Jamintha (4 page)

“There was no inconvenience. Johnny was quite kind.”

Her thin nostrils flared. “A most undesirable specimen. I endeavored to employ him to keep the stables clean, and he had the audacity to refuse. It's just as well, I suppose, with Susie around. She's no better than she should be, either, but then it's impossible to find decent servants nowadays.”

“Indeed?” I said coolly.

“We have only three. Susie, of course, and Cook, and the gardener, but he just comes twice a week.”

“And yourself,” I added, unable to restrain myself.

Her expression did not alter, but I could see that I had struck home. Her heavy eyelids narrowed ever so slightly. She was trying to decide if my comment had been a deliberate insult.

“You
are
my uncle's housekeeper, are you not?”

“That is correct,” she answered stiffly.

“Then would you kindly inform him that I have arrived.”

“He has retired for the night. He will see you in the morning. Susie will be down in a few moments and will show you to your room. Is there anything you require in the meantime?”

“No, thank you. The driver stopped at an inn along the way, and I had a quite sufficient meal.”

She had not mentioned feeding me. My words were a veiled reprimand of her thoughtlessness. She sensed it.

“Very good,” she replied.

She stared at me for a few seconds more, the dark eyes flat, and then she left, her stiff taffeta skirt rustling. I had made an enemy of the woman, but I really didn't care. For all my timidity, I had a dreadful temper and could be as sharp-tongued and acid as the best of them. Her comments about Johnny and the maid had infuriated me, and I couldn't help resist putting Madame DuBois in her place. I might be sorry for it later on, but at the moment I was pleased to have scored a point.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Susie came down, rubbing her backside and looking peeved. Johnny was right behind her, his grin wider than ever. Susie dismissed him in imperious tones and informed him that he needn't expect to see her on her next afternoon off as she wanted nothing more to do with such an uncivilized and
grabby
individual.

“I reckon you'll be comin' 'round, all right,” he said lazily. “I'll be waitin', luv.”

“Off with you!” she snapped impatiently, holding the door open.

Johnny shambled outside, chuckling to himself. Susie closed the door firmly and tossed her head, dark golden curls bouncing.

“I guess I showed
him
,” she said. “Just because he has the most maddening blue eyes, he thinks he can take any liberty he's a-mind to. I told him off proper, I did. Isn't he glorious, Miss Jane? Have you ever
seen
such shoulders?”

“Johnny is a very pleasant lad,” I agreed.

“He's a prize, all right, though I wouldn't tell
him
that. He's conceited enough as it is! Those village hussies flock around him something awful, and he just stands there with a grin, soaking it all in. I have to keep my eye on him constantly!”

Susie pushed the curtain aside from one of the windows and peeked out, watching her lover drive away in his creaking wagon. After a moment she let the curtain fall back in place and turned around, smiling a pensive smile. There was a rapturous look in her eyes as she thought secret thoughts.

“Madame has gone, I see,” she said, coming back down to earth. “She loathes Johnny. He came to call on me one day and she told him to go sweep out the stables! He told
her
he owned his own farm and she could bloody well do it herself. She almost fainted!”

“She has forbidden you to see him?”

“She would if she could,” Susie replied airily, “but she doesn't dare. I'd quit, and she'd never be able to replace me. I'm a treasure, you see, and what's more, no one from the village will work here. They're afraid of Charles Danver and Son.”

“You're not from the village?”

“Do I
look
like a country bumpkin?” she asked, offended. “No, indeed. I was born and raised on Whitechapel Road. Cook and I both are from London. Mister Charles brought us here three years ago—I was fifteen at the time. The gardener is a local man, but he only comes twice a week and never steps foot inside the house. I imagine you're weary, Miss Jane,” she continued, changing the subject. “You must be eager to see your room.”

Susie chattered blithely as we climbed the curving stairs. She led the way down a long, wide hall, through a shorter one and then down a flight of narrow stairs that brought us to the ground floor again. I found it impossible to get my bearings. Gas lights burned in sconces here and there along the way, but they did little to alleviate the gloom. This section of the house was even colder than the front hall, and there was an icy draft, as though several windows had been left open.

“Aren't we moving toward the west wing?” I inquired, not trusting my sense of direction.

Susie nodded. “Mister Charles and Master Brence live in the east wing, and Madame felt you'd be better satisfied on this side of the house. Master Brence frequently comes in late, you see, and—well,
noisy
. You won't be disturbed over here.”

“I see.”

“Your room's ever so cozy. When I learned you were coming, I fixed it up myself.”

The draft grew stronger and stronger. Both our skirts were fluttering now, and the gas lights were wavering beneath their globes, casting frenzied shadows across the wall. The hall was intersected by another one leading directly into the west wing. As we passed it, I could see the ruined walls, the fallen stones and patches of moonlit sky where the ceilings had caved in. Susie paused for a moment, and we stared at the ruined wing. The wind eddied around the broken walls and jumbled heaps of stone, whistling loudly, raising clouds of dust. Susie's hair flew about her face, and she reached for my hand, squeezing it.

“Why—why haven't they closed it off?” I said, my voice barely audible over the soaring wind.

Susie shook her head, indicating that she had no idea.

Standing there in the wind, I thought of what had happened eleven years ago. My mother, my father—strangers whose faces I couldn't remember—had been buried beneath that rubble. There had been an explosion … In the back of my mind I could hear the noise, the low rumble, the crash as stones began to fall. I shivered, holding Susie's hand tightly.

As we moved on down the hall, the gusts of cold air were not as fierce as before. There was an abrupt turn, and the narrow back hall began, leading back toward the east. Susie opened the door of a corner room and led me inside.

“My own room's just a short way down the back hall,” she said, “near the servants' stairs. We're rather isolated, but I think you'll be glad. You—you won't be
scared
, will you?”

“Of course not,” I said primly.

“I'm not. There are noises—footsteps, like someone prowling among the rubble—but I have enough sense to know it's only the wind. Folks say the west wing's haunted and the ghosts prowl at night, but that's a lot of foolishness.”

“I'm sure it is,” I replied.

My room was small and pleasant. A fire burned cozily in the marble fireplace, lusty orange flames devouring the charred logs, and lamps glowed. A tattered Aubusson carpet covered the floor, the pink and lilac patterns faded, and the wainscotting had been painted white, a light blue paper above. A blue and lilac canopy draped over the enormous four poster, and there was a small desk and an immense wardrobe. All three had been recently painted white. There was even an overstuffed chair of nap-worn velvet with a lamp hanging from the ceiling beside it with a blue and red stained glass shade. A big mirror in ornate, tarnished gold frame tilted over an elegant white dresser, and one long, wide window faced the back of the house, billowing sky blue curtains hanging before it.

“It was terribly gloomy before,” Susie admitted. “Everything was dark and solemn. I used lots of white paint—took me days to do it—and sewed the canopy and curtains myself. I'm very handy with a needle.”

“That was very thoughtful of you. Susie. The room is charming.”

“I pictured the kind of room
I
would like to have and then set to work. Madame was all too happy to turn it over to me.
She
certainly didn't intend to put herself out to make things pleasant.”

“I—had the impression she didn't like me,” I said hesitantly, fully aware that I shouldn't be discussing it with the maid.

“Oh, she doesn't like anyone,” Susie said flippantly. “Besides Mister Charles, that is. She likes
him
all right. She has her own apartment in the east wing. Mighty convenient, if you know what I mean.”

I did, but I made no comment.

“She doesn't even get along with Master Brence, but then that's understandable. I avoid him myself. He pulled me into the pantry just once—I was barely sixteen—and he was mighty surprised at the reception he got. There was a terrible bruise on his shin, and he hobbled around with a limp for a week afterward. I could'uv been sacked, of course, but he didn't tell his father about it. He's never bothered me since, either.”

I knelt to loosen the straps of my trunk, not really surprised by what she had told me. Brence Danver was obviously a blighter, and pretty housemaids were the natural prey of such men, though Susie, it seemed, was perfectly capable of fending for herself. Master Brence would present no problem as far as I was concerned. Men don't clutch at pale, plain young women with prim mannerisms and coronets of tight braids. My cousin would probably find it hard even to be civil.

Susie helped me unpack. Together we took out my simple, rather drab dresses. All were in shades of gray and blue, tan and brown, only one or two even halfway attractive. Susie was disappointed, expecting to see a grand wardrobe. She hung the dresses in the large wardrobe, and we took out the petticoats and plain white cotton underclothes. There were no silk stockings, no velvet furbelows, no fancy patent leather shoes. My clothes were like me, plain and unexciting.

“Have you no party dresses?” Susie asked as we finished.

“There were no occasions to wear them at school,” I said.

“Surely you had holidays—”

“I spent my holidays at school.”

“That's sad,” Susie said quietly. “You haven't had much fun, have you, Miss Jane?”

“My uncle enabled me to receive a fine education,” I replied. “I speak French fluently and read Latin. I'm familiar with all the classics, and I am an authority on eighteenth-century French history.”

“Fiddlesticks!” she retorted, completely unimpressed. “That'll never help you get a fellow.”

“I'm not interested in beaux,” I said, beginning to find the girl's familiarity a bit trying.

“Sure you are,” Susie persisted. “Every girl is. Didn't you meet any fellows at that school?”

“We were kept under strict supervision.”

“Ha! That wouldn't-a stopped
me
.”

It hadn't stopped Jamintha either, I thought, remembering the escapades she had described with such delight. How many times had she slipped over the wall? How many times had she crept into my room, dreamy-eyed and smiling a weary smile? Had I secretly envied her? Had I wished I had the spirit to live with boldness and dash? Of course not, I told myself, arranging the dresses on their hangers and closing the wardrobe door. I was too cool and rational not to see the folly of such conduct.

“You
could
get a beau if you wanted one, Miss Jane,” Susie said quietly. “You have very nice features.”

“I'm sure you mean well, Susie, but I have no illusions about myself. Mirrors don't lie.”

My voice was stiff and formal, discouraging any further comments, but Susie was undeterred.

“Those braids are far too severe,” she remarked. “Your hair should fall in loose, natural waves, framing your face. I could do wonders with you. A new hairstyle, a bit of powder, a spot of rouge—”

“That will be quite enough, Susie,” I said sharply. “What are we to do with this trunk?”

“There's an empty wardrobe down the hall. I sometimes keep my mops and dust rags there. It's more than big enough to hold the trunk.”

Empty now, the trunk was still heavy, and Susie found it difficult to lift. I went over to help her, dropping my formal manner. The girl was a lively, amiable creature, naturally enthusiastic. She had meant no harm. I was sorry I had been so harsh.

Together we carried the trunk a few yards down the back hall to where the old mahogany wardrobe stood. The varnish was peeling, and the piece was so large that it almost blocked the passage. Susie tugged on the knob, trying to open it, but moisture had caused the wood to swell and the door was stuck. It was only after several minutes of frantic pulling that it finally swung open, creaking on its hinges. We stored the trunk inside, closed the heavy door and returned to my room.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Susie inquired.

“Everything seems to be in order,” I replied.

“The backstairs lead directly down into the kitchen,” she told me. “Cook never locks anything up. Perhaps I could fetch you a snack, a glass of milk, maybe—”

“No, thank you, Susie. When is breakfast served?”

“No one ever has breakfast together,” she told me. “Cook and I arrange trays and carry them in. I'll bring yours when I wake you up.”

“That will be fine.”

“Welcome to Danver Hall, Miss Jane,” she said.

The girl executed a clumsy curtsy and left the room, pulling the door shut behind her. I had been eager to be rid of her, but now that she was gone the room seemed curiously forlorn. I stood quietly for a few minutes, trying to master my emotions. I was alone at last, and that was when the sadness came, when the panic seemed to well up and threaten to overcome me. I knew I couldn't give way to it. I knew I had to cope, but it was going to be extremely difficult.