Black Rainbow (22 page)

"It must come, if your brother goes on as he began. Oh, he's not broken the law. That regulates the hours we work, but not the pay we get. If he lowers wages and raises rents, the men have no choice but to take it, they've homes and families here, and no savings to keep them while they look elsewhere. And there's the childern. Your dad wouldn't take 'em under thirteen, but the law says nine years—and what's a year or two, more or less? They earn less, for they're not as skilled, so the men get laid off to save wages. When the cholera struck and many were too sick to work, he brought in folks from Birmingham and elsewhere, packed 'em in ten to a room in the tenement he built down by the railroad station. Mostly our men are idle now. It takes the heart out of a man to sit at home by the fire while his wife and children are out earning. The enclosure coming at the same
time made matters worse, for those that lost their livelihood by that had no place to find work. They're dry tinder, Jane, and Jackson's the man who can put the torch to it."

"We must do something," Jane said. It never occurred to her to doubt his word, or his assessment of the situation.

"There's naught you can do. I know how you're placed. I've been near frantic trying to find a way to get word to you —to warn you—"

"Of what? I don't believe any of our men would do us harm."

"Not any one of them, no. But there's a spirit in a mob that's worse than all the separate parts of it. When people are in trouble they look about for something to put the blame on. I read the word once. . . ."

"A scapegoat?"

"That's right. And there's another thing—"

The jingle of the shop bell interrupted him. Jane heard a man's voice. She did not recognize it, but apparently Sam did; the back door opened and closed without a sound, and he was gone.

"Miss Mandeville?"

Jane looked around. The man standing in the doorway was someone she had never seen before. Ginger-pink hair and whiskers framed a face as doughy and soft as suet pudding, pitted with smallpox scars.

"Yes?" she said.

"You won't know me, miss; I'm Ballantine, one of the foremen from the mill. Saw you there by the inn and took the liberty of making sure you was all right."

Jane was about to ask why she shouldn't be all right when she remembered Sam's hints.

"I was a trifle upset," she said wanly. "That man—that rough man who took my horse—"

"Did he say anything, miss? Was he rude or threatening?"

"No, it was only his manner—so brusque and peremptory. But I am better now. Perhaps I ought to go back to the house."

"Yes, miss, I think you had."

Respectfully he stood back to let her pass.

Jane urged Molly to a speed that resentful animal was not accustomed to. Even after she had left the village she kept glancing apprehensively from side to side, and starting at every rustle of foliage. The world had turned topsy-turvy and she had turned with it, imagining hidden perils in the old secure places, playing conspirator with a slyness alien to her nature. Ballantine might be just what he claimed—a faithful employee, concerned for her safety. Or he might be —what was the word Sam had used?—a blackleg. She could guess what it meant. She had no way of knowing for sure. In this insane new world people and objects were no longer what they appeared; like the shape changers in the old legends, the enchanted animals and disguised princes, a dark glamour hid their true natures.

She could not talk to Edmund about the danger of a strike. She had lost the power to persuade him of anything, if she had ever possessed it. Besides, she couldn't reveal her knowledge without raising questions as to how, and from whom, she had obtained it. I am as bad as the rest, she thought sadly; in order to live in this world, I must change my shape, too.

The only possibility that occurred to her was to consult Mr. Trumbull. It might be a vain endeavor, but it could do no harm. As soon as she got to her room she wrote a letter, and put it on the table in the hall with the rest of the outgoing post.

Edmund's demeanor at dinner that night told her he was vexed about something, but he said nothing in front of Megan, waiting until he could take Jane aside.

"I understand you went to St. Arca today."

So Ballantine was a blackleg. Jane said, "Yes, I did. You might have warned me, Edmund."

"Of the danger of rude stares and uncouth people? Your tastes are so peculiar, Jane, I assumed you enjoyed such things."

Obviously it had never occurred to him there was a chance of physical danger to himself or anything that belonged to him. Jane was inclined to agree. Sam's vague remarks about mob spirit had made little impression on her; she could not imagine being afraid of the men she had known all her life.

"It was very unpleasant," she muttered.

"If such things disturb you, you can avoid them by not going there again. I never go myself; the place has nothing to attract a person of refinement."

"Perhaps you are right," said the new Jane meekly.

She expected he would leave her then, but instead he said casually, "Did I hear of some rude fellow who spoke to you and led your horse away? I won't have that sort of thing. What did he look like?"

"He had a black beard and sideburns," Jane said readily. "A large, tall, burly man, rather shabbily dressed—blue trousers and a checked jacket with a scarf knotted around his neck."

"And his voice?"

"He didn't speak. In fact, he seemed ashamed; he did not so much as look me in the face. Perhaps he only meant to get me out of harm's way."

"There was no danger," Edmund said irritably. "He was impertinent to approach you. I want to track him down. He is one of these labor agitators—incendiaries, no less. I won't have them around."

Jane said nothing. Her silence seemed to worry Edmund. Looking closely at her, he added, "Father did not believe in unions, you know."

"I know. Edmund . . ."

"Yes?"

"I am afraid. We are surrounded by anger, dislike, even hate____"

"What are you afraid of? There is nothing they can do except grumble. I hope you won't express these irrational fears to Megan. I don't want her upset."

"As if I would!"

"Oh, and by the way. . . ." Edmund reached into his pocket and took out a letter. "There is no use your writing to Mr. Trumbull. He has gone abroad and will be absent all summer."

"How dare you examine my correspondence!" Jane snatched the letter from him.

"I happened to see it on the table and thought to spare you time," was the cool reply. "But I am not surprised you should be unjust to me, Jane. It has become your habit."

An inspection of the letter assured Jane that her seal was unbroken. Perhaps she had been unjust. Nothing was simple any longer; every act had a dozen different interpretations.

Glumly she followed Edmund into the drawing room, prepared for another dull evening. She would have preferred her own sitting room, where she could kick off her shoes, curl up on the sofa, and read in peace. Edmund didn't object to her reading, but he was always interrupting to read aloud some excerpt from his book or newspaper. And he expected a response.

That evening was no exception, but she did not mind the interruptions so much since she was unable to concentrate on her book. Her mind kept returning to what had happened that day; she was concerned about Sam, who was walking a dark and dangerous road; about the workers; about Megan and herself; about Edmund. . . . He, too, walked his road alone. She seemed to see his solitary figure moving deeper and deeper into shadow and pushing aside the hands that reached out to help him.

When Edmund finally put his paper down, Megan said hopefully, "Shall we have some music, my dear?"

"Not this evening. You may go up to bed, if you like; I have work to do."

Megan's face fell. "You work so hard, darling. I wish I could help you."

"Thank you, Megan. I know things have been dull for
you; perhaps it is time we had a house party. In a fortnight, let us say."

He was already on his way to the door and would have proceeded without further comment if Megan had not stopped him.

"Who—whom do you mean to ask, Edmund?"

"There will be ten in all."

Megan's hands clenched, crumpling the delicate silk kerchief she was embroidering. "Who, Edmund?"

"No one you know. Except, of course, the Astleys."

"I thought you had severed your connection with that precious pair," Jane exclaimed. "You said they were false friends, hypocrites—"

"It was a temporary misunderstanding," Edmund said. "I came to the conclusion that I had been mistaken—or perhaps misinformed."

His eyes moved to Megan's face. She met his look with one as steady—challenge countering challenge, defiance answering accusation.

"I detest both of them, as you know," Jane said. "But if you insist—"

"I do insist," Edmund exclaimed. "Good God, what a house! A man is not master in his own drawing room!"

Megan completed the ruin of her embroidery by jamming it into her workbag. "I believe I will retire now. Good night, dear Jane."

She followed Edmund out.

Jane slumped back in the chair and pressed her hands against her temples. Her head felt swollen to twice its normal size, bulging with secrets and mysteries and perils and unsolved problems. This latest difficulty between Megan and Edmund—it must concern Lord George and his sister, but those meaningful glances and heavily significant comments suggested something more serious than a wife's jealousy of a former love. It's too much, Jane thought despairingly; I cannot stand any more problems!

There was another problem, the most pressing of all; but Jane was not even aware it existed. It was not surprising that she had failed to note the urgency in Sam's manner when he referred to it, for his warning had been interrupted by the shop bell. And even Sam did not realize until it was almost too late that the danger he feared would be the determining factor in the crisis that was almost upon them.

Later in the morning she carried Ta-chin to the stable, whither the cat had been exiled for the duration of Lady Georgina's stay. Jane didn't believe for a moment that Ta-chin would remain out of the house, but in this minor matter she was willing to obey Edmund's express orders. There would doubtless be other, more serious areas of conflict that she could not or would not avoid. The stable was no hardship to Ta-chin; the cat spent a lot
of her spare time there, bullying the stable cats and observing the horses and grooms with the patronizing sneer of a superior species. She and Molly, the gray mare, had developed a relationship that could hardly be called friendship, since it consisted of indifference on one side and contemptuous exploitation on the other. Molly's broad hindquarters made a comfortable warm sleeping place, for a cat.

As Jane was leaving, she saw a groom leading out Megan's spirited white stallion. She went at once to the front of the house, where she found Megan in riding costume.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Riding, of course. What do you suppose?" She indicated the horse, which the groom had just led up to her, and got nimbly into the saddle.

"The guests will be here shortly," Jane said.

"I will be back before they arrive. And I don't care if I am not. I need to ride off my evil humor, Jane. Don't try to stop me."

"Megan, wait—"

It was too late. She was gone, at a gallop.

Perhaps it was not such a bad idea, Jane thought. She wished she could gallop off and not come back until the weekend was past. She had meant to warn Megan to avoid the village; but after all, what did it matter? Megan probably wouldn't notice the things that had disturbed her, and she wouldn't recognize Sam even if she happened to see him. Jane had heard nothing from him since their chance encounter, and she had been afraid to make inquiries. She hoped and believed he had left the district. His recent activities could only lead to trouble with Edmund.

Having learned to expect the worst, she was not surprised when the Astleys appeared before their time. Megan had only been gone half an hour when Jane heard the carriage; with some confused idea of shielding the runaway, she hurried to join Edmund in receiving them.

The first courtesies had barely been exchanged when Lady
Georgina asked, "And where is Mrs. Mandeville? I am longing to see her in her new role; I'm sure she does it to perfection."

"She has gone for a ride," Jane said, adding, as Edmund's brows drew together, "You are too early."

Lord Henry broke into a hearty laugh. "You are right to scold us, Miss Mandeville. If there is one thing I cannot stand, it is guests who arrive early. It is all my sister's fault. She has been trying to reform my bad habits, and I fear she has overdone it."

Edmund frowned. "I am sure Jane did not mean—"

"Let me show you to your rooms," Jane said. Tact was all very well, but she was cursed if she was going to allow Edmund to apologize for her.

"A canter before luncheon sounds just the thing," Lady Georgina said. "You know how I admire your stable, Edmund. And perhaps we will meet Mrs. Mandeville somewhere in the park."

Jane handed the visitors over to Lizzie and went to change. She had not been invited to ride with the others, but she had no intention of letting Megan face Lady Georgina alone on their first meeting since her marriage. She only hoped Megan would appreciate the barely veiled spite in Lady Georgina's pronunciation of "Mrs. Mandeville."

When the party was mounted, Edmund led them toward the main entrance. He was desirous of showing off his new gatehouse, which had been finished so expeditiously that Jane was sure it must be badly built. Edmund was delighted with the result, which followed his own plans; it had so many miniature turrets and quaint gables that there was little space left for the business of living. He seemed intent on pointing out its beauties; but he was the first to see the horse on the road beyond the gates, and remark, "Here she is."