Black Rainbow (2 page)

Lizzie plucked her out of the bath and wrapped her in a dressing gown, and gradually Megan began to take account of her surroundings. It seemed to her, in her confused state, that the room was filled with people; but in fact there were only three others—two young girls, dressed like housemaids, who were emptying the copper tub, and the old woman, who had begun unpacking her bag, her lips pursed critically as she shook out the wrinkled garments.

Lit by a number of lamps as well as by the firelight, the room was of considerable size, its high ceiling hidden by shifting shadows. The furnishings were dark and heavy; conspicuous among them was the bed, a carved four-poster with tester and hangings of blue velvet. Except for a few rugs, the floor was bare; its surface, reflecting the dancing flames, shimmered like brown honey.

For the past two years, since her father's death had forced her to seek the only employment for which she was fitted, Megan had seen several fine mansions, but only as an outsider allowed to admire from afar. A governess's position was peculiar. Almost everyone else in the class-conscious society had a proper place in the caste system, based on such factors as wealth, ancestry, and occupation. The place might be lowly and abject, but it was defined; one knew where one stood and what was expected of one. A governess's education and birth might be as good as or better than that of the people who employed her. In this sense she was not a servant, but she was definitely not one of the ruling class. In consequence she was usually looked down on by both servants and masters, and her comfort depended solely on the goodwill of those she served.

Megan's physical surroundings had reflected this ambivalence. Her own room had been little better than a servant's, furnished with cast-offs and neglected by the busy chambermaids; but, unlike the maids, she was occasionally summoned to the drawing room if her employer required music or reading aloud or some other service. She had become familiar with the latest fashions in architecture and furnishings, and thus was able to see the deficiencies in her present surroundings.

This room, and everything in it, was old. It was perilously clean; there was not a speck of dust on any surface, and even the fenders shone with strenuous polishing. But the blue velvet hangings of the bed had faded to a grayish azure, and the bed itself must be a hundred years old; the wood was black with age.

But who was she to be critical? This faded grandeur was too fine for her; it must be a temporary accommodation only. Miss Mandeville seemed very kind, for all her peculiarities; she had ordered the inconveniently collapsing governess to be carried to the nearest comfortable room, but next day Megan would be relegated to her proper place in the nursery wing—if she was not summarily ejected.

She can't dismiss me, Megan thought. But she has great influence with her brother; he spoke of her with such affection and admiration, he said she was the mistress of the
house___And the child only three! She needed a nursemaid,
not a governess. Some ambitious parents started their sons on Latin grammar and the use of the globes when they were little older, but who would bother with a girl? They were considered overeducated and unfeminine if they acquired more than the conventional ladylike skills—music, drawing, a little French.

Megan's hands clenched. The room might be shabby, but it had a graciousness the newer mansions lacked, and an air of warmth and welcome they would never attain. I want to stay, she thought childishly. Holy Mother, let me stay; Blessed Virgin, give me sanctuary—just for a while, I am so tired.

The door opened to admit Miss Mandeville, followed by a servant carrying a tray. Megan's nostrils quivered. She had not realized how hungry she was until she smelled the tantalizing odors emanating from the covered platters. At Miss Mandeville's direction the food was placed on a low table convenient to Megan's reach, and then the servants were dismissed. The last to leave was the stout old woman, whom Miss Mandeville addressed familiarly as Lizzie.

Megan added her thanks, but did not venture to use the familiar name; she had learned by painful experience that servants such as cooks and housekeepers were sensitive about the honorable title of "Mrs." and did not brook familiarity from a mere governess. In fact, she was puzzled by Lizzie's role. Her garments were exceedingly old-fashioned, like those of a nursery-or housemaid of half a century before, yet the young maids had scurried to obey her orders.

Megan was curious enough to ask a direct question. Miss Mandeville responded with a smile that rounded her cheeks and reduced her eyes to twinkling slits. In her simple gray wool gown, with her brown hair tugged into an unfashionable knob at the back of her neck, she resembled one of the
maids instead of the mistress, and her feet dangled several inches clear of the floor.

"Lizzie considers herself the housekeeper, but in fact she is empress of Grayhaven, and a great tyrant. She has bullied all of us since she was nannie to me and Edmund. But please eat, while the food is hot. I know what railway food is like —limp and lumpy and snatched from the hands of other frantic passengers while the train hoots from the platform. I dined some time ago, but I will have a glass of wine to keep you company."

The wine was a Burgundy with a fine bouquet and brilliant color. It went down as smoothly as water, warming Megan's chilled limbs. Her face reflected her appreciation, and her companion said with a smile, "You know good wine, Miss O'Neill. This is my brother's choice; if your other qualifications are as outstanding I am not surprised Edmund was impressed with you."

"Being half French, I suppose I might claim to have a natural appreciation of wine," Megan said. "But in fact it was my father who cultivated my taste—not a particularly suitable taste for a young lady, I am afraid."

"Your father was Irish?"

The seemingly casual question dispelled the euphoria induced by warmth, food, and wine. Megan braced herself for a task which, but for the lady's kindness, she would have faced long before. She hated exposing her history to strangers, but it had to be done; a prospective employer was entitled to know who and what she was.

"My mother was a French lady. My father was Irish—the youngest son of a Lord Connacht, of Kerry. I see by your expression that you understand the implications; Irish younger sons are notoriously poor, are they not? It was a sizable family; when all possible connections had been exploited, to procure positions for the others, my father was left without a means of earning a living."

Megan paused. Mistaking her motive, her companion
gestured hospitably toward the food, as if to say, "Your story can wait until you are satisfied."

But the roast beef, which had been so tasty moments before, had lost its appeal. This was the part of the story Megan dreaded most; she had adopted the habit of glossing over it when she described her father to other employers. What demon, or angel of truth, moved her tongue to candor on this occasion she did not then understand.

She put down her fork and drank more wine, to fortify her courage. "He gambled," she said. "Among other things ... I never knew what means he used to keep us, he was careful not to let us know. There were periods of affluence, when he wrapped my mother in furs and bought me expensive toys; and periods when we lived for days on bread and cheap wine. My mother died when I was five. Instead of handing me over to an aunt or cousin, my father kept me with him in his travels. He made sure I was educated—"

"A convent school?"

The question caught Megan by surprise. She had meant to keep this part of her history secret.

"How did you know?" she gasped.

Miss Mandeville indicated a nearby table, where Lizzie had placed Megan's personal belongings. Prominent among them was the shining gilt shape of the crucifix, which was normally hidden under the bodice of her high-necked frocks.

"Knowing you were of Irish and French blood, I would have suspected you were Roman Catholic," Miss Mandeville said.

There was some excuse for Megan's consternation. Since Henry the Eighth had broken with Rome over three hundred years earlier, Catholics had been persecuted, reviled, and barred from the full privileges of British citizenship. Only in recent years had the laws preventing non-Anglicans from holding public office been repealed, and even yet Catholics were not allowed to hold professorships at the two great
universities. In 1850, scarcely five years before, angry mobs had smashed the windows of Catholic-owned shops and the Pope had been burned in effigy in countless towns. Anglicans and Protestant dissenters, differing on so many articles of faith, were united in common warfare against "Papist superstition."

"The—the trinket was my mother's," Megan stammered. "I wear it for sentimental reasons ... I no longer practice her faith."

"I am sorry to hear it," was the amazing reply. "Unless honest conviction brought about your conversion. But I suspect that was not the case."

Tears of self-pity and rage flooded Megan's eyes. How could this woman speak so complacently about honest conviction and imply that expediency had led her to commit an ignoble act? What did she know of the struggle to earn a living, or of the compromises demanded by that struggle? She was tempted to let her tears flow, but something in Miss Mandeville's calm regard warned her that device would not be effective. She conquered her weakness, but not her anger. At least she would have the satisfaction of venting some long-built-up rage before she was dismissed.

"Honesty is not a virtue, Miss Mandeville; it is a luxury reserved for the well-to-do. For a woman in my position the choices are few—if I cannot obtain honest work, I must choose death or dishonor, or the grudging hand of charity, which is worse than either. What do you know of hunger —not a healthy zest for food, but aching emptiness, with not even a crust of bread on the larder shelf? What do you know of the lure of the dark river, which promises peace and safety to the homeless wanderer? More than once I have looked into those cold depths and yearned to end the struggle."

Several times Miss Mandeville had tried to interrupt, but had been prevented by Megan's impassioned oratory. When the latter was finally forced to pause for breath, Miss
Mandeville said mildly, "You have a very forceful style of speaking, Miss O'Neill. Have you, perhaps, a fondness for sensational novels?"

Megan did not bother to answer this satirical question. Drained of feeling by her outburst, she shrugged defiantly and reached for the wine. It was her second glass, had she but known; and a faint smile touched the corners of Miss Mandeville's mouth as she watched.

"However," she went on, "I am well aware of the conditions to which you refer and of the fact that no description overstates the case. There are households in this country where your religion might be a bar to employment; and I suspect your appearance is another handicap. You look very young."

"I am eighteen," Megan said dully.

"So old as that? And you are very pretty, in that fragile, delicate fashion that brings out the bully in certain people. Do you know, when I first saw you, in your green cloak, with your hair streaming in the wind, I thought you were one of the People of the Hills, come to carry me off to fairyland."

"And I thought you were a pixie or a brownie."

She had not meant to say that; something seemed to have loosened the connection between her tongue and her brain. Miss Mandeville was not offended. Swinging her little feet, she laughed heartily.

"I have been called worse things. It seems we both have uncontrolled imaginations, Miss O'Neill. Perhaps we can overcome that weakness together."

The words, so casually spoken, were slow to penetrate Megan's increasing drowsiness. "But," she faltered, "you do not intend I should stay on—after what I told you."

"I couldn't dismiss you if I wanted to," said her companion coolly. "That is my brother's prerogative. But if I could, you have told me nothing that would give me cause to do so. In my opinion, little Caroline is not ready for a governess; she is a sweet child, but not clever, and I do not believe in
forcing children into learning prematurely. However, there is no reason why she should not begin to have a few simple, pleasant lessons, and you seem to me a gentle person who would do her good."

The last words blended into an unintelligible murmur, and the walls of the room began to waver like scenes painted on thin paper. Megan was dimly aware of being helped from her chair and into the bed.

"I am only a little tired," she murmured. "Not faint . . ."

"No, no." Miss Mandeville's face appeared above her; grinning broadly, it seemed to hang disembodied in midair. "You are not faint; only a little tipsy."

Her laughter was the last sound Megan heard as sleep enveloped her.