The Emerald Swan (16 page)

“It doesn’t quite disguise the shortness of your hair,” Gareth mused. “When were you last in company, Maude?”

“Not for several months,” Maude replied.

“Capital! Then we can safely say that you have been abed with a fever and it was necessary to cut your hair. No one will question that.”

“They might wonder why she looks so healthy,” Maude remarked.

“Oh, I expect I made a swift recovery,” Miranda said, deciding it was time she had a voice in this discussion. “But now I have a very sore throat and my voice is so hoarse I am really unable to speak.”

“Let us go then, my ailing ward.” Gareth offered his arm.

Maude watched them go and was astounded at how she felt. Lonely, almost envious. But that was nonsense.

Chip was chattering forlornly at the firmly closed
door and Maude called him. He came over to her with some reluctance, examining her with clear puzzlement in his bright beady eyes. It seemed the monkey was as confused as they all were by these mirror images.

Maude held out her arms to him and, with a little very human-sounding sigh, he jumped into them and patted her cheek.

Chapter Nine

“W
HAT SHOULD
I call your betrothed, milord? And how will I know who she is? There will be Lord Dufort’s sister, too, won’t there?” Miranda tried to keep her anxiety out of her voice but everything was happening too quickly, before she’d had time even to accustom herself to her surroundings.

You’ll recognize Lady Beringer by her resemblance to Miles,” Gareth said. “And you’ll call my fiancée Lady Mary, as everyone else does.”

“There is one thing, though.” Gareth paused at the head of the stairs and looked quizzically into her immediately upturned face. “I have a name; it would be appropriate for you to use it.” Without conscious thought, he lightly pressed a fingertip against her small nose. It was a silly little caress, but the feature seemed to invite it, and it instantly gave birth to Miranda’s ready smile, chasing the anxious shadows from her eyes.

The parlor seemed full of people although sense told her there were only six. Miranda’s heart was pounding uncomfortably against her ribs as she stood in the doorway beside the earl.

The chaplain was there as Maude had said he would be. He was easy to identify as much by his demeanor as by his dark clothes. He stood slightly apart, an expression of alert willingness to please on his rotund countenance that sat rather oddly with an air of self-consequence.
Chaplain George was very conscious of his position as a man of the cloth, God’s representative on earth, who was responsible for the good consciences of the Harcourt household. But he was also aware that his position in this gathering was more employee than guest. He tended to be invited to the dinner table only when Lady Imogen considered he might be useful.

“Maude is feeling well enough to join us this evening,” Gareth said calmly. “Although her throat is still a trifle sore. But the news of her suitor has cheered her up considerably. Isn’t that so, my dear cousin?” He smiled and casually raised her hand so the bracelet caught the light. “The duke of Roissy will be as honored by such a wife as my cousin will be by such a husband.”

The chaplain bowed, an obsequious little smile on his mouth. “Lady Dufort was telling us of the offer you brought back from France, my lord. Magnificent. You’re to be congratulated, Lady Maude.”

“Oh, my lord, I have been so anxious for your return.” A lady moved out of the shadows and crossed the room with stately step. “Your dear sister and Lord Dufort have grown positively tired of the sight of me.”

“I find that hard to believe, madam.” Gareth took the lady’s hand and raised it to his lips. “I trust you have been well in my absence.”

Miranda, standing for the moment ignored, regarded Lady Mary with covert interest. She was tall, very pale, very stately. Her face was long, her features somewhat sharp, her eyes a grayish green beneath a very narrow brow. Her hair, smoothed back from her forehead, was a pale brown beneath a small lace-edged cap. She looked to Miranda exceedingly well-bred, and the set of her head, the slight lift of her nose, seemed to indicate an awareness of this fact. Her gown was of
rather modest cut, in a neutral shade of pale lavender, contrasting dramatically with Lady Imogen’s gown of vermilion velvet and Lady Beringer’s turquoise ropa over a gown of golden silk banded with purple.

“Ah, Maude, how happy I am to see you in company.” Lady Mary turned with a kind smile to Lord Harcourt’s ward. “You’re looking remarkably well, my dear.”

“Thank you, madam.” Miranda curtsied, keeping her eyes lowered.

“Indeed, my dear, it is a real pleasure to see you in such health.” Lady Beringer smiled from her chair beside the Lady Dufort. “And may we offer our congratulations.”

“My thanks, Lady Beringer.” Miranda smiled as she spoke very softly, with a slight rasp.

“Cousin, I hadn’t realized your throat was still troubling you.” Lady Imogen rose from her chair and came over to Miranda. She took her chin and examined her face with an expression of concern that to Miranda looked more like a butcher inspecting a carcass. With a tiny frown, she adjusted the snood.

“I was shocked to discover that it was necessary to cut my cousin’s hair during her fever,” Gareth observed.

“Indeed,” Imogen said, responding with swift comprehension. “But it was considered wise.” She moved away from Miranda, deflecting attention from the girl. “And how is your son, my dear Anne? Returned from his little holiday in the country, I trust.” Her smile was malicious and Miranda watched with interest as Lord Dufort’s sister blushed.

“The lad’s a wastrel,” boomed an immensely fat man whose belly strained against the lacing of his doublet. His thighs wobbled in tight pink stockings below
red trunk hose that could barely contain his backside. “It’s the second time the queen has banished him from court, and if there’s a third, she’ll not let him back. If he weren’t my son, I’d blame it on bad blood!” He glared for a minute at Lady Beringer, whose color fled at this implication, a white shade appearing around her mouth.

“He’s the spitting image of you, Beringer,” Miles observed, his voice unusually taut. “And with the same fondness for the bottle.”

Miranda was becoming so absorbed in this developing scene that she lost her nervousness.

“Maude, do come over here and show me the bracelet,” Lady Mary said in her sugary tones.

When Miranda failed to answer, Imogen spoke sharply. “Maude!”

“Forgive me, madam,” Miranda murmured, realizing with a start that she’d missed her cue. “I think the fever must have affected my ears as well as my throat.”

“A glass of wine, cousin? It might soothe your throat.”

“Why, thank you, mil … Gareth.” She took the goblet he handed her and became aware of the sudden silence in the room. The earl was regarding her with a frown and Lady Imogen was glaring at her.

“D’ye care for one of these lobster patties, m’dear?” Miles came over to her, extending a salver of tiny tartlets. The silence was broken, Gareth moved away from her, and she took a patty from the salver.

Miles gave her a little smile of encouragement. “Don’t worry, it’ll be forgotten in a minute,” he whispered.

What would?
Miranda was completely nonplussed. She approached Lady Mary, whose eyes were sharply disapproving.

“You’ve become remarkably familiar with your guardian, my dear,” she said as Miranda reached her.

“My cousin has been so little in company just recently that I daresay she forgot that this evening we are rather more than an intimate little family gathering,” Imogen said, her icy gaze shivering Miranda into silence. She felt the ground shifting beneath her feet, her earlier confidence collapsing.

“I’m surprised Lord Harcourt would consider it appropriate in any circumstances for his ward to call him by his given name,” Mary said, her disapproval sugar-coated, her smile uncomfortably searching.

“He … he told me to use his name…” Miranda fell silent, cursing her stupidity. He had meant simply that she should call him Lord Harcourt, not milord. Of course a ward would not have the freedom to use her guardian’s Christian name.

“Dinner is served, my lady.” The chamberlain bowed in the doorway, bringing the scene to a merciful close.

“Come. Let us go in. Chaplain, you will escort Maude.” Imogen gestured to the chaplain. In an undertone she said to Miranda, “You had best keep silence as much as possible from now on.”

Miranda was so mortified she didn’t think she’d open her mouth again.

Gareth, with Lady Mary on his arm, followed his sister and Lord Beringer into the dining room across the hall. It was a vast chamber with a vaulted ceiling, a massive oak refectory table in the middle, long benches on either side, X-shaped chairs at head and foot. Great mahogany sideboards stood against the walls, and a massive iron chandelier hung from the rafters, ablaze with myriad wax candles.

From the gallery running the width of the chamber, a group of musicians played softly.

Gareth seated Lady Mary on his right before taking his own place at the head of the table. His sister sat upon his left, the remainder of the guests taking their places on the benches on either side. Miranda and the chaplain, as the least important, were almost below the salt. The small party took up a fraction of the table’s length.

Miranda momentarily forgot her mortification in her awed astonishment at the size and grandeur of the chamber. Her place setting bore a silver platter, a silver knife, spoon, and a three-pronged fork. This was not an implement she had used before and she glanced covertly around the table.

Instead of using bread as trenchers, her companions were placing food from the communal pots onto their silver platters. Well, that was easy enough. When the tureen of turtle stew came to her, she took a ladleful and fished around for some of the succulent turtle meat. The liquid sloshed on her plate, which seemed rather flat for soup. However, no one else appeared to find it unusual.

“May I pass you the bread, Lady Maude?” Her neighbor held a wooden breadboard.

“My thanks, sir.” Miranda took a piece of soft white bread and hastily sopped up some of the liquid on her plate before it could slurp over the edge. She looked around again. There were no warning glares or horrified glances in her direction although no one else seemed to be doing the same thing.

Her companion picked up his spoon and attacked his soup. Miranda followed suit.

Gareth watched Miranda closely. That had been a
telling slip. What other such errors was she likely to make?

“How well your cousin looks, my lord,” Mary said to Gareth. She gave a little laugh. “But I confess it shocks me to hear her so familiar with you. But then perhaps I spend so much time at court in the queen’s company that I’ve grown rather old-fashioned in my ways.”

“I doubt that.” Gareth took up his wine goblet. “But you forget perhaps that I have known Maude since she was two years old.”

“But to hear her call you Gareth in public!” Lady Mary fanned herself vigorously. “I would consider it inappropriate in private, I must confess, but in public …” She shook her head, tutting. “Forgive me for speaking my mind, sir, but perhaps I might be forgiven for anticipating the moment when such confidences will be commonplace between us.” She smiled and lightly brushed his hand.

Gareth’s answering smile was a mere flicker of his lips. His eyes remained cool and distant.

“Why, even
I
wouldn’t make free with your name,” Lady Mary continued.

“No, I’m certain you wouldn’t, madam,” Gareth replied. “It’s inconceivable to imagine that you might let your feelings run away with you.”

“But of course not.” She patted his hand again. “You may rest assured, my dear lord, that you will have nothing to be ashamed of in your wife.”

Her slightly protuberant eyes were fixed upon him with speaking intensity. His betrothed knew all too well what shoes she was stepping into but flames would consume her before she was indelicate enough to speak openly of that dreadful history.

“I don’t doubt it, madam,” Gareth said with another
bland smile, looking away from that unnerving stare, his gaze returning to Miranda. She was tense, he could tell, her eyes darting around the table, observing, taking note. Her complexion was paler than usual, her mouth rather taut, and although she didn’t look in his direction he knew that the blue of her eyes would be deeper than ever with the power of her concentration.

Mary glanced sideways at him. He was smiling to himself, and unobservant though she was, Mary could see how soft his mouth had become. She followed Gareth’s gaze down the table. He was looking at his ward and there was a most peculiar glow in his eyes. She was certain she had never seen anything like it before. Indeed, he had frequently been quite open about his irritations with Maude. But something had changed. Was it simply that the girl had submitted?

Mary stared fixedly at Maude. There was something different about her. It was indefinable, yet it was there. Perhaps it was just that she was livelier. She had never been lively before, lying around in a miasma of medicinal preparations and a cocoon of shawls. But now there was something akin to a sparkle in her eyes, although she was still pale, but even her pallor had an underlying color to it, it wasn’t the gray and lifeless pallor of an invalid.