Jamintha

by Wilde, Jennifer;

  “Brence—people are staring—”

  “Let ’em stare!”

  The music began to drag, the musicians playing slower and slower as they grew aware of the scene brewing on the floor. Several couples stopped dancing and moved back, exchanging irate comments. There wasn’t a person in the crowd now who wasn’t aware of what was happening. The music ground to a screeching halt, fiddles twanging. A tense silence hung in the air. Vivid blue eyes filled with angry confusion, Brence stopped, clinging to me to keep from falling. We were alone in the center of the dance floor, the other dancers having made a large clearing around us. The crowd beyond shuffled about and craned their necks to get a better view, low voices beginning to buzz like a swarm of bees.

  Loosening his grip on me, Brence looked around with foggy eyes. “What the hell’s goin’ on?” His voice was thick and slurred.

  “Let go of me,” I hissed, trying to pull free.

  It was then that Roger Hardin pushed his way through the circle of onlookers and strolled toward us. Politely, an amiable grin curving on his mouth, he tapped Brence on the shoulder.

  “All right, fellow, turn her loose.”

  Brence tightened one arm around my waist and with his free hand pushed Hardin away. The crowd buzzed, and I could feel their anticipation. Hardin shook his head. The grin vanished as his lips spread in a tight line and his brown eyes turned flat and hard. His hands curled into fists. Brence released me so abruptly that I almost fell. I stumbled backward, watching in alarm and amazement as fists began to fly and bone smashed against bone. Brence grunted, staggering, and Hardin moved in closer, arms swinging wide and knuckles exploding against Brence’s jaw. Brence seized his arm, jerking it away from him, twisting it. A woman screamed. Loud voices filled the air as the two men crashed to the floor in a thrashing heap.

  “Brence!” I cried.

  A strong hand gripped my elbow, pulling me away from the scene. The dance floor was jammed with people trying to move in closer. Hardin was stretched out on the floor, Brence astride him, a murderous look in his eyes as he seized his opponent’s hair and pounded his head against the hard wooden slats. There was a series of horrible thuds, and then Hardin reared up, bucking. Brence toppled over. Lusty voices shouted encouragement, people pressing closer and closer. I felt faint, my knees suddenly weak. The hand on my elbow tightened, supporting me, and I leaned back against a large, strong body, not knowing who it was, not caring.

  “Granger!” a deep voice roared directly behind my ear. “Break it up! You help him, Peters. Separate them! The rest of you, clear away!”

  That rumbling voice carried unmistakable authority. A tall red haired giant in a tight-fitting black suit leaped forward, thrusting people out of his way as he approached the fighters. A burly lad with shaggy brown locks was right behind him. Almost immediately, the crowd began to disperse, the circle around the panting, jabbing men growing wider and wider. Roger Hardin staggered to his feet, a dazed expression on his face, blood streaming down his cheek from a cut under his eye. He stared down at Brence and drew back his foot for a vicious kick. The redhead seized him, slinging a forearm around his throat and pulling him back. Still on his knees, Brence was startled as a pair of strong arms encircled his waist and pulled him up. Both men struggled violently, Brence trying to throw his captor off, Hardin flailing his arms wildly.

  “You’ve done quite a job on my son. I hope you’re satisfied,” Charles Danver said calmly as he released my elbow and stepped around me to move toward Brence.

  The dance floor was almost empty of others now. The musicians cautiously took their seats again and picked up their instruments. As Charles Danver stood in front of the four men, Brence suddenly went limp, his head nodding. The burly lad had to struggle to keep from dropping his now unconscious burden.

  Charles Danver spoke to the redhead, whom I later learned was a foreman at the textile mill, the burly lad one of the workers. “See that his cut is tended to and then drive him home. I imagine you can handle him.”

  The redhead smiled a tight smile, getting a firmer grip on the still struggling Hardin. “Reckon I can at that. Come, my beauty—” His voice was mocking as he led Hardin off the dance floor. People stepped aside to let them pass, and they disappeared into the surrounding shadows. Danver turned to the hulking, embarrassed-looking lad who supported a limp and drooping Brence in his muscular arms.

  “Think you can get him home, Peters?”

  “Y—yes, Sir. I—I imagine I can,” the boy stammered.

  At Danver’s elbow, Helene DuBois began, “Charles, we can take him home ourselves—”

  “Madame DuBois will go with you,” Danver said firmly. “Brence brought the victoria. You’ll no doubt locate it with the other carriages.”

  “Charles—” the housekeeper protested.

  He gave her a cold, demolishing look. The woman almost cringed. The boy draped one of Brence’s arms around his shoulder, wrapped an arm around his waist and carted him away. Helene DuBois went after them, scarlet mouth trembling at the corners. Unperturbed, Charles Danver moved across the wooden floor toward me, and the musicians had started to play again as he took my elbow and led me away. People turned aside as we passed, but I heard excited whispers among them, scandalous speculation afoot.

  We walked across the fairgrounds in silence, passing the now darkened stalls. The carousel’s painted horses were suspended lifelessly in the air. The gypsies’ fire was a heap of smouldering embers, the wagons gone, only an empty space where the tattered purple tent had stood. His hand never left my elbow until we reached the place set aside for carriages. The lad in charge was asleep on a pile of damp hay. Loose harness jangled as horses stamped restlessly in the traces, and there was the pungent odor of horseflesh and a smell of old leather.

  “Widow Stephens’ cottage, isn’t it?” he said calmly.

  We exchanged not a word during the drive. He stopped the carriage in front of the cottage and dropped the reins in his lap, making no effort to help me down. Sighing deeply, he lifted his heavy shoulders and turned to me. His handsome, fleshy face wore a grave expression.

  “My son won’t be calling on you again.”

  “No?”

  “I intend to see to that.”

  “And you? Will you be calling on me?”

  “I’ll be here Monday afternoon. Make sure you’re in.”

  I climbed out and opened the gate. Charles Danver clicked the reins and drove away. Brence has served his purpose. He has led me to his father. My scheme has unfolded exactly as I planned, and we are closer than ever to discovering the secrets of Danver Hall. I’m looking forward to matching wits with Charles Danver. He’s dangerous, but I’m not worried about that. He’s male, and the male is an extremely vulnerable animal. Charles Danver is no exception.

  This letter is inordinately long, but I didn’t want to leave out any of the details. I want you to know exactly what is going on. I’ll write again when time permits. Take care of yourself, Jane, and don’t worry about anything. I have a feeling that all secrets are going to be disclosed before too much more time has passed.

  Jamintha

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Monday was a dismal day with watery gray sky, heavy clouds drifting across it and casting moving shadows over the ground. As I walked over the moors, in harmony with the day, I was not surprised to meet Gavin Clark. He wore a shabby black suit and a heavy black cloak that rose and fluttered in the wind like dark wings. His brown eyes were warm and compassionate as he came toward me and gripped both my hands in his, telling how pleased he was to see me again. I smiled, as pleased as he, and we strolled over the harsh landscape, at ease with each other, undeterred by the savage wind or the menacing threat of rain.

  I took him to my secret place. It was less windy there. We sat on the mossy green bank and watched the waterfall splash into the pool in silvery sprays. I thought about Jamintha’s letter which I had read upon awakening. I wondered where she was now, what she was doing. I thou
ght about Brence, too. Gavin Clark reached for my hand and squeezed it tightly. It seemed natural and right. I looked at that handsome, mellow face with its weary lines and those marvelous brown eyes.

  “You look pensive,” he said.

  “Perhaps it’s this place. It’s so beautiful, and—I used to come here when I was a child. I can’t remember, but I can feel something, an old response stirring.”

  He let go of my hand and drew his knees up, wrapping his arms around them. It was a boyish position, and with the disheveled red locks spilling over his forehead he looked younger, the permature silver at his temples only heightening the effect. I realized that he was only two or three years older than Brence, yet Gavin Clark had a maturity and depth of character that Brence would never attain.

  “Describe that response to me,” he said.

  I told him about the impressions I had felt when I first came back to this place, the little girl I had seen through the veil. I also described the sensations I had had in the library and the dusty, deserted ballroom and those emotions I experienced in the abandoned sitting room with ivory walls and the dingy yellow velvet sofa. His head tilted to one side, a thoughtful expression on his face, he listened, and it seemed right to be telling him these things. I told him about the stiff cracked canvas I had found depicting the lovely blonde woman in her low cut pink dress and the glittering web of diamonds.

  “I’m certain that woman was my mother,” I said. “I—sometimes can almost see her, but the veils are there, concealing details in my mind. I—I know I was a happy child.”

  “You weren’t happy at school, were you?”

  “No. I was miserable. I hated it. Life was brown and gray, like the walls, like the food.”

  “And you were ill a large part of the time.”

  “I had dreadful headaches—and nightmares.”

  Gavin Clark looked at the pool, his lightly tanned face held in profile. I hardly knew this man, yet I felt close to him, warm and secure in his presence.

  “They—the doctors said I wasn’t really ill. They said I was faking it—like the blind boy. But I was sick. Sometimes I was so weak I could hardly move, and the headaches—”

  “Your friend was there, wasn’t she?”

  “Jamintha? Yes. I—I couldn’t have endured it without her. She was the only one who understood.”

  “And now she’s come to Danmoor?”

  I nodded. I couldn’t discuss that, and Gavin Clark didn’t press me with further questions. Thunder continued to rumble in the distance, and a jagged streak of lightning flashed across the sky, skeletal silver fingers ripping at the dark gray expanse. Gavin stood up, his cloak flapping, and he took my hand and helped me to my feet. We left the place and moved briskly through the valley of boulders. The rain began to fall as we started up the slope. He removed the cloak without a word and wrapped it around me. We hurried toward the distant line of trees, rain splattering all around, the brown earth soaking up the water, turning to mud. As we moved into the gardens, I stumbled. Gavin Clark caught me in his arms and supported me. His face spread in an amused smile, and I smiled, too, heedless of the rain falling so furiously.

  “I’ve got a fire going in the study,” he said. “I could brew a pot of tea—”

  “Yes. I—I’d like that.”

  We dashed toward Dower House, his hand holding mine tightly. Both of us were laughing as we rushed inside. Gavin closed the heavy oak door and led me into the study, unwinding the cloak from my shoulders and draping it over a chair near the roaring fire. The cloak had kept me relatively dry, although my face and hair were wet. Taking me firmly by the shoulders, Gavin positioned me in front of the fire, hurried out of the room and returned a moment later with a fluffy white towel.

  “You dry off. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  I dried my face and hands and rubbed the towel over my hair, the tight braids still intact. Putting the towel aside, I spread my skirts out and held them in front of the crackling orange-blue flames. Protected by the heavy folds of the cloak, my dress was only slightly damp, a few dark spots around the hem. These dried quickly, the smell of steam blending with the smell of smoke. Satisfied, I turned to examine the room.

  The room, like the man, was full of warmth, comfortable, unassuming. The old burnt orange velvet sofa was shabby, its cushions lumpy. The battered, ink-stained mahogany desk was littered with books and papers. Books were stacked untidily on the floor as there were far too many of them to fit into the already crowded cases that dominated one side of the room. The wallpaper was dull tan, patterned with ugly brown and gold sunflowers, and the long draperies that framed the windows were of ancient brown velvet, held back with tarnished gold cord. There was a brown leather chair, a low table with pipe rack and dark orange earthenware canister. Dried goldenrod filled a large black and beige Chinese vase in one corner. Friendly and snug, the room was made even cozier by the rain that pelted on the roof and blew in splattering gusts against the windows.

  Bearing a tray with a squat blue tea pot and matching cups, Gavin came back a few minutes later. He had changed into old brown trousers and a once elegant maroon velvet smoking jacket with quilted black satin lapels, the garment now deplorably shabby. Hair still damp, he set the tray down and smiled at me. I was suddenly aware of the compromising situation I was in. I hadn’t thought twice about his invitation. I had come because I wanted to, yet I now realized that my being here was highly unconventional. My guardian would be livid if he knew.

  Gavin seemed to read my thoughts. “I’ll not seduce you, lass,” he said in a teasing voice.

  “Of—of course you won’t.”

  “You don’t sound terribly convinced. Relax, Jane. You look nervous as a cat in a kennel.”

  “I shouldn’t have come. It was an impulsive thing to do.”

  He poured tea into the cups. “Sugar? … No? I’ve no cream to offer, no lemon either, I’m afraid. Why? Why shouldn’t you have come?”

  “This isn’t—altogether proper, Doctor Clark.”

  “Please call me Gavin. We’re friends. You’re very proper, aren’t you, Jane?”

  “I suppose I am.”

  “Unlike Jamintha,” he remarked.

  “How—how do you know?”

  “I guessed. Conventions are grand. I’m all for them, as long as they’re not carried to preposterous extremes. There’s something wrong with a society that believes a man and a woman can’t be alone together without immediately leaping into bed. Sorry. Did I shock you? You blush most becomingly.”

  “Thank you,” I said feebly.

  “With your cheeks pink like that you’re pretty enough to seduce, I assure you. Incidentally, why do you wear your hair in such a severe style? I should think you’d let it fall in natural waves.”

  “I—I’ve always worn it this way.”

  “Here, take your tea. Curl up on that sofa. The fire’s nice, isn’t it? Glorious smell, smoke. There. Are you comfortable? Do you realize you’re my first guest at Dower House? I feel honored.”

  Gavin Clark sat down in the cracked brown leather chair, making small trivial remarks to lull me into a sense of ease. My nervousness vanished after a few minutes and we were close again, friends, completely at ease as we had been on the moors. Gavin talked about the book he was writing, describing the tremendous amount of preliminary work that had already gone into it. He was a marvelous talker, his smooth voice rich and expressive. Gradually, the conversation shifted to Danmoor and Danver Hall, and I found myself telling him about the things that had happened to me since I arrived, carefully eliminating any mention of Brence or Jamintha.

  He was extremely curious about my “accident,” his expression grave as he questioned me.

  “You think someone was in the ruins?”

  “I—I can’t be sure. I know I wasn’t sleepwalking, although—although there was a nightmare quality about it, the moonlight, the shadows, the wind. Maybe I imagined that dark form—”

  “You believe someone
struck you with a rock?”

  “I—no, of course not. I must have fallen.”

  Gavin got up and stepped behind the sofa, reaching down to place his hand over my temple where the bruise had been. His fingers were strong and gentle as they probed. He narrowed his eyes and frowned slightly, moving over to stand in front of the fireplace. He rested his elbow on the mantle, a preoccupied look in his eyes. Several long minutes passed.

  “You still feel weak?” he inquired.

  “Not—not as much as I did at first. In the evening, before I go to bed—I always seem to be weary then. I sleep every afternoon. I shouldn’t wake up feeling tired, should I?”

  “It’s not so unusual,” he said evasively. “You have headaches then, too, don’t you?”

  I nodded, toying with the empty blue teacup.

  “Do you dream frequently, Jane?”

  “Most of the time,” I said uneasily. “Is that bad?”

  Gavin smiled reassuringly and thrust his hands into the pockets of the shabby maroon smoking jacket, his back to the fire, his legs spread apart. “I dream most of the time myself.” He added humorously, “and some of them are dillies. You see, our subconscious takes over when we’re asleep.”

  “Our—subconscious?”

  “The thoughts we don’t consciously think, they form our subconscious. Sub—below the surface. Visualize the mind as a pond. The things that occupy us normally are like the goldfish you see swimming near the top, but down below there are other fish, to employ the same metaphor, and they remain out of sight, hidden in the depths. Sometimes, when we’re asleep, they surface—things we’ve willingly forgotten, things we’d rather not examine too closely.”