Jamintha (8 page)

He stumbled over a rock, crying out in pain, swerving around and flinging his other arm around me to keep from falling. I held him up, my arms around his back, and he clung to me like a child, barely conscious. His head rested on my shoulder, his sagging body flattened against me, both his arms curled tightly around my shoulders. An onlooker would have thought us lovers locked in a passionate embrace, I thought, blushing. I could feel his heart pounding, and his skin seemed to be on fire. Raising his head, Brence Danver winced.

“Sorry, luv,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “You must have hated that.”

“I—are you able to go on?”

“I wish you'd left me there to die,” he muttered.

“Don't be melodramatic,” I said stiffly.

He managed a weak, sarcastic smile and hobbled around to my side again. It was perhaps half an hour before I saw Danver Hall in the distance. I don't think Brence was really conscious. His eyes were closed, and he moved like a sleepwalker in the middle of a feverish nightmare. Holding him tightly, every muscle in my body aching, I staggered on toward the trees that stood like sentinels, separating the gardens from the moor.

I heard a loud retort in the distance, like a door slamming, and in a moment I saw Susie racing toward us, her faded pink skirt billowing like wings, her dark golden hair flying in the wind. Reaching us, she didn't say a word. She took his free arm and swung it around her shoulder, helping me support him. Brence groaned, his dry lips twisting in pain, but he had no idea what was happening. Susie and I got him through the trees and moved him along the flagstone path, past the lily pond, past the vegetable gardens. We paused at the foot of the back steps.

“I was looking out the kitchen windows and saw you coming,” Susie said in a calm voice. “The horse came back alone. I'm not surprised. Master Brence was frightfully tipsy when he took off this afternoon.”

We dragged him up the steps. His ankle knocked against one of them, and he cried out sharply, his body stiffening. Susie opened the back door and we moved him down the hall and into the vast drawing room. A fire was burning in the fireplace. We put Brence on the long green sofa. He sprawled out, sinking heavily against the cushions, the injured ankle dangling over the side.

“Mister Charles is still at the mill,” Susie said. “Madame is in her apartment. Shall I fetch her?”

“I think not,” I said in a firm voice, and I could see that Susie approved. She nodded and moved briskly out of the room.

I lifted his head and arranged a cushion under it. He groaned, jerking his head away, and I wondered why I was so calm, so serene. I should have been crumpling with exhaustion after the ordeal, but I seemed to be charged with energy and determination. Susie returned promptly with a bottle of pure alcohol, cloths, a towel and a blue and black striped satin dressing robe which she must have fetched from his room. Placing the things on a table, she regarded me with a cool, efficient gaze, her hands on her hips.

“If you can manage alone, Miss Jane, I'll take the mare and ride to the village for Doctor Green. I imagine we'll be needing him.”

“Of course,” I said.

She left immediately. A few minutes later I heard a horse galloping around the side of the house. Bending over him, I pulled the damp shirt out of his waistband and shoved it gently up over his chest. Sliding my arm under his broad shoulders and lifting him up, I was able to get the garment over his head, pulling his arms free. I took the towel and dried him off. His naked torso was lean and muscular, his skin a light tan and the texture of silk. I blushed, averting my eyes as much as possible. Brence moaned as I pulled him into a sitting position. Slipping his arms into the sleeves of the robe, I wrapped it around him and tied the sash loosely. In a few moments I had him propped against several cushions and began to remove the boot.

It was difficult. The ankle had swollen. I tugged and pulled, trying not to hurt him any more than was absolutely necessary. He groaned, thrashing his head. I saw that this method wasn't going to work. Gripping the boot firmly, I gave one savage jerk, almost falling over as it came free. Brence Danver screamed in anguish, sitting up with a start, his eyes wide open. He cursed me, using words I had never heard before, and then he fell back against the cushions in a dead faint.

I bathed the foot in alcohol, handling the bruised flesh with care. I wrapped it tightly with one of the cloths Susie had brought. The doctor would bandage it properly later on. Pulling a chair over to the sofa, I sat down beside it and watched him as the clock ticked slowly. He was sleeping peacefully now, and his brow didn't feel so feverish. Almost an hour passed before Susie returned with the doctor.

“It's merely a sprain,” the doctor said, examining the ankle. “He'll be able to walk on it in a day or so.”

“He had a terrible fever—” I began.

“Not at all surprised,” the doctor said brusquely, taking bandages out of his bag. “I can still smell the liquor. How much did he drink, do you know?”

“Almost a bottle.”

“Hmph! He'll kill himself one of these days. He's been warned.”

“Has he—has he always drunk so much?” I asked hesitantly.

“He went on his first binge at seventeen. Hasn't stopped since.”

Doctor Green, at least, was one person who wasn't afraid of the Danvers. He certainly had no reservations about speaking his mind, frankly and without professional niceties. He began to bandage the foot, handling it none too gently. Susie assisted him, and I stood in front of the fireplace, cringing every time the doctor's rough treatment made Brence groan. Doctor Green finished up and began to repack his bag.

“Don't try to move him tonight. Let him sleep it off. He'll feel like hell in the morning, but the worst is over.”

“He'll be all right?”

“Until the next time,” he retorted.

Susie showed the doctor out and returned to the drawing room.

“I'll fetch some blankets and put another log on the fire,” she said. “He'll sleep comfortably the rest of the night. You'd better go on up to your room now, Miss Jane. You must be exhausted.”

“Yes. I—I suppose I am.”

I went to my room. I washed and changed into a fresh dress. As I brushed my hair and braided it, I seemed to be in a trance. I was suffused with new sensations that seemed to glow inside. I tried to ignore them. I tried to deny them. It was futile. Bewildered, alarmed, completely horrified, I realized that I had fallen in love with Brence Danver.

CHAPTER FIVE

A week passed. I did not see him even once. He had not dined with us, but I knew that he was up and about. Susie had informed me of this, adding that his ankle was as good as new and no one would guess he'd ever sprained it. It was a long week, and during those days I mastered my emotions, banishing the love I couldn't deny. It was a futile love, and I had enough good sense to realize it. It was still there, still very much alive, but it would be kept deeply inside. Perhaps, if I were lucky, it would suffocate and vanish entirely. Cool, reserved, prim, I would never allow myself to acknowledge it again.

When it was not raining, I walked on the moors, frequently staying away for several hours, and when the weather would not permit it I stayed in my room re-reading the few books I had brought with me. I was restless, and I was lonely. Susie was a bright, cheerful companion, but she took her duties seriously and they kept her occupied most of the day. Charles Danver and I dined together every night, and there was a strained politeness between us. He found me dull and uninteresting and made little effort to conceal it. I avoided Helene DuBois whenever possible. I felt that the woman was constantly spying on me, and I couldn't understand why. What did she expect me to do?

It was raining on Monday morning. Susie brought in my breakfast and stayed a while to chatter about Johnny. She had seen him the night before, and I knew that she must have slipped out of the house to do so. She admitted as much, saying that what she did after hours was her own business and those as didn't like it could lump it. Johnny waited for her in his wagon in the woods just beyond Danver Hall. Her lively brown eyes were full of anticipation as she described the Danver County fair that was to be held in just a few weeks' time. There would be tents and booths and a wooden dance floor and a bonfire and ever so many exciting things to see and do. Johnny was going to take her,
if
he behaved himself in the meantime. If not, she would go with Randy Stevens. Randy had smouldering brown eyes and wavy black hair and an attractive smile and was, actually, a much better catch than Johnny, though he was sometimes hard to manage.

“Will you be going to the fair, Miss Jane?” she inquired, brushing a lock of dark golden hair from her temple.

“I don't imagine so,” I replied.

“Mister Charles will be there, of course. He's one of the judges. And Master Brence
always
goes. He'll probably get into another fight, like he did last year. You really should go, Miss Jane. You'd enjoy it, I know, and it'd do you
good
.”

I made no comment. I listened to the rain splattering on the rooftop and spilling off the eaves. It was a monotonous sound, depressing. Susie sensed my mood. She frowned, concerned.

“Are you going to stay in your room again today?” she asked, gathering up the breakfast things. “All that reading! It'd drive me stark raving mad, an' that's no lie.”

“I've run out of things to read,” I said.

“Lands! There must be
millions
of books in the library. No one ever reads 'em.”

“I didn't know Danver Hall had a library.”

“Oh, it's closed up. Filled with dust and cobwebs. Mister Charles doesn't care anything about it, and as for Master Brence—can you imagine
him
with a book in his hand? There are over thirty rooms in the house, you know, more than half of 'em closed up, dust covers over all the furniture. Who's there to keep 'em
up
, I'd like to know? Cook and I have a hard time as it is.”

“I'd like to see the library.”

“Spooky place,” Susie said, tray in hand.

She gave me directions and informed me I'd have to obtain the key from Madame DuBois. After Susie had gone, I finished my ablutions and changed into a dark blue dress, finally leaving the room. I eventually located Madame DuBois in the drawing room. She looked up sharply as I entered.

“Yes?” she said coldly.

“I'd like the key to the library,” I told her.

“The library? I'm afraid it's closed up, Miss Danver. No one uses it any longer.”

“I'm aware of that. The key, please.”

“I'm sure your uncle wouldn't want you prowling around in there,” she said in a cold, level voice. “It could even be dangerous. The woodwork has rotted. The galleries aren't safe.”

“I'm afraid I must insist you give me the key.”

She hesitated, wanting to defy me, not certain how far she should go. She was in full make-up and her dress, an apple green taffeta with beige velvet ribbons, was frilly, old fashioned and madly unsuitable for a housekeeper. She was a bizarre figure, yet there was a hard, steely quality that couldn't be ignored. I wondered what my guardian could possibly see in her. Perhaps her chief attraction was one of availability. She was on hand, convenient. Or was it something else? Could she possibly have some hold over him?

Helene DuBois took the key from her ring and handed it to me.

“I would advise you to be careful, Miss Danver,” she said. “There could easily be an accident. The galleries are rotten, as I have said. The wooden columns that helped support them were removed years ago. The shelves are no longer sturdy, either. They could topple over.”

“Thank you for warning me,” I replied.

I could feel her watching me as I left the room.

The library was on the west side of the house, in the front corner of the main portion. I shivered as I moved down a long, icy corridor. This section was obviously closed up, plaster flaking from the unpapered walls, the sour smell of dust and mildew in the air. I turned a corner and located the huge mahogany doors. The lock was rusty, and it was some time before I could get the key to turn. The doors finally swung slowly open with a loud, raspy creak as I pushed them all the way back and stepped inside. I stared at the room in amazement.

It was enormous, three stories high, three walls composed entirely of bookshelves that loomed all the way up to the ceiling. The shelves were solidly packed with heavy, musty books, thousands upon thousands, and there were two wooden galleries running around them, one on the second floor level, one on the third. On the fourth side of the room was a huge black marble fireplace, tall windows on either side of it. The dusty purple drapes were opened, a feeble amount of light coming in. The furniture was covered with sheets, the white cloth gray with age and dust, and cobwebs hung from two large brass chandeliers dangling midway between ceiling and floor. The air was fetid, musty, and there was an odor of damp leather and glue and yellowing paper and dust, dust everywhere.

I knew this room.

There was something in the air, a thick, heavy atmosphere almost palpable, and it had an immediate effect on me. My pulses leaped, and then they seemed to vanish altogether, leaving me in a numb, trance-like state. A voice was speaking to me, felt, not heard, and I strained, listening, trying to comprehend. I stared at the walls of books, shelves sagging under their weight, and I seemed to be staring through a wavering, semi-transparent veil.
You know
, the voice said,
remember, remember
, and then I saw the little girl with a handful of stars and I felt dizzy and I saw the set of books bound in battered tan and brown leather. Gibbon.
The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire
. The images flashed in my mind, taunting me, dissolving before I could grasp them.