Black Rainbow (15 page)

"Look," he repeated in tragic tones. "The hat is well enough, but the jerkin is far too big and the shirt is even
worse; the sleeves hang down over my hands. How can I draw my sword to fight for king and country if my sleeves get in the way?"

Yet he managed it quite neatly, whisking the blade from the scabbard and flourishing it aloft. Megan applauded, and Lina rushed to him, exclaiming, "Oh, Uncle Edmund, how pretty you are."

"Thank you, my dear." Edmund patted her head. "Jane, what am I to do with this wretched jerkin, or tunic, or whatever it is called? I haven't time to make another trip to London."

"Let me see." After tweaking and tugging and mumbling to herself, Jane announced competently, "It only wants taking in at the side seams, and the shirt at the shoulder line. Better still, I might remove the cuffs of the shirt and trim off the extra length there."

"I would be eternally grateful, dear girl. I'll change and bring it to you now."

After he had gone, Lina announced that she wanted a pretty dress like Uncle Edmund's, knee breeches, sword, and all. Especially a sword.

"I will make you one, sweetheart," Jane said absently. Catching Megan's eye, she added with a smile, "Out of silver paper and cardboard. Well, Megan, I suppose we must think of what we are going to wear. Have you decided?"

Megan simulated surprise. "I had assumed I would not be going to the ball."

"You sound like Cinderella. Of course you are going."

Edmund came back with the despised garments over his arm.

"Are you sure you have time for this?" he asked. "There is no decent tailor nearer than London, or I wouldn't impose; but I don't want to interfere with the sewing of your costumes."

"We were just speaking of that," Megan said, pleased that his use of the plural noun had confirmed her invitation. She
had had every intention of attending, naturally, but was glad she had not been forced to use any of the devious schemes she had concocted in order to attain this end. She added, "We cannot decide what to wear. Perhaps you have a suggestion, Mr. Mandeville."

"It will have to be something simple for me," Jane said firmly. "Something rude and primitive—a Saxon maiden, perhaps, like the lady whose tombstone you found."

"Ethelfleda?" The name came smoothly from Edmund's lips, like that of a friend often spoken. "She was not Saxon, Jane, or a peasant; the professor said the brass was fifteenth century."

"The name is Saxon. The costume of that period would be easy to make—just a simple tunic and a mantle over it."

"Nonsense. You saw the elegance of her gown and headdress. I like the idea, though, of coming as our ancestress."

"Edmund, you know she was not."

"She might have been. On the maternal side, at least, our family has lived in this region since heaven knows when. However, Miss O'Neill would suit the role better. She has fair hair."

"And how do you know Ethelfleda was fair?" Jane asked skeptically.

"You insist she was Saxon. Danes, Angles, Saxons—they were all blond, were they not?"

"I have not the least idea," Jane replied. "But perhaps Ethelfleda's maternal ancestors were also from this region— members of the small, dark race that lived here long, long ago. Persecuted by invader after invader, they sought refuge in the deep forest and became the gnomes and brownies of legend."

"What an imagination you have, Jane," Edmund said uneasily. "Do as you like; I leave it up to you."

Jane picked up the satin waistcoat and began taking out stitches. After Edmund had gone she worked in silence for a time, then cast the garment aside.

"I have an idea," she said. "Come with me to the linen room and let us see what we have."

On the
afternoon of the ball Megan stood before the long mirror in Jane's bedroom while the latter made the final adjustments to her costume. Her mouth full of pins, Jane mumbled, "Turn—more to the left."

Like the earlier ones, the final fitting was taking place behind closed and locked doors. Jane intended the costume to be a surprise; not even the servants were allowed to help for fear they would give it away.

Megan did not understand the insistence on secrecy, but she would have agreed to more outrageous demands than that. Jane had outdone herself this time, declaring, truthfully, that she sewed better than the village seamstress and meant to make the costumes herself. She had worked night and day on the dress, with Megan's help.

Thinking of Edmund's pink satin cavalier, Megan had suggested a seventeenth-century lady. There was a portrait in the gallery of a woman, perhaps the wife of the swarthy gentleman who resembled Charles the Second, in a lovely gown of that period. But Jane had something else in mind, and when the linen room failed to provide what she wanted, she had made a trip to Birmingham to find it. This was a measure of Jane's devotion to her scheme; she hated Birmingham, with its grimy streets and smoking factories. In one of the shops she had found a piece of ivory brocade, and carried it home in triumph.

The dress was creamy white with silver threads, its hanging sleeves and low neckline banded with strips of white fur vandalized from a winter coat Lina had outgrown. A broad silver sash belted the gown high under Megan's breasts. The oversleeves hung loose from the elbow, almost reaching the
hem; long, tight-fitting undersleeves were made of sheer white muslin, as was the filmy veil that hung from the horned headdress. This last was Jane's masterpiece; she had wrestled with wires and horsehair for hours before constructing a framework covered with white velvet that looked like the illustration in the book she had chosen to copy. Silver nets, twinkling with brilliants, held Megan's hair in twin coils on either side of her face.

Jane rose and spat pins into her hand. "It's still too long. Take it off and I'll fix the hem."

Megan turned from her rapt contemplation of the mirror. There was little vanity in her appraisal; the gleaming figure looked like a statue carved of ivory and precious metal, not like the image she was accustomed to see in her glass.

"What of your own costume, Jane?" she asked. "The guests will be arriving in a few hours, and you must be downstairs to greet them."

"My costume is finished and everything is in order. Take it off, Megan."

Edmund had left little for his sister to do. He himself had supervised the servants in the arrangement of the downstairs rooms, and the kitchen staff had been baking and brewing for days under Lizzie's critical eye. That morning a consignment of specially ordered food and drink had arrived from London, together with the waiters who were to serve it.

Megan did not know whether she dreaded the ball or looked forward to it. Her sources of information—eavesdropping, gossip with Lizzie, even a covert examination of the daily post—had failed to deliver any evidence that Edmund's wooing had been successful. Yet something told her that the coming night would mark a turning point in her life, for good or ill.

Later in the afternoon she went to the nursery to see if Lina had settled down. The child had been in wild spirits all day, darting from room to room and getting in everyone's way. No one had time to play with her; her adored Uncle
Edmund scowled and told her to go to her room, and even Lizzie, who could usually be depended upon to greet her with hugs and sweeties, sent her flying from the kitchen with a smack on the seat of her little frock. Eventually Lina had been captured by the nurserymaid and carried upstairs howling and kicking.

When Megan entered the nursery, she was not surprised to see Rose collapsed in a chair, her cap all on one side.

"Where is Lina?" she asked, waving the girl back as she started to struggle to her feet.

A voice called out, "Don't look! Wait till I'm ready."

Lina's voice came from an alcove that had been curtained off to serve as a playhouse, an animal's lair, or the cave of Ali Baba, as conditions required. Before long she emerged and struck a pose.

"Look! I am just like Uncle Edmund."

Someone—and Megan thought she knew who—had made the child a miniature cavalier's dress in pink satin similar to that used for Edmund's costume. An old riding hat of Jane's, pinned up with a feather, perched atop her golden curls, and she waved a magnificent cardboard sword, painted silver, with a hilt wrapped in gold braid.

"You look splendid, darling," Megan said.

"Aunt Jane says that if I am very good she will come upstairs later and take me down so that I can peep in at the people."

"That is kind of Aunt Jane. Are you going to be very good?"

"Oh, yes. Aren't I, Rose?"

Rose grinned and rolled her eyes, but she seemed to have the situation in hand, so Megan went back to her room to dress, wondering how Jane had found time to make the little girl's costume. She had no idea what Jane planned to wear; would she really paint herself blue and swathe herself in a tablecloth, as she had threatened? It would be like Jane! Finally she gave in to her mounting curiosity and knocked on Jane's door.

"Who is it?" a voice demanded suspiciously.

"Please let me in, Jane. I am sure you must want some help in dressing."

Jane laughed. "I don't need any help. But come in if you like."

When Megan opened the door, she understood the laugh. It wasn't as bad as she had feared; Jane's rosy cheeks were not blue. But she knew Edmund would be furious.

Jane's dress was a simple cylinder of coarse wool hanging straight from the shoulder to the floor and tied around the waist with a scrap of the same fabric. The pattern was a plaid of soft brown and saffron. On her feet she wore plaited sandals. Her hair hung down in long braids. As Megan stared, she took up a brown homespun shawl and tossed it around her shoulders.

"There," she said. "An ancient British maiden, circa six hundred
a.d.
Don't stare that way, Megan. It is quite authentic. I found an engraving in a book."

"I—I don't doubt that it is an accurate copy, Jane. But I am afraid Mr. Mandeville won't be pleased with it."

"Why not? He wanted me to go as an ancestress; I am confident that my ten-times great-grandmother looked just like this. It is time I was going downstairs.
A bientot. "
Flinging one corner of the shawl over her head, with a gesture worthy of Boadicea herself, Jane swept out.

Megan hastened back to her room, not knowing whether to laugh or wring her hands. She only hoped Edmund was in a good mood and would find Jane's little joke amusing.

Her own costume was easy to put on. The close-fitting undergarment was a simple shift that laced up the front. Only the sleeves and deep flounce at the hem were meant to show, since the ivory brocade robe covered the rest of it. This garment, with its wide neckline and flowing, gored skirt, simply slipped on over the head and was fastened under the breast with the silver girdle.

Megan shook out the long sleeves and turned to look at her reflection. Unlike Jane's, her room did not have a full-length mirror; but by stepping back she could see most of her figure in the glass over her dressing table. She had already arranged her hair in the loose coils demanded by the costume. Now she covered them with the nets, pinned the latter in place, and carefully lifted the headdress from its stand.

Perching there it had a grotesque look, more like a great white moth than part of a woman's attire; but when Megan settled it on her head, and the gossamer veil floated around her shoulders, it became part of a strangely glamorous ensemble, and the figure in the mirror was transformed into a person Megan scarcely recognized. The familiar contours of her face, even the shape of the underlying bones, looked different. In a sudden panic she pressed her hands against her cheeks and was foolishly reassured by the touch of her own flesh.

The guests had already started to arrive when she came onto the landing from behind the screen that had been set up to separate the family quarters from the rest of the house. At the foot of the stairs were Edmund and Jane, and an incongruous pair they made—the elegant cavalier and the diminutive figure in homespun. Edmund's rose satin and lace made Jane's plaid shift look even worse, but Jane appeared quite composed. Smiling and nodding, she greeted the guests as they arrived; and Edmund smiled and nodded too.

Megan slipped quietly down the stairs behind them and entered the Great Hall. Fresh coats of whitewash on the ceiling emphasized the magnificent patterns of the timbered roof, with its great beams lifting from wall to wall like the ribs of a ship. The floor had been sanded and waxed till it shone like glass, the walls were hung with tapestries or draped in satin. Hundreds of candles and lamps cunningly shaped to imitate antique torches made the room bright as day. Hothouse plants in huge containers turned one corner into a charming bower, with chairs and couches for those who were not dancing. From the minstrels' gallery on the far wall came the sound of the orchestra tuning up.

The room was filling rapidly. Edmund had invited all the county families and many friends from London. There were quite a few knights in armor and ladies wearing Mary Stuart caps. The Elizabethans were also popular; Megan saw at least three women in farthingales and red wigs. The effect was dazzling—rich soft velvets and shimmering satin, the glitter of gems, the flash of lamplight on swords and silver shoe buckles—particularly after evening parties where half the participants were garbed in funereal black. But Megan was happily aware that her own costume was handsomer than any other, and that people were turning to look at her.

A touch on her arm roused her from her contemplation of the brilliant scene. When she turned, a little cry broke from her. Looming over her was the figure of a monk, all in black; his hands were hidden in his loose sleeves and his hood shadowed his face.

The monk let out a ringing laugh and threw back his hood, showing the face of Lord Henry.

"My dear Miss O'Neill, forgive me; I could not resist joining you, since we make such a striking contrast—you in white, the spirit of purity and virtue, and the Black Monk, in all his sinister menace. Purity suits you, my dear; you are very lovely tonight."

Megan saw that he had been drinking. His speech was smooth and unslurred, his movements controlled, but the unusual floridity of the compliment, and the glitter of his dark eyes, betrayed him.

"Yours is certainly an effective costume," she said.

"I chose it for that reason, and for its comfort. Look at those poor fools in armor! How they plan to trip the light fantastic in those clanking suits I cannot imagine; and before the evening is over they will feel like boiled lobsters. Speaking of dancing, Miss O'Neill, I hope you will honor me with the first waltz."