Jamintha (19 page)

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.

“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.”