us form and yet the swan, glo­wing an al­most li­qu­id gre­en in the rays of the early mor­ning sun, had a cu­ri­o­usly in­no­cent qu­ality to its be­a­uty.

  An in­vo­lun­tary shud­der rip­pled down Mi­ran­da's back. The­re was so­met­hing abo­ut the bra­ce­let that fil­led her with a na­me­less dre­ad. And yet she felt a sha­dow of fa­mi­li­arity, al­t­ho­ugh she knew she had ne­ver la­id eyes, let alo­ne hands, upon such a pre­ci­o­us obj­ect.

  She was abo­ut to sli­de it back in the po­uch when the earl's vo­ice spo­ke from the big bed. "What are you do­ing, Mi­ran­da?"

  She tur­ned with a jump. "I was sha­king out yo­ur clot­hes, mi­lord, and this bra­ce­let fell from the poc­ket." She slip­ped it back in­to the po­uch, con­ti­nu­ing al­most in an un­der­to­ne, "Jud­ging by the re­ek of yo­ur clot­hes, you went a-who­ring last even."

  Ga­reth lin­ked his arms be­hind his he­ad. A smi­le qu­ir­ked his mo­uth. "And what if I did?"

  Mi­ran­da shrug­ged. "Not­hing, I sup­po­se."

  Ga­reth's eyes gle­amed with la­ug­h­ter. "Oh, so I've ta­ken up with a pru­de, ha­ve I?"

  Mi­ran­da didn't reply, but a slight flush war­med her che­eks. She wasn't a pru­de, and yet she felt very much li­ke one at the mo­ment.

  Ga­reth to­ok pity and chan­ged the su­bj­ect. "Bring the bra­ce­let over he­re."

  Mi­ran­da did so and he to­ok the po­uch from her, sha­king the bra­ce­let out in­to his palm. "Gi­ve me yo­ur wrist."

  Mi­ran­da held out her hand and wat­c­hed half mes­me­ri­zed as he clas­ped the jewel aro­und her thin wrist. She held it up to the light, and the eme­ralds dan­ced de­epest gre­en and the pe­arls glo­wed softly aga­inst the rich gold. Aga­in she felt that stran­ge dre­ad, that sa­me lit­tle shi­ver of fo­re­bo­ding and fa­mi­li­arity. "It's very be­a­uti­ful, but I don't li­ke we­aring it," she sa­id, puz­zled, fin­ge­ring the charm, the pe­arl ap­ple in the ser­pent's mo­uth.

  Ga­reth frow­ned, re­ac­hing to ta­ke her wrist, to exa­mi­ne the bra­ce­let him­self. "You we­ar it well," he sa­id, al­most ab­sently, and his eyes we­re dis­tant, as if he we­re lo­oking bac­k­ward in­to so­me me­mory. Ele­na too had worn it well. Her wrist had be­en as thin as Mi­ran­da's, her fin­gers as long and slen­der. But whe­re Ele­na's thin­ness had de­no­ted fra­gi­lity, Mi­ran­da's had a si­nu­o­us strength.

  He re­mem­be­red se­e­ing the bra­ce­let for the first ti­me on the night of Ele­na's bet­rot­hal, when Fran­cis had clas­ped it aro­und her wrist. And he re­mem­be­red how Char­lot­te la­ter had co­ve­ted it. How sha­me­les­sly she had hin­ted
to Ele­na, pra­ising the bra­ce­let, to­uc­hing it, beg­ging to be al­lo­wed to bor­row it for an eve­ning. He had sco­ured the stre­ets of Pa­ris and Lon­don for anot­her such bra­ce­let, but Char­lot­te had re­j­ec­ted with ca­re­less dis­p­le­asu­re every sub­s­ti­tu­te he had bo­ught her.

  "I don't li­ke it," Mi­ran­da per­sis­ted, a no­te al­most of des­pe­ra­ti­on in her vo­ice as she tri­ed to un­fas­ten the in­t­ri­ca­te clasp with her free hand.

  "How stran­ge," Ga­reth mu­sed, un­fas­te­ning it for her, hol­ding it cur­led in the palm of his hand. "It's uni­que and very be­a­uti­ful. You will ha­ve to we­ar it to play yo­ur part." What if he told her the truth? Told her that it wo­uld not be a part? For a mo­ment he to­yed with the idea. Wo­uld it ma­ke it easi­er for her or har­der?

  "I ex­pect I'm just be­ing fan­ci­ful," Mi­ran­da sa­id. "Per­haps it's be­ca­use I'm a lit­tle an­xi­o­us abo­ut things."

  It wo­uld co­me as too much of a shock, he de­ci­ded. When she'd set­tled in­to this new li­fe, then the truth wo­uld be easi­er for her to ac­cept. The last thing he wan­ted was to frig­h­ten her off. And on the sur­fa­ce the story was so in­c­re­dib­le, it wo­uld be mo­re na­tu­ral for her to dis­be­li­eve it and sus­pect so­me evil de­sign, than em­b­ra­ce the truth.

  "The­re's no ca­use to be an­xi­o­us," he sa­id bra­cingly. "Not­hing will be as­ked of you that will not co­me easily. In a day or two, you'll be as­to­nis­hed that you co­uld ha­ve wor­ri­ed."

  Mi­ran­da did her best to be­li­eve him.

  Chapter Seven

  "We'll see how she li­kes a di­et of black bre­ad, gru­el, and wa­ter!" Lady Imo­gen stro­de the length of the gal­lery, her gown of pur­p­le da­mask swa­ying over its mas­si­ve far­t­hin­ga­le. She smac­ked her clo­sed fan in­to the palm of her hand in em­p­ha­sis. Her or­di­na­rily thin mo­uth had al­most di­sap­pe­ared and her eyes be­ne­ath the well-pluc­ked eyeb­rows we­re hard as small brown peb­bles.

  "For­gi­ve me, my de­ar, but I be­li­eve Ma­ude re­lis­hes the ro­le of martyr," Lord Du­fort ven­tu­red from the sa­fety of the do­or­way.

  "Non­sen­se!" was all he got for his pa­ins as his lady wi­fe swir­led and ca­me to­ward him, snap­ping her fan. "The girl will so­on ti­re of be­ing con­fi­ned to her cham­ber wit­ho­ut fi­re and wit­ho­ut all the lit­tle de­li­ca­ci­es she is used to com­man­ding."

  Mi­les was not con­vin­ced. Lady Ma­ude se­emed to thri­ve upon op­po­si­ti­on; in­de­ed, it se­emed to him that she was lo­oking mo­re ro­bust on her gu­ar­di­an's pu­nis­h­ment re­gi­me than ever be­fo­re. But may­be it was just the de­ter­mi­ned gle­am in her blue eyes that en­li­ve­ned the wan pal­lor of her co­un­te­nan­ce.

  "I will ha­ve her sub­mis­si­on be­fo­re Ga­reth re­turns," Imo­gen dec­la­red. "But whe­re in God's na­me is he?" She pa­used at one of the long, ar­c­hed win­dows that lo­oked down on­to the co­ur­t­yard for­med by the two wings of the man­si­on and a high fen­ce of sharp me­tal­ra­ilings. The gre­at iron ga­tes set in­to the fen­ce sto­od open to the stre­et and its ce­ase­less traf­fic of hor­se­men, carts, iron-whe­eled co­ac­hes, rat­tling over the hard-pac­ked mud. A bar­ge horn so­un­ded from the ri­ver be­hind the ho­use, min­g­ling with the shrill cri­es of the fer­rymen.

  But Imo­gen saw not­hing of the sce­ne be­low. Her he­art was fil­led with dre­ad. Co­uld so­met­hing ha­ve hap­pe­ned to Ga­reth? His bo­at go­ne down on the Chan­nel cros­sing? An at­tack by fo­ot­pads? Or even sol­di­ers? Fran­ce was a co­untry at war, and the hig­h­ways we­re wild and law­less.

  If di­sas­ter had be­fal­len Ga­reth wo­uld it be her fa­ult? She had sent him the­re. Ga­reth hadn't wan­ted to go, but she had pus­hed and prod­ded un­til he'd gi­ven in. But she'd for­ced the is­sue to gi­ve him a pur­po­se, an aim in li­fe. To try to dri­ve out the cyni­cal let­hargy that had dog­ged him for so long. She was so des­pe­ra­te to see on­ce aga­in the old shar­p­ness in his eyes, the vib­rancy in his be­aring, the cris­p­ness to his man­ner-all the cha­rac­te­ris­tics that his mar­ri­age had des­t­ro­yed.

  Not on­ce in the ye­ars be­fo­re Char­lot­te had Imo­gen do­ub­ted that her brot­her wo­uld at­ta­in the he­ights of po­wer and in­f­lu­en­ce due a man of his am­bi­ti­on, cha­rac­ter, we­alth, and li­ne­age. She had nur­tu­red him, tho­ught of not­hing but Ga­reth, his hap­pi­ness, the daz­zling fu­tu­re ahe­ad of him. He had be­en de­eply en­mes­hed in the po­li­ti­cal li­fe of the qu­e­en's co­urt and in­t­ri­ca­tely in­vol­ved in the af­fa­irs of the Har­co­urt fa­mily in Fran­ce suf­fe­ring un­der the re­li­gi­o­us per­se­cu­ti­on of the Hu­gu­enots. And his sis­ter had wat­c­hed his ad­van­ce­ment with pri­de, a pri­de that was ut­terly per­so­nal. Ever­y­t­hing she had do­ne sin­ce the­ir mot­her's de­ath had be­en for Ga­reth, all her tho­ughts and plans we­re di­rec­ted to­ward her yo­un­ger brot­her's in­te­rests. She knew his po­ten­ti­al, knew what he was owed, and with every last fi­ber of her be­ing, she had stri­ven for his be­ne­fit. And she had wat­c­hed her ef­forts co­me to fru­iti­on.

  Until the slow po­ison of Char­lot­te's mad­ness had se­eped in­to him.

  He had be­en so des­pe­ra­tely in lo­ve, so de­eply in thrall to his be­a­uti­ful, de­adly wi­fe, and his sis­ter had wat­c­hed hel­p­les­sly as he'd wit­h­d­rawn inch by inch from the world he was be­gin­ning to do­mi­na­te. Not­hing she co­uld say or do had had any ef­fect. All her in­f­lu­en­ce was as na­ught. She had un­der­s­to­od his sha­me, but she hadn't un­der­s­to­od why he wo­uld not di­sown the wo­man who sha­med him. No one wo­uld ha­ve bla­med him if he'd loc­ked her away so­mew­he­re. Di­vor­ced her, even. In­s­te­ad, he'd sto­od by as she'd des­t­ro­yed him. And be­hind her stony co­un­te­nan­ce, Imo­gen had wept te­ars of ra­ge and gri­ef, her frus­t­ra­ti­on a con­s­tant open wo­und as she wat­c­hed the col­lap­se of the man she be­li­eved she had cre­ated and the am­bi­ti­on that wo­uld ser­ve them all.

  Not even af­ter Char­lot­te's de­ath had he re­co­ve­red his in­te­rest in an­y­t­hing but the id­le ga­mes of the co­ur­ti­er. In fact, if an­y­t­hing he had be­co­me even mo­re wit­h­d­rawn. And Imo­gen's tor­ment was in­c­re­ased a hun­d­red­fold. She had be­li­eved, she had had to be­li­eve, that on­ce the ir­ri­ta­ti­on had be­en re­mo­ved, Ga­reth's wo­unds wo­uld he­al. She had do­ne the only thing that wo­uld right the wrong do­ne her brot­her. But in va­in.

  Mi­les re­gar­ded his wi­fe's aver­ted back, re­ading her tho­ughts with the long fa­mi­li­arity of the­ir dre­ary mar­ri­age. He'd early on ac­cep­ted Ga­reth's pla­ce as the sin­g­le re­ci­pi­ent of Imo­gen's af­fec­ti­ons and pri­de, and he knew exactly how an­gu­is­hed she was at her brot­her's pro­lon­ged ab­sen­ce. Un­for­tu­na­tely, her an­gu­ish ten­ded to ma­ke li­fe even har­der for tho­se aro­und her. He stret­c­hed out one fo­ot and no­ti­ced with ap­pro­val how the wed­ged he­el of his cork-so­led sho­es ga­ve a ple­asing cur­ve to his skinny cal­ves, res­p­len­dent in black-and-yel­low cross-gar­te­red ho­se. He glan­ced up and met his wi­fe's scor­n­ful ga­ze.

  "I'm sur­p­ri­sed you don't ta­ke up the new fas­hi­on in he­els, de­ar ma­dam," he sa­id ten­ta­ti­vely. "A lit­tle ex­t­ra he­ight adds con­se­qu­en­ce."

  Lady Imo­gen's frown be­ca­me less de­ri­si­ve, mo­re at­ten­ti­ve. If the­re was one area in which she trus­ted her hus­band's in­s­tincts and know­led­ge it was in the mat­ter of fas­hi­on. "You think so, in­de­ed?"

  "Aye," he sa­id de­ci­dedly, than­k­ful to ha­ve di­ver­ted her tho­ughts, even for a mo­ment. "I ha­ve he­ard it sa­id that Her Ma­j­esty has or­de­red three pa­ir… one in le­at­her, one in ro­se da­mask, an
d one in blue sa­tin."

  Lady Imo­gen scrat­c­hed the si­de of her neck ref­lec­ti­vely, her long fin­ger­na­il ras­ping aga­inst the yel­lo­wing par­c­h­men­t­li­ke skin. "Then I shall or­der a pa­ir to go with my new black sa­tin ro­pa. Crim­son le­at­her, I think."

  "A per­fect cho­ice, ma­dam." Mi­les bo­wed. "Are we ex­pec­ting gu­ests to sup­per?"

  "You know per­fectly well yo­ur sis­ter and her bo­orish hus­band are co­ming. The man will drink him­self in­sen­sib­le as al­ways and yo­ur silly wid­ge­on of a sis­ter will wit­ter and whi­ne so that no sen­sib­le con­ver­sa­ti­on can be held."

  The mo­ment of ac­cord was cle­arly over. "You co­uld se­at my sis­ter with the chap­la­in," Mi­les sug­ges­ted. "Of co­ur­se. Whom el­se wo­uld I in­f­lict her upon?"

  Imo­gen re­tur­ned to her mo­ro­se ob­ser­va­ti­on of the co­urt be­low.

  "Ah, my de­ar Imo­gen, how glad I am to find you at ho­me. And Lord Du­fort, I gi­ve you go­od day, sir." Lady Mary Aber­nathy swept in­to the long gal­lery, of­fe­ring a curtsy to Lord Du­fort, and her co­ol che­ek to Lady Imo­gen. "I can stay but a mi­nu­te. The qu­e­en has re­tur­ned to Whi­te­hall Pa­la­ce for the night, and whi­le she's with Lord Ce­cil, I ha­ve a lit­tle li­berty. I ca­me stra­ig­h­ta­way to dis­co­ver if the­re is news of Lord Har­co­urt as yet?"

  She lo­oked an­xi­o­usly at Imo­gen. "I do be­gin to fe­ar for him, so long has he be­en away."

  Imo­gen sho­ok her he­ad. "No news as yet." She had cho­sen Lady Mary Aber­nathy as wi­fe for Ga­reth not only be­ca­use she was emi­nently su­itab­le in birth and ap­pe­aran­ce to be wi­fe to a man of po­wer and in­f­lu­en­ce, but be­ca­use Imo­gen be­li­eved she co­uld con­t­rol the lady her­self and en­su­re that she didn't usurp his sis­ter's in­f­lu­en­ce over Ga­reth. Gra­ti­tu­de was a po­wer­ful mo­ti­va­tor.