The Emerald Swan

by Jane Feather

  Ma­ude cor­rectly in­ter­p­re­ted this as a re­qu­est that she find the ar­tic­le her­self. She rif­fled the dra­wers in the big chest and drew out a dark blue sno­od, bor­de­red with pe­arl-st­rewn la­ce." This wo­uld go with the gown."

  Ga­reth to­ok it from her with one of his qu­ick smi­les and slip­ped it over Mi­ran­da's he­ad. Ma­ude was so as­to­nis­hed at her gu­ar­di­an's smi­le-one she had ne­ver se­en be­fo­re-that she fo­und her­self smi­ling in re­turn.

  "It do­esn't qu­ite dis­gu­ise the shor­t­ness of yo­ur ha­ir," Ga­reth mu­sed. "When we­re you last in com­pany, Ma­ude?"

  "Not for se­ve­ral months," Ma­ude rep­li­ed.

  "Ca­pi­tal! Then we can sa­fely say that you ha­ve be­en abed with a fe­ver and it was ne­ces­sary to cut yo­ur ha­ir. No one will qu­es­ti­on that."

  "They might won­der why she lo­oks so he­althy," Ma­ude re­mar­ked.

  "Oh, I ex­pect I ma­de a swift re­co­very," Mi­ran­da sa­id, de­ci­ding it was ti­me she had a vo­ice in this dis­cus­si­on. "But now I ha­ve a very so­re thro­at and my vo­ice is so ho­ar­se I am re­al­ly unab­le to spe­ak."

  "Let us go then, my ailing ward." Ga­reth of­fe­red his arm.

  Ma­ude wat­c­hed them go and was as­to­un­ded at how she felt. Lo­nely, al­most en­vi­o­us. But that was non­sen­se. Chip was chat­te­ring for­lornly at the firmly clo­sed do­or and Ma­ude cal­led him. He ca­me over to her with so­me re­luc­tan­ce, exa­mi­ning her with cle­ar puz­zle­ment in his bright be­ady eyes. It se­emed the mon­key was as con­fu­sed as they all we­re by the­se mir­ror ima­ges.

  Ma­ude held out her arms to him and, with a lit­tle very hu­man-so­un­ding sigh, he jum­ped in­to them and pat­ted her che­ek.

  Chapter Nine

  "What sho­uld I call yo­ur bet­rot­hed, mi­lord? And how will I know who she is? The­re will be Lord Du­fort's sis­ter, too, won't the­re?" Mi­ran­da tri­ed to ke­ep her an­xi­ety out of her vo­ice but ever­y­t­hing was hap­pe­ning too qu­ickly, be­fo­re she'd had ti­me even to ac­cus­tom her­self to her sur­ro­un­dings.

  You'll re­cog­ni­ze Lady Be­rin­ger by her re­sem­b­lan­ce to Mi­les," Ga­reth sa­id. "And you'll call my fi­an­cee Lady Mary, as ever­yo­ne el­se do­es."

  “The­re is one thing, tho­ugh." Ga­reth pa­used at the he­ad of the sta­irs and lo­oked qu­iz­zi­cal­ly in­to her im­me­di­ately up­tur­ned fa­ce. "I ha­ve a na­me; it wo­uld be ap­prop­ri­ate for you to use it." Wit­ho­ut con­s­ci­o­us tho­ught, he lightly pres­sed a fin­ger­tip aga­inst her small no­se. It was a silly lit­tle ca­ress, but the fe­atu­re se­emed to in­vi­te it, and it in­s­tantly ga­ve birth to Mi­ran­da's re­ady smi­le, cha­sing the an­xi­o­us sha­dows from her eyes.

  The par­lor se­emed full of pe­op­le al­t­ho­ugh sen­se told her the­re we­re only six. Mi­ran­da's he­art was po­un­ding un­com­for­tably aga­inst her ribs as she sto­od in the do­or­way be­si­de the earl.

  The chap­la­in was the­re as Ma­ude had sa­id he wo­uld be. He was easy to iden­tify as much by his de­me­anor as by his dark clot­hes. He sto­od slightly apart, an ex­p­res­si­on of alert wil­lin­g­ness to ple­ase on his ro­tund co­un­te­nan­ce that sat rat­her oddly with an air of self-con­se­qu­en­ce.

  Chap­la­in Ge­or­ge was very con­s­ci­o­us of his po­si­ti­on as a man of the cloth, God's rep­re­sen­ta­ti­ve on earth, who was res­pon­sib­le for the go­od con­s­ci­en­ces of the Har­co­urt ho­use­hold. But he was al­so awa­re that his po­si­ti­on in this gat­he­ring was mo­re em­p­lo­yee than gu­est. He ten­ded to be in­vi­ted to the din­ner tab­le only when Lady Imo­gen con­si­de­red he might be use­ful.

  "Ma­ude is fe­eling well eno­ugh to jo­in us this eve­ning," Ga­reth sa­id calmly. "Altho­ugh her thro­at is still a trif­le so­re. But the news of her su­itor has che­ered her up con­si­de­rably. Isn't that so, my de­ar co­usin?" He smi­led and ca­su­al­ly ra­ised her hand so the bra­ce­let ca­ught the light." The du­ke of Ro­is­sy will be as ho­no­red by such a wi­fe as my co­usin will be by such a hus­band."

  The chap­la­in bo­wed, an ob­se­qu­i­o­us lit­tle smi­le on his mo­uth. "Lady Du­fort was tel­ling us of the of­fer you bro­ught back from Fran­ce, my lord. Mag­ni­fi­cent. You're to be con­g­ra­tu­la­ted, Lady Ma­ude."

  "Oh, my lord, I ha­ve be­en so an­xi­o­us for yo­ur re­turn." A lady mo­ved out of the sha­dows and cros­sed the ro­om with sta­tely step. "Yo­ur de­ar sis­ter and Lord Du­fort ha­ve grown po­si­ti­vely ti­red of the sight of me."

  "I find that hard to be­li­eve, ma­dam." Ga­reth to­ok the lady's hand and ra­ised it to his lips. "I trust you ha­ve be­en well in my ab­sen­ce."

  Mi­ran­da, stan­ding for the mo­ment ig­no­red, re­gar­ded Lady Mary with co­vert in­te­rest. She was tall, very pa­le, very sta­tely. Her fa­ce was long, her fe­atu­res so­mew­hat sharp, her eyes a gra­yish gre­en be­ne­ath a very nar­row brow. Her ha­ir, smo­ot­hed back from her fo­re­he­ad, was a pa­le brown be­ne­ath a small la­ce-ed­ged cap. She lo­oked to Mi­ran­da ex­ce­edingly well-bred, and the set of her he­ad, the slight lift of her no­se, se­emed to in­di­ca­te an awa­re­ness of this fact. Her gown was of rat­her mo­dest cut, in a ne­ut­ral sha­de of pa­le la­ven­der, con­t­ras­ting dra­ma­ti­cal­ly with Lady Imo­gen's gown of ver­mi­li­on vel­vet and Lady Be­rin­ger's tur­qu­o­ise ro­pa over a gown of gol­den silk ban­ded with pur­p­le.,

  "Ah, Ma­ude, how happy I am to see you in com­pany." Lady Mary tur­ned with a kind smi­le to Lord Har­co­urt's ward. "You're lo­oking re­mar­kably well, my de­ar."

  "Thank you, ma­dam." Mi­ran­da cur­t­si­ed, ke­eping her eyes lo­we­red.

  "In­de­ed, my de­ar, it is a re­al ple­asu­re to see you in such he­alth." Lady Be­rin­ger smi­led from her cha­ir be­si­de the Lady Du­fort. "And may we of­fer our con­g­ra­tu­la­ti­ons."

  "My thanks, Lady Be­rin­ger." Mi­ran­da smi­led as she spo­ke very softly, with a slight rasp.

  "Co­usin, I hadn't re­ali­zed yo­ur thro­at was still tro­ub­ling you." Lady Imo­gen ro­se from her cha­ir and ca­me over to Mi­ran­da. She to­ok her chin and exa­mi­ned her fa­ce with an ex­p­res­si­on of con­cern that to Mi­ran­da lo­oked mo­re li­ke a but­c­her in­s­pec­ting a car­cass. With a tiny frown, she adj­us­ted the sno­od.

  "I was shoc­ked to dis­co­ver that it was ne­ces­sary to cut my co­usin's ha­ir du­ring her fe­ver," Ga­reth ob­ser­ved.

  "In­de­ed," Imo­gen sa­id, res­pon­ding with swift com­p­re­hen­si­on. "But it Was con­si­de­red wi­se." She mo­ved away from Mi­ran­da, def­lec­ting at­ten­ti­on from the girl. "And how is yo­ur son, my de­ar An­ne? Re­tur­ned from his lit­tle ho­li­day in the co­untry, I trust." Her smi­le was ma­li­ci­o­us and Mi­ran­da wat­c­hed with in­te­rest as Lord Du­fort's sis­ter blus­hed.

  "The lad's a was­t­rel," bo­omed an im­men­sely fat man who­se belly stra­ined aga­inst the la­cing of his do­ub­let. His thighs wob­bled in tight pink stoc­kings be­low red trunk ho­se that co­uld ba­rely con­ta­in his bac­k­si­de. "It's the se­cond ti­me the qu­e­en has ba­nis­hed him from co­urt, and if the­re's a third, she'll not let him back. If he we­ren't my son, I'd bla­me it on bad blo­od!" He gla­red for a mi­nu­te at Lady Be­rin­ger, who­se co­lor fled at this im­p­li­ca­ti­on, a whi­te sha­de ap­pe­aring aro­und her mo­uth.

  "He's the spit­ting ima­ge of you, Be­rin­ger," Mi­les ob­ser­ved, his vo­ice unu­su­al­ly ta­ut. "And with the sa­me fon­d­ness for the bot­tle."

  Mi­ran­da was be­co­ming so ab­sor­bed in this de­ve­lo­ping sce­ne that she lost her ner­vo­us­ness.

  "Ma­ude, do co­me over he­re and show me the bra­ce­let," Lady Mary sa­id in her su­gary to­nes. />
  When Mi­ran­da fa­iled to an­s­wer, Imo­gen spo­ke sharply. "Ma­ude!"

  "For­gi­ve me, ma­dam," Mi­ran­da mur­mu­red, re­ali­zing with a start that she'd mis­sed her cue. "I think the fe­ver must ha­ve af­fec­ted my ears as well as my thro­at."

  "A glass of wi­ne, co­usin? It might so­ot­he yo­ur thro­at."

  "Why, thank you, mil… Ga­reth." She to­ok the gob­let he han­ded her and be­ca­me awa­re of the sud­den si­len­ce in the ro­om. The earl was re­gar­ding her with a frown and Lady Imo­gen was gla­ring at her.

  "D'ye ca­re for one of the­se lob­s­ter pat­ti­es, m'de­ar?" Mi­les ca­me over to her, ex­ten­ding a sal­ver of tiny tar­t­lets. The si­len­ce was bro­ken, Ga­reth mo­ved away from her, and she to­ok a patty from the sal­ver.

  Mi­les ga­ve her a lit­tle smi­le of en­co­ura­ge­ment. "Don't worry, it'll be for­got­ten in a mi­nu­te," he whis­pe­red.

  What wo­uld? Mi­ran­da was com­p­le­tely non­p­lus­sed. She ap­pro­ac­hed Lady Mary, who­se eyes we­re sharply di­sap­pro­ving.

  "You've be­co­me re­mar­kably fa­mi­li­ar with yo­ur gu­ar­di­an, my de­ar," she sa­id as Mi­ran­da re­ac­hed her.

  "My co­usin has be­en so lit­tle in com­pany just re­cently that I da­re­say she for­got that this eve­ning we are rat­her mo­re than an in­ti­ma­te lit­de fa­mily gat­he­ring," Imo­gen sa­id, her icy ga­ze shi­ve­ring Mi­ran­da in­to si­len­ce. She felt the gro­und shif­ting be­ne­ath her fe­et, her ear­li­er con­fi­den­ce col­lap­sing.

  "I'm sur­p­ri­sed Lord Har­co­urt wo­uld con­si­der it ap­prop­ri­ate in any cir­cum­s­tan­ces for his ward to call him by his gi­ven na­me," Mary sa­id, her di­sap­pro­val su­gar-co­ated, her smi­le un­com­for­tably se­ar­c­hing.

  "He… he told me to use his na­me…" Mi­ran­da fell si­lent, cur­sing her stu­pi­dity. He had me­ant simply that she sho­uld call him Lord Har­co­urt, not mi­lord. Of co­ur­se a ward wo­uld not ha­ve the fre­edom to use her gu­ar­di­an's Chris­ti­an na­me.

  "Din­ner is ser­ved, my lady." The cham­ber­la­in bo­wed in the do­or­way, brin­ging the sce­ne to a mer­ci­ful clo­se.

  "Co­me. Let us go in. Chap­la­in, you will es­cort Ma­ude." Imo­gen ges­tu­red to the chap­la­in. In an un­der­to­ne she sa­id to Mi­ran­da, "You had best ke­ep si­len­ce as much as pos­sib­le from now on."

  Mi­ran­da was so mor­ti­fi­ed she didn't think she'd open her mo­uth aga­in.

  Ga­reth, with Lady Mary on his arm, fol­lo­wed his sis­ter and Lord Be­rin­ger in­to the di­ning ro­om ac­ross the hall. It was a vast cham­ber with a va­ul­ted ce­iling, a mas­si­ve oak re­fec­tory tab­le in the mid­dle, long ben­c­hes on eit­her si­de, X-sha­ped cha­irs at he­ad and fo­ot. Gre­at ma­ho­gany si­de­bo­ards sto­od aga­inst the walls, and a mas­si­ve iron chan­de­li­er hung from the raf­ters, ab­la­ze with myri­ad wax can­d­les.

  From the gal­lery run­ning the width of the cham­ber, a gro­up of mu­si­ci­ans pla­yed softly.

  Ga­reth se­ated Lady Mary on his right be­fo­re ta­king his own pla­ce at the he­ad of the tab­le. His sis­ter sat upon his left, the re­ma­in­der of the gu­ests ta­king the­ir pla­ces on the ben­c­hes on eit­her si­de. Mi­ran­da and the chap­la­in, as the le­ast im­por­tant, we­re al­most be­low the salt. The small party to­ok up a frac­ti­on of the tab­le's length.

  Mi­ran­da mo­men­ta­rily for­got her mor­ti­fi­ca­ti­on in her awed as­to­nis­h­ment at the si­ze and gran­de­ur of the cham­ber. Her pla­ce set­ting bo­re a sil­ver plat­ter, a sil­ver kni­fe, spo­on, and a three-pron­ged fork. This was not an im­p­le­ment she had used be­fo­re and she glan­ced co­vertly aro­und the tab­le.

  Inste­ad of using bre­ad as tren­c­hers, her com­pa­ni­ons we­re pla­cing fo­od from the com­mu­nal pots on­to the­ir sil­ver plat­ters. Well, that was easy eno­ugh. When the tu­re­en of tur­t­le stew ca­me to her, she to­ok a lad­le­ful and fis­hed aro­und for so­me of the suc­cu­lent tur­t­le me­at. The li­qu­id slos­hed on her pla­te, which se­emed rat­her flat for so­up. Ho­we­ver, no one el­se ap­pe­ared to find it unu­su­al.

  "May I pass you the bre­ad, Lady Ma­ude?" Her ne­ig­h­bor held a wo­oden bre­ad­bo­ard.

  "My thanks, sir." Mi­ran­da to­ok a pi­ece of soft whi­te bre­ad and has­tily sop­ped up so­me of the li­qu­id on her pla­te be­fo­re it co­uld slurp over the ed­ge. She lo­oked aro­und aga­in. The­re we­re no war­ning gla­res or hor­ri­fi­ed glan­ces in her di­rec­ti­on al­t­ho­ugh no one el­se se­emed to be do­ing the sa­me thing.

  Her com­pa­ni­on pic­ked up his spo­on and at­tac­ked his so­up. Mi­ran­da fol­lo­wed su­it.

  Ga­reth wat­c­hed Mi­ran­da clo­sely. That had be­en a tel­ling slip. What ot­her such er­rors was she li­kely to ma­ke?

  "How well yo­ur co­usin lo­oks, my lord," Mary sa­id to Ga­reth. She ga­ve a lit­tle la­ugh. "But I con­fess it shocks me to he­ar her so fa­mi­li­ar with you. But then per­haps I spend so much ti­me at co­urt in the qu­e­en's com­pany that I've grown rat­her old-fas­hi­oned in my ways."

  "I do­ubt that." Ga­reth to­ok up his wi­ne gob­let. "But you for­get per­haps that I ha­ve known Ma­ude sin­ce she was two ye­ars old."

  "But to he­ar her call you Ga­reth in pub­lic!" Lady Mary fan­ned her­self vi­go­ro­usly. "I wo­uld con­si­der it inap­prop­ri­ate in pri­va­te, I must con­fess, but in pub­lic…" She sho­ok her he­ad, tut­ting. "For­gi­ve me for spe­aking my mind, sir, but per­haps I might be for­gi­ven for an­ti­ci­pa­ting the mo­ment when such con­fi­den­ces will be com­mon­p­la­ce bet­we­en us." She smi­led and lightly brus­hed his hand.

  Ga­reth's an­s­we­ring smi­le was a me­re flic­ker of his lips. His eyes re­ma­ined co­ol and dis­tant.

  "Why, even I wo­uldn't ma­ke free with yo­ur na­me," Lady Mary con­ti­nu­ed.

  "No, I'm cer­ta­in you wo­uldn't, ma­dam," Ga­reth rep­li­ed. "It's in­con­ce­ivab­le to ima­gi­ne that you might let yo­ur fe­elings run away with you."

  "But of co­ur­se not." She pat­ted his hand aga­in. "You may rest as­su­red, my de­ar lord, that you will ha­ve not­hing to be as­ha­med of in yo­ur wi­fe."

  Her slightly pro­tu­be­rant eyes we­re fi­xed upon him with spe­aking in­ten­sity. His bet­rot­hed knew all too well what sho­es she was step­ping in­to but fla­mes wo­uld con­su­me her be­fo­re she was in­de­li­ca­te eno­ugh to spe­ak openly of that dre­ad­ful his­tory.

  "I don't do­ubt it, ma­dam," Ga­reth sa­id with anot­her bland smi­le, lo­oking away from that un­ner­ving sta­re, his ga­ze re­tur­ning to Mi­ran­da. She was ten­se, he co­uld tell, her eyes dar­ting aro­und the tab­le, ob­ser­ving, ta­king no­te. Her com­p­le­xi­on was pa­ler than usu­al, her mo­uth rat­her ta­ut, and al­t­ho­ugh she didn't lo­ok in his di­rec­ti­on he knew that the blue of her eyes wo­uld be de­eper than ever with the po­wer of her con­cen­t­ra­ti­on.

  Mary glan­ced si­de­ways at him. He was smi­ling to him­self, and unob­ser­vant tho­ugh she was, Mary co­uld see how soft his mo­uth had be­co­me. She fol­lo­wed Ga­reth's ga­ze down the tab­le. He was lo­oking at his ward and the­re was a most pe­cu­li­ar glow in his eyes. She was cer­ta­in she had ne­ver se­en an­y­t­hing li­ke it be­fo­re. In­de­ed, he had fre­qu­ently be­en qu­ite open abo­ut his ir­ri­ta­ti­ons with Ma­ude. But so­met­hing had chan­ged. Was it simply that the girl had sub­mit­ted?

  Mary sta­red fi­xedly at Ma­ude. The­re was so­met­hing dif­fe­rent abo­ut her. It was in­de­fi­nab­le, yet it was the­re. Per­haps it was just that she was li­ve­li­er. She had ne­ver be­en li­vely be­fo­re, lying aro­und in a mi­as­ma of me­di­ci­nal pre­pa­ra­ti­ons and a co­co­on of shawls. But now the­re was so­met­h
ing akin to a spar­k­le in her eyes, al­t­ho­ugh she was still pa­le, but even her pal­lor had an un­der­l­ying co­lor to it, it wasn't the gray and li­fe­less pal­lor of an in­va­lid.

  "So, my de­ar Lady Ma­ude, ha­ve you be­en stud­ying the fi­ves of the sa­ints aga­in?" The chap­la­in's smi­le was jocu­lar.

  "I find my in­te­rest in martyrs has di­mi­nis­hed, sir." Mi­ran­da re­gar­ded the ba­ron of be­ef that was be­ing car­ved at the­ir end of the tab­le, pra­ying that that didn't me­an it wo­uld co­me to her first.

  "Go­od he­avens!" the chap­la­in ex­c­la­imed in mock as­to­nis­h­ment. "Can it be that yo­ur fas­ci­na­ti­on with the ri­tes of our Cat­ho­lic bret­h­ren grows less?"

  Mi­ran­da didn't im­me­di­ately reply. She wat­c­hed from be­ne­ath her las­hes as the sal­ver of be­ef was car­ri­ed to the he­ad of the tab­le and pre­sen­ted to Lord Har­co­urt. The earl for­ked me­at on­to his plat­ter.

  "Co­me, co­me, my de­ar Lady Ma­ude," the chap­la­in per­sis­ted in the sa­me jocu­larly te­asing to­ne. "It's not­hing to be as­ha­med of. Ref­lec­ti­on can le­ad one back to the true paths. And one has no ne­ed for pub­lic con­fes­si­on to re­ce­ive re­dem­p­ti­on."

  Ma­ude had sa­id the chap­la­in was te­di­o­us and she cle­arly knew what she was tal­king abo­ut, Mi­ran­da de­ci­ded. Ca­re­ful­ly, she for­ked me­at on­to her own plat­ter and sur­ve­yed the com­po­te of mus­h­ro­oms pre­sen­ted by a ser­vant at her el­bow. The­re didn't ap­pe­ar to be a ser­ving spo­on. Sho­uld she use her own spo­on and thus risk con­ta­mi­na­ting the con­tents for her fel­low di­ners? The mus­h­ro­oms we­re sli­ced too small for fis­hing with a fork. Sho­uld she dip her bre­ad in as she was ac­cus­to­med to do­ing?