I was nervous. I wanted him to like me. I wanted him to approve of me. I wanted to be pretty and vivacious like Jamintha, the kind of niece a man like Charles Danver could appreciate. I had selected my dress with care. It was my best, sprigged muslin, tiny blue and violet flowers against a gray backgound. I had braided my hair into a tight, neat coronet on top of my head, but the effect was still dismal. There were shadows about my eyes, and my face was too pale, the skin stretched tightly over high cheekbones, the nicely shaped lips only faintly pink. If only I had Jamintha’s luxuriant coloring. If only my blue-gray eyes could sparkle as hers did. Jamintha would have greeted my uncle with teasing aplomb. I could only try to still the nervous tremors inside.
I finally left the room, following Susie’s directions. I tried to remember the house. I must have known it well as a child. I must have been familiar with every room. Had I raced down these long halls, sliding on the highly polished wooden floors? Had I hidden behind those dusty red velvet curtains, investigated those dark corners and recessed stairs? The house was completely unfamiliar. I might never have been here before. I moved quietly across the main hall and followed the narrow passageway that led to the drawing room. The great mahogany doors were closed. I paused in front of them, trying to summon enough courage to knock.
My knuckles rapped gently against the polished wood. A stern masculine voice commanded me to enter.
The room was enormous, the lower section of the walls paneled in rich brown walnut, the paper above a light green with swirls of darker green and dull gold. Faded oriental rugs covered sections of the dark parquet floor, and although the furniture was heavy and oppressive the room was so immense that it seemed sparsely furnished. A long green velvet sofa crouched before the huge marble fireplace. A fire burned behind the brass screen, tall black andirons holding stout, crackling logs, yet the room remained icy cold. A row of French windows, tightly closed now, opened out into the northeast gardens. The stiff green brocade draperies had been left opened, and through the dripping panes I could see part of the stables beyond.
No lamps burned. The room was dim. My uncle was standing in the shadows. I did not see him at first.
“Uncle Charles?” I said.
He moved away from the huge sideboard where he had been pouring brandy from a tarnished silver decanter. Glass in hand, he approached, pausing a few yards away from me to take a swallow. He did not speak. He stood there drinking his brandy and staring at me with the cool objectivity a scientist might give to a curious new specimen. His dark eyes took in every detail, yet they showed no reaction. His manner was intolerably rude, but it gave me an opportunity to study him in turn.
Charles Danver was forty-five years old. He was a large man, solidly built, with broad shoulders and a strong lean body that had begun to thicken just slightly with middle age. His black boots were highly glossed, his dark broadcloth suit expertly tailored to minimize the excess weight. The plum colored vest was embroidered with black silk, and a buff colored stock rested against his chin. He was still impressively handsome with unruly raven black hair and strong, virile features. Thick black brows arched over the stern, dark brown eyes, and the lids were heavy, giving him a lazy, insolent look. The nose was large, slightly crooked, and the wide mouth was undeniably sensual.
Men would be intimidated by my uncle, and certain women would find him irresistible. Hard, unscrupulous, fully aware of his power, he would seize what he wanted without the least regard to others. He would take a cruel satisfaction in crushing an enemy, and he would treat his women with a cold, arrogant disdain. I sensed this instinctively, and I knew that everything Johnny had told me about him was true.
“Your hands are shaking,” he said.
“I—I’m sorry,” I replied, clasping them together.
“You find me frightening?”
I nodded, unable to speak.
His lips curled into a sarcastic smile. He finished his glass of brandy and set it on a table, his eyes never leaving my face. His complexion was ruddy. The flesh was beginning to sag at the jaw, and there was the faint suggestion of a double chin. Strangely enough, this only made him all the more attractive, and Charles Danver was a vastly attractive man. He had authority, a commanding presence that would put many younger men to shame.
“Many people find me intimidating,” he admitted.
And you revel in it, I thought, standing there with my hands clasped tightly at my waist.
“So you are Jane,” he said in a bored, lazy voice. “I must apologize for my son’s failure to meet you. He left the house early and, unfortunately, stepped into one of the pubs. He spent the night drinking and whoring, completely forgetting his reason for going to the village.”
I tried not to look shocked, but Charles Danver noticed.
“Do I startle you? I see no reason to mince words about my son. He is a profligate young scoundrel, pickling his brain with alcohol, squandering his energy on women—and with his name and devilish good looks they’re all too available. When he was younger I could beat him into submission, but he’s too old to thrash now. The only hold I have over him is a financial one. I control the purse strings, and therefore I have at least some control over my son. Not much, I grant you, but enough to keep him from completely kicking over the traces.”
I made no comment. From what I had seen last night, I imagined that Master Brence Danver was enough to turn even the kindliest father into a stern patriarch. He was no doubt in his room this very moment, sleeping off the effects of last night’s dissipations. I wondered how long it would be before I met my cousin. It was not a meeting I looked forward to with anticipation.
“You’re not a pretty girl, Jane,” my uncle said abruptly.
“No, Sir,” I replied with lowered lashes.
“Speak up, girl, and look at me when you speak.”
I raised my eyes. Charles Danver was smiling. He was enjoying this. He was a natural bully, and he gloried in his ability to intimidate me. I tried to look at him with a level gaze. He opened a porcelain box and took out a slender brown cigar, lighting it and narrowing his eyes to avoid the smoke.
“You have none of your mother’s beauty, none of her vitality.”
“She was—beautiful?” I asked.
He nodded, a crease between his brows. He looked almost angry.
“And my father?” I inquired.
“I have no idea what your father looked like. I never met him.”
“But–”
Charles Danver stared at me with flat, expressionless eyes, and his voice was granite hard.
“Your mother was a French trollop, a dazzling beauty without a sou to her name although she was descended from one of the noblest families of France. My brother took a grand tour of Europe. He was nearing forty and still unwed. As the eldest son, it was imperative that he produce an heir, unless, of course, he wanted me to inherit. He didn’t want that, let me assure you. He met your mother at a watering place outside Paris. He was captivated by her beauty and fell head over heels in love. He asked her to become his wife, even though he had learned she was carrying the child of a military man who had deserted her. They were wed. Five months later, you were born. My brother never sired a child.”
“Then—”
“You’re a bastard,” he said bluntly. “Oh, you bear the name of Danver—George always was a fool, he recognized you as his own—but the fact remains.”
If Charles Danver had slapped me across the face, I couldn’t have been more stunned. My blood seemed to turn to water, and my knees grew weak. I had to summon all my control to keep from fainting. The man who was not my uncle stared at me with those expressionless eyes, or was there a touch of malice in them? I could not give him the satisfaction of seeing me faint. I squared my shoulders. I held my chin high. I managed to look at him with a cool, level gaze.
“I am not your niece, then,” I said.
“In name only.”
“Why did you pay for my schooling? Why have you sent for me? I
can’t believe it was because of your generous heart.”
“A point well taken,” he said, flicking ashes into a porcelain tray. “I have not the slightest interest in you as an individual, but you do, unfortunately, bear the name Danver. It is a very important name in London. I have a number of business associates, a number of enemies who are always interested in anything pertaining to Charles Danver.”
“I think I understand,” I said stiffly.
Charles Danver took the cigar out of his mouth, blowing a wispy plume of blue-gray smoke that curled slowly to the ceiling. A half-smile played on his wide mouth, and his heavy eyelids drooped. I was no longer intimidated, no longer afraid. This interview had been one shock after another, and tremulous apprehension had been replaced by an icy calm.
“As far as the world is concerned, you are my niece,” he continued, “and a niece of Charles Danver cannot grow up in an orphanage. I paid for your schooling because it was necessary, and I have brought you to Danver Hall because I could not allow you to seek employment as a governess, although I understand you were prepared to do so.”
“I shall,” I retorted, “I shall leave this house at once.”
“No, my dear,” he said, “you shall not. Your true paternity aside, I am, nevertheless, your legal guardian until you are twenty-one years of age. Until that time, you shall do precisely as I say.”
His voice was lazy, almost gentle, but there was a lethal undertone. I was helpless, and I had the good sense to realize it. I was his ward, and, Victorian laws being what they were, I had no recourse but to obey him to the letter. I could run away, but where could I go? What could I do? He would track me down, and he would show no mercy in dealing with any rebellion. Of that I was certain.
Charles Danver seemed to be reading my thoughts. He crushed the cigar out, jabbing it brutally against the tray, and folded his arms across his chest. Tilting his chin down, he stared at me, a wave of dark, unruly black hair spilling forward over his brow.
“What do you expect of me?” I asked calmly.
“Complete submission,” he replied.
“I have no alternative, have I?”
“None whatsoever,” he agreed.
“Am I to be your servant?”
He arched one dark brow in mock surprise. He smiled, thoroughly enjoying his position. He would have liked for me to cringe and cower, but I had far too much pride. Timid I might be, nervous and highly strung, yet I refused to succumb before this man.
“A servant?” he inquired. “My dear, you’ve been reading far too many cheap novels. You’ve been brought up as a young gentlewoman, as my niece. You could hardly expect me to banish you to the kitchens.”
“I don’t know what to expect,” I replied.
“You have been brought here as my niece, and you shall be treated as such. You shall dine with my son and me. You shall be shown every courtesy. Anything that you might require—new clothes, pin money—I shall readily provide. Your true parentage is our secret, Jane. No one else knows, not even my son.”
“I see.”
“I am not quite the arch-villain you imagine me to be.”
“No?”
“I am a hard man, true, and many call me unscrupulous. I consider that a compliment. We live in an age where weakness is glorified, hypocrisy is rampant. I am not weak, and I am not a hypocrite. I own one of the finest textile mills in the country. When I inherited it, it was a shambles, producing only a token amount of fabric, and that of inferior quality. I made it what it is today, through strength, through determination. If my employees fear me, if my competitors call me a cutthroat upstart, so much the better. I am interested only in results.”
“I’m sure you have reason to be proud,” I said acidly, “but I fail to see what that has to do with me.”
“If I have been brutal with you, it was because I felt it necessary. The results have been most satisfactory. I wanted you to be fully aware of your position in my house. I believe you are.”
“Very much so.”
Charles Danver sighed, relieved. He strolled over to the windows and stood peering out at the rain, a large, powerful figure silhouetted against the light. He had explained everything, but I had the feeling that something had been omitted. He had another motive for bringing me to Danver Hall, a motive he had failed to mention. I could not explain why I felt this way, yet the certainty was there.
“I shall, of course, settle a dowry on you,” he said, his back to me. “It will be generous enough to induce some chap to marry you. You’ll not capture a prize, Jane, but I’ll see to it that you eventually find a suitable husband.”
He turned around to face me. “Have you nothing to say?”
“I don’t imagine anything I might say would make the slightest difference, Mr. Danver.”
“Quite true,” he said, the sensuous mouth turning up at the corners. “You’re an intelligent girl, Jane.”
He thrust his large hands into the pockets of his trousers and sauntered over to me. He stood with his legs spread wide apart. His jacket hung open, the plum colored vest stretching tightly across the expanse of chest. I was intensely aware of his brute strength, his potent virility. For all his ruthlessness, Charles Danver was an impressive figure of a man. I had to concede this, no matter what I might think of him. Remarkably well preserved, ruggedly handsome, he had an aura of aggressive force that was almost tangible.
“I know a great deal about you,” he said. “Although you never received any direct communication from me, I had a thorough report on your progress each month from the head mistress of your school.”
“Indeed?”
“Your marks were excellent from the very first. You showed a remarkable aptitude for intellectual pursuits. Scholastically, your record was above reproach. However, you were seriously lacking in other departments. You were neurotic, sickly, anti-social. You did not get along with the other girls, nor did you make any effort to do so.”
That was true enough, I thought, remembering the taunts of my classmates and their frivolities.
“You were subject to severe headaches,” he continued. “You were frequently too ill to attend classes. You complained of weariness and lethargy, although there was no apparent reason for it. The doctors were unable to explain it. They finally agreed it was merely another sign of a neurosis. You were unhappy, and you chose this way to express it.”
He paused, waiting for me to make some comment, but none was forthcoming. I remembered those dreadful days when I stayed in bed, my bones aching with fatigue, my head throbbing painfully. The exhaustion, the pain had been quite real, but I did not intend to try and justify it to Charles Danver. He could believe whatever he chose to believe.
“I understand, too, that you have no recollection of the first seven years of your life. Partial amnesia, I think they call it.”
“That’s true,” I replied.
“You don’t remember this house? You don’t remember anything that took place here?”
“I remember nothing whatsoever.”
Charles Danver frowned, a deep crease over the bridge of his nose. He found my amnesia puzzling, as did everyone who learned of it. The doctors had been bewildered. My teachers had considered it merely another sign of instability.
“Perhaps your memory will return,” he said. “Perhaps being here will help you remember. At any rate, there’s nothing so unusual about forgetting one’s childhood. I’d be hard pressed to answer many questions about my own early years.” He glanced at the windows. “The rain seems to be slacking up. I must go to the mill this morning. There are some important disciplinary measures I have to attend to.”
He straightened the lapels of his jacket and adjusted the folds of the buff colored stock, and then he moved over to a desk and picked up a thin leather portfolio. When he turned around, he seemed surprised to see me still standing there. His mind was already on other things.
“I am dismissed?” I inquired.
“You’re dismissed,” he said irr
itably. “And … one other thing, I’m a busy man. I don’t like to be bothered. I’ve devoted a considerable amount of time to you this morning because it was necessary to get things clear, but don’t expect it in the future. If you have any requests to make you are to go through Madame DuBois, my housekeeper. You’re free to do as you please, but stay out of the way. Do you understand what I mean?”
“Perfectly.”
“Very good,” he said brusquely. “Now get out of here.”
I left the room far more composed than I had been when I entered. Considering what I had been through, the icy calm was remarkable, but my mind was clearer than it had been for some time. The nervous apprehension, the mental anguish was gone. I was no longer plagued with doubts and fears. The worst had happened, and now I must try to adjust to it. As I moved through the main hall, I saw Madame DuBois standing by the mail table. There was a guileless expression on her face. I knew she had been eavesdropping.
CHAPTER FOUR
I couldn’t stay in my room any longer. Yesterday, after the interview with Charles Danver, I had gone directly to my room, staying there until Susie came to announce dinner. My guardian and I dined alone in the lofty, baronial dining room, neither of us making an attempt at conversation. A long, miserable night had passed, and now it was after noon. The room was a haven, but I realized I couldn’t stay shut in any longer. The walls were beginning to press in on me. I had to get out. I had to walk and think and come to terms with all that had happened.
Moving down the back hall, I followed the servants’ stairs down to the kitchen. It was empty, al though there were bustling sounds coming from the pantry. A fire burned in the enormous rough stone fireplace, flames reflecting on the varnished surface of the tall golden oak cupboards and the dark red tile floor. Pots and pans were piled up on the zinc drain board. There was a delicious spicy smell and the fragrance of apples. Cook’s sleepy marmalade cat was curled up on a rag rug in front of the hearth, and he peered at me indifferently as I moved across the room. I followed a dark, narrow hallway to the back door and stepped outside.
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