Black Rainbow (23 page)

Not until the animal emerged from the shadows of the trees could Jane make out anything beyond a slowly
moving, light-colored shape. When she saw the rider, she found herself on the ground and running, without any recollection of how she had dismounted.

Megan's bright hair tumbled over her shoulders, framing a face streaked with dust and perspiration. Her hat was missing. Though she sat upright, back straight and head high, she had lost the reins. They were held by the man who walked beside her, leading the horse. His head was also bare. A defiant plume of black hair stood up like a banner.

Edmund recognized him immediately in spite of the beard. "What the devil are you doing here?" he cried angrily.

"It is a public road, sir," Sam said. "Mrs. Mandeville has had an unpleasant experience, and should—"

"I will decide what my wife should do." Edmund snatched the reins from him.

"I daresay she was thrown," Lady Georgina murmured. "It does happen. . . ." But not to me, her tone implied.

"This is no time for a debate," Jane exclaimed. "She should go to bed at once. Edmund?"

She hoped Edmund would go, with the others, and leave her to exchange a private word with Sam. But, like herself, Edmund had concluded Megan was more shocked than hurt, and he was determined to have his say.

"Freeman, I know the sort of scoundrel you are, and I won't have you on my property. If I find you trespassing again, I shall have you taken in custody."

Sam was at no loss for a reply, but after a glance at Megan he closed his mouth so tightly it disappeared into his beard.

To Jane, that look, so fleeting and yet so revealing, was like a window opening into a world whose existence she had never suspected. She only hoped the others had not noticed; but she did not like the smile that curved Lady Georgina's lips, as she watched from the superior height of her mount like a spectator in a theater box.

"I'll go—sir." The last word almost choked Sam, but
he got it out. "Only you should know what happened, it was—"

"I told you to get out."

The air was so charged with potential violence that Jane was afraid to speak; an imploring look and a quiet gesture had the desired effect, however; after a moment Sam turned and walked away. She knew why he had given in so easily, but Edmund squared his shoulders and smiled, like a pugilist who has just knocked his opponent down.

"That's the way to deal with such rabble," Lord Henry remarked, in a voice that was clearly intended to carry. "Well done, Mandeville."

"The rest of you can stand here and talk as long as you like," Jane snapped. "Give me the reins, Edmund, I want to get Megan to bed."

For the first time Megan seemed to be aware of her surroundings. "I do not need to be put to bed," she said clearly. "And I was not thrown."

Jane persuaded the other three to continue their ride. She wanted to talk to Megan alone—but she was illogically infuriated with Edmund when, after a perfunctory protest, he allowed himself to be sent from his wife's side.

Megan refused to take to her bed, but she consented to let Jane help her change her tight, crumpled dress for a loose gown.

"I ought to have warned you," Jane said remorsefully. "We are not popular in the village these days, but I never thought—"

"I didn't go to the village. At least, not to the Market Square. I meant to cut through the mill town and come home by way of the bridge. I didn't hurt the child, Jane, truly I didn't."

"Oh, curse it," Jane muttered. "What happened?"

"It had no business in the road anyway," Megan said. "What sort of mother would allow a tiny tot to wander out of the house? A filthy, ragged little thing—I could not tell
whether it was a boy or girl. Hero was walking; he did not so much as touch the child, it tripped and fell in the dust and began bawling. I was about to dismount, to make sure it was not hurt, when people came rushing out of the houses—men and women both—and before I knew what was happening they were screaming and cursing at me. One old woman, with hair standing up like an angry cat's fur, actually threw a missile—just a clod of dirt, I think—but it struck Hero, who had been rendered nervous by the shouting and the crowd. I was so taken aback I lost control of him. . . . Well, one woman did go sprawling; I hope she was not hurt, I think she only threw herself aside to avoid his rush, but . . ."

She had begun her narrative in a controlled manner, but as she went on, her voice began to waver.

"It was not your fault," Jane said. "Don't think about it. Where did you meet Sam?"

"I lost my hat," Megan said querulously. "I don't know where. I let Hero run until we were well away, and then 1 stopped him, for I was beginning to feel a little faint. I don't know how long I sat there in the shade of the trees, catching my breath and my nerve. . . . All at once he was there, and somehow I wasn't afraid any longer, though that horrid beard confused me at first. . . . Jane, why do they hate me so? I have never done anything to harm them. It wasn't the curses or the things they threw, it was their hate that frightened me."

"It has nothing to do with you," Jane said. "It has to do with the mill and the cholera, and perhaps even the heat. Try to forget it."

Scapegoat. Sam had used the word, and now she understood its appropriateness—or rather, she thought she did. It was not her fault that she missed the real significance of the word, and of the episode. Sam had tried twice to tell her and had been prevented, but he assumed she would learn the truth from Megan and would comprehend the danger. He failed to take several factors into account. For one thing,
Megan had not understood the words that had been shouted at her, distorted as they were by anger and by the local accent; nor is it likely that she would have known what they meant even if she had understood. Jane might have known their meaning, but even she would have underestimated their importance. She was now too far removed from the world in which such ideas still lingered, passed on from father to son and mother to daughter, fading slowly with the passage of the centuries, but ready to leap up like a smoldering fire when fresh kindling is added.

So she said, "Try to forget it," and promised herself she must attempt to reason with Edmund, futile as it would probably prove. Perhaps he could be brought to see that his own interests would best be served by a reversal of the methods that had bred such discontent.

The weekend
brought no opportunity to speak to Edmund, but it was not the utter disaster Jane had feared. After cultivating the London nouveau riche and the scholarly middle class, Edmund had turned to the county gentry; many of the guests were known to Jane. One day the men took out their guns, accompanied by Lady Georgina, who bagged more game than any of them.

Jane hoped Edmund would talk to the other men about the troubles he was having at the mill. Though she did not know what they talked about over the port, when the ladies had withdrawn, she decided he had actually said very little, probably because he didn't like to admit he was incapable of dealing with the matter. There were a few references to poaching, and other intrusions into the privileges these gentlefolk insisted upon; their nearest neighbor, Sir William Gilbert, mentioned that he had been forced to hire extra gamekeepers to patrol his grounds.

"Why not try mantraps?" Sir Henry suggested.

Bluff old Sir William gave him a glance of open dislike. "They happen to be illegal, your lordship. No, no; a good thrashing, when a feller is caught, gets the point across."

"They poach because they need food," Jane said. "And if the harvest is as bad as I expect, after the dry summer, matters will get worse this winter. Your thrashings and mantraps will not stop a father who sees his children crying with hunger."

"Always lecturing, Jane," Edmund said, with an angry laugh.

"That's the proper role for the ladies, bless 'em." Sir William came to Jane's defense. "Where would we rough fellers be if they didn't remind us of our Christian duty, eh? Humph, yes. You're right, Miss Jane; up to you ladies to organize some kind of relief, eh? Soup. Good nourishing soup. You'll see to it. And Vicar, eh?"

"Yes, indeed," Mr. Higgins said readily. "I am at Miss Mandeville's command—and that of the other ladies."

Most of the guests took their departure on Tuesday, but the Astleys stayed on. "How much longer?" Jane demanded, when she had an opportunity to speak to Edmund alone.

"As long as they like. His lordship is assisting me on certain matters. You are at liberty to leave the house, Jane, if you don't care for the company."

"What matters?" Jane asked. But Edmund had left her.

By resorting to methods as near spying and eavesdropping as her conscience would allow, Jane managed to acquire a few clues. Edmund was disinclined to go out on his errands; he preferred people to come to him. He had an unusual number of callers in the next few days. Mr. Gorm, the mill manager, was frequently with him. Jane did not recognize any of the others; some were men of a class she instinctively disliked, rough, furtive-looking persons with hard eyes. One was a young officer whose insignia she recognized as that of the fusiliers who were stationed at Coventry.

Edmund had indeed been forced to admit that there
was danger, but he underestimated its strength and did not expect it to boil over as soon as it did. He and Lord Henry were in the billiard room that evening—with, of course, Lady Georgina. Jane sat with Megan in the drawing room. The windows were open to the warm summer night, but Jane was reading aloud, so they did not hear the footsteps approaching. The first warning they had was a peremptory pounding on the door.

No casual visitor would knock like that. The noise brought everyone out into the hall, Lord Henry still holding his billiard cue. Edmund's outflung arm stopped Jane as she started impulsively for the door, so she was forced to wait until Barkens, the butler, performed his proper task.

The old man was sent staggering back as a man forced his way into the house. A profane exclamation burst from Edmund, and Lord Henry laughed and remarked, "By God, it's the gallant rescuer. What now, young Lochinvar?"

Jane ducked under Edmund's arm and ran to the newcomer.

"What is it, Sam? Are you hurt?"

Dried blood traced a line from his forehead across his cheek, but he shook his head, struggling to find the breath to speak. His chest heaved up and down like that of a horse that has been ridden too hard, and his sweat-soaked shirt clung to his body.

"They're coming," he gasped. "Not far behind. Two hundred or more. . . ."

"Who? What?" Jane demanded.

Edmund knew the answer. "You have the effrontery to come here, after stirring them up to riot and rebellion, and pretend.... Got cold feet, did you, Freeman? I am not stupid enough to be deceived by this. By heaven, I'll have you transported—or worse."

"Not me," Sam said, a little more easily. "Never mind, I came to warn you—she must go. She's the one they're after —and you, of course—sir—but you're a man and you've brought this on yourself. . . ."

His breath gave out. This time no one replied. They were staring incredulously at Megan, for Sam's gesture had left no doubt she was the one he referred to.

She was as bewildered as the others. "Me? You must be mistaken, Sam. I haven't done—"

"No, no, of course you haven't," Sam said, half in a groan. "You still don't understand. Jane, didn't she tell you? He'd never have done it—you know who I mean, Jane—he couldn't have stirred them up to this without the other thing —I don't excuse them, but they've suffered so much and are so afraid, they aren't thinking straight. It was old Granny Miggs that began it, with her talk of curses. It's since
she
came that the troubles began—that's what they say, and they think if she goes away—or is taken. ..."

"Dear God," Jane gasped. She was beginning to understand. Half-forgotten childhood memories—certain of Lizzie's folktales, bowdlerized for childish ears but retaining a hint of the pagan barbarities that had spawned them. . . .

The others were still in the dark. "What are you raving about?" Edmund demanded. "Here—Barkens—call the footmen. I'll have this scoundrel under lock and key at any rate, and then we'll deal with—"

He stopped when he realized no one was paying any attention to him. Sam went on speaking to Jane. "I'll talk to 'em, I think I can turn them back if I tell them she's not here —get her away, Jane, for the night, at least. For God's sake, hurry—they are here."

Through the open door Jane saw them—a darkness sparked by flaring torches and accompanied by a wordless animal roaring.

"I will," she said. "Sam, go; you can't talk to them, they'll call you traitor if they see you here."

She turned to Megan, but Edmund was before her.

"No one is leaving this house," he said. "Jane, are you mad? I will deal with this, and with him—"

But Sam was gone. The door gaped empty and the roar of the mob was closer.

Jane didn't waste time arguing. She caught Megan by the wrist and dragged her unresisting up the stairs. As they went she heard Lady Georgina say coolly, "We are three guns, Edmund, if it comes to that."

Jane didn't wait to hear Edmund's reply. Without pausing, she towed Megan along the passageway to the back stairs of the west wing. She was not in the least afraid. Excitement sent the blood coursing through her veins and gave her an illusion of competence and strength.

"I don't understand," Megan said breathlessly.

"No; but I should have. Yet who could suppose in this day and age. . . . Hurry, Megan."

Down the last flight and along the corridor to the tower. It was the quickest way to the stable yard. Mounted, Megan would be safe. Then straight across country to the high road, and south to Lydford Abbey, Sir William's home.

She was neither surprised nor alarmed when a dark shape materialized out of the shrubbery and fell in beside her.

"I'll see you away," Sam said. "Then I'll go back—"

"No. No. If your former friends don't shoot you, Edmund will. He's sent for the troops, I think."

It was when she realized that the stables and courtyard were utterly deserted that Jane felt the first stab of real fear. If their own servants were involved in the riot—people she had grown up with—then the world had indeed gone mad, with no solid ground left to stand on. She glanced at the man beside her, and as if feeling her look, he gave her a quick smile. Not everyone had failed her. There were still solid sections of ground amid the quicksand.

Sam did not comment on the desertion of the grooms. He had apparently expected it. "We must move fast," he grunted, wrenching open the door to the room where the tack was kept.