The Emerald Swan

by Jane Feather

  Ma­ude sta­red at her, saw her own ima­ge ref­lec­ted in Mi­ran­da's eyes. Saw Mi­ran­da ref­lec­ted in Mi­ran­da's eyes. And she saw her own li­fe, pus­hed and pul­led by for­ces over which she had no con­t­rol. Even when she as­ser­ted her­self, de­fi­ed her gu­ar­di­ans, she was only res­pon­ding, she was not ini­ti­ating, not truly ma­king up her own mind. It was her one chan­ce to see things cle­arly… see what she wan­ted for her li­fe. Even if it tur­ned out that she co­uldn't ha­ve it, she wo­uld at le­ast ha­ve had the op­por­tu­nity to find out, to get to know her­self.

  "What will they tell the du­ke?" she sa­id slowly. "They're to sign the bet­rot­hal con­t­racts to­mor­row."

  "That you're ailing."

  Ma­ude nod­ded. "That won't sur­p­ri­se an­yo­ne. But they'll be so angry."

  "No, I don't think so," Mi­ran­da sa­id. "We'll le­ave word that you're sa­fe and that you'll re­turn in a we­ek. Mi­lord will un­der­s­tand."

  "Why wo­uld my gu­ar­di­an un­der­s­tand so­met­hing so com­p­le­tely in­com­p­re­hen­sib­le?"

  "Be­ca­use he will." Mi­ran­da re­ac­hed for Ma­ude's hands. "We le­ave at day­b­re­ak. I ha­ve no mo­ney, but Chip and I can earn it."

  "Oh, I ha­ve mo­ney," Ma­ude sa­id. She ga­zed at Mi­ran­da in daw­ning won­der. "Why am I do­ing this?"

  "Be­ca­use I ne­ed you," Mi­ran­da sa­id. "And be­ca­use you ne­ed to do it for yo­ur­self."

  And for so­me stran­ge re­ason, the an­s­wers ma­de per­fect sen­se to Ma­ude. They se­emed to fit with all the ne­at­ness of an in­ter­loc­king jig­saw pi­ece in­to the pic­tu­re of her­self that she was now cre­ating.

  We­arily Ga­reth mo­ved his ro­ok to king fo­ur and won­de­red how long it wo­uld ta­ke be­fo­re the qu­e­en fi­nal­ly ti­red. He con­tem­p­la­ted de­li­be­ra­tely lo­sing the ga­me to bring this in­ter­mi­nab­le eve­ning to a spe­edi­er con­c­lu­si­on but then dis­mis­sed the idea. The qu­e­en was too go­od a chess pla­yer and far too nim­b­le-wit­ted to be de­ce­ived and in­cur­ring her dis­p­le­asu­re wo­uldn't get him back to the pe­ace of his bed­c­ham­ber any qu­ic­ker.

  Eli­za­beth mo­ved her bis­hop, her long whi­te be­rin­ged fin­gers still to­uc­hing the pi­ece un­til she was cer­ta­in it was the right mo­ve. Then she smi­led. "Check, sir."

  Ga­reth sur­ve­yed the bo­ard. He co­uld play to a draw, or he co­uld re­sign. He glan­ced up at his qu­e­en and saw a slightly ma­li­ci­o­us glint of com­p­re­hen­si­on in her bright black eyes.

  "I will ac­cept yo­ur re­sig­na­ti­on, my lord Har­co­urt," she sa­id. "I fe­ar you ha­ve too much on yo­ur mind to­night to gi­ve me a run for my mo­ney."

  Ga­reth top­pled his king and smi­led ru­eful­ly. "Yo­ur Ma­j­esty se­es too much for com­fort."

  Eli­za­beth la­ug­hed, not dis­p­le­ased by the com­p­li­ment. She ro­se from the chess tab­le and Ga­reth got to his fe­et im­me­di­ately. Eli­za­beth had sent her wil­ting la­di­es to bed as so­on as they'd re­ac­hed Whi­te­hall from the Har­co­urt man­si­on. The du­ke of Ro­is­sy had be­en early ex­cu­sed with the con­si­de­ra­ti­on owed an ho­no­red gu­est, but a me­re su­bj­ect was ex­pec­ted to dan­ce to Her Ma­j­esty's tu­ne. And Eli­za­beth, who ne­eded lit­tle sle­ep, was in the mo­od for con­ver­sa­ti­on and chess.

  "I find the du­ke of Ro­is­sy an in­te­res­ting man," she com­men­ted, ope­ning her fan. "And no fo­ol."

  "In­de­ed not, ma­dam."

  "He se­ems ab­so­lu­tely cer­ta­in that Henry will pre­va­il in the si­ege of Pa­ris." The qu­e­en ra­ised one pluc­ked eyeb­row. "I wish I co­uld be so cer­ta­in. What think you, my lord?"

  "He has right on his si­de, ma­dam."

  The qu­e­en clo­sed her fan and sto­od tap­ping it in­to the palm of her hand. "I wo­uld ex­pect you to be­li­eve that, of co­ur­se. Af­ter what hap­pe­ned to yo­ur fa­mily in the mas­sac­re. If Henry suc­ce­eds in se­cu­ring the crown of Fran­ce, this mar­ri­age of yo­ur ward's will bring for­tu­ne to the Har­co­urts, will it not?"

  Ga­reth knew it was a rhe­to­ri­cal qu­es­ti­on so he me­rely bo­wed.

  "I am not as yet cer­ta­in how En­g­land will be­ne­fit from ha­ving Henry of Na­var­re on the thro­ne of Fran­ce," Eli­za­beth "sa­id con­si­de­ringly." The opi­ni­ons of tho­se clo­se to the French co­urt will al­ways be of gre­at use to me."

  "My ser­vi­ce and my lo­yal­ti­es lie first and fo­re­most with my qu­e­en."

  Eli­za­beth nod­ded slowly. "I li­ke am­bi­ti­o­us men aro­und me, Lord Har­co­urt. Am­bi­ti­on and po­wer are re­li­ab­le mo­ti­ves." She smi­led with that sa­me hint of ma­li­ce. "They're un­f­lin­c­hing and they le­ad a man along wel­ltrod­den paths." Ab­ruptly, she tur­ned to­ward the do­or le­ading to her bed­c­ham­ber. "I bid you go­od night, my lord."

  "I trust Yo­ur Ma­j­esty will sle­ep well." Ga­reth bo­wed and re­ma­ined in obe­isan­ce un­til the qu­e­en had pas­sed from the privy cham­ber. Then with a soft ex­ha­la­ti­on of re­li­ef, he left him­self, ac­k­now­led­ging the sa­lu­te of the cham­ber­la­ins at the do­or with a bri­ef nod. He had go­ne no mo­re than hal­f­way along the nig­ht-qu­i­et cor­ri­dor when a do­or ope­ned just ahe­ad of him.

  Lady Mary Aber­nathy step­ped di­rectly in front of him, bar­ring his way. She sto­od be­ne­ath a lamp in a wall scon­ce and Ga­reth's first tho­ught was that she was un­well or had had so­me dre­ad­ful fright, or per­haps re­ce­ived so­me hi­de­o­us news. Her fa­ce was a mask- ghostly whi­te, her eyes fi­xed un­mo­ving in the­ir de­ep soc­kets. She sto­od stock-still in the cor­ri­dor. She sta­red at him as if he we­re so­me mon­s­ter emer­ged from the de­eps.

  "Mary?" He stop­ped. "Is so­met­hing the mat­ter? What has hap­pe­ned?"

  "I wo­uld ha­ve pri­va­te spe­ech with you, sir." Her vo­ice was a mo­no­to­ne. She step­ped back in­to the small pa­ne­led ro­om whe­re she'd be­en awa­iting him. Ga­reth fol­lo­wed her, puz­zled and alar­med.

  "What has hap­pe­ned?" he re­pe­ated, ben­ding to turn up the wick on a lamp sit­ting on a small tab­le. He lif­ted the lamp to see her bet­ter, then sa­id with con­cern, "You lo­ok ill, Mary."

  "I am sic­ke­ned," she sa­id in the sa­me flat vo­ice. "You… you… ha­ve had car­nal know­led­ge of that girl." Her vo­ice to­ok on to­ne and co­lor. "She's not yo­ur ward. You ha­ve con­duc­ted a car­nal re­la­ti­on­s­hip un­der yo­ur own ro­of… with… with… what is she?"

  Ga­reth ca­re­ful­ly set the lamp back on the tab­le. They we­re in a very small an­tec­ham­ber, spar­sely fur­nis­hed, the wo­oden pa­ne­ling una­dor­ned with ta­pes­t­ri­es or mol­ding. He had no idea how Mary knew what she knew, but as he fa­ced his bet­rot­hed, he felt a sen­se of re­li­ef. The re­li­ef of con­fes­si­on, he sup­po­sed with self-di­rec­ted cyni­cism.

  "What is she?" Mary de­man­ded aga­in. Two bright spots of co­lor bur­ned now on her high che­ek­bo­nes, star­t­ling aga­inst her pal­lor, and her eyes now fla­red with rig­h­te­o­us an­ger. "Did you bring her in­to the ho­use so she co­uld ser­ve you as yo­ur mis­t­ress?"

  Sim­p­le truth se­emed the only pos­sib­le ro­ad to ta­ke. "No, not ini­ti­al­ly. Mi­ran­da was tra­ve­ling with a gro­up of strol­ling pla­yers when I first met her."

  "A va­ga­bond! And a thi­ef, no do­ubt. You've be­en con­sor­ting un­der yo­ur own ro­of with a ro­ad­si­de who­re!" Mary cho­ked on her out­ra­ge.

  "Mi­ran­da's not a who­re, Mary," Ga­reth sa­id qu­i­etly. He was as­to­un­ded at her pas­si­on. This wo­man who had ne­ver evin­ced the slig­h­test lack of con­t­rol, who ne­ver sa­id or did an­y­t­hing that was not ca­re­ful­ly con­si­de­red and per­fectly ap­prop­ri­ate, was con­f­ron­
ting him with all the fi­er­ce out­ra­ge of a cor­ne­red vi­xen.

  "You wo­uld de­fend such a cre­atu­re? You in­sult yo­ur sis­ter, yo­ur ho­nor, me!" Her vo­ice ca­ught, but when Ga­reth pre­pa­red to spe­ak, she held up an im­pe­ra­ti­ve hand." That cre­atu­re tal­ked of lo­ve7. What do you say to that, my lord Har­co­urt? A ro­ad­si­de har­lot tal­ked to you of lo­ve. I he­ard every word!"

  "Ah," Ga­reth sa­id, un­der­s­tan­ding now how his bet­rot­hed had co­me by her in­for­ma­ti­on." The­re is a lit­tle mo­re to this than me­ets the eye, Mary, but-"

  "Oh, you'll be tel­ling me next that you lo­ve her!"

  Mary in­ter­rup­ted, dis­gust drip­ping from her vo­ice. "The ul­ti­ma­te vul­ga­rity! Pe­op­le in our po­si­ti­on don't lo­ve."

  Ga­reth re­gar­ded her in ru­eful si­len­ce. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, at so­met­hing of a loss. He hadn't ex­pec­ted to be ac­cu­sed of vul­ga­rity, of all things. But then he sup­po­sed he sho­uld ha­ve ex­pec­ted it from Mary. He co­uldn't tell exactly what as­pect of this who­le mess tro­ub­led her the most. Was it the sex? The fact that it had ta­ken pla­ce un­der his own ro­of? The fact that the girl was not what she'd be­en ma­de out to be? Or the vul­ga­rity of such a word and emo­ti­on ap­pli­ed to the re­la­ti­on­s­hip?

  And just how in the na­me of the go­od Christ was he to sal­va­ge an­y­t­hing out of this de­bac­le? Mary knew the­re we­re two Ma­udes, al­t­ho­ugh as yet she ob­vi­o­usly hadn't ta­ken ti­me to con­si­der the whys and whe­re­fo­res of that as­pect of her bet­rot­hed's vul­ga­rity. Kip knew the­re we­re two Ma­udes. How long wo­uld it ta­ke be­fo­re Henry knew?

  Mary ga­zed at the man she'd be­en in­ten­ding to marry. A man who had lo­we­red him­self in­to the gut­ter, be­co­me en­tan­g­led with a com­mon thi­ef, a ro­ad­si­de har­lot, com­mit­ted the one un­for­gi­vab­le sin. She be­lon­ged to the fa­mily of the du­kes of Aber­nathy. Her li­ne­age was as go­od as any Har­co­urt's. And she co­uld not swal­low such an in­sult. Not even for a hus­band.

  "You may ta­ke it, my lord, that our en­ga­ge­ment is bro­ken," she sa­id icily.

  Ga­reth's eyes, al­most black, we­re un­re­adab­le as they re­tur­ned her re­gard and he spo­ke the form words, "Yo­ur wis­hes are my com­mand, ma­dam."

  Mary didn't mo­ve for a mi­nu­te, but she gla­red at him with such wrat­h­ful dis­gust that he ne­arly win­ced.

  Then with a sud­den mo­ve­ment she snat­c­hed off her bet­rot­hal ring. To Ga­reth's ever­las­ting as­to­nis­h­ment she threw it at him… hur­led it ac­ross the ro­om. It struck his right tem­p­le pa­in­ful­ly. Both for­ce and aim had be­en well jud­ged.

  Asto­un­ded, Ga­reth put a hand to his fo­re­he­ad. It was sticky with blo­od whe­re the di­amond-en­c­rus­ted set­ting had bro­ken the skin. For a mo­ment they lo­oked at each ot­her and it was cle­ar that Mary was as shoc­ked by her ac­ti­on as Ga­reth. Then she tur­ned with a swish of skirts and left him.

  Numbly, Ga­reth bent to pick up the ring from whe­re it had fal­len at his fe­et. His tem­p­le throb­bed as he did so. He stra­ig­h­te­ned slowly, rub­bing his fin­ger­tip over the wo­und. He was be­gin­ning to won­der if he'd ever re­al­ly known Mary at all.

  The sun was al­re­ady ri­sing in the eas­tern sky when Ga­reth alig­h­ted at the wa­ter steps un­der the ro­se-st­re­aked sky. His step was less brisk than usu­al as he went up the path and en­te­red the ho­use thro­ugh the si­de do­or. The ser­vants we­re al­re­ady up and abo­ut, busy with set­ting bre­ak­fast in the di­ning hall, and Ga­reth tur­ned asi­de to ta­ke the back sta­irs. He didn't want to me­et Henry, a no­to­ri­o­usly early ri­ser, un­til he'd had a chan­ce to think thro­ugh his next step.

  The do­or to the gre­en bed­c­ham­ber sto­od aj­ar as he pas­sed it. He stop­ped and step­ped in­si­de, awa­re that his he­art was be­ating too fast. The bed was rum­p­led, the li­nen press and dra­wers in the ar­mo­ire we­re open.

  Ga­reth si­lently cur­sed his stu­pi­dity. It se­emed he was fo­re­ver un­de­res­ti­ma­ting wo­men. Of co­ur­se Mi­ran­da had go­ne. He had tho­ught that a night's ref­lec­ti­on wo­uld gi­ve her so­me dis­tan­ce, and in­s­te­ad she had left him.

  As he sto­od the­re, dum­b­fo­un­ded, trying to grap­ple with this new twist, a cry ca­me from Ma­ude's cham­ber be­hind him. He spun ro­und. Ber­t­he sto­od in the do­or­way, flo­uris­hing a she­et of par­c­h­ment, her fa­ce gray, her mo­uth ope­ning and clo­sing li­ke that of a gaf­fed fish.

  "My lord…" she ma­na­ged at last. "Lady Ma­ude…"

  Ga­reth stro­de to­ward her. He mo­ved her back in­to the bed­c­ham­ber and clo­sed the do­or. One glan­ce aro­und told him all he ne­eded to know. Ma­ude's cham­ber lo­oked very much li­ke Mi­ran­da's. They had both go­ne.

  "Calm down, wo­man." In a sta­te of icy calm him­self, he to­ok the par­c­h­ment from Ber­t­he, who sank with a half sob, half gro­an on­to the set­tle and bu­ri­ed her fa­ce in her ap­ron.

  "My pet… my pet. What has hap­pe­ned to her? How co­uld she do such a thing?"

  Ga­reth ig­no­red Ber­t­he's mo­ans and ran his eye over the ne­atly pen­ned mis­si­ve. His ward in­for­med him suc­cinctly that she had go­ne away with Mi­ran­da to find Mi­ran­da's fa­mily. The­re was no re­ason for alarm. They had mo­ney for the jo­ur­ney and she wo­uld re­turn in a we­ek. In the me­an­ti­me, per­haps it wo­uld be sen­sib­le to ex­p­la­in to the du­ke of Ro­is­sy that she had be­en ta­ken ill.

  The pen­man­s­hip was Ma­ude's but the com­po­si­ti­on was Mi­ran­da's. That at le­ast was cle­ar as day to Ga­reth. He tho­ught he un­der­s­to­od the rest, but wasn't en­ti­rely cer­ta­in. The­re was no in­di­ca­ti­on he­re that Ma­ude knew the truth abo­ut her re­la­ti­on­s­hip with Mi­ran­da, and if she didn't, then why wo­uld she run away with her?

  "Oh, do stop mo­aning, wo­man," he sa­id in exas­pe­ra­ti­on as Ber­t­he's ke­ening grew ever lo­uder. "I'm trying to think."

  Twins. He sup­po­sed that had to be the ex­p­la­na­ti­on. A bond that Ma­ude ac­k­now­led­ged even if she didn't un­der­s­tand why it exis­ted.

  "Ga­reth, the girl has go­ne!"

  "Yes, Imo­gen." He glan­ced, un­sur­p­ri­sed, to­ward the do­or. It wo­uld ha­ve sur­p­ri­sed him if his sis­ter had re­ma­ined in ig­no­ran­ce of Mi­ran­da's di­sap­pe­aran­ce for mo­re than anot­her fi­ve mi­nu­tes. Imo­gen had en­te­red wit­ho­ut knoc­king and now sto­od ga­zing aro­und the empty cham­ber in to­tal as­to­nis­h­ment.

  "But why? Why did she le­ave?"

  His ex­p­res­si­on was grim. "She had her re­asons, God knows."

  "But Ma­ude? Whe­re's Ma­ude?" "Go­ne!" Ber­t­he wa­iled. "Go­ne! Go­ne whe­re?"

  " To Do­ver, or Fol­kes­to­ne… pos­sibly Ram­s­ga­te," Ga­reth mu­sed, tap­ping Ma­ude's let­ter in­to the palm of his hand.

  "But why?" Imo­gen's vo­ice ro­se dan­ge­ro­usly.

  "Let's con­ti­nue this so­mew­he­re el­se." Ga­reth co­uldn't fa­ce com­bi­ned hyste­rics. "Ber­t­he, you will re­ma­in in he­re, and you will tell an­yo­ne who asks that Lady Ma­ude is ailing and is ke­eping to her bed. I'll talk to you la­ter."

  He to­ok his sis­ter's arm and eased her out of the ro­om. The gre­en bed­c­ham­ber was clo­se eno­ugh to be the ob­vi­o­us cho­ice. "In he­re, sis­ter." He clo­sed the do­or be­hind them. "Now, we may dis­cuss this in pe­ace."

  Imo­gen fan­ned her­self and lo­oked pat­he­ti­cal­ly be­wil­de­red. "I don't un­der­s­tand. Why are you so calm?

  Ma­ude has go­ne. The ot­her one has go­ne. And Henry is re­ady to sign the bet­rot­hal con­t­racts this mor­ning. And the­re's no bri­de!" Her vo­ice ro­se aga­in.

  "A li
t­tle aw­k­ward, I grant you," Ga­reth sa­id in the to­ne that Mi­ran­da wo­uld ha­ve re­cog­ni­zed, but that me­rely sent his sis­ter's agi­ta­ti­on up se­ve­ral not­c­hes.

  "Has she ta­ken her away? Has the ot­her one ta­ken Ma­ude away? I know she has. I knew it was a mis­con­ce­ived plan. You ha­ve no idea abo­ut wo­men, Ga­reth. You ne­ver ha­ve had." Imo­gen pa­ced the ro­om. "Why wo­uldn't you let me de­al with this in my own way, brot­her?" She threw up her hands in des­pa­ir.

  "All is not lost, Imo­gen," he sa­id, per­c­hing on the end of the bed. "Ma­ude will be back. She's al­re­ady well on the way to fin­ding Henry ag­re­e­ab­le-"

  "She's met him?" Imo­gen sta­red at him as if he we­re be­si­de him­self. "She's be­en-"

  "Last night… yes­ter­day mor­ning on the ri­ver…"

  Imo­gen's jaw drop­ped. "So that was what Du­fort me­ant. It was Ma­ude last night, not the ot­her one."

  Ga­reth nod­ded we­arily. "Pre­ci­sely."

  Imo­gen's ex­p­res­si­on lit up." Then ever­y­t­hing is per­fect. We've got rid of the ot­her one, and Ma­ude will wed Henry, and ever­y­t­hing is exactly as it sho­uld be."

  "Yes," Ga­reth ag­re­ed, stan­ding up. "Ever­y­t­hing is exactly as it sho­uld be."

  Chapter Twenty-three

  "The­re." King Henry of Fran­ce and Na­var­re af­fi­xed his he­avy se­al to the wax be­ne­ath his sig­na­tu­re. The crisp par­c­h­ment crac­k­led. He step­ped asi­de, smi­ling at the earl of Har­co­urt, who sig­ned and se­aled the do­cu­ment with his sig­net ring en­g­ra­ved with the Har­co­urt arms.

  "Go­od. Let us drink to it, my lord." Henry rub­bed his hands, be­aming with sa­tis­fac­ti­on. His lords aro­und the tab­le wit­nes­sed the sig­na­tu­res that bet­rot­hed the Lady Ma­ude d'Albard to the king of Fran­ce and Na­var­re, and con­fer­red upon the earl of Har­co­urt the du­ke­dom of Ves­le and the po­si­ti­on of French am­bas­sa­dor to the co­urt of Eli­za­beth the First, to ta­ke ef­fect on the day of the wed­ding.