Black Rainbow (11 page)

Jane's tolerance had the effect of making Megan less devout. Sometimes she forgot to wear her mother's crucifix, and she had not attempted to find a Catholic church, though she knew Jane would offer the carriage if she wanted to attend mass. This was not as surprising as it might seem, since resentment rather than piety had been
mainly responsible for the former intensity of Megan's private devotions.

However, when Edmund threw open the double door leading into the chapel, her reaction was as natural as breathing. Unseen by the others, but for once unmindful of their presence, she touched her breast and brow in a gesture older than she knew.

The long-neglected room held few reminders of the faith to which it had originally been dedicated. The light was poor. The magnificent fifteenth-century stained glass was crusted with dirt, and thick foliage cut off all but a few streaks of sunlight. Megan realized that that was why she had never recognized the characteristic projecting shape of the apse; by deliberate design or by neglect it had been hidden by trees and shrubbery. The room had obviously not been used for years, but it had served as a place of worship after the Reformation; the plain wooden pews were as incongruous as a pair of heavy boots on a fashionably dressed woman. Megan's gaze moved unerringly to the single remaining symbol of the old religion, on the wall behind the altar in the place where a crucifix should have hung. She could not make out the details, but the scene was familiar —a Pieta, the grieving Mother mourning over the body of her Son.

Edmund moved around, exclaiming delightedly. "I remember that ceiling. Even as a child I was impressed by its beauty, but naturally I was too young to appreciate it fully. Look at the carving—lacework in stone."

"Like the chapel of King Henry the Seventh at Westminster Abbey," Megan said. "It must be of the same period— around fifteen hundred, Mr. Mandeville?"

She made it a question, though she knew she was right; her free hours had been spent in museums and churches, since she had not the money nor the inclination to seek other sources of entertainment.

Edmund was impressed. "Quite right, Miss O'Neill. You are a real scholar."

"I saw so much of cathedrals and castles and such in my younger days," Megan said modestly. "Papa had a taste for art, and cultivated mine. I only wish I had time to study the subject; it interests me very much."

"I envy you," Edmund said impulsively. "Father would never allow me to make a European tour. He said England was good enough for him and should be good enough for me; and besides, French cooking was abominable—he had heard they covered all their meat in peculiar-tasting gravies."

He laughed, but there was a tone of bitterness in his voice; and Jane, always sensitive to any implied slur against her father, said quickly, "He gave you a fine education, Edmund. I could envy you that, having had so little myself."

"Oh, to be sure, the dear old fellow did what he thought was best. As for Europe, I hope to remedy that lack one day, along with others. Jane, I am tempted to put this beautiful place into use again. Shall we have a resident parson, as they did in the old days, and hold services?"

"I doubt the vicar would approve," Jane said. "He is getting quite elderly and has plenty to do as it is."

"At any rate, I mean to tidy it up. Those dreadful pews must go. What a showplace it will be for visitors!"

Jane made a brusque, restless gesture, as if brushing away a fly. "Surely this is enough exploring for one day, Edmund. My throat is dry as dust, and Megan probably wants a cup of tea."

"When I have finished with this side of the west front. There is a staircase farther along this corridor, if I am not mistaken."

"Yes, it leads to. ... Edmund! If you mean to explore the old wing, I must beg to be excused."

"I declare, you are as superstitious as the servants," Edmund said, laughing. "Are you afraid of ghosts, Jane?"

"No; only of dirt and cobwebs and rats."

"So you admit your housekeeping has been negligent. That is the oldest part of the house, Jane, except for the
gatehouse; like the chapel, it probably dates from the early Tudor period. I must and will see it."

"Oh, very well," Jane said with an exaggerated sigh. "But I refuse to use that staircase; it is probably unsafe as well as dark and dusty. We had better go back to the hall; there is a doorway into the old wing on the first floor."

As they retraced their steps, Edmund said reminiscently, "One of our favorite occupations as children was to look for secret passages and hidden rooms."

"And we never found a thing," said Jane, whose temper was deteriorating.

"We didn't know how to go about it. I am convinced the place has some mysteries—a priest's hole, at the very least. After all, many of the former owners were Catholics—"

"Like everyone else in England before the Reformation."

"Jane, you are turning into a grouchy old woman," Edmund declared cheerfully. "I will not allow you to shatter my romantic fancies. I meant, of course, that after Henry the Eighth, the owners of Grayhaven remained of the old faith. They would not have been popular with the great Elizabeth; most English Catholics considered her illegitimate and Mary of Scotland the rightful queen of England."

Again Jane shot an anxious glance at Megan, and for a moment the latter feared she would warn Edmund that he might be treading on sensitive ground. Megan did not want her to do this. Edmund might not care one way or the other; his comments thus far had indicated a state of mind as tolerant as his sister's. Her Catholicism might even be an asset under certain circumstances—faintly exotic, with a hint of martyrdom nobly born. But until she had determined what was best she wanted nothing to mar the image she was endeavoring to create—that of the perfect, orthodox English lady.

"If that is so, there might be a priest's hole at Grayhaven," she exclaimed. "What a fascinating idea."

"Anything of that sort would be in the old wing," Edmund said as they mounted the stairs. "That is one of the reasons why I am anxious to reopen it."

Megan was relieved to find herself in familiar surroundings. Several corridors led off the first-floor landing; those to the right entered the eighteenth-century wing, where she and the others had their rooms. Edmund turned to the left, toward a single door under a low archway. Megan had never seen it open; as Edmund put his shoulder to the heavy panels and the door swung back with a sullen, resistant groan, she decided she did not blame Lizzie for neglecting to clean here. The narrow, winding passageways and dark rooms, with their clouded leaded casements, conveyed a sense of oppression that Jane clearly shared. With a shudder, the latter declared, "You surely don't mean to put guests in these rooms, Edmund! They are too dark and gloomy."

"A little more light would not be amiss," Edmund agreed. He crossed to the window and tugged at the heavy draperies. Dust motes danced in the light. "But I don't share your appraisal, Jane; this would be a handsome room if it had more windows. That could easily be done."

"It is a very stately chamber," Megan said diplomatically. Privately she thought she would not care to sleep in the elephantine bed, with its gloomy hangings. The furniture was black as ebony, carved with bizarre shapes.

"Exactly," Edmund exclaimed. "It must have been the room of the lord of the manor. Who knows—Queen Elizabeth may have slept in that bed."

An army
of workmen descended on the house. Scaffolding enveloped the walls, the sound of hammers and chisels drowned out the birds' songs, and Lizzie lamented constantly about the mess. Megan was in her glory. She was indispensable to Edmund, he consulted her about everything. She even feigned enthusiasm about his intention of opening some of the
rooms in the Tudor wing,
and
watched approvingly as workmen began to demolish the wall in order to insert larger windows. Jane had washed her hands of the whole business. She spent long hours in her room and refused to watch or comment upon the changes.

One afternoon toward the end of August, she joined Edmund and Megan, who were in the library consulting some builders' catalogs that had recently arrived. When invited to share this activity, she shook her head.

"You will have to give up your remodeling for a day or two, Edmund. The harvest is almost in."

"So I should suppose, having observed the reapers at work," Edmund replied. "Are you suggesting I should lend them a hand?"

"In a sense. Shame, Edmund, you've forgotten."

"Forgotten what?"

"Bringing in the Maiden. You must be there; Father never missed a year."

"You can hardly blame me for forgetting," Edmund said. "The last such celebration I attended was the year before I left for school. How old was I—eight? I took it for granted that antique custom had lapsed."

"What is it?" Megan asked curiously.

"I suppose one would call it a harvest festival," Edmund said carelessly. "The locals have some peculiar games, but it is really an excuse to eat and drink and take a day from work."

"It is more than that," Jane said.

Edmund looked at her curiously, but she pressed her lips together and said nothing more. Good-naturedly he said, "Very well, I suppose I must. In fact, we will make a family holiday of it; that was always the way, if I remember. Miss O'Neill may enjoy seeing how primitive we are in this supposedly modern nineteenth century."

Miss O'Neill was not at all interested in primitive customs; the fact that Edmund had included her in the family
holiday was enough to make the event one to be anticipated and enjoyed.

It was midmorning before they set out. Jane had insisted they dress in their best and had set the example by wearing a gown Edmund had given her. It had enormously full skirts and puffed lingerie sleeves of sheer batiste; it was a measure of Jane's devotion to the cause that she even wore a crinoline under it, this being a contrivance she had never consented to countenance before. The dress was extremely pretty and very fashionable; but for some reason Megan could not fathom, it looked absolutely dreadful on Jane. Her look of martyrdom as she held the matching parasol stiffly at the perpendicular didn't help.

The North Field was the last to be cut, and as the party picked their way through the gray stubble of barley, Megan saw that a single shock still remained, its shining fronds waving in the breeze. The farm workers and their families were all present, and they, too, wore their Sunday clothes, some of the older men appearing in exquisitely embroidered and smocked linen.

Either Edmund had been coached in his role, or he remembered more than he admitted of earlier occasions; he stood smiling and unperturbed when a gaggle of old women rushed at him as if intent on attack. One of them seized his arm and held it; another bound a garland woven of field flowers around his sleeve. Then they all shouted, "A forfeit, master, a forfeit!"

"The forfeit will be paid," Edmund cried. A hearty cheer arose.

"What on earth are they doing?" Megan whispered to Jane.

"The forfeit is the supper that will be served later," Jane replied in a low voice. "Along with several barrels of strong ale ... sssh."

The other watchers drew back, and a group of men advanced to within six feet of the lone remaining barley shock.

All of them were young; some of the sunburned faces were grim and intent, a few grinned selfconsciously. They each carried a sickle. At a given signal they hurled their tools at the shock. Another cheer went up when one cut cleanly through, and the shining bundle sagged sideways. Before it touched the ground, a dozen willing hands had seized it.

The sheaf was tied and twisted. One of the younger girls stepped up and placed a wreath of flowers on top of it, and a joyful chorus hailed "The Maiden." The crude image was then lifted onto a cart filled with the last of the crop, and it jounced off across the stubble accompanied by a singing, shouting crowd.

Jane and Edmund stood side by side, waving. Edmund's arm was around his sister's shoulders; they were closer, physically and emotionally, than they had been for a long time. Megan caught Lina's little petticoat just in time to keep her from running after the cart. As the child jumped and clapped her hands, Megan realized that the others felt something she did not. The brief, peculiar ceremony had not amused her; she had found it primitive and a little frightening. Was it because she was a stranger in an alien land, or because she sensed a deeper meaning in the archaic rite?

The mood passed as Edmund turned to offer her his other arm. Later that afternoon, as she stood with him and Jane greeting the harvesters arriving for the traditional feast, she felt as if it were an omen, a foreshadowing of a future day when she would stand at his side and greet other guests as his wife.

Her happy dream ended two days later, when the Astleys returned from Scotland.