The Emerald Swan (24 page)

Imogen was astonished. The girl looked the part to perfection, but Imogen hadn’t expected her to act it with the same natural ease. And yet the impostor seemed much more at home in this society than the real Maude, who would have glowered and sighed, and responded with faint and fading murmurs to all communications. Imogen’s respect for her brother’s scheme was growing by the minute.

Miranda was beginning to relax when she saw two gentlemen pursuing a very deliberate path in their direction. She recognized them immediately as the two men from the livery stable in Rochester. They hadn’t seen her then, but Lord Harcourt had said they knew Lady Maude rather better than most people beyond the immediate family circle. Her heart speeded. How was she supposed to respond to them? She didn’t even know their names.

“Lady Dufort.” Kip Rossiter bowed deeply. “And my lord.” Brian, looking even more immense than usual in
a violently embroidered lavender doublet and scarlet trunk hose, bowed in his turn.

“Sir Christopher, Sir Brian.” Imogen acknowledged the greeting with a stiff curtsy, her stately tone holding more than a hint of disapproval. She thought both men vulgar and socially unworthy of her brother’s friendship.

“Lady Maude.” Kip bowed in Miranda’s direction. “I haven’t seen you before in society, my lady.”

“No, indeed not.” Brian bowed in turn, swaying slightly, a miasma of strong ale wafting around him. “And may I say how cruel of you to have deprived the court of such an enchanting presence.” With a jocular chuckle, he took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Indeed, I must take Harcourt to task for permitting such a flower to bloom in the dark.”

Miranda had an urge to laugh at this large gentleman’s extravagant compliments. She curtsied, keeping her eyes demurely lowered to hide the laughter. At least she knew their names now.

“My cousin is of an unfortunately weak constitution,” Imogen said in freezing accents.

Kip Rossiter’s gaze was sharp as it rested on Miranda’s face. “Lady Maude, I am delighted to see you’ve regained your strength.”

“I thank you, sir.” Miranda spoke in carefully measured tones. There was something in Sir Christopher’s eyes that made her uneasy. He looked as if he was searching for an elusive memory.

“I must compliment you, my lady, on your cousin’s looks,” he said to Imogen. “She is blooming with health. Your care of her must be commended.”

Imogen’s lips moved in the travesty of a smile. “You
will excuse us, sirs. We are expecting a summons to the queen’s presence. Ah, here is my brother now.”

“Kip … Brian … I give you good day.” Gareth greeted his old friends carelessly. There was nothing to fear here, they hadn’t seen Miranda before.

“We was just complimenting Lady Dufort on your ward’s good health, Gareth,” Brian boomed, punching his friend’s shoulder in merry fashion. “Such a peach … such a pippin …”

“You’re making the lass blush,” Gareth protested.

“Nay, I believe you’re making the Lady Maude laugh,” Kip observed, his sharp eyes still resting on Miranda. “And rightly so. No sensible young lady would pay a farthing’s attention to your extravagances, Brian. Isn’t that so, Lady Maude?”

At this Miranda was forced to raise her eyes from their sedulous scrutiny of the ground at her feet. Her azure gaze was brimming with laughter. “Indeed, Sir Christopher, I believe so,” she managed, a choke of mirth in her deep, melodious voice.

Kip’s gaze grew yet sharper. He seemed to remember that his friend’s ward possessed a rather faint and reedlike voice, and he’d certainly never before seen so much as a smile enliven her somber, almost sullen countenance.

“My lord Harcourt, Her Majesty will see you and Lady Maude d’Albard.” The chamberlain, resplendent with his gold chains of office, his black rod, and crimson-and-silver suit, appeared through the crowd.

“If you will excuse us.” Gareth nodded pleasantly to his friends. “Come, my ward.” He offered his arm.

“Her Majesty does not summon Lord and Lady Dufort?” Imogen demanded of the chamberlain.

“No, madam.” The man bowed.

Imogen’s little mouth pursed, and she turned with a sniff to continue her progression along the terrace. Miles stood back to examine Miranda’s appearance. It took a little tuck of the ruff and some fussing with the fall of her skirts before he was satisfied. “There, my dear. Not even the queen could find fault.” He smiled, patted her cheek, then scurried away in his wife’s billowing wake.

“Will she be looking for fault?” Miranda asked, her voice sounding very small.

“I don’t imagine so,” Gareth replied in bracing tones, laying her hand on his arm.

“But I am
terrified,”
Miranda whispered frantically. “A few days ago I was turning somersaults to please the crowd and now I’m to have an audience with the queen of England!”

“Just don’t turn any somersaults to please Elizabeth and all will be well.”

The familiar dryly humorous tone immediately restored her composure. Miranda straightened her shoulders, looking fixedly ahead as they passed through a series of rooms, lined with courtiers who looked enviously at them as they followed the chamberlain, who swept a path before him with his rod of office. Audiences with Her Majesty were highly prized and the jostling crowds at the doors to the presence chamber were all trying to catch the chamberlain’s attention. But that august gentleman looked neither to right nor left.

Chapter Thirteen

A
FOOTMAN FLUNG OPEN
a pair of double doors and the chamberlain announced in ringing tones, “My lord Harcourt, the Lady Maude d’Albard.”

Gareth eased Miranda past the bowing figure and stood with her at the threshold of the room. As he bowed, Miranda curtsied.

“Come, come, my lord Harcourt,” an imperious voice cried from the far side of a room that struck Miranda as astonishingly small and intimate for a queen’s audience chamber. “Bring the child to me.”

Gareth stepped forward, bowed again. Miranda curtsied. Another three steps and the obeisances were repeated. Only then did Gareth straighten properly and walk forward, his arm rigid beneath Miranda’s hand.

“Your Majesty, may I present my ward, Lady Maude d’Albard?” He moved his arm from beneath Miranda’s hand and stepped slightly to one side, leaving her feeling terribly isolated, almost as if she’d lost a part of her body, some protective shell.

She curtsied again, wondering if she would ever dare to look up. All she had seen of this queen so far was the hem of a gown of silver gauze and a silver satin slipper. But a hand caught her chin, lifted her, and she found herself looking straight into a long, thin, and very wrinkled face, and a pair of small black eyes that were regarding her pleasantly.

“Quite a pretty child,” the queen declared. “Has His
Grace of Roissy acceded to the proposal of marriage?” Her hand dropped from Miranda’s chin as she addressed this question to Lord Harcourt.

“Yes, Your Majesty. With alacrity.”

“Good … good. It will serve well to have such an alliance with the French court when King Henry has subdued his rebellious subjects.” She moved toward a carved chair and sat down, gesturing to the chair beside her. “Take a seat, my lord, and tell me how that business is prospering. Is Paris any nearer to capitulation?”

Gareth sat beside her without so much as a glance for Miranda, who still stood in the same place. She understood that if the queen now considered her no more worthy of notice than a piece of furniture, then Gareth must do the same. She was perfectly happy to be ignored, taking the opportunity to examine the room and its occupants, while she tried surreptitiously to ease her throbbing feet. Only now that she was free of attention was she aware of the pinching shoes.

Lady Mary Abernathy sat with four other ladies a little way from their queen, all busy with tambour frames. Several silky-haired lapdogs were nestled in their skirts. The paneled room was furnished more as a private parlor than a formal audience chamber and the mullioned windows stood open to the river, catching the faint evening breeze, damp with the day’s rain.

Miranda wondered why Lady Mary didn’t look up from her embroidery. Surely a smile of greeting was in order. It wasn’t as if they were strangers; they’d spent two hours together that very afternoon. The other ladies glanced somewhat indifferently at her as if she were of no particular interest, but one of them gave her a fleeting smile, and finally Lady Mary raised her eyes.
She looked across at Miranda standing still and alone in the middle of the room, but there was a frown not a smile on her face. Miranda wondered if something was wrong. If her cap had slipped, or her skirt was caught up on the farthingale. She shifted her feet uneasily, and grimaced as her numb toes came back to life with a shriek of protest.

Then Lady Mary inclined her head in unsmiling acknowledgment before returning to her embroidery. Miranda, who would have given anything for a friendly gesture even from a woman she instinctively disliked, forced herself to think of something other than her hurting feet. She allowed herself to examine the queen in covert little glances.

Her Majesty was dressed with such magnificence that it almost dazzled the eyes. The silver gauze over-gown allowed the brilliant crimson of the gown itself to show through with a diffused glow. The slashed sleeves were lined with red taffeta and the high collar rising above her head was lined with rubies and pearls. Thousands of them, it seemed to Miranda, all glittering and winking. Around the queen’s thin, wrinkled neck hung a massive chain of rubies and pearls, and atop her reddish wig she wore a circlet of the same stones.

But the queen seemed very old to Miranda. Old and very wrinkled, the skin of her bosom crepey, pleached with fine lines. She used her hands constantly while she was talking. They were very small hands, with very long fingers smothered in rings. And she seemed to talk all the time, Miranda noticed. She would ask Gareth a question, then barely wait for his answer before interrupting him with another question or a disagreeing comment. Gareth seemed accustomed to this
style of discourse, and showed no dismay at the constant interruptions.

Every now and again, the queen would rise with an impatient gesture and Gareth would immediately follow suit. Her Majesty would walk about the room, her hooked nose seeming to lead the way, while opinions, questions, interpretations, poured forth, before she sat down again, waving to Lord Harcourt to do the same. But she never remained seated for long, reminding Miranda of Maude’s exposition on Her Majesty’s habits.

“So, Lady Maude, do you like what you see?”

The question so startled Miranda that she stared blankly and very rudely at Elizabeth, who was regarding her with a degree of amusement. “I’m flattered at your scrutiny, my dear,” she continued, with a flicker of her narrow lips.

Miranda was at a loss. Should she deny her examination, defend it, or abase herself? She could feel the eyes of Her Majesty’s ladies upon her, and she didn’t need to look to know that Lady Mary would be regarding her with shocked disapproval. Why didn’t Lord Harcourt come to her rescue? But he remained silent, looking not at her but at some point beyond her shoulder.

“I didn’t mean to cause offense, madam,” she said with a deep curtsy. “But I have never seen a queen before, and since Your Majesty seemed occupied, I thought you wouldn’t notice.”

There was a moment when the air seemed to stand still, the occupants of the room holding their breath. Gareth’s face lost all expression. And then the queen laughed, showing blackened teeth amid a great many gaps.

“I have always appreciated honesty, and it’s a rare quality among courtiers. Come closer, child.” She beckoned.

Miranda realized with a shock that the worst had happened. In her anxiety, she had sunk so low in her curtsy that she was precariously close to overbalancing, her rear a bare inch from the floor. All the acrobatic skills in the world wouldn’t help her to rise without steadying herself with her hands on the carpet. If it hadn’t been so desperate, it would have been laughable. She was never clumsy. Then suddenly, Gareth was beside her. His hand was beneath her elbow and she rose gracefully to her feet.

“My ward is somewhat overawed, madam,” he said.

“Indeed, I thought her remarkably at her ease,” the queen observed with another flicker of her lips, and Miranda wasn’t sure whether Her Majesty had guessed her predicament. Had anyone else? She shot a swift sideways glance at Lady Mary. It was not reassuring; the lady was looking stunned.

Miranda approached the queen. Elizabeth took her right hand. “So tell me, Lady Maude, how does the duke of Roissy please you?”

“I cannot say, madam. I have not seen a likeness of His Grace, although he has seen one of me.”

“Dear me, Harcourt. That is an omission.” The queen, still holding Miranda’s hand, turned to Gareth and tapped his arm playfully with her closed fan. “You can’t expect the poor child to regard her nuptials with enthusiasm if she has no picture of her intended.”

Lucifer! Matters were going from bad to worse. It was a veritable hornet’s nest. Why oh why hadn’t she simply said yes to the queen’s question with a shy smile? Lord Harcourt had told her not to volunteer anything and here she was chattering with the queen as if they were old friends. “Oh, please do not blame mil … Lord Harcourt. The duke was unable to furnish
a likeness and I know mi … Lord Harcourt will give me a verbal description if I asked it of him.”