Jamintha (17 page)

“Do you want to tell me about it, Jane?”

“Why should I?”

“Because you could use a friend.”

“I have a friend,” I said coldly.

“Oh?”

“I have Jamintha.”

“What a beautiful name,” he remarked.

“I—I shouldn't have told you about her. It's our secret—”

“You can trust me.”

“I can't trust anyone,” I retorted.

We continued walking toward the line of trees that separated the gardens from the edge of the moor. As we neared the house I could feel the tiny throbs begin, mounting into one dreadful ache at the back of my skull. I was weary now, a heavy languor in my bones, strength and energy ebbing with every step. We passed into the gardens, cool and shady, smelling of leaves and damp soil. The house loomed up, bleak and formidable, casting long shadows over part of the ground.

“Everyone is at the fair,” I said.

“Would you like to be there?”

“I wouldn't enjoy it.”

“No?”

“I don't know how to dance.”

“Do you know how to laugh?” The question was softly phrased.

I didn't answer. I looked at his tanned, handsome face with its lined, sensitive features and those remarkable eyes. There was something strangely compelling about Gavin Clark. I felt he had the ability to see within, to recognize the Jane who dwelled a prisoner behind the stiff, prim facade. I was drawn to him, not as I was drawn to Brence, but as one might be drawn to an older brother or a reliable family friend.

“I—I'm sorry if I was rude back there,” I said quietly.

“I was a bit presumptuous,” he replied. “I had no right to pry like that.”

“I'm glad we met, Doctor Clark.”

“Perhaps I'll see you again.”

“My guardian wouldn't approve. He's upset that you're here.”

“I wonder why?”

“So do I. I wonder what he wants to hide. It's almost noon. I must go to my room. Doctor Green said I needed exercise. I imagine I'll go for a walk on the moors almost every morning. I might see you there.”

“That's very likely,” he said.

I went to my room, so weary I could hardly undress and climb into bed. I rang for Cook, and she seemed alarmed when I told her I wanted no lunch or dinner. She insisted on bringing a tray nevertheless, in case I changed my mind. I let her bring it, and then I informed her that I was not to be disturbed. Shaking her head, scolding gently, she left, and I sank into a deep sleep. I remember awakening sometime during the night, wearier than ever, and then it was Sunday afternoon and Susie was pounding on the door. She was even more alarmed than Cook had been, horrified that the tray was still untouched.

“You look exhausted, Miss Jane, and you just woke
up!
”

“I didn't sleep well.”

“You certainly slept for a long time. And haven't eaten a bite! I'm going to fetch you an
enor
mous meal and sit here and see that you eat every bite. I'll swear, I really don't know—”

As I ate, Susie told me about the fair, describing the gaily striped tents and the merry crowd, the livestock auction and the games, the dance at night and the Japanese lanterns that swayed in the wind, casting colored shadows over the wooden dance floor.

“Johnny and I had a marvelous time,” she said dreamily. “It was ever so late when he brought me home—after three in the morning. I felt positively wicked—”

“I'm glad you enjoyed it, Susie.”

“Master Brence got into a terrible fight,” she said. “He was with that woman who claims to be the new schoolmaster's sister. I for one don't believe a word of it. No schoolmaster's sister ever looked like
that!
Master Brence trailed after her like a lovesick dog, surly and snappish any time another man looked at her, and they
all
looked, Miss Jane. They couldn't help it. She's dazzling. I suppose a fight was inevitable.”

Susie described the fight with an abundance of detail. She had obviously enjoyed every minute of it. I listened patiently, trying to show an interest I didn't feel. I was pale and drowsy, hardly able to hold my eyes open. Besides, I knew I would hear about the fight again, and from a more reliable source.

I was right.

On Monday morning there was another letter from Jamintha.

CHAPTER TEN

Jane,

I must say this is all a grand adventure. My first concern, naturally, is to solve the mystery of Danver Hall, but I must admit that I'm having a delicious time in the process. It's elating to have a handsome, explosive man head over heels in love with me. I feel terribly wicked, but that's elating, too. Poor Brence, he's going to be badly hurt. His magnificent male ego is going to be crushed, but I shan't waste any sympathy on him. Things are going wonderfully well, better than I expected, and I'm confident Charles Danver will play his part, too, exactly as planned … but I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me begin with Brence.

I told you he asked me to marry him the afternoon we came back in from the picnic. I laughed at him, setting a match to the fuse that caused him to explode in irate fury. He came back the next day, trying to be humble but too surly to carry it oft. He wanted to know
why
I wouldn't marry him. I told him, tearing his character apart in light, quick strokes that left him, figuratively speaking, a mass of bloody shreds.

“So I'm a wastrel!” he retorted. “Very well, I drink too much, I get into brawls, and my conduct with the ladies hasn't been lily pure! I can reform. With you at my side I could become a different person.”

“How would you support a wife?”

“I could work, dammit!”

“At what?”

“I don't know. I'd find something—”

“What about the textile mill?”

“That's out! I hate the place. It depresses me.”

“Why?”

“Those men! The conditions they work under, the hours—they're like galley slaves, chained to the oars, rowing and sweating while my father stands over them cracking a whip, all for a measly pittance that can barely stave off starvation. It's unjust. It's inhuman. I can't stand to see men enduring those conditions—”

“Perhaps you could improve their conditions,” I suggested.

“My father has total control of the mill. He's not about to let anyone interfere with the way he runs it.”

“And you're afraid to try,” I said.

“Forget the mill!” he thundered.

We had reached an impasse, but Brence was not to be so easily discouraged. He tried another tactic. He pulled me into his arms and held me in a tight grip. Lids lowered sleepily over seductive blue eyes, he fastened his mouth over mine and kissed me for a long time. It was a glorious kiss, Jane, a dazzling, heady experience that caused every fiber of my being to tingle, yet when he released me I was as cool as icy water.

“Christ!” he shouted. “You're not human!”

“I'm very human, Brence, but you're not going to win me the way you win your barmaids. You can't respect me or you wouldn't have done that. I want you to leave now.”

“Respect! I'm in
love
with you!”

“I don't think you know what that word means.”

“What do you
want?
”

“I want a man I can look up to, a man
I
can respect.”

He slammed his fist against the wall with such force that a framed picture crashed to the floor, shattering the glass. I don't think he even noticed. He glared at me with blazing blue eyes, his cheeks chalk white, and then he made another of his stormy exits, slamming the door shut behind him. It all sounds very melodramatic, I know, but Brence is a melodramatic person, living at a high pitch of emotion, bellowing and charging through life like a character in grand opera.

I had promised to let him take me to the fair. He was to come by for me at three o'clock on Saturday, and I was waiting at the cottage, quite eager, for I knew Charles Danver would be there and that I would see him at last. (And, more important,
he
would see
me
.) I had brushed my hair until it fell in glossy chestnut waves that gleamed with highlights. My dress was pink silk printed with tiny blue and lilac flowers, one I had purchased at Miss Hattie's shop and altered slightly. The bodice was form-fitting, and I had lowered the neckline two inches, low enough to be provocative without really being immodest. The full gathered skirt spread in rich silken folds over several rustling white petticoats.

Examining myself in the mirror, I was extremely satisfied with the effect. It gives a woman confidence and power to know that she is beautiful, to know that men are going to stare at her with longing. Brence presented no real problem, his moods being all too predictable, but his father was another matter altogether. I knew I would need every resource in order to deal with Charles Danver.

I was waiting on the front doorstep when Brence drove up in the gleaming black victoria, two restless dark brown horses stamping impatiently in harness. Brence climbed out of the rig and opened the white picket gate and stared at me. His eyes confirmed what the mirror had shown me. I smiled, feeling exactly like one of those fatally attractive women in fiction, and it was an exhilarating sensation.

“You like my dress?” I inquired pleasantly.

He muttered something under his breath, scowling. He liked the dress, all right, but he knew the other men were going to like it, too. Brence is violently jealous, and he doesn't want another man to even
look
. He stared at me with lowered lids and tight mouth and I knew that the costume was a success.

“Shall we go?” I said.

“Yeah,” he retorted, surly.

As he helped me into the victoria, the breeze caught up my skirts and sent them billowing, revealing my calves. Brence stared at them in agony. He wanted to sweep me up in his arms and carry me back into the cottage. He wanted to release all those pent-up passions I had aroused, but he didn't dare. I sat down on the padded black leather seat and arranged my skirts modestly. Brence swung up beside me, seized the whip and cracked it loudly, grabbing the reins as the horses started to gallop down the street at a brisk pace. I laughed, delighted with myself, delighted with the sun-spangled day and the autumn smells and the oak leaves that rustled overhead. Brence leaned forward, holding the reins tightly, his jaw thrust out. He was tense and uncomfortable. I could tell that he was dreading the fair.

“You don't seem very pleased,” I remarked. “Don't you
want
to go?”

“Sure,” he snapped.

“We don't have to, Brence. You can take me back to the cottage if you wish—”

“You've never been to a country fair, have you?”

“No, I haven't. That's why I've been looking forward to—”

“They can get awfully rough,” he said tersely.

“Oh?”

“There's a lot of drinkin', a lot of rowdy conduct. The young people go wild, and the older folks—well, they loosen up, too. Inhibitions are put aside, sobriety forgotten. There are gypsies, and con men, peddlers with gaudy carts—”

“It sounds exciting,” I said.

“It is. It attracts the wrong element. There're a lot of toughs, chaps just spoilin' for trouble. Most of the respectable folks come in the morning, transact their business and leave as soon as the children've had a ride on the carousel.”

“What are you
wor
ried about, Brence?”

“I'm worried about you! That damned dress—you're a stranger. Folks might get the wrong idea.”

“Men, you mean?”

“Yes,” he said, “men!”

I laughed again, and Brence grew silent. I found his attitude extremely flattering. He wasn't ashamed to take me, he just didn't want to expose me to the stares of the male element of Danmoor, nor did he want me to overhear the remarks they were bound to make after liquor had loosened their tongues. I was touched. In his explosive, overwrought manner, Brence was in love with me, that love a valid emotion despite his flamboyant methods of expressing it. As we drove down the almost deserted streets of Danmoor I felt a twinge of remorse over what I intended to do to him. Genuine love, however volatile, is not that easy to dismiss.

The fairgrounds were located in a large field outside Danmoor, wooded area surrounding it on three sides. As we drove down the road I could see the gaily colored tents billowing in the breeze, the booths and the crowds of people. On one side were the livestock pens, pigs squealing, cattle stamping in hay-littered stalls, chickens and geese adding to the din, and there was a bandstand and a large wooden dance floor, men on ladders hanging Japanese lanterns on the tree limbs hanging over it. The carousel turned in a bright whirl of color, husky lads and their girl friends clinging to the poles as vividly painted wooden horses rose and fell with a jaunty rhythm, the calliope shrill and brassy.

Brence left the victoria on a crowded lot set aside for that purpose, tossing a penny to the dirty-faced boy hired to look after the horses. He took hold of my elbow and led me past the other carriages. We were soon swallowed up in the bustling, vivacious crowd. Brence glared menacingly every time someone jostled against us. His manner was protective, his grip on my elbow clearly indicating possession.

“You needn't hold my arm quite so tightly,” I said. “You needn't hold it at all, in fact. I'm not a child.”

He released me with some reluctance but stayed close by my side as we moved past the row of stalls, industrious merchants displaying ribbons and laces, earthernware pottery, tobacco, various foods. Giggling village girls strolled on the arms of sturdy farmboys with burly shoulders and long shaggy hair, the girls in their Sunday best, the boys in leather jerkins and coarse white linen shirts. Brence bought me a glass of lemonade, deliciously cool with chunks of ice, and he consumed two mugs of ale himself, standing close beside me and casting warning glances at the tough-looking lads who stared at me.