Jamintha (25 page)

Jamintha

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

There could be no mistake this time. I was wide awake and hadn't even made preparations for bed. Not at all sleepy, I had been sitting in the large green chair for some time, thinking about Jamintha's letter which I had received yesterday morning, afraid for her, knowing the risk she was taking in trying to deceive a man like Charles Danver. It was after midnight now. I heard the footsteps clearly. Someone was prowling in the west wing.

Still fully dressed, I turned out the lamp and opened my door cautiously. I was utterly calm, my head clear, my senses sharp. You're not sleepwalking this time, Jane, I told myself as I closed the door behind me and slipped into the velvety darkness of the hall.

Ahead, I could see a faint glimmer of moonlight coming through the opening that led to the west wing. I still heard the footsteps—rather, the echoes of them. They were distant, ringing among the ruins, but the wind carried the noise. I thought, too, that I heard a murmur of voices. Moving quietly, my skirt rustling with a faint, scratchy sound, I approached the pale glow of the opening.

Alert, straining to catch every sound, I drew nearer and nearer, my mouth set in a determined line. The footsteps rang louder, and I distinctly heard voices now, one shrill and vitriolic, one low and rumbling. Both voices were familiar. I peered into the ruined west wing. The figures were moving toward me and I could see the dark shapes in the moonlight. They were leaving the ruins. Quickly, I darted away from the opening, afraid they would see me. I moved into the shelter of a recessed doorway, my heart beating rapidly now. Tensely, I leaned back against the door, staring at the flat silver pool of light not ten yards away. The doorway completely concealed me.

“I won't tolerate it, Charles! You're not going to do this to me. I won't allow it!”

“You have no say in the matter.”

“No say! Eleven years of—of
service
. That gives me no say? You're mistaken, Charles. I have plenty of say. If you do this—” In her excitement, her voice was more French, a pronounced nasal accent that I hadn't noticed before marking each word.

“What will you do?” he asked in a bored voice.

“There's plenty I could do!” she cried shrilly.

“Shut up. Someone might hear you.”

“Your ‘niece?' That pale, timid little mouse? She's bound to be sound asleep, probably drugged. Besides, she's not likely to come investigating the ruins after last time—”

“Lower your voice just the same,” he ordered.

As they stepped through the opening, I saw that Charles Danver carried a hooded lantern and was wearing a heavy leather coat. Madame DuBois wore a dark wool dress, a voluminous red shawl wrapped around her arms and shoulders. In the moonlight I could see that her face was pinched and strained under the rice powder and rouge. His face was brutal, features granite hard, brows lowered over dark, angry eyes. They were standing so close I could make out every detail.

“
That
was a mistake,” she said viciously, “and a waste of time. She can't remember anything, and even if she could—she was seven years old at the time! She couldn't know anything.”

“I'm not so sure,” he said soberly. “She may remember something very important.”

“What could she possibly remember?” she snapped shrewishly.

“Jeanne may have told her something.”

“A seven-year-old child?”

“She may even have given it to her to hide.”

“Preposterous!”

Huddled there in the shadows, I tuned their voices out. I could hear the silken rustle of skirts, and I could hear her laughter, such gay, irrepressible laughter, and it seemed I could smell her perfume … Jeanne, pronounced “John,” Jeanne, yes, I remembered now. Long blonde hair, silvery blonde, and flirtatious blue eyes, a soft pink mouth that could be coy or severe. My adopted father adored her, her devoted slave, and the other men were irresistibly drawn to her. There were many men, house guests, friends, and she loved to joke with them, loved to have them gathered around her, broad shoulders and backs concealing her from the little girl who tried to be as flirtatious, as gay as she … These impressions flashed into my mind like lightning and vanished as quickly. For one split second I had remembered her vividly.

Charles Danver's heavy voice intruded.

“I'll find it. It's got to be here.”

“You're obsessed!” she exclaimed. “All these years—prowling in the ruins at night, searching. Going over every room in the house. Eleven years devoted to—”

“The greatest treasure hunt in history.” He cut her short. “Are you able to comprehend what it would mean if we found it—
when
we find it? A king's ransom, more than that! Wealth that staggers the imagination.”

“I don't care about that!” she exclaimed. “Charles, this woman—”

“I find her amusing.”

“Amusing!”

“Intriguing might be a better word. She intrigues me.”

“She's common, a common adventuress. It's your money she's interested in—”

“I think she loves me,” he said bluntly. “I think I might easily fall in love with her.”

He spoke the words with cruel satisfaction. Helene DuBois drew back, each word a knife wound. She looked at him with frantic eyes. Returning her look with one of indifference, Charles Danver sighed, clearly bored with this skinny, painted woman he had used so long. He was completely unmoved by the anguish in her eyes and in her voice.

“She makes me feel important. She makes me feel like a man. It's been a long time since I've felt this way. Since Jeanne, in fact.”

“How dare you say these things to me. How dare you! You delight in tormenting me. You saw the way she treated Brence. She'll treat you the same way. I won't permit it. I—”

“It's none of your concern.”

“Isn't it?
Isn't
it? I've lived for you. Your every wish—at your beck and call. I've kept this horrible ruin from falling down about our heads. I've managed the household accounts. I've been there, waiting, whenever you felt—” Her voice grew louder and shriller, a long nasal shriek now. “I'll not be pushed aside by some common little strumpet who happened to catch your eye! You're not going to—”

He slapped her once, a healthy, vigorous blow, not really vicious, and the shriek died in her throat. In the bulky leather coat he looked larger than ever, undeniably menacing, but Helene DuBois gave no indication of being intimidated. She wrapped the flowing red shawl more tightly around her arms, and there was a curious dignity about her as she looked at him with eyes that seemed suddenly dead and lifeless.

“I won't permit it, Charles,” she said. Her voice was quiet now, so low I had to strain in order to make out the words. “I know too much about you. I was there, remember. I saw. Don't think I would hesitate to tell if I had to—”

“That, my dear, would be a drastic mistake.”

Turning away from her, he walked slowly, ponderously down the hall, the lantern swinging in his hand. Helene DuBois stood in the moonlight, an anguished expression on her face. Clutching the shawl about her, she listened to his footsteps growing fainter and fainter in the distance. I was startled to see tears streaming down her thin cheeks. I had despised this woman, yet now I felt a great sympathy for her. I understood her for the first time. Giving a low, animal-like sob, she hurried off after the man who was the sun of her existence.

I returned to my room, shaken by what I had seen and heard.

Dawn was breaking when I awoke the next morning. After ringing for Susie, I began to dress. I was braiding my hair when she entered, surprised to see me up so early.

“I think I'll take my breakfast in the drawing room, Susie,” I said. “Could you bring my tray there?”

“Certainly, Miss Jane. I must say, you're looking chipper this morning, and up so
early
, too. Why, Cook 'n I haven't even taken breakfast to the others yet. I'm
pleased
, Miss Jane.”

In the drawing room, I ate the toast and crisp bacon and drank two cups of steaming hot coffee. The sun was fully up now, pale yellow light illuminating a pearly sky. I could hear distant, muffled sounds of someone moving around in the east wing, and from the kitchen there came the noisy clatter of crockery.

Pushing the tray aside, I thought about last night.

I had been right. All this time he had been searching for something, something extremely valuable. He had prowled the ruined west wing during the nights—that explained the mysterious lights, the reason superstitious villagers thought the place was haunted—and he and Helene DuBois had gone over every room in the house. He had devoted eleven years to this search, and now, as a last resort, he had brought me here, hoping I would remember something that would lead him to—what? It was farfetched, yes, but it was true. Undeniably. Exactly as I'd outlined it to Gavin that day in his study last week. I felt like rushing out to tell him, but Gavin hadn't returned from London yet.

I must have been sitting there over an hour when I heard the footsteps in the main hall. The connecting doors were open, and although I couldn't see them I could hear their voices clearly. Charles Danver was brusque and cold. Brence's voice was calm and faintly mocking.

“I'll not have you calling Granger aside for conferences, Son. I'll not have you countermanding my orders. I'm pleased that you've finally begun to show an interest in the mill—high time, too—but you're going at it the wrong way.”

“Am I, Father?”

“You show far too much concern for the men. They know exactly what to expect, exactly what to do. You can't coddle 'em, Son. You can't treat 'em like pals.”

“I just want to treat them like human beings.”

“As for remodeling the sheds, it's completely out of the question. Improper ventilation indeed! These men have worked for years without windows, and they'll continue to do so. I want 'em to work, not to stare out at the scenery. They get enough fresh air. The way you talk, a person'd think they were passing out from suffocation.”

“Several of them have,” Brence said icily.

“And your talk about splitting them into three shifts, nonsense!”

“With three shifts, you'd get more work accomplished. The men wouldn't keep such long hours. When they came in, they'd be fresher—”

“I'd advise you to leave these matters to me, Brence. You've been two days at the mill—today'll be your third day—and already you want to revolutionize the whole place. I know these men. I know how to keep 'em in line.”

“I wonder,” Brence retorted.

“Brence, this attitude of yours—I don't like it. You keep it up and there'll be trouble. I mean that.”

The front door opened, closed, and a few minutes later there was the sound of a carriage pulling around the side of the house. Brence had been as good as his word. He had already started his campaign to change conditions at the mill, and already his father was protesting. I wondered if Brence truly was a man on the road to reform or if this was merely a phase, a reaction to his experience with Jamintha. Would he really carry out his plans, or would he take a first drink, then a second, and soon revert to his old ways? It would be interesting to watch …

I wasn't aware that Helene DuBois had come into the room until I heard her clearing her throat, a noise intended to gain my attention. She stood a few feet away, looking haggard in a purple taffeta dress that seemed to drain the color from her face. Her eyelids were coated with mauve shadow, her lips painted scarlet, but these artificial colors only emphasized the stark bone white of cheeks and forehead. She seemed nervous, the icy hauteur completely missing this morning.

“I went to your room. Susie was making the bed. She said you'd come down here to have your breakfast.”

“You wished to see me?” I inquired.

She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder to make sure that no one was eavesdropping, and then she came closer, a determined expression on her thin face. I could tell that she had been crying, and once again I was surprised that this bizarre woman with her outlandish clothes could experience genuine emotions. I had considered her a caricature, not a person. She was all too human now as she sat down in a chair facing mine.

“There are things I must tell you—” she said nervously—“things you should know. I—I've kept them to myself far too long. Now he—you have a right to know.”

“What is it, Madame DuBois?”

She glanced across the room at the opened doorway, then turned her attention back to me. I could sense her anxiety, and I could see that she was trying to compose herself.

“You wish to tell me something?” I prompted quietly.

“You should know. You should know everything. I'll start at the beginning. When you asked me about your mother, I lied. I said I didn't know her—but I did.”

“You knew her well?”

“She was my best friend. I was a widow, her traveling companion. When she married George Danver and came to Danver Hall, I accompanied her. I had nowhere else to go, you see, no one to turn to. I was destitute, but Jeanne was fond of me, and she was loyal. She made a place for me here. I was officially the ‘housekeeper,' but actually I remained the close friend, the confidante. She needed someone to talk to, someone to discuss her love affairs with—”

“Love affairs? But she was married—”

A thin smile played on her lips. “Jeanne was one of the most beautiful women of her day. She was born to be a great courtesan. At ten she was a coy flirt, at fifteen she possessed worldly wisdom far beyond her years, at twenty she had more experience than most women ever acquire. She couldn't live without men, without their admiration and desire. She wasn't immoral, she simply couldn't live by normal standards. The de Soissons were all like that—”