Jamintha (22 page)

I set my coffee cup aside. “Yes. I—I don't know whether or not I should tell you about it—”

“You can tell me anything, Jane. You know that.”

His voice was serious, all cheerful banter behind us now. I looked into those dark brown eyes, and confidence rose inside of me. I knew what he said was true. I could tell Gavin Clark anything. I trusted him completely, and he would never betray that trust.

“I had a nightmare Wednesday night. It was—rather unnerving.”

“Describe it to me.”

Thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers, he strolled over to the window and gazed out at the gardens as I began to talk. A mote-filled ray of sunlight streamed through the window, burnishing his hair a deep copper hue, etching light shadows over his face. I spoke haltingly, describing the brown fog, my mother, the handful of stars, the sensation of climbing and the figures struggling in the thickening fog. I told him about awakening with tight throat and pounding heart. When I mentioned the bruises he turned around sharply.

“You bruised yourself?”

“I—I remember flinging my arms out. The headboard of my bed is heavy oak, ornately carved with projecting knobs. I must have slammed my arms back against the carvings—”

“Do you mind if I examine the bruises?”

“No—” I said hesitantly. “I—I'll have to unfasten my dress. These sleeves are too tight to push up.”

“Very well.” His voice was casual.

I unfastened the back of my dress and lowered the bodice, slipping the sleeves down until the bruises were uncovered. The bodice of my petticoat was cut extremely low, my shoulders and half of my bosom completely bare, but Gavin was totally unperturbed, paying attention to nothing but the bruises. Bending down over me, he touched them with delicate fingertips, an intent look in his eyes. A frown wrinkled his brow, and he pressed his lips in a tight line, studying the bruises. They were lighter now, a yellowish tan, light blue around the edges. Gavin nodded and stepped back, his expression composed and professional.

“Do they still hurt?”

“Not at all.”

“Tell me again how you think you obtained them.”

I did so, pulling up the bodice of my dress and re-fastening the hooks in back.

“Sounds logical enough,” he said lightly.

“You—you don't believe me, do you? You think I was sleepwalking.”

“No, Jane. I don't think that. I—it probably happened just as you say it did. Nightmares can be very vivid, and when we pull out of them our reflexes can be violent.”

“
This
one was vivid,” I said crisply. “I don't think it was a nightmare. I think it was a memory. You told me about the subconscious. I—I think I actually saw those things and forced myself to forget them, forced them deep down into that pool you described.”

“That's entirely possible.”

“I've remembered something else, too. My governess. Her name was Miss Perkins. I saw her quite clearly, and I remembered how she used to bring food to me when I was being punished for misdeeds.”

I described the peculiar, trance-like sensation I had felt in the basement and how I had moved directly to the secret door. My voice wavering, I told him about the softly diffused mist and the little girl in pink and all the impressions that had come to mind. Gavin perched on the corner of the desk, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully with his right hand. His dark brown eyes seemed preoccupied, staring across the room without seeing anything, yet I could tell that he was paying close attention to every word I said.

“You found a secret passage,” he remarked quietly, more to himself than for my benefit. “Interesting—”

“Gavin, will my memory return? Completely?”

“There's no doubt about it,” he replied. “It's beginning to come back already. Gradually, through association, you'll remember more and more. It's merely a matter of time.”

“I'll remember—everything?”

“I'm sure of it.”

When I made no reply, he looked up at me. “You don't seem too pleased with the idea,” he commented.

“I find it rather frightening.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. I just—” I broke off and stared down at the hands in my lap as though they were curiosities I had never seen before.

“Why should you be afraid, Jane? Because you think someone hit you in the ruins that night?”

“Partly.”

“Perhaps you'd like to tell me about it.”

“It will sound silly—hysterical. You'll think I'm mad, but—something is going on at Danver Hall. Something is wrong. I sense it. I can feel it in the air. It—it began the day I arrived. I couldn't understand why my guardian sent for me. He certainly has no affection for me. He's not a charitable man, yet there had to be a reason why he had gone to all that trouble and expense.
Why
should I be at Danver Hall? I asked myself that question repeatedly, and there was no logical answer. I—I soon became aware that Madame DuBois was spying on me. I had the feeling she was watching every move I made, waiting for me to
do
something—”

“Go on.”

“I think Charles Danver brought me here because he
wants
me to remember—he questioned me about my memory, seemed anxious to know if I had begun to recall anything. I know it sounds far-fetched, but I have the feeling I know something very important to him, only I've forgotten—”

“And he hoped bringing you to Danver Hall would jog your memory? Is that what you believe?”

“Yes.”

“Then why should he wait eleven years to do so?”

“I—I don't know. Perhaps he thought he could discover whatever it is on his own. Perhaps he's spent all this time searching and—and I was a last resort.”

“That doesn't make too much sense, Jane, does it?”

“No,” I admitted miserably. “
Do
you think I'm mad, Gavin?”

Gavin Clark shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was filled with tender compassion. “You show all the signs of what we call a persecution complex, Jane—intrigue centered around you, someone spying—but no, I don't think you're mad. You've dramatized things a bit, perhaps, and put sinister interpretations on a situation that may be and probably is totally innocent, but you've been under a great deal of stress, and that concussion you received—” He left the sentence hanging in the air, making a futile gesture with his hand.

“I see.”

“Tell me about Jamintha,” he said quietly. “What part does she play in this?”

“She's helping me,” I said in a flat voice. “She's trying to discover what's going on.”

“How is she—uh—going about it?”

“I'd rather not say.”

“Do you meet her secretly?”

“No, it's very important that no one know about our friendship. She writes to me. I—I'd prefer not to talk about it.”

Gavin nodded, that preoccupied look back in his eyes. He poured another cup of coffee and sipped it thoughtfully, apparently forgetting all about my presence. I had told him too much. He was a friend, and I trusted him, but from his manner it was obvious that he thought I was mentally disturbed. Was I? Had I indeed put sinister interpretations on a perfectly innocent situation? Had I “imagined” Madame DuBois' spying and the dark form in the ruins? Confused, bewildered, I stood up, wanting to be alone. Gavin put his coffee cup down and stepped over to me. He took my hands in his and held them gently.

“Forgive me, Jane. I'm afraid this hasn't been a very satisfactory talk on your part. You look upset.”

“I'm not upset.”

My manner was cold and rigid. Gavin squeezed my hands.

“Everything is going to be all right, you know.”

“Is it?”

“You're going to get well. I intend to see to that. From now on I want you to think of me as your doctor as well as your friend.” Giving my hands another squeeze, he released them and walked with me to the front door. “I can help you, Jane.”

“Can you, Doctor Clark?” I said stiffly.

“Only if you'll let me.”

“I think not. I don't need your help. Jamintha and I can manage without it. Find another blind boy.”

“Jane—” A light frown creased his brow, and there was a worried look in his warm brown eyes. “I—I have to go to London. I thought I'd done all the research necessary, but I find I need to conduct a couple of follow-up interviews before I can finish the chapter I'm working on. I'll be gone for three or four days. I hope you'll have reconsidered by the time I get back. I'm fond of you, Jane, you must know that. Are we still friends?”

“Good-bye, Doctor Clark. I hope you have a pleasant trip.”

I was filled with remorse all weekend long. Gavin had been my friend, the first I had ever had besides Jamintha, and I had turned stiff and cold on him simply because he wanted to help me. He was a doctor, evidently a highly skilled one, even if this new field “psychology”—is that what he had called it?—wasn't generally accepted. Perhaps he
could
help me. I had rejected his offer, and in so doing I had rejected his friendship as well. I brooded about that. I learned from Susie that he had, indeed, left for London Friday afternoon in a hired coach from the village. When he returned perhaps it would be possible to repair the breach my own frigid manner had caused. I wondered if I really were mentally disturbed. I thought about Gavin's quiet, gentle voice and his compassionate brown eyes. Perhaps I
should
put myself in his hands …

It was raining again on Sunday, heavy sheets falling in a steady downpour. I had slept late, and after lunch I found it impossible to sleep. My room was unbearable, the cloying atmosphere depressing. Despite the rain, Charles Danver had gone to the mill, and Susie had informed me that Madame DuBois was staying in her room, suffering from a severe headache. No one would be about. I decided to go down to the drawing room. I could watch the rain through the tall French windows. At least it would be more pleasant than staying here with the walls seeming to press in on me.

I stood at the tall windows, peering through the dripping panes at the rain lashed gardens. I could see the stables, the horses snug and dry in their stalls. I had been standing there silently for over ten minutes when I heard springs creak in one of the chairs and a soft, cushy sound as someone shifted his body. Startled, I whirled around. Brence Danver stared at me from across the room. He was sitting in the shadows, but in the misty light I could see that his face was extremely pale and drawn.

“Hello, Cousin,” he said.

“I—I didn't know you were here.”

“I didn't wish to intrude on your meditation.”

“Nor do I wish to intrude on yours. I'll leave—”

“No need to. Unless you're afraid to stay.”

“Why should I be afraid?”

“I'm the big bad wolf, remember?”

“I find your humor singularly unamusing.”

“Stiff as ever, prim as a maiden aunt. Look, why don't you relax a little. I'm in a friendly mood at the moment. We could chat. I'm glad to see you up and about.”

“I've been up and about for quite some time.”

“Well, anyway, I hope you're feeling better.”

“I feel fine, thank you.” My voice was like ice.

Brence Danver muttered something under his breath, plainly disgusted by my manner. “Forget it,” he said. “I'd as soon talk to a box of starch. You have all the personality of a dressmaker's dummy.”

“I don't have to stay here and be insulted by you.”

“Then get the hell out!”

As I started to leave, I noticed the look in his eyes. It was a sad, defeated look, and he slumped back in the overstuffed chair like a man who has given up all hope. I was strangely moved. Perhaps he actually
wanted
to talk to someone. I walked across the room and took a chair near his, sitting primly with my hands folded in my lap.

“You look ill,” I said.

“Do I? Well, I feel like death if that's any satisfaction.”

“Do you have a hangover?”

“I haven't touched a drop of liquor in four days.”

“Oh?”

“I've decided to give it up! At least I'm gonna try—”

“That's an admirable resolution,” I said primly.

He gave me an exasperated look and ran his hand through his dark hair, further dishevelling it. His blue eyes were cloudy with misery, and he seemed different somehow. I realized, then, what it was. All the fire was gone, that passionate vitality quenched. I knew that sudden withdrawal from alcohol frequently had this effect, but it was more than that. Brence Danver had suffered a deep and grievous disappointment, and it had left its mark on him. He wasn't openly abject, but the dejection was there in the slump of his shoulders, in the tight set of his wide mouth, in the way his large hands gripped the arms of the chair.

“I'm sorry,” I said quietly.

“For what?”

“For what happened with—that woman.”

“You know about that? I suppose you must. Nothing's secret for long in this damned place. I guess the whole village is talkin' about it. Brence Danver's finally had his comeuppance—hooray, bully, bully. Gloat, why don't you?”

“Why should I gloat?”

“Because you must hate my guts. Everyone else does. Don't blame 'em. I'm a pretty despicable guy. Jamintha pointed that out. She told me in no uncertain terms what a shiftless, rotten cad I am. It's true.”

“You—you must have loved her.”

He didn't answer. He glared down at the carpet, his hands gripping the arms of the chair so tightly that the worn velvet bunched up. The desolation in his intense blue eyes was pitiful to behold. I knew that he really had loved her. He had wanted her physically, wanted her in the worst possible way, but it had gone much deeper than that. I think Brence himself was bewildered by the depths of emotion she had aroused. He looked strangely vulnerable, and I felt an overwhelming impulse to caress his pale cheek and assure him all would be well.