Jamintha (26 page)

“De Soisson,” I said to myself. That explained the book upstairs in my room, the history of the de Soisson family that I hadn't finished reading yet.

“Jeanne was lighthearted, amusing, frivolous, generous, kind, and the charm—no woman should have such charm. She moved in a special kind of radiance, dazzling everyone without the least effort. She was also foolish, unwise, impetuous. She fell in love too easily, and she suffered for it, and she never learned. She loved your father. He was dashing in his uniform, an Englishman, one of Her Majesty's Dragoons. Captain Robert Standish—tall and blond and utterly ruthless with women. She wanted to marry him. He laughed at her, and, when he discovered she was pregnant, he deserted her. He shipped to India and died of the fever before you were ever born.”

I sat very quietly, listening to this woman. I was calm. I felt no emotion as I absorbed her words. Later, I could think about these things and react to them, I could feel sadness and grief, but now I forced myself to listen with cool objectivity.

“She met George Danver almost immediately after Robert left. He was a man of integrity, honest, upright, decent, and dull, full of good intentions, but so dull. Jeanne married him. She admired him for what he was. She respected him. I think she even loved him in her fashion.”

“In her fashion,” I repeated in a flat voice.

“There were others, of course. There were balls and parties. Danver Hall was filled with festive gaiety, chandeliers burning, laughter ringing in the hallways, women in flowered gowns—and men, a great many men. They came from neighboring counties, from London, a few even came from France. There were constant house guests, constant games, music—” She broke off, an introspective look in her eyes as she remembered those days.

“George worshiped her. He knew of her affairs. He tolerated them because he couldn't stand the thought of losing her. She would have left him from the very beginning had it not been for you. She loved you with all her heart. She didn't treat you like a child. She treated you like a boon companion, a little friend. She dressed you in silks, showed you off at all the parties. You imitated her. You were a miniature Jeanne, as flirtatious, as coy. You used to flirt with the stable boys—”

“I was like her?”

“In many ways. You were an intelligent child—Jeanne was never intelligent—and sometimes you would slip away and roam over the moors, serious and moody, but those moods never lasted for long. You were very close to George Danver. He treated you like a princess, lavishing you with attention and affection, never acknowledging the fact that you weren't his very own. Jeanne appreciated that. He gave you his name, gave you a home. She stayed with him because of you.”

Her face hardened. She leaned forward in the chair, her body tense. “And then Charles came. He was the younger brother. He resented the fact that George had inherited Danver Hall and the textile mill. He'd left Danmoor years before, squandering his own inheritance in unsuccessful business ventures. He was a widower, with a fifteen-year-old son. He had no money, no prospects, but he knew his brother wouldn't turn him away.”

She paused for a moment, remembering. “He was as handsome as a god in those days, full of vitality, the most exciting man I had ever seen. He paid no attention to me, of course. He had eyes only for Jeanne, and she responded to him immediately. He hadn't been here two days before—” She broke off, her eyes reflecting the emotions she had felt eleven years ago. “I resented her. For the first time, I resented her. She had so much, and I had nothing. She was in love again, madly in love, like someone who had had too many glasses of champagne. Then she discovered that he intended to supplant his brother, take over the mill. Jeanne was appalled. Loyalty to George sobered her, ended that mad intoxication. She and Charles had a furious argument. That night, at the dinner table, she told George, and for once he showed backbone. He ordered Charles to leave. Charles assured him that Jeanne was merely being hysterical. He wasn't interested in the mill, he said—and he wasn't, not any more—for that night Jeanne was wearing the—”

“Yes?” Charles Danver inquired casually.

Helene DuBois almost fainted. Her eyes filled with panic. He stood in the doorway, leaning his shoulders against the frame, an indolent, faintly amused expression on his face. I had no idea how long he might have been standing there, how much he might have heard.

“Go on, my dear,” he said lazily. “I find your story quite fascinating.”

“Charles—” she said hoarsely.

We both stood up as he sauntered into the room. Madame DuBois trembled visibly. Her left hand clutched her skirt, fingers noisily crushing purple taffeta. “Tonight,” she whispered frantically. “After dinner, in your room—” I barely heard the words that escaped her lips. Arching one dark brow, smiling amiably, Charles Danver stepped over to his desk and picked up a thin brown leather portfolio.

“I forgot this,” he said pleasantly. “I thought I'd better come back for it. Don't let me interrupt anything. Go on with your story, Helene. I'm sure Jane must be intrigued.”

She stared at him for one panic-stricken moment, and then she hurried out of the room. Charles Danver shook his head in mock bewilderment.

“Peculiar woman,” he remarked. “After all these years I've never been able to figure her out. She seemed unusually tense. I wonder why? Sorry to have broken in like this, Jane, but I really do need this portfolio.”

He checked to see that the papers were inside, re-fastened it, gave me a pleasant nod and sauntered back out of the room.

I wandered over the moors that morning, thinking of all Madame DuBois had told me, anxious to hear the rest of her story. I was certain “that night” was the night of the accident, the night Jeanne de Soisson Danver and her husband had died. Touching the mottled bark of a dwarfed tree, leafless limbs swaying in the wind above me, I stared across the gold and brown land, stark in the brilliant morning sunlight. My father was a Dragoon, blond, English, dashing, heartless. My mother was amoral, a lovely, vibrant creature radiating charm and allure. She had loved me. I had imitated her … If only I could remember.

Something bothered me. Something Helene DuBois had said had struck a responsive cord. What was it? For one brief second all the pieces of the puzzle had come together, and everything had been clear. For that one split second I had almost seen the complete picture, the answer, and then, before I could examine it the picture had shattered, the pieces falling apart in a scattered jumble. Something she had mentioned … the answer had been there, tantalizingly close, just out of reach. Tonight … I would have all the answers tonight.

There was a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. My nerves seemed to be strung tight. Curious, this feeling. I had no headache. I wasn't tired. Then what was it? It was several minutes before I realized that it was fear. I was afraid.

I was afraid of what I knew I would hear tonight.

I slept soundly that afternoon. I didn't awaken until after seven. My room was dark with a misty gray darkness, not yet night. Lighting all the lamps, I rang for Susie, and she soon appeared with my dinner tray. Her amiable chatter got on my nerves a bit. Mister Charles had already returned and would be having dinner shortly, but Mister Brence was still at the mill. Will wonders never cease? He was taking
such
an interest in the men's welfare. Madame DuBois was in her room, had been all day, hadn't even rung for lunch. Odd, but then
everyone
knew why she was acting so moody.

“That woman,” she said knowingly.

“You talk too much, Susie,” I said irritably.

“He goes to her cottage almost every afternoon,” she continued, unable to resist such delicious gossip. “What's
more
, he's having that small white house on the edge of town redecorated. A whole fleet of men from London have been working night and
day
.”

“That doesn't concern you, Susie.”

“I know, but it's so
juicy!
The whole village is talking about it. She's
shame
less, that woman. First the son, now the father—”

Frowning, I finished the meal. Susie stacked the dishes on the tray, a thoughtful look in her dark brown eyes. “Poor Madame,” she said. “I've never liked her, no one has, but I can't help but feel sorry for her. A lot of people do. At least she never
flaunted
their affair.”

She left. It wasn't yet eight. It might be an hour before Helene DuBois came to my room, perhaps two. I was tense, every minute stretching out tediously, each second seeming sixty. I wandered about the room restlessly, listening for any telling noise in the hallway outside. Of course that wasn't her, that creaking of floorboards. It was only eight-ten. She would wait until Charles Danver had finished his meal, gone to his room for the night. There. Someone was approaching. No, no, it was merely the normal noises of an old house settling. Eight-fifteen now. Only five minutes had passed? It seemed like an hour.

Outside the sky was black. The wind sounded particularly mournful this evening, almost human, a chorus of lost souls in torment. Nervous fancies. I must get hold of myself. I peered out the window. I straightened up the objects on the dressing table, aligning ivory brush and comb and hand mirror. The lamps cast flickering gold shadows on the walls. I watched the shadows leap and dance. I glanced at the clock. Eight-twenty now. This was absurd. I … why should I feel this—this
premonition?
I sat down in the large chair, trying not to tremble.

The beautifully bound history of the de Soissons was on the table beside me, a ribbon marking the place where I had stopped reading. I picked it up, hoping it would help pass the time away. The words took on a new glamor now, a new significance, for now I knew these people were my ancestors. I turned the pages, reading about Jacques de Soisson, the handsome rogue who had cut such a spectacular figure in the court of Louis XVI. Rumor had it that he was the lover of Countess De La Motte-Valois, that intriguing siren who had been so deeply involved in the affair of the Queen's necklace. Absorbed now, I forgot all about the clock.

I knew the story of the Queen's necklace, of course. The subject of a fantastic intrigue and immense political scandal, the necklace, still unpaid for, disappeared and was never located, one of the great mysteries of history and a contributing factor to the Revolution four years later. Especially set for Marie Antoinette,. purchased under a cloak of secrecy from the court jeweler, the diamonds had been delivered to Cardinal Prince de Rohan, who gave them to Countess De La Motte-Valois, believed to be the mistress of the dazzling Jacques. A messenger arrived, claiming to have been sent by the Queen. The Countess handed the glittering necklace to him, and it was never seen again. Shortly after the scandal broke, Jacques fled to England. Was he the “messenger,” in appropriate disguise? Although there was no proof of it, the author believed it was highly possible that Jacques de Soisson had indeed made off with the fabled jewels.

Caught up in the story of that incredible theft, I had read almost a hundred pages without being aware of it. I was alarmed to see that it was twelve minutes past ten. How could I possibly have become so absorbed? And where was Madame DuBois? I set the book aside. My earlier apprehension came flooding back. She should have been here long before now. What could have happened to her?

Could I possibly have misunderstood those faintly whispered words? Had she said “your room” or “my room?” Perhaps she was in her room now, waiting for me, anxious, worried that I hadn't shown up. I knew I couldn't sit here any longer. I had to see her. I had to hear the rest of that story that had been cut off so abruptly as Charles Danver made his presence known.

Picking up one of the lamps, holding it by the curved brass handle, I left my room. The house was silent and I could smell dampness and mildew and rotting velvet. As I moved through layers of darkness, I had the silly notion that someone was watching me, that someone was going to leap out of one of the darkened doorways. It was nerves, of course, just nerves, but my heart was pounding and I felt extremely vulnerable … and afraid.

The fear mounted, and I couldn't shake it. Standing at the head of the staircase leading down into the main hall, my nerve completely left me. I stared down into the stairwell. Could I possibly move through that nest of shadows? The lamp didn't help at all. It merely made me more vulnerable, exposing me. I squared my shoulders. I had to see Madame DuBois. I had to hear the rest of her story.

I moved slowly down the staircase, and my flesh seemed to creep as I crossed the main hall and started toward the east wing. The air was cold on the main floor, and the wind blew furiously against the windows, causing them to rattle in their frames. I had never been to Madame DuBois' room, but I knew where it was located. I walked down a long corridor. I could feel currents of icy air and realized that someone must have left one of the windows open. Moving through an archway, treading on thick carpet that gave under my feet, I passed into the east wing.

A gust of wind swept down the hallway. The lamp spluttered violently. The flame leaped and danced for half a second. Then it went out. Darkness enveloped me. I thought I was going to faint. I actually closed my eyes and swayed for a moment as my knees turned watery. I leaned against the wall and the dizziness cleared and the black veils lifted from my mind and I opened my eyes, amazed that my heart could beat so loudly and so rapidly without bursting.

My eyes gradually became accustomed to the darkness. I could see shadowy doorways but no slab of light showed under any of the doors. Charles Danver and Brence were surely asleep, but shouldn't there be a light under her door? Would she be waiting for me in a darkened room? Which room was it? The second from the right. Peering through the gloom I could see it, the polished doorknob gleaming dully.