The Emerald Swan Page 4

  He left the li­very stab­le and strol­led thro­ugh the balmy August af­ter­no­on back to­ward the qu­ay, in­ten­ding to shar­pen his ap­pe­ti­te for the Adam and Eve's sup­per with a do­se of sea air. Gulls whe­eled and cal­led abo­ve the smo­oth wa­ters of the har­bor and the whi­te cliffs to­ok on a rosy tin­ge from the set­ting sun. It was a pe­ace­ful-eno­ugh sce­ne un­til he saw the splash of bright oran­ge aga­inst the gray sea wall and a cu­ri­o­us sen­se of ine­vi­ta­bi­lity-or was it fo­re­bo­ding?-crept up the back of his neck.

  The mon­key was sit­ting be­si­de her on the sto­ne wall, exa­mi­ning his hands in­tently. The girl was sta­ring out at the qu­i­et har­bor, swin­ging her legs, her wo­oden pat­tens thud­ding rhythmi­cal­ly aga­inst the sto­ne. The only bo­ats in the har­bor we­re swin­ging at an­c­hor and Ga­reth saw that the ti­de was run­ning out fast. Of the per­for­mers, the­re was no sign.

  He ca­me up be­si­de her. "Why do I get the im­p­res­si­on cir­cum­s­tan­ces are con­s­pi­ring aga­inst you to­day?"

  She lo­oked up at him do­le­ful­ly. "I knew I sho­uldn't ha­ve left my bed this mor­ning, as so­on as I saw the be­et­le."

  "Be­et­le?"

  "Mmm." She nod­ded. "Big black stag be­et­le in the milk churn, swim­ming for its li­fe. They're bad cess, you know."

  "I didn't." He le­aned com­pa­ni­onably aga­inst the wall at her si­de." They've left you be­hind?"

  Mi­ran­da nod­ded aga­in. "I knew they co­uldn't let the ti­de go but I didn't re­ali­ze how much ti­me I'd be­en away cha­sing af­ter Chip." Her ga­ze re­tur­ned to the wa­ter.

  Ga­reth too lo­oked out over the har­bor, sa­ying not­hing for a mi­nu­te, awa­re of her be­si­de him and awa­re that he to­ok ple­asu­re in her clo­se­ness.

  "What will you do?" he as­ked even­tu­al­ly.

  "I'll ha­ve to wa­it for the next pac­ket to Ca­la­is," she sa­id. "But I ga­ve the mo­ney I to­ok from this mor­ning's per­for­man­ce to Bert, so I ha­ve not­hing. I'll ha­ve to earn my pas­sa­ge, but how am I to do that in this town af­ter the hue and cry?"

  Ga­reth's eyes fi­xed upon the ho­ri­zon, on the slowly sin­king sun. It was not fo­re­bo­ding he had felt ear­li­er, but ex­ci­te­ment, he now re­ali­zed. The rush of ex­ci­te­ment when a com­p­le­tely unex­pec­ted so­lu­ti­on co­mes to light.

  He as­ked ca­su­al­ly, "Wo­uld you be in­te­res­ted in a pro­po­si­ti­on?"

  She lo­oked up at him, and her blue eyes we­re sud­denly wary. But he was re­gar­ding her calmly, his mo­uth re­la­xed, cur­ving in the hint of a smi­le.

  "A pro­po­si­ti­on? What kind of a pro­po­si­ti­on?"

  "Ha­ve you had sup­per?"

  "How co­uld I ha­ve?" she re­tor­ted a mi­te sharply. "I told you I ha­ve no mo­ney." It had be­en a long ti­me sin­ce she'd bro­ken her fast at dawn. Be­ca­use of the ne­ed of one fi­nal per­for­man­ce be­fo­re cat­c­hing the af­ter­no­on ti­de, the tro­upe had go­ne wit­ho­ut the­ir mid­day din­ner, and she was ra­ve­no­us. But in her pre­sent pen­ni­less and ho­me­less sta­te, a night with an empty belly se­emed ine­vi­tab­le.

  "Then per­haps you'd li­ke to sha­re mi­ne?" He lif­ted an eyeb­row in­qu­iringly.

  "In ex­c­han­ge for what?" Her lips we­re dry and she to­uc­hed them with her ton­gue. Her eyes we­re an­xi­o­us, her vo­ice ner­vo­us as she awa­ited his an­s­wer.

  Ga­reth co­uld see that she knew her pre­sent si­tu­ati­on was not­hing short of ca­la­mi­to­us. He co­uld see her eager­ness to ac­cept his of­fer, but her wa­ri­ness told him the most abo­ut her. Des­pi­te her li­fe on the stre­ets, or per­haps be­ca­use of it, she was not abo­ut to throw her­self on a stran­ger's mercy. And it se­emed she was not wil­ling to use her body as cur­rency in the usu­al man­ner of the stre­ets, if that was what he ex­pec­ted in pay­ment for her sup­per.

  "I ha­ve a pro­po­si­ti­on to ma­ke you. I'd li­ke you to lis­ten to it over sup­per. That's all." He smi­led with what he ho­ped she wo­uld see as re­as­su­ran­ce, then, to al­low to ma­ke up her own mind, he tur­ned and be­gan to walk back to the town.

  Mi­ran­da he­si­ta­ted for ba­rely a mi­nu­te, then she slid off the wall. Com­mon sen­se told her that fo­od co­uld only im­p­ro­ve her si­tu­ati­on and in­s­tinct that she co­uld trust his lor­d­s­hip. Chip jum­ped on­to her sho­ul­der, and they fol­lo­wed the earl back to the Adam and Eve.

  Chapter Three

  "Whe­re is Ga­reth? He's be­en go­ne for mo­re than fo­ur months." Lady Imo­gen Du­fort pa­ced the long gal­lery be­ne­ath the por­t­ra­its of Har­co­urt an­ces­tors. She was a tall an­gu­lar wo­man with a dis­g­run­t­led mo­uth, the nos­t­rils of her long no­se pin­c­hed and whi­te.

  "Pas­sa­ge from Fran­ce is not al­ways easy to ar­ran­ge." Her hus­band of­fe­red the pla­ti­tu­de al­t­ho­ugh he knew that it wo­uld only in­cen­se his wi­fe. Twen­ty-fi­ve ye­ars of mar­ri­age had ta­ught him that Imo­gen was im­pos­sib­le to pla­ca­te. It didn't stop him trying, ho­we­ver. Ner­vo­usly, he re­ar­ran­ged the few thin strands of gin­gery ha­ir dra­ped over his whi­te skull.

  "Who­ever sa­id it was?" Lady Imo­gen snap­ped. "But it's August, not Janu­ary, and the se­as are qu­i­et eno­ugh. And King Henry is out­si­de Pa­ris, not in the wilds of Na­var­re. Easy eno­ugh to re­ach, I wo­uld ha­ve tho­ught, for a man with half an oun­ce of de­ter­mi­na­ti­on." She re­ac­hed the end of the gal­lery and swung ro­und, her far­t­hin­ga­le swa­ying so vi­olently it knoc­ked over a small sto­ol.

  The lady ig­no­red the clat­ter as she con­ti­nu­ed to fu­me. "But Ga­reth, as we all know, is as in­do­lent as a li­zard in the sun. If it we­ren't for me, this fa­mily wo­uld sink in­to ob­s­cu­rity! The most won­der­ful op­por­tu­nity was­ted… tos­sed asi­de be­ca­use my de­ar brot­her can't be tro­ub­led to bes­tir him­self." She fan­ned her­self vi­go­ro­usly, two angry red spots bur­ning on her che­ek­bo­nes, ac­cen­tu­ating the de­eply poc­k­mar­ked skin. "Oh, if only I we­re a man! I co­uld do the­se things myself!"

  Mi­les stro­ked his ne­at spa­de be­ard and tri­ed to ap­pe­ar de­ep in con­s­t­ruc­ti­ve tho­ught, as if that co­uld so­me­how ac­hi­eve this oft-re­pe­ated am­bi­ti­on of his wi­fe's. He knew per­fectly well that her di­at­ri­be aga­inst Ga­reth had its ro­ots in fe­ar that so­me di­sas­ter had be­fal­len him. Imo­gen was in­ca­pab­le of ex­p­res­sing af­fec­ti­on, and her ado­ra­ti­on of her brot­her ex­p­res­sed it­self in fi­er­ce de­ni­al. The gre­ater her an­xi­ety and the de­eper her lo­ve, the mo­re ne­ga­ti­ve and cri­ti­cal she be­ca­me.

  "But my de­ar lady, yo­ur brot­her has go­ne to King Henry," he of­fe­red fi­nal­ly.

  "Yes, and thanks to whom?" Imo­gen de­man­ded. "Wo­uld he ha­ve go­ne if I hadn't beg­ged and pra­yed and im­p­lo­red him? On my kne­es, month af­ter month?"

  The­re was no an­s­wer to this. Lord Har­co­urt had cer­ta­inly be­en hard to per­su­ade. It awed Mi­les that his brot­her-in-law was im­per­vi­o­us to his el­der sis­ter's re­len­t­less pes­te­ring. Flo­ods of te­ars, ter­rif­ying ra­ges, un­ce­asing ha­ras­sment-not­hing se­emed to pi­er­ce his non­c­ha­lan­ce. A non­c­ha­lan­ce that Mi­les at le­ast be­li­eved to be lit­tle mo­re than a fa­ca­de. It fo­oled Imo­gen in­to be­li­eving her brot­her ne­eded to be di­rec­ted in­to the right paths for his own go­od and the go­od of the fa­mily. She hadn't se­emed to no­ti­ce that, re­gar­d­less of her ef­forts, Ga­reth con­ti­nu­ed to go his own way.

  Ga­reth had, ho­we­ver, fi­nal­ly be­en ro­used to a spark of in­te­rest over this bu­si­ness with Ma­ude. When Imo­gen had first co­me up with her bril­li­ant idea to pro­po­se Ma­ude as a pos­sib­le wi­fe to the du­ke of Ro­is­sy, Mi
­les had ex­pec­ted the usu­al se­qu­en­ce: Ga­reth wo­uld al­low his sis­ter to pes­ter him only so far, and then he'd gently but firmly put her in her pla­ce with an ab­so­lu­te re­fu­sal.

  But on this oc­ca­si­on, af­ter a whi­le Mi­les had se­en a cer­ta­in gle­am in his brot­her-in-law's eye-one he hadn't se­en in many a month. A lo­ok of qu­i­et cal­cu­la­ti­on even whi­le he'd al­lo­wed his sis­ter's pas­si­ona­te di­at­ri­bes to wash over him.

  It se­emed that Ga­reth had se­en the ad­van­ta­ges to the Har­co­urts in such an al­li­an­ce wit­ho­ut his sis­ter's ve­he­ment as­sis­tan­ce. The Har­co­urt fa­mily had lost so much sin­ce the mas­sac­re of Sa­int Bar­t­ho­lo­mew's Day, be­ca­use of the­ir lo­yalty to Henry and the Hu­gu­enot ca­use, it was not un­re­aso­nab­le to ex­pect the­ir re­ward now that Henry and his ca­use had tri­um­p­hed in Fran­ce.

  "Ha­ve you tal­ked aga­in with Ma­ude, my de­ar?" Mi­les in­qu­ired, tur­ning his rings aro­und on his fin­gers, wis­hing he co­uld es­ca­pe in­to Lon­don whe­re he co­uld find so­me con­vi­vi­al card-pla­ying com­pany in one of the ta­verns aro­und Lud­ga­te Hill.

  "I will not spe­ak with that un­g­ra­te­ful cre­atu­re un­til she ag­re­es to do as she's told." Lady Imo­gen's vo­ice vib­ra­ted with sup­pres­sed vi­olen­ce. "I wash my hands of her." She slap­ped her hands to­get­her in il­lus­t­ra­ti­on, but her hus­band was not fo­oled. Imo­gen was far from re­ady to gi­ve up her plan.

  Imo­gen re­su­me her pa­cing, then ab­ruptly she tur­ned to the do­or at the end of the gal­lery. She sa­id not­hing to her hus­band as she sa­iled out, le­aving the do­or open be­hind her.

  Mi­les fol­lo­wed at a dis­c­re­et dis­tan­ce and when he saw her turn to the left at the end of the cor­ri­dor in­to the east wing of the ho­use he nod­ded to him­self. Po­or Ma­ude was in for anot­her sa­va­ge bul­lying. At le­ast this ga­ve him the fre­edom to sne­ak out of the ho­use on his own pur­su­its.

  Imo­gen mar­c­hed in­to the small par­lor whe­re her co­usin spent most of her days. "Out!" she or­de­red the el­derly wo­man se­wing be­si­de the fi­re bla­zing in the he­arth, des­pi­te the warmth of the af­ter­no­on. It was suf­fo­ca­tingly hot in the small pa­ne­led ro­om and the air was thick with the ac­rid re­ek of the cla­ri­fi­ed pig's fat sme­ared on the Lady Ma­ude's chest to gu­ard aga­inst chills.

  The wo­man gat­he­red up her em­b­ro­idery and lo­oked do­ub­t­ful­ly bet­we­en her yo­ung mis­t­ress, lying on a cus­hi­oned set­tle drawn up so clo­se to the fi­re as to be al­most in the in­g­le­no­ok, and the Lady Imo­gen, who sto­od tap­ping one fo­ot im­pa­ti­ently, her brown eyes glit­te­ring with ra­ge.

  "O­ut! Didn't you he­ar me, wo­man?"

  Lady Ma­ude's com­pa­ni­on cur­t­si­ed has­tily and wit­h­d­rew.

  "I gi­ve you go­od day, Co­usin Imo­gen," a thin vo­ice mur­mu­red from be­ne­ath a mo­und of shawls and rugs on the set­tle.

  "Don't you da­re wish me a go­od day," Imo­gen dec­la­red, so­mew­hat idi­oti­cal­ly. She ap­pro­ac­hed the set­tle. The girl lying the­re re­gar­ded her so­lemnly but wit­ho­ut fe­ar. Her dark red­dish brown ha­ir was rat­her lank, her com­p­le­xi­on had the li­fe­less pal­lor of one who is chro­ni­cal­ly short of fresh air and exer­ci­se. But her eyes we­re a bril­li­ant blue.

  "I will not stand for this non­sen­se anot­her mi­nu­te. Do you he­ar me, girl?" Imo­gen bent over Ma­ude, spit­ting her ra­ge in­to her fa­ce.

  Ma­ude flin­c­hed and tur­ned her he­ad asi­de. But she sa­id in the sa­me re­ed­li­ke to­nes, "I must fol­low my con­s­ci­en­ce, co­usin."

  "Con­s­ci­en­ce! Con­s­ci­en­ce! What has that to do with an­y­t­hing?"

  "I can­not be­li­eve, my lady, that you wo­uld dis­co­unt the po­wer of con­s­ci­en­ce in yo­ur li­fe," Ma­ude sa­id gently. "I know you act ac­cor­ding to yo­ur own."

  Imo­gen's co­lor de­epe­ned. How co­uld she deny it wit­ho­ut dig­ging a ho­le for her­self? "You will obey," she sa­id coldly, stra­ig­h­te­ning. "That is all I ca­me to tell you. You will obey tho­se who ha­ve aut­ho­rity over you. And I will use wha­te­ver met­hods are ne­ces­sary to en­su­re yo­ur obe­di­en­ce." She tur­ned to the do­or.

  "You co­uld bre­ak me on the rack, ma­dam, but I will not act aga­inst my con­s­ci­en­ce."

  The thin vo­ice fol­lo­wed Imo­gen out of the ro­om and she gro­und her te­eth in frus­t­ra­ti­on. Ga­reth wo­uld ha­ve to de­al with the girl. It was for him to com­pel her obe­di­en­ce. He was her of­fi­ci­al gu­ar­di­an al­t­ho­ugh typi­cal­ly he had al­ways left the hard work to his long-suf­fe­ring sis­ter.

  Who had nur­sed the girl thro­ugh her in­ces­sant ail­ments? Who had over­se­en her edu­ca­ti­on? Who had ta­ught her the me­aning of her so­ci­al po­si­ti­on, the ob­li­ga­ti­ons of her li­ne­age? Who had had first res­pon­si­bi­lity for the un­g­ra­te­ful brat's wel­fa­re?

  Imo­gen, fu­ri­o­us, po­sed the­se rhe­to­ri­cal qu­es­ti­ons to the air and qu­ite wit­ho­ut re­gard for the truth of the mat­ter. The num­ber of ho­urs she had ac­tu­al­ly spent in­vol­ving her­self physi­cal­ly with her yo­ung char­ge's wel­fa­re co­uld be co­un­ted on the fin­gers of both hands.

  Once mo­re alo­ne, Ma­ude pla­ited the frin­ge of the shawl lying ac­ross her lap. Her fe­atu­res whi­le not exactly we­ak we­re not drawn with a strong li­ne, but the­re was so­met­hing ar­res­ting in the blue eyes.

  "Ber­t­he." She spo­ke wit­ho­ut lo­oking up from her pla­iting as her el­derly com­pa­ni­on re­tur­ned. "Fetch the pri­est to­night. I will ma­ke my con­ver­si­on this night and then the­re is not­hing they can do to me. The ad­vi­sor to Pro­tes­tant King Henry can­not marry a Cat­ho­lic."

  "Are you cer­ta­in you're re­ady to ta­ke such a step, mig­non­ne?" Ber­t­he bent over her, la­ying a hand on her fo­re­he­ad.

  "I ha­ve ta­ken in­s­t­ruc­ti­on, and now I am re­ady to con­vert," Ma­ude sta­ted with a stub­born flash in her eyes. "Be­fo­re Lord Har­co­urt re­turns, I will ma­ke ab­so­lu­tely cer­ta­in that I am ine­li­gib­le to play this part they wo­uld ha­ve me play for the­ir own ad­van­ce­ment."

  "I will send for Fat­her Da­mi­an." Ber­t­he smi­led, stro­king the lank ha­ir back from the girl's fo­re­he­ad. Her de­arest wish was abo­ut to be ful­fil­led. For twenty ye­ars she had strug­gled to sa­ve the so­ul of the girl she had nur­sed and che­ris­hed as if she we­re her own child. For twenty ye­ars in a co­untry whe­re to pro­fess Cat­ho­li­cism was to be per­se­cu­ted, she had strug­gled for a con­ver­si­on, and now it was wit­hin re­ach.

  Ma­ude clo­sed her eyes un­der the so­ot­hing stro­kes of Ber­t­he's fin­gers. Lady Imo­gen wo­uld be be­si­de her­self, but she wo­uld dis­co­ver that all the tor­ments of the sa­ints co­uldn't sha­ke her yo­ung co­usin's fa­ith. She wo­uld show them all what true for­ti­tu­de was.

  The lan­d­lord of the Adam and Eve didn't lo­ok best ple­ased at the re­turn of the mon­key. "I trust that wild be­ast won't be ro­amin' aro­und, m'lord."

  "I sho­uldn't think so," Ga­reth sa­id ca­re­les­sly. "Show me to that pri­va­te cham­ber you pro­mi­sed me and then bring sup­per for me and my com­pa­ni­on." He ges­tu­red to Mi­ran­da, mo­ving her in front of him.

  Mol­ton's lit­tle mo­uth pur­sed but he tur­ned to as­cend the sta­irs ahe­ad of them.

  "His mo­uth lo­oks just li­ke a chic­ken's ar­se," Mi­ran­da ob­ser­ved in an un­der­to­ne, ta­king a firm hold on Chip.

  "An ac­cu­ra­te if in­fe­li­ci­to­us com­pa­ri­son," ag­re­ed Lord Har­co­urt, gently prod­ding her to fol­low the for­tu­na­tely ob­li­vi­o­us in­nke­eper.

  "In he­re, m'lord. Cle­an and swe­et as you c
o­uld wish." Mol­ton lif­ted the latch on a small nar­row do­or un­der the eaves and flung wi­de the do­or with a grand flo­urish. "Ni­ce an' qu­i­et it is, too. Away from the stre­et and the tap­ro­om. An' the­re's no was­h­day un­til Wed­nes­day, so you'll not be dis­tur­bed by the girls he­ating the cop­pers be­low."

  Ga­reth glan­ced aro­und the apar­t­ment. The ce­iling was so low he had to duck his he­ad, but the bed was of a re­aso­nab­le si­ze. A ro­und tab­le and two sto­ols sto­od be­ne­ath the small win­dow that was gra­ced with a nar­row win­dow se­at. The air was stuffy, in­fu­sed with the ac­rid re­si­due of lye and the sickly smell of the so­ap ma­de from ren­de­red be­ef fat waf­ting from the was­h­ho­use be­low. But it was pri­va­te and far eno­ugh away from the ma­in part of the inn to en­su­re con­ti­nu­ed pri­vacy.

  "It'll do," he sa­id, dra­wing off his glo­ves. "Now see to that sup­per and send up a co­up­le of bot­tles of Rhe­nish."

  "Aye, m'lord." Mol­ton bo­wed, his lit­tle eyes dar­ting to­ward Mi­ran­da, who sto­od just in­si­de the do­or, clut­c­hing Chip. "The yo­ung per­son'll be sta­yin', will she?" An oily las­ci­vi­o­us no­te was in his vo­ice.

  Ga­reth tur­ned slowly and sta­red at him. Both in­do­len­ce and hu­mor had va­nis­hed from the brown eyes and the lan­d­lord bac­ked out has­tily, clo­sing the do­or be­hind him.

  Mi­ran­da wet­ted her lips that we­re sud­denly dry aga­in. The lan­d­lord's qu­es­ti­on, but even mo­re Lord Har­co­urt's re­fu­sal to an­s­wer it, had ba­nis­hed her hun­ger. Her pre­vi­o­us wa­ri­ness re­tur­ned in full me­asu­re. How co­uld she pos­sibly know that a com­p­le­te stran­ger co­uld be trus­ted? His lor­d­s­hip might ap­pe­ar un­t­h­re­ate­ning but Ger­t­ru­de had sa­id many ti­mes that smo­oth sur­fa­ces we­re al­so slip­pery, par­ti­cu­larly when it ca­me to gen­t­le­men.

  She re­ac­hed for the do­or latch with the hand that wasn't hol­ding Chip. "I… I think I've chan­ged my mind, mi­lord. I… I don't think I'm in­te­res­ted in a pro­po­si­ti­on and it wo­uldn't be fa­ir to ta­ke yo­ur sup­per in bad fa­ith."