“That seems reasonable,” I remarked.
“Master Brence has other ideas. He hates the mill with a passion. He wants to go to London and lead the life of a fashionable rake—he would be good at that, I ’spect—but Mister Charles refuses to give him the money. They’re always arguing about it.”
“He’s a grown man. He shouldn’t expect his father to—”
“Oh, he doesn’t want Mister Charles’ money,” she interrupted. “He wants what’s rightfully his—at least he says it’s his. When his mother died, she left everything to Master Brence, quite a sum, I understand, but it’s all tied up in stocks and bonds and Mister Charles has control of ’em. Won’t let Master Brence lay a finger on ’em. ‘When you’ve proven yourself responsible enough to handle it, I’ll be glad to hand everything over to you,’ he says. He knows Master Brence would squander it immediately.”
“I imagine he would,” I said.
I understood the situation more fully now, and I had to side with my guardian. Brence Danver certainly wasn’t responsible enough to handle any large amount of money. His father was merely trying to protect him by withholding it. Brence seemed hellbent on a course of self-destruction, and his father was trying to restrain him as much as possible. Still, the inevitable “Why?” remained. Why was Brence so tormented? What drove him to such excesses? Was it because he had lost his mother at such an early age? Was it because his boyhood had been without love or a sense of security? He seemed to have everything, yet he was as a man possessed by demons.
Something else puzzled me. I knew that Charles Danver must be an extremely wealthy man. He could have afforded to live in the finest house. Why, then, did he remain at Danver Hall? Although the rooms currently in use were in good enough condition, the place was totally unsuitable. It had been built for a vast, sprawling family, and it was much too large. The west wing was in ruins, never repaired, and so many of the rooms were closed up, abandoned to dust and decay. Danver Hall was a relic of times past, uncomfortable, drafty, impossible to heat or keep up properly. Why did Charles Danver hang on to it? It seemed illogical.
It couldn’t be family pride. If that were the case, he wouldn’t have left the west wing in ruins. He wouldn’t have let the rest of the house sink into such a pitiful state of disrepair. No, Charles Danver took no pride in Danver Hall, yet he remained here when he could have built a much more suitable dwelling. There was a mystery here. The house seemed to hold some dark, forbidding secret, and I sensed that it was somehow connected with the tragic accident that had happened eleven years ago.
Something was going to happen. The house itself seemed to be waiting, holding back. I felt it as I wandered through the rooms. The walls seemed to watch me, and there was a tension in the air. I could not shake the feeling that I had been brought here for some purpose, that I was to play an important part in some drama as yet unfolded. That feeling hovered over me, always there, even though day followed day and I was virtually ignored by the other members of the household.
I thought about what had happened in the library. Something had drawn me there. The room had been waiting for me. I couldn’t explain why I had gone up the secret staircase and onto the gallery, but it had been important. I remembered vaguely the impressions: a child, a handful of stars, a battered set of Gibbon, a sense of danger, fear. Something had happened in that room long ago, and in my trance I had been trying to re-enact it. I shuddered, remembering the creaking, unsteady floorboards as the gallery seemed to pull away from the wall. If Brence hadn’t appeared … I refused to think about it. I would not go to the library again. There were plenty of books in the small study. I would read them.
The room was empty when I entered, the fireplace cold with ashes, but there was an empty glass on the rolltop desk, and his smell. It was as though he had left his impression on the air, for I could feel him strongly as I examined the titles and selected half a dozen books. I expected him to step into the room before I was finished. He didn’t. Gathering the books up in my arms, I left, relieved that I had been spared another encounter. I told myself that it was relief, but it was very like disappointment.
It continued to rain all during the week. I stayed in my room and read until my eyes were sore, and during the night I slept poorly. I kept hearing noises in the west wing. Once I awoke with a start, convinced someone had just walked down the hall past my bedroom door, but when I listened in the moonlit darkness there was no sound. Days stretched out, so long, so lonely, and my headaches were returning. I was tense without knowing why, and I was bone tired without having done anything more strenuous than turning the pages of a book.
On Saturday afternoon the house was particularly silent. Charles Danver had gone to the mill, and Brence was out, as usual. Susie had the afternoon off, and Cook was in the basement putting up preserves. I assumed Madame DuBois was in her apartment in the east wing. I was restless, unable to concentrate on the French history I was reading. The rain was a monotonous, steady patter, and I had the feeling I was alone in a deserted ship cast adrift on the ocean.
I left my room and wandered through the empty halls, aimlessly exploring the house, avoiding the east wings, on the second floor there was a ballroom with blue silk panels edged in gilt, the sky blue ceiling adorned with flaking gilt leaves. The floor was warped, the chandeliers coated with dust, the silk panels dark with moisture stains. No balls had been given here for a very long time, and yet I could almost hear music and see ghostly figures waltzing through the emptiness, colored skirts spreading, flowing like wings vivid for a split second, then nothing but motes of dust swirling in empty space. A little girl stood in that doorway, long brown curls bouncing as she tapped her foot, and she laughed, so happy, and then shadows filled the doorway, nothing else.
I wandered down a long hall. The air was fetid, the sour smell of mildew almost overwhelming. Turn here, the voice said, open this door, yes, you know the way … The sitting room had been so lovely with ivory walls and white fireplace and large yellow velvet sofa. There had been flowers, and pictures, yes, pictures of court ladies in flowered swings. Watteau. I remembered them distinctly. The pictures were gone. The ivory walls were damp. Dust sheets covered the furniture. I lifted one of them. Yes, yellow velvet, dingy now, splitting with age.
I had sat on this sofa beside my mother. She had read to me from a big book with brightly colored pictures, the two of us on the sofa, flowers in the pretty white vases, a fire burning cozily in the fireplace. I stood in the middle of the room, sensing so many, vague, misty memories straining to materialize, eluding me just as they were about to become clear. I felt impressions just as I had in the library, but there was no fear, only a warm, pleasant sensation. My mother’s voice, soft and lilting, seemed to speak. “Jane, my little Jane” … No, not quite those words, but words so similar.
I stepped into the bedroom. I had rarely been in here. I couldn’t remember anything about it, no fleeting impressions. The Chinese silk wallpaper was peeling. The beige and ivory canopy was moth-eaten, hanging from the frame in shreds. Dust sheets covered the furniture, as in the other room, and the chandelier had been disconnected and left on the floor in the corner, pendants yellow with age, cobwebs strung across the branches. A picture in an ornate gold frame leaned against the wall, only the back of it visible. I turned it around and knelt to examine it.
Though the canvas was cracked and covered with dust, the face stared out at me vividly, life-like. She was beautiful, her long blond hair falling in glossy curls, pink lips, merry blue eyes full of vitality and mirth as though she shared some naughty secret with the artist. She wore a low cut dress of pink velvet, and around her neck hung a spectacular necklace, a glittering web of diamonds any queen would have envied. I set the painting on the mantlepiece, leaning it against the wall, and stepped back to study it, trying to remember that face.
It was familiar, I knew it was familiar, but the wavering veil would not lift. I was convinced this woman was my mother, yet I couldn’t recall that f
ace as a living thing. Shadows gathered in my mind, thick, gray, and I seemed to hear a silvery laughter, the rustle of silk, and I could almost smell the exquisite perfume. Remember, remember … My head ached, the pulses at my temples throbbing. Through the cloudy fog I saw a faceless woman and a child. I was that child. The woman handed me a toy, something sparkling and splendid, and then there was fear, a fear that caused me to tremble now as I stood in the deserted bedroom.
A floorboard creaked. It was a very real sound, coming from the sitting room. I listened, every nerve taut, and the sound was repeated, soft, surreptitious. There was a pause. I could sense a presence in that room, pausing, listening, and the fear welled up. I clenched my hands, even more frightened than I had been on the gallery. I was alone in an abandoned part of the house. Everyone was gone. I was helpless, at the mercy of—No, you imagined the sound, I admonished. You must get hold of yourself.
Something rustled crisply. There was another soft footstep.
I whirled around to see Madame DuBois hovering in the doorway. There was a startled look on her thin face. I should have known! Cold fury replaced the fear.
“What’s the meaning of this!” I exclaimed.
“I thought—”
“Why are you spying on me!”
“Really, Miss Danver—”
“Don’t try to deny it. You’ve been spying on me ever since I arrived. Why? What do you hope to discover?”
“You’re imagining things,” she said.
“Am I indeed? I think not, Madame DuBois.”
I had caught her in the act, yet she had the gall to deny that she had been spying. I glared at her with frigid rage, and the woman drew back a step or two. She hadn’t counted on being detected. She had thought she could watch me unobserved, slipping into the shadows or behind a piece of furniture when I turned to leave the room. She was slightly flustered, but it took her only a moment to regain that haughty composure.
“Perhaps you’d better explain your presence in this part of the house, Madame DuBois,” I said coldly.
“I was—”
“You were following me, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “I thought it might be a good idea.”
“Why?”
“You might have gotten lost,” she replied. It was a feeble excuse. Even she realized that.
“And you could show me the way back,” I said.
“Yes.”
“I’m afraid that’s not a very satisfactory explanation,” I retorted. “I don’t like this, Madame. I don’t like it at all.”
She made no reply. Although she was as stiff and disdainful as ever, there was a worried look in her eyes. Was she actually afraid I would report this to my guardian? No. There was another explanation for that look of apprehension. She knew something that I didn’t know. Something was going on, and it involved me. There was a very important reason for her spying.
“This was my mother’s bedroom, wasn’t it?” I said abruptly.
“How did—I wouldn’t know,” she replied, catching herself just in time.
“You’re lying,” I said.
“There are so many bedrooms. It was such a long time ago.”
“The woman in the painting was my mother.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“My mother was French. You are French. You knew her. You must have known her.”
“No,” she said. “I suggest you leave this part of the house, Miss Danver. It really isn’t safe. The wood is rotten. The plaster is loose. An accident could happen. You barely avoided one in the library last week. I should think it would have made you more cautious.”
She left before I could make a rejoinder, hurrying across the sitting room with a loud crackle of taffeta skirts. How did she know about the incident in the library? Brence had said that he told no one, and I believed him. She must have been there all the time, watching, Brence and I both unaware of her presence. I frowned, disturbed and completely frustrated. I couldn’t understand any of it, yet once again I had the distinct impression that I was the central figure in some secret drama. The other players knew the plot and the roles they must play, while I was left to wander aimlessly about the stage without the least idea what was going on.
Charles Danver was more attentive that night than he had ever been before. He made idle conversation at the dining table, asking me questions about the school, telling me about the mill and the fabrics it produced. All the while he watched me carefully, studying me. I was extremely uncomfortable, finding his previous silent indifference preferable to this. The candles flickered, casting warm shadows over the white linen cloth, reflecting on silver and crystal. I was relieved when the meal was over. It had been a great strain on my nerves.
Charles Danver accompanied me to the main hall. Ordinarily he went immediately to the drawing room, but tonight he paused, lingering beside me. He wore a dark brown suit and an orange satin vest patterned with brown and black leaves. Suit and vest were both a bit rumpled, and his brown stock was crushed. He sighed, lifting his heavy shoulders, and then he laid a hand on my shoulder. I tightened up nervously. My guardian smiled wryly, his eyes dark with amusement.
“Do you imagine I plan to throttle you?”
“Of—of course not,” I stammered.
“Relax. I mean you no harm.”
“Your—friendliness bewilders me.”
“Do you still imagine I’m a dark arch-villian? I don’t wonder. I was rather rough on you when you first arrived. I had been having difficulties at the mill, difficulties with my son. I wasn’t in a pleasant frame of mind that morning.”
He chuckled softly. I wasn’t for a moment taken in by his pretense of amiability.
“Do you need anything, Jane?” he inquired.
“No,” I said.
“No pin money? You wouldn’t like a new dress?”
“I require nothing, thank you.”
“You’re as prickly as a cactus. That isn’t admirable in a young girl. You must learn to loosen up.”
He removed his hand from my shoulder and stepped back in order to observe me from a different angle. His manner was casual and relaxed, but I sensed the steely hardness behind the affable pose. An amused smile lingered on his wide mouth, and the eyes gleamed darkly. I stood stiffly, my arms folded around my waist, and Charles Danver shook his head slowly.
“You’re an odd girl,” he said. “I have never seen you smile. Must you be so defensive, so suspicious?”
“I’m sorry if I’ve displeased you in any way, Mr. Danver.”
“You haven’t been well. I suppose that explains it. Tell me, have you begun to remember this house?”
I shook my head.
“Not at all?” he said lightly.
“I’ve had vague impressions, a sense of having been here before, but nothing clear.”
“I see. You’ve been here a short while. Perhaps your memory will return in time.”
“Is it important that I remember?” I asked.
The handsome, slightly fleshy face was suddenly guarded. There was a tightness about the mouth, and the black-brown eyes were flat. I was puzzled by this abrupt change of expression. All affability was gone now. He looked at me sharply, almost angrily. It was almost as though I had been impertinent when all I had done was ask a simple question. He managed to control himself and relax, yet when he spoke his voice was studiously casual.
“I shouldn’t imagine it would be of the least importance to anyone,” he said. “I was merely making conversation—a difficult enough task with someone as prim and inhibited as you, my dear. I have important papers to attend to in the drawing room. I must get to them.”
I went to my room. Returning from her outing, Susie had tidied up the room, turning the bedcovers back and leaving a lamp burning on the bedside table. I undressed and took down my hair, brushing it at the mirror. The rain had stopped during the evening, but water still dripped from the eaves, and the wind blew mournfully. The fire had died down. There wa
s a slight chill in the room. I slipped a tan linen robe over my chemise, belting it tightly at the waist, and, picking up the beautifully bound French history I had taken from the study, I sat down in the chair to read.
The book was a privately printed history of the de Soissons, a noble French family actively involved in public affairs since the reign of Henry of Navarre, their private affairs even more energetic. I read for over an hour, to the point where a particularly racy de Soisson made improper suggestions to Madame de Montespan and incurred the wrath of Louis XIV. I wondered idly what such a book was doing in my adopted father’s collection. Although it was entertaining enough and shed brief sidelights on history, it had obviously been commissioned by a member of the de Soisson family, for family consumption. I set it aside, something gnawing at the back of my mind.
I had the feeling there was something I should know, some connection I should make, but I was too weary to let it bother me now. Removing the robe, I turned off the lamp and climbed into bed: The wind made a forlorn serenade, sweeping over the moors and swirling about the house, and the velvety darkness was soon alleviated by flecks of moonlight that splattered through the window and made dancing silver patterns on the floor and ceiling. I was soon asleep.
I dreamed.
“She’s asleep,” the voice said.
I moaned, turning on the mattress, flinging my arm out.
“I wish you hadn’t brought her here, Charles.”
“Eleven years! Eleven years I’ve searched—”
“She can’t remember. And even if she does, she may know nothing. It was foolish. She’s only in the way.”
In the way, in the way, the echoes rang, and the dream dissolved and another took its place: a child, a handful of stars, glittering, fear, panic, a low rumble, an explosion. I sat up with a start, trembling. It was three o’clock in the morning. Someone was prowling in the west wing. I could hear them moving about over the stones.
Go back to sleep, Jane, you’ve had a nightmare, I told myself, but I knew the noise wasn’t my imagination this time, nor was it the wind. I trembled, my hands clutching the sheets, and then I got out of bed and put on my robe. It was madness. I couldn’t possibly be contemplating such an insane idea, but …
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