Black Rainbow (6 page)

She had taken great pains with her appearance, mindful of the emotional subtleties of the occasion. Her gown must not be too elaborate, but it should not strike a depressing
note either. She had chosen an old frock with full sleeves and a modest lace collar. The pale blue deepened the blue of her eyes and set off her fair complexion. Her golden hair had been brushed till it shone, and twisted into a loose coronet that allowed countless little curls and tendrils to brush her forehead. She thought she looked very well, and the admiration on Edmund's face confirmed this impression.

"Miss O'Neill will forgive us, I know; her face beams with sympathetic pleasure in this reunion. As for my earlier crime, I will accept whatever penance she decrees. Perhaps one of those fascinating parcels contains an offering that will help win a pardon for me."

Megan was saved the necessity of a reply by Lina, who was bouncing up and down and demanding her presents. With the child in his arms and his sister pressed close to his side, Edmund entered his home, leaving Megan to follow.

She felt as if the sun had gone behind a cloud. Edmund's manners were charming, but his casual assumption that a present would excuse his forgetfulness reduced her to the same level as his three-year-old ward. Wistfully Megan's eyes followed the little group ahead of her, so close, so lovingly entwined. She felt like a beggar-woman shivering in the cold as she gazed into the window of a warmly lit house, filled with comforts she would never have.

Megan's mournful
mood did not last long. The others were careful to include her in the celebrations that followed, and Edmund's gift showed such exquisite taste, such consciousness of what would suit her that she could not help but be flattered. The dainty filigree necklace and matching earrings, set with brilliant blue stones, were not the sort of gift a young lady is supposed to accept from a gentleman, but Megan brushed this critical thought aside. Jane seemed to
see nothing wrong in it, and if Jane's finicky conscience was at ease, who was she to object?

Edmund had bought lavishly. The parcels did not stop coming; every day brought a new consignment, from an expensive French doll for Lina to fashionable ornaments for the drawing room. Once or twice Jane's forehead wrinkled when some costly trinket emerged from its packing case, but she said nothing.

The daily schedule had changed drastically, as was to be expected. Dinner was now served at a fashionably late hour, and after the first evening, when Lina had been allowed to help celebrate her guardian's homecoming, Megan had not dined with her employers. Brother and sister had much to talk about; sometimes, passing along the hall after an exhausting session with Lina, Megan would hear laughing voices from the drawing room near the foot of the stairs. Once she lingered, enraptured at the sound of a sweet tenor voice singing one of the fashionable sentimental ballads. The expert trills and chords accompanying the singer informed her that Edmund was accompanying himself. Jane's musical talents were extremely limited.

One evening, a week after Edmund's arrival, Megan and Lina were invited to join the others after dinner. Edmund was obviously pleased by the child's pretty looks and affectionate manner; he was particularly amused by the little French phrases she chirped out with the imitative facility of a parrot. When they entered the drawing room, she broke away from Megan and ran to Edmund, crying,
"
Bonsoir, cher oncle. Comment-allez-vous?"

"Tres bon, ma petite.
But," Edmund added with a laugh, lifting her onto his knee, "I don't think such awful respect is really necessary; may she not
tutoyer
her uncle by courtesy, Miss O'Neill?"

"Oh, I know about that," Lina said. "I say
'tu
' to Ta-chin, and sometimes to Aunt Jane, if she is in a very good mood."

After a solemn discussion of this important matter Lina retired to the window seat and the companionship of her
new doll, whose elaborate French wardrobe was already showing signs of wear, having been changed so often and so impatiently. Megan's head was bent over her embroidery. She dared not look at Edmund too long, for fear her face would betray feelings she had no right to have.

After a brief silence, broken only by Lina's admonitions to her doll, Edmund said pensively, "This dear old shabby room. What memories it holds!"

"Don't let Lizzie hear you call it shabby," Jane said. "She drove the servants to the brink of revolution cleaning for you."

"You have both done a splendid job," Edmund said warmly. "I am not unaware of the labor and sacrifice you have carried too long on your small shoulders, Jane. I am here to relieve you of that burden, and my first task shall be to give this dear old house the thorough refurbishing it deserves."

"It suits me just as it is," Jane said quietly.

"You are a dear, old-fashioned little thing, Jane. If you had your way, nothing would ever change. I know you have little taste for fashion and elegance; I am counting on Miss O'Neill's advice in such matters, for she has seen many fine homes."

Megan pricked her finger. Exultation filled her heart at the seduction of the picture that rose before her inward eye: she and Edmund consulting like husband and wife over homely details of furniture and draperies!

"I cannot claim to be an expert," she said modestly. "But of course, Mr. Mandeville, if I can help in any way. . . ."

"I am sure you can. I was impressed, in our first conversation, by your knowledge of antiquities. A venerable old manor house like this one should interest you, and your recollections of your family seat in Ireland may assist in the restorations I plan."

"I was only a child when I was last in Ireland," Megan said. But she said it very softly.

"You terrify me, Edmund, with your talk of restorations," Jane exclaimed. "Will you tear the house down around my ears?"

"My dear girl, I shan't begin anything major for quite some time; it is necessary to plan such things carefully. But the house must be spruced up; I cannot invite guests while it is in its present condition. The new drawing-room furniture I ordered should arrive this week. In the meantime, I will decide what is needed for the guest bedrooms."

Jane started to speak, then glanced at Megan and pressed her lips tightly together. The anguished glance with which she swept the room was that of a mother bewailing a change in her favorite child.

Megan sympathized, but she quite agreed with Edmund's appraisal. The damask draperies had once been vivid crimson; they were now faded to a soft rose, pleasing to the eye but otherwise unsuitable; and she could well believe that every piece of furniture in the room had been bought with the house at the time of its sale to Edmund's grandfather. The slender lines and simple wooden frames of sofas and chairs appeared austere and cold compared with the luxuriant carving of modern furniture.

She did not voice this opinion, however; in fact, her position was somewhat awkward, for it was clear that brother and sister were in total opposition on the question of refurnishing. Megan's presence restrained Jane from expressing her true feelings. And Megan wondered, suddenly, whether Edmund had made use of her and the child to avoid what might otherwise have developed into a serious difference of opinion. It was not a flattering thought.

"We will see what can be done tomorrow, then," said Edmund. "What do you say to some music, Miss O'Neill?"

Their voices blended in the most ravishing manner. Megan was in seventh heaven. Edmund's attention was fixed on her, his eyes constantly studied her lips in order to anticipate the words of the duet; now and then, when he
leaned forward to turn the pages of her music, his arm brushed her shoulder. Even Jane's face relaxed into a smile as she listened.

Whatever the
nature of Edmund's wound (a matter which Megan had never inquired into, for reasons of delicacy), the long period of convalescence had restored him to perfect health. He threw himself into his plans for the house with zestful energy.

Plump sofas and armchairs, their bulging red velvet seats framed in writhing rosewood, replaced the old furniture, which was borne ignominiously away to the attic. The centuries-old boxwood hedges were trimmed into shapes nature never intended them to have, despite the head gardener's anguished insistence that it was the wrong time of year for that activity. Edmund had taken a fancy to have a formal garden, in the Italian style, and a profusion of simpering nymphs and inadequately draped goddesses took up residence on marble pedestals.

The furniture of the bedchambers was next to go. Jane barricaded her doorway with her own small person and threatened violence if a single object in her quarters was touched. Edmund gave in, laughing.

His room was in the same wing, but on a different corridor, on which the principal guest bedrooms were also located. On one of these latter he bestowed his most anxious attention, and one day Megan was called upon to offer her advice.

She took a fancy to the room, despite its quaint, outmoded decor. It was a corner room, with an oriel window, whose ceiling, like that of the chamber itself, was covered with delicately molded plaster reliefs of twining vines and flowers. Had she been left to her own devices, she would
have chosen the softest and most delicate fabrics, in such shades as apricot and azure, but Edmund seemed bent on grandeur instead of charm. The bedroom suite he had selected was one of the most elegant Megan had ever seen— an adaptation of the fashionable Renaissance style, it was carved and gilded over every inch of its surface, and the washstand top was of dark-green Italian marble, veined in gold. She was able to make several useful suggestions, however—an abundance of lamps, for example, and rose-tinted shades for the lights on the dressing table.

Jane made no secret of her disapproval of these innovations, but her objections were usually voiced in a good-humored grumble, and Edmund could always cajole her out of her moods. On one occasion Megan overheard a snatch of conversation that explained one part of Jane's reservations. She caught only a few words; one of them was "expense." Edmund's reply was more distinct. "My dear girl, stop fussing. I have several schemes in mind to make us rich. No, I won't tell you about them now; you will learn in due course."

Resisting the temptation to linger, Megan walked on and did not hear Jane's reply.

At last Edmund conceded that the house was ready to receive visitors. "I mean to do a great deal more," he declared. "But renovations will mean a matter of months and years rather than weeks, and I cannot wait so long before returning the hospitality I received in London, or in making the connections I wish to strengthen in future. What do you say, Jane, to a party of eight—five gentlemen and three ladies—early next week?"

They were in the garden, admiring the statues, which had been put in place that same afternoon. Jane was not averse to the idea of guests; she had often expressed her appreciation of the care Edmund had received from his London friends, and said she hoped to meet them soon. But when she asked who was to be in the party, Edmund said that would be a surprise. He smiled, as if teasing her; but when
she persisted, he said in a serious voice, "Is it not enough, Jane, that they are people I choose to ask? I thought you would be pleased to serve as my hostess."

He looked genuinely hurt. Jane promptly apologized, and they went back to the house arm in arm.

"Fool." megan
addressed her reflection in the mirror. "Stupid, blind, unthinking fool!"

In the intensity of her emotion her hairbrush slipped, administering a sharp rap on her temple. Insignificant as it was, the blow was the last thing needed to release the tears she had been trying to hold back. Dropping the brush, she covered her eyes with her hands and abandoned herself to a passion of weeping.

Why had she failed to realize that the very activities that had given her such happiness over the past weeks must inevitably result in the end of all happiness? Increasingly bewitched by Edmund, she had refused to contemplate the future as she reveled in the present.

The expectation of guests in the house had reduced her to her true position, a lowly, subservient role that only the kindness of Jane and Edmund had allowed her to forget. There would be no more intimate consultations on redecorating or discussions of how such matters were managed at "your family scat in Ireland"; no more quiet family evenings in the drawing room, laughing over Lina's French, singing with him, listening to him read aloud, looking at him—being with him. Megan wiped her eyes with her fingers and pushed her chair away from the mirror. Why bother? No one cared how she looked. No one who mattered would see her.

She kept Lina outside most of the morning, hoping fresh air and exercise would tire her—and hoping, also, that she
might catch a glimpse of the guests when they arrived. Five of the group did come just before luncheon—three gentlemen, two of them accompanied by their wives. All were young, and the ladies were splendidly dressed. Concealed behind the rhododendron, Lina and Megan watched them get out of the carriage that had been sent to meet the morning train from London. Megan stared as greedily as the little girl. She could not help contrasting this arrival with her own, and she wondered how it would feel to drive up in a handsome carriage, wearing rose taffeta and a bonnet trimmed with pink silk roses.