Jamintha (23 page)

“She threw me over,” he said bitterly, “but at least I got somethin' out of it. I got some pretty grim insights.”

“Did you?”

“She held a mirror up. I saw myself for the first time.”

“That's why you've given up drinking?”

“I just realized I couldn't go on like this. I'm twenty-six years old! I gotta do somethin' with my life. Drinkin' and wenchin' and gettin' into fights—” He shook his head savagely. “My father, I think he's
glad
I'm the way I am. He can feel superior. His wastrel son presents no threat. He makes loud noises of protest, but—hell, why'm I tellin'
you
all this! You couldn't possibly understand.”

“Perhaps I do. You—you want to reform so that you can win her back. Isn't that it?”

He laughed a harsh, ugly laugh. “Win her back! I wouldn't have her! She's a—I couldn't
tell
you what she is, Cousin. You'd have a fit of vapors and topple right out of that chair. She tossed me over all right, and do you know why? Because she's after my father. They're probably together right now.”

I lowered my eyes, making no comment.

“I loved her, dammit! I still do. I hate her. I'd like to choke her to death, but I still—” His voice broke. He sat in moody silence for several minutes, staring across the room.

“You'll get over it, Brence,” I said in a timid voice.

“Damned right I will! I don't intend to sit around and mope. Tomorrow I'm going to go to the mill. Charles Danver doesn't know it, but I'm going to take over. He's had things his way long enough!”

“Aren't you—afraid of him?”

“I think maybe I was. I'm not any longer! I've made a shambles of my life so far, but that doesn't mean I can't change. He'll raise hell, he'll kick and holler and use all his power to try 'n stop me when he finds out what I intend to do, but that won't matter. The way he runs the place—the way he treats those men—all that's gonna be different, I promise you. If he gets rough, I can get rough too!”

There was a strong resolution in his voice, a determined look in his eyes. Anger had done it. The dejection was gone, vanished as though it had never been, and all the old fire had returned, that intense vitality charging through him once again. I believed he'd succeed. I visualized violent arguments, heated conferences, perhaps even a full scale strike. Once they realized his intentions, the men were sure to rally round Brence. Charles Danver was going to have a fight on his hands, all right, and when it was over, when the final smoke had cleared, I wouldn't be at all surprised to see his son in complete command of the helm. If ever a man breathed fire and brimstone, Brence Danver did now.

“Things're gonna be different,” he said grimly.

He might not ever realize it, and he would certainly never acknowledge it, but he owed Jamintha a debt of gratitude. She had succeeded where all else had failed. She had taken a surly, self-centered youth and made a man of him.

Brence sighed, controlling the anger, forcing it deep down where it would remain for a long, long time, fuel for his purpose. He looked up at me, staring intently as though seeing me for the first time. I grew uneasy, discomfited by that intense blue gaze scrutinizing me so closely. He knitted his dark eyebrows together, the corners of his mouth turning up in tight points.

“I feel better,” he said sternly, “damned if I don't! Just talking to you helped me get things straight in my mind. You know, Cousin, I think I've underestimated you.”

“Indeed?”

“There's something there besides sawdust and starch, after all. This is the first time—hell, this is the first time I've ever felt a woman
understood
me.”

An elation welled up inside of me, a joy that seemed to make my whole body light and airy. He was still studying my face with that rude, intense scrutiny, and although my cheeks must have been brushed with a faint pink glow I managed to control that bubbling elation and smother it almost immediately. I was plain Cousin Jane. That's how he would always see me.

“Is it?” My voice was cool and reserved.

“Jamintha didn't. She was toying with me. The others—they're not worth mentioning! I feel you
know
me, Cousin. I feel you're on my side. God knows why, after the way I've treated you.”

“You needn't apologize.”

“I am, though. I think maybe you and I could be friends, Cousin. I need a friend at this point.”

“I—I'd like that.”

Brence climbed slowly to his feet, stretching his arms out and throwing his shoulders back, that glorious vitality surging through him, sending off currents. He wore tight gray trousers and a loose white silk shirt that sagged at the waistband where it had been carelessly tucked in. Black boot leather gleamed darkly, and I could feel the warmth of his body, feel the energy charging through it. There was a smell of shaving lotion and the musky odor exclusive to the male. Sitting there in the armchair, so close I could have reached out and touched his leg, I drew back, afraid of the emotions his nearness aroused, afraid he might detect them in my face.

“Right, then,” he said amiably, “we'll be good chums.”

“Right,” I whispered.

Brence smiled. Curling one hand into a fist, he tapped me lightly on the chin, shook his head and sauntered out of the room. I sat there for a long time watching the rain sliver down the window panes. I felt very, very cold inside. That friendly tap of his had demonstrated far better than anything else could have the futility of my true feelings for him.

He wanted a good chum.

I wondered what had transpired this past week, how Jamintha had handled Charles Danver, what she had said to Brence to cause him to harbor such deep resentment and pain. I was soon to find out, for when I woke up the next morning another letter had been slipped under the door.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Jane dear,

I hesitate to write this, for I know you'll be shocked by the things I'm about to relate. You live in a safe, secure, tight cocoon, protected by that hard shell, but I'm the butterfly who has burst out. I must fly. I must test my wings. It's delicious, this freedom, this marvelous pure air that allows me to soar … There is danger, yes, but I still prefer it to your cocoon, Jane. But enough. I must tell you about this past week and the new developments.

As I told you in my last letter, Charles Danver was to call on me Monday afternoon. I knew it would be a decisive meeting, and I was prepared. It had rained all morning, and the afternoon was bleak and gloomy, a world of gray. I turned on no lamps in the parlor. Calmly, I waited for the sound of a carriage in the street outside, the creak of the gate opening, the heavy tread of footsteps on the porch. That calm may seem unusual under the circumstances, but it was the result of complete confidence in myself … and in him.

I wore a violet silk dress with long sleeves and a low, tight bodice, the skirt spreading out below the snug waist like the petals of a flower. My hair was pulled back from my face, fastened behind each temple with a black velvet bow, glossy curls tumbling down in rich waves to the small of my back. I wore a subtle, tantalizing perfume, and there was a touch of coral on my lips. In the blurry silver mirror, my eyes were violet, not blue, and I knew that Charles Danver was going to find me irresistible.

At three o'clock he opened the gate and stepped to the door. I let him knock several times before I opened it. Then, smiling pleasantly, I led him into that parlor so faintly lighted. Moving gracefully, skirt making a silken rustle, I poured brandy from a crystal decanter and handed the glass to him. Neither of us had spoken a word.

He sipped the brandy, staring at me with hard, dark eyes, his face set in stern lines, brows almost meeting over the bridge of his nose, eyelids heavy. I noticed the fleshiness, those too padded cheeks, the little roll of flesh beneath his chin, curiously attractive, adding to an already highly sensual face. He wore a black broadcloth suit, the trousers tucked into the tops of shiny black boots that ended mid-calf; above his jacket the too-elaborate waistcoat of silver satin patterned with embroidered black silk leaves could be seen. He had dressed for the meeting as carefully as I had, the male peacock displaying rich plumage to attract the pea hen. His thick black hair was casually disarrayed. He had a potent, leathery smell, and there was the elusive, unmistakable smell of physical desire. The tenseness was there as well, that slight tightening of the muscles that indicates masculine need.

He set the empty glass down and took a slender black cigar out of his breast pocket. Taking a long match from a jar on the overmantle, I struck it and held the flame for him. He lit the cigar and slowly exhaled tendrils of pale smoke.

“Who are you?” he asked in a ponderous voice.

“I'm the woman your son loves.”

“You're not the schoolmaster's sister.”

“No.”

“I checked that. A few discreet inquiries were all that was necessary. He has a sister, all right, but she's thirty-four years old, pale, skinny and devoted to church work.”

“Hardly the type Brence would find interesting,” I said. There was a faintly mocking amusement in my voice.

“Who are you?” he repeated harshly.

“Jamintha.”

“No last name?”

“Is one really necessary, Mr. Danver?”

“I'll tell you who you are: you're an adventuress. Your mystery shouldn't be too difficult to guess. A man. Perhaps several. You found it necessary to leave the city rather hastily—perhaps to avoid an open scandal, perhaps to avoid involvement in a lawsuit. Or maybe your lover discovered you in some kind of deceit and you simply fled. You came to Danmoor because it's isolated and no one would be likely to look for you in a place like this. Am I right?”

“You could be,” I replied.

“You soon discovered that there was only one young man in town worthy of your interest—my son. You learned that he was spoiled, with a deplorable weakness for women, and you set about ensnaring him.”

“He made the first move, Mr. Danver.”

“I've no doubt you arranged that. You're clever. Women like you are always clever.”

“You've had experience with women like me?”

“In my day,” he retorted gruffly.

“I can well imagine that,” I said.

He looked at me sharply, angry, disturbed. Smiling, I sat down on the sofa, spreading my skirt out. He took a long drag on the cigar and then hurled it into the fireplace. I touched my hair, running my fingers through the glossy chestnut curls. He stared at me. He was an imposing figure, a man who took what he wanted with brutal disregard for others, but I knew I had nothing to fear.

“I wield a great deal of power, young woman. I could have you run out of town. I could have charges brought against you.”

“I don't think you'll do that.”

“Damn you! If you imagine you can—” He cut himself short, smothering the spurt of rage. He smouldered, fighting the emotions he felt stirring so strongly inside. Charles Danver is a passionate man, but he has learned to master those passions, unlike Brence. Cold, calculating, he knows the value of restraint, and I'll wager he has never once acted on impulse. He's too careful, always in control of himself.

“My son claims he's asked you to marry him. He said you'd refused him. Is that true?”

“Quite true.”

“Why? I'd imagine it's one of the few times a man's offered to make an honest woman of you. Your kind—men don't marry your kind. They keep you in perfumed apartments on the Embankment. My son will one day be an extremely wealthy man. Why did you refuse him?”

“Because, Mr. Danver, you son is, as you say, weak and spoiled. He is a boy. I'm not interested in surly little boys.”

“No?”

“No,” I said quietly.

His chest swelled. The muscles of his face were taut. His powerful hands opened and closed stiffly. I met his stare with a level gaze, and I could feel the tension crackling in the air like a static force. His forehead was slightly damp, and the palms of his hands were moist. A weaker man would have already made some overt gesture, would have crushed me into his arms with clumsy force, but Charles Danver is not weak. That steely control remained. He smiled an icy, sarcastic smile.

“Did you actually believe you could ensnare me too?” His voice was as hard as granite.

“I don't believe anyone could do that, Mr. Danver.”

The lie went over well. He felt assured of himself, and of victory. I was, after all, a weak, frail woman in a violet dress, and he was the strong, invincible male, accustomed to command, made to dominate and control.
He
would make the first move.
He
would make the decisions, lay down the rules, and I would obey, meek, submissive, feminine. He knew that I found him attractive. What he did not know was that I could predict his every move. Women know by instinct what most men never learn after a lifetime of experience.

“I'm not a boy,” he said huskily.

“I'm well aware of that.” My voice was deliberately shaky.

“What kind of game are you playing?”

“Is it—is it so strange that I find you—interesting? I—I saw you driving to the mill in your carriage. Your face was so stern. You held the reins so firmly. You were wearing a check suit that day, and the wind blew your hair across your eyes. I found out who you were. I knew it would be impossible to meet you under normal circumstances—”

“So you used my son. You knew I'd never tolerate—” He nodded, seeing it all now, imagining the young woman standing on the street and seeing him drive past, immediately enamored. His ego swelled and he felt younger than he had felt in years, stronger, a potent young buck despite the thickening waist and the faint double chin.

“You have every reason to despise me,” I continued in a wavering voice. “I—I won't see Brence again. You needn't worry.”