Jamintha (10 page)

“You don't remember?”

“I remember getting on Sable and racing over the moors, and I seem to remember lying in a gully and feelin' like death, but everything else is a bit dim. Foggy as hell, in fact.”

“Tell me,” I said politely, “do you have these spells often?”

“Touché! Point well taken. I have 'em damn near every day. Vaguely, just vaguely, I remember making some sort of dreadful blunder. Was it a whopper?”

“I don't care to discuss it.”

He grinned. It was a most engaging grin. I had a suspicion that he knew very well what had happened and was merely taunting me. My cheeks were still blazing, and I stood up with all the dignity I could summon, intending to march briskly out of the room. To my amazement, my knees turned to rubber and I toppled back down on the couch, my head spinning again. Brence Danver chuckled, eyes aglow with amusement.

“You're enjoying this!” I snapped. “You enjoy tormenting people. You are a bully, Mr. Danver, and—”

“And you're beginning to bore me,” he said in a flat voice.

The amusement was gone, and his expression turned surly. The silence between us grew heavy. I had the feeling he had forgotten all about me and was dwelling in a world of private torment. Brence Danver was an enigma. For some reason, I felt sorry for him.

“How is your ankle?” I asked timidly.

“It was merely a light sprain,” he replied, sullen.

“I'm glad it has healed properly. I was worried—”

“Ah, yes, you were a noble little nurse, bringing me back to the house and taking care of me until the doctor came. Do you want me to pin a medal on you?”

“I want you to leave this room!” I retorted angrily.

Brench Danver stood up. He seemed to tower over me. The eyes were dark with genuine anger now, and I knew I had gone too far. He was a violent, brooding man with quicksilver moods that could shift without warning. The light, jesting Brence was gone, and in his place was the savage brute who had slapped the barmaid to her knees and sauntered off without a backward glance.

“I don't like your attitude,” he said coldly. “I don't like the things you say or the tone you employ when you say them. Women don't speak to me like that.”

“You don't know any respectable women,” I retorted.

“The women I associate with know their place, Cousin, and they're
women
, not prim, stiff, uppity little schoolgirls. Let's get one thing straight: I don't know why my father sent for you and I couldn't care less, but your position is tenuous. Your name is Danver, but you're not one of
us
. You'll show the proper respect when you speak to me, Cousin, or I'll know the reason why.”

“If you think—”

“No back talk! Christ, what a poor excuse for a woman. You're plain and dull, and you're a bloody little fool to boot! In the future, stay out of the library, and stay out of my way. The next time I see you I might not be so patient!”

He charged out of the room, slamming the door behind him. I sat on the sofa and watched the tiny orange flames devouring the log. The fire glowed brightly and golden sparks shot up the flue. Time passed. The log turned to ashes. The flames vanished, and the room grew cold. It was a long time before I had strength enough to leave.

CHAPTER SIX

There was so much I couldn't understand, so much that bewildered me. Danver Hall and its inhabitants were a perpetual mystery. Even when she wasn't in sight, I felt that Madame DuBois was spying on me, waiting just around the curve of the staircase, standing just beyond the shadows. It didn't make sense, and yet I had the distinct impression that she was lurking about every time I left my room. It was almost as though the woman were waiting for me to make some specific move and expected me to lead her to something. Perhaps I was imagining it, but the impression was unquestionably there.

Brence Danver was puzzling, too. Several days had passed since he took me to the study, and I had avoided him. He dined with us only once, sulking at the table, toying with his food, ignoring me completely and answering his father's remarks in a surly, belligerent manner that caused Charles Danver to scowl. The air was charged with tension. When my guardian suggested that his son accompany him on an inspection of the textile mill the next day, Brence merely smiled a sarcastic smile and said he had other plans. His father fumed, but he did not insist. He arched a heavy eyebrow and took a sip of wine.

“Business has been a bit slow of late,” he said calmly. “I think it might be necessary to cut down on your allowance.”

“Do that,” Brence said, getting to his feet. His dark blue eyes were brilliant, glittering with hatred.

“You think I won't?” Charles Danver said heavily.

Both of them seemed to have forgotten my presence. I might have been invisible, or so insignificant as to be unworthy of notice. I sat nervously, hands clenched in my lap. Brence folded up his napkin and dropped it on the table, making the gesture seem like a challenge.

“I think you won't,” he replied.

“Son—”

“I have an appointment in the village,” Brence said.

He left the room without another word. Charles Danver turned slightly pale. His hands on the table tightened into fists. It took him a moment to master his rage, and then he, too, left the room. Alone at the enormous table, candles flickering and casting shadows on the lofty walls, I stared at my plate trying to puzzle out the tense drama just enacted between father and son.

Brence Danver obviously hated his father. If so, why didn't he leave Danver Hall? Was it merely because of money? Was he so spineless that he was afraid to try and make a go of it without his father's allowance? Susie seemed to think so. I shamelessly questioned her, and she felt no qualms about gossiping freely.

“Mister Charles wants Master Brence to take an interest in the mill,” she said, fluffing the pillows on my bed and tucking the counterpane in place. “Master Brence will take over one of these days, you see, and his father wants him to be prepared.”

“That seems reasonable,” I remarked.

“Master Brence has other ideas. He hates the mill with a passion. He wants to go to London and lead the life of a fashionable rake—he would be good at that, I 'spect—but Mister Charles refuses to give him the money. They're always arguing about it.”

“He's a grown man. He shouldn't expect his father to—”

“Oh, he doesn't want Mister Charles' money,” she interrupted. “He wants what's rightfully his—at least he
says
it's his. When his mother died, she left everything to Master Brence, quite a sum, I understand, but it's all tied up in stocks and bonds and Mister Charles has control of 'em. Won't let Master Brence lay a finger on 'em. ‘When you've proven yourself responsible enough to handle it, I'll be glad to hand everything over to you,' he says. He knows Master Brence would squander it immediately.”

“I imagine he would,” I said.

I understood the situation more fully now, and I had to side with my guardian. Brence Danver certainly wasn't responsible enough to handle any large amount of money. His father was merely trying to protect him by withholding it. Brence seemed hellbent on a course of self-destruction, and his father was trying to restrain him as much as possible. Still, the inevitable “Why?” remained. Why was Brence so tormented? What drove him to such excesses? Was it because he had lost his mother at such an early age? Was it because his boyhood had been without love or a sense of security? He seemed to have everything, yet he was as a man possessed by demons.

Something else puzzled me. I knew that Charles Danver must be an extremely wealthy man. He could have afforded to live in the finest house. Why, then, did he remain at Danver Hall? Although the rooms currently in use were in good enough condition, the place was totally unsuitable. It had been built for a vast, sprawling family, and it was much too large. The west wing was in ruins, never repaired, and so many of the rooms were closed up, abandoned to dust and decay. Danver Hall was a relic of times past, uncomfortable, drafty, impossible to heat or keep up properly. Why did Charles Danver hang on to it? It seemed illogical.

It couldn't be family pride. If that were the case, he wouldn't have left the west wing in ruins. He wouldn't have let the rest of the house sink into such a pitiful state of disrepair. No, Charles Danver took no pride in Danver Hall, yet he remained here when he could have built a much more suitable dwelling. There was a mystery here. The house seemed to hold some dark, forbidding secret, and I sensed that it was somehow connected with the tragic accident that had happened eleven years ago.

Something was going to happen. The house itself seemed to be waiting, holding back. I felt it as I wandered through the rooms. The walls seemed to watch me, and there was a tension in the air. I could not shake the feeling that I had been brought here for some purpose, that I was to play an important part in some drama as yet unfolded. That feeling hovered over me, always there, even though day followed day and I was virtually ignored by the other members of the household.

I thought about what had happened in the library. Something had drawn me there. The room had been waiting for me. I couldn't explain why I had gone up the secret staircase and onto the gallery, but it had been important. I remembered vaguely the impressions: a child, a handful of stars, a battered set of Gibbon, a sense of danger, fear. Something had happened in that room long ago, and in my trance I had been trying to re-enact it. I shuddered, remembering the creaking, unsteady floorboards as the gallery seemed to pull away from the wall. If Brence hadn't appeared … I refused to think about it. I would not go to the library again. There were plenty of books in the small study. I would read them.

The room was empty when I entered, the fireplace cold with ashes, but there was an empty glass on the rolltop desk, and his smell. It was as though he had left his impression on the air, for I could feel him strongly as I examined the titles and selected half a dozen books. I expected him to step into the room before I was finished. He didn't. Gathering the books up in my arms, I left, relieved that I had been spared another encounter. I told myself that it was relief, but it was very like disappointment.

It continued to rain all during the week. I stayed in my room and read until my eyes were sore, and during the night I slept poorly. I kept hearing noises in the west wing. Once I awoke with a start, convinced someone had just walked down the hall past my bedroom door, but when I listened in the moonlit darkness there was no sound. Days stretched out, so long, so lonely, and my headaches were returning. I was tense without knowing why, and I was bone tired without having done anything more strenuous than turning the pages of a book.

On Saturday afternoon the house was particularly silent. Charles Danver had gone to the mill, and Brence was out, as usual. Susie had the afternoon off, and Cook was in the basement putting up preserves. I assumed Madame DuBois was in her apartment in the east wing. I was restless, unable to concentrate on the French history I was reading. The rain was a monotonous, steady patter, and I had the feeling I was alone in a deserted ship cast adrift on the ocean.

I left my room and wandered through the empty halls, aimlessly exploring the house, avoiding the east wings, on the second floor there was a ballroom with blue silk panels edged in gilt, the sky blue ceiling adorned with flaking gilt leaves. The floor was warped, the chandeliers coated with dust, the silk panels dark with moisture stains. No balls had been given here for a very long time, and yet I could almost hear music and see ghostly figures waltzing through the emptiness, colored skirts spreading, flowing like wings vivid for a split second, then nothing but motes of dust swirling in empty space. A little girl stood in that doorway, long brown curls bouncing as she tapped her foot, and she laughed, so happy, and then shadows filled the doorway, nothing else.

I wandered down a long hall. The air was fetid, the sour smell of mildew almost overwhelming.
Turn here
, the voice said,
open this door, yes, you know the way
… The sitting room had been so lovely with ivory walls and white fireplace and large yellow velvet sofa. There had been flowers, and pictures, yes, pictures of court ladies in flowered swings. Watteau. I remembered them distinctly. The pictures were gone. The ivory walls were damp. Dust sheets covered the furniture. I lifted one of them. Yes, yellow velvet, dingy now, splitting with age.

I had sat on this sofa beside my mother. She had read to me from a big book with brightly colored pictures, the two of us on the sofa, flowers in the pretty white vases, a fire burning cozily in the fireplace. I stood in the middle of the room, sensing so many, vague, misty memories straining to materialize, eluding me just as they were about to become clear. I felt impressions just as I had in the library, but there was no fear, only a warm, pleasant sensation. My mother's voice, soft and lilting, seemed to speak. “Jane, my little Jane” … No, not quite those words, but words so similar.

I stepped into the bedroom. I had rarely been in here. I couldn't remember anything about it, no fleeting impressions. The Chinese silk wallpaper was peeling. The beige and ivory canopy was moth-eaten, hanging from the frame in shreds. Dust sheets covered the furniture, as in the other room, and the chandelier had been disconnected and left on the floor in the corner, pendants yellow with age, cobwebs strung across the branches. A picture in an ornate gold frame leaned against the wall, only the back of it visible. I turned it around and knelt to examine it.

Though the canvas was cracked and covered with dust, the face stared out at me vividly, life-like. She was beautiful, her long blond hair falling in glossy curls, pink lips, merry blue eyes full of vitality and mirth as though she shared some naughty secret with the artist. She wore a low cut dress of pink velvet, and around her neck hung a spectacular necklace, a glittering web of diamonds any queen would have envied. I set the painting on the mantlepiece, leaning it against the wall, and stepped back to study it, trying to remember that face.