Jamintha

by Wilde, Jennifer;

  No one had told me how to reach the back door. I had come instinctively, without directions, without even thinking about it. Realizing this, I paused on the back steps, bewildered. How had I known the way? Was I beginning to remember? Would the rest of my memory return? My head began to throb, and there was a sensation much like fear. Why? Was I afraid to remember? I pushed these thoughts out of my mind and moved on down the steps to the gardens.

  The sky was a deep pearl color with the faintest touch of blue, strong white sunlight gleaming brightly. The gardens were tattered, dark green shrubs drooping, flowerbeds ragged. The rain had stripped the rose bushes, petals like shreds of pink and red silk scattered over the damp brown soil. To my left, beyond the vegetable gardens, stood the carriage house and the stables, a crushed shell drive in front of them leading around the side of the house. To my right, far away and sheltered by oak trees, Dower House looked neat and serene with sunlight gilding the roof.

  I followed the winding flagstone path toward the line of trees in back of the property, passing the lily pond, passing the arbor where honeysuckle grew thickly on weathered white latticework trellises. I was going to the moors. I would find solace there. I sensed that, and I did not question my instincts. The moors seemed to call to me.

  Pausing at the trees, I turned to look back at Danver Hall. It was a solid bulk of towering gray walls, heavily leaded windows like dark eyes staring back at me. Stout black smokestacks and sooty red brick chimneys studded the multi-leveled roof, and I could see the twin towers rearing up in front, their rounded stone turrets casting long shadows over the green slate. Bathed in bright sunlight, the west wing looked even more desolate. Why had it never been torn down? Why had it never been closed off? I found this extremely puzzling.

  As I stood looking at the house, I saw a curtain move at one of the windows in the east wing, a long, thin face peering out. Although I was too far away to discern features, I knew it was Madame DuBois spying on me. She had been hovering in the hall again last night when Charles Danver and I left the dining room, her face as guileless as it had been on that earlier occasion. She was worried about something. I presented a threat to her, and I knew it wasn’t because she was afraid I would discover her relationship with my guardian. No, there was some other reason … The curtain fell back in place.

  I turned toward the moors, trying to forget the incident.

  The land was flat, barren, without a single tree, without a single sign of life, and there was an atmosphere of great age and great mystery. In the distance I could see patches of tarry black bog, stakes driven in the ground at intervals around them to warn one of danger. Those treacherous bogs could swallow a man without leaving a trace. Age old, they probably contained the bones of primeval creatures, I thought, walking slowly up the gradually sloping hill. The wind swept over the land, fierce, swirling into cracks and crevices, speaking in its own harsh voice, but I found it almost comforting. Serenity came, a curious calm induced by this rugged terrain that seemed to welcome me as an old friend. I felt safe, protected, and I knew not why.

  At the crest of the hill, I turned around again. Danver Hall was far away now, a tiny gray toy house that some child had broken on one side. I felt as though I had been released from prison, and the feeling was a familiar one. I had felt this way before many years ago. I knew that without actually remembering. I wanted to run, bursting with elation, free again from dreary routine. No piano practice, no governess in starched blue dress, no boring afternoon nap. I stood there with the wind tearing at the skirt of my dark brown dress, concentrating, trying to make these vague impressions take solid shape in my mind.

  I couldn’t remember. Conscious effort only made it worse.

  I moved down the hill. Enormous boulders began to surge up all around me, and I could hear the water. The ground was spongy now, and there were a few stunted trees with twisted limbs and dark green leaves. I moved on, boulders on either side studded with mica that glittered in the strong sunlight. Turning, walking along a well worn pathway, I could see the stream splashing over a rocky bed, and soon I began to see the waterfalls spilling over the boulders in savage cascades, the bank covered with moss. The wind was far away now, but the sound of water filled the valley with music, fierce, discordant music that I knew and loved.

  It was fifteen minutes before I found the place. It was waiting, as I had known it would be. Moving through a wide crevice, I stepped into the small clearing surrounded on three sides by tall boulders. A waterfall fell in noisy silver sprays into the pool, mist glittering in the sunlight, and dark green moss covered the ragged sloping bank. There was my flat boulder, my seat at the edge of the water, and there were the delicate purple flowers growing in the cracks of the gray stone walls. It was my secret place, and I saw a bright, merry child with curly brown hair perched on the rock, dangling her bare legs into the cool water. The impression flashed into my mind and disappeared with lightning speed, but in that instant it had been vividly real.

  Spreading my skirt out carefully, I sat down on the rough, flat rock and stared into the pool. I could see my reflection in the water, blurred, shimmering, like one of those new impressionist paintings they were doing in Paris. I listened to the water, and soon the sound vanished and became a mere background, and I heard only those sounds I created in my own mind. Sitting very still, a fine mist from the waterfall spraying over my skirt, I let my mind go, attuned to the place, picking up impressions that seemed to fill the air.

  I was a bastard. “Illegitimate” was a more polite way to put it, but Charles Danver had wanted to make his point strongly. Although George Danver had given me his name, I was the daughter of a French trollop and an unidentified military man. I had no reason to believe that my guardian was lying, and yet … and yet that child who had sat on this rock had been a happy child. I sensed that. Rebellious, yes, always getting into scrapes as Johnny had put it, yet happy. There had been much love. I could not remember my mother, but I had a distinct impression of someone bright and lovely and gay. I knew that she had loved me. I could almost hear her voice, crooning. What was it she said? “Jane, my little Jane.” No, something else, something similar. The memory refused to come, but it was so near, the thinnest veil obscuring it. I had been loved, and happy.

  Something had changed all that.

  My mind went blank for a moment, and there was darkness and rumbling sounds and it seemed I could see a cloud of dust and hear a scream. I felt the pain, the fear. I closed it out. Quickly, quickly I mentally ran away from that horror waiting just beyond my conscious memory. I could feel the pulses at my temples begin to throb. I pressed them tightly with my fingertips, willing the headache away, refusing to give in to it.

  I saw the pale little girl with long braids who stood in the office of the head mistress. The child wore a dull brown dress and a heavy brown coat and carried a heavy suitcase. She was trembling, awed and frightened. Oh yes, I remembered that first day well enough, and I remembered each day that followed. What had transformed the merry child into the drab sparrow? A tragedy had occurred, true, but children are resilient. Children get over such things after a reasonable period of time. I never did. All gaiety was gone forever. Something had happened, and it had been so terrible that it had completely altered my personality.

  The accident? Had I seen it happen? Had I seen something else as well?

  I thought about Charles Danver and his reason for sending for me. The name Danver was important, and it would embarrass him if any of his business associates learned he had a niece who had been forced to seek employment. The motive was sound, but was it sound enough to justify bringing me to Danver Hall? He could have made other arrangements for me. Having me in his home was part of some scheme. I was certain of it. There was a reason for my being here, and it wasn’t merely to avoid embarrassment. A man like Charles Danver wouldn’t have taken such a step unless he had a definite purpose in mind.

  What could that purpose be? Was I imagining things? I wasn’t given to f
ancies, nor did I dramatize myself as did so many girls my age. I was cool and logical, and my logic told me that something was wrong.

  If only Jamintha were here. I could confide in her. She would listen to me, and she would understand. She would tell me what to do, advise me, share my problems as she had shared them at school.

  I sat on the rock for over an hour, lost in thought, staring at the shimmering reflection in the water without seeing it. The waterfall continued to spill over the rock, spray glittering with misty violet and blue and gold facets as it fanned in the air. I stood up, ready to leave now, my mind at ease. I would wait. There was nothing I could do but wait and see what happened. Worrying would not help, nor would fretting about my situation. I must take each day as it came. I resolved to do that.

  My skirt was damp from spray, and a few wisps of hair had escaped from their prison to rest lightly on my temples. Moving back through the crevice, I left my private place, but I did not turn back the way I had come. Instead, I continued to follow the well worn path, winding among the enormous stones and eventually reaching the barren ground again. The land was hilly here, rolling with sudden slopes, and there were cracks where the earth had split open. There were gleaming black stretches of peat here too, these unmarked by any stakes, and a few trees grew, stark in the emptiness, twisted into bizarre shapes by the tormenting wind.

  I was not lost. I did not consciously know where I was, but I knew I could find my way back to Danver Hall, just as I had found my way to the pool with its mossy bank. I knew this land, responded to it with a part of myself, and years of separation had made no difference. I walked over the rocky slopes, the wind a live thing accompanying me every step of the way, caressing my cheeks with vigorous strokes, lifting my skirts. My braids were beginning to come undone, strands of hair spilling out of place, but I paid no attention. I was not used to this much exercise, but it did not tire me. It seemed, instead, to have the reverse effect. I felt stronger, more certain of myself than I had felt in quite a long time.

  There was a distant sound I could not identify, a pounding, rumbling noise, and then a horse galloped over the horizon, startling me. It was a magnificent beast, a black stallion with glossy skin and powerful muscles that rippled as it raced toward me, the heavy hooves kicking up clumps of soil. The saddle was empty, the bridle flapping wildly. The animal seemed bent on trampling me. Stunned, too terrified to cry out, I watched as it sped closer. It reared up not five yards away, snorting viciously, hooves waving in the air, and then it galloped off in another direction, disappearing over a slope. A hand pressed over my rapidly beating heart. Nerves shaken, I listened as the sound of hooves grew fainter and then were gone.

  Someone was in trouble. Someone had been thrown out of the saddle. I hurried forward, alarmed. The man might be seriously hurt. A person could die of exposure on these moors. His leg broken, no way of summoning aid, a man could perish. Reaching the slope where the horse had first appeared, I paused, peering in every direction, but there was nothing but desolate land and those treacherous stretches of black. How would I ever find him? What was I going to do?

  The groan was quite audible. It came from the narrow gully only a few yards from where I stood. I moved rapidly, and in a moment I was staring down at the man sprawled on the ground. He wore glossy black knee boots and tight gray breeches. A white silk shirt with billowing sleeves and a Byronic collar was open at the throat. His unruly black hair fell in a tangled mass over his forehead, and his eyes were closed. He was even more handsome than two nights before when I had seen him coming out of the pub.

  “Are—are you hurt?” I stammered.

  The man opened his eyes and stared at me, but I could see that he was not able to focus properly. The eyes were a very vivid blue. They looked glazed. He groaned again and struggled into a sitting position, wincing as he did so. He shook his head and blinked his eyes, and then he peered up at me again. The beautifully shaped mouth curled into a boyish grin. He was obviously drunk.

  “Good thing you happened along, wench,” he said.

  “Are you able to stand? Here, let me help you up.”

  I reached down for his hand, intending to pull him to his feet. With a boisterous laugh he seized my hand, jerked me into his lap and imprisoned me in strong arms, crushing me against him.

  “’Ow about a tumble, lass? No one around to bother us. It’s a glorious opportunity, what?”

  I struggled violently. He grinned and wound his arms tighter around me, hurting me. His mouth fastened over mine, the firm lips urgent and demanding, and in one quick motion he swerved around until I was flat on the ground, his body on top of mine. Freeing my arms, I pounded his back. I seized his hair, jerking his head, but his lips continued to cover my own with bruising force. The weight of his body pinioned me to the ground. Tiny rocks scraped against my back painfully as I fought.

  “Regular wildcat, ain’t you?” he said, laughing. Seizing my wrists, he moved into a kneeling position, his buttocks on my stomach, a knee on either side of my thighs.

  “Let me go!” I cried. “You—”

  “Aw, don’t carry on so,” he said amiably. “You know you’re enjoyin it.”

  The vivid blue eyes gleamed with delight, and the wide, sensual mouth curved up in a devilish smile. I was terrified, the blood racing through my veins, my breath coming in short, frantic gasps. His silk shirt was damp, clinging to his chest, and the smell of alcohol was overwhelming. I squirmed and struggled, trying to throw him off, but his hands gripped my wrists tightly, the fingers like steel. I stared up at that handsome face, my eyes full of horror.

  “You’re a lucky lass, you are,” he taunted. “Come on now, don’t put on such a show. I might hafta get rough.”

  He released one of my wrists and reached for the hem of my skirt, and I swung my free hand with all the force I could muster. It struck his face with such impact that he toppled over sideways. I jumped to my feet, and he stared up at me with a stunned expression. He sat up again and shook his head vigorously. I backed away, my heart beating rapidly.

  “My God,” he whispered, seeing me clearly for the first time. “You’re not one of the village lasses.”

  “Indeed not!” I said hoarsely.

  “You’re—my God! I know who you are.”

  “And I know who you are!”

  I should have guessed it from the first, of course. Brence Danver had been described to me on at least three different occasions. He was, indeed, as handsome as Satan before the Fall, and he was certainly a blighter. With great effort I managed to compose myself. I stared at him with loathing, and he looked up at me in wonderment.

  “I must-a been blind,” he said.

  “Blind drunk, more likely,” I retorted crisply.

  “No harm done, Cousin Jane.”

  “No harm done! You almost—”

  “Shut up!” he ordered gruffly, scowling. “You’ll survive. My head is splittin’, and my body feels like I’ve been chunked out the window of a tower. Christ! That damned horse—I should-a had better sense than try ’n ride him in my condition. I thought a brisk ride’ud help—”

  “You certainly can’t expect any sympathy from me,” I said, my voice pure acid.

  “Stop your blabbin. You would-a loved it.”

  “How dare you—”

  “I said shut up!”

  He glared at me, brows lowered. His sculptured cheekbones were pale, and there were deep smudges under his eyes. His forehead glistened with dampness, strands of hair clinging wetly, and a muscle at the corner of his mouth twitched. He looked frightfully ill now that the effects of the liquor were wearing off. Trembling with rage, I glared at him.

  “Don’t just stand there with your back stiff as a poker,” he snapped angrily. “Help me up.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, Mr. Danver.”

  “God, you are a little priss, aren’t-ja? I think I’ve twisted my ankle. It’s throbbing somethin’ awful. You can’t just march off and leave me here.”
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  “That’s precisely what I intend to do.”

  “Listen,” he growled, “I realize I almost committed a terrible blunder, but I wasn’t seein’ too well. If I’d-a had a good look at your face I wouldn’t-a laid a finger on you.”

  “You’re no gentleman, Mr. Danver.”

  “That’s for damned sure, an’ you’re no beauty, Cousin Jane. God, I must’uv been smashed!”

  He tried to get to his feet, but as soon as he put weight on his left foot his face contorted with pain. I could see that he was really hurt, and I knew I couldn’t walk off and leave him in this condition. He stared up at me, waiting. I drew back, reluctant to go near him.

  He frowned savagely. “Well?” he said impatiently.

  “I’ll help you get back to the house,” I said primly.

  “Damned decent of you,” he retorted in a sullen voice.

  I extended my hand. Holding on to it with both his own, he managed to pull himself up, hopping on one foot. We took a few steps and then he stopped and grimaced, trying to keep the agony out of his eyes. His forehead was beaded with perspiration now, and his face was chalk white.

  “I don’t think we’re going to make it,” he informed me. His voice was laced with pain, but it was no longer slurred.

  “Perhaps I could find the horse—”

  “He’s probably already back at the stables by now.”

  “Then we’ll make it on our own,” I replied calmly.

  “I’m not so sure. God! Look, I’ll have to have more support. You’re going to have to practically carry me.”