Black Rainbow (12 page)

"You appear to have worked very hard," Jane said seriously. "You deserve a treat. Would you like to have supper with Lizzie in her room?"

Lina clapped her hands. Lizzie told wonderful stories about brownies and elves and the People of the Hills, and when Jane was not around to supervise, she stuffed her pet with sweetmeats.

"I thought we might dine together," Jane said, turning to Megan. "Edmund is away—"

"Away!" The cry broke from her before she could stop herself.

"To Astley Park for a few days." Jane spoke quickly, as if bent on getting the worst over with.

So she knows, Megan thought, observing Jane's tactfully averted eyes. It doesn't matter. I don't care. Astley Park. I thought they had gone for the whole autumn. He never spoke of her or seemed to regret her absence. . . .

"As soon as you are ready, then." Jane rose from her chair. "You know my old-fashioned habit of dining early."

After Lina had gone to Lizzie, Megan stayed in the empty nursery, staring numbly at the open window and the green lawn beyond. The rational part of her mind told her she was overreacting. Her situation was no worse than it had been originally, when she first realized she loved Edmund and must fight a dangerous rival to win him. If anything, she had gained ground. She was part of the family now; Edmund treated her with almost as much warmth as he did Jane, and he valued her opinion more than he did his sister's. Her spirits lifted; she imagined Edmund greeting Lady Georgina —realizing as he took her hand that it was not as soft and warm as the hand he had held, too briefly, the afternoon of the harvest festival—looking into her bold green eyes and remembering other eyes, soft and blue and tender—mounting his horse and riding impetuously over the hills to throw himself at her feet and tell her. . . .

The vision burst like a bubble in the sun. Real life wasn't like that. She had made great progress, but it was not enough; something more was needed, something momentous enough to weight the scales in her favor. For the life of her—and at that moment the matter seemed almost that important—she could not think of anything. I had better try prayer, she thought, with a cynicism that would have been foreign to her nature a few weeks earlier. I won't ask for intercession—only for a suggestion.

The chiming of the mantel clock brought her back to reality and reminded her Jane was waiting. She smoothed her hair and straightened her dress. The prospect of dining with Jane roused neither anticipation nor reluctance; she measured every activity in terms of how it could serve or hurt her present obsession, and the best she could hope for from Jane was passive acceptance.

Jane had refused to let Edmund redecorate her room. It had a quaint, rather shabby charm that suited its occupant and created an atmosphere of comfortable relaxation. For the first time Megan could remember, Jane's writing desk was tidy. The books and papers were gone, and the front was closed, showing the delicate shell carving. Simple muslin curtains swayed in the evening breeze. It had been a warm day, but autumn was approaching; patches of yellow and rust showed among the green of the leaves outside.

It was not long before Megan realized Jane had something on her mind. Reticence and subterfuge were both foreign to her nature; the only thing that kept her from expressing her feelings was concern that they might give pain to others. As the lulls in the conversation lengthened and Jane's abstracted look deepened, Megan became uneasy. With the natural egotism especially common to the young, she concluded that Jane was thinking about her. Perhaps the invitation had had a purpose more specific than mere congeniality. Jane was fond of her and Jane thoroughly disliked Lady Georgina—but that did not mean Jane wanted her for a sister-in-law. Jane appeared to be as indifferent to class distinctions as a woman could be—but, as Megan had learned, those who most loudly profess liberal opinions are often the first to deny the application of those principles to their own situation. She had never hoped to enlist Jane as a witting, committed ally; she had only intended to use Jane's prejudices for her own ends. Now she realized, sickly, that Jane could be a formidable opponent. She might even persuade Edmund that Lina did not require a governess.

Jane continued to pick at her food and avoid Megan's eyes. Finally the latter could stand the suspense no longer. If Jane would not speak, she would.

"Dear Jane, you seem distracted this evening. Is something troubling you?"

Jane pushed away an untouched plate of pudding and rose to her feet. "Am I as obvious as that?" she asked, clasping her hands behind her and pacing up and down.

"Candor and honesty are admirable qualities."

"Humph." The grouchy grunt was precisely the sort of sound her peasant grandfather might have uttered. Megan could not help laughing, but her anxiety had not been relieved. She was wise enough to avoid a direct question. After all, she might be wrong. There was no sense in putting into Jane's round little head ideas that had not been there before.

"Is it something to do with the estate?" she asked. "Or the mill?"

"Everything about the estate and the mill troubles me," was the gruff reply. "But there is little I can do about either. No doubt I am unreasonable. Everyone tells me I am. If enclosure must come, and I suppose it must, better that it should be done now than at some future time, when a less conscientious owner might control it. But I didn't mean to talk about that. The truth is, I am avoiding the subject foremost in my mind. It is ... it is somewhat delicate. Perhaps I shouldn't mention it."

Megan clasped her hands to stop their trembling. She was tempted to remain silent, in the hope that Jane's delicate conscience would prevail and the damning accusation would not be made. But desperation gave her courage. Uncertainty was worse than anything Jane might say, and she had already begun to formulate her answer. Something along the lines of, "You don't suppose, Jane, that I would have the presumption . . ."

Before she could speak, Jane burst out, "It's that woman!"

Megan felt dizzy with relief. "What woman, dear Jane?"

"Lady Georgina. I think I hate her, Megan. I never, never really hated anyone before. It is a horrid feeling."

"She is not an agreeable person," Megan said.

"She is the worst possible influence on Edmund. And he means to marry her."

"I—" Megan checked herself in the nick of time. She was not supposed to know that. It was one of the pieces of information she had acquired from eavesdropping. She must pick her way carefully, as through a treacherous swamp. There were solid clumps of earth here and there—the facts she might legitimately know—but it would be fatally easy to slip and find herself sinking into the mire.

"I did not know that," she amended her statement. "I'm sorry you dislike the idea so much."

"Oh, Megan!" Jane swung around to face her. "How can you sound so calm and hypocritical?"

"In my position it is necessary to conceal my feelings. Perhaps that is hypocrisy. For me it has been a matter of simple survival."

"I know, I know. Maintain your reticence, it is your right. But there is no reason why I should not speak my mind to you, is there?"

"I would be honored to have your confidence." Megan smiled at Jane, and the latter's anxious, guilty face cleared.

"Well, then. It isn't selfishness that makes me dislike such a marriage, Megan—at least, not entirely. I want Edmund's happiness. He does not love that woman. He is dazzled by her rank and her—oh, I don't know what it is— I find her so detestable, it is hard for me to imagine how she could attract a man. He will be miserable with her. She will tempt him to extravagance he cannot afford and to acts that will undermine his honor—and her brother will aid and abet her."

MEGAN
sat
at her dressing table, peering into the mirror and trying to twist a recalcitrant curl into place. It kept springing out in the most exasperating manner. Suddenly she let out a gasp and leaned forward, staring in dismay at the gleaming coil between her fingers. Was it—no, it could not be!—a gray hair? After an agonized examination she concluded, with a sigh of poignant relief, that she had been mistaken. Not that premature grayness, or wrinkles, or any other sign of decay would surprise her; she felt as if she had aged ten years in the past month.

September had passed into October; the trees flaunted garments of crimson and amber, and the nights had a clear, crisp sharpness. Still the help she prayed for had not come; the "something" she needed was as far from appearing as it had ever been. Lady Georgina was still in the picture. In fact, she was in the house at that very moment, with her brother and a party of other guests.

With a guilty glance over her shoulder, as if someone were watching, Megan plucked a few petals from the crimson roses on the table—the last of the year. She rubbed them against her cheek. Gray hairs and wrinkles might not have appeared as yet, but she was undoubtedly losing her healthy color, and her face was thinner than it had been. They were the unmistakable signs of unrequited love.

Love, at least, did not waste away from lack of nourishment. If anything, her passion had grown. She knew every feature of Edmund's face; had she possessed skill in drawing, she could have reproduced it with utter fidelity, from the way his hair curled back from its center parting to the small bluish scar beside his firm chin. His voice sent waves of dizziness through her; the slightest movement of his hands roused wild dreams of touching and caressing. She had had several encounters of that nature with importunate employers, and the memories of fumbling hands and clumsy kisses, which had once made her shudder with disgust, took on a different aspect when she thought of Edmund's hands, Edmund's lips.

Recklessly she pinched off a clump of petals and scrubbed furiously at her other cheek. There was still hope. The engagement had not been announced, and until it was—until the marriage actually took place—she would continue to fight.

But she wished she had a more fitting battleground than the dark, dirty cellars under the house.