Jamintha (15 page)

“What are your intentions?” I asked.

“I—” He frowned, confused.

“I've already compromised myself by letting you come here. Everyone in Danmoor knows about it. Miss Hattie is appalled. When I went to the dress shop yesterday she was stiff with disapproval.”

“To hell with Miss Hattie,” he said sullenly.

“I'll permit you to see me in the afternoons,” I told him.

“I'll see you whenever I like!”

“In the afternoons,” I repeated calmly. “You will be proper and respectful. Later on, I may allow you to take me to the fair. I understand there's to be a dance. I might enjoy that.”

He scowled again, wanting to argue but not quite sure enough of his position to dictate terms just yet. Brows lowered, blue eyes dark, mouth set in a firm line, he stared at me.

“There'll be no other men,” he warned.

“Just you,” I said pleasantly.

“Just me, and don't you forget it!”

When he left the cottage in a stormy mood, I was completely satisfied with the way things had gone. He might rage and protest and lash out, but I knew I could control him. Brence Danver is experiencing an entirely new emotion, and he's helpless before it. You may think it's wicked of me to treat him this way, Jane, but he deserves any anguish he might feel. I'm using him, true, but I can't really bring myself to feel much sympathy for a man who has so heartlessly used so many women in the past.

I've been seeing him for two weeks now. It's an open scandal in Danmoor. Respectable women shun me when I'm walking along the street, and Miss Hattie has told me to take my business elsewhere. I find it rather amusing and, yes, exciting. There's not a one of them who wouldn't secretly like to change places with me. They think I'm a brazen hussy and are certain we are having a raging illicit affair. I won't say Brence hasn't
tried
to instigate one, but so far I'm as pure as the proverbial driven snow, if somewhat shaken. He's a very exciting man, and there have been one or two occasions when … but I don't want to shock you, dear, prim Jane. You're probably as appalled as Miss Hattie. Just remember that I'm doing this for you.

Handling a man is an extremely delicate job, particularly when the man is as volatile and touchy as Brence Danver. The first round was mine, but I realized I would have to tread softly. There could be no more trivial chatter over tea, no more invisible chaperone and stilted decorum. (I was as tired of the stuffy parlor as Brence was, actually, but it had served its purpose.) He is infatuated, madly infatuated, but that soon gives way to boredom or disgust if a woman doesn't play her cards just right. She needn't allow
liberties
, but there must be an air of subtle promise, an atmosphere of intimacy. She must, in short, keep him interested.

On Tuesday, I suggested a picnic in the woods beyond the cottage, and when he came on Wednesday I met him at the door with a yellow straw hamper packed with food. Brence took it, and we were soon strolling beneath the trees, limbs groaning overhead, the path carpeted with yellow and bronze and dark gold leaves that crackled underfoot. I felt glorious, intoxicated by the crisp clear air scented with autumn and the brilliant sunlight that streamed down in sparkling rays. I was carefree and blithe, attuned to woodland sounds and woodland smells and savoring them all. Brence was silent and moody, lugging the hamper under one arm and glaring at the birds who warbled so lustily at our approach.

“Where're we going?” he asked grumpily. “This thing's heavy.”

“I have a spot all picked out. A beautiful clearing.”

Brence groaned and shifted the hamper under his arm. Taking a childish pleasure in the outing, I laughed merrily, the sound echoing through the woods. I was wearing the yellow dress, my long chestnut curls tumbling, and I knew the exhilaration I felt gave me a radiant sparkle. Brence plodded along, angrily crushing twigs and leaves beneath his boots. Although it was cool, he was perspiring a bit and his white cambric shirt clung to his back and shoulders.

The clearing was carpeted with short brown grass, autumn leaves scattered about, and there was an ancient gray stump. Brence set the hamper down on the stump and stood back looking helpless and bored while I spread out a checked tablecloth. A cloud of white and yellow butterflies swarmed in the air, hovering like scraps of silk for a moment and then disappearing. Taking the food out, I sat down and spread my skirt. Brence stood with his hands on his thighs, frowning.

“Don't you like picnics?” I teased.

“I've never been on one before,” he said gruffly.

“Not even as a boy?”

“Not even as a boy,” he retorted.

He was surly and uncommunicative while we ate, leaning back against the stump with a moody look in his eyes. Brence is a terribly unhappy person, Jane, and I sensed that the source of this unhappiness goes back to his childhood. I gradually coaxed him into talking about himself—there are few things a man enjoys more—and he described a miserable, rebellious childhood and a rugged adolescence marked by one scrape after another. He talked about his father, his voice full of bitterness. I think the conflict between them goes much deeper than Brence's refusal to take any interest in the mill.

I gradually brought the conversation around to your parents' accident. He grew guarded, clearly reluctant to discuss it.

“Weren't you there the night it happened?” I asked casually.

He nodded grimly. “My father and I had come to visit Uncle George. We had been staying at Danver Hall for three weeks. That night—I was fifteen years old—I'd met a girl in the village, I'd slipped out to meet her. When I returned to the house—”

“Yes?” I prompted.

“I was walking back. I heard a rumbling noise. I saw the roof of the west wing caving in. The walls shook and vibrated and held for a moment, and then they crashed. Stones flew everywhere. There was dust and flashes of red and—” He paused, his face suddenly hard. “And then the dust settled and there was nothing but a great gaping ruin where the west wing had been.”

“It must have been a dreadful sight,” I said quietly. “Your aunt and uncle—”

“It took them two weeks to find the bodies under the rubble,” he said in a flat voice. “No one ever understood what they were
doing
in the west wing that night. It was empty, unused. There wasn't even any furniture in the rooms.”

“Was your father at the house that night?”

“He was there.”

Those three words sounded ominous. I had the feeling that the fifteen-year-old boy had seen something else, something he carefully omitted from his narrative. He grew silent and uncommunicative again, picking up a stick and breaking it into tiny pieces. I saw that it would be useless to ask him any further questions at the time. A brisk wind stirred through the woods. I began to put the things back into the hamper, and. Brence didn't stir. He lolled there against the stump like a sullen pasha, incredibly handsome with feathery black locks blowing across his forehead. He was still thinking about that night eleven years ago.

“I understand your cousin has come back to Danver Hall after all these years,” I said lightly, folding up the tablecloth and putting it on top of the hamper.

“She's back,” he said tersely.

“You don't sound pleased about it,” I remarked.

“She shouldn't be there.”

“No?”

“My father had no business sending for her.”

“They say there's been another accident. She was supposed to have been wandering in the west wing one night and—”

“Yes, there's been another accident,” he said testily, interrupting me. “I don't care to discuss it.” He climbed to his feet, hurling the remains of the stick across the grass. “Let's get out of this damned place!”

I was eager to get rid of him that afternoon, eager to think about all I had learned, but he was unusually persistent, demanding to stay a little longer, hoping I wouldn't turn him out at six. I tried to be charming and light, but firm, and he exploded into a rage, protesting my heartless treatment of him. I showed him to the door and told him he need not bother to come back, knowing full well he couldn't stay away. It was then that he asked me to marry him. I laughed, unable to restrain myself, and Brence gave me a frightening look. I realized with surprise that he was dead serious and told him the idea was totally absurd. I thought he was going to hit me. He trembled with rage and shouted some more and then stormed off to the nearest pub. I imagine he got very, very drunk that night.

There is so very much more to tell, Jane, but this letter is already far too long. Meeting Brence Danver was fortunate indeed. I am more than ever convinced that something is amiss, something that stems back to that night eleven years ago. I have a scheme in mind that should bring us closer to a solution, but I shan't go into it now. Take care of yourself, dear Jane, rest, regain your strength and try not to worry. Together, we'll get to the bottom of this. I promise to write again as soon as possible.

Jamintha

I read the letter through twice. There was a dull ache at the back of my head and my hands trembled as I gathered up the pages scattered over the counterpane to put them back into the envelope. Jamintha was doing this for me. Brence meant nothing to her. She was using him to get information. Her letter had brought him to life so vividly. He was in love with her … I pulled the bell cord to summon Susie, feeling more wretched than I had ever been in my life.

CHAPTER NINE

Dower House was bustling with activity. A wagon-load of men had come from the village and were busily putting the place in order, beating the carpets and polishing the woodwork and washing the windows until they sparkled like crystal. A gardener clipped the shrubs and trimmed the lawn and raked up leaves. Hearty sounds rang in the air. Workmen with bronzed forearms went about their tasks with jovial industry. On the following morning another wagon arrived, this one loaded with crates of books and an enormous old mahogany desk, scarred and battered. Johnny Stone was helping unload, and naturally Susie was brimful of information.

“Dower House has a new tenant,” she informed me. “Mister Charles is positively
li
vid, but there's nothing he can do about it. Some doctor has taken a lease for the winter, Doctor Clark, his name is. He plans to write a book or something and thinks the isolation will be ideal. No one has met
him
yet, but a manservant came to Danmoor and made all the arrangements and paid the workmen in advance. Doctor Clark should be arriving any day now. I imagine he's terribly old and a bit eccentric. He'd
have
to be eccentric to rent a place like Dower House.”

“He plans to write a book, you say?”

Susie nodded. “He isn't a
doctor
doctor, if you know what I mean. He doesn't work in a hospital or treat wounds or prescribe medicine like Doctor Green. He does research and writes lengthy reports on nervous disorders and phren—phren-something-or-other.”

“Phrenology?”

“I guess that's right,” Susie replied. “Johnny said that the servant told one of the workmen that Doctor Clark actually visits
asy
lums and talks to the crazy people. Gives me the shivers, the very idea.”

A flock of women came in to do the lighter work at Dower House, robust types in kerchiefs and starched aprons who scrubbed and polished and waxed the furniture. Their strident voices carried across the gardens, as did the smells of beeswax and soap and lemon oil. New curtains were hung at all the windows. Plumes of smoke curled from the chimneys, and the once deserted house began to take on a new face. Susie kept me informed on the progress, but I had too many other things on my mind to be much interested in Doctor Clark's pending arrival.

Although the headaches persisted, I seemed to be regaining some of my strength, and Doctor Green believed that a little exercise in the mornings might be good for me so long as I didn't overdo it. I began to take short walks in the gardens, always returning to my room before eleven o'clock. I slept soundly during the afternoons, usually awakening around six. After a couple of hours of reading, I ate the meal brought to me on a tray and slept again until the morning sunshine came streaming into the room. I saw no one besides Susie. Charles Danver seemed to have forgotten my existence, Helene DuBois was occupied with her duties and Brence had no time to think about a sickly cousin confined to her room most of the day. I re-read Jamintha's letter almost every day and eagerly awaited another.

Saturday was fair day. Susie was in a flurry of excitement, eager to be gone. Cook had agreed to bring my lunch and dinner trays so that Susie could spend the day with Johnny. He was to pick her up at nine, and she came back to my room to model her dress again, looking a saucy and impudent hoyden with mischief in her eyes. Johnny Stone was going to have his hands full. I envied the girl her high spirits and her lively anticipation. Her bubbling gaiety and blooming health made me feel pale and listless, although I managed to hide it. Susie was a treasure, loyal, hard-working, devoted to me, and she deserved all the fun she could find.

I felt lonely and restless when she left. My hair was tightly braided, the braids arranged in a severe coronet. I was wearing a long-sleeved gray dress. In the mirror my eyes looked enormous, faint violet shadows beneath them, and the skin was stretched taut over my high cheekbones. Susie and Johnny would have a lusty, rollicking time at the fair, and Brence would be there with Jamintha. I was alone, abysmally alone, a deep depression threatening to overcome me. The walls of the room seemed to close in on me, and I felt a mounting panic.

I hated the face in the mirror. I hated plain, prim Jane Danver with her stiff mannerisms and her timidity and fears, her miserable headaches and poor health. I was just eighteen years old, but I felt eighty, overlooked by life, never to know the joyous secrets that made it worthwhile. I wanted to be pretty and blithe, like Jamintha. I wanted to go to the fair and laugh and flirt and dance. I felt trapped, doomed to be Jane for the rest of my days, dull, pale, sickly, a prisoner inside this body. These thoughts raced through my mind as I stared into the clouded glass, and the glass seemed to blur, suddenly misty. To my surprise I discovered tears in my eyes. I wiped them away irritably, scolding myself, wondering what momentary aberration had caused me to indulge in such pitiful fancies.