“Very well,” I said. “It’s a long walk. I’m staying at Widow Stephens’ cottage on the edge of town. I hope you’re up to it.”
As we walked along the pavement, he was silent, impatient to reach our destination. I laughed inside, knowing what he expected, knowing how disappointed he was going to be. Men like Brence Danver think they have merely to snap their fingers to have any woman they want, and it was high time he had a lesson. We walked under the oak trees, leaves making dancing shadows at our feet, and he was perspiring a little, tense, anticipating.
“Here’s the cottage,” I said, opening the gate. “I’ll take the boxes now, Mr. Danver.”
“How did you know my name?”
“I’ve only been here a short while, but I’ve already heard about you, Sir. I was warned about you, in fact.”
“But you let me carry your packages,” he said, grinning. He was all masculine charm, self-assured, confident of his conquest.
“You were very insistent,” I replied.
“And now?”
“And now I’ll say good-bye, Mr. Danver.”
I took the boxes from him and stepped through the gate, closing it between us. He looked stunned, then angry. His face darkened, brows lowered in a scowl. He wrapped his hands around the gateposts, looking as though he wanted to throttle me.
“Did you really think it would be that easy?” I inquired lightly.
“What do you mean?”
“You know very well what I mean. Do you take me for a prostitute, or have you merely been spoiled by the wrong kind of women?” “I thought—that look in your eye—”
“I know what you thought. You’re quite mistaken.”
“You’re not going to ask me in?”
“That would hardly be proper, Mr. Danver.”
I gave him a polite smile and went inside. Setting the boxes down on the hall table, I lifted the window curtain and peered outside. Brence was still standing at the white picket gate, his hands gripping the posts. The angry expression had been replaced by one of amazed disappointment, and he looked like a bewildered little boy who has had a shiny toy snatched out of his hands. I laughed softly and let the curtain fall back in place. Brence Danver was going to have a restless evening, and he was going to do quite a lot of thinking about the schoolmaster’s sister.
He came the next afternoon with a bouquet of flowers. I refused them, and I refused to let him in. On the following day he came again, bearing another bouquet. I took the flowers, thanked him politely and closed the door on him. He looked miserable. Things were going exactly as planned. On the third day I greeted him amiably and ushered him into the small, over-crowded parlor with its brass fire screen and crocheted doilies.
“Won’t you sit down, Mr. Danver,” I said, gesturing toward the stiff horsehair sofa.
He sat, spreading his palms over his knees and looking immensely uncomfortable. He wore a dark gray suit with a sapphire blue waistcoat, his white linen shirtfront ruffled. His boots were highly glossed, the black leather silvery, and his hair was neatly combed, only slightly disarrayed by the wind. I served tea and sat down across from him, an ultra-respectable young Victorian maiden entertaining a gentleman caller with perfect poise. An invisible chaperone seemed to be sitting in the parlor with us. Brence held his tea cup awkwardly, completely out of his element.
“I want to thank you again for the flowers,” I said. “They’re lovely.”
“Uh, sure—” he muttered.
For the next half hour I engaged him in the most trivial conversation, playing my role to the hilt. The poor man was totally at sea, not knowing what to say or do. The arrogance was gone, and he was no longer confident. He wanted to flee, yet he stayed. He had to stay. In my new muslin dress I had never looked lovelier, and it was no accident. He was fascinated, as I had meant for him to be, and he endured the trivial chatter, devouring me with his eyes.
“I must ask you to leave now, Mr. Danver,” I said after a while.
“I’ll call on you again tomorrow.”
“Wouldn’t that be a waste of your time?” I asked lightly.
“I’ll be here tomorrow,” he said brusquely.
I’ve no doubt he went immediately to a pub and got roaring drunk. He had never met anyone quite like the schoolmaster’s sister, and he didn’t know how to react. The accomplished lady killer was gone. The wild young rakehell who plundered female hearts and rode his black stallion over the moors was as putty in my hands. He came to call the next afternoon, and the next, awkward, ill at ease, unable to stay away, and I took a certain satisfaction in tormenting him. He was sulky and irritable, yet he never got out of hand, not during those first three visits.
On the fourth afternoon he was in a thunderous mood, all the violence in his nature welling up. There was something on his mind, and he seemed about to explode. I greeted him politely and let him into the parlor. He refused to sit. He stalked about the room, for all the world like a caged panther. I poured the tea and handed it to him. He stared down at the cup and saucer in his hand and then hurled them into the fireplace. The china shattered into a dozen pieces.
“Mr. Danver!” I protested.
“Where were you last night?” His voice was low, and there was an undeniable menace in his tone.
“I—I really don’t think that’s any of your business.”
He stared at me, his handsome face granite hard. His eyes gleamed with dark blue fury, and I could see that he was fighting to control himself. I had planned this, had deliberately brought him to this point, yet I couldn’t help but feel a tremor of alarm. He is a man of tumultuous passions, ruled by those passions, caution and restraint unknown. One senses a barely repressed savagery even when he is in repose, and now that he was angry he was formidable indeed.
“I came last night,” he said. “I couldn’t stay away. You’ve driven me out of my mind—you know that! I had to see you. I pounded on the door. No one answered. I waited. For over two hours I waited! Where were you? I intend to find out!”
I didn’t answer. He seized my arms, his fingers digging painfully into the flesh.
“Tell me! If there’s another man—by God, if there’s another man I’ll kill him!”
“There is no other man, Brence.”
“This game we’ve been playing—”
“You’re hurting me. You have no right to—”
“I’m in love with you! Can’t you see that!”
He released me and dropped onto the sofa, all the spirit suddenly gone out of him. He looked exhausted and abject and thoroughly miserable. Dark locks spilled over his forehead. I brushed them back and rested my palm on his cheek. He scowled and jerked his head back, refusing to look up at me. He stared at the carpet, his shoulders hunched, the corners of his mouth turned down.
“I haven’t been able to sleep. I haven’t been able to eat. No woman has ever done this to me before! I can’t concentrate. I can’t do anything but think of you. I’ve gone through hell this past week. I can’t take much more of this. I don’t intend to take much more of it! I don’t know what you’ve done to me, but—” He cut himself short and looked up at me with passionate blue eyes.
“Yes?” I said quietly.
He started to say something but frowned and shook his head, the picture of frustration. I almost felt sorry for him then. Men are really simple creatures, Jane, for all their bravado and bluster. The strongest, the boldest of them can be easily manipulated by any woman who knows how to go about it, and Brence Danver is essentially a deplorably spoiled little boy who has been accustomed to having his way all his life. Stripped of his confidence, the swagger gone, he looked forlorn and almost pathetic as he sat there on the sofa.
“You’ve bewitched me,” he said miserably.
“Have I?”
“You did it deliberately. To punish me.”
“Perhaps.”
“I know I made an ass of myself that first day. I thought—there was something in your eye—”
“
Perhaps there was.”
“This past week—this damned parlor—”
“Have you suffered so very much?”
“Don’t mock me!” he yelled.
“You expected me to act like one of your barmaids?”
“I don’t know what I expected!”
“No?”
“Look, I’m sorry.”
I had to smile then. I couldn’t restrain myself. I stepped over to the window and peered out at the garden, savoring my victory. Brence sighed heavily and stood up. For a moment I thought that he was going to leave, and then he took my arm and turned me around to face him. He had to grope for words. What he said didn’t come easily.
“I’ve never courted a girl. I’ve never made small talk and exchanged pleasantries and paid subtle compliments. Hell, those flowers I brought you were the first flowers I ever gave anyone! I’m impatient and irresponsible and hot-tempered, and sometimes it isn’t easy to control myself, but—you’re going to be my girl, Jamintha.”
“Am I?”
He nodded briskly, his expression stern. Men have great egos, particularly handsome men, and they must believe they have the upper hand. A woman must allow them to think so. His pride had been wounded, but he had recovered himself now, once more the masterful male. It was the only role he knew, and I let him play it.
“What are your intentions?” I asked.
“I—” He frowned, confused.
“I’ve already compromised myself by letting you come here. Everyone in Danmoor knows about it. Miss Hattie is appalled. When I went to the dress shop yesterday she was stiff with disapproval.”
“To hell with Miss Hattie,” he said sullenly.
“I’ll permit you to see me in the afternoons,” I told him.
“I’ll see you whenever I like!”
“In the afternoons,” I repeated calmly. “You will be proper and respectful. Later on, I may allow you to take me to the fair. I understand there’s to be a dance. I might enjoy that.”
He scowled again, wanting to argue but not quite sure enough of his position to dictate terms just yet. Brows lowered, blue eyes dark, mouth set in a firm line, he stared at me.
“There’ll be no other men,” he warned.
“Just you,” I said pleasantly.
“Just me, and don’t you forget it!”
When he left the cottage in a stormy mood, I was completely satisfied with the way things had gone. He might rage and protest and lash out, but I knew I could control him. Brence Danver is experiencing an entirely new emotion, and he’s helpless before it. You may think it’s wicked of me to treat him this way, Jane, but he deserves any anguish he might feel. I’m using him, true, but I can’t really bring myself to feel much sympathy for a man who has so heartlessly used so many women in the past.
I’ve been seeing him for two weeks now. It’s an open scandal in Danmoor. Respectable women shun me when I’m walking along the street, and Miss Hattie has told me to take my business elsewhere. I find it rather amusing and, yes, exciting. There’s not a one of them who wouldn’t secretly like to change places with me. They think I’m a brazen hussy and are certain we are having a raging illicit affair. I won’t say Brence hasn’t tried to instigate one, but so far I’m as pure as the proverbial driven snow, if somewhat shaken. He’s a very exciting man, and there have been one or two occasions when … but I don’t want to shock you, dear, prim Jane. You’re probably as appalled as Miss Hattie. Just remember that I’m doing this for you.
Handling a man is an extremely delicate job, particularly when the man is as volatile and touchy as Brence Danver. The first round was mine, but I realized I would have to tread softly. There could be no more trivial chatter over tea, no more invisible chaperone and stilted decorum. (I was as tired of the stuffy parlor as Brence was, actually, but it had served its purpose.) He is infatuated, madly infatuated, but that soon gives way to boredom or disgust if a woman doesn’t play her cards just right. She needn’t allow liberties, but there must be an air of subtle promise, an atmosphere of intimacy. She must, in short, keep him interested.
On Tuesday, I suggested a picnic in the woods beyond the cottage, and when he came on Wednesday I met him at the door with a yellow straw hamper packed with food. Brence took it, and we were soon strolling beneath the trees, limbs groaning overhead, the path carpeted with yellow and bronze and dark gold leaves that crackled underfoot. I felt glorious, intoxicated by the crisp clear air scented with autumn and the brilliant sunlight that streamed down in sparkling rays. I was carefree and blithe, attuned to woodland sounds and woodland smells and savoring them all. Brence was silent and moody, lugging the hamper under one arm and glaring at the birds who warbled so lustily at our approach.
“Where’re we going?” he asked grumpily. “This thing’s heavy.”
“I have a spot all picked out. A beautiful clearing.”
Brence groaned and shifted the hamper under his arm. Taking a childish pleasure in the outing, I laughed merrily, the sound echoing through the woods. I was wearing the yellow dress, my long chestnut curls tumbling, and I knew the exhilaration I felt gave me a radiant sparkle. Brence plodded along, angrily crushing twigs and leaves beneath his boots. Although it was cool, he was perspiring a bit and his white cambric shirt clung to his back and shoulders.
The clearing was carpeted with short brown grass, autumn leaves scattered about, and there was an ancient gray stump. Brence set the hamper down on the stump and stood back looking helpless and bored while I spread out a checked tablecloth. A cloud of white and yellow butterflies swarmed in the air, hovering like scraps of silk for a moment and then disappearing. Taking the food out, I sat down and spread my skirt. Brence stood with his hands on his thighs, frowning.
“Don’t you like picnics?” I teased.
“I’ve never been on one before,” he said gruffly.
“Not even as a boy?”
“Not even as a boy,” he retorted.
He was surly and uncommunicative while we ate, leaning back against the stump with a moody look in his eyes. Brence is a terribly unhappy person, Jane, and I sensed that the source of this unhappiness goes back to his childhood. I gradually coaxed him into talking about himself—there are few things a man enjoys more—and he described a miserable, rebellious childhood and a rugged adolescence marked by one scrape after another. He talked about his father, his voice full of bitterness. I think the conflict between them goes much deeper than Brence’s refusal to take any interest in the mill.
I gradually brought the conversation around to your parents’ accident. He grew guarded, clearly reluctant to discuss it.
“Weren’t you there the night it happened?” I asked casually.
He nodded grimly. “My father and I had come to visit Uncle George. We had been staying at Danver Hall for three weeks. That night—I was fifteen years old—I’d met a girl in the village, I’d slipped out to meet her. When I returned to the house—”
“Yes?” I prompted.
“I was walking back. I heard a rumbling noise. I saw the roof of the west wing caving in. The walls shook and vibrated and held for a moment, and then they crashed. Stones flew everywhere. There was dust and flashes of red and—” He paused, his face suddenly hard. “And then the dust settled and there was nothing but a great gaping ruin where the west wing had been.”
“It must have been a dreadful sight,” I said quietly. “Your aunt and uncle—”
“It took them two weeks to find the bodies under the rubble,” he said in a flat voice. “No one ever understood what they were doing in the west wing that night. It was empty, unused. There wasn’t even any furniture in the rooms.”
“Was your father at the house that night?”
“He was there.”
Those three words sounded ominous. I had the feeling that the fifteen-year-old boy had seen something else, something he carefully omitted from his narrative. He grew silent and uncommunicative again, picking up a stick and breaking it into tiny pieces. I
saw that it would be useless to ask him any further questions at the time. A brisk wind stirred through the woods. I began to put the things back into the hamper, and. Brence didn’t stir. He lolled there against the stump like a sullen pasha, incredibly handsome with feathery black locks blowing across his forehead. He was still thinking about that night eleven years ago.
“I understand your cousin has come back to Danver Hall after all these years,” I said lightly, folding up the tablecloth and putting it on top of the hamper.
“She’s back,” he said tersely.
“You don’t sound pleased about it,” I remarked.
“She shouldn’t be there.”
“No?”
“My father had no business sending for her.”
“They say there’s been another accident. She was supposed to have been wandering in the west wing one night and—”
“Yes, there’s been another accident,” he said testily, interrupting me. “I don’t care to discuss it.” He climbed to his feet, hurling the remains of the stick across the grass. “Let’s get out of this damned place!”
I was eager to get rid of him that afternoon, eager to think about all I had learned, but he was unusually persistent, demanding to stay a little longer, hoping I wouldn’t turn him out at six. I tried to be charming and light, but firm, and he exploded into a rage, protesting my heartless treatment of him. I showed him to the door and told him he need not bother to come back, knowing full well he couldn’t stay away. It was then that he asked me to marry him. I laughed, unable to restrain myself, and Brence gave me a frightening look. I realized with surprise that he was dead serious and told him the idea was totally absurd. I thought he was going to hit me. He trembled with rage and shouted some more and then stormed off to the nearest pub. I imagine he got very, very drunk that night.
There is so very much more to tell, Jane, but this letter is already far too long. Meeting Brence Danver was fortunate indeed. I am more than ever convinced that something is amiss, something that stems back to that night eleven years ago. I have a scheme in mind that should bring us closer to a solution, but I shan’t go into it now. Take care of yourself, dear Jane, rest, regain your strength and try not to worry. Together, we’ll get to the bottom of this. I promise to write again as soon as possible.
Jamintha Page 11