The Emerald Swan

by Jane Feather

  For an­s­wer, Mi­ran­da un­wo­und the to­wel tur­ban and sho­ok out her now ne­arly dry ha­ir. "Yo­ur co­lor."

  "Why is it so short?"

  "Long ha­ir wo­uld get in the way when I was tum­b­ling," Mi­ran­da rep­li­ed. She re­tur­ned Ma­ude's sta­re with much the sa­me wa­ri­ness. "Do­es it ma­ke you fe­el pe­cu­li­ar to lo­ok at me and see yo­ur­self?"

  Ma­ude nod­ded slowly. She re­ac­hed out a hand and to­uc­hed Mi­ran­da's fa­ce, then to­uc­hed her own. She shi­ve­red. "You don't think li­ke me, do you?"

  Mi­ran­da grin­ned sud­denly. "I do­ubt that! You're a lady and I pre­su­me you think li­ke one. I'm a va­ga­bond, or so Lady Du­fort says. And I sup­po­se I think li­ke one, al­t­ho­ugh I'm not qu­ite su­re what that me­ans."

  "A sow's ear," Imo­gen pro­no­un­ced, ri­sing to her fe­et. "Gi­ve me the clot­hes, Ga­reth, but I warn you, you'll not ma­ke a silk pur­se out of this one." She re­ac­hed for the ar­m­ful of clot­hes.

  Mi­ran­da mo­ved first, ho­we­ver, ta­king them from him. "I co­uld dress in he­re. I wo­uld li­ke to be­co­me ac­qu­a­in­ted with Lady Ma­ude."

  "Very well." Ga­reth ga­ve her the clot­hes. "I'll co­me to ta­ke you down to din­ner in an ho­ur."

  "Am I to di­ne be­low­s­ta­irs, sir?"

  Ga­reth tur­ned back to his ward, his eyes gra­ve. "No, co­usin. You may li­ve the li­fe of a re­li­gi­o­us rec­lu­se, just as you've al­ways wis­hed to. For as long as Mi­ran­da is ta­king yo­ur pla­ce, you must not be se­en in pub­lic."

  "That will ple­ase me, my lord," Ma­ude dec­la­red sto­utly.

  Ga­reth bo­wed in ac­k­now­led­g­ment and fol­lo­wed his sis­ter from the ro­om. The do­or clo­sed be­hind them and Mi­ran­da and Ma­ude sto­od in si­len­ce, exa­mi­ning each ot­her aga­in, Chip had ret­re­ated to the top of the ar­mo­ire whe­re he had a bird's-eye vi­ew of the pro­ce­edings. "So you're to ta­ke my pla­ce," Ma­ude sa­id fi­nal­ly. "Why?" "I sup­po­se be­ca­use you won't ta­ke it yo­ur­self." Mi­ran­da threw off the wet to­wel with a shi­ver and be­gan to dress. "What fi­ne clot­hes," she mur­mu­red ap­pre­ci­ati­vely as the soft silk and lawn ca­res­sed her cle­an skin.

  "Don't you mind be­ing an im­pos­tor?" Ma­ude sat down aga­in on the set­tle, hud­dling in­to her shawls. She was not at all su­re she ca­red for the idea of an­yo­ne im­per­so­na­ting her, let alo­ne this mir­ror ima­ge of her­self. It ma­de her fe­el as if she we­re so­me­how split in two.

  "It's a job. I'm to be pa­id well for it." Mi­ran­da held up a thick can­vas un­der­s­kirt in­set with wic­ker ho­ops. I've ne­ver worn a far­t­hin­ga­le," she sa­id do­ub­t­ful­ly.

  "But what go­od will it do an­y­body?" Ma­ude de­man­ded.

  "I've no idea." Mi­ran­da fo­und Ma­ude's slightly pe­tu­lant in­sis­ten­ce rat­her ir­ri­ta­ting. "Will you help me with this far­t­hin­ga­le?"

  Ma­ude slid off the set­tle with an unu­su­al burst of energy, lo­sing se­ve­ral shawls as she hur­ri­ed over to Mi­ran­da. But she didn't se­em to no­ti­ce. "How can you pos­sibly ex­pect to be me when you've ne­ver even worn a far­t­hin­ga­le? He­re… you step in­to it, then I'll tie it at the wa­ist… The­re. Now we drop this un­der­s­kirt over yo­ur he­ad." She held out a star­c­hed li­nen skirt. "Li­ke so." She smo­ot­hed it over the can­vas far­t­hin­ga­le. "See, it com­p­le­tely co­vers the ho­ops. And now we put on the over­d­ress."

  Mi­ran­da duc­ked her he­ad, ra­ised her arms, as Ma­ude ma­ne­uve­red the gown in­to pla­ce, shed­ding shawls as she did so. Mi­ran­da felt en­c­lo­sed, con­fi­ned, al­most suf­fo­ca­ted by the we­ight of the gar­ments.

  Ma­ude deftly la­ced the bo­di­ce of the pe­ri­win­k­le blue gown. It had a sto­mac­her of em­b­ro­ide­red da­mask, a whi­te silk par­t­let co­ve­ring the thro­at and sho­ul­ders, and the skirt lay over the co­ne-sha­ped far­t­hin­ga­le in stra­ight li­nes, ex­cept for the back, whe­re it was gat­he­red in soft folds that fell to the gro­und in a tra­in.

  Mi­ran­da pe­ered down at her­self. "It fe­els dre­ad­ful­ly con­fi­ning, but I think it must be very ele­gant. What do I lo­ok li­ke?"

  "Li­ke me… mo­re than ever." Ma­ude sho­ok her he­ad. "I still don't un­der­s­tand it."

  Mi­ran­da sur­ve­yed the ot­her girl with a frown. "You're very pa­le. Are you ailing?"

  "A lit­tle." Ma­ude shi­ve­red and bent to gat­her up drop­ped shawls. "It's so cold in he­re."

  "It se­ems warm eno­ugh to me. But why don't you light the fi­re? The­re's flint and tin­der on the man­tel."

  "I don't know how to light a fi­re!" Ma­ude ex­c­la­imed in shock.

  "Lord lo­ve us!" Mi­ran­da mur­mu­red. "I sup­po­se it wo­uld get yo­ur hands, dirty." She la­id kin­d­ling in the gra­te and struck a fla­me. The wo­od ca­ught im­me­di­ately and Ma­ude with a sigh of re­li­ef mo­ved clo­ser to the he­at.

  "Can't you do an­y­t­hing for yo­ur­self?" Mi­ran­da as­ked in ge­nu­ine cu­ri­osity.

  Ma­ude shrug­ged, hol­ding her hands to the fla­mes. "I don't ha­ve to."

  "Se­ems to me, if you'd be­en ab­le to light yo­ur own fi­re, you wo­uldn't ha­ve had to stay up he­re shi­ve­ring," Mi­ran­da po­in­ted out. Ma­ude con­fu­sed her mo­re than ever. How co­uld so­me­one be so dif­fe­rent from her­self when she lo­oked exactly li­ke her?

  Ma­ude sat down on the set­tle aga­in. "I sup­po­se you ha­ve a po­int," she ad­mit­ted re­luc­tantly. She lo­oked at Mi­ran­da in frow­ning si­len­ce. "Are you re­al­ly a strol­ling pla­yer?"

  "I was, and I sup­po­se I will be aga­in. But tell me what all that fuss was abo­ut."

  "What re­li­gi­on do you ha­ve?"

  Mi­ran­da shrug­ged. "Lord, I don't know. Wha­te­ver's con­ve­ni­ent, I sup­po­se. Do­es it mat­ter?"

  "Mat­ter?" Ma­ude sta­red.

  "Ah, ob­vi­o­usly it do­es." Mi­ran­da so­mew­hat gin­gerly sat on the far end of the set­tle and was ple­asantly sur­p­ri­sed to dis­co­ver that her skirts ar­ran­ged them­sel­ves aro­und her of the­ir own ac­cord. "Tell me why, then." She put an arm aro­und Chip, who had jum­ped in­to her lap.

  At the end of an ho­ur, she un­der­s­to­od a gre­at de­al mo­re than she'd bar­ga­ined for. "So they want to marry you in­to the French co­urt to ad­van­ce the fa­mily?" she re­ca­pi­tu­la­ted slowly.

  "But I in­tend to be a bri­de of Christ." "I al­ways tho­ught li­fe in a con­vent wo­uld be rat­her dre­ary," Mi­ran­da mu­sed. "You're re­al­ly cer­ta­in that's what you want?"

  "I ha­ve the cal­ling," Ma­ude sa­id simply. "And Ber­t­he will co­me with me."

  Mi­ran­da had he­ard abo­ut Ber­t­he and gu­es­sed that the el­derly nur­se's in­f­lu­en­ce had had as much to do with Ma­ude's con­ver­si­on and vo­ca­ti­on as a spi­ri­tu­al cal­ling, but she sa­id not­hing, me­rely sat sta­ring in­to the fla­mes.

  "Why wo­uld it help them to ha­ve you sub­s­ti­tu­te for me?" Ma­ude as­ked the qu­es­ti­on aga­in. "You can't be me, can you?"

  "It's only for a lit­tle whi­le," Mi­ran­da sa­id. "Lord Har­co­urt didn't know how long, but he pro­mi­sed me fifty ro­se nob­les at the end, so…"

  "Then they're pro­bably in­ten­ding to try to ma­ke me con­vert back, but I will ne­ver do it. They can bre­ak me on the rack or the whe­el be­fo­re I will abj­ure."

  "Very pra­ise­worthy," Mi­ran­da mur­mu­red. "But not very prac­ti­cal." They we­re still no ne­arer to any an­s­wers, and as her con­fu­si­on grew, she was be­gin­ning to fe­el even mo­re li­ke a pawn than ever.

  In the par­lor be­low­s­ta­irs, Imo­gen re­ad for the third ti­me the pro­po­si­ti­on from Henry of Fran­ce. "Oh, it's be­yond be­li­ef," she mur­mu­red.

  "No
t be­yond be­li­ef," Ga­reth sa­id, ta­king up his wi­ne cup. "The d'Albards and the Har­co­urts are a fi­ne match for Henry of Na­var­re."

  "But such a mar­ri­age will put the Har­co­urts in the very fo­re of the French co­urt. I shall go to Pa­ris. We shall be co­usins of the French king. Even he­re, at Eli­za­beth's co­urt, our po­si­ti­on will be ad­van­ced." Imo­gen's brown eyes glit­te­red with a gre­edy an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on.

  "The wed­ding will be the most mag­ni­fi­cent af­fa­ir, of co­ur­se. In Pa­ris, on­ce the king has the city's sub­mis­si­on. Or sho­uld it be he­re?" She be­gan to pa­ce the small par­lor as she de­ba­ted this vi­tal qu­es­ti­on. "And for yo­ur wi­fe, what a splen­did po­si­ti­on. You will be bo­und to re­ce­ive an am­bas­sa­dor­s­hip, Ga­reth, or so­met­hing equ­al­ly im­por­tant. Lady Mary will be over the mo­on." And even mo­re gra­te­ful to her spon­sor.

  "But I don't see how the mar­ri­age can ta­ke pla­ce now. Henry of Fran­ce won't marry anot­her Cat­ho­lic," Mi­les po­in­ted out, ha­ving he­ard the dre­ad ta­le of Ma­ude's con­ver­si­on.

  "Ma­ude will abj­ure!" Imo­gen dec­la­red, her fin­gers un­con­s­ci­o­usly clo­sing over the ro­yal par­c­h­ment, crus­hing it in her palm. "I will ha­ve her sub­mis­si­on, ne­ver

  "If our co­usin lets King Henry know that she's an un­wil­ling bri­de, he'll not pur­sue his co­ur­t­s­hip. You might cow the girl in­to overt sub­mis­si­on, Imo­gen, but you will not be ab­le to pre­vent her tel­ling Henry the truth in pri­va­te."

  Imo­gen sta­red at her brot­her. "You so­und as if that ple­ased you!"

  A slight smi­le to­uc­hed Ga­reth's mo­uth. But it was ne­it­her ple­asant nor hu­mo­ro­us. His sis­ter's gre­edy ex­ci­te­ment re­min­ded him un­p­le­asantly of his own and he fo­und the re­cog­ni­ti­on na­use­ating. "Mi­ran­da will sub­s­ti­tu­te for Ma­ude du­ring Henry's vi­sit," he sa­id de­li­be­ra­tely. He was by no me­ans re­ady to sha­re Mi­ran­da's true iden­tity, let alo­ne his adap­ti­ve plan to his sup­po­sed ac­com­p­li­ces. Mi­les was pro­bably trus­t­worthy, but he drank de­ep and in do­ub­t­ful com­pany; Imo­gen was too vo­la­ti­le to be trus­ted to ke­ep her mo­uth shut in a fit of ra­ge.

  "Is Lady Mary to be ap­pri­sed of this sub­s­ti­tu­ti­on?" Mi­les in­qu­ired, exa­mi­ning his fin­ger­na­ils in­tently.

  "No," Imo­gen sa­id im­me­di­ately. "It must re­ma­in only among the fa­mily. I'm su­re Mary is to be trus­ted," she ad­ded in hasty af­ter­t­ho­ught, "but it's un­wi­se to spre­ad one's sec­rets too far afi­eld, par­ti­cu­larly such a dan­ge­ro­us one. If Henry we­re to dis­co­ver…"

  "Qu­ite," Ga­reth ag­re­ed, and the dis­con­cer­ting, if not dow­n­right un­p­le­asant, tho­ught oc­cur­red to him that he co­uldn't ima­gi­ne sha­ring an­y­t­hing of such vi­tal im­por­tan­ce to him­self with his bet­rot­hed.

  Ga­reth sho­ok his he­ad in a va­in at­tempt to ba­nish this dis­t­rac­ting ref­lec­ti­on. He con­ti­nu­ed briskly, "Mi­ran­da will ta­ke Ma­ude's pla­ce at co­urt and in this ho­use­hold. Ma­ude may spend her days with her bre­vi­ary and her psal­ter in the com­pany of her ma­id, as she has al­ways do­ne."

  Mi­les co­uld not con­ta­in his shock. "Henry can­not marry so­me girl from the stre­ets just be­ca­use she lo­oks li­ke a d'Albard!" he gas­ped.

  "Of co­ur­se not," Ga­reth ag­re­ed smo­othly. "He will marry a d'Albard."

  "But how?" wa­iled Imo­gen.

  "You may sa­fely le­ave that to me, my de­ar sis­ter," Ga­reth sa­id calmly.

  Imo­gen's eyes we­re hard and cal­cu­la­ting. Per­haps her brot­her in­ten­ded to lull Ma­ude in­to a fal­se sen­se of se­cu­rity, then at the last mo­ment he wo­uld for­ce her to do her fa­mily duty.

  She nod­ded. "You ha­ve my full sup­port, brot­her. I'll do my best with the girl, if you're su­re that she can be trus­ted to do her part."

  "I be­li­eve she will play it to the man­ner born."

  "Can you re­al­ly trust a hi­re­ling?" Mi­les as­ked.

  "This one… most cer­ta­inly, I can." Ga­reth dra­ined his gob­let. "Now, if you'll ex­cu­se me, I'll get out of my tra­vel dirt be­fo­re din­ner. Oh, and ha­ve a de­cent din­ner sent up to Ma­ude, Imo­gen. And she's to ha­ve the at­ten­ti­ons of her ma­id im­me­di­ately." He de­par­ted in a swirl of crim­son silk.

  "Lord Du­fort se­ems qu­ite ple­asant," Mi­ran­da ob­ser­ved, af­ter she and Ma­ude had be­en sit­ting in per­p­le­xed re­ve­rie for a few mi­nu­tes.

  Ma­ude shrug­ged. "He's hag­rid­den, but qu­ite well dis­po­sed, I be­li­eve."

  "What of his sis­ter?"

  "Lady Be­rin­ger." Ma­ude's lip cur­led de­ri­si­vely. "She's a fo­ol, and so's her hus­band. Why do you want to know?"

  "Be­ca­use they're to be gu­ests at din­ner and I'm to me­et them. I might as well know what to ex­pect."

  "Well, they won't gi­ve you any tro­ub­le," Ma­ude pro­no­un­ced. "Anne Be­rin­ger do­esn't see an­y­t­hing be­yond her no­se and Lord Be­rin­ger is al­ways drunk and vi­ci­o­us with it. Who el­se is to be the­re?"

  Mi­ran­da frow­ned. "A Lady Mary, Lord Har­co­urt's bet­rot­hed, I be­li­eve."

  "You will enj­oy yo­ur­self," Ma­ude sa­id with anot­her de­ri­si­ve smi­le that re­min­ded Mi­ran­da for­cibly of Lord Har­co­urt in his less ple­asant per­so­na.

  "You don't ca­re for her?"

  Ma­ude la­ug­hed. "She's just li­ke all the ot­hers. No­ne of them ha­ve any con­ver­sa­ti­on, any wit, any ta­lent. They're empty… just li­ke ever­yo­ne in Lon­don."

  "That's a bit swe­eping, isn't it?"

  "J­ust wa­it," Ma­ude sa­id di­rely. "You'll see."

  “Then why wo­uld mi­lord bet­roth him­self to so­me­one li­ke that?"

  Ma­ude shrug­ged. "Expe­di­ency, con­ve­ni­en­ce. Why el­se do­es an­yo­ne in so­ci­ety do an­y­t­hing?"

  Mi­ran­da got up off the set­tle and wan­de­red res­t­les­sly aro­und the lar­ge bed­c­ham­ber, no­ting the rich fur­nis­hings, the ele­gant car­ved fur­ni­tu­re, the gle­aming di­amond-pa­ned win­dows, the thick ta­pes­t­ri­es on the walls and flo­or. How co­uld so­me­one who had li­ved in such mag­ni­fi­cen­ce and lu­xury all her li­fe ever un­der­s­tand what it felt li­ke to sle­ep on straw, to hud­dle un­der hay­s­tacks out of the ra­in, to li­ve for days on moldy che­ese and sta­le black bre­ad?

  And by the sa­me to­ken, how co­uld so­me­one who had li­ved li­ke that fit in with all this gran­de­ur? How co­uld she pos­sibly sit at a tab­le with all tho­se lofty aris­toc­rats, even if they we­re as stu­pid as Ma­ude sa­id they we­re? She was bo­und to do so­met­hing hi­de­o­usly wrong. Drink out of a fin­ger bowl or so­met­hing? She'd ne­ver even se­en a fin­ger bowl on a tab­le, but she'd he­ard they we­re used in pa­la­ces and man­si­ons.

  “The ho­use chap­la­in will be at din­ner, too, I ex­pect," Ma­ude sa­id. "Lady Imo­gen al­ways bids him to tab­le when the Be­rin­gers are the­re. He's sup­po­sed to ke­ep An­ne oc­cu­pi­ed. He knows I ha­ve Cat­ho­lic le­anings, but he do­esn't ta­ke them se­ri­o­usly… thinks they're the silly fan­ci­es of a yo­ung girl." She la­ug­hed bit­terly.

  "You'd bet­ter be pre­pa­red for Chap­la­in Ge­or­ge to grill you in the most odi­o­usly te­asing man­ner abo­ut ma­king con­fes­si­on and sho­wing an un­he­althy in­te­rest in the mar­t­y­r­doms of the sa­ints."

  "Well, I don't know an­y­t­hing abo­ut any of that." Mi­ran­da ca­me back to the set­tle, a wor­ri­ed frown dra­wing her fi­ne ar­c­hed brows to­get­her. "Per­haps I'd bet­ter pre­tend to ha­ve a so­re thro­at that ma­kes it hard for me to con­ver­se."

  They both tur­ned at a light knock at the do­or. Ma­ude ba­de the knoc­ker en­ter and
Lord Har­co­urt ca­me in. He had chan­ged in­to a do­ub­let of mid­night blue silk em­b­ro­ide­red with sil­ver stars and the short blue clo­ak clas­ped to one sho­ul­der was ed­ged in sil­ver-fox fur.

  "I was sa­ying, mi­lord, that if I pre­tend to ha­ve a so­re thro­at I wo­uldn't ha­ve to say very much this eve­ning." Mi­ran­da ro­se from the set­tle, re­gar­ding him with that sa­me an­xi­o­us frown.

  But Ga­reth had ot­her mat­ters on his mind. He exa­mi­ned her ap­pe­aran­ce, lips slightly pur­sed in tho­ught, then sa­id," That gown su­its you be­a­uti­ful­ly, but the fit ne­eds a se­am­s­t­ress's at­ten­ti­on. Ho­we­ver, it will do for this eve­ning."

  He slip­ped a hand in his poc­ket and wit­h­d­rew the ser­pent bra­ce­let with its eme­rald-stud­ded swan. "You must we­ar this from now on. It's a bet­rot­hal gift from the man who wo­uld co­urt you." He clas­ped it aro­und her wrist.

  Mi­ran­da felt the sa­me shud­der of re­vul­si­on as the de­li­ca­te gold links lay aga­inst her skin. "I do dis­li­ke it so.

  "May I see?" Ma­ude, cu­ri­o­us, pe­ered at the jewel. "How stran­ge it is. So be­a­uti­ful, yet so… so…"

  "Si­nis­ter," Mi­ran­da sa­id for her. She held up her wrist. "Is it worth a de­al of mo­ney, mi­lord?"

  "It's pri­ce­less," Ga­reth sa­id al­most ca­re­les­sly. "It be­lon­ged to Ma­ude's mot­her."

  "Oh." Ma­ude bent clo­ser. Then she ra­ised puz­zled eyes. "Do you think that's why I find it fa­mi­li­ar, my lord?"

  "I don't see how," Ga­reth rep­li­ed. "You we­re but ten months old when yo­ur mot­her di­ed." The fan­ci­ful tho­ught oc­cur­red to him that on that dre­ad­ful night of kil­ling, the hi­de­o­us de­ath of the mot­her whi­le she held them in her arms had bur­ned in­to the in­fant bra­ins of her twin da­ug­h­ters. That so­me­how the bra­ce­let car­ri­ed for both of them the de­eply bu­ri­ed me­mo­ri­es of that ter­ror.

  Abruptly, he chan­ged the su­bj­ect. "What are we to do abo­ut yo­ur ha­ir, Mi­ran­da?" He ran a hand over her he­ad, pres­sing the dark auburn-tin­ted crop aga­inst the sha­pe of her skull. "Co­usin, a cap or a sno­od, per­haps."