Jamintha (18 page)

“Relax, Brence,” I said teasingly. “I don't mind at all.”

“Like to bash their heads in,” he grumbled.

“You're receiving your fair share of glances,” I remarked. “The girl over there—the brunette in that very red dress. She looks like she wants to scratch my eyes out.”

Brence glanced at the girl. She was pretty in a coarse sort of way, her raven locks long and tangled, crimson dress clinging to an undeniably ripe figure. She stared back at Brence with dark brown eyes, her lips slightly parted. He flushed and, turning his back on her, reached for another mug of ale. The girl tossed her head and disappeared into the crowd.

“Friend of yours?” I inquired.

“Never seen her before in my life!”

I let the lie pass, amused by his discomfort. I wondered how many of these pretty, robust young creatures he had known. I wondered how many of them went to sleep at night dreaming of the handsome young master of Danver Hall, remembering his strength and the excitement of his kisses and knowing he was forever beyond their reach, no matter how close he might have been at one time or another. The social structure here in Danmoor County isn't all that far removed from the Middle Ages and
droit de seigneur
, and Brence, no doubt, takes full advantage of his position as son of the ruling lord.

“There's Miss Hattie,” I said. “Over there by the cake stall. Oh my, she's staring, too.”

“Let 'er stare,” Brence said, finishing his ale.

“She thinks I'm a brazen hussy.”

“If only she knew,” he muttered.

“You've ruined my reputation, Brence Danver,” I teased.

“Yes, and all to no purpose. Let's leave, Jamintha.”

“
Leave?
We've only just arrived!”

“I want to be alone with you,” he said. “You know why.”

“Indeed I do. The answer is still no.”

“One of these days—” he grumbled. “Hell, I don't know why I put up with this kind of treatment. I oughta leave you. I oughta go after that girl in red—”

“Why don't you?”

“Because you've bewitched me, damn you!”

I smiled happily and finished my lemonade. Brence had a fourth mug of ale and dug into his pocket for money. Tossing some coins on the counter, he dragged me away in a thunderous mood. I tripped along beside him, taking in all the raucous sound and brilliant color. It's glorious to feel alive, really alive, and with Brence each second is charged. Very few men have the ability to make a woman feel that way, but Brence does. Without even trying. He radiates an aggressive vitality that one can't help but find exciting. I must confess that I was enjoying every minute of the fair.

Ahead of us a group of men were testing their marksmanship, firing rifles at a series of flat wooden ducks that moved on a platform twenty feet away behind the counter. Brence paid the man, seized a rifle and took aim, blasting away with rapid fire. There was a sharp odor of carbon, puffs of smoke and a series of loud pings. I saw with amazement that he had hit every single duck. The other men stood back, applauding his feat, and Brence handed the rifle back to the man. There were drops of perspiration on his forehead.

“Bravo,” I said.

“You win a prize,” the proprietor said in a disgruntled voice.

“Gimme it,” Brence snarled.

The proprietor moved with alacrity, seizing a gaudy doll from one of the shelves and thrusting it into Brence's hand. Brence presented it to me with a mocking flourish and led me way. He was a little the worse for ale now but not quite as tense as before. A large crowd had gathered around a semicircle of shabby, cluttered wagons festooned with dangling copper pans and mothy-looking shawls. Weird, barbaric music rose in the air, and there was the sound of stamping feet and clapping hands.

“What's that?” I inquired.

“Gypsies,” he retorted. “Bunch-a thieves and cutthroats. They make all the fairs, moving from county to county, stealin' every thing they can lay hands on. I guess they're givin' one of their dances.”

“Let's watch.”

Sighing wearily, Brence pushed his way through the crowd. Several of the men protested as he shoved them aside none too gently. In a moment we were standing at the edge of the clearing in front of the crowd, watching the dance. It was a bizarre, colorful sight. The gypsies were evidently of Spanish descent, dressed in native costume, and the men were almost as beautiful as the women. Teeth flashed in grim tan faces, lithe, muscular bodies writhed and leaped, beads and spangles glittered. There was something primitive and rather frightening about the dance, suggestive of blood feuds and pitch black nights and daggers drawn before a roaring orange fire. The thumping music grew louder and louder as the dance reached a climax.

Brence was obviously bored. He paid little attention to the fierce gyrations of the dancers. Arms folded across his chest, brows lowered, he kept a sharp eye on the crowd, looking for pickpockets. The dances were staged to divert attention, he informed me, so that the thieves could move among the audience and lift valuables from the unwary.

As the dance ended a thin little girl with a pale, dirty face and shaggy black hair passed among the crowd, a tin cup in her hand. Most of the people ignored her, and she looked desperate. I suspected she would be beaten if she didn't collect a satisfactory amount and insisted that Brence drop a few coins in. He did so with disgust. The child looked immensely relieved. On impulse, I handed her the doll Brence had won. She peered up at me with narrowed black eyes, her tiny face suddenly hard. Clutching the doll, she hastily retreated, pausing at the corner of one of the wagons to glare at me with pure venom.

“That was a fool thing to do,” Brence said, exasperated.

“The poor thing looked so unhappy.”

“The ‘poor thing' is a professional thief. I felt her hand slipping into my pocket while she was rattling the cup.”

The crowd began to disperse as the gypsies tried to interest them in the junk jewelry and bright gewgaws displayed in their wagons. I noticed a tattered purple tent splattered with silver gilt stars, a sign announcing MADAME INEZ. The fortune-teller stood before the opened flap, her long red and blue skirt as tattered as the tent, yards of tarnished gold beads hanging over her shabby black velvet bodice. Her face was the color of mahogany, seamed and weather worn, and her black eyes were cold and disdainful as she watched the crowd moving away to other amusements.

“Come on, Brence,” I insisted, “let's go visit Madame Inez.”

“Hunh? You don't wanna waste your time with that foolishness.”

“But I've never had my fortune told,” I protested.

“Probably have our throats slit,” he grumbled as I led him over to the tent.

Madame Inez saw us coming and stepped inside without a word. There was an overpowering smell of garlic and damp cloth inside the tent, and it was so dark that I could hardly see. A candle flared, blossoming into light, and I saw Madame Inez sitting at a rickety table, her face cold and impassive. There was no crystal ball, only a series of faded cabalistic signs hanging on the walls of the tent and a pack of greasy tarot cards in front of the bored gypsy woman. I was almost sorry we'd come. She seemed to resent us, and Brence's openly disgruntled manner didn't improve matters.

“Pay first,” she said in a sharp voice.

Brence gave her the money, and she motioned for me to sit down across the table from her. Coal black eyes peered into mine, and they seemed to stab and penetrate. I had the uneasy feeling that this battered old woman could actually read my mind. She pushed the tarot cards aside and reached for my hand. She held it in a tight grip and studied the palm with intense scrutiny. The candle flickered, casting frantic shadows on the billowing purple walls. Brence shifted uncomfortably behind me. Several minutes passed before Madame Inez finally looked up. There was confusion in her eyes, a puzzled frown digging a deep line between her brows.

“What is it?” I whispered, my voice trembling.

“I see nothing,” she said. “I give money back.”

“No—no, I want to know what you saw.”

“Keep the money, old woman,” Brence said irritably. “Let's
go
, Jamintha.”

“What do you see?” I asked quietly.

“You come from a big city. You are in trouble.”

“Oh, sure, very dramatic,” Brence snapped. “And she met a tall, handsome stranger. You're lookin' at him.”

Madame Inez ignored him. She stared at me with hypnotic black eyes. I felt a tremor of alarm, afraid of what she was going to say next.

“You will die, but—you will live on.”

“That makes a lotta sense,” Brence remarked. “Tell me, is she going to marry me?”

“You will marry another,” she said in a flat voice, “but you will marry this one at the same time.”

“Bigamy, eh? Sounds right cozy.”

“Leave!” Madame Inez commanded.

She stood up, hands on hips, beads jangling. The mahogany face was burnished with candlelight, a fierce mask now. Brence laughed mockingly and started toward the open flap. I took a step toward Madame Inez, and the old woman drew back almost as though she were afraid of me.

“Is—is that all?” I said.

She nodded curtly, but her eyes suddenly filled with compassion. She looked weary and defeated, worn down by a life of hardship and strife. She glanced at Brence and frowned again. He sneered at her. Then Madame Inez took my hand and gripped it tightly. I could sense her alarm as that gnarled old hand crushed my fingers.

“Be careful, child,” she whispered. The words were barely audible. “Be very careful!”

“Gin-soaked old fraud,” Brence muttered as we strolled away from the gypsy encampment. “What'd she say to you there at the last?”

“Nothing,” I replied coolly.

“Say, you're not
an
gry, are you?”

“No, Brence. Let's just forget it.”

“Sure. I didn't want you to go in there in the first place.”

It was growing later. Shadows were beginning to thicken, and the sky was a dark blue, deep orange smears showing in the west. I had come to the fair specifically to see Charles Danver, and all this time had passed without a sight of him. I knew that he had been one of the judges, awarding a blue ribbon to the prize livestock, and the judges' stand was located near the pens. I suggested that we go see the cattle. Brence seemed reluctant, but he agreed, holding my arm tightly as we walked across the grounds. The atmosphere had changed, frivolity and gaiety giving way to a restless tension clearly felt in the air. The calliope sounded shrill and discordant. People looked tired and irritable. Several of the men lurched around drunkenly, and we passed a rowdy group of boys shouting and stamping as two of their contemporaries rolled on the ground, slamming and pounding at each other with lusty enthusiasm.

“Can't someone stop them?” I said nervously.

“They're just feelin' their oats,” Brence said matter-of-factly. “There'll be other fights before the evening's over. Happens every year …”

Prophetic words.

An odor of steaming manure and damp hay wafted toward us as we neared the livestock pens. Many of the pens were empty now, the cattle sold and carted away. A farmer was loading crates full of screeching chickens onto the back of a delapidated wagon, and a group of people stood admiring the bull that had won the prize ribbon, a stout, powerful beast who snorted furiously and kicked up clouds of dust with heavy front hooves. Nearby I saw the judges stand, a white wooden structure shaped like a gazebo, deserted now as the fading rays of sunlight glowed dark red. Perhaps he had already gone back to Danver Hall, I thought, disappointed. I pretended an interest in the bull and the fat rust-red sow with her litter of squealing piglets, all the time wondering how I would arrange a meeting with Charles Danver if he didn't appear today.

I needn't have worried. He was still on the grounds, and there was no doubt that he'd noticed me. Light was fast fading, a deep blue haze in the air as Brence and I went to eat. Wooden tables with benches had been set up under the boughs of the oak trees edging the clearing, stalls selling refreshments lined up across from them. The tables were filled with chattering girls in brightly hued dresses and loud, oafish boys who openly gawked as Brence led me to an empty table, a plate of food in either hand. Robust maids in blue dresses and white aprons passed around the tables with trays of ale. Brence seized a mug, gave the girl a coin and told her to be sure and come back shortly.

“Haven't you had enough?” I inquired. He had been stopping at stalls periodically and had already consumed far too much ale.

“I can hold it,” he retorted.

“You already look a bit flushed. Don't you think—”

“Look, Jamintha, don't nag me!”

A remarkably vivacious girl with tarnished gold curls and lively brown eyes was sitting at a nearby table. Her dark gold dress was printed with tiny brown and yellow flowers, and the neckline was a good inch and a half lower than my own. She stared at Brence and whispered something to her companion, a large, rough-hewn blond lad with a wide, amiable grin. Brence noticed them and frowned as the girl waved merrily.

“Another friend?” I asked.

“She's our maid,” he said sullenly, “an impudent little baggage if ever there was one. If it were up to me, she'd-a been sacked a long time ago.”

“Isn't she the one who looks after your cousin?”

“Yeah. I suppose she does a good enough job of that. Seems devoted to the girl, watches over her like a hen.”

“It's a shame Jane can't be here tonight.”

“I doubt if she'd enjoy it,” he replied. “I doubt if she'd enjoy much of anything. Stiff as a poker, she is.”

“That's a cruel thing to say. You really don't know her very well, do you?”

“No, and that suits me fine. Damn! Where's that girl with the ale?”