The Emerald Swan

by Jane Feather

  "Co­me and eat, my pet. See the eggs I've ma­de es­pe­ci­al­ly for you." Ber­t­he fus­sed over Ma­ude, sha­king out a nap­kin, lad­ling eggs on­to a plat­ter. "But don't eat too he­arty now."

  “The­re’s eno­ugh for you, too, Mi­ran­da." Ma­ude ges­tu­red with her spo­on to the sto­ol next to her. "If you li­ke cod­dled eggs."

  "I li­ke ever­y­t­hing," Mi­ran­da sa­id with per­fect truth, ta­king the sto­ol. "You don't de­ve­lop fi­nicky tas­tes when you don't know whe­re the next me­al's co­ming from."

  Ma­ude lo­oked up from her pla­te, her eyes sharply com­p­re­hen­ding. "I won­der who­se li­fe has be­en wor­se."

  "Yo­urs," Mi­ran­da sa­id wit­ho­ut he­si­ta­ti­on. She bro­ke bre­ad, but­te­red it thickly. "Fre­edom is mo­re im­por­tant than an­y­t­hing, even if it's hard. I co­uldn't li­ve li­ke this." She ges­tu­red with her kni­fe aro­und the ro­om. "It's all rich and lu­xu­ri­o­us and soft, but how do you be­ar ne­ver go­ing out wit­ho­ut per­mis­si­on, ne­ver be­ing ab­le to walk aro­und wit­ho­ut so­me­one kno­wing whe­re you are all the ti­me?"

  "I sup­po­se you get used to it if you've ne­ver known an­y­t­hing el­se," Ma­ude ob­ser­ved, pus­hing asi­de her empty plat­ter and ta­king up her spi­ced ale aga­in.

  The do­or burst open as if un­der pres­su­re of a whir­l­wind and Lady Imo­gen en­te­red. Her gown of black da­mask fil­led the do­or­way li­ke so­me gre­at black clo­ud. Mi­ran­da swal­lo­wed her mo­ut­h­ful and ro­se with Ma­ude to curtsy.

  Imo­gen ga­ve them both a cur­sory glan­ce be­fo­re go­ing to the li­nen press. "You will ha­ve lit­tle use for yo­ur war­d­ro­be, co­usin, sin­ce you'll be re­ma­ining in sec­lu­si­on, so yo­ur gowns can be put to go­od use, ma­de over to su­it Mi­ran­da. The­re's no po­int was­ting mo­ney." With com­p­res­sed lips, she be­gan to rif­fle thro­ugh the con­tents of the press.

  "Yo­ur co­lo­ring is so si­mi­lar, al­most ever­y­t­hing will be su­itab­le," she dec­la­red. "Ber­t­he, re­mo­ve Lady Ma­ude's gowns and ha­ve them ta­ken to the gre­en bed­c­ham­ber. I'll ma­ke my se­lec­ti­on the­re."

  "Am I to be left with not­hing to we­ar, ma­dam?" Ma­ude in­qu­ired, her vo­ice on­ce mo­re fa­int and re­ed­li­ke.

  "You will ha­ve ne­ed of lit­tle but cham­ber ro­bes," Imo­gen told her, step­ping back from the li­nen press, yi­el­ding her pla­ce to Ber­t­he, who­se in­dig­na­ti­on at her or­ders was vi­sib­le in every mo­ve­ment. Imo­gen wat­c­hed as the ma­id pul­led out gowns, dra­ping them over her arm.

  "Isn't to­day the day you are to be bled, Ma­ude?" Imo­gen sto­od asi­de as Ber­t­he, with her arms full of silks, vel­vets, da­masks, mar­c­hed from the cham­ber.

  "Yes, ma­dam."

  “Then I sug­gest you ta­ke to yo­ur bed… Ouch!" She put a hand to her he­ad, her eyes wi­de with sur­p­ri­se. "What was that? Ouch!" Her hand flew to the back of her neck. "I'm be­ing stung."

  Mi­ran­da knew bet­ter. Am­bus­hing the un­sus­pec­ting was one of Chip's less po­pu­lar tricks. Her eyes flew gu­il­tily to the ar­mo­ire, just as anot­her mis­si­le struck the lady. Chip was sit­ting the­re with a han­d­ful of nuts from the bre­ak­fast tab­le, lob­bing them gle­eful­ly at Lady Imo­gen.

  The lady's eyes fol­lo­wed Mi­ran­da's and she his­sed with fury, ret­re­ating all the whi­le to the open do­or. "By the Holy Ro­od, I'll ha­ve the be­ast's neck wrung!" she dec­la­red, her vo­ice throb­bing with fury.

  Chip, he­aring the to­ne, let lo­ose a tor­rent of ha­zel­nuts, aimed with de­vas­ta­ting ac­cu­racy at his hel­p­less vic­tim. Imo­gen shri­eked, co­ve­red her fa­ce with her hands, and bac­ked out of the ro­om.

  Mi­les, just emer­ging from his own bed­c­ham­ber ac­ross the hall, re­ce­ived the full im­pact as his wi­fe re­eled aga­inst him, her eyes still co­ve­red.

  "God's bo­nes, ma­dam! What is it? What's hap­pe­ned?" He ste­adi­ed the lady as best he co­uld. She was a go­od three in­c­hes tal­ler than he and her bulk was con­si­de­rably aug­men­ted by her im­men­se far­t­hin­ga­le and car­t­w­he­el ruff.

  "At­tac­ked!" Imo­gen gas­ped. "That wild be­ast is at­tac­king me!" She po­in­ted a trem­b­ling fin­ger back in­to Ma­ude's cham­ber.

  Mi­les pe­ered aro­und his lady wi­fe and a nut struck his fo­re­he­ad as he emer­ged from the pro­tec­ti­on of his wi­fe's body.

  "O­uch!" He jum­ped back, rub­bing his fo­re­he­ad, duc­king be­hind the ar­mor of black da­mask.

  "Oh, Chip, stop!" Mi­ran­da cri­ed, jum­ping on tip­toe to re­ach the mon­key on top of the ar­mo­ire. "Co­me down!"

  But Chip was im­per­vi­o­us to her ple­as. He was enj­oying his ga­me far too much; it didn't or­di­na­rily ha­ve such sa­tis­f­ying re­sults.

  The earl of Har­co­urt cho­se this mo­ment to en­ter the sce­ne. He lo­oked over his sis­ter's he­ad, duc­ked a nut him­self, and sa­id so­mew­hat we­arily, "Can't you call him off, Mi­ran­da?"

  "I'm trying," she sa­id, half la­ug­hing, half we­eping with frus­t­ra­ti­on, un­der no il­lu­si­ons that if she co­uldn't con­t­rol Chip's less fri­endly an­tics, he co­uld qu­ite jus­ti­fi­ably be ba­nis­hed from the ho­use­hold, or at le­ast con­fi­ned in so­me way that wo­uld ma­ke him mi­se­rab­le.

  "He'll run out of am­mu­ni­ti­on in a mi­nu­te," Ma­ude ob­ser­ved, her eyes brim­ming with sup­pres­sed la­ug­h­ter, che­eks bright pink.

  For­tu­na­tely, she was right. Chip, hands fi­nal­ly empty, be­gan to dan­ce and jab­ber from the sa­fety of the ar­mo­ire. It was very cle­ar to an­yo­ne hal­f­way ob­ser­vant that he was hur­ling si­mi­an in­sults.

  "Lo­ok at him!" Imo­gen cri­ed in out­ra­ge. "What's he sa­ying?" Then she re­ali­zed the ab­sur­dity of the qu­es­ti­on and to­ok a de­ep bre­ath, cal­ming her­self with vi­sib­le ef­fort. "Ga­reth, I in­sist that that cre­atu­re be got rid of im­me­di­ately."

  Mi­ran­da fi­nal­ly had Chip se­cu­red in her arms. She lo­oked ple­adingly at Lord Har­co­urt. "It's a ga­me he plays so­me­ti­mes. I'm truly sorry, but I think he knows Lady Imo­gen do­esn't ca­re for him, and he's ta­ken of­fen­se."

  Ga­reth mo­ved a fo­ot and crun­c­hed on a ha­zel­nut. He lo­oked aro­und at the lit­te­red flo­or, then he lo­oked at Chip, who, from the sa­fety of Mi­ran­da's arms, put his he­ad on one si­de and win­ked one bright eye. Mi­ran­da was a study in con­t­rast. She was swat­hed from neck to toe in the ele­gant and lu­xu­ri­o­us vel­vet ro­be, but her nar­row fe­et pe­eping from the hem we­re ba­re and cu­ri­o­usly vul­ne­rab­le. The long, slen­der neck ri­sing from the fur-trim­med col­lar was sur­mo­un­ted by the small he­ad with its ur­c­hin crop. Part lady, part va­ga­bond. And ex­t­ra­or­di­na­rily ap­pe­aling.

  For a mo­ment he for­got what had pro­du­ced the sce­ne, for­got the ful­mi­na­ting pre­sen­ce of his sis­ter, the la­ug­hing Ma­ude, the hap­less Mi­les, all stan­ding aro­und him, all wa­iting for his next mo­ve. He was lost in the con­tem­p­la­ti­on of this small fi­gu­re, this won­der­ful­ly pa­ra­do­xi­cal cre­atu­re. And he felt the stran­gest sen­se of ope­ning in­si­de him, as if so­me part of him that had be­en kept clo­sed and dark was re­ac­hing for the light.

  "Do try to ke­ep him un­der con­t­rol, Mi­ran­da," he he­ard him­self sa­ying.

  "Oh, I will," she sa­id, her fa­ce bre­aking in­to a ra­di­ant smi­le of re­li­ef and ple­asu­re. "Of co­ur­se I will."

  Lady Imo­gen ma­de a dis­gus­ted so­und, then tur­ned and sa­iled away down the cor­ri­dor. Mi­les he­si­ta­ted, then he too scur­ri­ed away, his long-to­ed slip­pers slap­ping on the wo­oden flo­or.

  "My lord, is it right that I sho­uld ha­ve ta­ken all Lady Ma­ude's gowns to the gre­en bed­
c­ham­ber?" Ber­t­he, her vo­ice throb­bing with in­dig­na­ti­on, re­tur­ned from her er­rand.

  "What's that you say?" Ga­reth glan­ced ac­ross at Ma­ude's ma­id, who sto­od in the do­or­way, hands fol­ding aga­inst her skirts, her mo­uth pur­sed, her gray eyes glit­te­ring.

  "My lady's clot­hes. Lady Du­fort sa­id they we­re to be gi­ven to the ot­her one." Ber­t­he nod­ded to­ward Mi­ran­da. "My lady's to be left with only her cham­ber ro­bes."

  "Don't be ab­surd," Ga­reth sa­id. "You must ha­ve mi­sun­der­s­to­od Lady Du­fort. In the short term, Mi­ran­da will bor­row so­me of Ma­ude's gowns that will be su­itab­le for for­mal so­ci­al oc­ca­si­ons, un­til we can ha­ve a war­d­ro­be ma­de up for her. I ex­pect her lad­y­s­hip wis­hes to lo­ok thro­ugh them all in or­der to ma­ke a se­lec­ti­on."

  "That wasn't what I he­ard," Ber­t­he mum­b­led, go­ing to the fi­rep­la­ce whe­re she be­gan to stir the co­als with jerky stabs of the po­ker.

  Ga­reth frow­ned, then de­ci­ded to let it alo­ne. He tur­ned to le­ave just as the do­or ope­ned and a man in a rusty black do­ub­let and old-fas­hi­oned stri­ped ho­se bus­t­led in with a crac­ked le­at­her bag.

  Ga­reth re­cog­ni­zed the ho­use­hold's physi­ci­an. "Are you ailing, co­usin?" He glan­ced over at Ma­ude.

  "I am to be bled, my lord." Ma­ude lay back on the set­tle, whi­le Ber­t­he has­te­ned to ta­ke off one of her slip­pers.

  "Do you ha­ve the fe­ver?"

  "My lord, it is Lady Ma­ude's day to be bled," the physi­ci­an an­no­un­ced, ta­king a sharp kni­fe from his bag. Ber­t­he fet­c­hed a pew­ter bowl from the cup­bo­ard be­si­de the fi­rep­la­ce.

  "Do you ma­ke a ha­bit of it, co­usin?" His frown de­epe­ning, Ga­reth ap­pro­ac­hed the set­tle.

  "I be­li­eve re­gu­lar ble­eding is ne­ces­sary for her lad­y­s­hip's he­alth, my lord," the physi­ci­an in­to­ned, ben­ding to ta­ke Ma­ude's fo­ot in one hand, his kni­fe in the ot­her. "It thins the blo­od and pre­vents over­he­ating." Ber­t­he knelt be­si­de him, po­si­ti­oning the bowl to catch the blo­od.

  Ga­reth ra­ised an eyeb­row. The pres­c­rip­ti­ons of physi­ci­ans we­re al­ways a mystery to the lay­man but he as­su­med the man knew his job best.

  "It se­ems fo­olish to be bled if you're not ill," Mi­ran­da dec­la­red. "Ma­ma Ger­t­ru­de held that cup­ping and le­ec­hes we­ake­ned the body."

  "Who's Ma­ma Ger­t­ru­de?" Ma­ude in­qu­ired, tur­ning her he­ad aga­inst the cus­hi­ons at her back just as the physi­ci­an ope­ned the ve­in in the so­le of her fo­ot. Blo­od spur­ted in­to the bowl.

  Mi­ran­da flin­c­hed just as Ma­ude did. She co­uld fe­el the sharp sting of the kni­fe in her own fo­ot, the sen­sa­ti­on of wel­ling blo­od.

  "Do­es the sight of blo­od bot­her you?" Ga­reth as­ked, se­e­ing how whi­te she had be­co­me.

  Mi­ran­da sho­ok her he­ad. "Not usu­al­ly."

  Inte­res­ting, Ga­reth tho­ught, glan­cing bet­we­en the two girls. Ma­ude was lying back, her eyes clo­sed, fa­ce as pa­le as Mi­ran­da's, no lon­ger in­te­res­ted in the an­s­wer to her qu­es­ti­on. Mi­ran­da ab­ruptly tur­ned away and be­gan to fon­d­le Chip, mur­mu­ring to him.

  "I'll le­ave you to the physi­ci­an's mi­nis­t­ra­ti­ons, co­usin," Ga­reth sa­id, stri­ding to the do­or. "Mi­ran­da, I be­li­eve Lady Imo­gen wis­hes you to try tho­se gowns wit­ho­ut de­lay. We shall be at­ten­ding co­urt this eve­ning and you must ha­ve so­met­hing su­itab­le to we­ar. So­me adj­us­t­ments may well ne­ed to be ma­de."

  "Co­urt?" Mi­ran­da gas­ped.

  "Aye, I've be­en bid­den to the qu­e­en's pre­sen­ce af­ter din­ner." Un­con­s­ci­o­usly, Ga­reth's vo­ice to­ok on an oily mi­micry of the qu­e­en's chan­cel­lor's to­ne. "Her Ma­j­esty pro­tests that she has se­en not­hing of my lord Har­co­urt for so many we­eks." He smi­led bri­efly, the smi­le that Mi­ran­da so dis­li­ked, and she saw that the sar­do­nic light was back in his eye. Ga­reth knew per­fectly well the qu­e­en was simply cu­ri­o­us. He had had to get her per­mis­si­on to le­ave co­urt and tra­vel to Fran­ce and Her Ma­j­esty had be­en very in­te­res­ted in his er­rand, and for­tu­na­tely wil­ling to gi­ve it her bles­sing. Now she wo­uld be im­pa­ti­ent to he­ar the out­co­me.

  "Co­uldn't it wa­it for a few mo­re days, mi­lord?" Mi­ran­da as­ked. "I don't fe­el re­ady yet."

  "The­re's not­hing to fe­ar," Ga­reth sa­id, lif­ting the hasp on the do­or. "The pre­sen­ta­ti­on will be bri­ef. I ha­ve mo­re fa­ith in you than you do, fi­refly." And now he smi­led at her in the way that war­med and ste­adi­ed her. "You will le­arn on yo­ur fe­et, ne­ver fe­ar." The do­or clo­sed aga­in be­hind him.

  "I wish I co­uld be so su­re." Mi­ran­da glan­ced to­ward the set­tle, ab­sently rub­bing the so­le of one ba­re fo­ot aga­inst her calf. It stung and it­c­hed for so­me re­ason. The physi­ci­an was now bin­ding Ma­ude's fo­ot with a ban­da­ge whi­le the in­va­lid lay back, eyes clo­sed. "Ha­ve you ever be­en to co­urt, Ma­ude?"

  "No. But I know so­met­hing of it," the ot­her sa­id fa­intly.

  "Will you tell me what you know?"

  "For go­od­ness' sa­ke, girl, can't you see her lad­y­s­hip ne­eds to be qu­i­et and rest?" Ber­t­he de­man­ded, de­po­si­ting the bowl of blo­od on the tab­le for the physi­ci­an's exa­mi­na­ti­on.

  "I'll co­me back la­ter, then." Still hol­ding Chip, Mi­ran­da left the ro­om and re­tur­ned to the gre­en bed­c­ham­ber.

  The pi­le of gar­ments Ber­t­he had tran­s­fer­red from Ma­ude's li­nen press lay he­aped on the bed. For so­me­one who ra­rely left her bed­c­ham­ber, Ma­ude had an ex­t­ra­or­di­nary ar­ray of ela­bo­ra­te gowns, Mi­ran­da ref­lec­ted, exa­mi­ning the richly em­b­ro­ide­red stuff. Most of them lo­oked and felt as if they'd ne­ver be­en worn.

  Chip sud­denly yat­te­red and la­un­c­hed him­self at the open win­dow. He pa­used on the sill, as­ses­sing the fi­ne ra­in now fal­ling, then di­sap­pe­ared from sight, clim­bing down the ivy to the gar­den be­ne­ath.

  Mi­ran­da was only puz­zled for a se­cond. A rus­t­le of stiff skirts he­ral­ded the ap­pe­aran­ce of Lady Imo­gen, who, tig­ht-lip­ped and grimly si­lent, en­te­red the cham­ber with the two ma­ids who had hel­ped with the bath the pre­vi­o­us eve­ning.

  Imo­gen sto­od on the thres­hold of the ro­om for a mi­nu­te, glan­cing wa­rily aro­und. The­re was no sign of the mon­key. She step­ped in­si­de, grimly pre­pa­red to do her brot­her's bid­ding, but at first, af­ter her ear­li­er mor­ti­fi­ca­ti­on, qu­ite unab­le to bring her­self to talk di­rectly to the girl her­self.

  She is­su­ed or­ders to the ma­ids, using them as me­di­ums for com­mu­ni­ca­ti­on, but as she wat­c­hed the tran­s­for­ma­ti­on so­me of her bit­ter­ness dis­si­pa­ted in awe at her brot­her's sche­me. The re­sem­b­lan­ce bet­we­en Ma­ude and this girl was mo­re than a re­sem­b­lan­ce. It was al­most frig­h­te­ning, al­most ma­gi­cal.

  Mi­ran­da yi­el­ded her­self up to the at­ten­ti­ons of the ma­ids, who strip­ped her, dres­sed her in cle­an pet­ti­co­ats, che­mi­se, and a new and very wi­de far­t­hin­ga­le, and then pro­ce­eded to try on the gowns in qu­ick suc­ces­si­on, but­to­ning, la­cing, tuc­king, pin­ning, as if she we­re a wo­oden doll. The gowns ne­eded very lit­tle adj­us­t­ment. Her bo­som was a lit­tle ful­ler than Ma­ude's, her hips a lit­tle ro­un­der. But the dif­fe­ren­ce was ba­rely no­ti­ce­ab­le.

  Imo­gen wal­ked all aro­und Mi­ran­da, now stan­ding in her un­der­gar­ments wa­iting for anot­her gown to be put upon her. "It's a pity ne­it­her of you has much sta­tu­re," she mu­sed, al­most to her­self. "Sta­tu­re lends gra­ce to the most un­g­
ra­ce­ful fi­gu­re."

  Mi­ran­da flus­hed, fe­eling vul­ne­rab­le and ex­po­sed be­fo­re this cri­ti­cal scru­tiny.

  "But by all that's go­od," Imo­gen con­ti­nu­ed in the sa­me self-ref­lec­ti­ve to­ne, "you're Ma­ude to the li­fe. It's un­na­tu­ral."

  The ma­ids la­ced Mi­ran­da in­to a gown of pe­ach vel­vet with a scar­let taf­fe­ta sto­mac­her. Imo­gen un­fur­led her fan and aga­in wal­ked aro­und Mi­ran­da. "Stra­ig­h­ten yo­ur sho­ul­ders. No girl of go­od stan­ding wo­uld slo­uch in that way."

  Mi­ran­da had ne­ver gi­ven her pos­tu­re a mo­ment's con­si­de­ra­ti­on. She be­li­eved she was stan­ding per­fectly stra­ight, but now do­ubts as­sa­iled her. If so­met­hing as sim­p­le as how she sto­od and wal­ked wo­uld gi­ve her ori­gins away, what chan­ce did she ha­ve of con­vin­cing pe­op­le fa­ce to fa­ce? And the qu­e­en? She was to be pre­sen­ted to the qu­e­en of En­g­land to­night! It was ab­surd, to­tal­ly ri­di­cu­lo­us. A nig­h­t­ma­re. She was a va­ga­bond, she'd spent nights in ga­ol for vag­rancy. She'd star­ved and slept un­der hay­s­tacks. She'd be­en fo­und in a ba­ker's shop!

  "Lu­ci­fer!" A wa­ve of na­usea swept thro­ugh her and she drop­ped on­to the si­de of the bed, he­ed­less of the row of pins stic­king out from the si­de se­ams of the gown as the girls fit­ted it to her body.

  "What's the mat­ter?" Imo­gen de­man­ded.

  Mi­ran­da sto­od up aga­in. She had pro­mi­sed Lord Har­co­urt that she wo­uld try her best, and she wo­uld not back down on a pro­mi­se. "Not­hing, ma­dam."

  Imo­gen frow­ned at her for a mi­nu­te, then sa­id to one of the ma­ids, "You, wench, go in se­arch of Lord Du­fort. Ask him to at­tend me he­re."

  Lord Du­fort? What did he ha­ve to do with all this? Mi­ran­da won­de­red. But not for long. Lord Du­fort ap­pe­ared in a very few mi­nu­tes, just as the se­cond ma­id had re­mo­ved the pe­ach vel­vet and Mi­ran­da was stan­ding on­ce aga­in in her un­der­gar­ments. "You wan­ted me, de­ar ma­dam?"