The Emerald Swan

Chapter Eight

Gareth, who had expected sparks to fly at some point, assumed that Miranda was the cause of his sister's tantrum. But when he reached the landing, he realized the tumult was coming from Maude's bedchamber at the end of the corridor.

He hurried toward the sound, entering his young ward's chamber through the wide-open door. "For God's sake, Imogen, you'll wake the dead!"

Imogen turned on Gareth, hot color suffusing her cheeks then fleeing to leave them bloodless. "She… she…" A trembling finger pointed at Maude, who had risen from the settle at the earl's entrance. "She says she has converted. She's abjured. She's a Catholic!" With a little moan, she sank down onto a chair, for once too stunned by this disaster to continue with her diatribe, but she continued to stare at Maude as if the girl had suddenly sprouted cloven hooves and horns.

Gareth absorbed the implications of this piece of news in silence, his calm countenance revealing no indication of the furious whirl of his thoughts. It appeared his options were now reduced to one. Miranda, instead of being a second string to his bow, must now play first fiddle. At the back of his mind had been the possibility-no, more than a possibility, almost a certainty-that Maude could eventually be persuaded to accept the husband chosen for her. Miranda's part was merely to be a stopgap while Maude came to her senses.

Once Maude was safely betrothed to Henry of France, after a reasonable interval Miranda's surprising reemergence as the missing twin of the d'Albard family could be arranged. There would be nothing to connect her with the girl Henry had wooed.

He had thought that in time he would be able to arrange a secure marriage for her-one not quite as brilliant as her twin's, but one that would nevertheless bring wealth and consequence to her family as well as to herself. The duke of Roissy could well be interested in the connection. And if Miranda didn't wish for that future, then she could return to the life she had known, no one any the wiser for the deception, and she herself all the richer for her experience. Not that he gave the latter possibility any serious consideration. No one in their right minds, snatched from a rough and almost inevitably short existence on the streets, would seriously reject the new identity Miranda would be offered.

But Maude's conversion changed everything. Henry could not consider a Catholic wife and Maude had put herself way beyond persuasion. So now Miranda must be groomed in earnest to take her sister's place, to advance the cause and ambition of the d'Albards. Miranda must wed Henry of France.

His original plan had been audacious enough, had carried enough risks, but this…? And yet excitement surged through him, the stimulation of challenge, the thrill of ambition. It was so perfect. Miranda carried the Harcourt birthmark. How could she fail to slip easily into her rightful place? How right and proper it was that she be returned in such spectacular fashion to her family.

But the risks were very great. Henry, a man once so dreadfully deceived, now so swift to see treachery, must never know of the deception. He must never know that the girl in the portrait was not the girl he made his queen. If he once discovered the lie, the earl of Harcourt would become the king's bitterest enemy. The queen of England would know of it, and the Harcourt family would be ruined for generations to come.

But it could be done. Gareth didn't know if Henry would remember the existence of the other d'Albard baby, but he guessed not. A young man of nineteen, whose mother had just been murdered, who was struggling in a web of politics and treachery of which he was the focus, would have had little interest in the domestic affairs of his advisors. And Francis d'Albard, so locked in bitter grief, had refused ever to refer to the missing infant after his wife's death.

The baby had remained a nameless victim of that night of horror, and not even Maude knew of her twin. Francis had barely been able to endure the sight of his surviving child. It was almost as if he blamed the babies for their mother's death… If Elena had not been hampered by her children, perhaps she could have escaped the mob. So the one child was lost to memory as completely as if she'd never existed and the other was orphaned in reality even before her father's death when she was two.

And now that was how it must remain if a d'Albard was to marry the king of France. If Miranda was to become Maude forever, then Maude herself must disappear. There would be no point now in a triumphant acknowledgment of a lost child. The real Maude would have her heart's desire and retire from the world to the seclusion of the convent, and her sister would take her place in the world. It could be done.

When he finally spoke, his tone was equable. "So you've abjured, my ward."

Maude nodded. "I had to follow my conscience, my lord."

"Yes, yes, of course you did," he said with that swift glitter of amusement that Miranda would have immediately recognized but that astonished Imogen and Maude.

"I will not have her under my roof!" Imogen declared, her voice trembling with passion. "I will not have a Catholic under this roof. She's to be cast into the streets-"

"I can just imagine how that would look to the civilized world," Gareth observed with the same dry amusement that left his sister staring at him in silence.

Maude gathered her shawls more tightly around her. She was disconcerted by the earl's calm reaction to her heresy, although Imogen was behaving exactly to form.

"Is someone being murdered?" a low, melodious voice chimed from the still-open doorway. All three occupants of the chamber turned to look at Miranda, both head and body still swathed in towels. Chip, chattering happily, danced around her feet. Before anyone could say anything, however, Miranda had stepped into the room, her astounded gaze on Maude.

"It's like looking at myself," Miranda said in awe. She touched Maude's arm as if expecting to find an illusion that would dissolve into the air. But her fingers met flesh and bone.

Maude stared back. "Who are you?"

Gareth stepped forward, placing one hand lightly on Miranda's shoulder. "Miranda, this is the Lady Maude d'Albard. Maude, this is Miranda, until recently a member of a band of strolling players."

Maude's still-startled gaze found Chip, who was regarding her curiously with his head on one side. "Oh, goodness!" she said, bending down toward him. "And who are you?"

"This is Chip." Miranda remained still and the earl's hand on her shoulder was a warm presence. She was confused, confused by this girl who looked so exactly like her, confused about how it made her feel. Instinctively, she looked up at the earl, and he read the bewildered question in her eyes. He could give her no answers, at least not yet. He moved his hand up from her shoulder to clasp the nape of her neck, and he felt the slight quiver run over her skin, followed by the almost imperceptible relaxation of the taut muscles in the slender white column.

"But he's delightful." Maude held out her hand to Chip, who promptly took it, bringing it to his lips in a courtly gesture that sent Maude into a peal of laughter. A sound he had never heard before, Gareth realized with a small shock.

Imogen snapped out of her horrified trance. She saw her brother standing with his hand on the vagabond's neck, his posture so easy and relaxed; and the girl seemed unaware of the casual attention, as if it was something she was perfectly used to. Imogen's scalp crawled. She rose to her feet, forgetting Maude for the moment.

"It's unseemly that the girl should be standing here wrapped in nothing but a towel. Go back to your bedchamber immediately, girl. I'll bring clothes to you. It's disgraceful that you should know no better than to wander around the house half-naked."

"She's hardly half-naked, Imogen," Gareth protested, and indeed the towel was large enough to cover Miranda's small frame twice over.

Unbidden, the vivid memory of that slight body rose to fill his mind's eye. The rounded bottom, the slim, muscular thighs, the sharp bones of her hips, the tangle of fair curls clustering at the base of her flat belly. His loins stirred and his hand dropped from her neck as suddenly as if the pale skin were scorching his palm.

Abruptly he demanded, "Why is there no fire in here? I was under the impression my cousin required its heat at all times."

Imogen sniffed. "I have forbidden her a fire."

"And adequate victuals and the attentions of my maid." Maude straightened and cast a pointed glance at the unappetizing tray on the table.

Gareth followed her eyes and his expression grew grim. "I said I would not permit my cousin to be coerced."

Imogen sniffed again. "You are too soft, brother. And look what your lenience has produced. Overindulgence will never bring your ward to a proper sense of duty."

"My ward, it seems, has decided that her duty lies in the service of God," Gareth said dryly. "I doubt any of us could find fault with that."

Gareth strode to the armoire and began to go through its contents, drawing out silk hose, a lawn chemise, a lace petticoat, saying over his shoulder, "I trust you don't mind sharing your wardrobe in an emergency, cousin?"

"Not in the least, sir." Maude was still regarding Miranda with a rather wary interest. "I would think the gown of periwinkle blue would suit her." She frowned. "What color's your hair?"

For answer, Miranda unwound the towel turban and shook out her now nearly dry hair. "Your color."

"Why is it so short?"

"Long hair would get in the way when I was tumbling," Miranda replied. She returned Maude's stare with much the same wariness. "Does it make you feel peculiar to look at me and see yourself?"

Maude nodded slowly. She reached out a hand and touched Miranda's face, then touched her own. She shivered. "You don't think like me, do you?"

Miranda grinned suddenly. "I doubt that! You're a lady and I presume you think like one. I'm a vagabond, or so Lady Dufort says. And I suppose I think like one, although I'm not quite sure what that means."

"A sow's ear," Imogen pronounced, rising to her feet. "Give me the clothes, Gareth, but I warn you, you'll not make a silk purse out of this one." She reached for the armful of clothes.

Miranda moved first, however, taking them from him. "I could dress in here. I would like to become acquainted with Lady Maude."

"Very well." Gareth gave her the clothes. "I'll come to take you down to dinner in an hour."

"Am I to dine belowstairs, sir?"

Gareth turned back to his ward, his eyes grave. "No, cousin. You may live the life of a religious recluse, just as you've always wished to. For as long as Miranda is taking your place, you must not be seen in public."

"That will please me, my lord," Maude declared stoutly.

Gareth bowed in acknowledgment and followed his sister from the room. The door closed behind them and Miranda and Maude stood in silence, examining each other again, Chip had retreated to the top of the armoire where he had a bird's-eye view of the proceedings. "So you're to take my place," Maude said finally. "Why?" "I suppose because you won't take it yourself." Miranda threw off the wet towel with a shiver and began to dress. "What fine clothes," she murmured appreciatively as the soft silk and lawn caressed her clean skin.

"Don't you mind being an impostor?" Maude sat down again on the settle, huddling into her shawls. She was not at all sure she cared for the idea of anyone impersonating her, let alone this mirror image of herself. It made her feel as if she were somehow split in two.

"It's a job. I'm to be paid well for it." Miranda held up a thick canvas underskirt inset with wicker hoops. I've never worn a farthingale," she said doubtfully.

"But what good will it do anybody?" Maude demanded.

"I've no idea." Miranda found Maude's slightly petulant insistence rather irritating. "Will you help me with this farthingale?"

Maude slid off the settle with an unusual burst of energy, losing several shawls as she hurried over to Miranda. But she didn't seem to notice. "How can you possibly expect to be me when you've never even worn a farthingale? Here… you step into it, then I'll tie it at the waist… There. Now we drop this underskirt over your head." She held out a starched linen skirt. "Like so." She smoothed it over the canvas farthingale. "See, it completely covers the hoops. And now we put on the overdress."

Miranda ducked her head, raised her arms, as Maude maneuvered the gown into place, shedding shawls as she did so. Miranda felt enclosed, confined, almost suffocated by the weight of the garments.

Maude deftly laced the bodice of the periwinkle blue gown. It had a stomacher of embroidered damask, a white silk partlet covering the throat and shoulders, and the skirt lay over the cone-shaped farthingale in straight lines, except for the back, where it was gathered in soft folds that fell to the ground in a train.

Miranda peered down at herself. "It feels dreadfully confining, but I think it must be very elegant. What do I look like?"

"Like me… more than ever." Maude shook her head. "I still don't understand it."

Miranda surveyed the other girl with a frown. "You're very pale. Are you ailing?"

"A little." Maude shivered and bent to gather up dropped shawls. "It's so cold in here."

"It seems warm enough to me. But why don't you light the fire? There's flint and tinder on the mantel."

"I don't know how to light a fire!" Maude exclaimed in shock.

"Lord love us!" Miranda murmured. "I suppose it would get your hands, dirty." She laid kindling in the grate and struck a flame. The wood caught immediately and Maude with a sigh of relief moved closer to the heat.

"Can't you do anything for yourself?" Miranda asked in genuine curiosity.

Maude shrugged, holding her hands to the flames. "I don't have to."

"Seems to me, if you'd been able to light your own fire, you wouldn't have had to stay up here shivering," Miranda pointed out. Maude confused her more than ever. How could someone be so different from herself when she looked exactly like her?

Maude sat down on the settle again. "I suppose you have a point," she admitted reluctantly. She looked at Miranda in frowning silence. "Are you really a strolling player?"

"I was, and I suppose I will be again. But tell me what all that fuss was about."

"What religion do you have?"

Miranda shrugged. "Lord, I don't know. Whatever's convenient, I suppose. Does it matter?"

"Matter?" Maude stared.

"Ah, obviously it does." Miranda somewhat gingerly sat on the far end of the settle and was pleasantly surprised to discover that her skirts arranged themselves around her of their own accord. "Tell me why, then." She put an arm around Chip, who had jumped into her lap.

At the end of an hour, she understood a great deal more than she'd bargained for. "So they want to marry you into the French court to advance the family?" she recapitulated slowly.

"But I intend to be a bride of Christ." "I always thought life in a convent would be rather dreary," Miranda mused. "You're really certain that's what you want?"

"I have the calling," Maude said simply. "And Berthe will come with me."

Miranda had heard about Berthe and guessed that the elderly nurse's influence had had as much to do with Maude's conversion and vocation as a spiritual calling, but she said nothing, merely sat staring into the flames.

"Why would it help them to have you substitute for me?" Maude asked the question again. "You can't be me, can you?"

"It's only for a little while," Miranda said. "Lord Harcourt didn't know how long, but he promised me fifty rose nobles at the end, so…"

"Then they're probably intending to try to make me convert back, but I will never do it. They can break me on the rack or the wheel before I will abjure."

"Very praiseworthy," Miranda murmured. "But not very practical." They were still no nearer to any answers, and as her confusion grew, she was beginning to feel even more like a pawn than ever.

In the parlor belowstairs, Imogen read for the third time the proposition from Henry of France. "Oh, it's beyond belief," she murmured.

"Not beyond belief," Gareth said, taking up his wine cup. "The d'Albards and the Harcourts are a fine match for Henry of Navarre."

"But such a marriage will put the Harcourts in the very fore of the French court. I shall go to Paris. We shall be cousins of the French king. Even here, at Elizabeth's court, our position will be advanced." Imogen's brown eyes glittered with a greedy anticipation.

"The wedding will be the most magnificent affair, of course. In Paris, once the king has the city's submission. Or should it be here?" She began to pace the small parlor as she debated this vital question. "And for your wife, what a splendid position. You will be bound to receive an ambassadorship, Gareth, or something equally important. Lady Mary will be over the moon." And even more grateful to her sponsor.

"But I don't see how the marriage can take place now. Henry of France won't marry another Catholic," Miles pointed out, having heard the dread tale of Maude's conversion.

"Maude will abjure!" Imogen declared, her fingers unconsciously closing over the royal parchment, crushing it in her palm. "I will have her submission, never

"If our cousin lets King Henry know that she's an unwilling bride, he'll not pursue his courtship. You might cow the girl into overt submission, Imogen, but you will not be able to prevent her telling Henry the truth in private."

Imogen stared at her brother. "You sound as if that pleased you!"

A slight smile touched Gareth's mouth. But it was neither pleasant nor humorous. His sister's greedy excitement reminded him unpleasantly of his own and he found the recognition nauseating. "Miranda will substitute for Maude during Henry's visit," he said deliberately. He was by no means ready to share Miranda's true identity, let alone his adaptive plan to his supposed accomplices. Miles was probably trustworthy, but he drank deep and in doubtful company; Imogen was too volatile to be trusted to keep her mouth shut in a fit of rage.

"Is Lady Mary to be apprised of this substitution?" Miles inquired, examining his fingernails intently.

"No," Imogen said immediately. "It must remain only among the family. I'm sure Mary is to be trusted," she added in hasty afterthought, "but it's unwise to spread one's secrets too far afield, particularly such a dangerous one. If Henry were to discover…"

"Quite," Gareth agreed, and the disconcerting, if not downright unpleasant, thought occurred to him that he couldn't imagine sharing anything of such vital importance to himself with his betrothed.

Gareth shook his head in a vain attempt to banish this distracting reflection. He continued briskly, "Miranda will take Maude's place at court and in this household. Maude may spend her days with her breviary and her psalter in the company of her maid, as she has always done."

Miles could not contain his shock. "Henry cannot marry some girl from the streets just because she looks like a d'Albard!" he gasped.

"Of course not," Gareth agreed smoothly. "He will marry a d'Albard."

"But how?" wailed Imogen.

"You may safely leave that to me, my dear sister," Gareth said calmly.

Imogen's eyes were hard and calculating. Perhaps her brother intended to lull Maude into a false sense of security, then at the last moment he would force her to do her family duty.

She nodded. "You have my full support, brother. I'll do my best with the girl, if you're sure that she can be trusted to do her part."

"I believe she will play it to the manner born."

"Can you really trust a hireling?" Miles asked.

"This one… most certainly, I can." Gareth drained his goblet. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll get out of my travel dirt before dinner. Oh, and have a decent dinner sent up to Maude, Imogen. And she's to have the attentions of her maid immediately." He departed in a swirl of crimson silk.

"Lord Dufort seems quite pleasant," Miranda observed, after she and Maude had been sitting in perplexed reverie for a few minutes.

Maude shrugged. "He's hagridden, but quite well disposed, I believe."

"What of his sister?"

"Lady Beringer." Maude's lip curled derisively. "She's a fool, and so's her husband. Why do you want to know?"

"Because they're to be guests at dinner and I'm to meet them. I might as well know what to expect."

"Well, they won't give you any trouble," Maude pronounced. "Anne Beringer doesn't see anything beyond her nose and Lord Beringer is always drunk and vicious with it. Who else is to be there?"

Miranda frowned. "A Lady Mary, Lord Harcourt's betrothed, I believe."

"You will enjoy yourself," Maude said with another derisive smile that reminded Miranda forcibly of Lord Harcourt in his less pleasant persona.

"You don't care for her?"

Maude laughed. "She's just like all the others. None of them have any conversation, any wit, any talent. They're empty… just like everyone in London."

"That's a bit sweeping, isn't it?"

"Just wait," Maude said direly. "You'll see."

“Then why would milord betroth himself to someone like that?"

Maude shrugged. "Expediency, convenience. Why else does anyone in society do anything?"

Miranda got up off the settle and wandered restlessly around the large bedchamber, noting the rich furnishings, the elegant carved furniture, the gleaming diamond-paned windows, the thick tapestries on the walls and floor. How could someone who had lived in such magnificence and luxury all her life ever understand what it felt like to sleep on straw, to huddle under haystacks out of the rain, to live for days on moldy cheese and stale black bread?

And by the same token, how could someone who had lived like that fit in with all this grandeur? How could she possibly sit at a table with all those lofty aristocrats, even if they were as stupid as Maude said they were? She was bound to do something hideously wrong. Drink out of a finger bowl or something? She'd never even seen a finger bowl on a table, but she'd heard they were used in palaces and mansions.

“The house chaplain will be at dinner, too, I expect," Maude said. "Lady Imogen always bids him to table when the Beringers are there. He's supposed to keep Anne occupied. He knows I have Catholic leanings, but he doesn't take them seriously… thinks they're the silly fancies of a young girl." She laughed bitterly.

"You'd better be prepared for Chaplain George to grill you in the most odiously teasing manner about making confession and showing an unhealthy interest in the martyrdoms of the saints."

"Well, I don't know anything about any of that." Miranda came back to the settle, a worried frown drawing her fine arched brows together. "Perhaps I'd better pretend to have a sore throat that makes it hard for me to converse."

They both turned at a light knock at the door. Maude bade the knocker enter and Lord Harcourt came in. He had changed into a doublet of midnight blue silk embroidered with silver stars and the short blue cloak clasped to one shoulder was edged in silver-fox fur.

"I was saying, milord, that if I pretend to have a sore throat I wouldn't have to say very much this evening." Miranda rose from the settle, regarding him with that same anxious frown.

But Gareth had other matters on his mind. He examined her appearance, lips slightly pursed in thought, then said," That gown suits you beautifully, but the fit needs a seamstress's attention. However, it will do for this evening."

He slipped a hand in his pocket and withdrew the serpent bracelet with its emerald-studded swan. "You must wear this from now on. It's a betrothal gift from the man who would court you." He clasped it around her wrist.

Miranda felt the same shudder of revulsion as the delicate gold links lay against her skin. "I do dislike it so.

"May I see?" Maude, curious, peered at the jewel. "How strange it is. So beautiful, yet so… so…"

"Sinister," Miranda said for her. She held up her wrist. "Is it worth a deal of money, milord?"

"It's priceless," Gareth said almost carelessly. "It belonged to Maude's mother."

"Oh." Maude bent closer. Then she raised puzzled eyes. "Do you think that's why I find it familiar, my lord?"

"I don't see how," Gareth replied. "You were but ten months old when your mother died." The fanciful thought occurred to him that on that dreadful night of killing, the hideous death of the mother while she held them in her arms had burned into the infant brains of her twin daughters. That somehow the bracelet carried for both of them the deeply buried memories of that terror.

Abruptly, he changed the subject. "What are we to do about your hair, Miranda?" He ran a hand over her head, pressing the dark auburn-tinted crop against the shape of her skull. "Cousin, a cap or a snood, perhaps."

Maude correctly interpreted this as a request that she find the article herself. She riffled the drawers in the big chest and drew out a dark blue snood, bordered with pearl-strewn lace." This would go with the gown."

Gareth took it from her with one of his quick smiles and slipped it over Miranda's head. Maude was so astonished at her guardian's smile-one she had never seen before-that she found herself smiling in return.

"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.