Jamintha (2 page)

“We're both alone,” she said softly. “We've been through so much together. Dear Jane. You've made this place endurable these past years. I'll be lost without you.”

“Jamintha—”

“I must go,” she said, springing to her feet. “Billy will be waiting. He grows terribly impatient if I'm late. Goodbye, Jane. If you ever need me—
when
you need me—I'll be there. Somehow. I promise.”

“Don't go,” I protested. “There are so many things I want to—”

A gust of wind blew in through the corridor. The candle spluttered and almost went out, the tiny golden flame dancing wildly. There was a rustle of silk and the patter of light footsteps. Jamintha had vanished, and I was alone again, my headache worse than ever. The throbbing subsided after a while, and I slept, my bones heavy with weariness. I grew so tired, so easily. If only I had Jamintha's blooming health. If only I weren't plagued with these headaches … I slept, dreading the morning and my departure.

The joggling coach brought me out of my reverie. I could hear the horse hooves pounding and the wheels rumbling. The springs creaked as though in agony, and it seemed the coach would surely fall apart as we hit another bump. The sky was a harsh steel color, the land beneath an expanse of sun-parched grass, boulders and bogs. How could people live in such a place? How could life exist in such depressing surroundings? The stunted trees lifted their gnarled limbs like arms raised in entreaty, a brisk wind already stripping them of their dark green leaves. It was a tormented landscape, a nightmare place fit only for the wind and the lashing rains.

Gradually, it changed. The rocky slopes became rolling hills, the sun-parched grass grew green, and I caught a glimpse of bright silver ribbon, a distant stream winding through the hills. The trees grew taller, powerful oaks spreading their heavy boughs and making cool purple shadows. Wildflowers grew, gold and yellow and brown, and I could see sheep grazing on a hillside. Danver County, I knew, was an oasis, a great patch of rich farmland completely surrounded by the moors. The village of Danmoor perched on the northeast edge, and the gardens of Danver Hall led directly into the moor where wild streams cascaded over mossy rocks and waterfalls poured into churning pools … How did I know that? Was I beginning to remember? I could see the rippling water, the boulders festooned with dark green moss, a bank of delicate purple wildflowers. Had I played there as a child? Would it all come back to me when I saw the house?

It grew late. The sun was beginning to make dark orange banners on the horizon. I began to see dwellings, scattered at first, then closer together. A farmer was plowing a loamy red-brown field, his forearms bronze in the dying sunlight. A group of children were romping around a barnyard and a dog joined in the play, barking loudly. The farms gave way to cottages, hovels, really, deplorable shacks with sagging roofs and narrow porches. These were where the millhands lived, trying to survive on miserable salaries. There was a clearing, and then I saw the mill itself sprawling over the land, long flat buildings without proper ventilation, smokestacks billowing gusts of ugly black smoke. Dark red flames glowed. I could see men pushing wheelbarrows through opened sheds, men sweating, men with embittered faces and stooped shoulders still at work even though the sun was almost gone.

The coach slowed as we came into the village. People sauntered aimlessly along the pavement. A group of old men perched on the benches around the square, staring at the tarnished bronze statue of Robert Danver, founder of Danmoor. There were shops and pubs, a hotel, a bank, brick walls stained with soot. The driver stopped in front of the tiny post office and got down to help me out. I stood on the pavement as he unstrapped my trunk and heaved it down, placing it beside me. He took the bag of mail out and disappeared into the post office, leaving me alone. There was no one to meet me.

Ten minutes passed, fifteen. The sun was gone now, and the sky above sooty rooftops was deep blue streaked with purple. It was chilly, and I had no cloak. Where was my uncle? Today was September 12. Surely he remembered I was coming. I folded my arms about my waist, trying not to panic. Gusts of wind lifted my dark blue skirt, causing it to billow over the thin cotton petticoats. I was weary, so weary, and my head was aching again. Another migraine. Would I never be rid of them?

I stared around at the village of Danmoor: It was neat, even pretty with the arched rock bridges and the towering trees, but mill smoke had stained everything, and even though I stood in the middle of town I could sense the moors crouching just beyond, their desolation strongly felt. Through shadowy tree limbs at the end of town I could see a spire, a final ray of sunlight burnishing the copper. At least there was a church, I thought, though the village itself had a raw, rough-hewn character. Life would be stern here, the men rugged, the women hard. There was none of the genteel charm usually associated with a small English village. I felt vulnerable and exposed, totally unprepared for this kind of atmosphere.

Across the street were three pubs in a row, noisy places with swinging wooden doors, bright yellow lights pouring through the windows making pools on the sidewalk. I could see dark figures moving around, and I heard loud, husky voices and raucous laughter. Someone was pounding on a piano, the music barely audible over the din. The coach driver stepped out of the post office with an empty bag. He climbed up on the seat and drove away to the livery stable. Still no one had come for me. I tried to still the trembling inside. The sky was dark now, and doorways and walls thronged with shadows as night approached.

I waited, growing more and more apprehensive.

The doors of the first pub across the street swung open and a tall man stepped out. He glanced at me without interest as the wind caused locks of unruly dark hair to tumble over his forehead. He was incredibly handsome with strong features and the build of an athlete. He wore highly polished black boots, tight gray breeches, a gray jacket that hung open to reveal an embroidered black satin waistcoat over his frilled white shirt. He had the arrogant demeanor of a cruel London rake and was as out of place here in Danmoor as I myself must be. He scowled, dark brows lowered, his wide mouth twisting with disgust. He was none too steady on his feet, weaving a little as he stood there, and I realized that he was drunk. He took a deep breath, chest swelling, and lifted a hand to brush his hair back from his forehead. I stared at him, fascinated and repelled at the same time.

A woman came out of the pub behind him. She had dark blonde hair, and there was a worried look in her eyes. The bodice of her vivid green dress was cut indecently low, a frilly white apron tied around her slender waist. Pretty in a coarse sort of way, she seemed on the verge of tears. She put her hand on the man's arm and looked up at him beseechingly.

“Come on back in, duckie,” she pleaded. “You've 'ad a mite too much to drink. I'll fetch you some coffee and later—maybe later—”

“Leave me be,” he retorted in a sullen voice.

“Don't be that way, luv. I—I'm sorry I pulled away from you. You were drunk, an' you lunged at me so suddenly—I didn't mean no harm. I'll let-ya come up to my room, duckie, sure I will, soon as you sober up. Let me give-ya some coffee—”

The man glared at her with dark eyes. The woman smiled nervously, obviously afraid of him. She was struggling to hold back the tears, and the man seemed to enjoy her plight. He smiled a cruel smile. Unworldly as I was I knew that such men considered women like the barmaid their personal chattels to be taken or discarded at will. His brooding good looks only made it worse. Women must spoil him deplorably, I thought, and he was well aware of the power he had over them.

“Please—” the barmaid said. “I'll lose my job, you see. If you walk out like this they'll sack me. You're our best customer an'—come on, luv. Be a sport—”

The man grinned a devilish grin. He raised his hand and examined it, turning it over to study the palm with great interest. Then he slammed it across her mouth with such force that she stumbled back against the wall. I could hear the impact of flesh on flesh from where I stood. The girl sank to her knees, sobbing. The man strolled on down the pavement and stepped into the next pub, leaving the wooden doors swinging behind him.

I was alarmed by what I had just seen and not a little frightened. I had listened to the girls chatter about sex. I had done extensive reading. I knew all the facts of life, but for eleven years I had been carefully sheltered against them. This incident which might have passed unnoticed by many seemed a raw, shocking display to me. Did men
really
treat women that way? The barmaid got to her feet and wiped away the tears and went back into the pub with a dejected air. I wondered who the man was. I wondered how anyone could be so thoroughly hateful. Not all men were like that, surely, but then not all men were so wickedly handsome.

An empty farm wagon came rolling down the street, the driver a husky lad who held the reins loosely in his lap. The dappled gray horse plodded at a lazy pace, the wagon creaking. Seeing me standing alone beside the shabby trunk, the driver pulled up on the reins and the wagon stopped a few yards away. The lad stared at me in surprise, and I took a step backward, my heart pounding. I was alone on a dark street. The boy was large, powerfully built. His mouth spread in a wide grin. He wore muddy brown boots, clinging tan trousers and a leather jerkin over a coarse white linen shirt. Thick, shaggy blond hair spilled over his forehead. His blue eyes stared at me openly.

“No one come to pick you up?” he inquired.

“Go away,” I replied coldly.

“It's gettin' late,” he remarked. “Looks like you need to hitch a ride with someone.”

“Go away,” I repeated, my voice beginning to tremble.

He grinned again. It was a surprisingly amiable grin. The lad couldn't have been much older than I, and he had a rough, affable manner that was almost pleasant, despite the circumstances. Undeniably raw-boned and crude, he was nevertheless attractive. His grin was appealing, and those vivid blue eyes were full of mischief.

“'Ey now,” he said, “you're not afraid-a me, are you?”

“Not in the least,” I lied. “Just go away.”

“You plannin' to walk to Danver 'all?”

“How do you know—”

“You're Miss Jane Danver, aren't-ja? Susie told me they were expectin' you. Looks like someone forgot to come fetch you.”

“Susie?”

“She works there at Danver 'all, the maid. We're courtin'. Soon as I get enough ready cash in my pockets I'm aimin' to marry 'er, though the wench 'asn't said yes yet. You want I should drive you to the 'all? I 'aven't got anything better to do.”

“I—I think not.”

He chuckled. It was a rich, jovial sound.

“I'm Johnny Stone, Ma'am. I'm hell with the lasses, all right, as Susie'll tell-ya. Nothin' I like so much as a good tumble, but I ain't never taken it by force, an' I got respect for my betters. I'm just tryin' to be 'elpful, ma'am. I ain't plannin' rape. You'd best let me drive you to Danver 'all.”

“I—”

“It's a long walk, an' it isn't safe for you to be alone like this. A lotta fellows, now, they 'aven't got my scruples.”

He swung down from the seat and picked up the heavy trunk as though it were a feather, swinging it into the back of the wagon. He was tall, six foot four at least, with enormous shoulders and lean waist. I was still a bit frightened, but he smiled reassuringly, exuding a friendly warmth that caused my fears to vanish.

“I—I don't know why there was no one to meet me,” I said. “My uncle knew I was supposed to arrive on the mail coach.”

“There ain't no tellin',” Johnny replied. “The folks who live up there in the big 'ouse—they're a peculiar lot, an' that's for sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“I reckon you'll be finding out for yourself,” he said tersely.

Without warning, he wrapped his large hands around my waist and swung me up onto the seat in one swift motion. I gave a little cry of alarm as my skirts billowed, revealing stockinged calves. Johnny chuckled, amused, then climbed heavily onto the seat beside me, gathering up the reins. He smelled of sweat and the barnyard, a pungent aroma that was not at all unpleasant. It seemed to suit him. He clicked the reins and the wagon began to rattle down the street, the dappled-gray as slow and lazy as before.

“I remember you,” Johnny said casually.

“You do?”

“From before, when you was a little girl. You were a pretty thing, I don't mind sayin', always laughing and carryin' on like a regular princess. You wore frilly dresses, an' you were always gettin' into scrapes, runnin' wild so to speak.”

“I—I can't recall any of that.”

“Sure, you were a regular menace, but everyone adored-ja. Things were different then. The village was a 'appy place. Your father—'e 'ad respect for the men workin' at the mill, treated 'em squarely. I was nine years old when the accident 'appened at the big 'ouse. The whole village grieved for your folks.”

“The village has changed?”

“Aye, an' that's the truth. Your uncle—well, it ain't my place to be speakin' against your kin. I'll just say that I'm glad I'm not under 'is thumb. I got my own farm—my folks left it to me when they died. It ain't much, granted, but at least I don't hafta sweat blood at the mill like most men in this town.”

“You're saying my uncle is unjust?”

“I'm sayin' 'e's a bloody tyrant. 'E owns the mill, an' most of the town, too. 'E 'as a stranglehold on the men, an' 'e squeezes without mercy, chokin' the breath out of 'em. The mill produces some of the finest fabrics in all England, aye, but at what a cost.” His voice was quiet and lazy, giving his words an even greater impact.