The Emerald Swan

Chapter Seven

"We'll see how she likes a diet of black bread, gruel, and water!" Lady Imogen strode the length of the gallery, her gown of purple damask swaying over its massive farthingale. She smacked her closed fan into the palm of her hand in emphasis. Her ordinarily thin mouth had almost disappeared and her eyes beneath the well-plucked eyebrows were hard as small brown pebbles.

"Forgive me, my dear, but I believe Maude relishes the role of martyr," Lord Dufort ventured from the safety of the doorway.

"Nonsense!" was all he got for his pains as his lady wife swirled and came toward him, snapping her fan. "The girl will soon tire of being confined to her chamber without fire and without all the little delicacies she is used to commanding."

Miles was not convinced. Lady Maude seemed to thrive upon opposition; indeed, it seemed to him that she was looking more robust on her guardian's punishment regime than ever before. But maybe it was just the determined gleam in her blue eyes that enlivened the wan pallor of her countenance.

"I will have her submission before Gareth returns," Imogen declared. "But where in God's name is he?" She paused at one of the long, arched windows that looked down onto the courtyard formed by the two wings of the mansion and a high fence of sharp metalrailings. The great iron gates set into the fence stood open to the street and its ceaseless traffic of horsemen, carts, iron-wheeled coaches, rattling over the hard-packed mud. A barge horn sounded from the river behind the house, mingling with the shrill cries of the ferrymen.

But Imogen saw nothing of the scene below. Her heart was filled with dread. Could something have happened to Gareth? His boat gone down on the Channel crossing? An attack by footpads? Or even soldiers? France was a country at war, and the highways were wild and lawless.

If disaster had befallen Gareth would it be her fault? She had sent him there. Gareth hadn't wanted to go, but she had pushed and prodded until he'd given in. But she'd forced the issue to give him a purpose, an aim in life. To try to drive out the cynical lethargy that had dogged him for so long. She was so desperate to see once again the old sharpness in his eyes, the vibrancy in his bearing, the crispness to his manner-all the characteristics that his marriage had destroyed.

Not once in the years before Charlotte had Imogen doubted that her brother would attain the heights of power and influence due a man of his ambition, character, wealth, and lineage. She had nurtured him, thought of nothing but Gareth, his happiness, the dazzling future ahead of him. He had been deeply enmeshed in the political life of the queen's court and intricately involved in the affairs of the Harcourt family in France suffering under the religious persecution of the Huguenots. And his sister had watched his advancement with pride, a pride that was utterly personal. Everything she had done since their mother's death had been for Gareth, all her thoughts and plans were directed toward her younger brother's interests. She knew his potential, knew what he was owed, and with every last fiber of her being, she had striven for his benefit. And she had watched her efforts come to fruition.

Until the slow poison of Charlotte's madness had seeped into him.

He had been so desperately in love, so deeply in thrall to his beautiful, deadly wife, and his sister had watched helplessly as he'd withdrawn inch by inch from the world he was beginning to dominate. Nothing she could say or do had had any effect. All her influence was as naught. She had understood his shame, but she hadn't understood why he would not disown the woman who shamed him. No one would have blamed him if he'd locked her away somewhere. Divorced her, even. Instead, he'd stood by as she'd destroyed him. And behind her stony countenance, Imogen had wept tears of rage and grief, her frustration a constant open wound as she watched the collapse of the man she believed she had created and the ambition that would serve them all.

Not even after Charlotte's death had he recovered his interest in anything but the idle games of the courtier. In fact, if anything he had become even more withdrawn. And Imogen's torment was increased a hundredfold. She had believed, she had had to believe, that once the irritation had been removed, Gareth's wounds would heal. She had done the only thing that would right the wrong done her brother. But in vain.

Miles regarded his wife's averted back, reading her thoughts with the long familiarity of their dreary marriage. He'd early on accepted Gareth's place as the single recipient of Imogen's affections and pride, and he knew exactly how anguished she was at her brother's prolonged absence. Unfortunately, her anguish tended to make life even harder for those around her. He stretched out one foot and noticed with approval how the wedged heel of his cork-soled shoes gave a pleasing curve to his skinny calves, resplendent in black-and-yellow cross-gartered hose. He glanced up and met his wife's scornful gaze.

"I'm surprised you don't take up the new fashion in heels, dear madam," he said tentatively. "A little extra height adds consequence."

Lady Imogen's frown became less derisive, more attentive. If there was one area in which she trusted her husband's instincts and knowledge it was in the matter of fashion. "You think so, indeed?"

"Aye," he said decidedly, thankful to have diverted her thoughts, even for a moment. "I have heard it said that Her Majesty has ordered three pair… one in leather, one in rose damask, and one in blue satin."

Lady Imogen scratched the side of her neck reflectively, her long fingernail rasping against the yellowing parchmentlike skin. "Then I shall order a pair to go with my new black satin ropa. Crimson leather, I think."

"A perfect choice, madam." Miles bowed. "Are we expecting guests to supper?"

"You know perfectly well your sister and her boorish husband are coming. The man will drink himself insensible as always and your silly widgeon of a sister will witter and whine so that no sensible conversation can be held."

The moment of accord was clearly over. "You could seat my sister with the chaplain," Miles suggested. "Of course. Whom else would I inflict her upon?"

Imogen returned to her morose observation of the court below.

"Ah, my dear Imogen, how glad I am to find you at home. And Lord Dufort, I give you good day, sir." Lady Mary Abernathy swept into the long gallery, offering a curtsy to Lord Dufort, and her cool cheek to Lady Imogen. "I can stay but a minute. The queen has returned to Whitehall Palace for the night, and while she's with Lord Cecil, I have a little liberty. I came straightaway to discover if there is news of Lord Harcourt as yet?"

She looked anxiously at Imogen. "I do begin to fear for him, so long has he been away."

Imogen shook her head. "No news as yet." She had chosen Lady Mary Abernathy as wife for Gareth not only because she was eminently suitable in birth and appearance to be wife to a man of power and influence, but because Imogen believed she could control the lady herself and ensure that she didn't usurp his sister's influence over Gareth. Gratitude was a powerful motivator.

She patted Mary's hand, saying in bracing tones, "It will do no good to fret, my dear. We must wait and pray."

Miles stroked his chin, reflecting that Lady Mary had good reason to fear. Gareth was her last hope of a triumphant marriage. In her late twenties, a childless widow whose husband had succumbed to smallpox after a mere year of marriage, the lady could be reasonably described as desperate. Her husband's fortune had been entailed on his brother, and her own jointure had immediately been claimed by her uncle ostensibly to be held as dowry for a second marriage. The queen had given her a lowly position in her bedchamber, and in the years since her husband's death, the widow had languished at the queen's side uncourted. No man on the lookout for a wife had quite trusted the lady's uncle to come up with the requisite dowry, and a dowerless widow was not an attractive prospect.

But then Imogen had hit upon the Lady Mary as a perfect wife for Gareth. Gareth had treated the proposition with amiable indifference and allowed his sister to make all the arrangements. It was as clear as day to Miles that after Charlotte, Gareth could feel nothing for another woman, but since he must have a wife, his sister's choice would do perfectly well.

"Lord Harcourt will surely send a messenger on ahead as soon as he reaches Dover." Lady Mary's voice now took on a slightly whining note that Miles had noticed before. He found it extremely grating.

"One would think so," Imogen said with a decisive nod. "As soon as I hear anything, I will send to you directly."

Lady Mary offered a wan smile from behind her fan. "I pray on my knees nightly for his safe return."

"As do we all," Imogen said. "Will the queen give you liberty to dine with us this evening?"

Mary brightened somewhat. An evening at the Dufort table was infinitely preferable to dining with the queen's ladies. They were all either younger than she and full of the gossip and high-spirited chatter of young women who saw the world through fresh eyes, or established ladies of the court, with husbands and influence of their own. Mary knew she was regarded by both groups with a degree of pity and some contempt.

"I'm sure I can arrange it," she said. "I should be delighted." With a curtsy to Lord Dufort and an airblown kiss for Imogen, Lady Mary hurried away to the water gate, where the barge waited to return her to Whitehall.

Imogen began to pace the gallery again and Miles decided to beat a prudent retreat before his wife looked for an outlet for her rising frustration. He turned to leave just as the gate sentinel blew a long note on his horn. Imogen stopped in mid-stride.

"It would appear, madam, that your prayers have been answered," Miles stated, going to the window, looking down at the grooms and servants scurrying forth from house and mews at the sound that heralded the return of the master of the house.

"It's Harcourt. Thank God for His mercy. Gareth has returned." Imogen stood for a minute, her hands clasped, her expression radiant with a relief that had little to do with piety. Then her expression changed, and Miles read the swift calculation in her eyes.

"Pray God his mission has prospered," she said, almost in an undertone. Then more strongly, "I must greet him at once." She turned and swept from the gallery, brushing past her husband, who was himself on his way out, as if he were no more than a spider clinging to a web in the doorway.

Miles decided that his own welcome couldn't compete with his wife's. He returned to the open window and looked down at the commotion below. His brother-in-law was riding through the gate on a large gray mare. Gareth looked very much as always, easy and relaxed in the saddle, not apparently as travel-worn as one would expect from a man who had been journeying for close on four months.

When the earl swung from the saddle, Miles's gaze sharpened. He rested his hands on the sill and leaned out. A small figure jumped down from a pillion pad behind the earl. A girl in a shabby orange dress. That was astonishing enough, but then Miles's jaw dropped even further. Unless his eyes were deceiving him at this distance, a monkey in a red jacket and a cap sporting a bright orange feather was perched on the girl's shoulder.

"Lucifer and all his devils!" Miles muttered, as his wife emerged from the house and sailed across the flagged court, hand outstretched to her brother. Miles watched, breath suspended with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. Imogen's hand suddenly fell to her side as she saw her brother's companion.

Miles could hear nothing of what was said, but he saw Gareth take the girl by the hand and draw her forward as if to introduce her to Lady Imogen. The lady recoiled and the monkey leaped to the ground and began an impatient dance that had the fascinated onlookers sniggering behind their hands.

"Get that disgusting creature out of here!" Imogen found her voice at last. She turned to the chuckling grooms, who rapidly lost all desire to laugh. "Get rid of it. Wring its neck! Drown it!"

"Is that all the welcome you have for your brother, Imogen?" Gareth said with a wry smile, as Miranda swept up the gibbering monkey." The animal's not going to do any harm."

"My lord, what can you be thinking of to bring such vermin into the house?" Imogen said faintly. "Indeed, I am overjoyed at your return, brother, but-"

"Chip isn't vermin," Miranda declared. She'd kept a prudent silence so far but this was too much.

"It'll be covered in fleas," Imogen said with a shudder, ignoring this interjection. "Gareth, it's hardly considerate… And I must say, brother, we would have welcomed a messenger from Dover alerting us to your arrival." She was recovering her equilibrium with her complaints, but then her gaze swung once more upon Miranda, and slowly the full impact of the girl's appearance hit her. "Dear God in heaven," she murmured. "It's Maude to the life."

"Precisely," Gareth said. "And I will explain when we are private. Come." He turned to the front door, drawing Miranda in front of him, pushing her forward gently with his free hand.

"I won't have that animal in the house!" Imogen's voice rose abruptly on a note of genuine hysteria. "In a civilized house, brother! Pray consider."

"I have considered," Gareth said and blithely continued on his way into the house.

Imogen blanched, then gathering up her skirts, she hurried after her brother.

"Damme, Harcourt, but what's that you've brought back from foreign parts?" Miles came down the stairs, almost bouncing on his toes, his eyes gleaming with something akin to malice. One look at his wife's expression told him that trouble was a-brewing.

"Dufort." Gareth greeted his brother-in-law with a brief nod and turned aside into a wainscoted parlor at the rear of the hall. It had long glass doors that opened onto a sweep of lawn leading to the river and the mansion's water gate.

Miranda lost interest in her companions in her awed contemplation of her surroundings. So much glass! She knew Lord Harcourt was wealthy, but he must be enormously rich to afford such a thing as glass doors. She stared around the parlor. The walls were lined with shelves and on the shelves were books. Dozens of them, representing unimaginable wealth. As many books as one might find in a monastery library. Two thick embroidered rugs, elegant enough to be wall hangings or bed coverlets, lay carelessly on the gleaming broad planks of the oak floor. Conscious of her dirt-encrusted pattens, she stepped off the rug and onto the floor.

"Miranda, let me make you known to Lord and Lady Dufort." The earl's voice brought her back to her surroundings and she turned with a start.

"Your pardon, but I have never seen so many books."

"Are you lettered?" Gareth was for a moment distracted.

"For a while we had a magician who traveled with us. He was very learned and he taught me to read, but I have not a fair hand at writing." She shook her head ruefully, before adding, "But he taught me to cast horoscopes, too. If you wish, I will cast yours, milord. And yours, too, madam…" she offered in Imogen's direction.

Any response to the offer was lost as Miles exclaimed, "Holy saints! She's the spitting image of Maude." He came over to Miranda. "May I, my dear?" He tilted her chin to the light. "Astounding," he murmured. "Apart from the hair, of course. And she looks rather too healthy and cheerful. But other than that…"

"Quite so," Gareth said with a nod of satisfaction. "When she's washed and dressed in some gown of Maude's, I swear you will hardly notice the difference."

"But Gareth, what is this all about?" Imogen was struggling with conflicting emotions, joy at her brother's safety, excitement at the certainty he had brought good news, disgust at the monkey, and utter bewilderment at the urchin.

"Lord Harcourt wishes me to take Lady Maude's place." Miranda decided it was high time she spoke up. "And I agreed to do so."

The statement produced a stunned silence. Miranda glanced at Lord Harcourt and caught the sardonic gleam in his eye, the cynical twist to his mouth that she disliked so much. Then he became aware of her gaze and instantly his expression changed. He smiled and one lazy lid dropped in a near-imperceptible wink. The glint of amusement returned to his eyes as if he was inviting her to share his enjoyment of the shocked reception his plan was getting.

Uneasily, Miranda smiled back. She didn't feel like an accomplice at the moment, more like a pawn.

Gareth reached for the bellpull beside the door. "Perhaps you'd like to take care of Miranda, Imogen. Arrange for her transformation," he suggested.

Imogen no longer looked like a ship that had lost its moorings. She regarded Miranda with undisguised distaste, but also now with a degree of calculation. For all her volatility, she was no fool when it came to scheming. She wasn't sure what possibilities her brother had seen in the girl, but she had sense enough to wait and see. "Is she to take Maude's place at the dinner table tonight? We're expecting guests."

"Who?" Gareth raised an inquiring eyebrow, not noticing Miranda's panicked expression.

"Just my sister and her husband… oh, and Lady Mary," Miles replied. "She's been haunting the house for weeks now, Gareth, desperate for news of her betrothed. She'll be in transports… veritable transports to see you back." That same slightly malicious smile touched his lips as he said this.

A betrothed? Miranda's ears pricked. It was the first she'd heard of such a lady. She looked at Lord Harcourt and caught again that flicker of contempt in his eyes. But again she didn't know whether it was directed at himself or someone else. She began to wonder if the man she thought she knew-the easy, humorous companion of the road-was not the real Lord Harcourt, and if that was so, then what was she getting herself into?

"It'll provide a good introduction for Miranda," Gareth said.

"But… but… isn't it too soon?" Miranda asked. "I have but just arrived and how am I to-"

"You will manage beautifully," Gareth interrupted as a footman entered silently in answer to the bell. The earl took Miranda's hands firmly in his. "I will be there. Everyone in this room will be there to help you if you find yourself in difficulties. But you won't."

How could he be so confident? Miranda wondered.

"Send up hot water and a bath immediately to the green bedchamber," Imogen ordered the footman imperiously. "And I will need two of the serving girls. Come, you." She reached for Miranda's wrist as the footman disappeared.

Miranda snatched her wrist away, Imogen grabbed again. Miranda jumped backward. "For heaven's sake, girl, do as you're bid!" Imogen exclaimed. "Come with me at once."

Miranda looked at the earl. "Is she to talk to me in that manner, milord?"

"Saucebox!" exclaimed Imogen. "Of all the impudent-"

"Be quiet, sister!" Gareth interrupted with an upraised hand. "Miranda is here of her own free will. She's not a servant, and she's not to be treated as such.

If she's to take Maude's place, then she must be treated as a member of the family at all times."

Imogen frowned, clearly not liking this, but the logic was irrefutable. "I'll not have that monkey in the green bedchamber," she said eventually, seizing on this as a legitimate avenue for exercising her authority.

"Chip will remain with me." Gareth took the monkey from Miranda, who gave him up with obvious reluctance. "I'll have a dish of nuts and apples and raisins brought for him."

Miranda continued to hesitate. She had the sense that up to this moment, she could still back out. But once she'd allowed herself to be turned into a replica of Lady Maude, she would have crossed the Rubicon. She met the earl's quiet regard. "Very well, madam, let's get on with it," she said, turning to the door.

Imogen gasped and cast a look of outrage at her brother, who appeared not to see it. Tight-lipped, she preceded Miranda from the room.

Gareth poured wine into two goblets of Murano glass and handed one to his brother-in-law.

"I gather your business prospered," Miles observed, settling into a carved elbow chair, examining the lace of his shirtsleeve with a critical air. "You'd not be looking for an impersonator for Maude otherwise."

"A shrewd deduction, brother-in-law." Gareth sipped his wine, his eyes unreadable.

The green bedchamber was a large, sparsely furnished apartment in the east wing of the mansion. It was big and gloomy with its heavy oak beams and a bed enclosed in a massive oak-paneled cupboard. But the mullioned casement looked down to the river, which compensated somewhat for the gloom.

Imogen ignored Miranda at first: she was too busy supervising the filling of a copper hip bath, fussing that the cloths spread beneath it weren't thick enough to protect the floor, castigating and cuffing the serving wenches when they didn't obey her orders quickly enough.

The maids themselves had difficulty hiding their curiosity. Miranda offered a smile when she encountered one of their covert looks of wide-eyed incredulity, as if she were some creature from another planet. The smile was returned somewhat hesitantly but instantly disappeared when they felt Lady Dufort's baleful glare upon them.

"You… girl… what's your name? Miranda? Get out of those filthy clothes," Imogen commanded when the bath was prepared.

Miranda said nothing, but threw off her clothes and stepped without further instruction into the tub. The water was very hot and smelled of the rose petals and verbena scattered on the surface. She sat down gingerly. A full bath in hot water was an almost unknown luxury. She was accustomed to bathing regularly in the summer months, but in the streams and lakes and ponds along the road, using coarse soap made of rendered beef fat. The soap she was now handed in a small porcelain dish was white and smelled of lavender and lathered beautifully between her hands.

She settled back to enjoy the experience, allowing the girls to wash her hair while ignoring as best she could the critical and harshly appraising stare of milord's sister.

Imogen tapped one finger against her tightly compressed lips as she examined the girl in the bath. What did Gareth have in mind? He hadn't said as much yet, but she was certain that his journey to King Henry's camp had borne fruit, and by the same token, that this creature with her extraordinary resemblance to Maude had something to do with that fruit.

And there was something different about Gareth, too. His previous dynamism had returned. And it could mean only one thing. Gareth had found a cause. He had a plan. And this unknown girl slowly emerging from the soap bubbles was definitely a part of that plan. Finally, all his sister's loving scheming had paid off and her brother had returned to himself.

Imogen's little pebble eyes narrowed. The girl's physical resemblance to Maude was certainly uncanny, disturbing even. In the right clothes and with the right bearing, she could easily pass as a member of court society. Dressing her would be no problem, but what of her bearing, her conduct? Where had she come from? What made Gareth think that some ragged gypsy, which is what she looked like, could pass for a member of the highborn d'Albard family?

The girl's wet hair clung to her well-shaped head, setting off her long white neck and accentuating her features-the wide mouth, small, straight nose, slightly rounded chin. But it was her eyes that drew Imogen's attention. Such an amazing deep blue, fringed with the longest eyelashes, and their expression, stubborn, challenging, was so powerful, so utterly self-determined, that it disturbed Imogen. They were not the eyes of a girl who could be easily manipulated.

But they were Maude's eyes. How many times had Imogen seen that look in her young cousin's cerulean gaze? A look that utterly belied the girl's invalidish pallor and dying airs. Not that there was anything invalidish about this girl. Her thick, creamy complexion, freed of dirt, and marred only by a few scratches, had a healthy pink tinge, and if the rounded muscles in her arms were anything to go by, her frame, although slight, had a compact strength to it.

Had Gareth dallied with the girl? Her appeal was becoming increasingly apparent as she rose and stepped out of the bath. She was not like Charlotte, not in the least, not physically. But there was something there, some disturbing current of physicality that set Imogen's scalp crawling with recognition.

"Who are you?" Imogen demanded without volition. "Where do you come from?"

Miranda took the towel held out by one of the maids and wrapped herself securely. It was thick and fluffy, unimaginably luxurious. "I met milord in Dover," she replied. "I belong to a troupe of strolling players."

Imogen's response to this reminded Miranda of a turkey gobbler. Her wrinkled chicken-skin throat worked and her eyes popped. A vagabond! Gareth had brought home a vagabond! A criminal, like as not. A thief. Nothing would be safe in the house.

As she stared, Miranda swathed her hair in another towel, then stood, regarding Lady Dufort calmly.

Imogen turned on her heel and left the chamber. The girl was a ditch-draggled harlot, but Gareth saw something else in her, and for all that she loathed to acknowledge it, Imogen too could see that there was a quality to the girl that belied her antecedents.

Imogen unlocked Maude's bedroom door, flung it wide so that it crashed on its hinges, and sailed in.

Maude was huddled in shawls on the settle beside the empty grate. She was alone. The present regime permitted Berthe's attentions but twice a day, in the morning and the evening. Despite the warmth of the day, Maude looked cold and pinched, her eyes blue-shadowed, her lips pale. But she regarded her custodian steadily, although she made no attempt to rise.

"I give you good day, madam." Her voice was as pale as her countenance but it was steady.

Imogen glanced around the room. Maude's dinner tray bearing the bowl of gruel, the hunk of black bread, and the flask of water sat on the table untouched.

She had come into the chamber merely to find a suitable gown for Miranda to wear, but now as she looked at her cousin's pale, stubborn countenance her anger rose. She was in a mood to do battle and she would not be defeated by this ungrateful whelp. There would be no need for Gareth's deception with the vagabond, if Maude did as she was bid.

"Lord Harcourt has returned," she announced, stepping farther into the room. "You will appear at the dinner table and make your reverence to your guardian."

"But of course, madam, I would not be lacking in courtesy to Lord Harcourt," Maude said, drawing the tasseled fringe of the shawl through her fingers.

"You will make your submission," Imogen stated, coming very close to the settle. "Your guardian has a marriage proposal from the French court and you will submit to his wishes."

Maude raised her head and Imogen almost drew back from the bright, triumphant clarity in her eyes. "No, madam, I will not. I have converted and was baptized in the Catholic church last week. No Huguenot of Henry's court would wish to wed me."

Imogen stared at her, her eyes seeming to bulge, her nostrils turning white, her mouth falling open, revealing the many toothless gaps. "You hussy!" She slapped the girl with her open palm and Maude reeled on her seat, but the triumphant, almost fanatical glitter in her eyes didn't waver.

"I am a Catholic, madam," she repeated with a ferocious satisfaction. "Father Damian conducted my conversion."

Imogen opened her mouth on a screech of rage. Her voice rose in a thrilling throb of wild fury, carrying through the open door and resounding through the house. Maude picked up the vial of smelling salts from the table at her elbow and silently proffered it. Imogen dashed the bottle from her hand so that it rolled into a far corner.

In the parlor below, Gareth paused, his goblet halfway to his mouth. Miles sighed. They were both accustomed to the sounds of Lady Dufort losing her temper. "Wonder what's upset her?" Miles asked vaguely into his goblet.

Gareth set his own on the table and left the room, his cloak swirling about him as he took the wide stairs two at a time. Chip abandoned the basket of fruit and nuts that had occupied his attention since Miranda's disappearance and bounded after his lordship. But when they reached the head of the stairs, the monkey paused, head cocked as he sniffed the air. Then he raced away in the direction his instincts told him he would find Miranda.