The Emerald Swan

by Jane Feather

  "Co­me, my lady, let us ta­ke a turn in the gar­den." Henry tuc­ked Ma­ude's hand be­ne­ath his arm. "I find myself over­he­ated with all this dan­cing. It's far from my fa­vo­ri­te exer­ci­se." He bo­re her back to the gar­den do­ors wit­ho­ut wa­iting for her con­sent and it oc­cur­red to Ma­ude that this su­itor of hers was not ac­cus­to­med to ga­ining an­yo­ne's con­sent to an­y­t­hing he cho­se to do.

  Inste­ad of an­no­ying her, she fo­und the idea stran­gely ex­ci­ting. Be­ing with the du­ke was li­ke be­ing ad­rift on a very strong cur­rent that wo­uld ta­ke you whe­re it wil­led. The de­fe­ren­ce he was ac­cor­ded by his com­pa­ni­ons had at first sur­p­ri­sed her. They we­re not gre­atly out­ran­ked by the du­ke, but now it se­emed per­fectly na­tu­ral.

  In the frag­rant gar­den, the du­ke led her uner­ringly to a sec­lu­ded ar­bor be­yond the fish pond, whe­re a fo­un­ta­in pla­yed, the cas­ca­de of wa­ter cat­c­hing the last rosy glow of the sun­set.

  "I ca­me to Lon­don ex­pec­ting to co­urt an eli­gib­le ma­id, but in­s­te­ad I find myself in a fa­ir way to lo­sing my he­art," Henry sa­id, so­un­ding both puz­zled and amu­sed. He slip­ped an arm aro­und her wa­ist, tur­ning her to­ward him.

  Ma­ude felt a de­ep trem­b­ling in her belly as she lo­oked in­to his eyes and saw the ke­en­ness of his de­si­re and des­pi­te her inex­pe­ri­en­ce re­ad it for what it was.

  When he to­ok her fa­ce bet­we­en his hands, she sto­od very still, fe­eling the warm press of his body aga­inst hers. In­s­tin­c­ti­vely she mo­ved aga­inst him and he­ard his sharp in­ta­ke of bre­ath, saw the smi­ling qu­irk of his mo­uth as he bro­ught it down upon hers.

  Her lips res­ted pli­ant be­ne­ath his as he kis­sed her full on the lips, then mo­ved his mo­uth to the cor­ners of her mo­uth with a de­li­ca­te but­terfly of a kiss. She didn't know what to do in res­pon­se, she was too over­w­hel­med by the sen­sa­ti­on. The scent of his skin, the soft pric­k­le of his be­ard, the hard yet pli­ab­le pres­su­re of his mo­uth.

  When he ra­ised his he­ad and smi­led down at her, she lo­oked back at him in won­de­ring si­len­ce, and then al­most tho­ug­h­t­ful­ly to­uc­hed her mo­uth with her fin­ger­tips. Then, in­s­tin­c­ti­vely, she ra­ised the sa­me fin­gers and to­uc­hed his mo­uth. Her eyes we­re gra­ve and yet qu­es­ti­oning.

  "Oh, you are a de­light," he sa­id softly. "So much so that I co­uld al­most tell King Henry and Pa­ris to go to the de­vil and stay he­re and woo you fo­re­ver." "You must at­tend to yo­ur duty, my lord." He la­ug­hed. "Yes, my de­ar, I must. And a wi­fe who re­minds her hus­band of his duty is a wi­fe to be pri­zed."

  He to­ok her hands in a firm, warm clasp and kis­sed her aga­in, but lightly this ti­me. " This wi­fe I will pri­ze abo­ve all el­se, I pro­mi­se you that."

  Ma­ude tho­ught of li­fe in a nun­nery. Then with a he­ady sur­ge of de­fi­an­ce that fil­led her with a de­lig­h­ted bub­ble of la­ug­h­ter, she tho­ught, To hell with the nun­nery. Her arms went aro­und his neck, and her mo­uth aga­inst his was in­sis­tent with her own de­mand.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Mi­ran­da ro­se slowly to her fe­et as Lord Har­co­urt en­te­red the gre­en bed­c­ham­ber. Her vo­ice was thin as she sa­id, "I'm glad you're he­re, mi­lord, for I ha­ve so­met­hing to ask you."

  "Aye, and I be­li­eve you ne­ed to ex­p­la­in why you wo­uld di­sap­pe­ar for the en­ti­re day. Did it not oc­cur to you that the du­ke might ha­ve no­ti­ced the sub­s­ti­tu­ti­on?" he de­man­ded, as the ho­urs of an­xi­ety yi­el­ded to an­ger. "Other pe­op­le ha­ve no­ti­ced it. It's a dam­ned mi­rac­le that the du­ke do­esn't ap­pe­ar to ha­ve do­ne so."

  Mi­ran­da me­rely shrug­ged, and the dis­mis­si­ve ges­tu­re in­fu­ri­ated him fur­t­her. He to­ok a step to­ward her. She to­ok a step back from him and re­gar­ded him with a col­d­ness that co­uldn't dis­gu­ise the dre­ad­ful hurt swim­ming be­ne­ath the sur­fa­ce of her eyes. The hurt that he tho­ught he'd ba­nis­hed that mor­ning.

  Her com­po­su­re alar­med him. The­re was so­met­hing so de­ter­mi­ned, so fi­xed, in her re­gard, in her pos­tu­re, des­pi­te the fact that she was clad in a cham­ber ro­be, her fe­et ba­re, her ha­ir dis­he­ve­led, as if she'd be­en run­ning her fin­gers thro­ugh it.

  "If the du­ke hasn't no­ti­ced it, mi­lord, then I be­li­eve you sho­uld be gra­te­ful for the sub­s­ti­tu­ti­on. You can ha­ve no ne­ed of me now. Ma­ude grows ever clo­ser to ac­cep­ting her des­tiny."

  "Mi­ran­da- "

  "No!" she in­ter­rup­ted fi­er­cely. "No, mi­lord. An­s­wer me! Did you pay them to le­ave me? What did you say to ma­ke them go? Did you thre­aten them, first, then bri­be them?"

  Ga­reth was so ta­ken aback for a mi­nu­te he co­uldn't gat­her his tho­ughts for a res­pon­se.

  "Did you pay them, sir?" she re­pe­ated, her eyes fla­ring aga­inst her de­athly pal­lor.

  Ga­reth knew with grim re­sig­na­ti­on that he'd go­ne as far as he co­uld with this de­cep­ti­on. He still felt it was too early for Mi­ran­da to he­ar and ac­cept the truth easily, but his hand was now for­ced. "Aye," he sa­id qu­i­etly, "I pa­id them the fifty ro­se nob­les I pro­mi­sed you. And for very go­od re­ason. Now, if you wo­uld just lis­ten to me for a mi­nu­te, you will un­der­s­tand."

  "And they to­ok it… they to­ok yo­ur blo­od mo­ney," she sa­id bit­terly, tur­ning away with a dis­gus­ted and de­fe­ated ges­tu­re.

  Ga­reth grab­bed her sho­ul­ders and swung her ro­und to fa­ce him. "Will you lis­ten to me, Mi­ran­da. Just he­ar me out and don't in­ter­rupt un­til I've fi­nis­hed. Af­ter­ward you may say what you wish, and ask wha­te­ver qu­es­ti­ons you wish. But I swe­ar to you it's not as you think. No one has bet­ra­yed you."

  Mi­ran­da he­ard the words, saw the con­vic­ti­on in his dark eyes, but not­hing co­uld stop the de­ep shud­der of fo­re­bo­ding qu­ive­ring in her belly, lif­ting the fi­ne ha­irs on her na­pe. She lo­oked at him in si­len­ce and he was re­min­ded of a pri­so­ner fa­cing the he­ad­man. Re­so­lu­tely he be­gan with the story of Sa­int Bar­t­ho­lo­mew's eve…

  He se­emed to ha­ve be­en spe­aking for ho­urs but when at long last he fi­nis­hed, the only so­und in the cham­ber was Chip's low mut­te­ring from the win­dow whe­re he was swin­ging by one arm from the cur­ta­in rod.

  When Ga­reth tho­ught he co­uld be­ar her si­len­ce no lon­ger, Mi­ran­da spo­ke, her vo­ice oddly dis­pas­si­ona­te. "How can you be su­re that I'm Ma­ude's sis­ter?"

  "That lit­tle cres­cent mark on yo­ur ha­ir­li­ne," he rep­li­ed, ke­eping his to­ne as calm and mat­ter-of-fact as it had be­en thro­ug­ho­ut the dis­c­lo­su­re. "Ma­ude has it. I ha­ve it. Yo­ur mot­her had it. It's a mark of the Har­co­urts."

  Mi­ran­da ra­ised her arm to fe­el be­ne­ath her ha­ir. The mark was not ra­ised in any way but she knew it was the­re, just as she knew that all de­ni­al of the earl's re­ve­la­ti­on was po­in­t­less. She and Ma­ude we­re twins. She knew that truth in her blo­od, and she knew that Ma­ude wo­uld ac­cept it as ine­vi­tably as she did.

  "Very few pe­op­le knew of the mis­sing twin," Ga­reth sa­id. "On that dre­ad­ful night, the­re we­re so many mur­ders that the loss of a ten-mon­th-old baby be­ca­me ab­sor­bed in the hor­ror."

  The grim si­len­ce fell aga­in. Ga­reth grew se­ri­o­usly alar­med by Mi­ran­da's ex­t­re­me pal­lor, and the stran­ge flic­ker in her eyes. She wo­uldn't lo­ok at him di­rectly, and when he re­ac­hed out a hand to catch her chin, to turn her fa­ce to­ward him, she drew back as if he'd struck her.

  "Do you un­der­s­tand what this me­ans?" He won­de­red if she had re­al­ly ta­ken in what he'd sa­id. He wo­uldn't be sur­p­ri­sed if she had
n't fully ab­sor­bed all the im­p­li­ca­ti­ons of this dis­c­lo­su­re that he knew to be pre­ma­tu­re.

  "Yes," she sa­id. "I un­der­s­tand that you used me and de­ce­ived me. But I al­re­ady un­der­s­to­od that when you sent my fa­mily away."

  "They are not yo­ur fa­mily," he sa­id bluntly. "And they left be­ca­use they knew it was ne­ces­sary. They ma­de me pro­mi­se to tell you that they hadn't aban­do­ned you. They knew the truth and they knew that they no lon­ger had a part in yo­ur li­fe." Su­rely that was ob­vi­o­us to her, he tho­ught. How co­uld it not be?

  "Who sa­id they no lon­ger ha­ve a part in my li­fe?" Fury shot thro­ugh her li­ke a lig­h­t­ning bolt, set­ting her eyes on fi­re, brin­ging a flush to her pa­le che­eks. What was ob­vi­o­us to Lord Har­co­urt was not so self-evi­dent to Mi­ran­da.

  " You! You de­ci­ded that. They are my fa­mily! They ha­ve ca­red for me and they be­long to me as I be­long to them. I'm not a Har­co­urt or a d'Albard… not in any me­anin­g­ful way. I am what I've al­ways be­en and you had no right, no right at all, ever to in­ter­fe­re. To ri­de ro­ug­h­s­hod over me, bu­ying off my fa­mily as if they we­re… we­re of no mo­re ac­co­unt than com­mo­di­ti­es you co­uld dis­po­se of at yo­ur will. You bet­ra­yed me, my trust, my-"

  "Swe­eting, hush, ple­ase." Ga­reth re­ac­hed for her, gat­he­ring her aga­inst him, trying to si­len­ce the dre­ad­ful out­po­uring. "Swe­eting, lis­ten to me. You're not be­ing re­aso­nab­le. On­ce I re­ali­zed who you are, I co­uldn't le­ave you on the stre­ets. You must see that. I had a fa­mily ob­li­ga­ti­on to re­turn you to yo­ur bir­t­h­right."

  Mi­ran­da wren­c­hed her he­ad away from his chest. "No, mi­lord, you saw a way to sa­tisfy yo­ur own am­bi­ti­on," she sta­ted flatly. "And you didn't… don't… ca­re whom you used."

  Ga­reth tri­ed to bring her he­ad back aga­inst him, stro­king her ha­ir as he sa­id, "I won't deny that am­bi­ti­on was a po­wer­ful for­ce. But my am­bi­ti­on is al­so

  yo­urs. Think, Mi­ran­da. Think what I've be­en wor­king to­ward. You wo­uld be Qu­e­en of Fran­ce and Na­var­re."

  "And if I don't want that?" she de­man­ded, pul­ling out of his arms. "If such a pros­pect me­rely fills me with re­vul­si­on? What then, mi­lord?"

  "You we­re not me­ant to li­ve on the stre­ets, you know that yo­ur­self," he sa­id, trying to so­und ra­ti­onal. "I've just ope­ned the do­or to a new li­fe. I know it's over­w­hel­ming at first, but I swe­ar to you that this is whe­re yo­ur des­tiny li­es."

  Mi­ran­da sho­ok her he­ad. "No, it is not," she sa­id bit­terly. " The­re is no pla­ce for me he­re." She re­gar­ded him with a pi­ti­less cla­rity. "Ma­ude will marry for the sa­ke of Har­co­urt am­bi­ti­on. Not me."

  She tur­ned away, na­use­ated by the de­ep and dre­ad­ful ac­he of bet­ra­yal. Not­hing he had sa­id les­se­ned it, in­de­ed, it ma­de it even wor­se. Ne­ver on­ce sin­ce he'd met her had he tho­ught of her as an­y­t­hing but the me­ans to his own ends. Not even when he was lo­ving her… not even then. Even his re­ve­la­ti­ons had no im­pact upon her. She was still what she had al­ways be­en and that co­uldn't be chan­ged by me­re words.

  "Mi­ran­da, my lo­ve-"

  "Don't call me that," she snap­ped." The­re ha­ve be­en eno­ugh li­es bet­we­en us, mi­lord, let's not add anot­her one. Not on­ce ha­ve you ca­red a gro­at for me. What we­re you thin­king when you ma­de lo­ve to me, mi­lord? That it wo­uld swe­eten me, that it wo­uld-"

  He co­uldn't be­ar it. He se­ized her sho­ul­ders, swung her in­to his body, stro­king her back, run­ning his fin­gers up thro­ugh the glo­wing auburn ha­ir, ca­res­sing the back of her he­ad, des­pe­ra­te to si­len­ce the dre­ad­ful ac­cu­sa­ti­ons. "Mi­ran­da! Stop! Ma­king lo­ve to you had not­hing to do with any of this. It was se­pa­ra­te from-"

  "This mor­ning?" she de­man­ded, twis­ting away from him with a strength she hadn't known she pos­ses­sed. "Ma­king lo­ve to me this mor­ning had not­hing to do with swe­ete­ning me, co­ze­ning me, brin­ging me to he­el?" She sta­red at him with the sa­me pi­ti­less cla­rity. "Can't you be­ar the truth?" Then her sho­ul­ders slum­ped, the ri­gi­dity of an­ger left her. She sa­id softly, ma­king it so­und li­ke an ac­cu­sa­ti­on, "I lo­ved you."

  "Mi­ran­da, de­arest girl-"

  "Go away!" she cri­ed, stop­ping her ears with her hands in a ges­tu­re that was as fu­ti­le as it was des­pe­ra­te.

  Her dis­t­ress was so over­w­hel­ming that Ga­reth co­uldn't be­ar to add to it by for­cing his pre­sen­ce on her a mo­ment lon­ger. He'd ex­pec­ted dif­fi­culty, but not­hing as hi­de­o­us as this. He sto­od aw­k­wardly, not kno­wing what to say, how to back away wit­ho­ut ma­king things even wor­se. "La­ter," he sa­id. "We'll talk la­ter."

  He went to the do­or in too much dis­t­ress of his own to no­ti­ce that it was not pro­perly clo­sed. He pul­led it shut qu­i­etly be­hind him and tur­ned to­ward the ha­ven of his own bed­c­ham­ber. But that san­c­tu­ary must wa­it. The qu­e­en of En­g­land was still his gu­est.

  As he stro­de away to­ward the sta­irs, Lady Mary Aber­nathy step­ped out of a small clo­set op­po­si­te the gre­en bed­c­ham­ber. She sto­od still, sta­ring at the clo­sed do­or op­po­si­te, thin­king bit­terly of the old ada­ge that eaves­d­rop­pers ra­rely he­ard things to the­ir own ad­van­ta­ge.

  Ma­king lo­ve to me this mor­ning… So had spo­ken the girl who was not Ma­ude. The girl who was Ga­reth's mis­t­ress. He kept his mis­t­ress un­der his own ro­of. I lo­ved you… the girl had sa­id.

  Mary stro­ked her thro­at, trying to swal­low the nut of na­usea. Har­co­urt had fo­is­ted upon her, upon his sis­ter, upon the qu­e­en her­self, such a mo­nu­men­tal de­cep­ti­on, such a bet­ra­yal, that she co­uldn't be­gin to ab­sorb it. Men had who­res, even mis­t­res­ses. But they kept them apart from the­ir wi­ves, the­ir fi­anc?es, the­ir fa­mily ti­es. The­re we­re no en­tan­g­le­ments. Just a sim­p­le bu­si­ness ar­ran­ge­ment. But that was not the si­tu­ati­on he­re. She had ne­ver he­ard Ga­reth spe­ak in such to­nes, so­und so dis­t­res­sed, so in­vol­ved, so at sea. So ab­so­lu­tely en­mes­hed in a vul­gar mo­rass that no true, self-res­pec­ting knight of Her Ma­j­esty's em­pi­re co­uld ever so much as con­tem­p­la­te.

  She re­tur­ned dow­n­s­ta­irs to the gat­he­ring as qu­i­etly and as unob­ser­ved as she had left it.

  It was an ho­ur la­ter when Ma­ude pe­ered aro­und Mi­ran­da's do­or in­to the sha­do­wed cham­ber. The qu­e­en and her re­ti­nue had fi­nal­ly re­tur­ned to Whi­te­hall, with the es­cort of the earl of Har­co­urt and the du­ke of Ro­is­sy. "Are you in bed, Mi­ran­da?"

  Mi­ran­da was so raw, so ad­rift in this fe­ar­ful con­fu­si­on of loss, whe­re her own iden­tity was so­me­how di­sin­teg­ra­ting, all the pa­ra­me­ters of her exis­ten­ce des­t­ro­yed, that she didn't know what to say to Ma­ude. Whet­her she co­uld sha­re the eve­ning's dis­c­lo­su­res with her, or whet­her to le­ave her in blis­sful ig­no­ran­ce.

  "No, I'm not in bed."

  "Why are you sit­ting in the dark?" Ma­ude ca­me in, clo­sing the do­or be­hind her. Mi­ran­da was sit­ting on the win­dow se­at, her fe­et cur­led up be­ne­ath her, Chip spraw­led in­do­lently on his back in her lap.

  "I was wat­c­hing the eve­ning star."

  Ma­ude frow­ned. Mi­ran­da's vo­ice didn't so­und qu­ite the sa­me as usu­al. It was scratchy as if she had a cold. Ma­ude ca­me over to the win­dow se­at and le­aned over to tic­k­le Chip's sto­mach. Her neck was ba­re, her ha­ir ca­ught smo­othly in­to a sno­od of gold thre­ad, and Mi­ran­da saw the fa­int cres­cent mark aga­inst her sis­ter's ha­ir­li­ne. Her hand went to the back of her own neck.

  "So
, tell me what hap­pe­ned dow­n­s­ta­irs?"

  "Oh, yes." Ma­ude squ­e­ezed on­to the win­dow se­at be­si­de Mi­ran­da, pa­used to col­lect her tho­ughts, then with a de­ep bre­ath po­ured forth her bub­bling ex­ci­te­ment and con­fu­si­on.

  "He kis­sed me," she fi­nis­hed. "It felt so stran­ge and, well… well, won­der­ful. Do you know if that's how it's sup­po­sed to fe­el?"

  "I be­li­eve so," Mi­ran­da sa­id dully.

  "What's the mat­ter?" Ma­ude re­ac­hed for her hands. "You're so sad, Mi­ran­da. What is it?"

  Mi­ran­da wa­ved her hand in a brus­que ges­tu­re of dis­mis­sal. "Are you pre­pa­red to ag­ree to the bet­rot­hal now, then?"

  Ma­ude sho­ok her he­ad. "I don't know. Ever­y­t­hing I be­li­eved abo­ut myself se­ems to ha­ve tur­ned top­sy-turvy."

  Mi­ran­da al­most la­ug­hed at the bit­ter irony. Li­ke sis­ter, li­ke sis­ter. They we­re both ad­rift now, be­ca­use the earl of Har­co­urt had de­ci­ded to play God.

  "What is it, Mi­ran­da?" Ma­ude as­ked in­sis­tently. "I ha­te it that you're sad. The­re must be so­met­hing I can do to help."

  Mi­ran­da slid off the win­dow se­at, still crad­ling Chip. "I'm go­ing away," she sa­id.

  "So so­on?" Ma­ude lo­oked ag­hast. "Is it be­ca­use I've ta­ken yo­ur pla­ce with the du­ke? Be­ca­use you don't think you're ne­eded an­y­mo­re?"

  "I'm not," Mi­ran­da sa­id. "But that's not the only re­ason I'm go­ing. I ha­ve to find my fa­mily be­fo­re they ta­ke ship for Fran­ce. The­re was a mi­sun­der­s­tan­ding and they tho­ught I wasn't co­ming back to them. So I ha­ve to le­ave at day­b­re­ak."

  "I don't want you to go," Ma­ude sa­id slowly, al­most won­de­ringly.

  "Then co­me with me." Mi­ran­da sa­id it wit­ho­ut thin­king but then the im­pos­sib­le idea be­ca­me pos­sib­le, and a sur­ge of li­fe re­ne­wed her. "One last ad­ven­tu­re to­get­her," she ur­ged, her vo­ice on­ce mo­re vib­rant. "Co­me with me to Fol­kes­to­ne, Ma­ude. It'll gi­ve you ti­me to think abo­ut what you re­al­ly want. Ti­me to be yo­ur­self, an­s­we­ring only to yo­ur­self. You'll ne­ver ha­ve that chan­ce aga­in."