Jamintha

by Wilde, Jennifer;

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  Jamintha

  Jennifer Wilde writing as Beatrice Parker

  CHAPTER ONE

  I tried to banish the apprehension. There was no reason to feel this way, no reason at all, yet the nervous uneasiness remained as the ancient coach rattled over the rough terrain, bringing me nearer and nearer to Danmoor. I was the only passenger. A lumpy burlap bag filled with mail occupied the seat across from me. Danmoor was remote, isolated on the edge of the moors, and the mail coach made but one trip a week. I had been fortunate to make the connection. Clutching the edge of the seat to lessen the joggling, I stared out the windows at the desolate countryside, bleak gray and brown with patches of tarry black bog and a few gnarled green trees. It was like the rim of the world, barren, disturbing, filled with menace.

  I couldn’t believe this was really happening. A month ago I had graduated at the head of my class. The boarding school was austere and strict, but it had been home to me for eleven long years. My uncle had provided the money, true, but I had had no communication with him during all that time. He was a complete stranger. I had assumed I would find some sort of employment after graduation, and the summons had come as a complete surprise: “Expecting you at Danver Hall September 12. Fare enclosed. Charles Danver.” That was all, and now I was on my way to a house I could not remember.

  Even though I had spent the first seven years of my life there, Danver Hall remained shrouded in mist in my memory. I could not recall it, no matter how hard I concentrated. Whenever I tried to remember those early years, the headaches came, the throbbing, the quivering nerves and the fear. Why should I be afraid? Why should I be gripped with apprehension even now? It did not make sense, and I considered myself a very sensible young woman.

  I was eighteen years old. I had no illusions about myself. I realized that I would never be pretty with my pale face, blue-gray eyes and drab brown hair worn in tight braids on top of my head. I was plain, a dull, unremarkable girl with prim mannerisms, but I was intelligent, and I was sensible. Why, then, did my wrists feel weak, and why did I have this hollow sensation in the pit of my stomach? Why did Danver Hall represent a threat when it should represent a refuge? I could not understand it.

  Danver Hall had been built over two hundred years ago by one of my ancestors. It had eventually passed into the hands of my father, as had the textile mill that provided the main means of livelihood for the citizens of Danmoor. I had been born in the house. Seven years later both my parents had been killed in a freak accident when part of the decayed west wing collapsed on them, and my uncle had inherited the house and the mill. He sent me away to school. The summons was the first direct communication I had had from him in eleven years.

  The coach clattered over a particularly nasty rut, tossing me against the dusty cushions. The bag of mail tumbled to the floor with a dull thud, the contents rustling crisply. I smoothed the skirt of my dark blue dress and wiped a smudge of dust from my cheek, hoping my trunk fastened on top of the coach hadn’t been knocked down. Sighing deeply, I made an effort to compose myself. It wouldn’t do to arrive in Danmoor ruffled and disturbed. I must remain cool, in complete possession of myself.

  I must accept facts.

  My schooldays were over. I was entering upon a new phase of life, and I must adjust myself to whatever might come. I was penniless, an orphan. I had received my schooling only through the charity of my uncle. I had no recourse but to obey his will. The past eleven years were gone. I did not regret leaving the school with its dark brown walls and icy corridors, the lumpy dormitory beds and hard wooden chairs. I would not miss the tasteless food or the odors of dust and chalk and flushed bodies, nor would I miss the stern mistresses or the giggling girls who took such delight in teasing me. They never let me forget that I was an orphan, never let me forget my pale, plain face and the coronet of tight, ugly brown braids. I was dull Jane Danver, the bookworm, the prude, reading Virgil in the original while they chattered about ribbons and the delivery boys. I had been miserable, yes, but I had adjusted to the misery and there had been a certain security in it. Now that security was gone … I was cast adrift, heading for the unknown.

  If only Jamintha could be with me.

  She was my only friend. Opposites attract, they say, and Jamintha and I were as different as it would be possible for two young women to be, yet we had been close for eleven years. Whenever I was glum, whenever I was tired and depressed and suffering from one of the incessant headaches, Jamintha was there, a capricious sprite, her silvery laughter tinkling merrily, her irrepressible spirits putting me to shame and helping me forget my worries. I could depend on her. I could never have survived those long years without her. Would I ever see her again?

  I thought about her promise that last night. I wondered if she would keep it.

  I had been in my narrow room, staring at the shabby, brass bound trunk that took up most of the floor space. It was already packed, and I would be leaving first thing in the morning. The candle spluttered, casting wavering gold shadows on the damp brown wall. The other girls were asleep in their own rooms, but I was too upset, too excited to sleep. My head was throbbing, and I was dry-eyed, unable to shed the tears that would have provided some release. Shivering in my thin chemise, I watched the shadows dancing on the walls and listened to the silence that filled the dormitory. The candle flickered. There was a rustle of silken skirts. Jamintha crept into my room, a finger over her lips, her blue eyes filled with mischief. She stood by the trunk, listening, and then she laughed her merry, irreverent laugh.

  “I had to come,” she said. “I had to tell you goodbye. Oh Jane, are you really leaving this place?”

  I nodded glumly.

  “You’re lucky,” she replied. “I think it’s ever so exciting. It’ll be an adventure. Who knows what interesting things might happen? You may even meet a dashing young man and fall in love.”

  “There’s not much chance of that,” I said primly.

  “Oh, Jane, you infuriate me, always belittling yourself. You’ve got ever so many nice features—you’re pretty in fact. All you need is a little sparkle, a little vitality. If only you weren’t so proper, so humorless—”

  “I could never be like you,” I said.

  “But you could be,” she insisted.

  I shook my head, staring at her in the dim, flickering candlelight. Jamintha was everything I wasn’t. She was everything I wanted to be. With her long, lustrous hair and sparkling blue eyes, she was undeniably beautiful. We were the same age, and both of us were orphans. We were the same size, too, and could wear the same dresses, but whereas Jamintha looked like a princess in her flowered silks, I looked like someone in drab masquerade. She radiated vitality and health, a bright, merry creature who found life a joyous adventure even in the dreary confines of the school. I had poor health, and I rarely smiled.

  She whirled around, her silk skirt billowing over rustling petticoats. The dress was light blue, patterned with pink and lilac flowers. The bodice fit snugly over her full breasts and narrow waist. Rich chestnut curls fell to her shoulders, and her cheeks were flushed a delicate pink. I could see that she had some mischief in mind as she peered into the small, murky blue mirror that hung beside the door.

  “It’s terribly late,” I said. “Why are you dressed? You should be in bed—”

  “Pox on their silly rules and regulations,” she retorted. “I’m going to see Billy. He’s meeting me on the other side of the wall.”

  “You’re slipping out again? If they should catch you—”

  “To hell with them,” Jamintha said sweetly. “The
y haven’t caught me yet, have they? I’m very careful. Besides, Billy and I don’t do anything wicked. He takes me to the music halls, and occasionally I let him steal a kiss. I’m quite as virginal as you are, Jane, although I’m not so smug about it.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t use such language.”

  Jamintha smiled her pixie smile, delighted to have shocked me. I felt gauche and naive in her presence. Although she was only eighteen, although her life here at school had been as strict and closely supervised as my own had, Jamintha was surprisingly sophisticated. It was as though she had been born with a worldly knowledge I could never hope to possess. She was dazzling. I would pass unnoticed, but men would be unable to resist Jamintha. I felt no envy, just great admiration.

  “I’ll miss you,” I said. “I don’t know what I’ll do without you, Jamintha.”

  “Just be glad you’re leaving this dreadful school. If Charles Dickens were still alive he’d write an exposé of the place! Imagine living in such bleak, airless rooms and eating such incredible food—it’s deplorable!”

  “I’m afraid,” I whispered.

  “Nonsense!”

  “I’ll have no one to confide in. You’re the only friend I’ve ever had, the only one who—”

  “I know,” she interrupted, her lovely eyes serious. “We’ve been closer than sisters, Jane. It’s meant as much to me as it has to you.”

  “What will become of you now?” I inquired. “You’ve graduated, too. Will you become a governess? Will you—”

  “I haven’t the slightest notion,” she retorted. “I’ll get by. I may even come to Danmoor.”

  “Why in the world would you do a thing like that?”

  “To look after you, ninny. We need each other.”

  “If only you could come—”

  Jamintha perched on the edge of the bed, lifting her skirts up to examine her pretty blue slippers. She avoided my eyes, but I could tell from her voice that she was as touched as I, as sad and disheartened.

  “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 scowl
ed, 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.