Jamintha (14 page)

How to begin? I'm not going to go into tiresome details. I've missed you dreadfully. I
worried
about you. When I received your letter, I knew I had to come, and I'm here. How I got here and so on is much too boring to relate. My first task was to find a
place
. Widow Stephens owns this snug little cottage—it's surrounded by a wild garden, on the edge of the woods between the village and Danver Hall, ideally located. I made a few inquiries and found out that the widow wanted to pay a long visit to her daughter and son-in-law who live in the next county and was quite eager to rent this place. I gave her a month's rent in advance, she turned the cottage over to me and left Danmoor immediately and
that
problem was solved.

I needed some new clothes—I brought nothing with me but the things I was wearing—so I went next to Miss Hattie's Dress Shop. Miss Hattie is a tall, bespectacled spinster, quite formidable in her black bombazine with a gold watch pinned to her bosom, but her shop is filled with perfectly glorious things, almost worthy of London. She was very suspicious of me, a stranger in town, but I told her that I was the new schoolmaster's sister and had come to get things ready for his arrival. (He's due next month sometime and
does
have a sister—Widow Stephens happened to mention it in passing.) Hattie was still dubious, but when I started picking out dresses and told her I would be paying cash for them she underwent a miraculous transformation and became all smiles, eager to help me, waiting on me as though I were a grand duchess.

I went quite mad, losing all reason as I fingered the lovely silks and soft muslins. I've never been able to resist beautiful clothes, and to be able to buy all I wanted went to my head. A glorious pink and white striped silk, a sky blue muslin printed with tiny royal blue flowers and jade green leaves, dotted swiss … I was in ecstasy, and as the purchases piled up Hattie became a close friend. As stiff and upright as her whalebone corset, she has one deplorable weakness—gossip! Her tongue is undoubtedly the longest and most active in all Danmoor, and I pumped her shamelessly.

I learned a great deal about Danver Hall and its inhabitants—Hattie was a veritable storehouse of information. After she had given me a complete run-down on the characters of Charles Danver, his son and his housekeeper, she mentioned the lights in the west wing and told me about the accident that happened eleven years ago.
Some
folks believe it wasn't an accident at all, she assured me, eyes wide with horror, though no one would dare come right out and say so. As she was wrapping my purchases, she mentioned you. She remembers you as a child, so pert and sassy, and now you have come back and
already
there's been another accident. The whole village knows that you stumbled and fell in the ruins, apparently, and Miss Hattie for one thinks it's mighty
peculiar
.

As there were far too many packages to carry, I took two boxes with me and left the rest for Miss Hattie to send to the cottage. It was after four o'clock when I left the shop, a glorious day with an invigorating tang in the air. I walked past the soot-stained buildings, fully aware that people were staring and not in the least disturbed. The skirt of my yellow silk dress blew against my legs, belling out behind, and the wind made my hair toss and tumble. I felt full of life, charged with energy, eager to start my investigations.

He stepped directly in front of me, blocking my way.

“Haven't I met you somewhere before?” he said. Those magnificent blue eyes stared at me with shattering intensity, sending a message I couldn't help but receive.

“I'm afraid not,” I replied blithely.

“You look familiar—somehow I feel I've met you.”

“That isn't likely,” I said. “I've only just arrived in Danmoor. I'm the schoolmaster's sister, come to make things ready for him.”

“You're all alone?”

“My brother will be joining me sometime next month.”

“Where are you staying?”

“I don't think that need concern you, Sir. Please step aside. You're blocking my way.”

He took the boxes out of my arms, completely ignoring my comment. He held them under one arm, brushing black locks from his forehead with his free hand. His eyes were like smouldering blue fire, his mouth tight. I knew immediately that he desired me, and I knew the advantage that gave me.

“I'll carry them for you,” he said. His voice was husky, very low, and he expected me to melt. He
is
quite seductive, but then I'm no wide-eyed village maiden. I smiled, amused by his arrogance and his assumption that I would fall right in with his scheme.

“Very well,” I said. “It's a long walk. I'm staying at Widow Stephens' cottage on the edge of town. I hope you're up to it.”

As we walked along the pavement, he was silent, impatient to reach our destination. I laughed inside, knowing what he expected, knowing how disappointed he was going to be. Men like Brence Danver think they have merely to snap their fingers to have any woman they want, and it was high time he had a lesson. We walked under the oak trees, leaves making dancing shadows at our feet, and he was perspiring a little, tense, anticipating.

“Here's the cottage,” I said, opening the gate. “I'll take the boxes now, Mr. Danver.”

“How did you know my name?”

“I've only been here a short while, but I've already heard about you, Sir. I was
warned
about you, in fact.”

“But you let me carry your packages,” he said, grinning. He was all masculine charm, self-assured, confident of his conquest.

“You were very insistent,” I replied.

“And now?”

“And now I'll say good-bye, Mr. Danver.”

I took the boxes from him and stepped through the gate, closing it between us. He looked stunned, then angry. His face darkened, brows lowered in a scowl. He wrapped his hands around the gateposts, looking as though he wanted to throttle me.

“Did you really think it would be that easy?” I inquired lightly.

“What do you mean?”

“You know very well what I mean. Do you take me for a prostitute, or have you merely been spoiled by the wrong kind of women?” “I thought—that look in your eye—”

“I know what you thought. You're quite mistaken.”

“You're not going to ask me in?”

“That would hardly be proper, Mr. Danver.”

I gave him a polite smile and went inside. Setting the boxes down on the hall table, I lifted the window curtain and peered outside. Brence was still standing at the white picket gate, his hands gripping the posts. The angry expression had been replaced by one of amazed disappointment, and he looked like a bewildered little boy who has had a shiny toy snatched out of his hands. I laughed softly and let the curtain fall back in place. Brence Danver was going to have a restless evening, and he was going to do quite a lot of thinking about the schoolmaster's sister.

He came the next afternoon with a bouquet of flowers. I refused them, and I refused to let him in. On the following day he came again, bearing another bouquet. I took the flowers, thanked him politely and closed the door on him. He looked miserable. Things were going exactly as planned. On the third day I greeted him amiably and ushered him into the small, over-crowded parlor with its brass fire screen and crocheted doilies.

“Won't you sit down, Mr. Danver,” I said, gesturing toward the stiff horsehair sofa.

He sat, spreading his palms over his knees and looking immensely uncomfortable. He wore a dark gray suit with a sapphire blue waistcoat, his white linen shirtfront ruffled. His boots were highly glossed, the black leather silvery, and his hair was neatly combed, only slightly disarrayed by the wind. I served tea and sat down across from him, an ultra-respectable young Victorian maiden entertaining a gentleman caller with perfect poise. An invisible chaperone seemed to be sitting in the parlor with us. Brence held his tea cup awkwardly, completely out of his element.

“I want to thank you again for the flowers,” I said. “They're lovely.”

“Uh, sure—” he muttered.

For the next half hour I engaged him in the most trivial conversation, playing my role to the hilt. The poor man was totally at sea, not knowing what to say or do. The arrogance was gone, and he was no longer confident. He wanted to flee, yet he stayed. He had to stay. In my new muslin dress I had never looked lovelier, and it was no accident. He was fascinated, as I had meant for him to be, and he endured the trivial chatter, devouring me with his eyes.

“I must ask you to leave now, Mr. Danver,” I said after a while.

“I'll call on you again tomorrow.”

“Wouldn't that be a waste of your time?” I asked lightly.

“I'll be here tomorrow,” he said brusquely.

I've no doubt he went immediately to a pub and got roaring drunk. He had never met anyone quite like the schoolmaster's sister, and he didn't know how to react. The accomplished lady killer was gone. The wild young rakehell who plundered female hearts and rode his black stallion over the moors was as putty in my hands. He came to call the next afternoon, and the next, awkward, ill at ease, unable to stay away, and I took a certain satisfaction in tormenting him. He was sulky and irritable, yet he never got out of hand, not during those first three visits.

On the fourth afternoon he was in a thunderous mood, all the violence in his nature welling up. There was something on his mind, and he seemed about to explode. I greeted him politely and let him into the parlor. He refused to sit. He stalked about the room, for all the world like a caged panther. I poured the tea and handed it to him. He stared down at the cup and saucer in his hand and then hurled them into the fireplace. The china shattered into a dozen pieces.

“Mr. Danver!” I protested.

“Where were you last night?” His voice was low, and there was an undeniable menace in his tone.

“I—I really don't think that's any of your business.”

He stared at me, his handsome face granite hard. His eyes gleamed with dark blue fury, and I could see that he was fighting to control himself. I had planned this, had deliberately brought him to this point, yet I couldn't help but feel a tremor of alarm. He is a man of tumultuous passions, ruled by those passions, caution and restraint unknown. One senses a barely repressed savagery even when he is in repose, and now that he was angry he was formidable indeed.

“I came last night,” he said. “I couldn't stay away. You've driven me out of my mind—you know that! I had to see you. I pounded on the door. No one answered. I waited. For over two hours I waited! Where were you? I intend to find out!”

I didn't answer. He seized my arms, his fingers digging painfully into the flesh.

“Tell me! If there's another man—by God, if there's another man I'll kill him!”

“There is no other man, Brence.”

“This game we've been playing—”

“You're hurting me. You have no right to—”

“I'm in love with you! Can't you see that!”

He released me and dropped onto the sofa, all the spirit suddenly gone out of him. He looked exhausted and abject and thoroughly miserable. Dark locks spilled over his forehead. I brushed them back and rested my palm on his cheek. He scowled and jerked his head back, refusing to look up at me. He stared at the carpet, his shoulders hunched, the corners of his mouth turned down.

“I haven't been able to sleep. I haven't been able to eat. No woman has ever done this to me before! I can't concentrate. I can't do anything but think of you. I've gone through hell this past week. I can't take much more of this. I don't
intend
to take much more of it! I don't know what you've done to me, but—” He cut himself short and looked up at me with passionate blue eyes.

“Yes?” I said quietly.

He started to say something but frowned and shook his head, the picture of frustration. I almost felt sorry for him then. Men are really simple creatures, Jane, for all their bravado and bluster. The strongest, the boldest of them can be easily manipulated by any woman who knows how to go about it, and Brence Danver is essentially a deplorably spoiled little boy who has been accustomed to having his way all his life. Stripped of his confidence, the swagger gone, he looked forlorn and almost pathetic as he sat there on the sofa.

“You've bewitched me,” he said miserably.

“Have I?”

“You did it deliberately. To punish me.”

“Perhaps.”

“I know I made an ass of myself that first day. I thought—there was something in your eye—”

“Perhaps there was.”

“This past week—this damned parlor—”

“Have you suffered so very much?”

“Don't mock me!” he yelled.

“You expected me to act like one of your barmaids?”

“I don't know
what
I expected!”

“No?”

“Look, I'm sorry.”

I had to smile then. I couldn't restrain myself. I stepped over to the window and peered out at the garden, savoring my victory. Brence sighed heavily and stood up. For a moment I thought that he was going to leave, and then he took my arm and turned me around to face him. He had to grope for words. What he said didn't come easily.

“I've never courted a girl. I've never made small talk and exchanged pleasantries and paid subtle compliments. Hell, those flowers I brought you were the first flowers I ever gave anyone! I'm impatient and irresponsible and hot-tempered, and sometimes it isn't easy to control myself, but—you're going to be my girl, Jamintha.”

“Am I?”

He nodded briskly, his expression stern. Men have great egos, particularly handsome men, and they must believe they have the upper hand. A woman must allow them to think so. His pride had been wounded, but he had recovered himself now, once more the masterful male. It was the only role he knew, and I let him play it.