The Emerald Swan

by Jane Feather

  "I ha­ve bu­si­ness with yo­ur lod­gers," Mi­ran­da ex­p­la­ined, mo­ving past him in­to the in­te­ri­or of the shop.

  "They've up an' left," the man sa­id, fol­lo­wing her in. He pic­ked at his te­eth with a grimy fin­ger­na­il, trying to dis­lod­ge a stringy strand of ba­con from bet­we­en his front te­eth.

  "But they can't ha­ve." It was so ab­surd, Mi­ran­da la­ug­hed. She ma­de for the sta­irs.

  "Eh, I tell yer, they ain't the­re no mo­re."

  And Mi­ran­da now knew it. The si­len­ce from the cham­ber at the he­ad of the sta­irs was de­afe­ning. Her he­art be­ating fast, she ra­ced up­ward, lif­ted the latch, and flung open the do­or. The small cham­ber was de­ser­ted, the win­dow still shut­te­red. Chip le­aped in and then jum­ped in­to her arms with a dis­t­res­sful clut­te­ring, co­ve­ring his fa­ce with his hands and pe­ering thro­ugh his fin­gers at the empty spa­ce.

  "They can't ha­ve go­ne," Mi­ran­da whis­pe­red, still unab­le to be­li­eve the evi­den­ce of her eyes. She ope­ned the shut­ters, flo­oding the ro­om with sun­light. So­met­hing ca­ught her eye in the cor­ner and she pic­ked it up. It was a scrat­c­hed wo­oden top that Rob­bie pla­yed with. Jebe­di­ah had fas­hi­oned it for him in an unu­su­al­ly mel­low mo­od.

  Te­ars star­ted in her eyes. Te­ars of bet­ra­yal, of dis­be­li­ef, of loss. She tur­ned to the cob­bler, who had fol­lo­wed her up and was now stan­ding in the do­or.

  "Why did they go?"

  " 'Ow sho­uld I know?" He shrug­ged. "Pa­id up and left yes­ter­day mor­nin'. "

  "But they didn't say an­y­t­hing to me. They co­uldn't go wit­ho­ut sa­ying an­y­t­hing to me." She re­ali­zed she was al­most sho­uting, as if trying to con­vin­ce the cob­bler of so­met­hing she knew for a fact but that he per­sis­ted stub­bornly in den­ying.

  "Don't ta­ke on so, las­sie," he sa­id, sof­te­ning at her ob­vi­o­us dis­t­ress. "Per'aps the gen­t­le­man what ca­me to see 'em 'ad sum­mat to do wi' it. Meb­be he dro­ve 'em away in an 'urry."

  "Gen­t­le­man!" Mi­ran­da step­ped clo­ser to him. "What gen­t­le­man?"

  "Dun­no 'is na­me, but a right pro­per lord, 'e was. Co­me stra­ight up 'ere as if 'e knew 'em right well. Then 'e went out wi' two of 'em. The big wo­man and one of the men… That's the last I saw of 'im. T'others co­me back af­ter a whi­le, an' they pays me an' off they go­es. The lit­tl'un was wa­ilin' sum­mat aw­ful."

  "Rob­bie," Mi­ran­da whis­pe­red. She had a dre­ad­ful pa­in in her chest and she was fin­ding it hard to bre­at­he pro­perly." This gen­t­le­man. Did he ha­ve black ha­ir? No be­ard? Brown eyes?" She knew the an­s­wer but it was still im­pos­sib­le to be­li­eve.

  The cob­bler frow­ned and suc­ked his front te­eth. "Can't say as I re­mem­ber 'im. Tall, 'e was. Aye, black 'air, an' no be­ard."

  Why?

  Mi­ran­da pus­hed past the cob­bler and stum­b­led down the sta­irs, Chip still clut­c­hed in the cro­ok of her arm. Why wo­uld Ga­reth send her fa­mily away? He knew how im­por­tant they we­re to her. He'd he­ard her tel­ling them she was co­ming back with clot­hes for Rob­bie. Why? And whe­re had they go­ne?

  She ran back thro­ugh the stre­ets to Lud­ga­te. The pa­in in her chest was gro­wing fi­er­cer, tig­h­ter, as if she'd be­en stab­bed; and it was li­ke a stab wo­und, this dre­ad­ful know­led­ge of bet­ra­yal. So un­fa­ir, so unj­ust, so wit­ho­ut re­ason.

  She ra­ced thro­ugh the ga­tes and down the ro­ad to the Strand, he­ed­less of the star­t­led glan­ces she drew. She was sob­bing for bre­ath, sob­bing with an­ger, sob­bing with pa­in.

  The ga­tes of the ho­use sto­od open to ad­mit a dray­man's cart la­den with wi­ne bar­rels for Lord Har­co­urt's cel­lars. Mi­ran­da dar­ted in­to the co­ur­t­yard, he­ed­less of the wat­c­h­man's sho­ut be­hind her, up the sta­irs, and in­to the ho­use. She ran up the gre­at sta­ir­ca­se, along the cor­ri­dor, and flung open the do­or to Lord Har­co­urt's cham­ber.

  Ga­reth was ba­re­fo­ot, dres­sed only in his brit­c­hes. He spun from the was­h­s­tand, ra­zor in hand, lat­her smot­he­ring his fa­ce. "God's blo­od! What are you do­ing in he­re? What are you do­ing in tho­se clot­hes?" He grab­bed a to­wel and wi­ped his fa­ce. "Get out of he­re, Mi­ran­da."

  "Why?" she de­man­ded. "Why did you send them away? It was you, wasn't it? You sent them away!"

  Ga­reth glan­ced over her sho­ul­der at the do­or she'd left open. He stro­de past her and slam­med it. He spo­ke softly, yet with fi­er­ce in­ten­sity. "Now, lis­ten, you are abo­ut to ru­in ever­y­t­hing. Go back to yo­ur cham­ber. Get dres­sed pro­perly. Then we'll talk abo­ut this."

  Mi­ran­da sho­ok her he­ad, her eyes glis­te­ning with angry te­ars. "I don't ca­re what I ru­in. I want to know what you sa­id… what you did… why you sent them away. I de­mand to know."

  Her usu­al­ly me­lo­di­o­us vo­ice was harsh with pa­in and she ma­de no at­tempt to spe­ak qu­i­etly. Ga­reth, with a sen­se of des­pe­ra­ti­on, to­ok her by the sho­ul­ders and sho­ok her. "Hush. For Christ's sa­ke, be qu­i­et a mi­nu­te! Hen… the du­ke is in the next-do­or cham­ber. The en­ti­re ho­use­hold is up and abo­ut and you'll ha­ve them aro­und our ears li­ke a swarm of hor­nets in a mi­nu­te."

  "I don't ca­re," Mi­ran­da sa­id, trying to twitch away from his hands. "I don't ca­re, damn you!" A te­ar fi­nal­ly bro­ke lo­ose and rol­led down her che­ek. He had bet­ra­yed her. She lo­ved him and he had stab­bed her in the back and now his only con­cern was that in her un-hap­pi­ness she'd ru­in his plans.

  Angrily, she grab­bed the to­wel from his hand and swi­ped at the te­ars that we­re now fal­ling as if a dam had bro­ken. The to­wel was damp and frag­rant with the so­ap he'd be­en using to sha­ve and for so­me re­ason this ma­de her cry all the har­der.

  Ga­reth was stun­ned by her te­ars. An­ger he co­uld ha­ve de­alt with, but this bit­ter dis­t­ress was so un­li­ke Mi­ran­da, so pa­in­ful to watch that he for­got all the ur­gency of the mo­ment. Gat­he­ring her in­to his arms, he sat on the bed with her, roc­king her as if she we­re a hurt child.

  "Hush, swe­eting. Don't we­ep so. Ple­ase, don't we­ep so." He to­ok the to­wel from her and mop­ped at her dren­c­hed fa­ce, brus­hing her ha­ir back from her fo­re­he­ad, with his palm.

  "They're my fa­mily," Mi­ran­da gas­ped, pus­hing aga­inst his ba­re chest, strug­gling to sit up. "What did you say to them to ma­ke them le­ave me?"

  "They knew it was for the best. They did it for you." He he­ard the no­te of des­pe­ra­ti­on now in his vo­ice and knew im­me­di­ately that it wo­uld ac­hi­eve not­hing. He had to ta­ke back the si­tu­ati­on, had to pro­ve to Mi­ran­da that he was in con­t­rol, that he was in the right. He drew her back aga­inst him and when she twis­ted in his hold, trying to free her­self, he tig­h­te­ned his grip, en­c­lo­sing her in a fi­er­ce em­b­ra­ce that was as much a vi­se as a hug. "Stop strug­gling and lis­ten to me. How can I ex­p­la­in an­y­t­hing when you won’t be still?"

  Mi­ran­da ce­ased a strug­gle that for all her si­nu­o­us strength was cle­arly fu­ti­le. She fo­und she was bre­at­h­less, that her chest ac­hed, that her thro­at was scratchy and her eyes stung. But she no lon­ger felt li­ke we­eping. She re­ma­ined very still, but her body was ta­ut as a bow­s­t­ring in his arms.

  Ga­reth ran the pad of his thumb over her mo­uth, mo­ving his open hand up­ward to ca­ress the cur­ve of her che­ek aga­inst his chest. She didn't mo­ve or res­pond in any way. Her eyes re­ma­ined open, but they we­re not lo­oking at him.

  "All I sa­id to yo­ur fri­ends was that I didn't be­li­eve you co­uld sub­s­ti­tu­te for Ma­ude with pro­per con­vic­ti­on whi­le they re­ma­ined in Lon­don and you we­re li­kely to run off and jo­in t
hem whe­ne­ver the mo­od to­ok you." He spo­ke firmly. "I ex­p­la­ined that it was dif­fi­cult for you to ha­ve di­vi­ded lo­yal­ti­es, and whi­le you felt that you co­uld help them, then you wo­uld want to be do­ing that and wo­uld find it hard to con­cen­t­ra­te on pla­ying the very dif­fe­rent part you play he­re."

  Mi­ran­da lis­te­ned to the qu­i­et, le­vel to­nes, fe­eling his bre­ath rus­t­ling ac­ross the top of her he­ad. His hand con­ti­nu­ed to ca­ress her mo­uth and che­ek. The ba­re skin of his chest pres­sed warm thro­ugh the thin ma­te­ri­al of her dress.

  "Ma­ma Ger­t­ru­de and Ber­t­rand both ag­re­ed that it wo­uld be easi­er for you if they left town."

  "They de­ci­ded that for them­sel­ves?" She spo­ke and lo­oked up at him for the first ti­me.

  Ga­reth nod­ded and mo­ved his ca­res­sing thumb to her eye­lids, stro­king de­li­ca­tely. "After I'd po­in­ted the si­tu­ati­on out to them."

  "But why didn't they say go­od­b­ye? Whe­re are they go­ing? Whe­re will I find them aga­in?"

  "Ever­y­t­hing will be all right," he whis­pe­red, til­ting her fa­ce fur­t­her. His mo­uth ho­ve­red over hers, and when her lips par­ted on anot­her qu­es­ti­on, he clo­sed them with his own.

  His hand mo­ved down her thro­at and he ra­ised his mo­uth from hers just long eno­ugh to mur­mur," Trust me, lit­tle one. That's all you ha­ve to do."

  Mi­ran­da's eyes clo­sed in­vo­lun­ta­rily as she tri­ed to fight her body's in­si­di­o­us yi­el­ding to the prac­ti­ced ca­res­ses. Her mind told her that his ex­p­la­na­ti­on was lo­gi­cal, but the less ra­ti­onal part of her bra­in scre­amed that so­met­hing still wasn't right. She wan­ted to trust him, wan­ted to be­li­eve in him, wan­ted to sur­ren­der to the deft fin­gers un­la­cing her bo­di­ce, the hard as­ser­ti­on of his mo­uth on hers. But de­ep in­si­de her the dar­k­ness of hurt still stir­red.

  She tri­ed to push away, to turn her jaw aga­inst the fin­gers that held her fa­ce to his, but his free hand now glo­bed one ba­red bre­ast and its crown ro­se hard, to­tal­ly in­de­pen­dent of wish or will, aga­inst his palm. Pric­k­les of aro­usal jum­ped ac­ross her skin and her belly jol­ted with the now-fa­mi­li­ar cur­rent of lust. But still she strug­gled to re­sist, hol­ding her mo­uth clo­sed aga­inst him as if so­me­how it wo­uld pro­tect her from this slow, sen­su­o­us as­sa­ult on her hurt and her an­ger and her mis­t­rust. But he ex­p­lo­red the cur­ve of her mo­uth with the tip of his ton­gue, not for­cing en­t­ran­ce, but simply tas­ting the swe­et­ness of her lips, even whi­le his fin­gers on her jaw held her im­mo­bi­le.

  Thro­ug­ho­ut the long, lo­nely re­ac­hes of the night she had ac­hed for just this and now slowly her body was bet­ra­ying her, re­fu­sing to ac­k­now­led­ge an­y­t­hing but its own hungry ne­ed. Her mind's pro­tests grew ever fa­in­ter un­til they we­re lit­tle mo­re than a va­gue and in­co­he­rent ec­ho.

  As he sen­sed this, the gen­t­le­ness of his kiss chan­ged, be­ca­me a se­aring, in­sis­tent in­va­si­on that for­ced her lips apart. Her bre­asts we­re flat­te­ned aga­inst his chest and she co­uld fe­el his he­art be­ating hard al­most in rhythm with her own. He lif­ted her, tur­ned her si­de­ways on his lap, and now she co­uld fe­el the hard shaft of flesh pres­sing aga­inst her hip. With one last ef­fort, she tri­ed to push away aga­in, but his hand had slid up be­ne­ath her skirt and now grip­ped her bot­tom tightly, clam­ping her aga­inst him as his ton­gue con­ti­nu­ed to plun­der her mo­uth.

  And Mi­ran­da was awa­re of a glo­ri­o­us swe­et­ness in this cap­ti­vity. The de­ep, in­s­tin­c­ti­ve know­led­ge that the very for­ce that was bat­te­ring aga­inst her de­fen­ses wo­uld bring her pe­ace and the dark hurt wo­uld die in the light.

  Ga­reth felt her sur­ren­der, her over­po­we­ring ne­ed for his strength and his lo­ving. Her skin was hot to his to­uch, al­most fe­ve­rish, and her eyes we­re hu­ge, lu­mi­no­us with de­si­re, as they res­ted on his fa­ce. He re­le­ased his hold on her jaw but his ot­her hand re­ma­ined firm and warm on her bot­tom. He pus­hed the un­la­ced gown from her sho­ul­ders, mo­ving his mo­uth to the hol­low of her thro­at, pres­sing his lips aga­inst the be­ating pul­se be­fo­re they bur­ned a tan­ta­li­zing path to her bre­asts. His ton­gue pa­in­ted the soft cur­ves, te­ased the small, hard nip­ples, and a soft mo­an es­ca­ped her.

  He let her fall bac­k­ward on his lap, the oran­ge gown twis­ted be­ne­ath her, her body open and still in of­fe­ring. He drew the gown away from her, tos­sing it to the flo­or, then span­ned the slen­der in­den­ta­ti­on of her wa­ist with his hands.

  "Do you trust me, lit­tle one?"

  For an­s­wer, she re­ac­hed up to to­uch his fa­ce, cup­ping his che­ek as he had do­ne hers, tra­cing the ta­ut an­g­le of his jaw, the strong co­lumn of his neck. The ur­gency of his own pas­si­on was cle­ar in the dark po­ols of his eyes, in the ten­dons that sto­od out in his neck, and yet she knew he was in com­p­le­te con­t­rol… in con­t­rol of both of them. And Mi­ran­da knew she co­uld yi­eld her own de­fen­ses and he wo­uld not ta­ke ad­van­ta­ge of her sur­ren­der. She co­uld trust him to bring her joy and pe­ace. In this, she co­uld trust him.

  He be­gan to mo­ve over her body with de­li­ca­te, swe­eping ca­res­ses, whis­pe­ring softly his de­light in the sen­su­o­us glo­ri­es he un­fol­ded. He drew from her the mur­mu­red res­pon­ses he re­qu­ired, ob­li­ging her to re­ve­al for him the pla­ces and ca­res­ses that ga­ve her gre­atest ple­asu­re. She was ad­rift in en­c­han­t­ment, no lon­ger alo­ne with her hurt and her con­fu­si­on, and she em­b­ra­ced the glo­ri­o­us ob­li­te­ra­ti­on of her body, her so­ul, her mind, with a cry of joy.

  She was still lost on the sho­res of de­light when Ga­reth lif­ted her and la­id her on the bed. He strip­ped off his brit­c­hes with ro­ugh has­te and ca­me down on the bed. He knelt bet­we­en her wi­des­p­re­ad thighs, dra­wing her legs on­to his sho­ul­ders, slip­ping his hands be­ne­ath her bot­tom to lift her to me­et the slow, su­re thrust of his entry. She was pe­net­ra­ted to her very co­re, fil­led with a swe­et an­gu­ish that she co­uld ba­rely con­ta­in yet co­uldn't be­ar to lo­se.

  This ti­me they sha­red the wild, es­ca­la­ting spi­ral of glory, the tor­na­do that ca­ught them and swept them in­to the vo­id, and when it was over Mi­ran­da lay awash in lan­gu­or, limbs spraw­led aro­und his body just as they had fal­len, awa­re of not­hing but the ep­he­me­ral bliss of that jo­ining. Ga­reth's he­ad was on her sho­ul­der, his body he­avy on hers, pres­sing her in­to the fe­at­her mat­tress.

  Sun fell in a dust-la­den arc ac­ross Ga­reth's back and he ca­me to his sen­ses with a gro­an. "Christ and his sa­ints!" he mut­te­red, rol­ling away from her. His hand res­ted on her damp belly as he lo­oked down at her, sha­king his he­ad with a ru­eful lit­tle smi­le. "You're ke­eping me from my gu­ests, wic­ked one." He sat up, swin­ging his legs over the ed­ge of the bed, one hand mas­sa­ging the back of his neck. "How are we go­ing to get you out of he­re wit­ho­ut be­ing se­en?" He sto­od up and be­gan to dress swiftly.

  Mi­ran­da sat up. The ma­gic was over, shat­te­red by his words. And with it went her pe­ace. Af­ter that won­d­ro­us lo­ving, all Ga­reth co­uld think abo­ut was how to en­su­re that she wasn't se­en le­aving his cham­ber. He had he­aled her… «he had be­li­eved he co­uld he­al her hurt… but he hadn't. Not­hing had re­al­ly chan­ged. Not­hing mat­te­red to him but his am­bi­ti­on. And why had she ever tho­ught it co­uld be ot­her­wi­se?

  She re­mem­be­red so cle­arly the mo­ment on the bar­ge when he'd con­fes­sed to the dri­ving po­wer of his am­bi­ti­on. His mo­uth had ta­ken the cyni­cal, bit­ter cur­ve that she al­ways shrank from. She was a fo­ol not to ha­ve ta­ke
n he­ed then. He had ma­de no pro­mi­ses, he had fre­ely ad­mit­ted that he wan­ted to use her. And she had sur­ren­de­red her so­ul in ex­c­han­ge for a few mo­ments of physi­cal ple­asu­re.

  She had only her­self to bla­me for the hurt. "Don't worry, no one will see me le­ave." She pic­ked up her oran­ge dress, ha­uling it over her he­ad, and went to the win­dow.

  "Hey! Whe­re are you go­ing?" He step­ped qu­ickly to­ward her, re­ac­hing for her.

  "O­ut… this a-way." She ges­tu­red to the win­dow.

  "Don't be ri­di­cu­lo­us, swe­eting." He la­ug­hed at her, gently tip­ped her chin to kiss her, but his eyes we­re dis­t­rac­ted. "Le­ave by the do­or. I'll check that the co­ast is cle­ar."

  "This is sa­fer," she sa­id stub­bornly.

  Ga­reth sta­red in half-la­ug­hing dis­be­li­ef as Mi­ran­da flung her leg over the sill. Chip, with an eager jab­ber, le­aped on­to the sill be­si­de her.

  "Mi­ran­da, get back in he­re!" But she had go­ne, swin­ging her­self over the sill. Ga­reth lun­ged for the win­dow, kno­wing he was too la­te. Chip was al­re­ady clam­be­ring si­de­ways along the wall in the ivy, he­ading for Mi­ran­da's bed­c­ham­ber win­dow. Mi­ran­da, clin­ging to the wall li­ke a fly, ed­ged her way along un­til she co­uld ho­ok her fin­gers over her own win­dow­sill. The bright oran­ge splash aga­inst the lush gre­en ivy di­sap­pe­ared.

  Ga­reth drew his he­ad back in­to the cham­ber. He fi­nis­hed dres­sing, ref­lec­ting that he wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve ex­pec­ted such an ex­t­re­me re­ac­ti­on from Mi­ran­da to the tro­upe's de­par­tu­re. She was such a ra­ti­onal, prag­ma­tic so­ul. So re­ady to flow with the ti­de, to la­ugh at in­con­ve­ni­en­ces; so qu­ick to se­arch out the be­ne­fit to be fo­und in ap­pa­rent set­backs. He had ex­pec­ted her to be a lit­tle hurt when she fo­und her fri­ends had go­ne, just as she'd be­en in Do­ver. But he'd as­su­med she wo­uld de­ci­de that they had go­od and suf­fi­ci­ent re­ason. Of co­ur­se, he hadn't ex­pec­ted her to dis­co­ver that he'd had a hand in it. Stu­pid of him not to ex­pect the cob­bler to let so­met­hing slip.