Black Rainbow (24 page)

Megan had not spoken for some time. Now she said calmly, "I'll get Hero," and went to do so. When Jane opened the door of the mare's stall, she was received by a low
grating growl which, after the first start of surprise, she recognized as a greeting.

"You had better get out of sight," she said, removing the cat from Molly's back and urging the latter to move. As she led the mare out, she saw that Sam had already begun to saddle Megan's white.

"That is a man's saddle," she protested.

"Then she must ride astride," was the reply, as Sam turned back to the tack shed.

There were no lanterns in the stable area, for fear of fire; but the moon and stars gave enough light to enable Jane to see dimly. She saw Megan lift her skirts and fumble with the tapes that held crinoline and petticoats in place. She didn't doubt that Megan could use a man's saddle, her sister-in-law was a fine horsewoman; and her cool acceptance of danger was admirable . . . but she wished Megan would say something. Her responses had been those of a machine, performing the correct action when the correct lever was pressed.

She caught the bridle Sam threw her and buckled it in place while he tossed the saddle on to the mare. The voices had died to a murmur, like that of waves on the shore. Over it a single voice rose in strident oratory. Jackson? She knew the carrying power of his voice, she had heard it the day he spoke at the inn.

Jackson's voice was interrupted by an explosive crash that echoed across the valley. A moment of utter silence followed; then an outburst of screams and shouts, mingled with a second and third shot. Cursing under his breath, Sam struggled with the girth. He got no cooperation from the mare, who resented being aroused at such an unseemly hour. Finally he accomplished the task and, grasping Jane by the waist, tossed her into the saddle.

From her elevated position she saw the torches before the others did. The fusillade had dispersed the crowd, but not all of them had gone home. Others had been more interested
in loot than principle from the beginning; scattering, they made for the outbuildings.

"Mount!" Jane cried to Megan, who was standing quietly to one side. "Hurry; they are coming!"

"I will wait for Sam to help me," Megan said sweetly. Then she saw the men approaching—and the torches they carried.

It was some time later before Jane found out why Megan acted as she did. The memory had been long suppressed— a fire set by an aggrieved servant at a country estate in France, the screams of the horses, the curses and tears of the men who came too late to help. . . . Megan's eyes dilated. Before Sam could reach her, she darted back toward the stalls. She had opened half a dozen doors before he caught her. By that time a raucous shout showed that they had been seen.

"This way—it's them, it's the witch. . . ."

Sam scrambled into the saddle and dragged Megan up with him. It happened too fast for Jane to do anything but watch; she realized Sam had forgotten about her, he was intent on one thing and one thing only. As he turned the white horse toward the entrance to the stable yard, Jane was close behind him. It was the only way out. None of them had thought to unbar the gate on the other side.

He rode straight at the men, who scattered, crying out in alarm. Jane closed her eyes, dug in her heels, and followed.

She lost the others almost at once. Outraged by the noise and the change in routine, the mare took off at her own sweet will. She even jumped a fence or two, which was not a custom of hers. Jane made no attempt to stop or guide the indignant animal; when she finally stopped, she was high on the hillside north of the house.

That place suited Jane as well as any other. There was nothing near her but night and silence. Far below, cupped
in the hollow, Grayhaven Manor lay like a doll's house in a museum exhibit. She was too far away to hear the cries of inquiry and indignation that were undoubtedly ringing through its rooms, but she could see everything. The house was ablaze with light. The grounds in front were deserted— not even a crumpled doll-sized shape on the graveled drive. The attackers had taken their dead and wounded with them when they retreated.

Jane winced. That Edmund had fired the first shot she did not doubt. "We are three guns, Edmund, if it comes to that." To what? Nothing less than a direct, murderous assault on the house and its inhabitants could excuse killing. But Edmund would view the trespass onto his land as tantamount to assault.

As she sat there, her hands loose on the reins, Jane felt quite calm and detached from the doll's house below. A sudden gust of wind lifted the horse's mane. The trees sighed and waved leafy arms. On the horizon, over the crest of the opposite hills, a dark mass of cloud stretched out shapeless tentacles. The air felt cooler.

The last time she had been out so late, the moon was a half-circle, guiding Megan toward the glade and the Toman stone. Somewhere on the ridge just opposite. . . . For a moment she fancied she saw a glow of pale silver among the dark outline of the trees; but it must have been imagination, no lantern or candle could cast such a light, and when she blinked her eyes, it was gone.

She ought to go back to the house. Edmund would be worried. ... Be honest, she told herself. Edmund would be furious—with her. Megan would not have run away if she had not led her. As matters had turned out, they would have been safe at the house. But Jane didn't regret her decision. She had done what seemed sensible at the time. Things might have turned out differently. The surest way of ending the blight brought on by a curse was to shed the blood of the witch who had cast the spell.

The breeze felt delightful, cool, with an unmistakable
feeling of dampness. Perhaps the long-awaited, badly needed rain was on its way at last. How pleasant it was to be here, in the quiet, with no one talking, no one shooting angry, hateful looks.

In a perverse way, Jane could understand the superstitious folly that had driven the mob to their door. She only wished she could find a simple, obvious explanation—a scapegoat— for the miseries of the past year and a half. It was dreadful to feel you were the helpless tool of vast, indifferent forces. And it was something of a coincidence that the changes had begun when Megan came. Poor Megan—poor, harmless girl, no one could possibly blame her. . . .

Jane sat unmoving until the moon dropped low, and finally the soldiers came, riding in a furious gallop down the drive. She picked up the reins and urged the mare to move.

As dawn was breaking into a sky streaked with angry clouds, Megan came home. She walked into the drawing room, where the rest of them were assembled, waiting for news from the searchers who were scouring the countryside for her. Her muslin dress hung limp around her, moist with dew and streaked with dust and other stains.

"I'm so sorry you were worried," she said serenely, in reply to the chorus of inquiry and expostulation that burst around her. "I must have fallen asleep. I was perfectly safe, in a little meadow, on the crest of the hill. You know the place, Jane."

She smiled at Jane—a smile so radiant, so glowing, that the latter felt a stab of uncomprehending envy that was as sharp as pain.

The storm broke a little later. It rained all day, soaking the parched fields and dusty plants.

MEGAN'S
child
was born the following June. It was a healthy boy, with the coarse dark hair and unfocused blue eyes common to most newborns.

Edmund was
beside himself with delight when his wife announced she was pregnant at last, and his treatment of her was tenderly devoted. He lavished gifts on her, sending all the way to London for exotic food and hothouse flowers, until Megan laughingly protested that she really had no taste for lobster salad. No guests were invited to the house unless she expressed a desire to see them. Needless to say, this did not include the Astleys.

That winter the weather was perfect—for winter—not the unhealthy and unseasonable warmth that brought on
sickness, but mild enough to allow some winter crops to flourish. This mitigated to some extent the food shortage Jane had accurately predicted; thanks to her efforts and those of the other ladies of the parish, the worst cases of need were relieved. Edmund graciously contributed to the funds collected for this purpose. His temper was so good that Jane even plucked up enough courage to ask him to be gentle with the rioters. He agreed that they had suffered enough. No one had been killed, though several men and one woman had sustained minor wounds. There had been a certain amount of unfavorable comment in the press, for naturally the affair could not be kept quiet; and it might have been dislike of publicity as much as compassion that made Edmund agree to press the matter no further.

On one point, however, he was stubbornly resistant to Jane's pleas. The ringleaders, who had unfortunately escaped unhurt, must be arrested. He had sworn out a warrant against Jackson, on the charge of inciting to riot; but Jackson had gone into hiding and had not been seen since. Jane's attempt to defend Sam was a failure. Edmund was convinced he was as guilty as Jackson. He had also disappeared from the district, and flight, Edmund declared, was tantamount to a confession. Jane had not mentioned Sam's part in their escape from the stable yard, knowing this would only make matters worse. Megan had also remained silent about that incident, insisting that she had got lost and spent the night alone in the woods.

In the new year, when Megan's body began to change, Edmund stopped entertaining altogether. He spent more and more time alone. Megan did not appear to care what he did. Pregnancy became her; her skin took on a smooth sleekness, and her face had a look of placid contentment. She spent hours sewing and embroidering the finest white lawn and muslin clothes for the baby. Though she spoke little, she liked having Jane with her, and Jane was happy to oblige. After the first of the year she seldom left the house, taking a vicarious pleasure in Megan's pregnancy. As soon as it was
warm enough, the two women spent a good deal of time out of doors in the garden; and in late spring Jane was relieved of one fear, hidden but never forgotten, when a gift came from the women of St. Arca.

Lizzie brought the parcel to them one morning when they were sitting in the rose garden. Megan, increasingly lethargic, asked Jane to open it. When Jane held up the garment it contained, she let out a cry of surprise and admiration.

It was a christening robe—pure white, long enough to cover several babies laid end to end, and covered entirely with lace and hand embroidery. Jane and Megan examined it, wondering at the work that had gone into it and at the originality of the designs. Flowers and waving stalks of corn, so naturalistically rendered that one could almost feel the breeze that stirred them; birds and butterflies, and the forms of small animals cunningly hidden in the grain.

Ta-chin roused herself and put out a paw toward a dangling ribbon. The cat had changed her allegiance to Megan that winter, following her from room to room and curling up at her feet or beside her. Edmund refused to countenance her presence in the bedroom, but he was no match for Ta-chin; she would slink in with one of the maids and hide until he fell asleep, whereupon she would leap onto the bed and lie down next to her new idol. Megan had become rather fond of the animal; few people can resist the appeal of abject devotion.

Jane lifted the dainty garment out of the cat's reach. "I have never seen anything so beautiful," she exclaimed. "Who brought it, Lizzie?"

Lizzie eyed the christening robe with a sour expression. She is jealous, Jane thought, smiling to herself; she doesn't want outsiders showing favor.

"It's the women of the village," Lizzie said finally. "As if we couldn't give Master Edmund's son everything a child could want."

Jane folded the garment into its wrappings; Ta-chin would have that ribbon yet if she continued to dangle it.

Megan's pleasure in the beauty of the work and the thoughtfulness of the givers was as great as hers, but Jane sensed the gift had a deeper meaning. It was a wordless apology and recantation. They had chosen this way to say they had been wrong.

Megan mentioned the christening robe to Edmund that evening. Jane was curious to see if he would recognize its significance, but he expressed only mild interest. She had not really expected him to understand. He had only laughed incredulously when she tried to convince him that Granny Miggs was as culpable as Jackson in starting the riot.

As Megan entered the last months of pregnancy, her lassitude increased. She was not very entertaining company; Edmund teased her about her tendency to doze off, and even when she was awake her contributions to the conversation often consisted of nothing more than a sleepy smile. Edmund had gone back to his antiquarian interests. There was little else for him to do, and he was reluctant to leave the house on extended trips. He was working in the cellars again, and had found more tombstones, in the room next to the one containing the brass.

"I hope you don't intend to extend your investigations any deeper," Jane said one afternoon, when he was telling them about his recent discoveries. "Antiquarian studies are all very well, but grave-robbing—"

"Hardly an appropriate term," Edmund said sharply. "However, you will be relieved to hear that Higgins shares your views; he tells me the crypt is consecrated ground, like any Christian cemetery, and that church law prohibits excavation of the graves."