Black Rainbow (25 page)

Mr. Higgins had found this out while attempting to satisfy Edmund's desire to hold services in the chapel. He had begun to press the matter earlier in the year, and when the cholera broke out and the manor family stopped attending services at St. Arca's, the conscientious little vicar felt obliged to discover an alternative method of worship. He learned that the chapel had in fact been used for religious
purposes as recently as the early part of the century, and since it had never been desecrated or misused, there was no reason why services should not be resumed. Edmund had had the room cleaned and redecorated, with pews taken from a church in Warwick that was being demolished, and the household staff made quite a respectably sized congregation, so poor Mr. Higgins came to the house every Sunday before rushing off to conduct services in the parish church.

Having her brother constantly about the house was not Jane's idea of comfort, and she urged him to visit neighbors or spend a few days in London. This he would not do, saying he had enough to amuse him at home. He had gone back to his painting; one day he proudly showed Jane his latest masterpiece.

His technique had improved, but he had no more talent for figures than for landscape. The full-length portrait of a young woman in long robes, with fair hair flowing down over her shoulders, had an insipid prettiness, but that was about all that could be said for it.

"It is very nice," Jane said. "Who is it meant to be, one of Sir Walter Scott's heroines? I know—the Lady Rowena,
from
Ivanhoe."

"Your suggestion is interesting," Edmund said. "Rowena was a Saxon princess, was she not? I had in mind a representation of our ancestress, Ethelfleda. But I think it has rather a look of Megan."

So Ethelfleda had become "our" ancestress. Suddenly Jane felt rather sorry for her brother. Young, wealthy, handsome, intelligent—what weakness made him so unsure of himself that he had to invent spurious sources of pride? She did not think the painted girl had a look of Megan. There was no resemblance except that both had long fair hair and slim figures.

At any rate, Edmund was pleased with it, and it soon appeared in the gallery, next to the plumed cavalier.

Edmund had been with difficulty dissuaded from engaging the Queen's own physician to attend his wife when her
confinement took place. He was finally persuaded that Sir James had other things to do. Lizzie disapproved of doctors in general; having a man around at such times was indecent, no less. They finally compromised on a well-known physician from Birmingham, and he was engaged to come a week before Megan was due. That date was almost a month away when Lizzie took Jane aside.

"Miss Jane, if you're still set on having the medical gentleman, he'd best be sent for. Miss Megan will never go another month."

"Are you sure, Lizzie?"

"I know the signs." The old woman nodded stubbornly. "A week, maybe less."

Jane didn't take this assessment seriously. Lizzie was always trying to prove she knew more than any doctor.

"I'll speak to Edmund," she said. "But you said yourself, Lizzie, that there was no need to have the doctor ahead of time—that first babies take a while to be born, and we would have ample time to summon him."

"I myself said there was no need for him at all," Lizzie grumbled. "The midwife from Northgate was what I would have had; but you know Master Edmund, he'll take on if he doesn't get his way, and I won't have it be said that I failed in me duty."

When questioned, Megan replied placidly that she felt perfectly well, except for a slight increase in pressure in the lower part of her body. "But," she added, in the same calm tone, "I am counting on you and Lizzie to tell me what to expect, Jane; I have not the least idea myself."

Jane duly reported the housekeeper's diagnosis to Edmund. Like her, he was inclined to discount it, but a messenger was dispatched to Birmingham. The answer came that evening; Dr. Winters had gone to Scotland for a few days, but his locum was taking calls in case of an emergency.

Lizzie was the only one who was not surprised when Megan went into labor three days later.

It was the old nurse's time of triumph, and she made the
most of it. Her first move was to get rid of Edmund. Expectant fathers could be a great nuisance, and she did not want him pacing the halls and bothering her with questions. At her suggestion Edmund set off for Birmingham to fetch the doctor, though Jane pointed out that it might be more sensible to send one of the servants. Edmund was not unwilling to be out of the house. He had been surprised and disconcerted by Megan's reaction to the onset of labor.

Megan was as surprised as Edmund at what was happening to her, and she was not at all sure she liked it. Jane was almost as ignorant, and somewhat uneasy, for if Megan's calculations were correct, the baby was almost a month early. Premature children were often sickly and frail; it would be terrible if their hopes were to be dashed to earth after such joyous anticipation.

She kept her worries to herself and settled down at Megan's bedside, prepared to read, talk, or do whatever was required. Megan was no coward; at first she did not cry out when the pains came, but by midafternoon they were only minutes apart, and Jane knew, from Lizzie's increasing air of concentration, that matters were progressing more rapidly than she had expected.

However, she was reassuring when Jane managed to get her away from the bed long enough to whisper a question.

"It'll be a while yet. Don't fret, child, worse comes to worst, I know what must be done. It's a woman's business after all. But, Miss Jane, I think you'd best go. A birthing is no place for a young lady."

Jane had no intention of leaving, but as the day wore on, she wished she could. Megan had given up playing Spartan. With each contraction she cried out and drew herself into a knot of tightened muscle. Perspiration streamed down her face and soaked her tangled hair. Lizzie kept the fire blazing and refused to allow Jane to open a window.

At Lizzie's insistence, Jane withdrew to a corner, from which she could not see what Lizzie was doing under the
tentlike draperies that concealed Megan's body. She sensed that Megan was aware of her presence and wanted her there; but sitting with folded hands, in helpless stupidity, was a habit she was not accustomed to. At least she had not been accustomed to it until Edmund came home and stripped her of responsibilities, leaving her as useless and idle as any other woman. ...

She cringed and clenched her hands as Megan shrieked. Almost as hard to bear was Lizzie's flushed complacency. Lizzie actually seemed pleased that Megan was in pain. No doubt she hoped it would all be over before the doctor came, so she could boast of delivering Master Edmund's heir all by herself. How in heaven's name could she look so smug? How could women go through this awful ordeal, not once but time after time? Perhaps it wasn't so bad after the first time. Perhaps it was easier when one knew what to expect. Megan's screams held as much surprise and outrage as pain.

It shouldn't be like this, Jane thought rebelliously. If I could only do something—help her somehow. I should have tried to find out about it; at least I could have prepared her for what was going to happen to her.

Jane had had more experience than most women. She had seen Ta-chin and the farm animals give birth. But cats didn't scream for hours. Cows didn't appear to mind that much. Why, why, had she complacently assumed it was the same for women? She ought to have known better; after all, she had read about the Queen's taking chloroform when Prince Leopold was born. Her eighth child—she, the highest lady in the land, had experienced this screaming torment seven times before Sir James, the royal physician, had bothered to call in a specialist—that same multitalented Dr. Snow, who had worked on the control of cholera. However, most doctors disapproved of anesthesia. They quoted the Bible— "In sorrow thou shalt bring forth children" —and insisted that the suffering of childbirth created love for the child. I wonder if they would feel that way if they had to bear the
children, Jane thought, as Megan's voice rose again, and Lizzie exclaimed gleefully, "That was a good one, my dearie, just a few more now. ..."

Because she was listening anxiously for them, Jane was the first to hear the approaching footsteps. She ran to the door.

The doctor was fashionably, almost foppishly dressed in top hat, frock coat, and striped satin waistcoat. He dismissed Jane with a glance and started to address Lizzie, but his voice was overcome by Megan's scream. The doctor looked pleased.

"I see I am in good time." Taking off his hat, he handed it to Jane. "Here, hang this up."

When he advanced toward the bed without even taking off his coat, Jane exclaimed, "Aren't you going to wash your hands?"

"Who the devil are you?" was the reply.

Lizzie muttered in his ear. His frown deepened. "Miss Mandeville? I beg your pardon; but I did not expect to find you here. Be so good as to leave at once, if you please."

Jane had no choice but to obey. However, she did have the satisfaction of seeing the doctor turn toward the basin and towels Lizzie had provided. He might not have bothered if she had not reminded him.

She sank down onto a bench on the landing and buried her face in her hands. Apparently there was no cause for alarm; the doctor shared Lizzie's satisfaction with the progress of the patient. But if this was a normal birth, then she was not anxious to assume the joys of motherhood.

She was still sitting there several hours later when the sound of a mellow baritone humming presaged the appearance of the doctor. He broke off when he saw her, and smiled in quite an amiable fashion, but when she started to question him, he shook his head teasingly.

"I admire your sisterly devotion, Miss Mandeville, but I would be remiss if I told you anything before the lady's husband has received my report. Where is Mr. Mandeville?"

Jane had been wondering too, but had not been inclined to find out. Edmund was not far away; hearing the doctor's loud tones, he came out of the drawing room and looked up. He held a glass in his hand and his voice was a little slurred. "Well? Is the child born? Is it—is it a boy?" "Congratulations, Mr. Mandeville." Adjusting his cuffs, the doctor started down the stairs. "It is a son, a fine, healthy child. Your wife is doing nicely."

Edmund's reaction
to the infant was that of any young father —immense pride in the idea of a son, and visible consternation in the presence of the actuality. When Lizzie first presented it to him, it was so swathed in blankets and caps that its tiny scarlet face was barely visible. Edmund's own face fell when he got a closer look. Presumably he had expected something on the order of Lina's wax doll, perfectly formed and exquisitely pale. When the baby started to cry, he backed away and Lizzie laughed heartily.

She guarded the baby jealously even from its Aunt Jane, and that affectionate new relative was seldom allowed the privilege of holding it. Lizzie delighted in exposing Jane's ignorance; when she commented on the child's mop of black hair and pretty blue eyes, Lizzie was quick to inform her that most babies had blue eyes and dark hair. The latter might change color and the eyes almost certainly would. "Let's hope they're a lovely soft brown, like his papa's."

The christening took place in the chapel, Edmund overruling Jane's suggestion that the village church was more appropriate. She could not have explained why this seemed so important to her, but she was disappointed when Edmund refused. He would not have the child exposed to the air. It might take cold.

So Edmund John Albert Mandeville assumed his name
within the walls of his ancestral home, and Jane, as godmother, was finally allowed to cuddle her nephew. He protested bitterly when the devils flew out of him, and Sir William, the co-sponsor and father of six, laughed heartily and said it was a good sign. He then presented his godson with an ivory teething ring and a silver cup and, tickling him under his chin with a blunt, knowledgeable finger, added, "By Gad, if he's not the dead spit of your dad, Edmund. He had the Freeman look, from his ma, and so does this young feller."

"Not at all," Jane said quickly. "He is the image of his papa, aren't you, darling?"

In fact, she couldn't see that resemblance or the other one Sir William had suggested. The baby's minuscule features were as formless as wax. She had spoken without thinking, prompted by the strange look that had come over Edmund's face. She took it for offended paternal pride; it was many months before she would look back on the incident and see a deeper significance in Edmund's expression.

His heir having been duly delivered, Edmund gradually took up his outside interests and duties. He was more often away from home, and the joking comments of neighbors informed Jane of the purpose of some of his trips—he was calling on friends to brag about his offspring. He came back from one of these expeditions in a vile humor, which lasted for several days. Jane suspected he had called on the Astleys. They always had that effect on her, and she could imagine that their congratulatory comments would have the usual leavening of envy and sarcasm.

However, when Megan came down with a bad summer cold, Edmund was quick to summon the doctor. That gentleman's bland diagnosis to the contrary, she had had a difficult time with the birth and had never fully recovered her strength. Edmund's delicate consideration for her was the talk of the household; not only had he refrained from returning to the connubial bed, he had even taken himself to another room, one of the baronial bedchambers in the Tudor
wing, which had been refurnished to suit his taste. Jane deplored the fact that this was so much talked of, but it could hardly be otherwise, and she admired Edmund's forbearance.