Black Rainbow (31 page)

Megan's start had passed unnoticed in the general confusion. No name had been mentioned, but she did not doubt that Belts had been referring to Sam. She had assumed he meant to leave the district; her hard-won resignation went down like a house of straw at the thought that he was so close, that she might see him any day. She resolved to avoid the village, at least until she had got used to the idea; but a hard seed of resentment took root in her mind. How could he do this to her? Didn't he realize he was making things
more difficult? Maybe it wasn't difficult for him. Maybe he didn't care how she suffered.

When the harvest festival came around again, Megan tried to excuse herself. She put no stock in Mr. Higgins' ridiculous theories, but his remarks about pagan ceremonies and sacrifices had left an unpleasant aftertaste. Courteously but firmly Edmund insisted she take part. "The people expect it, my dear. It is their way of expressing their loyalty and affection for us. Since we were unable to participate last year, it is all the more incumbent upon us to be present on this occasion."

Mr. Higgins threw out so many broad hints that it was impossible not to include him in the party. Megan acknowledged that his presence helped make the ceremony less trying than she had expected it would be; it was impossible to be solemn about it with Mr. Higgins beaming and nodding and scribbling notes. Yet it seemed to her that there was a new gravity about the performance, and a more profound deference in the attitude of the workers toward Edmund. This pleased him and put him in an excellent temper, so it was a cheerful little group that returned to the manor. Mr. Higgins was ecstatic, in his genteel way; the chance to spend hours in Jane's company, and the confirmation, as he believed, of his scholarly theories combined to raise him to the heights of enjoyment. He spoke primarily to Jane, and Megan paid little attention, catching only a phrase here and there.

"... that crude straw image ... a primitive goddess of vegetation . . . Cybele and Attis, the divine mother and her dying consort, who is reborn. . . ."

Mr. Higgins seemed to be obsessed with pagan gods! His talk of divine mothers and resurrected gods struck Megan as decidedly unorthodox. The bishop would certainly not care for them; she hoped Jane would drop Mr. Higgins a gentle hint to keep his opinions to himself.

Her restless, unhappy mood intensified during the following days. She knew the cause of it. She had stayed resolutely away from the village, and had confined her walks and rides to the park, but she knew that sooner or later the meeting she dreaded must occur, and though she steeled herself to face it, she made little headway in combating emotions she had no right to feel. When the critical moment came, she was unprepared, for it took a form she had never dreamed of.

She and Edmund were in the library that evening, and Jane, who had declared herself curious about their discoveries, was with them. Edmund was teasing his sister about keeping such late hours, for the clock had already struck ten. When the footman entered and presented the note to Megan, she was sitting some distance from the others, in a chair whose high back and wings shaded her face. If it had not been for that, she would surely have given herself away. The handwriting aroused no emotion except curiosity; it was unfamiliar to her. But when she opened the note and read the few lines it contained, she thought she was going to faint.

"I must see you tonight. Come to the entrance to the maze at midnight."

There was no signature. None was needed.

"What a strange hour to send a message," Edmund said casually. "Who is it from, my dear?"

Megan's fingers closed convulsively over the scrap of paper. "I suppose the messenger lingered on the way," she said. "It is only—it is only from Mr. Higgins' housekeeper, asking for a recipe—that almond cake he enjoyed so much."

"I wonder she did not write to Cook, then," Edmund said. "However, it is of no consequence. Jane, would you hand me that small leather box? There are some old parchments and papers that may interest you."

Megan slipped the note into her bodice, where it burned against her skin. Though she knew nothing but extreme urgency could have prompted such a message, she felt de
graded and angry. Mortal sin is a heavy weight on one's conscience, but it possesses a certain dark dignity. This had all the stigma of a common vulgar intrigue.

It never occurred to her not to keep the assignation. But when she crept out of the house, just before midnight, she was determined that it would be for the last time.

The maze was not one of Edmund's innovations. Its walls of tall, thick boxwood had been centuries growing. The quickest way to reach it was past the kennels, but Megan gave this building a wide berth. The hounds knew her scent and might not give tongue, but Edmund's new mastiff was quite a different matter.

He had brought it home a few weeks before, and even Jane, who loved all animals, recoiled when she saw the great brindled monster, big as a pony. The keeper who held its chain had to exert all his strength as it fought the lead, baring its long white fangs.

"We need a watchdog, Jane," Edmund had explained, when she expostulated. "You have ruined the other dogs for that task, with your petting and spoiling."

Jane had nothing more to say to that. Surreptitiously, however, she began visiting the dog and trying to make friends with it. "He is not really vicious," she said sheepishly, when Megan remonstrated. "He has only been trained to be that way. Promise you won't tell Edmund, Megan."

Megan had promised, of course, but she refused to join in Jane's visits. She was fond of dogs, but this one seemed more like a wild beast than a potential pet.

She passed the kennels without rousing the dogs, and breathed a sigh of relief when she reached the entrance to the maze unseen and unannounced. It was very dark in the shadow of the tall shrubs; the faintly unpleasant scent of the boxwood was strong around her as she stood with her hand pressed against her pounding heart.

She waited for what seemed a long time, her anger growing. Bad enough that he should demand this risk; to keep her waiting, like an infatuated servant girl. . . .

She did not see the dog until it was almost upon her. It had been trained to attack, not to warn. The air left her lungs in a wordless gasp of terror. There was nowhere to run. She was pressed against the prickly thickness of the boxwood, and even if she had known the twisting paths of the maze, the dog could easily track her into a cul-de-sac.

The mastiff came to a stop, only feet away, as if it had run into an invisible wall. Megan thought perhaps her frozen immobility had puzzled it; she stood motionless, hardly daring to draw a breath.

Then a voice said quietly, "Caesar. Good dog, Caesar. Stay."

Megan rolled her eyes to the side.

"Don't move, Megan," Jane said, in the same low, calm voice. "Good dog, Caesar. Come. Come to Jane."

The dog leaped, not at Megan, but at the diminutive figure that had summoned it. Whimpering, it dropped at Jane's feet. She knelt and rubbed its pale belly.

"Good boy. Jane's sweet baby. Jane loves you. Come along now and she will find you a nice bone. Such a good dog, Caesar. . . ."

She straightened up with the dog's lead in her hand. The mastiff continued to wriggle and rub against her while she examined the chain.

"The link is pulled open," she said. "It would take a stouter chain than this to hold him. Go inside, Megan. Come with Jane, good boy. A bone, or perhaps a leftover mutton chop____"

Megan was unable to move at first. Her knees felt like water. She watched the two bizarre figures walk away across the garden, Jane with her hand on the dog's collar like a juvenile Christian martyr who had tamed his lion. Not until they disappeared into the shrubbery did she gain strength enough to obey Jane's order.

Early the following morning she found an opportunity to speak to Jane alone. "I must explain why I went out last night—"

"You were restless and went for a walk, Jane said. "It might ... it might be wise if you did not do it again."

"I promise."

Jane dropped the subject. But Megan sensed that Jane's suggestion, as well as her own response, referred to something more serious than a late-night stroll.

She never thought I was worthy of Edmund, Megan
mused. I wonder if she did that on purpose, to arouse my
curiosity and leave it unsatisfied. If so, she has succeeded!

She didn't want to ask Lizzie where Jane had gone so
early, for Lizzie was likely to roll her eyes and say she did not want to be accused of gossiping. Before Megan was tempted to lower herself to question the parlormaid, Jane came in.

She was dressed for riding, in one of the drab, narrow gowns she preferred. That in itself was unusual; early-morning gallops were not Jane's style. Upon seeing Megan, she smiled and murmured, "Good morning." Megan would have been less concerned if she had burst into tears; the smile was the most ghastly caricature of good spirits she had ever seen.

Before she could ask what was wrong, Lizzie's face reappeared. "I thought I heard you, Miss Jane. Is it as bad as they say? The store burned to the ground, and everyone with it? Black as a bit of burned toast, they say he was, poor Sam—"

The room spun like a top and tipped sideways. Megan slid out of her chair onto the floor.

When she came to her senses, she was lying on the chaise longue in her room. Jane sat in a chair nearby, her chin resting on her hand. As soon as Megan's eyes opened, she said, "He is not dead. He is hurt, but not badly. I have just seen him."

After a moment, Megan said, "How long have you known?"

"I did not know for certain until today. Sometimes, before ... I wondered."

"Jane—I wanted to tell you—you must believe me—"

"Don't tell me. I don't want to hear. Except—was it the Toman glade?"

"Yes. You must hate and despise me, Jane."

"I don't hate you. Or despise you."

"Then you are kinder than I deserve. You have always been kind to me, Jane." She caught the hand that lay limply in Jane's lap and raised it to her lips.

Jane gasped and pulled it roughly away, as a healthy
person might recoil from a leper's touch. Her face was a death's head in dry stretched skin, her lips drawn back from her teeth, her eyes dull and staring. She was not looking at Megan; she seemed to be contemplating something invisible except to her own mind, something so monstrous that it had brought her to the brink of madness.

"That night, a few days ago, when the mastiff was loose —why did you go out, Megan? Was it the note you received earlier?"

"I can conceal nothing from you now, Jane," Megan said. "The note was from him—from Sam. He asked me to meet him. It wasn't what you think, Jane, it had never happened before—"

"What I think . . ." The words were as low and harsh as a groan of pain. "If you only knew, Megan, what I am thinking. I suspected it might be that, so I asked him. . . . Megan, Megan—didn't you wonder why he never came?"

"I thought of many reasons," Megan said quietly. "Delays, accidents . . . and then I thought perhaps he had changed his mind."

"You never wondered why the dog slipped his chain that night, of all nights in the year? And the grease on the staircase in the library—the medicine that made you so lethargic —the empty water bottle. . .. But you wouldn't know about
that___How many other accidents have there been that you

did not mention to me?"

"I do seem to be rather awkward lately. I suppose I am distracted."

Jane raised her hands and tugged at her hair. The gesture would have been comical if her face had not been so wild. She got stiffly to her feet and walked to the window. Standing with her back to Megan, she muttered,

"How can I make anyone believe it when you do not? When I can hardly believe it myself. ... I kept telling myself I must be wrong. That I could not be certain unless it happened again . . . and again. . . . Sooner or later he'll succeed.

Then it will be too late. And there is no way I can stop it. No way at all."

The agonized, incoherent monologue filled Megan with alarm. She struggled up and ran to Jane.

"You are not yourself, Jane. It is my fault, I have upset you. Please come and lie down. What can I get you?"

She put a tentative hand on Jane's arm, fearing another rejection. Jane's withdrawal had been understandable—but, oh, the pain of that gesture of loathing and disgust!

Instead Jane turned and clasped Megan's hand in hers. Her face was still pale, but it had lost its look of wild dismay. "I frightened
you
—forgive me. I am indeed concerned about something, but it is not what you think. I must deal with it myself."

"I wish I could help you, Jane."

"I know you would if you could. Now sit down and I will tell you what happened last night. I know you are anxious to hear, but are ashamed to ask."

Megan's cheeks grew warm. "I must say one thing more, Jane. I did wrong, I know I did. I intend to spend the rest of my life making it up to Edmund. I don't understand how it happened. I never meant it to happen—"

"I understand," Jane said. "Better than you think."

Megan could contain herself no longer. "Tell me, Jane. How badly was he hurt? Was he burned in the fire? How did it happen? Why was I not told?"

"I did not hear of it myself until early this morning. No one knows how the fire started; it completely destroyed the shop and damaged an adjoining building before it was brought under control. No one was burned. The two men who lived behind the shop got out in time. One was stupefied by the smoke. Sam dragged him out; in doing so he was struck by a falling beam and suffered a broken collarbone and a number of bruises."

"You—you have seen him, you said."