Black Rainbow (16 page)

Though she would rather have danced with Edmund,
Megan was relieved of the fear of standing alone when the music began. She smiled a gracious acceptance.

"I have not seen your sister, your lordship. She is here, of course."

"Oh, yes. You mustn't ask me to describe her gown; I have no skill in such things. But I see a certain lady bearing down on us like a ship in full sail. I am sure it is you she wishes to speak to, so I will beg to be excused. I will return in time to claim you."

The lady in question was Mrs. Merrick, who greeted Megan as effusively as an old acquaintance. At first Megan was a trifle puzzled by her warmth, but she soon discerned the reason for it. Mrs. Merrick was in search of gossip.

"Is it true?" she asked in a hoarse whisper. "Is Mr. Mandeville announcing his engagement this evening?"

The shock was so great that Megan was unable to control her emotions. Mrs. Merrick mistook the sudden rigidity of her expression and hastened to reassure her. "Oh, I am such an old friend, they would not mind if you told me. Then I would be in a position to confirm or deny the rumors I constantly hear; for idle gossip, you know, is something one does not like to encourage."

"I know nothing of an engagement," Megan said.

"Oh. You would know, being such a confidante of his sister's. . . ."

"Excuse me." Megan walked away, hardly aware of where she was going. After blundering into a potted aspidistra she found a chair and sank down onto it.

A few moments of quiet allowed her to recover herself. What did Mrs. Merrick know? She was probably the originator of the rumors she had mentioned; her mean, probing little mind would always be inventing stories.

Megan managed to cling to this comforting thought until Jane and Edmund entered the room. Jane was on the arm of Sir William Gilbert, their nearest neighbor, a gruff old gentleman of sixty-odd. Edmund escorted Lady Georgina.

She wore the very dress Megan had thought of wearing —the graceful flowing skirts and wide lace collar of a cavalier's lady. The broad-brimmed hat with its white plumes had been adopted by seventeenth-century ladies from the headgear of their husbands; it suited Lady Georgina's arrogant, handsome features. Her face wore its usual half-smile; she seemed fully conscious of the honor she did Edmund and the others by deigning to appear. And Edmund shared her opinion. He strutted like a peacock. But, oh, how handsome he was! And what a pity men had given up satin and lace for dull black broadcloth.

The music began. Jane hopped off with Sir William, who displayed the energy, if not the skill, of a much younger man. Edmund swept his partner into the dance. Her eyes fixed on the latter pair, Megan saw the other dancers only as a brightly colored blur. Then the broad green leaves before her were swept aside, and a face peered in.

"So there you are," Lord Henry said. "Not shy, are you? No reason to be; you are the most beautiful woman in the room. Come, or we will miss the first waltz."

She was nineteen years old, and if modesty prevented her from accepting Lord Henry's compliment at face value, she knew she was one of the prettiest and best-dressed women present. She could not help enjoying herself, even if her heart was breaking.

Socially the evening was a success. The men begged for dances and the ladies glared jealously. What more could any young lady ask? But for Megan the affair was not complete until Edmund finally asked her to dance. His look of admiration made her heart flutter.

"You are magnificent, Miss O'Neill. I ought to have offered a prize for the finest costume; you would certainly win."

"The lady in the costume deserves a prize too," said Lord Henry. He had hardly left her side all evening, and Megan was beginning to find his proprietary air annoying. "Don't
infringe on my territory, Edmund; Miss O'Neill has promised me all the waltzes."

"Then she will have to break her promise," Edmund said, offering his arm.

The warmth of his touch, around her waist and on her hand, made her forget Lord Henry and everything else except the fact that she was, at long last, in the arms of the man she loved. After they had circled the room, their steps matching perfectly, she observed that he was frowning slightly, and she asked, "Is something wrong, Mr. Mandeville?"

"No, nothing. Except ... his lordship. I trust he has not offended you in any way."

This was an advantage she had not expected. In a flash she sorted through a variety of possible responses.

"No, sir," she murmured, lowering her eyes.

Edmund's arm tightened protectively.

"Don't be afraid of complaining to me. His lordship is my dearest friend, but you are under my protection, and any insult to you is an insult to me."

"I thank you, Mr. Mandeville, from the bottom of my heart. Rest assured I would not hesitate to seek your protection; I feel the most complete confidence in your kindness."

She tipped her head back and looked into his eyes with an expression of limpid trust, hoping to heaven that her
headdress
would stay in place. He was visibly affected. A deep breath made the ruffles at his breast quiver.

Megan's heart sang. Her feet seemed scarcely to touch the floor. After an interval Edmund said, "I cannot get over my admiration of your costume. You are the picture of the noble lady I envisioned when we discussed the subject recently."

"Jane deserves the credit. It was her idea and her workmanship."

"So I assumed. If only she would devote the same attention to her own appearance!"

Megan's eyes followed his to where Jane stood talking animatedly to a stout lady in Grecian robes. She had
wrapped the homespun shawl around her arms and looked like a little French peasant girl of the poorest class. Megan laughed and shook her head.

"Jane will never fall victim to feminine vanity. But her sweetness of character must make everyone love her. I will never forget her goodness."

She meant every word she said, but she knew her generous praise would sit well with Jane's brother. Unfortunately the music ended before she could say more, and Edmund did not ask her to dance again before the supper interval was announced.

Lord Henry had earlier claimed her for this. When he came to find her she saw he had been at the decanters in the library again. His face was flushed, and when she took his arm he pressed hers close to his side in a familiar manner.

Megan took care to seat herself in such a way that no further familiarities were possible. She was only too well acquainted with the pressure of knees and hands under the table. Lord Henry did not persist; instead he devoted himself to the wine, and when the supper was over she managed to elude him.

It was now well after midnight, and the energy of the dancers had flagged. Some of the older county families had gone home; others wandered off or lingered in the drawing room, stuffing themselves on the exotic delicacies provided by the London caterers. Megan was a little tired too. She had refused one partner and was sitting quietly in the corner when she saw Lord Henry weaving through the dancers, his eyes searching the room. He was now showing the effects of liquor and she did not want to dance or talk with him. There was no point in risking possible embarrassment unless Edmund was nearby to champion her. She slipped out of her corner and down one side of the room until she reached the door leading to the portrait gallery.

After the heat of the ballroom the corridor was delightfully cool and quiet. Many of the candles had burned out; the others, flickering in the draft from the windows, gave the
painted faces on the wall an eerie illusion of life. Eyes seemed to wink, lips smiled or scowled. Outside the darkness was complete, except for the pale glow of snow on the ground. As she stood taking deep breaths of the cool air, she saw a few white flakes flutter down.

Benches and antique chests had been placed along the wall, but no one occupied them now. Megan was about to sit down when the door behind her rattled, as if an unsteady hand were attempting to open it. Not wishing to encounter Lord Henry in such a deserted place, she stepped into one of the small rooms leading out of the gallery. There were three of them, hardly more than alcoves, and barely large enough to contain a few chairs and a low table or two. Edmund had arranged them nicely, with plants and hangings. They offered few hiding places. Hearing heavy, uneven footsteps approaching, Megan lifted one of the hangings and stood behind it.

The footsteps paused at the door, and after a moment the voice she had expected to hear said loudly, "So there you are. I have been looking for you."

Before her heart could skip more than a beat, the sound of an answering voice told her that this time she was not the object of Lord Henry's search.

"You had much better stay away," Lady Georgina drawled. "He will not propose with you standing by."

"Damn. Then he hasn't spoken yet? I told you, Georgie—"

"Lower your voice, Henry."

"Why the devil should I? You were a fool to refuse him the first time—"

"You are drunk," said his sister coolly. "Curse it, Henry, you'll spoil everything. If you must talk—and I see you must —let us at least find a private spot. No, not there, it is not private enough. This way."

Megan knew she must follow. Never again would she have such an opportunity to hear an unguarded, candid conversation between these two. She tiptoed to the door and
peered out. The passageway was empty in both directions, and the chapel doors stood wide open. Holding her skirts to keep them from rustling, she stole quietly along the passage and looked around the door. The Astleys were standing near the altar, talking in low, vehement tones.

The only possible hiding place was behind the door—not the one on this side, she would be visible to anyone coming from the ballroom. Again she glanced into the chapel. Lord Henry had collapsed into a front pew and his sister was bending over him. Megan darted across the opening and took up a position behind the other leaf of the door.

The first words she heard made her thrill with indignation.

"For God's sake, don't fall into a drunken stupor here," Lady Georgina exclaimed. "Edmund's delicate pride would be mightily offended if he found you drunk and snoring in his precious chapel. I thought you were after that little chit of a governess. Though it would be better if you waited till Edmund and I are married."

"Can't wait," Lord Henry grumbled. "Waited a long time already. No harm in it, Georgie, she's ready and willing."

"Then go and find her."

"Not yet. First—make sure of Edmund."

"That is my task. I can finish it tonight if you will keep out of my way."

"You've got to manage it, Georgie. We can't hold off creditors much longer. Damned insulting duns. . . ."

"I have him in the palm of my hand. I need only close my fingers."

"Poor Georgie. A fine thing for a woman like you—you deserve a prince or a duke."

"Edmund will do well enough. I can endure his low connections for the sake of his money. And there are other compensations. . . ."

Lord Henry laughed and made a suggestion that brought the blood rushing to Megan's cheeks. She clenched her fists. If only Edmund could hear this!

When the door at the end of the passage opened and she saw the rose satin costume, she knew that for once her prayers had been answered. Her nails dug into her palms. Just a little longer, Holy Mother—make him walk softly, make them go on talking.

Edmund was normally light on his feet. Tonight he seemed particularly anxious not to be heard. He advanced slowly, peering into the alcoves as he passed them. He was some distance from the chapel when he heard the voices; as he came nearer, Megan shrank back, fearing he might catch a flash of white through the crack.

Lady Georgina was trying to convince her brother to go, but Lord Henry had passed into the lachrymose, sentimental stage of drunkenness, and continued to lament his sister's sacrifice. Hence the first audible words to reach Edmund's ears were, "Poor, dear Georgie. Marrying a low-bred boor to save your wretched brother. He will never forget you, darling girl."

Edmund stopped as if struck in the face. If he had entertained any doubts as to Lord Henry's meaning, Lady Georgina's reply removed them.

"I have my own duns to think of. Marriage is the only way out, and thanks to our somewhat questionable past, Edmund is the only man fool enough to offer for me. Stay here and sleep it off, then; I am going to—"

Edmund had moved forward, each step slow and wavering. Lady Georgina's speech broke off in a gasp when she saw him; but she made a valiant attempt to undo the damage.

"Ah, Edmund. Have you come looking for me?"

"I was looking for you," Edmund said.

"And I for you, dear Edmund. But poor Henry is not himself; I found him and brought him here to rest, wishing to spare you—"

"You wish to spare me? It is too late, Georgina. I heard what you called me."

"Edmund, what can you possibly mean?" Her wheedling
tone rang false, but she might have persuaded him, he was so anxious to believe in her, if it had not been for Lord Henry.