Black Rainbow (20 page)

She fled to her room and threw herself down on the sofa. It was not the first time she had sought that refuge; the faded chintz had been pummeled by her fists and spotted by her tears, and even kicked, upon occasion. As she lay there, the familiar scent and feel of the fabric calmed her and she was able to think more clearly. There was no excuse for Edmund's unkind words, but perhaps there was some reason for the state of mind that had prompted them. He was panic-stricken, frantic with fear. His actions made that plain,
however calm and logical he might appear. So much for her plan of persuading him to investigate the New Town water supply and clean up the filthy sewers. Reason and common sense could not reach a mind solely concerned with personal survival. But why was he so terrified? Had his new responsibilities destroyed his former careless confidence?

Then the answer came to her and she wondered why it had taken her so long to understand.

Disease had killed more men in the Crimea than the blades and bullets of the enemy. The army hospitals had been pestholes of disease, with a mortality rate of 42 percent until Miss Nightingale took charge. In the overcrowded wards and corridors the men had been packed like herrings, so close they were actually touching. Edmund must have seen cholera—may have watched in helpless horror while men at his very side passed through the ghastly stages of the disease—the vomiting and diarrhea, the agonizing muscular cramps and the final collapse. She had read a description and had found it horrifying; how much worse to see the reality, not at a safe distance, but within inches of one's eyes.

Feeling a little better, Jane sat up and brushed the hair from her face. She must be more understanding. She had no right to judge those who had suffered while she remained safe and sheltered at home.

Relieved, to some degree, of one source of distress, she suddenly remembered another. Children. A child of nine or ten working in the mill. Not only was that a violation of her father's principles, it was against the law.

This time the flare of indignation was briefer, perhaps because she was exhausted by emotion. Or perhaps, she thought, as she dropped back into the embrace of the old sofa, I am finally learning to control my quick temper. . . . There was no sense confronting Edmund with her accusation in his present mood. Besides, she did not know the facts. Her father had paid little attention to labor laws, since conditions in his factory were always far better than those demanded. Jane tried to remember what he had said about
the last Act, that regulated the hours of employment in the textile mills. Something about children under nine—but had the Act prohibited younger children from working, or had it only limited their hours of work? She could find out—but why bother? For every complaint she made to Edmund, he would have an answer—logical, sarcastic, and irrefutable.

She was worried about Megan. The girl's increasing pallor and listlessness might be attributable to the heat and the
tension, but Jane suspected there was another reason. Edmund was no help; he spent more and more time alone, sometimes reading, sometimes dabbling in his latest hobby, painting. He had taken drawing lessons in his youth but had never displayed any special talent, so Jane was not surprised when his rendering of "Grayhaven Manor from the Hilltop" made that stately residence appear to have been struck by a small earthquake. Her lack of appreciation had been obvious; since then Edmund had not shown her his paintings. Nor had he included his wife in his private diversions. As Megan's pretty looks faded, he seemed almost to avoid her.

Jane got into the habit of walking to the end of the park every day and looking out through the gates, which were now closed and chained, by Edmund's orders. As she stood there with her face pressed against the bars, she felt like a condemned prisoner—or, more appropriately, the unwilling resident of a superior sort of asylum for the insane.

One afternoon she stood looking out, as she had done so often. She had forgotten to put on a bonnet or hat, and the sun beat down on her bare head. The air was thick and heavy as oil, without the slightest hint of a breeze. A pale haze dimmed the sunlight without lessening its heat. If only it would rain, she thought wistfully. A good violent thunderstorm would clear the air.

At first she doubted the evidence of her own eyes when a form appeared on the road, among the green gloom of the overhanging trees. Passing from shadow to sunlight and back into dappled shade, it gradually advanced; and, catching sight of her wistful face peering out through the bars, it raised a black shovel hat and waved it in greeting.

"Mr. Higgins!" Jane cried. "Is it really you?"

He stopped a careful ten feet away and, taking a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his perspiring face.

"You have no idea how glad I am to see you," Jane said eagerly. "How glad you are safe and well! I have been worried about you. You look pale, and very tired . . . but I don't
know why I am babbling like this, instead of letting you talk. Tell me everything. Tell me what is going on."

Impulsively Mr. Higgins started forward, beaming till his teeth seemed to protrude at right angles to his face; but he caught himself before he had taken more than a few steps. Perspiring even more profusely, and trying not to, he did not attempt to reply until she had stopped speaking.

"You cannot be more pleased to see me than I am to see you, Miss Mandeville. And may I tell you how much I appreciate your kind expression of interest in my welfare! It is more than I had any right to expect, and I can only—"

Jane had thought of him, with genuine interest and concern. Now that she saw him unscathed, she began to lose patience with him.

"Tell me what is happening," she interrupted.

"Happening. Oh. I am delighted to be the bearer of good news, Miss Mandeville. We have had no new cases for over forty-eight hours. I think we may hope that the worst is over."

"Thank God," Jane exclaimed.

"Believe me, I do. Yet the suffering has been great—very great. It is strange; the rest of the country seems to have been unaffected. His ways are indeed a mystery. . . ."

He turned his handkerchief in his hands, as if looking for a dry spot. Jane said reluctantly, "I must not keep you standing in the heat, Mr. Higgins. I hope we can welcome you at the house before long, and then you can tell us more."

"That is a pleasure I have long looked forward to. And I must not keep you; you ought not to have come out without a head covering, Miss Mandeville. I will just leave my letter here in the usual place. Perhaps you had better step back. Edmund has not yet removed his restrictions, and although some of them are in my opinion excessive, I am in complete sympathy with his refusal to risk the slightest danger to those he loves."

He would not come forward until she had backed away.

She watched incredulously as he placed a folded paper in a crevice in the gatepost.

"Is that how you communicate with Edmund?"

"Yes. I believe," Mr. Higgins said with a faint smile, "that the missive is removed with firetongs and fumigated before he opens it. However, I am in complete sympathy with his refusal to—"

"It does seem excessive," Jane said, having heard this opinion already. "And inconsiderate. You have enough to do, I am sure, without this additional task."

"It is a positive pleasure, I assure you. I have often stood here looking at the house and thinking of you—of all of you —but, if I may be so bold, of you in particular, Miss Mandeville____"

"I had better go," Jane said. "Until Edmund relaxes his rules—"

"Yes, yes, you are quite right. Let's hope my exile will not last much longer."

He stood looking after her until she was out of his sight. Jane smiled to herself and shook her head ruefully. She should not have greeted him so warmly. But she did not regret the encounter; the news was the best she had heard for a long time. Even the heat seemed less oppressive.

The hoped-for storm did not come. When they met for dinner, Megan said fretfully, "It is too hot to eat," and pushed her untouched plate away.

Edmund, who was eating his mutton with as much appetite as always, did not reply. Jane felt sure that by this time he had read Mr. Higgins' latest communication, yet he had not said a word about it. Finally she could contain herself no longer.

"Have you had any word from the village, Edmund?"

Edmund took another bite, chewed it carefully, swallowed, and said, "Yes. Higgins believes the worst is over."

"That is wonderful news!" The color flooded into Megan's pale cheeks. "Why didn't you tell us, Edmund?"

"I would have done so in time."

"Then we can go out," Jane said.

"If no more cases occur, another week should see the end of our isolation."

"A week!"

"Jane, I beg you will not glower at me in that mutinous fashion. You are very selfish to think only of yourself, in the face of the suffering others have experienced. I have had losses too, you know. Half the millhands were out at one time. Production has fallen by some twenty percent."

With freedom
almost in sight, Jane found herself more bored than ever, and a few days later, when she discovered Edmund preparing for a journey, it was more than she could bear.

"Why can't I go with you?" she demanded.

"Jane, how childish you sound. I am going on business— to Birmingham, if you must know. I mean to avoid the village altogether, and I expect you to do the same." He laughed and tweaked her hair—a brotherly gesture he had not made in weeks. "Give me a smile instead of pouting and I will bring you a pretty present."

He laughed again when, instead of smiling, she made a rude face at him, but she was learning discretion; she waited until he had closed the door before muttering, "It's all very well for you to be cheerful. You can do what you like. Even Birmingham would look good to me!"

"He is not going to Birmingham."

She had thought herself alone; the voice startled her, so that she whirled around. Peering out of the shadows at the back of the hall was the pale face of her sister-in-law.

"He is not going on business," Megan continued.

"Where, then?"

Megan turned and walked away without answering. The
glimmer of her light summer dress faded into the darkness under the stairs.

Jane watched her, uncertain as to whether to follow and demand an explanation, or leave well enough alone. Edmund had referred so often and so bitingly to her blundering ways, her bluntness and lack of tact, that she had lost confidence in her ability to help others. She felt especially awkward about Megan. They had grown apart since the marriage. Jane regretted this, but felt it was only natural. Megan's primary loyalty must be to her husband. She didn't want to involve Megan in the arguments that so often divided her and Edmund; but perhaps she had gone too far in the other direction.

In an effort to recapture some of their former intimacy, she suggested they have an early dinner together in her sitting room. Megan seemed brighter and more alert at first. Glancing around the room, she said with a smile, "What happy memories this recalls! You were very good to me then, Jane."

However, she said nothing of a personal nature, and gradually Jane sensed something forced and unnatural about her vivacity and bright, rapid speech. Yet she was in no hurry to leave, despite her increasingly frequent glances at the clock. It was almost midnight when she rose, apologizing for keeping Jane so late.

"It's too hot to sleep," Jane said. "Don't hurry away."

"Oh, I shall sleep." Megan produced an unconvincing yawn. "I am very tired. I am sure I will sleep soundly tonight."

After she had gone, Jane sat thinking over her last words in an effort to understand the strange intensity with which they had been uttered. "I shall sleep; I will sleep soundly
tonight___"A possible meaning came to her; and she started
up, putting out her hands as if to push the idea away. The strain of the past weeks had turned her brain, or she would never have thought of such a dreadful thing.

She got ready for bed, hoping sleep would cure her of her
sick fancy; but in the darkness the monstrous thought grew stronger, swelling like some obscene fungus. Megan had no reason to take her own life and every reason to live; but lack of reason was the essence of insanity. What did she know of Megan's family background or her private fears?

Jane knew she was being morbid, but she couldn't stop herself. After squirming and tossing for what seemed like hours, she gave up trying to sleep. She would look in on Megan. She would feel like a fool in the morning, but anything was better than lying awake imagining senseless horrors.

The night was hot and breathless. She didn't bother with a gown or slippers, but went straight to the door. Surefooted in the dark, for she knew every inch of the way, she moved along the corridor and was about to step onto the landing when she heard a sound that made her draw back into the shadows. It came from the other corridor, where Megan's room was located.

After a moment or two a faint light appeared. Normally Jane was not superstitious, but she had worked herself into such a fit of the vapors that she half expected to see one of Grayhaven's ghastlier apparitions—Rob Romer, executed for treason by the Virgin Queen, carrying his head under his arm, or the White Lady, wringing shadowy hands and weeping tears of blood. Before she had time to become really frightened, the candle and the person who held it passed into her field of vision and on down the stairs. It was Megan, fully dressed in a dark, slim gown, her hair neatly coiled around her head.

Relief, astonishment, and renewed alarm passed rapidly through Jane's mind as she heard the rattle of bolts and chains and the sound of the front door opening. The house was miserably hot; it was possible that Megan had also been unable to sleep. All the same. . . . Jane ran back to her room. It took only a moment to slip into a loose gown and a pair of low-heeled shoes. Retracing her steps, she went down the stairs and let herself out.

The waning moon gave less light than she would have liked. It was several minutes before she could be sure that no living form moved on the front lawn or the graveled drive. Megan must have gone to the garden; though why, if that was her destination, she should have chosen to go out the front door, Jane could not imagine.

Megan had not gone to the garden. When Jane reached the end of the west range, she saw her sister-in-law moving quickly toward the stone wall that bordered the south side of the park. The hillside was relatively steep at that point; at the foot of the slope, beyond the wall, flowed the stream that had once supplied the moat, in the days when Grayhaven was a fortified manor. As Jane watched, the slim dark figure vanished into the shadow of the wall and did not reappear.

Jane started to run. There was a gate in that section of the wall; Megan must have gone through it, and once she was on the hillside it would be hard to see her. Tall weeds, brambles, and trees formed a mosaic of light and shadow, capable of concealing a troop of infantry. She could not imagine where Megan was going. That she had some specific destination in mind seemed clear from her quick, purposeful walk, but there was nothing in the hills except forest, wild and untended.

The gate swung open. Megan had not bothered to close it. The stream had been shrunk by drought into a feeble trickle, no problem even to a woman in thin shoes and long skirts. But had Megan crossed it? Jane was about to look for footprints when a movement high above caught her eyes.

She jumped the stream and began the ascent. She knew she could easily catch Megan; she knew the hills, and in her loose dress, unencumbered by stays and petticoats, she was as agile as a boy. Yet she hung back, staying just close enough to be sure she would not lose sight of her quarry. It had occurred to her that Megan might be walking in her sleep. Waking a sleepwalker could induce fits or hysteria or worse.

Before long Jane came upon a narrow path. Gradually the trees closed in around her till she was walking in deep shadow. Once she stumbled over a root, but for the most part the path was remarkably clear and well defined. She had lost sight of Megan, but felt sure she could not have left the path; tangled boughs and brambles formed a barrier as impenetrable as a wall. The night was filled with little rustling, creaking sounds, as if the old beeches were shifting their roots, or leaning over to whisper to their neighbors.

At last she saw a glimmer of moonlight ahead, signifying a glade or clearing. She came to a stop. Now she remembered. Now she knew where she was. She knew why the path was so smooth and well trodden; and she knew why Megan had come.

One slow step at a time, as if she approached a dreaded ordeal, she went to the edge of the clearing.

She had been here before. How long ago was it? She had had little time for rambling in the past years, and no reason to remember. Now memory returned, so vividly that the shadowy dimness before her was replaced by a brighter picture, an image eight or nine years old.

A day in spring, bright and warm; sunlight, dazzling bright after the green gloom of the woodland path. Oak trees, old as Time, and twisted branches of thorn formed a living wall around the glade. The hawthorn was in bloom, and under the trees the white bells of lily of the valley swayed on slender stems. The grass was brilliant emerald, smooth and even as a lawn. Clear as liquid glass, a small spring bubbled from a heap of tumbled stones. And the animals ... a doe, with one dappled fawn, a brown hare, nibbling the grass, a big russet fox, squirrels.... The doe had glanced in her direction and returned to her grazing, unalarmed. The other animals had not stirred.