Black Rainbow (29 page)

Edmund couldn't know. He must have his suspicions,
though, for nothing less could have driven him to invent that final, fatal charge. She was ready to acquit him of deliberate fabrication on the other charges; it would be like him to assume that ignoble motives underlay Sam's attempt to warn him. But the other. . . . Oh, no, he knew she had not left the house under duress. If he had not believed her own carefully censored report, Jane would have told him.

Jane. That was another thing. Jane was gone.... Fretfully, Megan rubbed her head. She had been in a fog for so long, her brain felt paralyzed. The medicine didn't seem to be doing her any good. Perhaps she should stop taking it.

Jane had gone to London. Megan had thought it curious, when Edmund told her, that Jane had left so suddenly without a word of farewell. And to London, of all places. Jane hated London, as she hated all cities.

Perhaps Jane had gone to the court, or the trial, or whatever it was—gone to tell the truth, to help Sam. It was a reasonable idea, and for a moment it comforted Megan. Another vague, uneasy memory raised fresh doubts. Jane had been gone a long time—two days, perhaps longer. If only she could remember! Long enough, at any rate, to give her evidence and return. Edmund was still away, though. Perhaps he, too, was at the trial.

She could not count on Jane. When she had time, she would begin to worry about Jane. But not until she had done something else.

Rising, she went to the wardrobe and opened the door.

Edmund had not told the grooms she was not allowed to ride. It had not occurred to him that she would try. The head groom, a trusted old servant, did try to expostulate with her. He had heard she was ill, and she certainly looked odd—a kind of wild glitter in her eyes and skin stretched tight as a drum over her cheekbones. She replied in a tone he had never heard her use, and he limped off to do her bidding.

It was midafternoon before Megan reached her destination, after a series of misadventures that would have reduced a woman less obsessed to tears or despair. She had no idea where she had to go, or how to get there. Inquiries in the village gave her some of the necessary information, but Mr. Higgins delayed her a good half hour, arguing and fussing, after he had learned the reason for her questions. Finally she just stood up and walked out. She got lost, not once but several times.

Despite her anxiety, she found an unexpected pleasure in the ride. She had not been on horseback for months; now she wondered how she could have moped in her room so long, only half alive, while spring blossomed into summer. The sunshine and the breeze were like a balm, warm to her troubled spirit.

Her conscience was not at peace. She had done Edmund a grievous wrong, and she was prepared to spend the rest of her life making it up to him—and that would be penance enough for her sin. That night on the grass beside the Toman stone she had learned what rapture really was. Never to know again that passionate tenderness, that sense of utter security. ... If the real torture of damnation is absence from the loving presence of God, then she would truly be in Hell—and if that was blasphemy, she couldn't help it. She was prepared for the sacrifice. She had wronged her husband and hurt the Holy Mother. . . . But it was Edmund's anger that concerned her. She had a feeling the Holy Mother would understand, and She would certainly be quicker to forgive.

Megan entered Warwick by the new bridge over the Avon and promptly got lost again. A kindly passerby directed her to the Shire Hall. The imposing neoclassical building was so much bigger than she had expected that she was momentarily disheartened, foreseeing another period of aimless wandering and questioning. She had lost so much time already.

She was not as late as she feared. The progress of justice was leisurely in the extreme, for the justices saw no reason to shorten the dinner hour for the convenience of prisoners who had nowhere to go but the jail, just around the corner. The hearing had only recently reconvened when Megan found the room she wanted.

She got in by the simple expedient of pushing past the gaping attendant and opening the door. The scene wasn't as intimidating as she had expected, just a few men sitting around a table . . . and Sam. After the first quick identifying glance, to make sure she was in the right place, she didn't look at him again. Nor did she look at Edmund, who had leaped to his feet and was staring at her in mingled fury and disbelief.

The other men rose too. Sir William's jaw dropped till his chin completely vanished into the folds of his old-fashioned neckcloth. The sight of his bluff honest face made Megan feel more at ease. He had always been kind to her.

"Gentlemen," she said clearly. "Please forgive the interruption. I have come to give my evidence."

Edmund's face was the color of port—no, not so dark— a nice light claret, rather. He is not very quick, she thought coolly. It should not be difficult to outwit him.

Recovering himself, Edmund turned to his fellow justices and spoke in a low mumble. He is telling them I am ill or out of my mind, Megan thought. He is so obvious.... She stood waiting and knew her appearance, cool and quiet and calm, gave the desired impression. Sir William kept glancing at her, and finally he broke into Edmund's speech with a loud "Come, come, man, we can't keep the lady standing there. What's the harm in letting her speak?"

"Thank you, Sir William," Megan said. She began to strip off her gloves.

Sir William left his judicial seat to place a chair for her with his own hands. "Now then, my dear, just say your piece," he said.

Megan glanced around. "Should I not take my oath first?"

With some fumbling a Bible was produced, and she repeated the words in a clear voice.

"I protest this—this irregularity," Edmund said thickly.

"The witness is under oath," said the other justice, a thin, gray-haired gentleman wearing spectacles. "You know the procedure, Mr. Mandeville."

Megan was allowed to tell her story without interruption. She had had plenty of time in which to plan what to say, especially the conclusion.

"Naturally I cannot testify with regard to Mr. Freeman's connection with the organization he is supposed to have been a member of; and I certainly would not commit the impropriety of attempting to explain his motives in warning us. My husband is much wiser than I; I do not contradict any of
his
interpretations, gentlemen. That he has leaped to an erroneous conclusion about certain other occurrences of that night is probably my fault; I should have been more explicit. I came here to correct that error, and to assure you that Mr. Freeman did not . . . abduct me. I left the house of my own accord. I was so frightened I lost my head and infected Miss Mandeville as well. I was the one at fault; she only followed because I made her."

She stopped at that point and gazed limpidly at Sir William. She was not sure what story Sam had told and did not want to contradict him.

It was the third justice, the gray-haired man, who said, "The story is not complete, Mrs. Mandeville. We have witnesses who swore they saw Mr. Freeman pull you onto a horse and ride away with you."

"Witnesses? Drunken ruffians, you mean," Megan exclaimed. "The fact is correct, the interpretation is wholly false. Mr. Freeman did join Miss Mandeville and myself in the stable yard, as we were trying to saddle our horses. We intended to come to you for protection, Sir William." She smiled at him, and he gave her a fatuous grin. "The grooms had run away, and we were having a difficult time. Without Mr. Freeman's help we would never
have succeeded in saddling the horses. He had barely finished the task when we saw several men—horrid, rough drunken men—running toward us, shouting and cursing. Again I lost my head. I ran. Had not Mr. Freeman pulled me onto the horse and ridden away, I would have been subjected to insult, if not bodily harm. As soon as we were away from the house and I had regained my composure, he left me."

Another lie, she thought, but what does it matter? I have so much on my conscience now. . . .

Edmund had tried several times to interrupt, but had been squelched by his fellow justices. Now he said in a strangled voice, "Well, gentlemen, this pathetic fantasy is surely evidence of Mrs. Mandeville's state of mind. Have you tortured her enough? May I take her away now?"

"It doesn't have the ring of fantasy to me," Sir William said. "And it fits the other evidence we have heard. I never trusted those rascals who testified to seeing Freeman snatch your wife into the saddle; what the devil were they doing in the stable yard anyway, where they had no business to be? Jones, you're the legal feller. What's your opinion?"

The lawyer cleared his throat. "I have seldom heard a clearer or more sensible statement. Mrs. Mandeville appears to be well acquainted with the laws of evidence, particularly the ones concerning hearsay and unwarranted assumptions." He glanced meaningfully at Edmund.

"Well, we can hardly convict the feller of abduction if the abductee denies it, can we?" said Sir William cheerfully. "I say he's innocent."

"Sir William, you are not following the correct procedure," the lawyer exclaimed. "It is not our duty to decide on the defendant's guilt or innocence, only whether. . . . Oh, dear, this is most irregular. Mrs. Mandeville, thank you for coming. You are excused."

Megan walked to the door. She was careful to avoid Edmund's furious gaze, but she could not resist one last look at Sam. After all, she would probably never see him again.

He seemed to be in a stupor of disbelief. He wasn't even looking at her. She wished he would smile, so she could carry that picture of him in her heart; but she dared not linger. Her head high, her face composed, she left the room.

Too restless to sit down, she walked back and forth along the hall until finally the door opened and Sir William burst out. He came directly to her and took her arm.

"Let's be off, my dear; give Edmund's temper a chance to cool. A man doesn't like to be called a liar by his wife, especially when she's right and he's wrong."

"Then—"

"Yes, yes, it's all settled; no prima facie case, none at all, no reason to hold him for trial." Sir William towed her toward the exit. "Edmund is off for home, but I persuaded him you had better stay overnight; my good lady will be pleased to have your company. She is here with me, at our town house." He bundled her into his waiting carriage and, still talking animatedly, waved one of his footmen to attend to Megan's horse. "Never believed it, you know; known the boy for years, he's a good lad, though he's picked up some strange ideas from all that schooling. Don't approve of schooling. Gives people strange ideas. Look at Edmund. Strange, very strange, some of his notions."

Though grateful
for the Gilberts' hospitality, Megan would have preferred to be alone that evening. However, Lady Gilbert was one of those people who think of solitude as a curse and would never be guilty of afflicting such discourtesy on a guest. She and Megan were sitting in the drawing room after dinner when Sir William came in.

"Someone to see you, Mrs. Mandeville," he said with a grin. "Hope you feel up to it—just a few minutes. Quite right and proper of him to come and thank you."

Megan rose, but she felt sick and weak. To see him again, after she had said a silent, eternal farewell; to keep up the pretense of cool indifference in front of Sir William. . . . However, as the latter ushered her into the room where Sam was waiting, he remarked, "Got some things to do—you'll excuse me, won't you, Mrs. Mandeville? Don't keep her long, Sam; not that you were ever much of a talker, eh?"

As soon as the door had closed, Megan walked straight across the room and into his arms. He held her close for a moment, his cheek resting on her tumbled curls, and then, almost roughly, pushed her away.

"Not here—you've risked yourself enough for me today."

"There was no risk," Megan said. "I'd do more if I could, you know that—"

"I must talk fast, he'll think it strange if I linger. Megan —I asked you once to come away with me."

"And I said yes."

"I couldn't let you. You weren't yourself, and I was wrong to ask it, I knew that as soon as I spoke. Now—now it's changed. I'm asking you again. Will you come?"

It was a bizarre interchange; Sam had backed away, twisting his cap in his hands as he shot out the brief, brusque sentences. She saw how he trembled, and the old warmth, the certainty of safety and peace filled her. How different from the childish infatuation she had felt for Edmund!

"I cannot," she said steadily. "There is the child."

"Can you believe I forgot?" Sam said after a moment. And that, too, was like him, she thought; no argument, no debate, only an unwilling acknowledgment of fact that turned his face, in an instant, into the haggard countenance of a tired old man.

"You couldn't forget him if you had ever seen him. He is so sweet—growing every day—he smiles now when he sees me, I know he does, though Lizzie says it is only wind—"

"Megan—don't."

"My darling—"

"Don't, I said." He put out a hand to halt her advance
toward him. "You're right again. I must go. Promise me you'll take care."

"For what?"

"Yourself. Guard yourself. There are so many dangers— accidents—"

"Walking in the rain and catching a chill," she said, fondly mocking what she took for a lover's excessive solicitude. "My dearest, I will. And you—you promise too?"

"I promise."

There was nothing more he could say. As he left the house, emerging into the soft rain of an autumn night, he searched for a means of protection for her, and found none. He couldn't even warn her; it would only frighten her, and she probably wouldn't believe him. No one would believe him—not Sir William, not Jane. But he was not unacquainted with violence. He had seen the look of murder before, and that was the look he had seen in the courtroom on the face of Edmund Mandeville.