The Emerald Swan

by Jane Feather

  Ga­reth po­ured wi­ne in­to a do­ub­le-han­d­led cha­li­ce. He han­ded it to the king, who sip­ped from one si­de then han­ded it back for Ga­reth's ce­re­mo­ni­al sip. The cup was pas­sed aro­und amid con­g­ra­tu­la­ti­ons and only Henry no­ti­ced that his host was som­ber, his smi­les ef­for­t­ful, his eyes sha­do­wed.

  "Do­es so­met­hing tro­ub­le you, Ga­reth?"

  Ga­reth sho­ok his he­ad with a qu­ick smi­le. "Inde­ed not, si­re. Not­hing co­uld gi­ve me gre­ater ple­asu­re or do gre­ater ho­nor to my fa­mily."

  "Qu­ite so," Henry rep­li­ed, but he was still puz­zled. The earl's dec­la­ra­ti­on lac­ked so­met­hing. And he'd ac­qu­ired an ugly bru­ise from so­mew­he­re, but po­li­te­ness for­ba­de in­qu­iry. He pic­ked up his glo­ves from the tab­le, slap­ping them in­to his palm. "I am in­de­ed sorry that Lady Ma­ude is ob­li­ged to ke­ep to her bed on such a mo­men­to­us day. I'd ha­ve li­ked a kiss from my bet­rot­hed to se­al the bar­ga­in." He re­gar­ded the earl shrewdly." "’tis not­hing se­ri­o­us, I trust?"

  "No, in­de­ed, si­re. Ma­ude has suf­fe­red sin­ce early chil­d­ho­od from oc­ca­si­onal fe­vers. My sis­ter has had the ca­re of her, per­haps you sho­uld talk with her. She'll re­as­su­re you, I know."

  Henry shrug­ged and to­ok up the wi­ne cup aga­in. "Wo­men ha­ve the­ir tri­als. But it's a dam­nab­le nu­isan­ce when I ha­ve so lit­tle ti­me to spend in Lon­don." He drank de­eply and then set down the cup, lo­oking rat­her less dis­g­run­t­led. "I've be­en bid­den to a haw­king party with Suf­folk this mor­ning at Win­d­sor. I had in­ten­ded to re­fu­se and spend the ti­me with my bet­rot­hed, but if she's abed, then per­haps I'll ac­cept the du­ke's in­vi­ta­ti­on. D'ye jo­in us, Har­co­urt?"

  "For­gi­ve me, si­re, but bu­si­ness will ke­ep me in Lon­don. You'll rest over­night at Win­d­sor, I ima­gi­ne?"

  "Aye, so Suf­folk says. He pro­mi­ses a ban­qu­et." Henry shrug­ged, easing his sho­ul­ders in his do­ub­let. "I do­ubt he un­der­s­tands that bre­ad, che­ese, and sir­lo­in are ban­qu­et eno­ugh for me. But I'll do what I can to enj­oy it." He pul­led a co­mi­cal fa­ce as he ex­ten­ded his hand to Ga­reth, clas­ping the ot­her's in a hard grip. "Until to­mor­row then, my lord. And I'll ho­pe to see Lady Ma­ude up and abo­ut on my re­turn."

  Ga­reth mur­mu­red a va­gue res­pon­se. He had men sco­uring the out­s­kirts of the city for in­for­ma­ti­on abo­ut the tro­upe and the two girls, but he was far from san­gu­ine that Ma­ude co­uld be ret­ri­eved in such a short ti­me. The tro­upe's mo­ve­ments wo­uld be the easi­er to dis­co­ver; two girls co­uld blend smo­othly in­to the ce­ase­less flow of traf­fic bet­we­en the ca­pi­tal and the Chan­nel ports. But on­ce he knew whe­re the tro­upe we­re he­aded, he wo­uld know whe­re to find the twins.

  He es­cor­ted his gu­ests out­si­de and wa­ited in the co­ur­t­yard un­til the last of the party had pas­sed thro­ugh the ga­tes, then he tur­ned back to the ho­use. He ma­de his way to his par­lor, clo­sing the do­or, ta­king up his pi­pe and the fla­gon of wi­ne, fil­ling a glass, be­fo­re pic­king up the bet­rot­hal con­t­ract. His eyes ran over it, re­ading the words that me­ant the ful­fil­lment of his de­arest am­bi­ti­on. So why was he not fil­led with tri­um­p­hant sa­tis­fac­ti­on?

  He re­re­ad the do­cu­ment, dra­wing on his pi­pe, sip­ping his wi­ne. And an iro­ni­cal smi­le twis­ted his lips. As Imo­gen had sa­id, ever­y­t­hing was per­fect. Now that Mi­ran­da was go­ne, out of the pic­tu­re fo­re­ver, he didn't ne­ed to fe­ar ac­ci­den­tal re­ve­la­ti­ons from Kip or from Mary. On­ce Ma­ude was back, ever­y­t­hing wo­uld go smo­othly.

  He tap­ped the pre­ci­o­us do­cu­ment aga­inst the ed­ge of the tab­le. If ever­y­t­hing was so dam­ned per­fect, why was he fe­eling so god-aw­ful?

  Ti­red. He was ti­red. He'd had no sle­ep the pre­vi­o­us night and pre­ci­o­us lit­tle the night be­fo­re. He was abo­ut to lock the do­cu­ment in­to a small Ve­ne­ti­an cas­ket on the tab­le when the­re was a knock on the do­or.

  Imo­gen ca­me in at his call. Her eyes we­re spar­k­ling as they fell on the par­c­h­ment in his hand. "It's do­ne?" she sa­id.

  "Aye, it's do­ne." He held it out to her. She re­ad it avidly. "Du­ke of Ves­le," she whis­pe­red. "Ambas­sa­dor to the co­urt of Eli­za­beth the First. Oh, Ga­reth, it's even mo­re than I da­red to ho­pe." She lo­oked up at him. "Why, what is that on yo­ur fo­re­he­ad?"

  "A bru­ise," he sa­id ca­re­les­sly. "I knoc­ked my he­ad on the cres­set when I was en­te­ring the bar­ge last even." Mary wo­uld tell Imo­gen the who­le so­on eno­ugh and Imo­gen's pre­sent ex­ci­te­ment so­on ma­de her for­get an un­sightly bru­ise on her brot­her's tem­p­le.

  "Oh, Mi­les… only see this." She tur­ned at her hus­band s rat­her ti­mid en­t­ran­ce.

  "The do­or was open…" Mi­les of­fe­red. "And I knew that you'd be­en with Henry…"

  "It's do­ne." Imo­gen flo­uris­hed the do­cu­ment in tri­umph. "Re­ad it! The du­ke­dom of Ves­le, no less."

  Mi­les obe­di­ently re­ad the bet­rot­hal con­t­ract. Then he lo­oked over at his brot­her-in-law, a qu­es­ti­on in his eye.

  "I sho­uld ha­ve in­for­ma­ti­on so­on abo­ut Ma­ude's whe­re­abo­uts," Ga­reth sa­id ti­redly. "As so­on as I do, I'll go af­ter her. But the­re's lit­tle to be ga­ined in char­ging all over the co­un­t­r­y­si­de be­fo­re I know her di­rec­ti­on."

  "No, of co­ur­se not," Mi­les sa­id. "But… but what of Mi­ran­da?"

  "She has cho­sen her own way," Ga­reth rep­li­ed, his to­ne curt. "She was al­ways free to le­ave when she cho­se. Now is as go­od a ti­me as any."

  "Oh, yes, most cer­ta­inly," Imo­gen ag­re­ed fer­vently. "The girl wo­uld be in the way now. She did her part and she's be­en pa­id for it. Ever­y­t­hing is just as it sho­uld be."

  "Ex­cu­se me." Ga­reth mo­ved past her to the do­or. "I ha­ve bu­si­ness in town. I'll not be jo­ining you for din­ner."

  He to­ok his hor­se, ro­de over Lon­don Brid­ge, and in­to the So­ut­h­wark stews. He had but one in­ten­ti­on, to get tho­ro­ughly be­sot­ted and to lo­se him­self in the arms of a who­re… or se­ve­ral who­res. The drink he fo­und, but the de­eper he drank the mo­re un­p­le­asing he fo­und the who­res. Drink fre­qu­ently dul­led per­for­man­ce but he co­uldn't re­mem­ber it ever be­fo­re dul­ling de­si­re.

  He ro­de back ac­ross the brid­ge just be­fo­re day­light and bri­bed the wat­c­h­men to open the wic­ket ga­te for him al­t­ho­ugh it was not yet su­nup. He swa­yed drun­kenly in his sad­dle, va­gu­ely awa­re that he must pre­sent a cho­ice tar­get for stre­et thi­eves, drunk and ex­ha­us­ted, ri­ding alo­ne, too far go­ne even to ha­ve his hand on his sword hilt.

  He had rid­den li­ke this be­fo­re, many a ti­me-back to his ho­use as the cocks be­gan to crow, his spi­rit de­ad, his he­ad fog­ged with me­ad and wi­ne, his limbs al­most too he­avy to mo­ve, every mus­c­le and jo­int ac­hing with a fa­ti­gue too de­ep, too cen­t­ral to his who­le be­ing, for me­re sle­ep to re­pa­ir. Thus had he rid­den back so many ti­mes be­fo­re to his empty bed, won­de­ring who­se she­ets his wi­fe was sha­ring. Won­de­ring if she was rol­ling in straw in so­me ken­nel, or was lying in the gut­ter with a beg­gar.

  Char­lot­te. His wi­fe… his lo­ve. Oh, he had lo­ved Char­lot­te with his he­art and so­ul. It se­emed he had a pro­pen­sity for vul­ga­rity. Ga­reth la­ug­hed to him­self as he half fell off his hor­se in the mews. A pro­pen­sity for vul­ga­rity. He rat­her li­ked that. Mary wo­uld cer­ta­inly ag­ree. He stum­b­led to­ward the ho­use, still la­ug­hing to him­self, una­wa­re of the gro­om's sle­epy sta­re, fol­lo­wing him as he we­aved his way out of the mews.

&
nbsp; He stag­ge­red up the sta­irs, not no­ti­cing how much no­ise he ma­de in the still-si­lent ho­use, and lur­c­hed in­to his bed­c­ham­ber, kic­king the do­or shut be­hind him with a lo­ud slam. He didn't bot­her to un­d­ress, me­rely yan­ked off his bo­ots aga­inst the bo­otj­ack, and then fell on­to the bed. The thick fe­at­her mat­tress se­emed to en­ve­lop him and he sank down and down, as the dark wa­ve of sle­ep rol­led over him and Char­lot­te bec­ko­ned from the abyss.

  Imo­gen sat up in bed at the slam of Ga­reth's do­or. She sta­red in­to the dar­k­ness, lis­te­ning, but all was now si­lent. She'd he­ard her brot­her stum­b­ling and lur­c­hing down the cor­ri­dor and all the old bad me­mo­ri­es had re­sur­fa­ced. How many nights had she sat up wa­iting thro­ugh the ho­urs of dar­k­ness for Ga­reth to re­turn? How many ti­mes had she lis­te­ned to his stag­ge­ring step, her he­art po­un­ding, her en­ti­re be­ing stra­ining to­ward him in his pa­in even as her so­ul was fil­led with hat­red for the wo­man who was des­t­ro­ying him?

  But why now? Why wo­uld he now be re­vi­si­ting that ti­me of hor­ror? Now, when ever­y­t­hing was wor­king out so per­fectly for them all? Her brot­her had re­tur­ned to him­self sin­ce he'd co­me back from Fran­ce. He was on­ce mo­re strong, di­rec­ted, de­ter­mi­ned, and Imo­gen had al­lo­wed her­self to be­li­eve that he was no lon­ger pla­gu­ed by de­mons.

  But that step in the cor­ri­dor out­si­de her do­or, the crash of his own do­or, fil­led her with the re­mem­be­red ter­ror of her hel­p­les­sness. She cast asi­de the bed­c­lot­hes and step­ped down on­to the fo­ot­s­to­ol be­si­de the bed. Her nig­ht-ro­be lay over the ra­il and she put it on, auto­ma­ti­cal­ly re­ac­hing up to stra­ig­h­ten her nig­h­t­cap that kept her ca­re­ful curls from be­co­ming too tan­g­led over­night. Softly she ope­ned her do­or. The lamp in the wall scon­ce in the cor­ri­dor flic­ke­red in the bre­eze from her win­dow and gut­te­red, plun­ging the long pas­sa­ge in­to dar­k­ness.

  But her eyes we­re ac­cus­to­med to the dark by now and she mo­ved ste­al­t­hily down the cor­ri­dor. At Ga­reth's do­or she stop­ped. She pres­sed her ear to the crack and lis­te­ned. At first she co­uld he­ar not­hing and she be­gan to ho­pe… but then she he­ard it. The tan­g­led mut­ter of words, the harsh bre­at­hing.

  She ope­ned his do­or as she had do­ne so many ti­mes be­fo­re and slip­ped in­si­de, clo­sing it be­hind her. Ga­reth's nig­h­t­ma­res we­re known only to her, they we­re one of the many sec­rets they sha­red.

  "Char­lot­te!!" It was al­most a scre­am. Ga­reth sat bolt up­right in bed, his eyes wi­de open, sta­ring. Imo­gen knew he was still as­le­ep. She rus­hed to the bed. His fa­ce ran with swe­at as if he we­re in the grip of a fe­ver, his shirt was tran­s­pa­rent.

  "Ga­reth… Ga­reth… wa­ke up!" She to­ok his hand, pat­ted it, crad­led it aga­inst her bo­som. "Wa­ke up! You're dre­aming!"

  Ga­reth's eyes fo­cu­sed slowly but the dre­am hell to­ok a long ti­me to fa­de. "God's mercy!" he mur­mu­red, tur­ning his he­ad to lo­ok at his sis­ter, still hol­ding his hand, her eyes fi­xed upon him with the fa­na­ti­cal de­vo­ti­on that had fol­lo­wed his every fo­ot­s­tep from the first mo­ment he'd fo­und his fe­et.

  "God's mercy, Imo­gen," he re­pe­ated, fal­ling back aga­inst the pil­lows, gently pul­ling his hand free. He wi­ped the palm of his hand down his swe­at-dren­c­hed fa­ce and lay sta­ring up­ward, gat­he­ring him­self to­get­her. He tho­ught he was pro­bably still drunk, but his he­ad was now as cle­ar as a bell.

  He had a pro­pen­sity for vul­ga­rity. He be­gan to la­ugh aga­in. May­be he was still drunk, but this glo­ri­o­us la­ug­h­ter was an ut­terly so­ber re­ac­ti­on to the truth.

  "Ga­reth, stop!" Imo­gen bent over him, her fa­ce hag­gard, her eyes fil­led with an­xi­ety. This stran­ge mer­ri­ment was so­met­hing she didn't know how to de­al with. "Why are you la­ug­hing?"

  "Fetch me the brandy, Imo­gen." He sat up aga­in. "The­re's no ca­use for alarm, sis­ter. I'm qu­ite in my sen­ses. In fact," he ad­ded with anot­her lit­tle chuc­k­le, "I'm pro­bably in my sen­ses for the first ti­me in ye­ars."

  "I don't know what you me­an." Imo­gen bro­ught him the fla­gon of brandy. "You we­re ha­ving the nig­h­t­ma­re abo­ut Char­lot­te aga­in."

  "Yes," Ga­reth sa­id softly, sli­ding to the flo­or. "But I truly be­li­eve it was for the last ti­me, Imo­gen." He set down the brandy fla­gon un­to­uc­hed.

  Imo­gen re­gar­ded him with de­ep dis­qu­i­et. She didn't be­li­eve him, and the ter­rif­ying tho­ught oc­cur­red to her that he might ha­ve be­co­me truly un­hin­ged. She be­gan to spe­ak ur­gently, trying to for­ce him to ac­k­now­led­ge the facts that wo­uld bring him back to re­ality. "I ha­ve al­ways lo­oked af­ter you, al­ways ta­ken ca­re of yo­ur in­te­rests, Ga­reth. I knew that so­met­hing had to be do­ne abo­ut Char­lot­te-"

  "Imo­gen, that's eno­ugh!" Ga­reth's vo­ice crac­ked li­ke a whip. But his sis­ter didn't he­ar him.

  "It had to be do­ne. I did it for you, brot­her." Her words tum­b­led forth he­ed­les­sly and Ga­reth let them co­me. He had avo­ided this truth for too long, and now it was ti­me to he­ar it, to ac­cept it, and to ac­cept his own gu­ilt. Un­til he did so, he wo­uld ne­ver be ab­le to re­bu­ild his li­fe.

  "She was no go­od for you. She was al­ways drunk, al­ways ope­ning her legs for an­yo­ne who to­ok her fancy. She was la­ug­hing at you and that po­or yo­ung de Ve­re. She had just des­t­ro­yed him as she was des­t­ro­ying you. Stan­ding in the win­dow, drunk, swa­ying. A lit­tle push… that was all… just a lit­tle push." She ga­zed up at him, her eyes fla­ring wildly. "She was no go­od for you. I did it for you, Ga­reth."

  "I know," he sa­id qu­i­etly. "I ha­ve al­ways known."

  "Ever­y­t­hing," she sa­id with a sob. "Ever­y­t­hing has al­ways be­en for you, Ga­reth."

  "I know," he re­pe­ated, ta­king his sis­ter in his arms. "And I lo­ve you for it, Imo­gen. But it has to stop now."

  Ga­reth held his sis­ter un­til the de­ep well of her te­ars had dri­ed, then he to­ok her back to her cham­ber and hel­ped her to bed. She wo­uld suf­fer for that gre­at out­burst of emo­ti­on with one of her vi­ci­o­us he­adac­hes, but it wo­uld re­li­eve her as it al­ways did. He knew his sis­ter rat­her bet­ter than she knew him, he ref­lec­ted, re­tur­ning to his own ro­om.

  He had no de­si­re to sle­ep now. No de­si­re for brandy. He felt only the swe­etest sen­se of re­le­ase. For the first ti­me in a very long ti­me, he knew what was vi­tal for his hap­pi­ness and he knew that any sac­ri­fi­ce was worth ac­hi­eving it.

  I lo­ved you.

  Co­uld the past ten­se be re­pe­aled? Had he inj­ured that open, lo­ving so­ul be­yond re­pa­ra­ti­on? Be­yond the wil­lin­g­ness to be­li­eve that he too lo­ved.”.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  "Do you re­mem­ber an­y­t­hing of that night?" Ma­ude le­aned back aga­inst the tree trunk on the ri­ver­bank, ta­king a lar­ge bi­te out of the very crisp gre­en ap­ple that went by the na­me of bre­ak­fast.

  "No." Mi­ran­da tos­sed her ap­ple co­re in­to the stre­am, wat­c­hing the cir­c­le of rip­ples ex­pand on the brown sur­fa­ce as the co­re sank. "Do you?"

  Ma­ude sho­ok her he­ad. "No. I don't re­mem­ber an­y­t­hing abo­ut Fran­ce at all. My first me­mo­ri­es are all of Imo­gen and Ber­t­he." She wrin­k­led her small no­se. "Not very aus­pi­ci­o­us, re­al­ly."

  Mi­ran­da chuc­k­led. It was a ra­re so­und the­se days and Ma­ude sat up, hug­ging her kne­es to her chest. She knew that so­mew­he­re in the mid­dle of the as­to­un­ding story Mi­ran­da had told her the­re was so­met­hing bu­ri­ed that her twin was not con­fi­ding. So­met­hing that was
ma­king her un­hap­py.

  "Are you cer­ta­in you want to go back with the tro­upe?"

  "Yes, of co­ur­se." The­re was the hint of a snap in the ra­pid res­pon­se. "They're my fa­mily." Mi­ran­da pic­ked a da­isy from the bank and tos­sed it in­to the stre­am, wat­c­hing it swirl away on the cur­rent's eddy.

  "But- "

  "But not­hing, Ma­ude." Mi­ran­da jum­ped up. "Co­me on, the sun's high and we want to re­ach As­h­ford to­night."

  She whis­t­led for Chip, who­se small fa­ce ap­pe­ared abo­ve them as he pus­hed asi­de the le­aves of the tree.

  Ma­ude scram­b­led to her fe­et, hol­ding up a hand to the mon­key, who le­aned down to ta­ke it, then swung with a gle­eful gib­ber to the gro­und.

  "How are we go­ing to get to As­h­ford?" Ma­ude hur­ri­ed af­ter Mi­ran­da. She was still unac­cus­to­med to the fre­edom of skirts wit­ho­ut far­t­hin­ga­les and co­uldn't ke­ep up with Mi­ran­da's long, lo­ping stri­de even af­ter two days of prac­ti­ce.

  "We're not go­ing to walk all the way, are we?" She ca­ught up with her sis­ter, who had stop­ped at the ed­ge of the fi­eld to wa­it for her.

  Mi­ran­da se­emed to con­si­der the qu­es­ti­on. She glan­ced up at the clo­ud­less blue sky. "It's a lo­vely day for wal­king."

  "But As­h­ford is mi­les away. We're only just out­si­de Ma­id­s­to­ne!" Ma­ude wa­iled, then ca­ught the glint in Mi­ran­da's eye. "It's not fa­ir to te­ase me," she grum­b­led.

  "You only think that be­ca­use you're not used to it," Mi­ran­da po­in­ted out, clam­be­ring over the sti­le in­to the la­ne. "You can te­ase me as much as you li­ke, I won't mind."