Jamintha

by Wilde, Jennifer;

  “Bravo,” I said.

  “You win a prize,” the proprietor said in a disgruntled voice.

  “Gimme it,” Brence snarled.

  The proprietor moved with alacrity, seizing a gaudy doll from one of the shelves and thrusting it into Brence’s hand. Brence presented it to me with a mocking flourish and led me way. He was a little the worse for ale now but not quite as tense as before. A large crowd had gathered around a semicircle of shabby, cluttered wagons festooned with dangling copper pans and mothy-looking shawls. Weird, barbaric music rose in the air, and there was the sound of stamping feet and clapping hands.

  “What’s that?” I inquired.

  “Gypsies,” he retorted. “Bunch-a thieves and cutthroats. They make all the fairs, moving from county to county, stealin’ every thing they can lay hands on. I guess they’re givin’ one of their dances.”

  “Let’s watch.”

  Sighing wearily, Brence pushed his way through the crowd. Several of the men protested as he shoved them aside none too gently. In a moment we were standing at the edge of the clearing in front of the crowd, watching the dance. It was a bizarre, colorful sight. The gypsies were evidently of Spanish descent, dressed in native costume, and the men were almost as beautiful as the women. Teeth flashed in grim tan faces, lithe, muscular bodies writhed and leaped, beads and spangles glittered. There was something primitive and rather frightening about the dance, suggestive of blood feuds and pitch black nights and daggers drawn before a roaring orange fire. The thumping music grew louder and louder as the dance reached a climax.

  Brence was obviously bored. He paid little attention to the fierce gyrations of the dancers. Arms folded across his chest, brows lowered, he kept a sharp eye on the crowd, looking for pickpockets. The dances were staged to divert attention, he informed me, so that the thieves could move among the audience and lift valuables from the unwary.

  As the dance ended a thin little girl with a pale, dirty face and shaggy black hair passed among the crowd, a tin cup in her hand. Most of the people ignored her, and she looked desperate. I suspected she would be beaten if she didn’t collect a satisfactory amount and insisted that Brence drop a few coins in. He did so with disgust. The child looked immensely relieved. On impulse, I handed her the doll Brence had won. She peered up at me with narrowed black eyes, her tiny face suddenly hard. Clutching the doll, she hastily retreated, pausing at the corner of one of the wagons to glare at me with pure venom.

  “That was a fool thing to do,” Brence said, exasperated.

  “The poor thing looked so unhappy.”

  “The ‘poor thing’ is a professional thief. I felt her hand slipping into my pocket while she was rattling the cup.”

  The crowd began to disperse as the gypsies tried to interest them in the junk jewelry and bright gewgaws displayed in their wagons. I noticed a tattered purple tent splattered with silver gilt stars, a sign announcing MADAME INEZ. The fortune-teller stood before the opened flap, her long red and blue skirt as tattered as the tent, yards of tarnished gold beads hanging over her shabby black velvet bodice. Her face was the color of mahogany, seamed and weather worn, and her black eyes were cold and disdainful as she watched the crowd moving away to other amusements.

  “Come on, Brence,” I insisted, “let’s go visit Madame Inez.”

  “Hunh? You don’t wanna waste your time with that foolishness.”

  “But I’ve never had my fortune told,” I protested.

  “Probably have our throats slit,” he grumbled as I led him over to the tent.

  Madame Inez saw us coming and stepped inside without a word. There was an overpowering smell of garlic and damp cloth inside the tent, and it was so dark that I could hardly see. A candle flared, blossoming into light, and I saw Madame Inez sitting at a rickety table, her face cold and impassive. There was no crystal ball, only a series of faded cabalistic signs hanging on the walls of the tent and a pack of greasy tarot cards in front of the bored gypsy woman. I was almost sorry we’d come. She seemed to resent us, and Brence’s openly disgruntled manner didn’t improve matters.

  “Pay first,” she said in a sharp voice.

  Brence gave her the money, and she motioned for me to sit down across the table from her. Coal black eyes peered into mine, and they seemed to stab and penetrate. I had the uneasy feeling that this battered old woman could actually read my mind. She pushed the tarot cards aside and reached for my hand. She held it in a tight grip and studied the palm with intense scrutiny. The candle flickered, casting frantic shadows on the billowing purple walls. Brence shifted uncomfortably behind me. Several minutes passed before Madame Inez finally looked up. There was confusion in her eyes, a puzzled frown digging a deep line between her brows.

  “What is it?” I whispered, my voice trembling.

  “I see nothing,” she said. “I give money back.”

  “No—no, I want to know what you saw.”

  “Keep the money, old woman,” Brence said irritably. “Let’s go, Jamintha.”

  “What do you see?” I asked quietly.

  “You come from a big city. You are in trouble.”

  “Oh, sure, very dramatic,” Brence snapped. “And she met a tall, handsome stranger. You’re lookin’ at him.”

  Madame Inez ignored him. She stared at me with hypnotic black eyes. I felt a tremor of alarm, afraid of what she was going to say next.

  “You will die, but—you will live on.”

  “That makes a lotta sense,” Brence remarked. “Tell me, is she going to marry me?”

  “You will marry another,” she said in a flat voice, “but you will marry this one at the same time.”

  “Bigamy, eh? Sounds right cozy.”

  “Leave!” Madame Inez commanded.

  She stood up, hands on hips, beads jangling. The mahogany face was burnished with candlelight, a fierce mask now. Brence laughed mockingly and started toward the open flap. I took a step toward Madame Inez, and the old woman drew back almost as though she were afraid of me.

  “Is—is that all?” I said.

  She nodded curtly, but her eyes suddenly filled with compassion. She looked weary and defeated, worn down by a life of hardship and strife. She glanced at Brence and frowned again. He sneered at her. Then Madame Inez took my hand and gripped it tightly. I could sense her alarm as that gnarled old hand crushed my fingers.

  “Be careful, child,” she whispered. The words were barely audible. “Be very careful!”

  “Gin-soaked old fraud,” Brence muttered as we strolled away from the gypsy encampment. “What’d she say to you there at the last?”

  “Nothing,” I replied coolly.

  “Say, you’re not angry, are you?”

  “No, Brence. Let’s just forget it.”

  “Sure. I didn’t want you to go in there in the first place.”

  It was growing later. Shadows were beginning to thicken, and the sky was a dark blue, deep orange smears showing in the west. I had come to the fair specifically to see Charles Danver, and all this time had passed without a sight of him. I knew that he had been one of the judges, awarding a blue ribbon to the prize livestock, and the judges’ stand was located near the pens. I suggested that we go see the cattle. Brence seemed reluctant, but he agreed, holding my arm tightly as we walked across the grounds. The atmosphere had changed, frivolity and gaiety giving way to a restless tension clearly felt in the air. The calliope sounded shrill and discordant. People looked tired and irritable. Several of the men lurched around drunkenly, and we passed a rowdy group of boys shouting and stamping as two of their contemporaries rolled on the ground, slamming and pounding at each other with lusty enthusiasm.

  “Can’t someone stop them?” I said nervously.

  “They’re just feelin’ their oats,” Brence said matter-of-factly. “There’ll be other fights before the evening’s over. Happens every year …”

  Prophetic words.

  An odor of steaming manure and damp hay wafted toward us as we neared the li
vestock pens. Many of the pens were empty now, the cattle sold and carted away. A farmer was loading crates full of screeching chickens onto the back of a delapidated wagon, and a group of people stood admiring the bull that had won the prize ribbon, a stout, powerful beast who snorted furiously and kicked up clouds of dust with heavy front hooves. Nearby I saw the judges stand, a white wooden structure shaped like a gazebo, deserted now as the fading rays of sunlight glowed dark red. Perhaps he had already gone back to Danver Hall, I thought, disappointed. I pretended an interest in the bull and the fat rust-red sow with her litter of squealing piglets, all the time wondering how I would arrange a meeting with Charles Danver if he didn’t appear today.

  I needn’t have worried. He was still on the grounds, and there was no doubt that he’d noticed me. Light was fast fading, a deep blue haze in the air as Brence and I went to eat. Wooden tables with benches had been set up under the boughs of the oak trees edging the clearing, stalls selling refreshments lined up across from them. The tables were filled with chattering girls in brightly hued dresses and loud, oafish boys who openly gawked as Brence led me to an empty table, a plate of food in either hand. Robust maids in blue dresses and white aprons passed around the tables with trays of ale. Brence seized a mug, gave the girl a coin and told her to be sure and come back shortly.

  “Haven’t you had enough?” I inquired. He had been stopping at stalls periodically and had already consumed far too much ale.

  “I can hold it,” he retorted.

  “You already look a bit flushed. Don’t you think—”

  “Look, Jamintha, don’t nag me!”

  A remarkably vivacious girl with tarnished gold curls and lively brown eyes was sitting at a nearby table. Her dark gold dress was printed with tiny brown and yellow flowers, and the neckline was a good inch and a half lower than my own. She stared at Brence and whispered something to her companion, a large, rough-hewn blond lad with a wide, amiable grin. Brence noticed them and frowned as the girl waved merrily.

  “Another friend?” I asked.

  “She’s our maid,” he said sullenly, “an impudent little baggage if ever there was one. If it were up to me, she’d-a been sacked a long time ago.”

  “Isn’t she the one who looks after your cousin?”

  “Yeah. I suppose she does a good enough job of that. Seems devoted to the girl, watches over her like a hen.”

  “It’s a shame Jane can’t be here tonight.”

  “I doubt if she’d enjoy it,” he replied. “I doubt if she’d enjoy much of anything. Stiff as a poker, she is.”

  “That’s a cruel thing to say. You really don’t know her very well, do you?”

  “No, and that suits me fine. Damn! Where’s that girl with the ale?”

  It was then that I saw Charles Danver. There could be no mistaking his identity. He stood out like a lord among peasants, his powerful presence eclipsing everyone around him. He was standing by one of the stalls, fifty feet away from our table, staring at us with glowering eyes. Brence was trying to catch the attention of one of the barmaids and didn’t notice his father, but I stared back with open curiosity, making no attempt to conceal my interest. He was wearing a dark brown suit, and a gold brocade vest embroidered with darker gold and brown patterns. Even from the distance I could feel his overpowering magnetism. Across the tables our eyes met and held, and I felt a challenge, excitement stirring inside. That hard unscrupulous look made him all the more intriguing.

  We stared, and those dark eyes took in everything. I knew he thought me a common adventuress who had ensnared his gullible son. That’s what I wanted him to think. His mouth curled down in disapproval, yet there was that dark glow in his eyes that every woman recognizes immediately. He disapproved of me, undoubtedly, but he wanted me. Charles Danver is a man in his prime, and I doubt seriously if that skinny French woman completely satisfies him. (Don’t be shocked, Jane. Even you know the facts of life.)

  Helene DuBois came up beside him and tugged at his arm. Outlandishly dressed in apple green silk awash with lacy beige ruffles, her face painted in garish colors, she kept pulling at his arm, and he finally dropped his stare and turned to her with an angry expression. She smiled coyly, scarlet lips parted, then drew back with a hurt look when he said something sharp. Jaw thrust out angrily, he said something else, and Helene DuBois turned to stare at me, too. Her face looked rather pale under the make-up.

  “At last!” Brence snarled, clanking another mug of ale down on the table. “Rotten service around here, but what can you expect. What’re you lookin’ at?”

  “Nothing,” I said. Charles Danver and his mistress had disappeared.

  By the time we finished eating the sky was an ashy gray and stars were already beginning to twinkle in frosty silver clusters. Candles had been lighted and placed beneath glass globes on all the stalls, and the Japanese lanterns made soft blurs of color over the dance floor as the musicians tuned their instruments. Brence was frankly drunk now and in an unusually belligerent mood. I should have insisted that he take me home, but I had to stay. I knew I was going to see Charles Danver again. He would seek me out before the evening was over, of that I was certain.

  The carousel was strung with lights that made streaks of smeared color as it turned, painted horses rising and falling rapidly, laughing young people clutching the poles. The gypsies were dancing again, a large bonfire crackling in the clearing and sending up clouds of black smoke. A band of toughs roamed the grounds, looking for trouble, and several fights broke out, brutal, raucous battles that no one seemed to take seriously. Voices were louder now, laughter shriller, a boisterous, restless mood infecting the crowd.

  Although the dance had already begun, Brence and I continued to wander over the grounds. I hoped this activity and the cool night air would help sober him up. He was grim-faced and brooding, immersed in his own private thoughts, and I could sense that the least little thing would set him off. It was nearing nine o’clock when we encountered Roger Hardin.

  He was standing near the carousel, eyeing the girls, but when he saw me he quickly forgot about the others. Grinning a wide, mischievous grin, he moved briskly over to us and pounded Brence on the back, making those hearty, jovial comments men always seem to make on such occasions. Brence wasn’t in a matey mood. He bristled, a dangerous expression on his face.

  “How’ve you been, fellow!” Hardin cried. “Haven’t seen you in months! How’re things at Danver Hall?”

  “Hello, Hardin.”

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “That’s no way to be, fellow. I’m Roger Hardin, Ma’am. Brence and I are arch-rivals, you might say. I live in the next county, and we frequently poach on each other’s territory. What’s your name, luv?”

  “Forget it, Roger,” Brence warned.

  Roger Hardin chuckled. Tall and broad shouldered, dressed in an expensively tailored blue suit and ruffled white shirt, he was quite clearly one of the landed gentry. His light brown hair was long and wavy, his broad, amiable face extremely appealing with dark, merry brown eyes and wide mouth. He undoubtedly cut a dashing figure with the ladies, and I suspected that his reputation was as wild as Brence’s. He looked me over with frank appraisal, undeterred by the pugilistic stance Brence had taken.

  “You did yourself proud this time, Brence old pal. She’s a stunner.”

  “Shove off!”

  “Easy, fellow, easy. Uh—if you get tired of old Brence here, luv, just give me the word. I’ll be around for the rest of the evening.”

  Still grinning, he sauntered off with a casual swagger as Brence muttered something under his breath. We didn’t see Roger Hardin again until almost two hours later when we joined the crowd around the wooden dance floor. The music was lively, the musicians making up in enthusiasm what they lacked in ability. Oak boughs swayed, tilting the Japanese lanterns this way and that, red and blue and green shadows spilling over the couples who danced with such zest
. Country boys in heavy boots stomped lustily, and pretty girls with bouncing hair and flushed cheeks swirled, colored skirts flashing. Your maid was having a grand time, the liveliest, prettiest girl on the floor. The crowd of onlookers was as exuberant as the dancers, hands clapping, feet stamping in time to the music, an occasional bawdy remark called out loudly and met with gales of hearty laughter.

  Brence and I stood beneath one of the oak trees. He leaned against the rough-barked trunk, his arms folded across his chest, chin lowered, dark eyes ignoring the dancers and staring at me with fixed intensity. I glanced around the crowd, hoping to spot Charles Danver, but he was nowhere in sight. The lively polka ended and the crowd applauded. Sweat glistened on their foreheads as the musicians began to play a waltz. Couples clung together, moving with a sensuous rhythmn.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Brence said huskily.

  “Have you?” I replied, paying scant attention.

  “I’m a man. A man—a real man—doesn’t let any woman treat him the way you’ve been treating me. I’ve had enough. I decided that tonight. Tonight you’re going to say yes, you’ll marry me, or else—”

  “Or else?”

  “We’ll forget all about marriage. There are other arrangements. One way or another I intend to have you, Jamintha. Tonight. When we get back to the cottage.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense,” I retorted.

  He seized my wrist in a tight grip. “Come on, we’re gonna dance!” His voice was loud. People standing nearby turned to stare curiously.

  “Brence!” I whispered furiously. “You’re drunk, you—”

  “Yes, I’m drunk! And I’m gonna dance with you!”

  Lurching unsteadily, he moved toward the dance floor, dragging me along with him. When I tried to pull away, he gave my wrist a savage twist. I stumbled, almost falling. Dozens of people were watching now, nudging their neighbors, whispering and pointing. Brence clambered onto the smooth wooden floor, colliding with a waltzing couple. The boy protested angrily, and Brence pushed him aside with a rough, impatient shove. Pulling me up against him, he wrapped his arms tightly around me and began to move awkwardly in a grotesque parody of a waltz, tripping, stumbling, forcing me to match his steps. My heart was beating with a rapid palpitation, anger, fear and humiliation clashing inside.