Black Rainbow (19 page)

Though still suffering from the remains of a severe cold, she decided to celebrate the season by making a trip to the village. The inclement weather had kept them all housebound for weeks, and when Lina begged to go along, Jane could not refuse. Edmund had not seen fit to find a new governess, nor had Jane suggested it; she still thought Lina too young for formal education. But the child missed Megan's attention. Not that Megan was unkind—quite the
contrary. Of late, however, she had rather avoided Lina, as if the sight of the child reminded her of something she did not want to think about.

On their return, Jane delivered Lina to the nursery and went in search of Edmund. She found him in what had become his favorite retreat—the library. Here he spent several hours a day writing or poring over books whose titles she had never bothered to examine. Usually Jane respected his desire for quiet and privacy, but on this occasion she burst into the room without knocking.

"I have just now returned from St. Arca," she announced.

"How interesting." Edmund closed his book. "Naturally I would not expect you to keep such momentous news to yourself."

Jane hated it when he spoke in that drawling, sarcastic voice. He did not use it often, but it never failed to annoy her, and now it acted like salt on an inflamed wound.

"The town has changed in a way I would not have believed possible in such a short time. The new warehouses and dreadful little houses near the railroad station—sprung up overnight, like mushrooms and no more substantial—"

"You seem to be accusing me of driving the nails and laying the bricks with my own hands. I have no control over what happens in the village."

"You own property there. And the mill workers' section is your responsibility entirely. I have never seen it so neglected. Everywhere I went I heard of leaking roofs, broken windows—"

"So you have been encouraging my tenants to whine to you. Thank you for your loyalty, Jane."

The cold anger in his voice, the level unsmiling hostility in his look, struck Jane like a blow. It was not the first time his remarks had affected her that way, however, and she tried to recapture the righteous indignation his accusation of disloyalty had shaken.

"I did not criticize you to them, Edmund, I only listened."

"You encourage them by listening. I had not meant to say
this, Jane; forgive and forget is my rule, and I thought it would serve no purpose to reproach you—but you have done me a great disservice in your handling of the mill and the estate. Oh, I freely admit it was not entirely your fault, Father was equally guilty; but the precedents you established between you by giving way to the unreasonable demands of every ne'er-do-well and malcontent have made things very difficult. It is high time the workers learned a little manly fortitude and independence. Let them make their own repairs. The houses were built for them, at a nominal rent—"

"Which you have recently raised."

"And if you had had the courtesy to ask why I did so, instead of ranting like a termagant, I might have tried to explain the need for the act. Under the circumstances I decline to do so." He opened his book and began reading.

There was enough justification in his criticism to weaken Jane's resolve. Wretchedly she acknowledged her error. By losing her temper she had only injured the people she meant to help. Edmund might have responded to pleas and flattery; the damage was done now, and any further speech would only make matters worse.

Nor would this be a good time to ask for an increase in her household allowance. She would have to wait a day or two, so the connection was not so obvious. She walked slowly out of the room, her head bowed and her steps lagging, the picture of submission; but her mind was already busy at work trying to think how she could remedy the ills she had seen, without angering Edmund even more.

With the
small means at her disposal, Jane managed to make some of the necessary repairs, though not as many as she would have liked. If Edmund noticed, he made no comment;
but she supposed he was unaware of the changes, since he seldom went to the village. She was glad he did not ask her about them, for she might have been forced to admit that her efforts had resulted, not in thanks for what had been done, but in sullen resentment for what had not. Somehow a wall had grown up between village and great house, and through no choice of her own she was on the wrong side of the wall.

Relations between her and Edmund were back to normal, on the surface, at least. To do him justice, he was always pleasant and affectionate—unless she did something to annoy him. In an effort to return his goodwill, she inquired about his reading, and was told he had determined to improve his understanding of history and the fine arts. This somewhat unexpected interest puzzled her at first; then she realized Edmund was trying to find an avocation that conformed to his notions of the proper occupation for a gentleman. A leisurely, dilettante's pursuit of knowledge was quite acceptable, provided the information acquired had absolutely no practical value.

The peace treaty between Russia and the Allies had been signed at the end of March, but official celebrations were delayed until May 29, which was declared a national holiday. Bonfires, rockets, and fireworks blazed out across the land, but Edmund irritably refused to attend the festivities in the village, where the bonfire had been abuilding for weeks.

"Peace should be welcomed with prayer, not pagan ceremonies. Mr. Higgins will think us barbarians."

The gentleman referred to was the new vicar, who was dining with them that evening. He had replaced Mr. Jones, who had died in January. Among the applicants for the living, Edmund had discovered Mr. Higgins, who was a former schoolmate—at least they had been at the university at the same time. Jane rather doubted they had been close friends, for Edmund's interests at that time had not been academic. She liked Mr. Higgins; he was the only one of
Edmund's new friends who combined the manners of a gentleman with the inquiring mind of a student. His diminutive stature and jerky, quick movements, together with his protruding front teeth, reminded her of a squirrel, and he had the exuberant curiosity of that small animal. He approved of Jane, too, perhaps because she was one of the few women of his acquaintance who were noticeably shorter than he.

Observing a trace of wistful regret on the vicar's face when Edmund vetoed the bonfire, she said teasingly, "I think Mr. Higgins likes fires. I know I do; there is a little of the pagan in all of us, isn't there, Mr. Higgins?"

"Er—well—I suppose that is true." Mr. Higgins could never quite make out when she was joking. "At least in the sense that our modern holidays, even those of the Church, may incorporate features that go back to prehistoric times."

"But bonfires are a universal expression of rejoicing," Megan said. "I remember as a child dancing around a great fire in the castle courtyard. It was a yearly event, and we children had not the slightest notion of its significance, if any; we simply enjoyed the dancing flames and the air of celebration."

"Aha!" Mr. Higgins sat up alertly. "You speak of your family seat in Ireland, Mrs. Mandeville? You are privileged to have seen a dying custom, long since disappeared except in remote regions of Scotland, Wales, and your native Hibernia. I would wager the date was the first of May, was it not?"

"It was sometime in spring," Megan replied. "I can't remember the precise date."

"Near enough, near enough." Mr. Higgins actually bounced with excitement. "Yes, you saw the Beltane fire. The word surely derives from Baal, the name of the ancient Phoenician god so frequently mentioned in Holy Scripture. There is a similar ceremony in Perthshire, where my brother-in-law resides; it is the lingering remnant of an ancient
sacrifice, when the ashes of the immolated victim were scattered on the fields to ensure good crops. But forgive me, ladies—I see by your looks of astonishment that I have offended your delicacy by referring to such brutish customs. I am apt to be carried away by my enthusiasm; it is a fault I must learn to curb."

"You credit us with more delicacy than we deserve," Jane said with a smile. "My sister-in-law is better educated than I, but even I know of the cruelties of ancient religions. We must be thankful that the Christian faith has introduced kindlier customs."

"Yes, certainly," Mr. Higgins agreed; but he looked so depressed at the thought Megan could not help laughing.

"Cheer up, Mr. Higgins, I am sure you can find a number of horrid pagan ceremonies, even in this modern country. Tell him about the harvest festival, Edmund."

Mr. Higgins pricked up his ears interestedly as Edmund good-naturedly complied.

"Fascinating!" he exclaimed. "I look forward to observing it for myself. Like the Beltane fire, the ceremony of the Corn Maiden or Corn Mother has almost died out. Curious that it should survive here, so close to factories and railroads."

"You haven't heard the whole of it," Edmund said. "I am one of the chief actors, and if I may say so, I play my part very prettily. Next year I shall put on a good show for you, since I know what to expect. Though Jane coached me in advance, the sight of those fierce beldames rushing at me was much more terrifying than I had expected, and the grip of their bony old hands was surprisingly rough. I was secretly relieved when they only tied a garland of flowers around my arm, instead of beating me with their sticks."

He told the story in his best style, with gestures and exaggerated looks of alarm, but Mr. Higgins did not join in the laughter.

"Your alarm was justified," he said seriously. "That rude shock of corn you described is a degenerate descendant of
a fertility goddess once worshiped in this area. And two thousand years ago, my dear Edmund, the ladies would not have bound a garland around your arm. They would have cut your throat so that your blood would ensure the next harvest."

Edmund burst out laughing. Jane, with a more sensitive understanding of the little vicar's feelings, exclaimed in mock horror, and Megan added, "How dreadful, Mr. Higgins."

"Oh, my unfortunate enthusiasm!" Mr. Higgins smote himself heavily on the brow. "I would not for the world have distressed you ladies."

Megan assured him she was not deeply stricken, and the incident was forgotten—or would have been, had not Mr. Higgins continued to berate himself whenever he thought of it. Jane grew quite fond of him, and accepted with calm amusement the infatuated glances he began to bestow on her. She knew he would never have the courage to ask for her hand; he was a younger son, with no means except his stipend, and he was wise enough to sense he would not be welcomed by Edmund as a brother-in-law.

Mr. Higgins became a frequent caller, and it was he who carried the distressing news of the catastrophe that came upon them in midsummer. He came to the house asking for Edmund, who was engaged in one of his infrequent meetings with his bailiff, so Jane invited the vicar to join her and Megan in the drawing room until Edmund was free. Instead he remained standing in the hall, his normally cheerful face so grave that she immediately asked what was wrong.

"I don't know that I ought to mention the matter to you ladies," he explained solemnly.

"I assure you, I am only too well acquainted with sad cases of illegitimacy and crime. They occur here as well as in the city."

"I wish that were all."

Jane longed to take him by the shoulders and shake him.

Nothing irritated her so much as being treated like a child —or a woman. Fortunately Edmund came along just then, and Mr. Higgins concluded Jane was strong enough to bear the bad news.

"There is cholera in the New Town. One of the children works in the mill; so I thought I ought to warn you, Edmund, that there may be other cases among your workers."

Cholera was a tragic commonplace in the cities, but thus far St. Arca had remained remarkably free of the dread disease, escaping even the terrible epidemic of 1848. The saint had thereby acquired some reputation as a patron of good health, for the villagers would have laughed at the suggestion that the stream from which most of them derived their water could have anything to do with the matter.

Jane knew better. It required far less common sense than she possessed to make the connection between overcrowded, insanitary living conditions and the recurrence of epidemics such as cholera and typhoid. Only the year before she had read a pamphlet by a London physician named Snow—published at his own expense, since none of the medical journals would accept it—which proved beyond a doubt that an outbreak of cholera in a particular section of Soho had been caused by a single contaminated well. That the first case here should be in New Town, with its refuse-strewn streets and foul dwellings, confirmed the assumption. Surely the immediate improvement of these conditions was the only way of preventing future epidemics—even, perhaps, of controlling the present outbreak. If she could convince Edmund and the other property owners of this. . . . But there was little chance of that, when the brilliant medical deductions of Dr. Snow had failed to convert even his own colleagues.

Preoccupied with these thoughts, she failed to note the significance of one word Mr. Higgins had mentioned. When it dawned on her, she broke rudely into the conversation.

"Did you say one of the children works in the mill? How old is it?"

Mr. Higgins looked surprised, but he answered readily, "Nine or ten, I suppose. As an old bachelor I am not skilled at judging—"

"Be quiet, Jane," Edmund said curtly. "Higgins, am I to understand that you visited that infected house before coming here?"

"I was called, so of course I went," Higgins answered. For once there was no apology in his voice or manner, only astonishment that the question should have been asked. Jane almost loved him in that moment, but poor Mr. Higgins was never to know the degree of her regard. He went on, "Of course, I changed my clothing and bathed before coming. I felt I had to talk with you at once; this is a serious matter, and we must act."

"I suppose so. Well, come into the library. No, Jane—" for she had instinctively started to follow. "I will talk with you and Megan later."

As they walked away, Jane noticed that Edmund kept as far away from the vicar as he possibly could. She went to the drawing room, and since she saw no reason to conceal a fact that must soon be generally known, she told Megan about the cholera. They were discussing it when Edmund came in.

"Isn't Mr. Higgins joining us?" Jane asked. She would have liked to show the vicar some sign of favor; heaven knows she had teased him often enough.

"He has already gone, and he will not be coming again."

"Why, Edmund?"

"No one from the village is to be admitted, nor goods of any kind. Whatever we need will be brought from Warwick or Birmingham. The servants who wish to be with their families must go now and not return. None of us will leave the grounds until I decide it is safe to do so. I speak particularly to you, Jane. I know your romantic notions, and I will not have you trotting off with baskets of medicine to nurse the sick."

"I had no such notions, I assure you," Jane said angrily.

"But we can't shut ourselves off from the entire world. With sensible precautions—"

"I warn you, Jane. If you violate my orders, if you go to the village or the tenants' houses, I will not admit you back into the manor. I will not take the slightest risk of bringing infection here. It is my duty as a husband, and as a father of children—though I admit those prospects seem never likely to be realized."

Megan's head jerked as if he had struck her. Jane was too appalled to reply at first.

"Very well, Edmund," she said, after a moment. "I will do whatever you say."

"I expect no less, Jane. Higgins seems to have the matter well in hand. I have promised him any financial assistance he requires—within reason, of course. I hope you will admit I can do no more."

"It seems so," Jane said.

"I am glad you approve." Turning to Megan with an affectionate smile, he went on, "You see, my dear, there is nothing to worry about. You won't mind a few weeks of quiet retirement; we will entertain ourselves quite pleasantly, I assure you."

Jane made her excuses and got away as quickly as she could. How could Edmund speak so fondly to his wife after administering that cruel and unwarranted rebuff? It was as if he had no recollection of saying the words—as if some stranger had taken possession of his physical body and used his vocal cords.