Jamintha

by Wilde, Jennifer;

  He wanted a good chum.

  I wondered what had transpired this past week, how Jamintha had handled Charles Danver, what she had said to Brence to cause him to harbor such deep resentment and pain. I was soon to find out, for when I woke up the next morning another letter had been slipped under the door.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Jane dear,

  I hesitate to write this, for I know you’ll be shocked by the things I’m about to relate. You live in a safe, secure, tight cocoon, protected by that hard shell, but I’m the butterfly who has burst out. I must fly. I must test my wings. It’s delicious, this freedom, this marvelous pure air that allows me to soar … There is danger, yes, but I still prefer it to your cocoon, Jane. But enough. I must tell you about this past week and the new developments.

  As I told you in my last letter, Charles Danver was to call on me Monday afternoon. I knew it would be a decisive meeting, and I was prepared. It had rained all morning, and the afternoon was bleak and gloomy, a world of gray. I turned on no lamps in the parlor. Calmly, I waited for the sound of a carriage in the street outside, the creak of the gate opening, the heavy tread of footsteps on the porch. That calm may seem unusual under the circumstances, but it was the result of complete confidence in myself … and in him.

  I wore a violet silk dress with long sleeves and a low, tight bodice, the skirt spreading out below the snug waist like the petals of a flower. My hair was pulled back from my face, fastened behind each temple with a black velvet bow, glossy curls tumbling down in rich waves to the small of my back. I wore a subtle, tantalizing perfume, and there was a touch of coral on my lips. In the blurry silver mirror, my eyes were violet, not blue, and I knew that Charles Danver was going to find me irresistible.

  At three o’clock he opened the gate and stepped to the door. I let him knock several times before I opened it. Then, smiling pleasantly, I led him into that parlor so faintly lighted. Moving gracefully, skirt making a silken rustle, I poured brandy from a crystal decanter and handed the glass to him. Neither of us had spoken a word.

  He sipped the brandy, staring at me with hard, dark eyes, his face set in stern lines, brows almost meeting over the bridge of his nose, eyelids heavy. I noticed the fleshiness, those too padded cheeks, the little roll of flesh beneath his chin, curiously attractive, adding to an already highly sensual face. He wore a black broadcloth suit, the trousers tucked into the tops of shiny black boots that ended mid-calf; above his jacket the too-elaborate waistcoat of silver satin patterned with embroidered black silk leaves could be seen. He had dressed for the meeting as carefully as I had, the male peacock displaying rich plumage to attract the pea hen. His thick black hair was casually disarrayed. He had a potent, leathery smell, and there was the elusive, unmistakable smell of physical desire. The tenseness was there as well, that slight tightening of the muscles that indicates masculine need.

  He set the empty glass down and took a slender black cigar out of his breast pocket. Taking a long match from a jar on the overmantle, I struck it and held the flame for him. He lit the cigar and slowly exhaled tendrils of pale smoke.

  “Who are you?” he asked in a ponderous voice.

  “I’m the woman your son loves.”

  “You’re not the schoolmaster’s sister.”

  “No.”

  “I checked that. A few discreet inquiries were all that was necessary. He has a sister, all right, but she’s thirty-four years old, pale, skinny and devoted to church work.”

  “Hardly the type Brence would find interesting,” I said. There was a faintly mocking amusement in my voice.

  “Who are you?” he repeated harshly.

  “Jamintha.”

  “No last name?”

  “Is one really necessary, Mr. Danver?”

  “I’ll tell you who you are: you’re an adventuress. Your mystery shouldn’t be too difficult to guess. A man. Perhaps several. You found it necessary to leave the city rather hastily—perhaps to avoid an open scandal, perhaps to avoid involvement in a lawsuit. Or maybe your lover discovered you in some kind of deceit and you simply fled. You came to Danmoor because it’s isolated and no one would be likely to look for you in a place like this. Am I right?”

  “You could be,” I replied.

  “You soon discovered that there was only one young man in town worthy of your interest—my son. You learned that he was spoiled, with a deplorable weakness for women, and you set about ensnaring him.”

  “He made the first move, Mr. Danver.”

  “I’ve no doubt you arranged that. You’re clever. Women like you are always clever.”

  “You’ve had experience with women like me?”

  “In my day,” he retorted gruffly.

  “I can well imagine that,” I said.

  He looked at me sharply, angry, disturbed. Smiling, I sat down on the sofa, spreading my skirt out. He took a long drag on the cigar and then hurled it into the fireplace. I touched my hair, running my fingers through the glossy chestnut curls. He stared at me. He was an imposing figure, a man who took what he wanted with brutal disregard for others, but I knew I had nothing to fear.

  “I wield a great deal of power, young woman. I could have you run out of town. I could have charges brought against you.”

  “I don’t think you’ll do that.”

  “Damn you! If you imagine you can—” He cut himself short, smothering the spurt of rage. He smouldered, fighting the emotions he felt stirring so strongly inside. Charles Danver is a passionate man, but he has learned to master those passions, unlike Brence. Cold, calculating, he knows the value of restraint, and I’ll wager he has never once acted on impulse. He’s too careful, always in control of himself.

  “My son claims he’s asked you to marry him. He said you’d refused him. Is that true?”

  “Quite true.”

  “Why? I’d imagine it’s one of the few times a man’s offered to make an honest woman of you. Your kind—men don’t marry your kind. They keep you in perfumed apartments on the Embankment. My son will one day be an extremely wealthy man. Why did you refuse him?”

  “Because, Mr. Danver, you son is, as you say, weak and spoiled. He is a boy. I’m not interested in surly little boys.”

  “No?”

  “No,” I said quietly.

  His chest swelled. The muscles of his face were taut. His powerful hands opened and closed stiffly. I met his stare with a level gaze, and I could feel the tension crackling in the air like a static force. His forehead was slightly damp, and the palms of his hands were moist. A weaker man would have already made some overt gesture, would have crushed me into his arms with clumsy force, but Charles Danver is not weak. That steely control remained. He smiled an icy, sarcastic smile.

  “Did you actually believe you could ensnare me too?” His voice was as hard as granite.

  “I don’t believe anyone could do that, Mr. Danver.”

  The lie went over well. He felt assured of himself, and of victory. I was, after all, a weak, frail woman in a violet dress, and he was the strong, invincible male, accustomed to command, made to dominate and control. He would make the first move. He would make the decisions, lay down the rules, and I would obey, meek, submissive, feminine. He knew that I found him attractive. What he did not know was that I could predict his every move. Women know by instinct what most men never learn after a lifetime of experience.

  “I’m not a boy,” he said huskily.

  “I’m well aware of that.” My voice was deliberately shaky.

  “What kind of game are you playing?”

  “Is it—is it so strange that I find you—interesting? I—I saw you driving to the mill in your carriage. Your face was so stern. You held the reins so firmly. You were wearing a check suit that day, and the wind blew your hair across your eyes. I found out who you were. I knew it would be impossible to meet you under normal circumstances—”

  “So you used my son. You knew I’d never tolerate—” He nodded, seeing it all now, imagini
ng the young woman standing on the street and seeing him drive past, immediately enamored. His ego swelled and he felt younger than he had felt in years, stronger, a potent young buck despite the thickening waist and the faint double chin.

  “You have every reason to despise me,” I continued in a wavering voice. “I—I won’t see Brence again. You needn’t worry.”

  I stood up, frail, a sad look in my eyes. He didn’t miss it. His own eyes were hard, his expression severe. I had appealed to his conceit, and I had won, but he was not to let me off so easily. He had to toy with me a while.

  “So you fancy me?” he said in a rough voice.

  “I’ve admitted that. I’m sorry. I should have known—”

  “You should have known I’m not to be manipulated like a boy, like my son. I’m not so easily taken in.”

  “Forgive me, Mr. Danver.” My voice was edged with sharpness now. “I made a mistake.”

  “What do you propose to do now?”

  “I suppose I’ll leave Danmoor.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “That needn’t concern you.”

  “What if I ordered you to stay?”

  “No one orders me to do anything.”

  “No? That may well be changed.”

  “You can’t—”

  “I can do anything I wish. You’ve made that quite clear.”

  I turned away from him, pretending anger. Charles. Danver seized my arm and whirled me back around to face him. His dark eyes were glowing. He was enjoying this. I tried to pull away, pretending alarm now, for that was what he wanted to see. He smiled a grim smile.

  Still holding on to my arm, he curled the fingers of his other hand around my chin, tilting my head back. “Yes—” he said as though to himself, “you’re a beautiful minx. I can see why the boy was so smitten. He didn’t know how to handle you.”

  “You’re hurting me—” I protested.

  “Am I? You’ll have to get used to that.”

  “I’m leaving Danmoor. Tomorrow. I—”

  “You’ll stay,” he commanded.

  “W—why?”

  “You know the answer to that question.”

  He released me abruptly, stepping back. Catching his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, he glanced around the room with disapproval. It wasn’t worthy of him, this place. He was envisioning one of those perfumed apartments, for, already, he saw me as merely another possession, to take and use as he willed. His conception of romance—and sex—is purely cliché. A mistress belonged in plush, scented rooms, not a rather shabby, middle-class cottage with doilies and horsehair sofa.

  “I’ll make arrangements,” he said. “I own a small white frame house that will do nicely. It will have to be re-decorated—I’ll see to that. This place smells of cabbage.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  “You’ll stay here. You’ll wait for me to call on you. I may stop by for a short while in the afternoons. I’ll expect tea and conversation and a respectful attitude. When the house is ready—” He allowed himself a slight leer of anticipation. Possession would be all the more satisfying for the wait he was imposing on himself.

  “We understand each other?” he asked sternly.

  “I think so.”

  “I’ll tolerate no disobedience, no coyness.”

  “Yes, Charles,” I said, using his name for the first time. He noticed that. It pleased him. In that preposterous waistcoat, with that smug tight smile on his lips, he looked more than ever like an arrogant peacock.

  “What about the Frenchwoman?” I asked.

  “She’ll present no problem, I assure you.”

  “You intend to dismiss her?”

  “That’s none of your business. I like my tea strong. I prefer it to be served with tiny frosted cakes. I like a cigar afterward. Put in a supply of Havanas. Expect me tomorrow at three.”

  He left without another word, without touching me. I stood in the hall, listening to the carriage driving away, my cheeks flushed with triumph. I felt relief as well. Charles Danver himself had solved my biggest problem. He had too much pride to attempt to make love to me in a place that “smells of cabbage,” and my virtue would be quite safe until he had provided a suitable love nest. That would give me plenty of time …

  He came the next afternoon. I served tea, with tiny frosted cakes, and afterward I lighted his cigar and sat demurely on the armchair across from him. He sat back on the sofa and put his feet up on the coffee table, the picture of a man at ease, but he didn’t so much as take off his coat. I suspect that Charles Danver is, deep down, rather stuffy where matters of the heart are concerned. His love-making would be expert, deliberate, perfunctory, with no surprises. Now, smoking his cigar and watching me through the smoke, he looked smug and self-satisfied, like a man who’s just pulled off a particularly tricky business deal. When he left an hour later, we had hardly exchanged a dozen words.

  On Wednesday afternoon he was a bit more responsive. I got him to talk about the mill. He grew expansive, describing his accomplishments, and I was fascinated, my eyes full of admiration. He relaxed, content, and when he left he rested his hand on my cheek for a moment, peering into my eyes with an indulgent expression. He was beginning to thaw. I was convinced I would have his complete confidence before long, and then I would be able to subtly phrase those questions so important to us.

  He hadn’t been gone for more than an hour Wednesday afternoon when I heard another carriage pulling up outside. I assumed it was someone visiting one of the neighbors. Although it was still early, the sun was beginning to sink, lingering in deep orange rays on the housefronts. The cottage was filled with a dull orange glow, the furniture darkly outlined. Sitting in the parlor, I thought about Charles Danver. Soon, very soon, he would tell me everything I wanted to know …

  Suddenly the front door was flung open violently. I leaped to my feet, filled with alarm. The door slammed shut. Angry footsteps sounded in the hall.

  Brence stormed into the room.

  His rage was magnificent to behold. Eyes snapping with dark blue fire, cheeks pale, nostrils flaring, his mouth a wide slash, he stood with hands rolled into tight fists resting on his thighs. Too angry to speak, he glared at me and tilted forward, his body rocking.

  “Brence—” I whispered.

  “Is it true!” he cried. “Just tell me that!”

  “I—you have no right to—”

  “He told me! It gave him a malicious pleasure. He smiled mockingly as he said the words. He said—he said you—” His voice was trembling with anger. “Is it true?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I don’t believe it! I can’t believe it—”

  “It’s true, Brence.”

  He recoiled as though I had struck him. His face was ashen, the skin stretched tightly over his cheekbones. His eyes filled with hurt, and he looked like a little boy who has been unjustly punished. For one brief instant I thought he was going to burst into tears, and then he drew himself up and the muscles of his face tightened and he stared at me with a calm, frosty rage that was far more alarming than any tempestuous outburst could have been.

  “I loved you, Jamintha.”

  “That was your mistake.”

  “I actually wanted to marry you.”

  “Do you think any woman who wasn’t an utter imbecile would marry you? You’re twenty-six years old, but you act like a rapacious sixteen-year-old, totally irresponsible, totally selfish. You’ve never done an honest day’s work in your life. You drink, you carouse, you storm and sulk like a belligerent infant. You flaunt your virility, you call yourself a man, but you’re not a man, Brence. No, you’re a self-indulgent, deplorably spoiled child.”

  “Well put,” he said.

  “You serve absolutely no purpose in life besides satisfying your own appetites. Oh, you’re handsome and appealing, ornamental, I suppose, but you—you have no real worth, Brence.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” he said crisply.

  “I
could never respect you.”

  “I find that amusing, coming from you. You’ve summed up my character nicely, Jamintha. Let me sum up yours. I can do it in one word.”

  “I know what you must think of me.”

  “You’re a conniving bitch! You used me to get to him. He’s going to set you up in a house. He told me. He’s already brought in a firm of decorators from London, already! In less than two weeks it’ll be ready, and then—damn you, Jamintha! Damn you!”

  “I don’t expect you to understand.”

  “Is it his wealth, his power?”

  “No, I—”

  “Then it’s pure lust.”

  “Insult me all you wish, Brence. It won’t change anything.”

  “To think I denied myself, to think I treated you like a decent woman. He told me what you are! You’re an imposter, an adventuress. To think I was so easily taken in! I should have—God! What a fool I’ve been, what a bloody fool, and all the time you were laughing at me!”

  “Brence—”

  “I should have taken you that first day. I should have treated you like the whore you are! By God, it’s not too late—”

  He seized my forearms, fingers gripping the flesh like bands of steel, squeezing until I cried out. He jerked my body to him and slammed his mouth over mine with one fierce bend of his neck. All his rage went into that brutal kiss. When I tried to pull away, his fingers tightened even more on my arms, crushing my flesh with savage cruelty. He stumbled, and both of us almost fell, but still his mouth covered mine in that furious, plundering kiss.

  Abruptly, he shoved me away from him.

  “I’d like to kill you!” he yelled.

  I was frightened now, terribly frightened. He looked capable of doing what he said. My breath came in short gasps.

  Suddenly, so quickly that I barely saw it coming, he swung his arm in a wide arc, the palm flat and hard, slamming it across my jaw with stunning impact. A chaos of bright, blinding light exploded in front of me. I fell backward, tumbling onto the carpet in a crumpled heap. My eyes smarted with salty tears, lights still whirled in my head, and my jaw burned with agonizing fire where his hand had smashed against it. I moaned, wincing at the excruciating pain.