Black Rainbow (8 page)

"No harm intended, Miss Mandeville, I assure you. I
thought she looked familiar, and just now it all came together. I knew your father well, Miss O'Neill. In fact, I seem to recall dandling you on my knee when you were a tiny thing."

"O'Neill?" Mrs. Morton repeated the name, her voice greedily curious.

"Connacht's youngest. Best fellow in the world." Lord Henry took the chair beside Megan and added, in a lower tone, "I was sorry to hear of his death, Miss O'Neill. Please accept my sincere, if belated, condolences."

Megan decided she had misjudged Lord Henry. His sister might be a rude snob, but he had lovely manners. The disclosure of her parentage had unquestionably raised her status; she could tell from the subtle way the expressions of the others had changed. Only Jane appeared unmoved.

"Miss O'Neill seems not to remember the acquaintance," she said.

"Oh, it was years ago," Lord Henry said pleasantly. "I will not admit how many years; but you see what an old dog I am, Miss Mandeville. Edmund denies it, he refuses to give me the respect owed to age and experience."

Edmund made a joking reply and the conversation became general. Megan, hands folded demurely, spoke only when directly addressed. Things were going well. Lord Henry's recognition was a bonus she had not expected—proof that some force was fighting on her side? Well, she was not so superstitious as that; but it would do no harm to say an extra rosary that night.

Lina had forsaken Lady Georgina, to the latter's undisguised relief. She had gotten over her shyness and was chattering to the other ladies in a blend of French and English. Edmund and Lady Georgina had their heads together; it was hard for Megan to make out what they were saying, but once, in a lull in the general conversation, she heard Lady Georgina say, "No, that will not do at all; it would be simpler to tear down the entire wing and rebuild." So they were
talking about Edmund's plans for the house. Jane heard, too, and shot a resentful glance at the speaker.

Jane's angry color had subsided as she talked with Lord Henry. She ignored Belts as thoroughly as possible; his initial overtures having been rejected, he had joined the other gentlemen and, against all the dictates of polite behavior, they were talking business. There was no question about the subject of the conversation, for Belts's resounding voice could be heard all over the room. His comments were as boring as they were unsuitable to the occasion, concerned as they were with his own cleverness in cutting costs and raising production. Finally he paused for breath and one of the other men was able to insert a comment—something about labor regulations.

"Man, don't talk to me about the domned government," Belts cried. "Great hectoring nowts, trying to tell a mon how to run his business. But I know how to deal wi' 'em; ay, I'se sent mony a fule inspector packing with a flea in his ear and a few banknotes in his pocket."

Jane's lip curled as she listened. Observing that he had lost her attention, Lord Henry took advantage of another break in Belts's tirade to say lazily, "I believe your mill was one of those cited in the last report of the Commission on Child Labor, was it not, Mr. Belts?"

The question did not embarrass Belts, as it was meant to do. "Ay, it was," he replied with a coarse laugh. "And much good it did the interfering scoundrels. To be sure, I had to dress the place up a bit when the inspectors came, but it didn't cost too dear, and once they'd gone we was back to our old ways."

The rest of the company had fallen silent. Lady Georgina raised a hand to her lips, to cover a smile or a yawn.

"We are boring the ladies, Belts," Edmund said with an uneasy laugh. "We agreed to leave business at the table."

"Mr. Belts has no other topic of conversation," said Jane. "Perhaps he has some diverting tales to tell about the children who work from dawn till dark in his establishment, and how much he pays the floggers who whip them when they drowse over the looms."

The two ladies on the couch gasped in unison. They seemed more shocked by Jane's reference to such cruelties than by Belts's commission of them. The icy hatred in Jane's voice made a slight dent in Belts's armor of complacency; with what he obviously believed to be a conciliatory manner, he exclaimed, "Now, Miss Jane, ye dasn't believe all the rubbishy tales ye hear. Them childern is in my debt and they know it. Mostly they's the sole support of t' family. They'd starve without the wages I pay 'em, no doubt o' that."

Lord Henry made another valiant attempt to rescue the conversation. "Mr. Belts, I am as bored as the ladies. Perhaps one of them would favor us with a little music, to sweeten the evening."

Belts was not so easily distracted. He suffered from the delusion common to all boors, that his viewpoint was the only right one and that repetition in a loud-enough voice would eventually convince his hearers.

"Ay, ay, music is well enough, but Miss Jane mun get over her fancies. Just look at how she's run your mill, Mandeville; she's a contriving lass, for a female, but females has no place in business. That mill suld be fetching five times the brass. Happen it'll be different when I take it on."

Edmund sprang to his feet. Jane followed suit, more slowly. Her face was as gray as her dress. The others looked on in bewilderment. The attitudes of brother and sister, betraying guilty consternation on one side and horrified shock on the other, indicated that something appalling had occurred, but no one fully comprehended why Belts's statement had produced such a reaction. Megan understood better than the others. Her heart went out to Jane.

For the first time Jane addressed Belts directly.

"Say that again."

"This is not the time or the place," Edmund exclaimed. "Belts, you assured me—"

"What's the odds, 'twill come out soon enough," Belts said blandly. "Don't worry your head, Miss Jane; I'm giving a good price, enough to buy all the pretties and fripperies a lass's heart desires."

Jane flinched as if she had been struck a blow in the face. She looked so ghastly that Megan hastened to her side. Jane pushed her helping hand away.

"You shall not have it," she said. "I won't give it up. Not without a fight." Her head high, she walked out of the room.

Belts chuckled. "She's a sperrited little thing, an't she? I like a lass who stands up to me."

The awkward silence was broken by Lord Henry. "Curse it, Belts, I refuse to allow you to ruin the entire evening. Not another word out of you. Edmund—to the instrument, sir, at once! Georgina, you sing loudly enough to drown out even Mr. Belts. Or perhaps Miss O'Neill will favor us."

Edmund stood staring with a hangdog expression at the door through which his sister had exited. Megan almost disliked him at that moment.

"I think, if Mr. Mandeville agrees, that I should take Lina upstairs," she said quietly. "It is past her bedtime by a great deal."

Edmund started. "Oh—yes. Thank you, Miss O'Neill."

He picked up the child and handed her over. For a moment, while Lina's body shielded him from other eyes, Megan saw his true feelings, and her anger evaporated. He was genuinely sorry. It wasn't his fault that Belts behaved like a boor.

A
S
soon
as she had delivered Lina to Rose, Megan went to Jane's door and knocked. There was no verbal reply, but after a long interval the door opened.

She had expected to find Jane prostrate, in a flood of
tears, responsive to sympathetic murmurs and pats on the shoulder. The stony, controlled face that confronted her left her at a loss for words.

After a moment Jane said, "You had better come in. I owe you an apology for making a scene."

It was typical of Jane that she should apologize, instead of trying to justify her behavior. Megan followed her into the room and closed the door.

"You owe me nothing of the sort. And I'm sure the other ladies understand—"

"No, they don't. They think me ill-mannered and odd. I don't give a curse what they think anyway. They are empty-headed fashion plates, and their husbands are just as stupid. Where did Edmund find such friends? What does he see in them?"

Megan was spared the necessity of replying. Jane went on, with growing passion, "I could put up with them. But George Belts! How could Edmund do it? I don't wonder he refused to tell me the names of his guests."

"He thought you would refuse to receive Mr. Belts?" Megan asked.

Jane began pacing up and down the room, her hands clasped behind her, as was her habit when agitated or deep in thought. "He knows how I feel about Belts. I was quite explicit. I suppose he took it for granted that I would behave like a lady when I found myself faced with a
fait accompli.
Well, he found out, didn't he?"

"Perhaps Mr. Mandeville does not fully comprehend how distasteful the admiration of such a man can be to a woman of sensibility. If you explained—"

"You aren't a fool, Megan; please don't talk like one. You know why I am upset."

"I know, but I don't really understand," Megan admitted. "Of course you are proud of your management of the mill; you have every right to be. But I should think it would be a relief to you to give up the responsibilities you have
shouldered for so long. After you marry, which you surely will do one day—"

"I will confine my activities to breeding and embroidery, as a woman should?"

A trifle shocked, Megan nodded. Jane's rapid pace slowed. She looked thoughtful.

"Do you know, I never thought of that eventuality. Strange, isn't it, when marriage is the sole ambition of most proper young ladies?

"But that isn't the point. Selling the mill would be bad enough; it is a family concern, and my father hoped it would remain so. But selling to a man like Belts! You heard him— can't you see what would happen to the place if he owned it?"

"He does not sound like the most ethical of employers," Megan said cautiously.

"He doesn't know the meaning of the word. Megan, there is not a worker in our mill that I don't know by name. I played with many of them when we were children. I have been in their homes. Handing them over to the tender mercies of George Belts would be like selling my children to Arab slavers."

Privately Megan thought Jane was dramatizing the situation just a little. She knew about the abuses Jane feared; they were shocking, certainly, but surely by now the worst had been corrected. And people must work for a living. No one knew better than she that life was hard, except for a favored few.

Realizing that her pragmatic views would not be well received, she contented herself with gazing sympathetically at Jane and shaking her head in silent commiseration.

Jane walked more slowly. The exercise seemed to calm her; presently she said in a less passionate voice, "Thank you for listening to me rave, Megan. It has done me good and I am grateful—all the more so because you really don't understand why I feel the way I do. You had better go to bed
now. Find a nice, calming book and read yourself to sleep."

Obediently Megan went to the door. Her hand was on the knob when Jane said suddenly, "It is her fault. Curse the woman! He would never have had the idea of selling if she had not put it into his mind."

Megan did not turn, or reply. Jane was not speaking to her; she was thinking aloud, scarcely aware that there was another person present.

"I know their sort," Jane muttered. "She and her profligate brother—having squandered their fortune, they have fixed on Edmund to supply them with another. She would not be content with a steady, respectable income, not she. . . . And I know the kind of persuasion she employs. 'Trade is so degrading! A gentleman should have nothing to do with countinghouses and dirty machines. . . .' I won't allow it. I must do something. But what? What can I do to prevent an alliance that will destroy everything I hold dear?"

The answer was on the tip of Megan's tongue, but she knew better than to speak. Turning the knob, she slipped quietly out of the room.

Once in her own chamber, she flung herself into a chair by the fire and tried to collect her thoughts. What an evening it had been—one surprise following another. Had Edmund told Jane of his intention to marry Lady Georgina? Was there a formal engagement?

Megan thought not. Anyone who loved Edmund could read his hopes and intentions in his manner. Jane was a shrewd little person, though; Megan did not doubt that her evaluation of the situation was accurate. If Lady Georgina refused to consider Edmund's proposal unless he consented to sell the mill, then she, Megan, was completely on Jane's side in opposing the sale. Not that there was anything she could do about it—except make it plain that there was one woman who did not consider trade, or anything else, demeaning to Edmund Mandeville.

She jumped to her feet and paced up and down, as rapidly as Jane had paced, becoming more and more agitated as she
tried to think how she could turn this new development to her advantage. Finally she was forced to conclude that she was too tired to think logically and too excited to sleep. I will take Jane's advice, she thought, and find a nice soothing book. No Gothic horrors tonight—a book of sermons, perhaps, or one of the duller Roman philosophers.