Black Rainbow (26 page)

As soon as Megan began to sniffle, he ordered her to bed. He gave another order that was not so dutifully received. Jane found Megan in tears that afternoon when she came to see how her sister-in-law was feeling.

"He won't let me see the baby," Megan sobbed. "Oh, Jane, I miss him already—and how will he get on without me?"

Jane knew what this euphemistic question referred to. Megan had insisted on nursing the baby, and the doctor had supported her. Motherhood was back in fashion; modern medical opinion had decided that the old habits of baby-farming and wet nurses were deterimental to mother and child alike. They both had to battle Lizzie, who thought no lady should suckle her own baby. When the doctor agreed that it might be better for the child to be kept away from possible infection, a wet nurse was procured with such speed that Jane suspected Lizzie had had one laid on. It was only too easy to find a mother whose baby had recently died.

"Lizzie has the situation well in hand," Jane said evasively. "You wouldn't want him to catch your cold, Megan —just think how terrible it would be to have a cold with a nose the size of his."

Megan was not amused.
"Lizzie
wants him all to herself," she said sullenly. "She would hardly let me hold him before. I don't believe in all this nonsense about infection."

"Then rest and take care of yourself so you will soon be well."

Instead of getting better, Megan got worse. The cold settled in her chest, and the doctor was sent for again. He was inclined to scoff at Edmund's fears, but he left medicine that he said would help Megan get the rest she needed. It certainly had that effect, which was n
ot surprising, since its basic
c
onstituent was the popular
soporific laudanum.

Megan slept like a dead woman that night, but her breathing was as ragged as ever, and Jane, who was sleeping on a trundle bed in Megan's room, found herself lying awake waiting for Megan's next painful breath.

However, by the following evening she began to think Megan was a little better. She administered the medicine with a careful hand and saw Megan slip into a stupefied but easier sleep. Edmund came in shortly after that, and agreed matters had improved.

"You are the one we must think of now, Jane," he said affectionately. "You have worn yourself out. I will send one of the maids to take your place tonight. Bess is to be trusted, isn't she?"

Jane had to acknowledge that she was too tired to be a fit nurse. Bessie had had some experience in tending the sick and was completely trustworthy, so after giving orders that she was to be called immediately if there was any change, Jane went to bed.

She woke next morning feeling quite restored and much more optimistic. After several days of chilly rain the sun had come out, and the blue skies seemed like a promise of hope. Knowing Bess would have summoned her if there had been need, she took her time about dressing before she went to Megan's room.

Bessie was not there. Edmund was sprawled in the armchair next to the bed, sound asleep. At her exclamation he stirred, rubbed his eyes, and muttered, "Is the sun up? I must have dozed off."

"Where is Bess?" Jane went to the bed. Megan's head was turned away. She appeared to be resting quietly.

"I could not sleep, so I decided to take over the night watch," Edmund explained. "I sent Bess to bed; there was no reason for everyone to sit up. But I am tired; now you are here, I think I will lie down for a while."

"Yes, do," Jane said.

After Edmund had gone, she reached for the bottle of
medicine. It was time for the next dose. But perhaps Edmund had already given it—the level of the liquid in the bottle was lower than she remembered, and Megan's slumber was uncommonly sound. She put her hand on the girl's cheek and drew it back with a gasp. She was burning with fever.

Jane jerked back the covers, which had been drawn to Megan's chin, and turned her lax body over on its back. She was breathing quietly—too quietly and too slowly. Long seconds passed between each inhalation, and instead of the rasping in the throat she had heard before, Jane now heard a lower, more remote grating noise with every breath.

She tugged on the bellpull, then reached for the water bottle, meaning to bathe Megan's hot face. The bottle was empty. Again she pulled on the bell, and finally there was a response.

The doctor's surprise and distress at the change in his patient's condition was apparent, but when Jane demanded an explanation, he could only look at her sympathetically.

"One never knows what course an illness may take, Miss Mandeville. And a lady so delicate, with such a weak constitution—"

"She is much stronger than she looks. She never had a moment's illness. ..."

"You have nothing to reproach yourself with," the doctor said, thinking he understood her distress. "You did splendidly this morning, before I came; though some believe a fever patient should be heavily covered, in order to induce sweating, I am of the opinion that the fever ought to be brought down, if that can be done without danger of chilling. You were quite right to bathe her face and hands with cold water."

"I only did it to make her more comfortable," Jane said.

"She had perspired—her nightgown was still damp. Do you think she took a chill from that?"

"No, no. If you will excuse me, I had better get back to her."

His kindness comforted Jane, but she still felt guilty, as if she had neglected something. Believing Edmund would feel the same, she went in search of him and found him in the library. She saw that he had already spoken to the doctor. He stood with his arm resting on the mantel and his head bowed upon it, in a pose of utter dejection.

"Don't feel bad, Edmund," she said, putting an affectionate hand on his shoulder. "It is not your fault. The same thing might have happened if I had been there, or Bessie."

Edmund raised his head. There were no signs of tears on his face, but his eyes were rimmed in fiery red and they held a wild, hot glare.

"Fault?" he repeated, as if the word were unfamiliar to him. "Jane—do you believe in premonitions?"

"No," Jane said forcibly.

"I do. I have a premonition, Jane, that she will die."

"And I am equally sure she will live. Don't give way, Edmund. God will not take her from us when we love her so much."

"God doesn't listen to prayer," Edmund said. "He has never listened to mine."

Megan did
not die. When the weary, triumphant doctor told Edmund his wife had passed the crisis he turned and went hastily from the room, but not before Jane saw tears spring to his eyes and course down his cheeks. She did not follow; she felt he needed time to himself to adjust to the joyful news. When he returned, several hours later, he was able to express his gratitude with suitable fervor.

Jane expected it would take Megan some time to recover, but as the weeks dragged on and Megan continued to spend most of her time in bed, or resting on the chaise longue in her room, she expressed her concern to Edmund.

"The doctor says she has made a full recovery, but she is not at all like the girl I used to know. All her radiance and energy are gone."

"I am only too well aware of the change," Edmund said. "We must resign ourselves, Jane. She will always be an invalid."

"Perhaps if we did not encourage her to rest and refrain from normal activities—"

"I assume that reproach is meant for me," Edmund said with a sigh. "Be just, for once, Jane; do you suppose I prefer this languid, drooping woman to the girl I married? You must admit I have accepted my deprivation far more gracefully than most men."

Jane knew what he referred to. Embarrassment made her cheeks burn, and she withdrew in some confusion. All the same, she wondered if Megan was really that much of an invalid, and whether the estrangement between husband and wife had been her doing. The girl had doted on Edmund, always touching him, leaning against him, seeking physical contact. But perhaps the pains of childbirth. . . . Jane was unable to pursue that idea to its inevitable conclusion. Physical love was a mystery to her; she had no experience on which to base a judgment as to how it might be altered by circumstances.

She would like to have spent more time with little Edmund, but between Megan and Lizzie she was given few opportunities to play with him. So she turned her attention to Lina, whose pretty little nose had been put badly out of joint by the arrival of the baby. Lizzie had banned her from the nursery after she caught Lina methodically dropping building blocks onto little Eddie. Quite an imposing edifice had been constructed before his howls summoned assistance.

Jane took Lina with her on her next trip to the village. She had resumed her visits, without incident. No one had the bad taste to refer to the recent unpleasantness, but the old ease was gone. People were polite but reserved. Mrs. Miggs only stared blankly if Jane asked about Sam or made any reference to the mill; inquiries about Granny Miggs reduced her to such a state of stuttering incoherence that Jane did not have the heart to pursue them.

As the pony cart drew up before the shop, Jane noticed that there had been a change in one of the houses down the road, near the square. There was a sign over the door, which she was unable to read because of the distance, and people were going in and out as to a shop or office. She would have gone to see, but Lina's desire for sweets would not wait, so she let the child drag her into the shop.

While Lina rummaged in the piles of goods, she asked casually, "What has happened to the Babcocks' house?"

Mrs. Miggs's knitting needles clashed stormily. "They do say that's one of them cooperative stores, Miss Jane. A wicked cheat on honest tradesmen, I calls it."

"Cooperative!" Jane went to the window and stared.

She had heard of these enterprises, the first of which had been established in a small town in Yorkshire. The movement had spread rapidly, for it provided honest merchandise at low prices, and was owned by the workingmen who founded it, instead of by a single merchant whose sole aim was high profits. The original founders had been followers of the mill owner Robert Owen—one of Sam's idols.

"Who is in charge?" Jane asked.

"Why, no one, miss," said Mrs. Miggs with awful sarcasm. "That's the idea; they's none o'they be master, they's all equal together."

She continued to knit furiously, her face set in a disapproving scowl, but Jane was not deceived. Stepping close to the counter, she said in a low voice, "If a certain person is involved in this enterprise, as I think possible, he ought to
be reminded that this parish is not safe for him. There was a warrant out—"

At that interesting juncture Lina came running up with a rusty mechanical toy she had discovered under a heap of men's shirts, so Jane had to let the subject drop. However, she hoped her warning had not been in vain.

Megan dined in her room that evening, as had become her habit. Jane and Edmund were alone at the table in the empty, echoing Hall, where he insisted on being served. He seemed to be in a fairly affable mood, so Jane decided to risk a question.

"Have you seen the new cooperative store, Edmund?"

"Naturally. I am not so unaware of what is going on as you think, Jane."

"Why must you always. . . ." She checked herself. "I was only curious, Edmund. What do you think of it?"

"What I think is beside the point. I cannot order the place closed; the Act of '52 gave such organizations full legal status, and the house in question is not my property."

"I had the impression that the cooperative stores were somehow connected with the union movement."

"That is correct," Edmund said, taking a sip of wine. "How well informed you are—for a woman."

"I seek to be better informed," Jane retorted. "And if it is unwomanly to ask questions—"

"That's the old Jane!" Edmund laughed. "You have been so meek and mild of late, I hardly know you; and to be truthful, I miss the impertinent creature who used to hurl rude questions and accusations at me. What is it you are after now?"

"I want to know whether you have changed your mind about the unions," Jane said, encouraged by his smile. "They are legal—if I understand the law—and some employers feel that forbidding them only exacerbates labor problems."

"There is some truth in that opinion."

"Why, Edmund! I never thought to hear you say that."

"I am not impervious to reason, Jane. I want the mill to prosper. That is only common sense. And if you are of the opinion that a union would increase prosperity. . . ." He shrugged and raised his glass to his lips.

"I am," Jane said eagerly. "I have given the matter a great deal of thought, Edmund. Father did not approve, but I wonder if he would not feel differently if he were alive today. Times change, and the old ways are not always—" She checked herself, with the feeling she had heard those words somewhere before.

"Perhaps you are right," Edmund said. "At any rate, one ought to accept gracefully what one cannot change. As you so rightly point out, there is no law against unions—as such."

The footman came to take away their plates. "I promised Lina I would go up to say good night," Edmund said, rising. "Thank you, Jane, for your care of her; I am afraid I have been neglectful of late."

Jane sat in a daze until the footman's apologetic cough reminded her she was late in leaving the table. What had come over Edmund? It was not really change, though, it was the old Edmund, the brother she had loved. She ought to have been more patient. She ought to have realized that time would bring maturity, and that her dear brother would survive his disappointments to mellow into a fine man.