Jamintha (24 page)

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.

Minutes passed, long, tormenting minutes, and when I looked up through tear-damp lashes I saw him towering over me. I made no effort to get up. The dizziness had gone now, and my head was clear, but my jaw was still stinging. Brence stared down at me, his mouth curled down at one corner with brutal satisfaction.

“You won't forget me, Jamintha,” he said. “You and my father—you deserve each other.”

His voice seemed to come from a long way off. I rubbed my jaw, tears still clinging to my lashes. A wave of hair had fallen across my cheek. I brushed it aside.

“I loved you. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. Everything you said about me may be true, probably is, but there was one thing worthwhile—the feeling I had for you.”

“Go, Brence,” I whispered. “Just go—”

He walked over to the door. Then, his hand resting on the frame, he turned to look at me through the fading orange glow. Catching hold of the arm of the sofa, I pulled myself up, standing on shaky legs. His face was in shadow, all smooth, flat planes. His rage was gone, and he looked exhausted, as though it took a great effort to stand upright. The room was almost dark as the last glow vanished. Brence shrugged his shoulders. It was a pathetic gesture. Curiously enough, I felt closer to him at that moment than I had ever felt before. There was so much I wanted to tell him, so much I couldn't say.

“Good-bye, Jamintha,” he said gravely.

And then he was gone. I heard his footsteps in the hallway, heard the front door opening, closing. Pain cut through my body, pain far more agonizing than the physical pain in my jaw and arms. I had a wild impulse to rush after him, to pull at his arm, explain everything, alleviate the hurt I had caused him. I felt as though my heart were being wrenched from my body, and I wished, furiously, that I could be really hard, that I could feel nothing but relief. There was a loud creak as he climbed into the carriage, the noisy clang of horse hooves on the cobbles as he drove away.

That was Wednesday and today is Sunday. Tonight I'll deliver this letter to you.

I've seen Charles Danver three more times. He takes off his coat now. In shirtsleeves and embroidered vest, he drinks his tea and lolls back on the sofa, smoking his cigars, a man at ease with his soon-to-be mistress (or so he thinks!). He devours me with his eyes, anticipating that day he will escort me into that bedroom which, believe it or not, shall be done up in pink satin and ivory. He talks freely now, and I have already begun to ask discreet questions.

He was in an unusually expansive mood on Friday afternoon. He greeted me with a perfunctory kiss, and I helped him off with his jacket. Grumbling a little because I'd forgotten to buy more cakes, he took his tea with bread and butter. The house had already been painted, he informed me, and men were putting up new wallpaper today. Two loads of furniture had arrived, including the ivory bed a man from London had selected.

“Soon, Jamintha,” he said huskily.

I blushed modestly. That delighted him. He gave a rich, deep chuckle, patting my shoulder.

“Tell me, Charles,” I said casually, “why do you stay on at Danver Hall? It's old and tumbling down and it's bound to be hideously drafty. You could obviously afford to build a more comfortable place. What makes you stay there?”

“I have my reasons,” he retorted.

“That horrible ruined wing—why haven't you closed it off?”

He didn't seem to hear me. Setting his cup down, he stared across the room with suddenly distant eyes. I had the impression he'd completely forgotten my presence. He frowned, creasing his brow. “Eleven years—” he said to himself, his voice so low I could barely catch the words. “Eleven years I've been searching. It's there. It has to be. Somewhere in that house, or in the ruins—”

“What, Charles? What have you been searching for?”

The sound of my voice brought him out of his study. Ignoring my question, he sat up straight and pulled out a cigar. I had better sense than to press him, but I was intrigued by that momentary lapse. Eleven years he'd been searching … Eleven years since the accident in the west wing. I'm on to something, Jane. I'm making progress. He trusts me now. I flatter his ego. My eyes reflect the image he wants to see. He's growing fond of me. I believe I can make him fall in love with me … A man hides nothing from the woman he loves.