Jamintha

by Wilde, Jennifer;

  “I—think I understand.”

  He shrugged his shoulders, another smile playing on his lips. “Forgive me for sounding professional. Tell me about your friend. When did she first arrive?”

  “After the accident. I seem to have written her a letter during—during that week I can’t recall. I wrote a note to Susie’s boy friend, too, thanking him for flowers he’d sent, although I don’t remember writing that either. That week is a total blank.”

  “Not an unusual phenomenon,” he said. “It frequently happens after a concussion. And you did have a concussion, however slight. So you wrote to Jamintha. I assume she was still at the school.”

  “Yes—”

  I wondered why he was so curious about her. He’d mentioned her three times already this morning. In a village as small as Danmoor, gossip took the place of a daily newspaper, and if he’d gone into the village for anything he was bound to have heard of her and her “affair” with Brence. Perhaps he had even seen her. No doubt his interest was the normal interest of the male intrigued by a beautiful woman.

  “She sounds like a fascinating creature,” he remarked.

  “She is. She’s everything I’m not: beautiful, gay, lighthearted. She’s strong, and wise. She’s not afraid of anything—” I broke off, frowning. I hadn’t meant to talk about any of these things with him. The words seemed to have come to my lips unbidden.

  I stood up, brushing my skirt. “I—I must go now. It’s almost eleven. Thank you for the tea, Doctor Cl—Gavin.”

  “The pleasure has been all mine,” he said, escorting me to the front door. “I hope to see you again, Jane. Tomorrow, perhaps. Perhaps we’ll meet on the moors again.”

  I did see him the next morning, and the next. With Gavin Clark I was a different person, not so stiff, not so thorny. He seemed to bring out qualities in me I had never known were there. I was almost natural, almost warm and friendly, responding to him as I had never responded to anyone else. We had long talks as we strolled over the land, and the talks always made me feel better. He told me about his life, his work, his ambitions, yet somehow the conversation always seemed to work around to me. He made me feel … worthy, and interesting. With Gavin I forgot that I was plain and dull.

  When I returned to the house Wednesday at noon, I was unusually weary, my bones aching. Every step I took required an effort. I had lunch on a tray in my room, and Susie sat with me, alarmed by my pallor and the deep smudges of fatigue under my eyes. She hemmed and hawed and clucked, insisting I eat every bite, and lectured me severely, her bossy, scolding manner revealing a genuine concern that I found touching. I told her I intended to stay in bed for the rest of the day and would not want to be disturbed at dinner time. Rest and sleep were more important than food, and she was not to bring a tray unless I rang for her. After making sure that I was snugly tucked in bed, she left.

  Almost immediately, I sank into layers of unconsciousness, relaxing, aches and weariness vanishing as I drifted into sleep. I slept all afternoon, all evening, and it was sometime during the early morning hours that the nightmare began.

  It was foggy, but the fog was brown, swirling, and the woman with long blonde hair came into my bedroom, the bedroom I had occupied as a child. As the fog grew thinner and parted I could see the gaily striped wallpaper and the dolls sitting helter-skelter on top of the bureau. Rubbing my knuckles over sleepy eyes, I sat up and smiled at my mother, but the smile vanished when I saw the terror in her eyes. She had a handful of stars, stars spilling through her fingers. Her lips moved and she was saying something urgent, but I couldn’t understand the words, just the urgency. Then the brown fog swallowed her up and I was climbing, climbing, my heart pounding against my ribs, my throat tight and dry, and there was a single sharp retort—a gunshot?—and rushing footsteps. Fog billowed, thicker now, so thick I could barely see the figures struggling. I screamed, throwing my arms out, and my throat was still dry and my heart still pounding, but I was in the right bedroom now and moonlight streamed through the window in wavering rays. I closed my eyes, sinking back against the pillows.

  Susie noticed the bruises first thing Thursday morning.

  “Lands sake, Miss Jane! What happened to your arms?”

  “I—they feel sore. My jaw feels sore, too.”

  About three inches above the elbow on either arm there were dark brown bruises, slightly purple about the edges. The flesh was tender, painful to the touch, and although there was no bruise on my face the right side of my jaw felt as though I’d knocked it against the wardrobe. Susie’s face was full of alarm, a nervous, apprehensive look in her eyes, and I knew she suspected that I had been “sleepwalking” again. Stepping gingerly over to the bed, she examined my arms, and then she noticed the heap of shattered glass on the floor. The bedside lamp had been knocked over, the green glass hurricane globe demolished.

  “I—I had a nightmare,” I said.

  I remembered it then. I remembered waking with a start and flinging my arms out. The headboard of my bed was solid oak, heavily carved, and I realized that I must have slammed my arms back against it, probably hitting them against the projecting carvings and knocking the lamp over at the same time. I explained this to Susie, but she still looked dubious and began to fret when I climbed out of bed.

  “Now be sensible, Miss Jane! You’ve no business being up. You need a nice long nap.”

  “I just woke up, and I feel glorious. My arms hurt a little, but not enough to justify staying in bed. The bruises will go away and so will the ache. I’m full of energy this morning.”

  “It’s pouring down rain. Can’t you hear it? You won’t be able to meet Doctor Clark anyway, so—” She paused, realizing what she had said.

  “So you know?” I remarked, taking out a long sleeved green dress and slipping into it.

  “Yes,” Susie admitted. Her voice was hushed and low, the voice of a conspirator. “But no one else does,” she hastily added. “Madame’s been sulky lately, taking to her room most of the day, so she hasn’t seen the two of you coming back. Mister Charles has been at the mill every day, and Master Brence sleeps all morning long. I haven’t told anyone, Miss Jane. Your secret’s safe with me.”

  I adjusted the folds of the dress and smoothed the skirt down over my petticoats, smiling to myself. Susie obviously imagined a clandestine romance, and it was plain to see that her opinion of me had been elevated. My “secret” gave me a certain glamor in her eyes. Finished dressing, I sat at the mirror and began to braid my hair. Susie was gathering up the pieces of glass and dropping them into the wastepaper basket.

  “The lamp itself is undamaged,” she remarked, “but I’ll have to get a new globe. There’re some down in the basement, I think, though I won’t be able to go down there this morning. Cook ’n I are cleaning out the pantry, and that’s a job!”

  “I’ll fetch the globe,” I told her as I coiled the braids in a coronet and fastened them with pins.

  “I wish you’d stay in bed.”

  “I told you, I feel perfectly all right. It was just a nightmare, Susie. I hit my arms against the headboard. I’ll just eat this lovely breakfast you’ve brought up and then go down to the basement. I’ve never been down there. I’ll enjoy exploring a bit.”

  “You’ll find the globes on one of the shelves.” Her tone was weary and resigned. Stepping over to the door, she opened it and then hesitated for a moment. “I—I’m sorry I let on about Doctor Clark, Miss Jane. I didn’t mean for you to know I knew, but, well, I think it’s smashing.”

  Susie left, and I ate my breakfast, amused at her assumption that I was having a romance with Gavin. It suited me to let her think so. It was flattering that she thought a man as handsome and eligible as Doctor Clark could be interested in me, all things considered. It was preposterous, of course, but Susie thrived on such nonsense and it would be impossible for anyone of her nature to believe friendship—pure and simple friendship—could exist between two people of the opposite sex.

  The basem
ent was dim, filled with deep gray shadows, the corners black and impenetrable, and as I moved slowly down the curving stone staircase I was glad I had had the foresight to bring a lamp. Fetid air scurried up to meet me, and in the flickering yellow-orange glow of the lamp I could see damp brown walls and cobwebs that billowed to and fro. The room was very large, as large as the ballroom, filled with discarded furniture and piles of boxes, an odor of dust and mildew and yellowing paper filling the air. Tall wooden shelves loomed up on one side. I saw the globes immediately, several of them of varying shapes and sizes, but all of a sudden I was no longer interested in them.

  It had come over me abruptly, this feeling, a trance-like numbness setting in. There was no fear, no sense of alarm, but I could feel a curious transformation. At one moment I had been looking around the basement with interest, noting the details, and at the next I was standing stock still, the lamp held aloft, waiting for the summons I knew would come. I heard the voice, faint at first, then louder, giving me directions. I knew it came from inside my head, yet it seemed to have a separate entity. Over there, behind those barrels, you remember … Slowly, brow creased in a deep frown, I walked across the room and stepped around the enormous wooden barrels that, I knew, contained dishes packed in sawdust. There was a wide space between them and the wall.

  I ran my hand over the wall, fingers rubbing the damp stone, and then I located the tiny lever and pulled it down. Creaking loudly, a portion of the wall swung open, revealing a narrow passageway. You used to play here, Jane. Remember? Go on. Don’t be afraid … Holding the lamp firmly, I stepped into the passage and began to follow it. The gray brick walls were stained brown with moisture, damp green fungus growing between the cracks, and they pressed close on either side, no more than three and a half feet from wall to wall. The ceiling was low, the floor hard-packed earth as smooth as stone. Beneath its glass globe the lamp’s flame flickered, hurling bizarre shadows against the walls, and my footsteps echoed loudly, the sound ringing up and down the passage.

  Ahead, a soft white mist seemed to billow, growing thinner, and I could see the little girl in a frilly pink dress. Her long brown curls were bouncing as she skipped along, and she was laughing merrily, turning back to taunt someone who was pursuing her. I saw the plump-faced governess with the harassed eyes and disheveled gray hair, scurrying along, trying to catch her ward. The little girl turned around and made a face, and then the mist evaporated and they were both gone and there was nothing but damp, shadowy walls and the reverberating echoes of my footsteps.

  Miss Perkins. Nanny Perkins. She was a dear, actually, grumpy sometimes and always fussy, but a dear. She read fairy tales to me every night before I went to bed, and when I was extraordinarily naughty and my parents sent me up to my room without supper she smuggled food up to me. I remembered her taking a chicken leg out of her apron pocket, her blue eyes disapproving, her lips pursed as she pulled cookies out of another pocket. She had been with me until I was six and a half years old, leaving just a few months before the accident … The memory vanished, evaporating like the mist.

  The passage seemed to be curving to the left, and when I looked back I could no longer see the door. On and on I went, unable to stop, unable to turn back. Five minutes passed, ten, and then I felt the cold draft. My petticoats began to billow. Far away I could hear a loud staccato drumming. It took me a moment to realize it was the sound of falling rain magnified and distorted by the peculiar acoustics of the place. There would be shrubberies, I knew, and tall trees, one of them with a low hanging branch that almost touched the ground.

  I was right. There was no door at this end of the passage, merely a rough opening concealed by the shrubbery growing in front of it. Through the dark green leaves dripping with rain, I could see the tree with the low hanging branch. I knew these were the woods beyond Danver Hall, between the house and the village, probably somewhere near the place where Brence and Jamintha had had their picnic. The first Danver had been a Cavalier, a passionate Royalist, and he had had the passage built during the rise of Cromwell in order to have a safe exit in case the Roundheads stormed the house. Nanny Perkins had explained that to me once long, long ago, and I had been fascinated by the passage and loved to play in it even though I had been forbidden to do so.

  I turned back, haunted by those few, sketchy memories, my head beginning to ache as I strained to remember more. I walked slowly, the drumming of rain growing distant as I drew nearer the basement. When I reached the basement, I pushed the door shut, listening for the click that told me it was securely fastened. When it was closed, one would have to look closely to know it was there, so artfully had it been fashioned.

  I moved around the barrels, smelling stale sawdust, then took one of the globes from the shelf across the room and left the basement. I felt a curious calm, but there was something cold and hard inside. The memories were returning, little by little, and I had a feeling that soon the last veil would lift and I would remember everything. In my room, I stared out at the rain, and I thought about the nightmare that had caused me to awaken with such agonizing terror. It had not been a dream. Not really. I knew that now. It had been a memory … a memory that was coming closer and closer to the surface.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  On Friday morning the sky was a faint wet blue, and although rain still dripped from the eaves and the trees outside, it no longer fell. The moors would be impossible for walking, I knew, but I was far too tense and restless to stay in my room. After Susie left with the breakfast tray I pulled a cloak over my shoulders and slipped out the back door, the smell of wet earth and crushed rose petals filling the air as I crossed the gardens and hurried along the mud-splattered path to Dower House.

  It was several minutes before Gavin opened the door. He blinked sleepily and ran a hand through his hair. Wearing tight, faded brown trousers and a wrinkled white linen shirt opened at the throat, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, he had that foggy, slightly dazed look of someone who has just awakened. He shook his head as though to clear it, smiled a fuzzy smile and, without a word, led me into the study. Balls of wadded up paper littered the floor all around the desk. The cushions of the sofa were crushed and deeply dented, and a brown blanket had slid down to the floor in front of it.

  “Coffee,” he mumbled. “That’s what I need—”

  “Did I awaken you?”

  “Be back—make yourself comfortable—”

  He stumbled out of the room. Feeling warm and strangely at home, I folded up the old brown blanket and smoothed down the cushions of the sofa, caressing the worn velvet nap. I gathered up the wads of paper and tossed them into the fireplace where they exploded into tiny puffs of flame and immediately disintegrated into charred black flakes. I was examining the papers on his desk when Gavin returned. He carried a tray with a fat green pot and cups that rattled loudly as he set it down on a corner of the desk. I smelled the delicious aroma of freshly brewed coffee. His rich red locks were damp now and neatly combed. Although he wore the same rumpled clothes, his eyes were alert and wide awake, and the smile he smiled was far more convincing than the first had been.

  “I did awaken you,” I said.

  “Afraid so, but it was high time I got up.”

  “When did you go to sleep last night?”

  “No idea. I worked on the book until I couldn’t hold my eyes open any longer, and then I just collapsed on the sofa, too tired to grope my way up to the bedroom. I hope you’ll forgive my somewhat groggy welcome.”

  “I wanted to see you. I knew the moors would be impossible, so—I just came over here.”

  “My, my,” he teased, “you are getting brazen, aren’t you? I believe you actually trust me.”

  “I do,” I replied.

  “I find that flattering, Jane. You’ll have coffee?”

  “I just finished breakfast a short while ago. I had a cup of tea, but the coffee smells wonderful—”

  “I brew a wicked pot of coffee. Strong and tasty. Here—” He poured a c
upful and handed it to me. Leaning casually back against the desk, his cup of coffee in his hand, Gavin smiled again, genuinely pleased to see me. I sat down in the brown leather chair and took a sip of the coffee.

  “Susie knows about us,” I said.

  “Susie?”

  “The maid. She thinks we’re having an illicit romance. She thinks it’s smashing.”

  He chuckled. “Susie sounds like a delightful minx. Tell me, Jane, you said you wanted to see me—was there some special reason?”

  I set my coffee cup aside. “Yes. I—I don’t know whether or not I should tell you about it—”

  “You can tell me anything, Jane. You know that.”

  His voice was serious, all cheerful banter behind us now. I looked into those dark brown eyes, and confidence rose inside of me. I knew what he said was true. I could tell Gavin Clark anything. I trusted him completely, and he would never betray that trust.

  “I had a nightmare Wednesday night. It was—rather unnerving.”

  “Describe it to me.”

  Thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers, he strolled over to the window and gazed out at the gardens as I began to talk. A mote-filled ray of sunlight streamed through the window, burnishing his hair a deep copper hue, etching light shadows over his face. I spoke haltingly, describing the brown fog, my mother, the handful of stars, the sensation of climbing and the figures struggling in the thickening fog. I told him about awakening with tight throat and pounding heart. When I mentioned the bruises he turned around sharply.

  “You bruised yourself?”

  “I—I remember flinging my arms out. The headboard of my bed is heavy oak, ornately carved with projecting knobs. I must have slammed my arms back against the carvings—”

  “Do you mind if I examine the bruises?”

  “No—” I said hesitantly. “I—I’ll have to unfasten my dress. These sleeves are too tight to push up.”