Black Rainbow (14 page)

After this hint the others were persuaded to follow Lady Georgina. Jane was the last to leave. Her expression of faint perplexity, as her eyes moved from the rude columns to the flagstoned floor, was lost on Megan. The latter was busy congratulating herself. It could not have been better—Lady Georgina's contemptuous disinterest, her own erudition and
appreciation. She had even been given the chance to make excuses for the lady's rudeness.

She had no way of knowing that the seemingly trivial incident had far greater importance. Another invisible weight had dropped onto the scales that measured her fate.

Though Lady Georgina avoided Grayhaven, her brother became a constant visitor, dropping in on Edmund with the familiarity of an old friend. On these occasions Jane would often ask Megan to dine with them, especially when Lord Henry was the only outsider present. Megan wished she could attribute this mark of distinction to Edmund, but she knew better; Jane disliked his lordship almost as much as she did his sister, and counted on Megan to distract his attentions to herself. The latter's position was unusual, and she knew she had to thank Lord Henry for some of the courtesy with which she was treated. She would like to have resented him for his sister's sake, but she could not help being flattered by his compliments. Jane had hinted of libertine and profligate habits. With a man that usually meant. . . . Megan knew what it meant, but preferred not to use the words,
even in her private thoughts. However, Lord Henry had never shown that sort of interest in her. She could not have mistaken it, since she had experienced it before—once from an employer whose persistent attempts to seduce her had finally forced her to give up her position, and again from the eldest son of another household. She had lost that position, too, when the young man's mother discovered them struggling in a back corridor and, naturally, accused Megan of leading her innocent boy astray.

One evening when Lord Henry had dropped in, they were in the drawing room waiting for dinner to be announced when a disturbance was heard in the hall. The butler, an old servant who had been with the family since the time of Edmund's father, threw open the door and began, "Excuse me, sir, but there is someone here—"

He was set aside, gently but firmly, by Sam Freeman. Seeing a stranger, he stopped short. "Beg pardon, Mr. Mandeville—I did not mean to disturb you—but there has been an accident at the mill."

Jane instantly got to her feet, her embroidery falling disregarded to the floor. "How bad?" she demanded.

"Not good. Jack Moxon—Will's youngest—four fingers crushed."

"I'll come at once."

The exchange had been so rapid that the others had not had an opportunity to speak. As Jane turned, Edmund said loudly, "Sit down, Jane. You—Sam, is it?"

"Sam Freeman . . . sir." The pause was almost imperceptible, but it did not escape Edmund. His eyes narrowed.

"What do you mean by coming here like this? Are my employees unable to deal with such matters?"

"I have always come to Miss Jane and to her father, when there was trouble," was the calm reply. "It was by their wish. I thought you would want me to continue."

"You were mistaken." The explanation had done nothing to soothe Edmund's temper; and, indeed, it was conspicuously lacking in apology or humility. "The manager, Mr. Gorm, is the person to consult."

"Please, Edmund." Jane had ignored his order to sit down. She and Sam stood side by side, facing Edmund. The resemblance Megan had noticed was even stronger now, magnified by a common attitude and expression. They might have been brother and sister, confronting a mutual enemy. Edmund could hardly fail to notice this, and Jane's speech could not have been more poorly timed.

"Please, I must go—I had better go—Father always—"

"Must I remind you again that times have changed?" Edmund's voice was quiet, but the anger the presence of outsiders forced him to suppress crimsoned his face. "Freeman —the injured man is in the infirmary, I take it? A doctor has been called?"

Sam nodded. "I am glad to hear it," Edmund said sarcastically. "Then I fail to see why you are here. Miss Mandeville is not a nurse, her presence would only be a distraction. Get back to the mill. In future, report to Mr. Gorm, and do not come here again."

"Yes, sir." Sam's face had resumed its stolid blankness. His eyes shifted. "I beg pardon for disturbing you."

There was nothing obsequious in the words, or in Sam's dignified withdrawal. In fact, Megan had the distinct impression that the apology had not been offered to Edmund. Sam had glanced briefly at her when he spoke.

Jane remained on her feet, her hands twisted together. "It must have been the reed stop," she muttered. "I meant to have it replaced. . . ."

"For the love of heaven, Jane," Edmund cried. "Such inconsiderate behavior, before a guest—"

"My dear fellow, don't apologize." Lord Henry laughed and waved a negligent hand. "It has been most diverting— a glimpse into England's past, so to speak. The old paternalistic system, when master and man were one family."

The last word might have been innocently chosen, but it
brought a deeper frown to Edmund's face. "I believe I asked you to sit down, Jane. And tell me, pray, why the fellow had the impertinence to speak of you as 'Miss Jane.'"

Jane appeared to return from a great distance. "He might as well call me 'Cousin Jane,' " she replied. "Surely you remember that Grandmother Mandeville's maiden name—"

Dinner was announced at that moment, to Megan's relief. With Lord Henry's help she managed to keep a conversation going that did not include any references to the mills or the Mandevilles' family connections. Edmund did not speak a single word to Jane. Wrapped in her own thoughts, she appeared not to notice or care.

Later Megan went to her listening post behind the door in Jane's sitting room. She suspected Edmund was still angry with his sister; and sure enough, it was not long before he came.

Lizzie had mentioned other encounters between brother and sister, but this was only the second such meeting Megan had heard with her own ears. The tempers of both had worsened since the first confrontation. Edmund did not apologize or try to explain himself. He went straight to the attack, accusing Jane of lowering herself, encouraging familiarity from people who were beneath her, having common tastes that humiliated and degraded both of them. Jane counterattacked. Cruelty, neglect, and selfishness were only a few of the crimes she charged him with. But finally she broke down under the sting of his cold, venomous words. When she started to cry, Edmund left, shutting the door emphatically behind him.

Megan stood listening to her muffled sobs for some time. Rationally she was on Edmund's side, but her heart ached for her friend. She wished she could do something to comfort Jane; but of course that was impossible.

After the
commissioners completed the assignment of property to be enclosed, Edmund was busy fencing and developing his new land. He had learned that he was not only the principal landowner in the parish, but almost the only one; his father had quietly bought up most of the small independent holdings during the depression years of the forties, when farmers found it impossible to make ends meet. John had acted out of kindness, allowing the former owners to stay on as tenants and giving them a far better price than they would have been able to get on the open market, but that charitable impulse had proved to be a sound financial judgment as well. Edmund's only source of annoyance was that the village, and the land it occupied, had a separate status, based on some antique charter. All in all, though, he was immensely pleased with the results, and his mood was so exuberant that Jane was unable to quarrel with him, though she tried to do so when he hired a bailiff to manage the estate, as he had hired a manager to run the mill. Her father had always walked his own land. . . .

"And worn himself out before his time," Edmund retorted good-naturedly. "Leave business to me, Jane. Buy yourself some new frocks and bonnets—and what do you say to a personal maid? Someone who could arrange your hair and teach you how to dress properly."

Jane's new frocks were plainer than ever—dull grays and browns, with demure white collars. Edmund declared she looked like a Quakeress. Megan was sure he understood the nature of Jane's rather pathetic revenge; and, as if determined to conquer her, he announced that he meant to give a ball. If she did not order an appropriate dress, he would do it himself.

At first Megan was pleased by his excellent spirits. The hostility between Jane and Edmund made life uncomfortable for everyone—especially one who had heard their
bitter exchanges and could not admit that she had. As time passed, however, his happiness made her uneasy. His financial situation did not seem enough to account for it; and the announcement of the ball brought her fears into focus. Lady Georgina had condescended to attend, since the house was now habitable, by her definition. If Edmund had reason to hope for a positive answer to his next proposal of marriage, he might announce his engagement at the ball.

It was to be the grandest affair ever given at Grayhaven. Unfortunately there was no ballroom, this basic necessity having been unaccountably neglected by earlier builders; and though Edmund had plans for an additional wing that would incorporate such a feature, he was too impatient to wait the year or more such a construction would take. It was Lord Henry who suggested a solution—why not use the Great Hall? The minstrels' gallery at one end would serve for the orchestra; the library could be used as a card room for gentlemen who preferred that amusement to dancing; and the drawing room could be set up with tables for supper.

Edmund was delighted with the plan and invented further improvements. The guests would wear costumes, medieval by preference. He would open up the portrait gallery, as he called it; and the chapel—

"Why not make that the card room?" asked Jane, who had listened in stony disapproval. "The decanters of whiskey and brandy would look fine on the altar, and the pews would be convenient for those who take too much to drink."

"Perhaps not the chapel," Edmund conceded. "But it is no use your throwing cold water on the scheme, Jane; you cannot put me in a bad temper. Have you decided on your costume?"

"Boadicea," Jane replied at once. "I shall paint myself blue to fit the part."

Edmund looked at her half in alarm and half in amusement. "An ancient warrior queen would suit you. But please —no blue paint."

"Then I won't come at all," Jane said, stitching away at a new apron for Lina.

However, by coincidence or intent, Edmund had struck upon an idea that could not help but interest Jane. She was an excellent needlewoman and enjoyed inventing new patterns. Once Megan caught her poring absorbedly over a volume of engravings showing notable personages of history—in costume. But she did not succumb completely until one afternoon in early November.

Snow had fallen the previous night, and the view from the window was a study in monochrome—gray skies blending into white ground, broken only by an occasional branch, leafless and stark, rising out of the ermine covering that had buried shrubs and bushes. The bleak landscape made Jane's sitting room seem even cozier; a fire blazed on the hearth and the lamps shone brightly. Lina was playing with her doll, and Megan and Jane were sewing when Edmund burst in.

"Disaster!" he exclaimed. "My costume has just come from London, and look what the wretch has done to it."

Megan had been trying in every way possible to learn what Edmund meant to wear. She had some notion of attempting a feminine version—Katherine of Valois to his Henry the Fifth, or a medieval lady to his knight in shining armor. Now she could only think adoringly how handsome he looked.

His knee breeches and long, sleeveless coat of rose-pink satin were trimmed with gold braid. The sleeves and collar of the shirt were fine white lawn, lavishly embroidered. In his hand he carried a plumed, broad-brimmed hat; now he clapped this on, completing the picture of a seventeenth-century cavalier.