Jane Feather - The Emerald Swan

"I wish I knew why people are afraid of a monkey." Miranda went to the tiny window set low in the lime-washed plaster wall overlooking the lane. She rubbed at the smeared glass with her sleeve until she had achieved a relatively clear patch.

Gareth took the long clay pipe from the landlord, who had filled the bowl with tobacco and now held a lighted taper. Fragrant blue smoke wreathed to the blackened rafters as Lord Harcourt drew pleasurably on the pipe. Miranda watched him, her small, well-shaped nose wrinkling.

"I've never seen anyone do that before. It's not popular in France."

"Then they don't know what they're missing," he said, taking up his tankard and gesturing to the girl that she should take up her own. Miranda drank with him.

"I don't think I like the smell," she observed judiciously. "It makes it difficult to breathe. Chip doesn't appear to like it, either." She gestured to the monkey, who had retreated to the farthest corner of the taproom, one skinny hand over his nose.

"You'll forgive me if I don't find it necessary to take into account the likes and dislikes of a monkey," the earl observed, drawing again on his pipe.

Miranda nibbled her lip. "I didn't mean to be impolite, milord."

He inclined his head in acknowledgment, but that same glinting humor was in his eyes and Miranda, reassured, took another gulp of her ale, realizing that she was parched after racing through the streets. She subjected her savior to a covert scrutiny. There was something very relaxed about him as he leaned carelessly against the bar counter, an air that she found as comforting as it was attractive. It gave her a sense of well-being and safety.

What had the innkeeper called him? Ah, Milord Harcourt, that was it. "I would like to thank you for all your kindness, Milord Harcourt," she ventured. "It's not as if we are acquainted in any way."

"Curiously, I'm beginning to feel rather well acquainted with you," he returned, adding wryly, "whether I wish to be or not."

Miranda pressed her nose to the scratched pane, telling herself that it was ridiculous to feel injured, even if it had sounded as if he was mocking her. He had entered her life for the briefest of moments and he would disappear from it as swiftly.

The lane outside was quiet. "I think it's safe for me to leave now. I won't trouble you further, milord."

Gareth looked surprised. That deep melodious voice had an edge to it. "If you're sure it's safe," he said. "You're welcome to remain in here as long as you wish."

"Thank you, but I should go." She turned toward the door. "And thank you again, milord, for your many kindnesses." She offered him a rather jerky little bow and disappeared from the taproom. The monkey leaped back on her shoulder and offered Gareth an obscene gesture with one prehensile digit, letting loose a stream of chatter that sounded unmistakably belligerent.

Ungrateful beast, Gareth reflected, drawing on his pipe. But the girl's astonishing resemblance to Maude continued to occupy his mind. It was said that for every person on earth there existed a double, but he'd never given such a fancy the time of day before.

"You'll be wantin' supper, my lord?" Molton reappeared in the taproom.

"In an hour." Gareth finished his pipe and ale. "I'm going to the livery stables to look at that horse. And I'll

need a bed for the night. I'll pay for the privilege of one to myself, and a private chamber if you have one."

"Oh, aye, m'lord. A nice chamber above the wash-house, just right for one." Molton bowed, his head almost knocking against his knees. "But I'll have to charge a crown for it, m'lord. I could put three folk in the bed without it seeming a crowd."

Gareth's mobile eyebrows lifted. "But I thought I heard you to say it was just right for one?"

"It's perfect for one, m'lord," Molton explained with dignity. "But it's suitable for three."

"Ah, I see. The situation is now perfectly clear." Gareth picked up his jeweled gloves from the bar counter. "Have my traps taken up to the washhouse chamber then, and I'll sit to table when I get back." He strolled out of the inn, leaving Molton nodding and bowing like a jack-in-the-box at the earl's retreating rear.

The horse on offer in the livery stable was a mere nag, but it would carry him the seventy miles to London if he nursed it, and it wasn't as if he was in a desperate hurry. Imogen would be on tenterhooks, of course, and Miles would be scurrying around in search of a hiding place from the relentless barrage of complaints and speculation. But Gareth's ears were already ringing in anticipation of his sister's shrill excitement together with her husband's weak counterpoint, and he was not eager to face the reality.

Not for the first time, he wondered how he had let his sister assume the responsibility of his household. After the dreadful debacle with Charlotte, lost in the maze of his own secret guilt, he had somehow dropped his guard, and Imogen was a past mistress at seizing any opening where her brother was concerned. Before he had been fully aware of it, she and her entire household, including the incredibly annoying Maude, were installed in his house in the Strand, Imogen's mission to comfort him in his grief and keep house for him. And five years later they were still there.

Imogen was a difficult, temperamental woman, but her one all-consuming passion was for her young brother's well-being. On the death of their mother, she had taken on the ten-year-old Gareth as her life's commitment. Twelve years older than he, she had smothered him with an affection that had no other outlet… and still hadn't. Her hapless husband, Miles, had to make do with whatever crumbs fell from the table. And Gareth, while steadfastly resisting the smothering, hadn't the heart to deliberately hurt his sister. Oh, he knew her faults: her overweening ambition for the Harcourt family that had its roots in her ambitions for her brother, her violent temper, her lack of consideration for her servants and her dependents, her extravagance. But he still couldn't bring himself to shut her out of his life as he so longed to do.

And Imogen in her zeal to organize her brother's happiness had even found him a perfect prospective wife to fill Charlotte's shoes. Lady Mary Abernathy, a childless widow in her late twenties, was an impeccable choice. An impeccable woman. One who, in Imogen's words, would never put a foot wrong. She would know exactly how to perform as Lady Harcourt and Gareth need never fear that she would fail in her duty.

Gareth's mouth took a wry turn. It was impossible to imagine Lady Mary failing in her duty wherever it might lie. Unlike Charlotte, who had had no concept of duty at all. But Charlotte had been a scarlet vibrant creature where Mary was as pale and still as an alabaster monument. The first had brought him misery, shame, and guilt. Mary wouldn't take him to the dizzy heights of bliss, but by the same token she would be incapable of hurling him into the depths of humiliation and raging despair. A man had but one chance at happiness and he'd wasted his, so he supposed he must be prepared to settle for peace and quiet.

His lip curled involuntarily. For some perverse reason it always did when he reasoned with himself along these lines. Not that domestic peace and quiet was a likelihood in the near future… once Imogen had come to grips with Henry's proposal of marriage to Maude.

He was officially Maude's guardian, appointed when her father had died and she had been sent to her nearest relatives in England. But Imogen had always taken responsibility for the girl and until recently he had barely noticed the existence of the pale ailing shadow living in a corner of his house. But once Imogen had decided on Maude's future he'd been forced to pay attention to his ward's character-one that seemed to veer between chronic long-suffering invalidism and mulish obstinacy. She would not easily accept the future prepared for her.

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.

"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.