Black Rainbow (7 page)

The most important of the guests were not among this group. The Astleys were Edmund's particular friends; it was at their London home that he had recuperated from his injuries. Lord Henry had also been wounded, though not so severely. They had met on the ship that brought them home and had struck up a friendship that had strengthened during the weeks in London. The Astleys' country estate was in the neighboring county, but not far distant. Edmund had come from there on the final stage of his homeward journey.

Lina was not inclined to take a nap after luncheon. Excitement had rendered her quite unmanageable; she wanted to go downstairs and be with Uncle Edmund, see the ladies and their pretty clothes, show the gentlemen how well she spoke French. The fact that Megan sympathized wholeheartedly with Lina's frustration did not make it any easier to deal with. Finally she gave in.

"You cannot go downstairs; but if you will be very quiet and not make a sound, we will sit at my window and watch for the other guests. We will have a fine view, all the way down the drive and to the top of the hill."

Lina consented to accept this compromise, which was more than she had expected, and the two settled on the window seat, Megan with her sewing and Lina with her doll. The hours wore on without the event they awaited, and finally Lina fell asleep, her flushed cheek resting on the doll's stuffed body. Megan was tempted to follow suit; she was
half dozing, her head against the window frame, when she heard the sound of horses' hooves.

Rubbing sleepy eyes, she leaned forward. She was surprised to see, not the carriage she had expected, but two riders on horseback. At first they were only distant shapes, without definition. Then the horses broke into a gallop. They came flying down the drive side by side and stopped, gravel spurting up under their hooves, with the precision of a trained circus act.

Edmund had said that Lord Henry was approximately his age. This man looked older, his face prematurely lined and sallow. His features were not unhandsome; the smile he exchanged with his companion showed even white teeth and lifted the lines around his mouth into a semblance of good humor.

After one quick look at Lord Henry, Megan's full attention focused on the lady; and as she stared, a hard, aching lump formed inside her and swelled until it filled her entire body.

Her hair glowed like polished mahogany in the mellow sunlight of late afternoon. Her tall, shapely form looked magnificent in riding dress—which, Megan thought spitefully, was probably why she had chosen to ride instead of sitting sedately in the carriage which now appeared, carrying the luggage. Her gown was a rich golden brown, with a hat of the same shade, turned up dashingly on one side and pinned with emerald plumes. Her smile had the same reckless curve and showed the same white flashing teeth as the smile of the gentleman at her side. The family resemblance was unmistakable.

"I should have known," Megan thought. "But I didn't want to know."

Lord Henry and Lady Georgina Astley—not husband and wife, but brother and sister. Edmund had always spoken of them by their first names—prefaced, naturally, by their titles—and that in itself should have proclaimed the truth. Children of peers of the higher ranks held the courtesy titles
of Lord and Lady. But Lord Henry's wife would be Lady Henry, not Lady Georgina. Lady Georgina would retain her title even if she married a commoner. Mr. Edmund and Lady Georgina Mandeville. . . .

This was the woman Edmund wanted to marry. Megan knew it the moment she laid eyes on her, with the unreasoning certainty of jealousy.

Her dashing arrival apparently unobserved, the lady's green eyes narrowed. Before the frown could materialize, the front door opened and Edmund came running out.

"There you are at last! We have been expecting you the entire day."

Lord Henry raised his whip in a careless greeting. Lady Georgina, upon whom Edmund's eyes were fixed, responded, "It was too fine a day to sit stupidly in a jouncing carriage. And then, after all, to have our splendid performance ignored! For shame, Edmund; you ought to have been at the door watching for us."

Her voice was her least attractive feature, at once strident and slurred. She drawled the words—Megan thought—in an affected manner. But Edmund appeared to find words and voice delightful.

"I did see you, from the drawing-room window. It was wonderful! You have been practicing."

"Of course." Lady Georgina slid down into the arms Edmund had raised to assist her. "I am dying of thirst," she added. "What sort of host are you, Edmund, to keep me standing here?"

She was almost as tall as Edmund. His hands resting lightly on her waist to steady her, Edmund gave her a look of such glowing possessive pride that Megan involuntarily closed her eyes.

She heard the three enter the house, followed by the bustle of servants dealing with the horses and the luggage. Edmund's face burned against the darkness like a candle flame looked at too long—like the image of the Virgin at St. Pierre des Roches, where her father had once "taken a
holiday" to escape his creditors. A small, rather ugly village in Brittany, St. Pierre was the goal of hundreds of pilgrims yearly because of its miracle-working statue. Its paint reverently renewed, glittering with gems presented by grateful petitioners, the image shone in the glow of the candles around its feet as if illumined from within. How often had she knelt on the hard wooden floor, half mesmerized by the dusky dimness and the droning litany, and stared unwinkingly at the golden crown and blue cloak, the plump, fatuously smiling face and jewel-studded gown. She had found that if she stared long enough before closing her aching eyes, she could recall a miniature image of the statue. And if, before the bright shape faded, she could say three Hail Marys and an Our Father, the Holy Mother would grant her prayer.

It was one of those childish fancies that had never been rudely shattered because it had never been mentioned to anyone, based on some now-forgotten coincidental success —a pair of new slippers with silver bows, or even cherry tart for supper. Megan had not thought of the Virgin of St. Pierre des Roches for years; and if she had remembered her innocent fantasy, she would have laughed at it. She did not remember. She did not know why her lips began the graceful words of praise and stopped moving before the first phrase was finished. She only knew she had never wanted anything so much as she wanted Edmund Mandeville.

As she sat in self-imposed darkness, a strange feeling began to creep along her veins, as if some alien substance were replacing the normal flow of blood. It spread slowly through her body, moving from her extremities inward toward her heart, warming, strengthening, stiffening every fiber.

"No," she said aloud—though there was no one else in the room except the sleeping child. "No. I won't give him up. She shan't have him. Not without a fight."

"Miss Megan?"

Megan opened her eyes. Lina was awake. Curled up
among the cushions, the child was watching her with wide, frightened eyes.

"I'm afraid you missed the guests," Megan said. "Did you have a good sleep?"

"You were talking to someone," the child whispered. "Who were you talking to, Miss Megan?"

"Why, no one," Megan said with a smile. "Don't you see? You and I are the only ones here."

Megan left Lina to the ministrations of the nursemaid and went to make her own toilette. She chose a gown she owed to Jane's thoughtfulness. There had been a run of a new fabric at the mill, a blend of wool and silk that was the result of several years' experimentation. Jane had had several dresses made of it; she wanted to tests its durability and usefulness. Light as the finest cashmere, with a soft sheen, it draped beautifully over the crinolines and layers of petticoats then in style. The color Jane had chosen for Megan was the soft blue that became her best. The design was simple, in no way comparable to the evening frocks the ladies would be wearing, but at least it was new. Megan's
wardrobe held nothing that could compete with Lady Georgina's elaborate gowns; she could only hope not to appear shabby.

In fact, there was no way in which she could compete with her rival. She was like a savage going into battle against cavalry and modern weapons—like one of the remote ancestors of whom her father had told her, ragged, bare-legged men in saffron tunics, fighting armored English knights. No matter. Like them, she would go down fighting.

Excitement gave her cheeks a becoming rosy flush. She clasped the necklace Edmund had given her around her neck and with a steady hand put the earrings in place.

She returned to Lina's room to find the place in chaos. Every frock the child owned was strewn on the bed or the floor, and Lina was sitting in the middle of the hearth rug howling with rage, while Rose, the nurserymaid, stared helplessly at her.

"She says she's got nothing to wear," Rose reported. And then, because she was a good-natured girl, and genuinely fond of her little charge, she began to laugh. "Look at them frocks, miss. A regular snowstorm of 'em."

"Never mind, I'll take care of it," Megan said. "Lina, you will get your face all red and swollen crying like that; and then what will the company think of you?"

Lina stopped in mid-shriek. Megan picked up one of the least rumpled dresses and shook it out. "Put away the rest," she directed Rose.

She managed to keep Lina distracted until the summons came. Then she took the child's hand and they started downstairs.

From behind the closed doors of the dining room she heard the murmur of conversation, broken now and then by loud masculine laughter. One voice boomed out over all the rest, and Megan caught a few words that sent the blood flooding into her face. Gentlemen did tell stories of that sort over their port, but she had never expected to hear such language at Grayhaven.

Hurrying past the door, she crossed the hall to the drawing room. Here the conversation was dominated by Lady Georgina's drawling voice. She broke off in the middle of a story about a misadventure on the hunting field—not hers —and fixed the newcomers with a curious stare.

"So this is the child. Quite a striking resemblance to her —er—guardian."

The malicious suggestion came as no surprise to Megan; she had already begun to suspect that Edmund might be Lina's father. It was very wrong of him, of course. But gentlemen had those inclinations, especially when they were young and high-spirited. The girl had probably led him on. And how good, how noble of him, to give the poor nameless little creature a home and an affectionate family.

Such things happened—but to refer to them was tasteless in the extreme. Megan frowned at Lady Georgina, who was happily oblivious of her disapproval. Jane said coldly, "Her papa was a distant cousin, your ladyship."

Her tone was so harsh, so unlike her normal speaking voice, that Megan looked at her in surprise. Jane wore her usual dove-gray; this gown, made of the new fabric, set off her neat little figure but made her look like a prim maiden aunt. Her face was anything but demure. Her cheeks were red as poppies, her mouth a tight slit. She was obviously furious about something, and Megan doubted that even Lady Georgina's rude remark could inspire such a passion of anger.

Jane's eyes softened as they met Megan's. In a milder voice she performed the introductions. Mrs. Morton and Lady Denbigh nodded with the distant affability Megan's position deserved, but Lady Georgina did not so much as look at her. She continued to stare at Lina, and the child retreated behind Megan's skirts, her finger in her mouth.

Megan took a chair near Jane, lifting the little girl onto her lap. Neither of the other ladies would have spoken so openly nor stared so rudely, but the glances they exchanged, and their little smiles, were just as meaningful. Protectively
Megan held the child close. They were still in that position when the gentlemen came in; Edmund smiled at them, as if he appreciated the pretty picture they made.

"See, here is Uncle Edmund," Megan murmured. "Show him how you have missed him all day."

Edmund had become the child's new idol; with the fickleness of youth she had demoted her former favorites. Tumbling off Megan's lap in a whirl of ruffles, she ran to Edmund, who picked her up and tossed her into the air.

One of the men was unfamiliar to Megan. She concluded he must have arrived late in the day, after she and Lina had left the window. Tall and bony, with sparse gray hair and a long, lined face, he came into the room with the shambling gait of a large monkey, and his hands, thickly covered with coarse graying hair, intensified the simian look. Megan did not doubt this was the teller of vulgar after-dinner stories, and his appearance matched so well with a description Jane had once given her that she suspected his identity even before Edmund's introduction confirmed it. George Belts— Jane's despised suitor, who wanted the mill. No wonder Jane was in a rage!

Edmund carried Lina to Lady Georgina and put her on the latter's knee, where she perched like a small ruffled bird on a cold branch. Lady Georgina's expression was one of poorly veiled repulsion. Lina's finger crept back into her mouth.

The gentlemen found chairs, except for Lord Henry, who remained standing by the door, fingering his whiskers as he stared at Megan. She had seen such bold looks before; they often signified trouble to come. Feeling confident that in this house she need not fear insult, she met Lord Henry's look with one as direct, frowning slightly. His brows lifted and he snapped his fingers, so that all the others turned to look at him.

"O'Neill," he exclaimed. "Kevin O'Neill's girl."

"You forget yourself, Lord Henry." Jane's cool voice was the first to break the silence.