The Emerald Swan

The Emerald Swan Page 21

by Jane Feather

  But Ga­reth knew what he was fe­eling. His hand drop­ped from her back. Mi­ran­da sat down aga­in, awa­re of the ra­pid pat­te­ring of her he­art, trying to con­t­rol her spe­eding blo­od, the con­fu­sing sen­sa­ti­ons that set her emo­ti­ons tum­b­ling wildly so she didn't know whet­her to la­ugh or cry.

  The mi­nu­te the craft was se­cu­rely ti­ed, Mi­ran­da jum­ped up. She le­aped lightly to dry land, dis­da­ining the bar­ge­man's of­fe­red hand, and ca­ught Imo­gen's sud­den hiss of in­d­rawn bre­ath.

  First mis­ta­ke! She must con­cen­t­ra­te, for­get this con­fu­si­on and re­mem­ber whe­re she was and whom she was sup­po­sed to be. Has­tily she com­po­sed her­self, adj­us­ting her skirts, ope­ning her fan with a ca­su­al air as she glan­ced aro­und, ho­ping no one had re­mar­ked her less than de­co­ro­us di­sem­bar­ka­ti­on.

  Ga­reth ca­me up be­si­de her. "Step asi­de so my sis­ter and her hus­band can go be­fo­re us. They ta­ke pre­ce­den­ce over you at the mo­ment."

  Mi­ran­da step­ped off the nar­row path and Imo­gen swept by on her hus­band's arm.

  When she was mar­ri­ed to Henry of Fran­ce, this wa­if and stray wo­uld ta­ke pre­ce­den­ce over all but Eli­za­beth of En­g­land. Ga­reth lo­oked down at Mi­ran­da, no­ting her sup­ple gra­ce, the ele­gan­ce of her pos­tu­re, the na­tu­ral con­fi­den­ce, al­most ar­ro­gan­ce, in the tilt of her he­ad, the as­su­red ga­ze, the set of chin and mo­uth.

  They wal­ked up from the ri­ver along the red-ti­led path run­ning bet­we­en clip­ped yew tre­es. Al­t­ho­ugh it was still light, lam­p­boys at re­gu­lar in­ter­vals held pitch tor­c­hes to il­lu­mi­na­te the he­avily sha­do­wed path. The Har­co­urt party wal­ked be­hind a fo­ot­man who proc­la­imed the­ir pre­sen­ce and ap­pro­ach to the pa­la­ce in a con­ti­nu­o­us cry of "Ma­ke way for my lord Har­co­urt, Lord and Lady Du­fort, Lady Ma­ude d'Albard."

  Mi­ran­da was awa­re of the in­te­rest her na­me ca­used among the­ir fel­low co­ur­ti­ers in the long pro­ces­si­on to the pa­la­ce. Cu­ri­o­us glan­ces ca­me her way, whis­pers we­re ex­c­han­ged. She felt anot­her sur­ge of sta­ge fright, her palms dam­pe­ning, her he­art be­ating fast.

  The path emer­ged from the high hed­ges, ope­ning on­to a gra­vel swe­ep be­fo­re a wi­de ter­ra­ce. The ter­ra­ce was thron­ged with co­ur­ti­ers, and the in­ces­sant chat­ter of vo­ices fo­ught and won the bat­tle with the gro­ups of mu­si­ci­ans po­si­ti­oned on the ter­ra­ce and on the lawns be­low.

  Imo­gen mo­ved for­ward, her hus­band bob­bing at her si­de, li­ke the bu­oy at­tac­hed to a ves­sel in full sa­il, Mi­ran­da tho­ught. And then she had no mo­re ti­me for ir­re­ve­rent tho­ughts as they we­re en­gul­fed in the crowd. Her three com­pa­ni­ons we­re gre­eting and be­ing gre­eted and she was be­ing drawn for­ward and in­t­ro­du­ced. She cur­t­si­ed, mur­mu­red res­pon­ses, tri­ed for a mo­dest de­me­anor but fo­und it im­pos­sib­le to ke­ep her eyes lo­we­red. She was far too fas­ci­na­ted with the sea of fa­ces, the gor­ge­o­us ap­pa­rel, the ef­fe­te man­ne­risms of tho­se sur­ro­un­ding her. But she was in­s­tantly awa­re when Lord Har­co­urt mo­ved away.

  She to­ok a step af­ter him but Lord Du­fort la­id a hand on her arm, gently res­t­ra­ining her. She lo­oked star­t­led and he sa­id in an un­der­to­ne, "You must stay with us. Ga­reth will be back. He has just go­ne to let the cham­ber­la­in know that we're he­re." Then, still hol­ding Mi­ran­da's arm, he gre­eted a pas­sing ac­qu­a­in­tan­ce and in­t­ro­du­ced his wi­fe's co­usin, Lord Har­co­urt's ward, and Mi­ran­da fo­und her­self on­ce mo­re back in her ro­le.

  Imo­gen was as­to­nis­hed. The girl lo­oked the part to per­fec­ti­on, but Imo­gen hadn't ex­pec­ted her to act it with the sa­me na­tu­ral ease. And yet the im­pos­tor se­emed much mo­re at ho­me in this so­ci­ety than the re­al Ma­ude, who wo­uld ha­ve glo­we­red and sig­hed, and res­pon­ded with fa­int and fa­ding mur­murs to all com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons. Imo­gen's res­pect for her brot­her's sche­me was gro­wing by the mi­nu­te.

  Mi­ran­da was be­gin­ning to re­lax when she saw two gen­t­le­men pur­su­ing a very de­li­be­ra­te path in the­ir di­rec­ti­on. She re­cog­ni­zed them im­me­di­ately as the two men from the li­very stab­le in Roc­hes­ter. They hadn't se­en her then, but Lord Har­co­urt had sa­id they knew Lady Ma­ude rat­her bet­ter than most pe­op­le be­yond the im­me­di­ate fa­mily cir­c­le. Her he­art spe­eded. How was she sup­po­sed to res­pond to them? She didn't even know the­ir na­mes.

  "Lady Du­fort." Kip Ros­si­ter bo­wed de­eply. "And my lord." Bri­an, lo­oking even mo­re im­men­se than usu­al in a vi­olently em­b­ro­ide­red la­ven­der do­ub­let and scar­let trunk ho­se, bo­wed in his turn.

  "Sir Chris­top­her, Sir Bri­an." Imo­gen ac­k­now­led­ged the gre­eting with a stiff curtsy, her sta­tely to­ne hol­ding mo­re than a hint of di­sap­pro­val. She tho­ught both men vul­gar and so­ci­al­ly un­worthy of her brot­her's fri­en­d­s­hip.

  "Lady Ma­ude." Kip bo­wed in Mi­ran­da's di­rec­ti­on. "I ha­ven't se­en you be­fo­re in so­ci­ety, my lady."

  "No, in­de­ed not." Bri­an bo­wed in turn, swa­ying slightly, a mi­as­ma of strong ale waf­ting aro­und him. "And may I say how cru­el of you to ha­ve dep­ri­ved the co­urt of such an en­c­han­ting pre­sen­ce." With a jocu­lar chuc­k­le, he to­ok her hand and ra­ised it to his lips. "Inde­ed, I must ta­ke Har­co­urt to task for per­mit­ting such a flo­wer to blo­om in the dark."

  Mi­ran­da had an ur­ge to la­ugh at this lar­ge gen­t­le­man's ex­t­ra­va­gant com­p­li­ments. She cur­t­si­ed, ke­eping her eyes de­mu­rely lo­we­red to hi­de the la­ug­h­ter. At le­ast she knew the­ir na­mes now.

  "My co­usin is of an un­for­tu­na­tely we­ak con­s­ti­tu­ti­on," Imo­gen sa­id in fre­ezing ac­cents.

  Kip Ros­si­ter's ga­ze was sharp as it res­ted on Mi­ran­da's fa­ce. "Lady Ma­ude, I am de­lig­h­ted to see you've re­ga­ined yo­ur strength."

  "I thank you, sir." Mi­ran­da spo­ke in ca­re­ful­ly me­asu­red to­nes. The­re was so­met­hing in Sir Chris­top­her's eyes that ma­de her une­asy. He lo­oked as if he was se­ar­c­hing for an elu­si­ve me­mory.

  "I must com­p­li­ment you, my lady, on yo­ur co­usin's lo­oks," he sa­id to Imo­gen. "She is blo­oming with he­alth. Yo­ur ca­re of her must be com­men­ded."

  Imo­gen's lips mo­ved in the tra­vesty of a smi­le. "You will ex­cu­se us, sirs. We are ex­pec­ting a sum­mons to the qu­e­en's pre­sen­ce. Ah, he­re is my brot­her now."

  "Kip… Bri­an… I gi­ve you go­od day." Ga­reth gre­eted his old fri­ends ca­re­les­sly. The­re was not­hing to fe­ar he­re, they hadn't se­en Mi­ran­da be­fo­re.

  "We was just com­p­li­men­ting Lady Du­fort on yo­ur ward's go­od he­alth, Ga­reth," Bri­an bo­omed, pun­c­hing his fri­end's sho­ul­der in merry fas­hi­on. "Such a pe­ach… such a pip­pin…"

  "You're ma­king the lass blush," Ga­reth pro­tes­ted.

  "Nay, I be­li­eve you're ma­king the Lady Ma­ude la­ugh," Kip ob­ser­ved, his sharp eyes still res­ting on Mi­ran­da. "And rightly so. No sen­sib­le yo­ung lady wo­uld pay a far­t­hing's at­ten­ti­on to yo­ur ex­t­ra­va­gan­ces, Bri­an. Isn't that so, Lady Ma­ude?"

  At this Mi­ran­da was for­ced to ra­ise her eyes from the­ir se­du­lo­us scru­tiny of the gro­und at her fe­et. Her azu­re ga­ze was brim­ming with la­ug­h­ter. "Inde­ed, Sir Chris­top­her, I be­li­eve so," she ma­na­ged, a cho­ke of mirth in her de­ep, me­lo­di­o­us vo­ice.

  Kip's ga­ze grew yet shar­per. He se­emed to re­mem­ber that his fri­end's ward pos­ses­sed a rat­her fa­int and re­ed­li­ke vo­ice, and he'd cer­ta­inly ne­ver be­fo­re se­en so much as a smi­le
en­li­ven her som­ber, al­most sul­len co­un­te­nan­ce.

  "My lord Har­co­urt, Her Ma­j­esty will see you and Lady Ma­ude d'Albard." The cham­ber­la­in, res­p­len­dent with his gold cha­ins of of­fi­ce, his black rod, and crim-son-and-sil­ver su­it, ap­pe­ared thro­ugh the crowd.

  "If you will ex­cu­se us." Ga­reth nod­ded ple­asantly to his fri­ends. "Co­me, my ward." He of­fe­red his arm.

  "Her Ma­j­esty do­es not sum­mon Lord and Lady Du­fort?" Imo­gen de­man­ded of the cham­ber­la­in.

  "No, ma­dam." The man bo­wed.

  Imo­gen's lit­tle mo­uth pur­sed, and she tur­ned with a sniff to con­ti­nue her prog­res­si­on along the ter­ra­ce. Mi­les sto­od back to exa­mi­ne Mi­ran­da's ap­pe­aran­ce. It to­ok a lit­tle tuck of the ruff and so­me fus­sing with the fall of her skirts be­fo­re he was sa­tis­fi­ed. "The­re, my de­ar. Not even the qu­e­en co­uld find fa­ult." He smi­led, pat­ted her che­ek, then scur­ri­ed away in his wi­fe's bil­lo­wing wa­ke.

  "Will she be lo­oking for fa­ult?" Mi­ran­da as­ked, her vo­ice so­un­ding very small.

  "I don't ima­gi­ne so," Ga­reth rep­li­ed in bra­cing to­nes, la­ying her hand on his arm.

  "But I am ter­ri­fi­ed," Mi­ran­da whis­pe­red fran­ti­cal­ly. "A few days ago I was tur­ning so­mer­sa­ults to ple­ase the crowd and now I'm to ha­ve an audi­en­ce with the qu­e­en of En­g­land!"

  "J­ust don't turn any so­mer­sa­ults to ple­ase Eli­za­beth and all will be well."

  The fa­mi­li­ar dryly hu­mo­ro­us to­ne im­me­di­ately res­to­red her com­po­su­re. Mi­ran­da stra­ig­h­te­ned her sho­ul­ders, lo­oking fi­xedly ahe­ad as they pas­sed thro­ugh a se­ri­es of ro­oms, li­ned with co­ur­ti­ers who lo­oked en­vi­o­usly at them as they fol­lo­wed the cham­ber­la­in, who swept a path be­fo­re him with his rod of of­fi­ce. Audi­en­ces with Her Ma­j­esty we­re highly pri­zed and the jos­t­ling crowds at the do­ors to the pre­sen­ce cham­ber we­re all trying to catch the cham­ber­la­in's at­ten­ti­on. But that august gen­t­le­man lo­oked ne­it­her to right nor left.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A fo­ot­man flung open a pa­ir of do­ub­le do­ors and the cham­ber­la­in an­no­un­ced in rin­ging to­nes, "My lord Har­co­urt, the Lady Ma­ude d'Albard."

  Ga­reth eased Mi­ran­da past the bo­wing fi­gu­re and sto­od with her at the thres­hold of the ro­om. As he bo­wed, Mi­ran­da cur­t­si­ed.

  "Co­me, co­me, my lord Har­co­urt," an im­pe­ri­o­us vo­ice cri­ed from the far si­de of a ro­om that struck Mi­ran­da as as­to­nis­hingly small and in­ti­ma­te for a qu­e­en's audi­en­ce cham­ber. "Bring the child to me."

  Ga­reth step­ped for­ward, bo­wed aga­in. Mi­ran­da cur­t­si­ed. Anot­her three steps and the obe­isan­ces we­re re­pe­ated. Only then did Ga­reth stra­ig­h­ten pro­perly and walk for­ward, his arm ri­gid be­ne­ath Mi­ran­da's hand.

  "Yo­ur Ma­j­esty, may I pre­sent my ward, Lady Ma­ude d'Albard?" He mo­ved his arm from be­ne­ath Mi­ran­da's hand and step­ped slightly to one si­de, le­aving her fe­eling ter­ribly iso­la­ted, al­most as if she'd lost a part of her body, so­me pro­tec­ti­ve shell.

  She cur­t­si­ed aga­in, won­de­ring if she wo­uld ever da­re to lo­ok up. All she had se­en of this qu­e­en so far was the hem of a gown of sil­ver ga­uze and a sil­ver sa­tin slip­per. But a hand ca­ught her chin, lif­ted her, and she fo­und her­self lo­oking stra­ight in­to a long, thin, and very wrin­k­led fa­ce, and a pa­ir of small black eyes that we­re re­gar­ding her ple­asantly.

  "Qu­ite a pretty child," the qu­e­en dec­la­red. "Has His Gra­ce of Ro­is­sy ac­ce­ded to the pro­po­sal of mar­ri­age?" Her hand drop­ped from Mi­ran­da's chin as she ad­dres­sed this qu­es­ti­on to Lord Har­co­urt.

  "Yes, Yo­ur Ma­j­esty. With alac­rity."

  "Go­od… go­od. It will ser­ve well to ha­ve such an al­li­an­ce with the French co­urt when King Henry has sub­du­ed his re­bel­li­o­us su­bj­ects." She mo­ved to­ward a car­ved cha­ir and sat down, ges­tu­ring to the cha­ir be­si­de her. "Ta­ke a se­at, my lord, and tell me how that bu­si­ness is pros­pe­ring. Is Pa­ris any ne­arer to ca­pi­tu­la­ti­on?"

  Ga­reth sat be­si­de her wit­ho­ut so much as a glan­ce for Mi­ran­da, who still sto­od in the sa­me pla­ce. She un­der­s­to­od that if the qu­e­en now con­si­de­red her no mo­re worthy of no­ti­ce than a pi­ece of fur­ni­tu­re, then Ga­reth must do the sa­me. She was per­fectly happy to be ig­no­red, ta­king the op­por­tu­nity to exa­mi­ne the ro­om and its oc­cu­pants, whi­le she tri­ed sur­rep­ti­ti­o­usly to ease her throb­bing fe­et. Only now that she was free of at­ten­ti­on was she awa­re of the pin­c­hing sho­es.

  Lady Mary Aber­nathy sat with fo­ur ot­her la­di­es a lit­tle way from the­ir qu­e­en, all busy with tam­bo­ur fra­mes. Se­ve­ral sil­ky-ha­ired lap­dogs we­re nes­t­led in the­ir skirts. The pa­ne­led ro­om was fur­nis­hed mo­re as a pri­va­te par­lor than a for­mal audi­en­ce cham­ber and the mul­li­oned win­dows sto­od open to the ri­ver, cat­c­hing the fa­int eve­ning bre­eze, damp with the day's ra­in.

  Mi­ran­da won­de­red why Lady Mary didn't lo­ok up from her em­b­ro­idery. Su­rely a smi­le of gre­eting was in or­der. It wasn't as if they we­re stran­gers; they'd spent two ho­urs to­get­her that very af­ter­no­on. The ot­her la­di­es glan­ced so­mew­hat in­dif­fe­rently at her as if she we­re of no par­ti­cu­lar in­te­rest, but one of them ga­ve her a fle­eting smi­le, and fi­nal­ly Lady Mary ra­ised her eyes.

  She lo­oked ac­ross at Mi­ran­da stan­ding still and alo­ne in the mid­dle of the ro­om, but the­re was a frown not a smi­le on her fa­ce. Mi­ran­da won­de­red if so­met­hing was wrong. If her cap had slip­ped, or her skirt was ca­ught up on the far­t­hin­ga­le. She shif­ted her fe­et une­asily, and gri­ma­ced as her numb to­es ca­me back to li­fe with a shri­ek of pro­test.

  Then Lady Mary in­c­li­ned her he­ad in un­s­mi­ling ac­k­now­led­g­ment be­fo­re re­tur­ning to her em­b­ro­idery. Mi­ran­da, who wo­uld ha­ve gi­ven an­y­t­hing for a fri­endly ges­tu­re even from a wo­man she in­s­tin­c­ti­vely dis­li­ked, for­ced her­self to think of so­met­hing ot­her than her hur­ting fe­et. She al­lo­wed her­self to exa­mi­ne the qu­e­en in co­vert lit­tle glan­ces.

  Her Ma­j­esty was dres­sed with such mag­ni­fi­cen­ce that it al­most daz­zled the eyes. The sil­ver ga­uze over-gown al­lo­wed the bril­li­ant crim­son of the gown it­self to show thro­ugh with a dif­fu­sed glow. The slas­hed sle­eves we­re li­ned with red taf­fe­ta and the high col­lar ri­sing abo­ve her he­ad was li­ned with ru­bi­es and pe­arls. Tho­usands of them, it se­emed to Mi­ran­da, all glit­te­ring and win­king. Aro­und the qu­e­en's thin, wrin­k­led neck hung a mas­si­ve cha­in of ru­bi­es and pe­arls, and atop her red­dish wig she wo­re a cir­c­let of the sa­me sto­nes.

  But the qu­e­en se­emed very old to Mi­ran­da. Old and very wrin­k­led, the skin of her bo­som cre­pey, ple­ac­hed with fi­ne li­nes. She used her hands con­s­tantly whi­le she was tal­king. They we­re very small hands, with very long fin­gers smot­he­red in rings. And she se­emed to talk all the ti­me, Mi­ran­da no­ti­ced. She wo­uld ask Ga­reth a qu­es­ti­on, then ba­rely wa­it for his an­s­wer be­fo­re in­ter­rup­ting him with anot­her qu­es­ti­on or a di­sag­re­e­ing com­ment. Ga­reth se­emed ac­cus­to­med to this style of dis­co­ur­se, and sho­wed no dis­may at the con­s­tant in­ter­rup­ti­ons.

  Every now and aga­in, the qu­e­en wo­uld ri­se with an im­pa­ti­ent ges­tu­re and Ga­reth wo­uld im­me­di­ately fol­low su­it. Her Ma­j­esty wo­uld walk abo­ut the ro­om, her ho­oked no­se se­eming to le­ad the way, whi­le opi­ni­ons, qu­es­ti­ons, in­ter­p­re­ta­ti­ons, po­ur
ed forth, be­fo­re she sat down aga­in, wa­ving to Lord Har­co­urt to do the sa­me. But she ne­ver re­ma­ined se­ated for long, re­min­ding Mi­ran­da of Ma­ude's ex­po­si­ti­on on Her Ma­j­esty's ha­bits.

  "So, Lady Ma­ude, do you li­ke what you see?"

  The qu­es­ti­on so star­t­led Mi­ran­da that she sta­red blankly and very ru­dely at Eli­za­beth, who was re­gar­ding her with a deg­ree of amu­se­ment. "I'm flat­te­red at yo­ur scru­tiny, my de­ar," she con­ti­nu­ed, with a flic­ker of her nar­row lips.

  Mi­ran­da was at a loss. Sho­uld she deny her exa­mi­na­ti­on, de­fend it, or aba­se her­self? She co­uld fe­el the eyes of Her Ma­j­esty's la­di­es upon her, and she didn't ne­ed to lo­ok to know that Lady Mary wo­uld be re­gar­ding her with shoc­ked di­sap­pro­val. Why didn't Lord Har­co­urt co­me to her res­cue? But he re­ma­ined si­lent, lo­oking not at her but at so­me po­int be­yond her sho­ul­der.

  "I didn't me­an to ca­use of­fen­se, ma­dam," she sa­id with a de­ep curtsy. "But I ha­ve ne­ver se­en a qu­e­en be­fo­re, and sin­ce Yo­ur Ma­j­esty se­emed oc­cu­pi­ed, I tho­ught you wo­uldn't no­ti­ce."

  The­re was a mo­ment when the air se­emed to stand still, the oc­cu­pants of the ro­om hol­ding the­ir bre­ath. Ga­reth's fa­ce lost all ex­p­res­si­on. And then the qu­e­en la­ug­hed, sho­wing blac­ke­ned te­eth amid a gre­at many gaps.

  "I ha­ve al­ways ap­pre­ci­ated ho­nesty, and it's a ra­re qu­ality among co­ur­ti­ers. Co­me clo­ser, child." She bec­ko­ned.

  Mi­ran­da re­ali­zed with a shock that the worst had hap­pe­ned. In her an­xi­ety, she had sunk so low in her curtsy that she was pre­ca­ri­o­usly clo­se to over­ba­lan­cing, her re­ar a ba­re inch from the flo­or. All the ac­ro­ba­tic skills in the world wo­uldn't help her to ri­se wit­ho­ut ste­ad­ying her­self with her hands on the car­pet. If it hadn't be­en so des­pe­ra­te, it wo­uld ha­ve be­en la­ug­hab­le. She was ne­ver clumsy. Then sud­denly, Ga­reth was be­si­de her. His hand was be­ne­ath her el­bow and she ro­se gra­ce­ful­ly to her fe­et.

 

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