The Emerald Swan by Jane Feather Read Free Book Online

in his palm. The silence in the room lengthened. Then she closed thedoor and stood leaning against it, her hand behind her on the latch.
    “The troupe is my family,” she said with a touching dignity. “And the men in my family are not pimps and the women are not whores.”
    “Of course not,” he agreed gravely.
    “I know people think that traveling players are—”
    “My dear Miranda, I don’t know what
people
think, but
I
am not one to make assumptions,” he interrupted.
    Miranda regarded him with her head on one side. A bang at the door made her jump. She stood aside as two tavern wenches entered with trays of food and drink. Miranda’s nose twitched at the toothsome aromas and she found herself moving into the chamber to the table without further hesitation.
    The two tavern wenches shot her assessing glances as they left. Miranda knew perfectly well what they were thinking, but since they probably sold their own bodies as freely as they filled the tankards in the taproom below she didn’t take offense at their assumption that she was doing the same.
    She released her tight grip on Chip, who immediately leaped to the top of the bed canopy, where he crouched chattering.
    Miranda came over to the table, hungrily examining the offerings. “White bread,” she murmured in awe. White bread was not the staple fare of the laboring classes on either side of the Channel. She took the second stool and waited, politely controlling her eagerness, for her companion to make the first move.
    “I believe this is a jugged hare.” Gareth sniffed appreciatively at the contents of an earthenware stew-pot. He dipped his knife into the pot and cut off a pieceof rich dark meat, spearing it on the point of his knife. He tasted it and nodded. “Excellent.” He gestured that she should help herself and broke off a chunk of the soft fresh white bread.
    Miranda needed no second invitation. She dipped her spoon into the savory juice and was about to use her fingers on the meat when she remembered that her companion had used his knife. Such niceties were not the habit of the traveling folk but she was adept at imitation and followed suit. It was with relief however that she saw he didn’t have any scruples about dipping his bread into the communal pot.
    Gareth paused in his eating to fill pewter goblets from the leather flagon of Rhenish wine. He was covertly watching the girl at her supper, noticing how daintily she was eating, how she wiped her fingers clean on her bread instead of licking them, how she chewed with her mouth closed.
    Chip leaped from the top of the bed and perched on the end of the table with his head on one side and a somewhat mournful air. “He doesn’t eat meat,” Miranda explained, breaking off a piece of bread and holding it up to him. “He likes fruit and nuts, but he’ll have to make do with bread today.”
    “I expect mine host can produce a dish of raisins and a couple of apples,” Gareth suggested, looking pained. “Do you think you could encourage him to leave the table? I don’t care to eat in the company of even well-behaved animals.”
    Miranda lifted Chip off the table but he promptly jumped onto her shoulder, still clutching his piece of bread. “I don’t think I can persuade him to go any farther away,” Miranda said apologetically.
    Gareth shrugged in resignation. “As long as he staysoff the table.” He took up his goblet. “Your family are French?”
    Miranda gave the question rather more thought than such a simple inquiry might ordinarily have warranted. “The troupe are French, English, Italian, Spanish. We come from all over,” she said eventually. “Is that what you meant?”
    “What about your own family?”
    “I don’t know. I was found.” She sipped her wine. It always embarrassed her to have to confess to being a foundling, even though she had never lacked for a sense of family.
    Lord Harcourt, however, seemed to find nothing to condemn about such a careless