Black Rainbow (3 page)

Remembering that lady's last speech, Megan forgot her embarrassment in gratitude and relief. She would not have to leave. She had found sanctuary; and for this night, at least, she could enjoy the comfort of a quiet room to herself. The sheets smelled like lavender, and the air was fresh and cool. She might be lying in a summer garden under an open night sky, for the dying fire left the walls shrouded in darkness.

Her thoughts wandered in the half-world between sleep and waking. Sanctuary ... the room and the house had that sort of feeling. Sheer age, perhaps—centuries of peaceful living had woven a spell of safety around the ancient walls. The old castle in Ireland, which she had last seen shortly after her mother's death, had the same atmosphere, though it had been half in ruins for years. The O'Neills were a noble family, but there was not much money. There was an abundance of Irish ghosts, however, if her father's tales could be believed—the White Lady, the headless coachman driving a spectral team, the family banshee, whose howl warned of imminent death. . . . Megan smiled drowsily. This room had no ghosts. It was as friendly and welcoming as a nursery.

She was almost asleep when she was jolted upright by the most appalling sound she had ever heard—a long, undulating howl that wavered up and down the scale in an ecstasy of anguish. It sounded like a damned soul bewailing the loss of Heaven and the torment of Hell.

Megan dragged the bedclothes up to her nose and stared wildly into the darkness. If the howl was that of a banshee —and what else could it be?—her father's description had fallen far short of the mark. Something rustled at the open window, and she squeezed her eyes shut for fear of seeing the fiery red eyes of the Bean Si glaring in at her.

The cry came again—not from the window, but from beyond her closed door. This was reassuring. The O'Neill banshee never entered the castle, it hung from the eaves like a huge gray bat, its long hair streaming. Also, Megan remembered that there was a child in the house, and that
that child was now her responsibility. If the howling had frightened her, what would it do to a baby of three? Barefoot, not stopping to find a wrap, she ran to the door and flung it open.

The wailing cry broke out again. Unmuted by the thick panels of the door, it was even more appalling, but her courage was strengthened by light streaming out from the open door of an adjoining room. There were voices as well —human voices that seemed not so much frightened as impatient and angry. One of them rose in a triumphant shriek; then, at the dark end of the corridor, there appeared the form of a small child clutching something in her arms. She was an angelic infant, with rumpled yellow curls, wearing a long white nightgown. Seeing Megan silhouetted against the light, she called out, "I have her, Auntie. Here she is!"

Footsteps from the other direction heralded the approach of Miss Mandeville, carrying a lamp in one hand. Her tousled hair and long brown robe gave her the look of a sleepy gnome.

The little girl stopped near Megan. "You aren't my Aunt Jane," she said.

"This is Miss O'Neill," said Miss Mandeville. "She is a new friend, who will help you learn."

"How do you do, Miss O'Neill." The child made a grave little curtsy, imperiling her grasp on the object she clutched. It wriggled and snarled.

Megan had begun to suspect that the creature Caroline held had been the source of the unearthly cries, though it seemed impossible that anything so small could emit such monumental woe. Her doubts were put to rest when it opened a mouth fringed with sharp white teeth and repeated the performance.

At close range the effect was so unnerving that Megan stepped back. Miss Mandeville snatched the animal from the child.

"Bad cat!" she exclaimed. "Where were you? I told you
you were not to go out. Now you have roused the entire house. Wretched kitty!"

"Kitty?" Megan repeated incredulously.

The animal squirmed in Miss Mandeville's grasp, stretching out its neck in order to rub a furry head against her chin. Its shape was feline, but its coloring was totally unlike the tabby stripes and calico spots with which Megan was familiar. Its body was a pale fawn color, but the extremities—tail, ears, and feet—were dark seal-brown. A mask of the same shade covered its muzzle, shading up over the eyes, which were of a startling sapphire blue.

"I have never seen a cat like that," she exclaimed. Momentarily forgetting its grief, the cat returned her stare with one of insolent boredom. Its whiskered face was as round as an apple.

"I don't suppose you have," said Miss Mandeville. "There cannot be more than two or three of them in England. It is Siamese. A childhood friend of mine, who is captain of a vessel in the East Indian trade, brought it back to me. He knows my penchant for unusual pets."

"We had a monkey," the child volunteered. "But it died." Her mouth drooped.

"Perhaps he will bring you another," Megan said, hoping sincerely that he would not.

"Do you like monkeys, Miss O'Neill?"

"You can investigate one another's interests and hobbies tomorrow," Miss Mandeville said with a smile. "I am sorry you should have been disturbed, Miss O'Neill. The miscreant is now in custody; you can return to your bed."

"But what ails the poor creature?" Megan asked. "It seems to be in great pain."

"Oh, no," the child said eagerly. "She wants to have babies. That is why she cries. But Aunt Jane won't let her."

At the sight of Megan's face Miss Mandeville let out a peal of unrestrained laughter. "I hope we have not shocked you, Miss O'Neill. We are farming people here, and accept natural functions naturally."

"Oh, no," Megan mumbled.

"All cats cry when they are in season," Miss Mandeville went on cheerfully. "Though I must admit this foreign creature expresses herself more piercingly than any local breed."

"It sounded like a lost soul," Megan said with a shiver.

"Or the family bane, warning of approaching doom? The difficulty is that I don't want to breed her now. She had one litter of kittens last year, and to my great disappointment not one of them had her coloring; they were the usual mixture of black and white and striped. I am curious to see what would result if she were mated with another of the same breed, but my efforts to find a male have been unavailing. I am hoping Willie will fetch me one on his next voyage."

Her eyes bright, her voice brisk, she seemed as wide awake as if it were morning, not the middle of the night; and Megan, who was not vitally interested in the coloration of cats, began to think she would go on in the same vein indefinitely. The child yawned, and Miss Mandeville broke off her lecture and ordered them both to bed.

During the
following weeks everything that happened increased Megan's appreciation of the good fortune that had brought her to Grayhaven. She gave thanks for it every night when she knelt by her bed before retiring, and only prayed that it be allowed to continue. She had not been so happy since her father died; and even before that, her deep affection for him had been shadowed by the uncertainty of their way of life and her fears for his honor. Here she felt sheltered and safe and loved.

The little girl, Caroline, was as endearing as her aunt had claimed. Loved and therefore loving, she expected kindness from everyone she met. There were, to be sure, normal demonstrations of temper and misbehavior. She could not keep a frock clean for more than an hour; if she was not stealing away from lessons to play in the stableyard or the barns, she was in the kitchen begging bread and jam from the infatuated cook, or painting her apron with watercolor to see if it would not look prettier so. But these were small
sins, and when the repentant sinner flung sticky arms around Megan's knees and cooed, "I do love you, Miss Megan," that softhearted young woman had a hard time enforcing even the mild discipline Miss Mandeville insisted upon.

With Lizzie she was on the best of terms. The housekeeper had taken a fancy to the pathetic bedraggled creature who had fallen into her arms, and Megan sensed Lizzie would have felt the same way about one of the stray cats or injured birds Lina was constantly bringing to her for treatment.

The physical comforts she enjoyed were pleasant, too. When, on the day after her arrival, she had asked Miss Mandeville where she was to be lodged, the latter had raised a surprised eyebrow. "Is the room not to your taste? It is next to Lina's, so I thought it convenient. But if you lack anything . . ."

In the other families Megan had known, children were relegated to a distant part of the house, along with the persons who cared for them. However, Miss Mandeville did not believe in exiling children from human society, as if they were wild beasts or savages. Besides, as she frankly admitted, she liked the company; it was a big, rambling house, and without Lina she would have been entirely alone in the west wing.

Miss Mandeville had firm convictions about a good many things. She was the center of that peculiar household, and the source of its unusual structure.

Megan's guess about Jane Mandeville's age had been close to the truth. She was only twenty. Her brisk manner and her capability, in a number of areas, made her seem older. She was interested in everything and skilled at almost every task she undertook, but she had not a speck of feminine vanity. Admittedly she was not pretty, or even "handsome"—that kindly euphemism applied to any young lady of elevated social standing—but she had a quality that made her appear more attractive than women with well-formed features and figures. Languid boredom never dulled her eyes or drew her
face into lines of weariness. She found life a source of unending amusement, and her enjoyment made the lives of those around her more worth living.

All the same, she was undoubtedly eccentric. The shock Megan had felt the night Miss Mandeville spoke so openly about "breeding" and "mating" was repeated a dozen times in succeeding days. Jane thought nothing of kilting up her skirts and climbing a tree to get a handful of cherries for Lina, and on one occasion Megan watched in horror as she plunged through a group of staring onlookers to snatch a kitten from under the hooves of the big bull. Though her clothing was of fine material, it was almost as plain as the drab gowns a governess was supposed to wear, and her hair, disdaining curls and waves, was pulled into a knot or bundled any which way into a net. Her small, capable hands were too brown and calloused to be pretty; but she had dainty little feet with arches so high water could flow under them—the traditional sign of three hundred years of noble ancestry. They were her only beauty and her only aristocratic feature. Her round, snub-nosed face and wide mouth were as common as brown bread.

Of all the lady's peculiarities none struck Megan so forcibly as the one she learned about the morning after her arrival. Miss Mandeville had joined her and Lina in the breakfast room, but had risen after a hasty bite or two, remarking that it was time she was off to work.

"I had hoped to spend a few hours with you today, but there is trouble with one of the looms at the mill. If I don't see to it, those foolish men will stand around all day scratching their heads and debating the matter."

"The mill?" Megan repeated.

"Mandeville's Best Woollens and Worsteds. I don't suppose you have heard of it; we are a small concern and prefer to stay that way. Till this evening, then, Miss O'Neill— Lina."

Lina's giggle made Megan realize she was gaping in an unbecoming manner, but she was unable to control her
amazement. Mandeville's Best Woollens! And she had taken Edmund Mandeville for a gentleman.

The distinction between the gentry, who lived on rents from great estates, and the new middle class, whose wealth came from mines and manufacturing, was perfectly clear in the minds of the parties concerned. The two classes might meet in the line of business, but they did not care to mix socially. The absurd fluttering produced at a middle-class dinner by the presence of even a minor sprig of the nobility and the insupportable triumph of the hostess who had succeeded in gaining such a prize had been caricatured, but not greatly exaggerated, by contemporary writers. Education, good manners, wealth had nothing to do with it; one drop of decadent blue blood made its possessor superior in the eyes of everyone except, perhaps, God—and the aristocratic snob was convinced that He reserved the highest clouds in Paradise for the nobility.

When Megan had first met her prospective employer, in the offices of Miss Jordan's Superior Agency, everything about him had spoken of noble birth—his graceful figure, his fine clothing, his lazy, soft voice. The pallor of recent illness made his waving brown hair appear darker, and the military mustache and long sideburns set off features of aristocratic symmetry, as finely chiseled as his sister's were blunt and commonplace.

Megan dismissed this disloyal thought. Miss Mandeville was a true lady, even if she did look like a housemaid. But what on earth did she have to do with the mill? The only women who went to such places were the unfortunates who operated the machines—women of the poorest class, forced to work because their husbands were unable or unwilling to support their families.

Lina was still staring. Her eyes were as big and blue and curious as those of the Siamese cat.

Ta-chin was the only member of the household Megan did not care for. She was fond of cats generally, and still mourned the loss of Miss Prissy, a beloved white Persian
who had been left with a landlady in Paris when her father had been forced to make one of his hasty exits from a city full of gentlemen who were anxious to interview him about his debts. But Ta-chin was not an ordinary cat. She made no secret of her utter indifference to Megan, and her hoarse comments sounded unnervingly like speech in some unknown tongue. The conventional theory that dogs are more inclined than cats to devote their love to a single person is far from accurate; most dogs are genial, undiscriminating idiots, slobberingly grateful for attention from any passerby. Ta-chin was truly a one-person cat. Her infatuation with Jane was almost abject; she would squat for hours at that small lady's feet, staring at her adoringly. She tolerated the servants and Lina, and was, in fact, more patient with hugs and squeezes than one might have expected, but she looked upon lesser persons with a cool curiosity that held a certain hint of criticism. Lina's eyes had the same look now.