Jamintha

by Wilde, Jennifer;

  I was alarmed by what I had just seen and not a little frightened. I had listened to the girls chatter about sex. I had done extensive reading. I knew all the facts of life, but for eleven years I had been carefully sheltered against them. This incident which might have passed unnoticed by many seemed a raw, shocking display to me. Did men really treat women that way? The barmaid got to her feet and wiped away the tears and went back into the pub with a dejected air. I wondered who the man was. I wondered how anyone could be so thoroughly hateful. Not all men were like that, surely, but then not all men were so wickedly handsome.

  An empty farm wagon came rolling down the street, the driver a husky lad who held the reins loosely in his lap. The dappled gray horse plodded at a lazy pace, the wagon creaking. Seeing me standing alone beside the shabby trunk, the driver pulled up on the reins and the wagon stopped a few yards away. The lad stared at me in surprise, and I took a step backward, my heart pounding. I was alone on a dark street. The boy was large, powerfully built. His mouth spread in a wide grin. He wore muddy brown boots, clinging tan trousers and a leather jerkin over a coarse white linen shirt. Thick, shaggy blond hair spilled over his forehead. His blue eyes stared at me openly.

  “No one come to pick you up?” he inquired.

  “Go away,” I replied coldly.

  “It’s gettin’ late,” he remarked. “Looks like you need to hitch a ride with someone.”

  “Go away,” I repeated, my voice beginning to tremble.

  He grinned again. It was a surprisingly amiable grin. The lad couldn’t have been much older than I, and he had a rough, affable manner that was almost pleasant, despite the circumstances. Undeniably raw-boned and crude, he was nevertheless attractive. His grin was appealing, and those vivid blue eyes were full of mischief.

  “’Ey now,” he said, “you’re not afraid-a me, are you?”

  “Not in the least,” I lied. “Just go away.”

  “You plannin’ to walk to Danver ’all?”

  “How do you know—”

  “You’re Miss Jane Danver, aren’t-ja? Susie told me they were expectin’ you. Looks like someone forgot to come fetch you.”

  “Susie?”

  “She works there at Danver ’all, the maid. We’re courtin’. Soon as I get enough ready cash in my pockets I’m aimin’ to marry ’er, though the wench ’asn’t said yes yet. You want I should drive you to the ’all? I ’aven’t got anything better to do.”

  “I—I think not.”

  He chuckled. It was a rich, jovial sound.

  “I’m Johnny Stone, Ma’am. I’m hell with the lasses, all right, as Susie’ll tell-ya. Nothin’ I like so much as a good tumble, but I ain’t never taken it by force, an’ I got respect for my betters. I’m just tryin’ to be ’elpful, ma’am. I ain’t plannin’ rape. You’d best let me drive you to Danver ’all.”

  “I—”

  “It’s a long walk, an’ it isn’t safe for you to be alone like this. A lotta fellows, now, they ’aven’t got my scruples.”

  He swung down from the seat and picked up the heavy trunk as though it were a feather, swinging it into the back of the wagon. He was tall, six foot four at least, with enormous shoulders and lean waist. I was still a bit frightened, but he smiled reassuringly, exuding a friendly warmth that caused my fears to vanish.

  “I—I don’t know why there was no one to meet me,” I said. “My uncle knew I was supposed to arrive on the mail coach.”

  “There ain’t no tellin’,” Johnny replied. “The folks who live up there in the big ’ouse—they’re a peculiar lot, an’ that’s for sure.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I reckon you’ll be finding out for yourself,” he said tersely.

  Without warning, he wrapped his large hands around my waist and swung me up onto the seat in one swift motion. I gave a little cry of alarm as my skirts billowed, revealing stockinged calves. Johnny chuckled, amused, then climbed heavily onto the seat beside me, gathering up the reins. He smelled of sweat and the barnyard, a pungent aroma that was not at all unpleasant. It seemed to suit him. He clicked the reins and the wagon began to rattle down the street, the dappled-gray as slow and lazy as before.

  “I remember you,” Johnny said casually.

  “You do?”

  “From before, when you was a little girl. You were a pretty thing, I don’t mind sayin’, always laughing and carryin’ on like a regular princess. You wore frilly dresses, an’ you were always gettin’ into scrapes, runnin’ wild so to speak.”

  “I—I can’t recall any of that.”

  “Sure, you were a regular menace, but everyone adored-ja. Things were different then. The village was a ’appy place. Your father—’e ’ad respect for the men workin’ at the mill, treated ’em squarely. I was nine years old when the accident ’appened at the big ’ouse. The whole village grieved for your folks.”

  “The village has changed?”

  “Aye, an’ that’s the truth. Your uncle—well, it ain’t my place to be speakin’ against your kin. I’ll just say that I’m glad I’m not under ’is thumb. I got my own farm—my folks left it to me when they died. It ain’t much, granted, but at least I don’t hafta sweat blood at the mill like most men in this town.”

  “You’re saying my uncle is unjust?”

  “I’m sayin’ ’e’s a bloody tyrant. ’E owns the mill, an’ most of the town, too. ’E ’as a stranglehold on the men, an’ ’e squeezes without mercy, chokin’ the breath out of ’em. The mill produces some of the finest fabrics in all England, aye, but at what a cost.” His voice was quiet and lazy, giving his words an even greater impact.

  “You don’t like my uncle?”

  “I won’t lie to you, Ma’am. I don’t, an’ that’s for sure. I ain’t afraid of ’im, though, like most folks around these parts.”

  “People fear him?”

  “An’ for good reason. Someone displeases ’im an’ they lose their job. That leaves ’em two alternatives: look for work outside-a Danver County or starve to death. No one ’ud ’ire a man your uncle dismissed. No one ’ud dare.”

  Johnny shook his head, frowning. The wagon passed down a quiet street with small, neat houses set back behind carefully clipped lawns, oak trees making a rustling leafy canopy above. Lights burned in windows, warm yellow squares against the darkness, and there were pleasant sounds and an atmosphere of comfort. The merchants and shopkeepers lived here, I assumed. It was quite different from the shacks of the millhands and their families. I wondered if what Johnny had said about my uncle was really true. Was he a tyrant? Did he rule his domain with an iron will, punishing any who dared to defy him? This was Victorian England, not the Middle Ages, yet there were still grave abuses of power. Perhaps the boy exaggerates, I told myself, disconcerted by his words.

  The wagon rumbled over a rustic stone bridge that arched across the river. There was a rushing sound and the scent of moss and mud, and the water gleamed silver blue under the first rays of moonlight. We were soon on the outskirts of Danmoor. The sky was the color of ashes, and the moon was thin and pale. I could smell the strong, peaty smell of the moors.

  “How far is it to Danver Hall?” I inquired.

  “A couple of miles,” he said, surprised. “Don’t-ja remember?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t remember anything about the house. I don’t remember anything about my uncle. It’s as though—as though my life began on my first day at school.”

  “Yeah? You mean you don’t even remember your folks?”

  “I have no memories of them whatsoever.”

  Johnny made no comment. I thought he was being tactful.

  “I—I suppose that seems peculiar to you,” I remarked.

  “’Course not,” he said. “You was just a tot when they sent you away. You were at the ’ouse the night the accident ’appened. It must-a been awful for you. I reckon you just closed it all out. Things like that ’appen, I ’ear.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.”


  “Reckon it ain’t meant for you to remember,” he said philosophically. “I wouldn’t worry none about it, Ma’am. Yesterday is gone, and we ’ave-ta think about today and make plans for tomorrow.”

  Johnny clicked the reins and fell silent. He was a very sympathetic young man, amiable, relaxed, easy to talk to. I sensed compassion and understanding, or else I would not have told him so much. With his large, ponderous body and casual, confident manner, he emanated masculinity and strength, a highly physical man who could nevertheless be gentle. The maid Susie could consider herself fortunate to have such a man to take care of her. Young Johnny was a prize. I hoped she appreciated him.

  “Does my uncle live alone at Danver Hall?” I asked.

  “Hunh? Seems so strange your not knowing. No, there’s the son. He’d be your cousin. Master Brence Danver, a ’ellion if there ever was one.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Ask anyone around these parts. A demon, ’e is, ’andsome as Satan before the Fall an’ twice as mean. Drinkin’ and wenchin’—them’s ’is occupations. An brawlin’, too. Always gettin’ into fights an’ usually winnin’. ’E’s a bad ’un. I ain’t talkin’ outta turn, Ma’am, ain’t tellin’ you nothin’ you won’t find out for yourself soon’s you meet ’im.”

  “What about my aunt?”

  “I hear tell she died from some kind-a influenza when Brence was just a toddler. Charles Danver was a widower when ’e came to take over Danver ’all. Brence was fifteen at the time. I reckon ’e’s twenty-six now, seein’ as ’ow eleven years ’as passed. Danver never re-married, though there’s that French woman—” He cut himself short, obviously afraid he had gone too far.

  “French woman?” I prompted.

  “Madame DuBois,” Johnny replied, pronouncing it “Dew-Boy.” “She’s the ’ousekeeper, ’as been for all these years. There’s some as say she’s somethin’ more, Susie included. Skinny woman, looks like a painted maypole with her make-up and ribbons. She doesn’t like me, I can tell you for sure, but then I don’t reckon she likes anyone who ain’t gentry.”

  So my uncle has a housekeeper, I thought. I knew exactly what Johnny was implying. I should have been shocked, but I wasn’t. The rigid proprieties taught in a girls’ school did not extend to society at large. I was rapidly finding that out.

  “It isn’t a ’appy place, Danver ’all. Some say it’s cursed. Some say it’s ’aunted. That’s nonsense, a-course, but I can see as ’ow some folks’d believe it. Susie’s always talkin’ about strange noises, and I’ve seen the lights myself.”

  “The lights?”

  “In the west wing. It’s all in ruins, the walls collapsed, the ceilin’ fallen through in places. Mysterious lights flicker there, always late at night. Gives folks the shivers, though I reckon there’s an explanation for ’em.”

  I made no reply, but thought about all I had learned these past few minutes. We were passing through a wooded area now, dark tree limbs reaching out on either side, fireflies creating luminous golden lights that floated among the dense shrubs. The horse’s hooves clattered on the hard dirt road. The wagon made squeaky, groaning noises. Johnny sensed my apprehension. He turned to me, and when he spoke his husky voice was gentle.

  “I didn’t mean to alarm you, Miss Jane. I shouldn’t-a told you them things, but seein’ as ’ow you didn’t know what to expect—”

  “Thank you, Johnny. I appreciate what you’ve told me.”

  We left the woods behind. The pungent odor of peat was stronger than ever, and I could hear the wind sweeping over the moors, an anguished sound full of desolation. Moonlight streamed down, creating a world of black and gray and tarnished silver, shadows moving as wispy clouds floated over the surface of the moon. I leaned forward, peering at the horizon. Danver Hall loomed like some monstrous folly created by a madman.

  CHAPTER TWO

  At one time it must have been majestic, but the years had taken their toll. The west wing was a shambles, a labyrinth of partially standing walls and heaps of huge gray stones, all bathed in moonlight and silhouetted against the night sky. The central portion was intact, a small tower at either end of the portico, and the east wing was solid. Built of stone, the multi-level roofs a soot-stained green, Danver Hall had no beauty, nothing to alleviate the gloom. It must look even worse in sunlight, I thought, as the wagon drew nearer. Beyond the west wing, across a stretch of shabby gardens and some distance from the house itself, stood the Dower House, a small, compact house made of the same materials, sheltered by the enormous oak trees that grew all over the property.

  “Not much to look at, is it?” Johnny said, clicking the reins and urging the horse to a faster pace.

  “It’s not—too attractive,” I agreed.

  “They don’t build ’ouses like that anymore, and thank the Lord. Impossible to ’eat, impossible to keep clean. It’s too bulky, too ’eavy. The west wing ’as already crumbled, an’ one of these days the rest of it’s goin’ to topple over and sink into the bog.”

  “The Dower House looks sturdy enough,” I remarked.

  “Ah, there’s a sore spot. The ’ouse and the acres around it were sold over a ’undred years ago, passed out of the family ’ands. Dower ’ouse belongs to some gentleman in London. ’E rents it out ever now ’n then. The Danvers don’t take to the idea, an’ that’s a fact, but there isn’t anything they can do about it.”

  “Who would want to rent it?” I mused.

  “Not many, I can assure-ya. No one’s lived there for ten years, but it’s been kept up. Well, Miss Jane, ’ere we are—”

  The wagon passed through two tall stone portals, a heavy wrought-iron gate standing open, and proceeded along the crushed shell drive that circled in front of the portico. Johnny stopped the wagon, leaped down and reached for my hand. He held it in a firm grip as I stepped down. We stood on the steps that led up to the portico spanning the length of the central portion of the house. No lamps burned, and the moonlight only emphasized the darkness. Crickets rasped between cracks in the stone, and there was the constant, mournful sound of the wind.

  I trembled inside, the panic starting to rise, and Johnny held on to my hand, squeezing it tightly.

  “There now,” he said huskily, “it’ll be all right. Susie’ll look after you. She’s eager to ’ave someone ’er own age about. Don’t worry, Miss Jane.”

  “I wish I weren’t such a coward.”

  “’Ell, you’re just a lass, an’ anyone’d be upset seein’ this place for the first time. You buck up, ’ear? People in the village remember you, an’ they’re ’appy to ’ave you back.”

  His words made me feel better. I managed to compose myself as he took the trunk out of the wagon and carried it under the portico, setting it beside the immense black oak door. Reaching for the heavy brass knocker, he pounded it against the solid wood. I could hear the noise echoing within, and in a moment there was the sound of footsteps ringing on a marble floor. Through the panes of the side windows I could see a light flickering wildly as someone approached.

  The door swung open. A girl with long tarnished gold curls and saucy brown eyes peered up at Johnny, the lamp held aloft in her hand. She took a step backward, her small pink lips parting in surprise.

  “What are you doing here?” she exclaimed. “If Madame DuBois sees you about the place—of all the cheek! Knocking on the front door to boot! I think you’ve taken leave of your senses, Johnny Stone! That’s the only explanation!”

  “None-a your sass, girl,” he said in a stern voice.

  “Leave at once before she hears us, you hulking oaf!”

  “You’d best watch your tongue, Missy,” he warned.

  “Johnny,” she whispered, truly alarmed. “Whatever possessed you—”

  “I’ve brung Miss Jane,” he retorted. “There weren’t no one to meet ’er an’ she was standin’ all by ’erself right across the street from the pubs. I reckoned I’d best pick ’er up before somethin’ unpleasant ’appened.”

&nbs
p; “Miss Jane?” the girl said, standing on tiptoe to peer over his broad shoulder. “Master Brence was supposed to fetch her. He hasn’t returned, and we assumed—”

  Johnny stepped aside, and the girl saw me for the first time. About my height, she had a slender waist, and the bodice of her snug pink dress emphasized a well-developed figure. Tarnished gold curls tumbled to her shoulders in rich profusion. Pert, full of vitality, Susie had a hoydenish charm I found immediately winning. Setting the lamp down on a table, she gave Johnny a push and stepped outside to greet me, her lively brown eyes full of genuine warmth.

  “I’ve been looking forward to this,” she said. “We all have. I can’t imagine why Master Brence wasn’t there—I can, too, but never mind. Come on inside—” She led me into an enormous hall with black and white marble floor. The lower half of the walls were paneled in dark mahogany, with purple and blue wallpaper above. Doors led off in different directions, and at one side a spiral staircase with mahogany banisters curled up to the second floor. The lamp provided little light, casting long shadows around the room.

  Johnny stood lingering in the doorway. Susie shot him an exasperated look. “Don’t just stand there, you clumsy lout! Pick up her trunk and bring it in.”

  Johnny lowered his brows menacingly, but he did as she said. Heaving the trunk up and stepping inside, he kicked the door shut with his foot. It slammed with a loud bang.

  “Now you’ve done it!” Susie cried.

  There was a sound of someone approaching through the shadows, and then the gaslights in sconces about the room flickered, blossoming into dim yellow radiance. The woman who had turned them on came toward us. Susie had a worried expression. Johnny stood with the trunk balanced on one shoulder, a sheepish grin on his lips, looking for all the world like an overgrown boy caught with his hand in a cookie jar. Still uneasy, my nerves on edge, I stared at the bizarre figure of Helene DuBois.

  She was almost six foot tall and extremely thin. Her black hair was streaked with silver and worn in an elaborate coiffure. With her incredible make-up she did indeed resemble a painted maypole, her face long, the dark eyes haughty, the thin lips a bright red. She wore a dress of deep purple taffeta, a ring of heavy bronze keys dangling from the belt. There was a sour, pinched look about her, and when she spoke her voice was like chipped ice.