The Emerald Swan

by Jane Feather

  "But I don't ha­ve an­y­t­hing to te­ase you abo­ut," Ma­ude sta­ted, jo­ining her in the la­ne. "I don't know an­y­t­hing abo­ut this tra­ve­ling li­fe and you know ever­y­t­hing."

  "We'll wa­it he­re and get a ri­de from the next car­ter's wa­gon," Mi­ran­da sa­id.

  "Why can't we go to an inn and hi­re a gig or so­met­hing? It wo­uld be so much qu­ic­ker and su­rer than beg­ging ri­des from pas­sersby. It isn't as if we don't ha­ve mo­ney."

  Mi­ran­da frow­ned. How to ex­p­la­in to Ma­ude that she was in no hurry to re­ach Fol­kes­to­ne? She had eno­ugh dif­fi­culty ad­mit­ting it to her­self. "I li­ke tra­ve­ling slowly," she tem­po­ri­zed. "It's part of the fun not kno­wing whe­re the next ri­de is co­ming from, or who you might me­et on the way."

  Ma­ude ma­de no reply, but she cast her sis­ter a qu­ick, ap­pra­ising glan­ce. "After you've met up with yo­ur fa­mily and ex­p­la­ined things to them, you co­uld al­ways co­me back to Lon­don with me."

  "I'm not su­ited for that kind of li­fe," Mi­ran­da rep­li­ed, step­ping in­to the ro­ad to wa­ve vi­go­ro­usly at an ap­pro­ac­hing hay wa­gon. "It was all very well for a short ti­me, just as a ga­me. But now you're pre­pa­red to marry Henry…" She bro­ke off to ha­il the dri­ver of the wa­gon. "Can you ta­ke us as far as you're go­ing on the As­h­ford ro­ad, sir?"

  "Aye, abo­ve fi­ve mi­les," the man sa­id ami­ably, jer­king a thumb to­ward the back. "'Op in."

  "My thanks, sir." Mi­ran­da jum­ped agi­lely in­to the back of the wa­gon and le­aned down to gi­ve Ma­ude a hand. Chip bo­un­ded up be­si­de them. The dri­ver sta­red at the mon­key, then shrug­ged, sho­ok the re­ins, and set the hor­se in mo­ti­on.

  "I didn't say I was pre­pa­red to marry the king," Ma­ude dec­la­red, when they we­re com­for­tably en­s­con­ced among the hay. "The­re's still this qu­es­ti­on of re­li­gi­on, in ca­se you've for­got­ten."

  "It's all the sa­me God," Mi­ran­da po­in­ted out. "It se­ems a lot of non­sen­se to me."

  This was such as­to­un­ding he­resy, even from Mi­ran­da, that Ma­ude was si­len­ced. She sank in­to the cus­hi­on of hay, kno­wing from ex­pe­ri­en­ce now that she had to let her body roll with the wa­gon's une­ven mo­ti­on over the rut­ted la­ne if she wasn't to end the day ac­hing and bru­ised in every limb.

  "Pe­op­le di­ed for that non­sen­se," she sa­id so­berly. "Our mot­her di­ed for it." She drew from her poc­ket the ser­pen­ti­ne bra­ce­let whe­re she kept it for sa­fe­ke­eping. It wo­uld draw too much un­wel­co­me at­ten­ti­on on her wrist whi­le they we­re tra­ve­ling in this hap­ha­zard fas­hi­on. She held it up to catch the sun's rays. "It's so be­a­uti­ful, yet it's so si­nis­ter. May­be it's be­ca­use of all the blo­od and evil it's se­en. Do you think that's fan­ci­ful?"

  "Yes," Mi­ran­da sa­id, hol­ding out her hand for the bra­ce­let. Ma­ude drop­ped it in­to her open palm. It was fan­ci­ful, but she co­uldn't deny that the bra­ce­let ga­ve her the shi­vers. She tra­ced the sha­pe of the eme­rald-stud­ded swan with the tip of her fin­ger, thin­king of her mot­her… of her mot­her's vi­olent de­ath and all that had re­sul­ted from that mur­der.

  Te­ars pric­ked be­hind her eyes and she blin­ked them away. If that dre­ad­ful night had ne­ver hap­pe­ned, she wo­uldn't now be so com­p­le­tely ad­rift. She be­lon­ged now­he­re an­y­mo­re. She was no lon­ger su­ited for the li­fe she had al­ways known, and she co­uldn't en­ter the one that was her bir­t­h­right be­ca­use…

  Be­ca­use she had be­en bet­ra­yed by the man she lo­ved. She had of­fe­red her he­art and her so­ul and the gift had be­en swept asi­de li­ke so much dust by a man who didn't know the me­aning of lo­ve.

  She co­uldn't go back to Lon­don be­ca­use she co­uldn't li­ve in the sa­me world as the earl of Har­co­urt. Her hand clo­sed tightly over the bra­ce­let as she fo­ught back the thre­ate­ning te­ars, the gre­at wall of mi­sery that thre­ate­ned to fall and suf­fo­ca­te her.

  Ma­ude la­id her hand over Mi­ran­da's. It was all she co­uld think of to do un­til her sis­ter cho­se to sha­re her pa­in.

  "Go­od Lord abo­ve!" Ma­ma Ger­t­ru­de flung up her arms in as­to­nis­h­ment. A few gull fe­at­hers had set­tled in­to her pi­led co­if­fu­re, lo­oking stran­gely at ho­me with the grubby la­ce cap she wo­re. Wit­ho­ut the gold plu­mes, she ap­pe­ared so­mew­hat di­mi­nis­hed.

  Chip le­aped on­to her sho­ul­der, wrap­ping his arms aro­und her neck, and she pat­ted him ab­sently. "Now, just whe­re in the na­me of tar­na­ti­on did you two… three… spring from? That Lord 'Arco­urt sa­id as 'ow you'd be stop­pin' wi' 'im."

  " 'Tis to be 'oped 'is lor­d­s­hip's not go­in' to want them fifty ro­se nob­les back."

  "Oh, hush yer mo­uth, Jebe­di­ah," Ger­t­ru­de sa­id, her ruddy com­p­le­xi­on dar­ke­ning. "Don't ye be ta­kin' no no­ti­ce of Jebe­di­ah, m'de­ar. Lord 'Arco­urt sa­id as 'ow it was right fer ye… se­e­in' as 'ow…" She stop­ped, non­p­lus­sed.

  "Se­e­ing as how what?" Ma­ude prom­p­ted. She hit­c­hed her­self on­to the se­awall of Fol­kes­to­ne qu­ay as if she'd be­en do­ing it all her li­fe, and flic­ked at a burr clin­ging to her skirt. The last car­ter's wa­gon they'd ta­ken from As­h­ford to Fol­kes­to­ne had pre­vi­o­usly car­ri­ed she­ep's wo­ol to mar­ket and the ba­les had be­en full of prickly burrs.

  "Se­e­in' as 'ow you an' Mi­ran­da are sis­ters," Lu­ke sta­ted.

  "Oh," Ma­ude sa­id. "That." She ra­ised her fa­ce to the sun, clo­sing her eyes, let­ting the warmth be­at gently on­to her lids, lis­te­ning to Rob­bie's ex­ci­ted treb­le as he hur­led him­self in­to Mi­ran­da's em­b­ra­ce.

  Mi­ran­da la­ug­hed and Ma­ude in­s­tantly ope­ned her eyes. Her sis­ter had be­en very qu­i­et sin­ce the pre­vi­o­us day. The­re had be­en no mo­re te­ars, but she hadn't smi­led much, eit­her, se­emingly lost in her own tho­ughts. But now she was smi­ling with ge­nu­ine ple­asu­re at the grubby child in her arms as she kis­sed his thin che­ek.

  "Y'are not go­in' away aga­in, M'ran­da?" Rob­bie pul­led at her ha­ir, cur­ling his legs aro­und her hips. "Y'are not!"

  "No, Rob­bie," she sa­id softly. The­se we­re her fa­mily. For bet­ter or wor­se, this was whe­re she be­lon­ged.

  "Well, what abo­ut them fifty ro­se nob­les?" Jebe­di­ah mut­te­red.

  "God's bo­nes, d'ye ne­ver sing anot­her tu­ne?" Ra­o­ul sa­id dis­gus­tedly. "Let's 'ear what the las­si­es 'ave to say."

  "It's qu­ite sim­p­le," Mi­ran­da be­gan.

  "Less than you think." A vo­ice spo­ke from be­hind her.

  All eyes slowly swi­ve­led to­ward the earl of Har­co­urt, who sto­od hol­ding his hor­se a few fe­et away.

  “Told ye the man'd want 'is mo­ney back," Jebe­di­ah sa­id with an air of rig­h­te­o­us sa­tis­fac­ti­on.

  "As it hap­pens, mo­ney is the last thing on my mind," Ga­reth sa­id. "I've co­me to rec­la­im my wards, be­fo­re they be­co­me too ac­cus­to­med to the de­lights of tra­ip­sing aro­und the co­untry li­ke a pa­ir of iti­ne­rant ped­dlers."

  "My lord?"

  "Yes, Ma­ude?" He smi­led at the girl, sit­ting on the wall li­ke a ve­ri­tab­le ur­c­hin. He no­ti­ced the dus­ting of frec­k­les ac­ross the brid­ge of her no­se, the sun-kis­sed pink of her che­eks. The hem of her pet­ti­co­at was grubby, and she ap­pe­ared to ha­ve a clus­ter of burrs clin­ging to her di­mity gown. "Ha­ve you enj­oyed yo­ur jo­ur­ney?"

  "Yes, my lord," Ma­ude sa­id. "And… and I think-"

  "No," he in­ter­rup­ted with a wry chuc­k­le. "Ple­ase don't say I've co­me too la­te and you're al­re­ady lost to the wan­de­ring li­fe."

  "I se­em to ha­ve mo­re in com­mon with my sis­ter, sir, than you might t
hink." Ma­ude re­ac­hed for Mi­ran­da's hand, dra­wing her clo­ser to the wall.

  "On the con­t­rary, Ma­ude, I've long re­cog­ni­zed that fact," Ga­reth sa­id. "But my bu­si­ness li­es with Mi­ran­da. Lord Du­fort sho­uld be ar­ri­ving at the Red Coc­ke­rel on Horn Stre­et wit­hin the ho­ur. If Lu­ke wo­uld es­cort you to awa­it him the­re, I wo­uld be much in his debt."

  Ma­ude lo­oked at Mi­ran­da, who­se fin­gers we­re tightly clen­c­hed aro­und hers. Mi­ran­da was very pa­le, very still. Rob­bie un­ho­oked his legs from her hips and sto­od up, and for on­ce she didn't se­em to no­ti­ce his ac­ti­ons.

  "I don't be­li­eve we ha­ve any fur­t­her bu­si­ness, mi­lord," Mi­ran­da sa­id, gently ex­t­ri­ca­ting her hand from Ma­ude's and ta­king a step for­ward. "I be­li­eve I ful­fil­led my ob­li­ga­ti­ons as far as it was pos­sib­le and the mo­ney you pa­id to my fa­mily is only what you pro­mi­sed. I be­li­eve it is owed."

  "Oh, yes," he sa­id qu­i­etly. "It is owed them, and much, much mo­re, for the­ir lo­ving ca­re of a d'Albard. You shall de­ci­de what is owed yo­ur fa­mily, Mi­ran­da." He lo­oped his mo­unt's re­ins over a hit­c­hing post and ca­me to­ward her, his smi­le ru­eful.

  "But I cla­im the right to say what is owed you, swe­eting." His hands mo­ved to en­cir­c­le her thro­at. "I wo­uld pre­fer pri­vacy, but if I must say this he­re, then so be it." His thumbs pres­sed lightly aga­inst the fast-be­ating pul­se in her thro­at. "You sa­id you lo­ved me. Co­uld you ever aga­in say that you lo­ve me, fi­refly?"

  The gro­und slip­ped and slid be­ne­ath her fe­et. Mi­ran­da was awa­re of the si­len­ce in the cir­c­le sur­ro­un­ding them, of the clo­se si­len­ce and yet al­so of the fa­ra­way, no­isy bus­t­le of the qu­ay. She was awa­re of Ma­ude's star­t­led and yet sud­denly com­p­re­hen­ding ga­ze, of Rob­bie's be­wil­der­ment, of Lu­ke's puz­zled hos­ti­lity. She swal­lo­wed, her thro­at mo­ving aga­inst Ga­reth's thumb.

  It was Ma­ude who bro­ke the si­len­ce in a high, cle­ar vo­ice. "Lu­ke, will you es­cort me to this Red Coc­ke­rel, ple­ase?" She slid off the wall. "Co­usin, I shall wa­it with Lord Du­fort un­til you and my sis­ter re­turn to the inn."

  "Bra­vo, Ma­ude," Ga­reth sa­id softly, mo­ving one hand from Mi­ran­da's thro­at to lift his yo­ung co­usin's fin­gers to his lips.

  "Sho­uld I ta­ke Chip?" Ma­ude smi­led ra­di­antly at Mi­ran­da, her con­fu­si­on now cle­ared. It se­emed ex­t­ra­or­di­nary that Mi­ran­da and the earl sho­uld lo­ve each ot­her, but then so many ex­t­ra­or­di­nary things had be­en hap­pe­ning la­tely, what was one mo­re? And it had to me­an one vi­tal thing. Mi­ran­da was not go­ing to go out of her sis­ter's li­fe.

  "Yes, ta­ke him." It was Lord Har­co­urt who an­s­we­red her, and Ger­t­ru­de who han­ded the mon­key over, her own ex­p­res­si­on still rapt at the dra­ma un­fol­ding be­fo­re them.

  "Mi­ran­da?" Ga­reth sa­id, now ta­king a step away from her, as if to gi­ve her ro­om to an­s­wer the most im­por­tant qu­es­ti­on he had ever as­ked or wo­uld ever ask in his li­fe.

  "Ever­yo­ne will know the­re are two of us," she sa­id.

  "That wo­uld ru­in ever­y­t­hing for you. The king of Fran­ce can't know that you de­ce­ived him."

  "I sup­po­se I de­ser­ve that you sho­uld think it still mat­ters," Ga­reth rep­li­ed. "But only one thing is truly im­por­tant to me now, Mi­ran­da. You. Can you be­li­eve that?"

  She wan­ted to be­li­eve it. Oh, how she wan­ted to be­li­eve it. But the hurt still bled. "I don't know," she sa­id hel­p­les­sly.

  Ga­reth lo­oked aro­und the cir­c­le of at­ten­ti­ve fa­ces. Every word he sa­id was be­ing we­ig­hed aga­inst Mi­ran­da's hap­pi­ness.

  Then Ger­t­ru­de step­ped for­ward. "What are you of­fe­rin' 'er, m'lord?"

  "God­dam­mit!" Ga­reth fi­nal­ly lost his pa­ti­en­ce. "I'm pro­po­sing mar­ri­age to the Lady Mi­ran­da d'Albard."

  Ma­ude, so­me fi­ve fe­et away, stop­ped in her tracks, sud­denly re­mem­be­ring an in­con­ve­ni­en­ce. "I don't see how you can do that ho­no­rably, my lord, when you're al­re­ady bet­rot­hed to Lady Mary," she po­in­ted out.

  "As it hap­pens, I am not."

  "Oh, how did that hap­pen? Not that I tho­ught you wo­uld su­it in the le­ast."

  Ga­reth tur­ned slowly. The­re was a mis­c­hi­evo­us gle­am in his yo­ung co­usin's eye; then with a wa­ve and an as­to­nis­hing wink, she went off with a skip­ping step.

  Ga­reth tur­ned back to Mi­ran­da. She was smi­ling. "I didn't think you wo­uld su­it, eit­her, mi­lord."

  Ga­reth knew that he'd won the har­dest bat­de of his li­fe. "How right you are, my lo­ve," he sa­id equ­ably. "And for­tu­na­tely Lady Mary ca­me to that con­c­lu­si­on her­self. La­di­es and gen­t­le­men… if you'll ex­cu­se us." Cat­c­hing Mi­ran­da aro­und the wa­ist, he tos­sed her up on­to his hor­se, un­lo­oped the re­ins, and mo­un­ted be­hind her. "Per­haps you wo­uld jo­in us for a bet­rot­hal din­ner at the Red Coc­ke­rel in two ho­urs' ti­me."

  Ma­ude was sit­ting with Lu­ke in the tap­ro­om of the Red Coc­ke­rel when her gu­ar­di­an ro­de up. She and Lu­ke wat­c­hed from the tap­ro­om do­or­way as Lord Har­co­urt dis­mo­un­ted and, swe­eping Mi­ran­da ahe­ad of him, en­te­red the inn and mo­un­ted the sta­irs.

  "Whe­re are they go­ing?" Lu­ke de­man­ded. Sus­pi­ci­on fla­red in his eyes and he to­ok a step for­ward. "Has the earl de­ba­uc­hed Mi­ran­da?"

  "I don't know what's hap­pe­ned bet­we­en them," Ma­ude rep­li­ed che­er­ful­ly, la­ying a res­t­ra­ining hand on his sle­eve. "But it do­esn't se­em to mat­ter in the le­ast. Mi­ran­da knows what she's do­ing. Chip, do you re­al­ly think you sho­uld go… Oh, well, I sup­po­se you sho­uld." She ga­ve up the strug­gle to hold the agi­ta­ted mon­key and let him ra­ce af­ter his mis­t­ress. Tur­ning back to the tap­ro­om, she sa­id, "I wo­uld li­ke so­me mo­re of that me­ad, I be­li­eve, Lu­ke. Do you ha­ve co­in? If not, I be­li­eve I still ha­ve a few pen­ni­es left."

  "My lo­ve, can you for­gi­ve me?" Ga­reth to­ok Mi­ran­da's hands in a grip so tight she co­uld fe­el the bo­nes crun­c­hing. "Do you think you'll ever be ab­le to trust me aga­in? I ha­ve be­en such a fo­ol."

  "I lo­ve you," Mi­ran­da sa­id simply. "I ha­ve al­ways lo­ved you.”

  Chip gib­be­red and swung from the bed ca­nopy. "Aye, and I ha­ve lo­ved you sin­ce the first mo­ment 1 met you. I just didn't know it." Ga­reth stro­ked her fa­ce, tra­cing the li­ne of her jaw, run­ning a thumb over her eye­lids, over the soft pli­ancy of her lips. "Will you be my wi­fe, ma­dam?"

  "I must bring Rob­bie," Mi­ran­da sa­id. "I can't le­ave Rob­bie be­hind. The­re's so much we can do for him. Bo­ots are just the be­gin­ning."

  "If you wish, we will pro­vi­de ha­bi­ta­ti­on and em­p­loy­ment for all yo­ur fa­mily." Ga­reth's fin­gers un­la­ced her bo­di­ce, his hands re­ac­hing in­si­de to cup her bre­asts, run the pads of his thumbs over the nip­ples, fe­eling them ri­se hard and small to his ca­ress.

  "No, I don't think they'd wish that," Mi­ran­da sa­id ear­nestly. "They're in­de­pen­dent. They wo­uldn't ta­ke cha­rity."

  "No, of co­ur­se they wo­uldn't." His mo­uth clo­sed over hers, as he drew her down to the bed. One day he'd get this right. "But will you be my wi­fe?"

  Mi­ran­da mo­ved be­ne­ath him, lo­ose­ning the bun­c­hed-up folds of her gown as his hands slid over her thighs, se­ar­c­hing for her. "Are you cer­ta­in you don't still want me to marry Henry of Fran­ce, mi­lord?"

  Ga­reth didn't reply but his hand mo­ved over her, his fin­gers ope­ning, nip­ping at the tight lit­tle bud of ple­asu­re. Mi­ran­da mur­mu­red, her hips lif­ting as the joy be­gan to blo­om d
e­ep in her co­re. And then, just as the flo­wer was abo­ut to burst open in glory, he to­ok away his hand.

  "Yes," she whis­pe­red. "Yes, Ga­reth."

  He smi­led and bro­ught his mo­uth to hers." Try not to ask silly qu­es­ti­ons, fi­refly."

  She la­ug­hed softly and the last shards of pa­in and un­hap­pi­ness drif­ted from her in the soft glow of re­ne­wal.

  Chip to­ok up his usu­al pla­ce on the ra­il at the fo­ot of the bed and tuc­ked his he­ad un­der his arm, whis­pe­ring to him­self as the soft so­unds of a de­ep and af­fir­ming ple­asu­re fil­led the cham­ber.

  Mi­les en­te­red the tap­ro­om and his eye fell im­me­di­ately on Ma­ude. She ap­pe­ared to be ke­eping com­pany with a rag­ged yo­uth at the bar co­un­ter, but her own at­ti­re was so dis­he­ve­led that she se­emed per­fectly su­ited to her com­pa­ni­on. Her hand was cir­c­ling a pew­ter tan­kard with all the fa­mi­li­arity of one who'd be­gun drin­king what it con­ta­ined with her wet nur­se's milk.

  Ga­reth's mes­sa­ge, re­ce­ived so­me ho­urs af­ter the earl had left the Har­co­urt man­si­on, had be­en bri­ef and un-in­for­ma­ti­ve. Lord Du­fort was to re­pa­ir to the Red Coc­ke­rel in Fol­kes­to­ne and awa­it de­ve­lop­ments. This, Mi­les con­ce­ded, was an in­te­res­ting de­ve­lop­ment.

  "Ma­ude?"

  "Oh, Lord Du­fort. Lord Har­co­urt sa­id you wo­uld be ar­ri­ving so­on." Ma­ude smi­led mer­rily. "May I in­t­ro­du­ce Lu­ke, he's a fri­end of Mi­ran­da's. Wo­uld you ca­re for so­me me­ad? Or per­haps ale? We se­em to be run­ning out of co­in, but I ex­pect you ha­ve so­me."

  "Ale," Mi­les sa­id, ges­tu­ring to the pot­boy. He nod­ded to Lu­ke and to­ok the sto­ol be­si­de Ma­ude. "I da­re­say I can set­tle yo­ur ac­co­unt." He lo­oked aro­und. "But isn't yo­ur gu­ar­di­an he­re to do so?"

  "Yes, but he's abo­ves­ta­irs with Mi­ran­da."

  "Ah," Mi­les sa­id, ta­king up his tan­kard. "Ah," he sa­id aga­in.

  "I be­li­eve they're to be wed," Ma­ude in­for­med him, sig­na­ling to the pot­boy for a re­fill.