Jamintha (11 page)

It was familiar, I knew it was familiar, but the wavering veil would not lift. I was convinced this woman was my mother, yet I couldn't recall that face as a living thing. Shadows gathered in my mind, thick, gray, and I seemed to hear a silvery laughter, the rustle of silk, and I could almost smell the exquisite perfume.
Remember, remember
… My head ached, the pulses at my temples throbbing. Through the cloudy fog I saw a faceless woman and a child. I was that child. The woman handed me a toy, something sparkling and splendid, and then there was fear, a fear that caused me to tremble now as I stood in the deserted bedroom.

A floorboard creaked. It was a very real sound, coming from the sitting room. I listened, every nerve taut, and the sound was repeated, soft, surreptitious. There was a pause. I could sense a presence in that room, pausing, listening, and the fear welled up. I clenched my hands, even more frightened than I had been on the gallery. I was alone in an abandoned part of the house. Everyone was gone. I was helpless, at the mercy of—No, you imagined the sound, I admonished. You must get hold of yourself.

Something rustled crisply. There was another soft footstep.

I whirled around to see Madame DuBois hovering in the doorway. There was a startled look on her thin face. I should have known! Cold fury replaced the fear.

“What's the meaning of this!” I exclaimed.

“I thought—”

“Why are you spying on me!”

“Really, Miss Danver—”

“Don't try to deny it. You've been spying on me ever since I arrived. Why? What do you hope to discover?”

“You're imagining things,” she said.

“Am I indeed? I think not, Madame DuBois.”

I had caught her in the act, yet she had the gall to deny that she had been spying. I glared at her with frigid rage, and the woman drew back a step or two. She hadn't counted on being detected. She had thought she could watch me unobserved, slipping into the shadows or behind a piece of furniture when I turned to leave the room. She was slightly flustered, but it took her only a moment to regain that haughty composure.

“Perhaps you'd better explain your presence in this part of the house, Madame DuBois,” I said coldly.

“I was—”

“You were following me, weren't you?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “I thought it might be a good idea.”

“Why?”

“You might have gotten lost,” she replied. It was a feeble excuse. Even she realized that.

“And you could show me the way back,” I said.

“Yes.”

“I'm afraid that's not a very satisfactory explanation,” I retorted. “I don't like this, Madame. I don't like it at all.”

She made no reply. Although she was as stiff and disdainful as ever, there was a worried look in her eyes. Was she actually afraid I would report this to my guardian? No. There was another explanation for that look of apprehension. She knew something that I didn't know. Something was going on, and it involved me. There was a very important reason for her spying.

“This was my mother's bedroom, wasn't it?” I said abruptly.

“How did—I wouldn't know,” she replied, catching herself just in time.

“You're lying,” I said.

“There are so many bedrooms. It was such a long time ago.”

“The woman in the painting was my mother.”

“I wouldn't know.”

“My mother was French. You are French. You knew her. You must have known her.”

“No,” she said. “I suggest you leave this part of the house, Miss Danver. It really isn't safe. The wood is rotten. The plaster is loose. An accident could happen. You barely avoided one in the library last week. I should think it would have made you more cautious.”

She left before I could make a rejoinder, hurrying across the sitting room with a loud crackle of taffeta skirts. How did she know about the incident in the library? Brence had said that he told no one, and I believed him. She must have been there all the time, watching, Brence and I both unaware of her presence. I frowned, disturbed and completely frustrated. I couldn't understand any of it, yet once again I had the distinct impression that I was the central figure in some secret drama. The other players knew the plot and the roles they must play, while I was left to wander aimlessly about the stage without the least idea what was going on.

Charles Danver was more attentive that night than he had ever been before. He made idle conversation at the dining table, asking me questions about the school, telling me about the mill and the fabrics it produced. All the while he watched me carefully, studying me. I was extremely uncomfortable, finding his previous silent indifference preferable to this. The candles flickered, casting warm shadows over the white linen cloth, reflecting on silver and crystal. I was relieved when the meal was over. It had been a great strain on my nerves.

Charles Danver accompanied me to the main hall. Ordinarily he went immediately to the drawing room, but tonight he paused, lingering beside me. He wore a dark brown suit and an orange satin vest patterned with brown and black leaves. Suit and vest were both a bit rumpled, and his brown stock was crushed. He sighed, lifting his heavy shoulders, and then he laid a hand on my shoulder. I tightened up nervously. My guardian smiled wryly, his eyes dark with amusement.

“Do you imagine I plan to throttle you?”

“Of—of course not,” I stammered.

“Relax. I mean you no harm.”

“Your—friendliness bewilders me.”

“Do you still imagine I'm a dark arch-villian? I don't wonder. I was rather rough on you when you first arrived. I had been having difficulties at the mill, difficulties with my son. I wasn't in a pleasant frame of mind that morning.”

He chuckled softly. I wasn't for a moment taken in by his pretense of amiability.

“Do you need anything, Jane?” he inquired.

“No,” I said.

“No pin money? You wouldn't like a new dress?”

“I require nothing, thank you.”

“You're as prickly as a cactus. That isn't admirable in a young girl. You must learn to loosen up.”

He removed his hand from my shoulder and stepped back in order to observe me from a different angle. His manner was casual and relaxed, but I sensed the steely hardness behind the affable pose. An amused smile lingered on his wide mouth, and the eyes gleamed darkly. I stood stiffly, my arms folded around my waist, and Charles Danver shook his head slowly.

“You're an odd girl,” he said. “I have never seen you smile. Must you be so defensive, so suspicious?”

“I'm sorry if I've displeased you in any way, Mr. Danver.”

“You haven't been well. I suppose that explains it. Tell me, have you begun to remember this house?”

I shook my head.

“Not at all?” he said lightly.

“I've had vague impressions, a sense of having been here before, but nothing clear.”

“I see. You've been here a short while. Perhaps your memory will return in time.”

“Is it important that I remember?” I asked.

The handsome, slightly fleshy face was suddenly guarded. There was a tightness about the mouth, and the black-brown eyes were flat. I was puzzled by this abrupt change of expression. All affability was gone now. He looked at me sharply, almost angrily. It was almost as though I had been impertinent when all I had done was ask a simple question. He managed to control himself and relax, yet when he spoke his voice was studiously casual.

“I shouldn't imagine it would be of the least importance to anyone,” he said. “I was merely making conversation—a difficult enough task with someone as prim and inhibited as you, my dear. I have important papers to attend to in the drawing room. I must get to them.”

I went to my room. Returning from her outing, Susie had tidied up the room, turning the bedcovers back and leaving a lamp burning on the bedside table. I undressed and took down my hair, brushing it at the mirror. The rain had stopped during the evening, but water still dripped from the eaves, and the wind blew mournfully. The fire had died down. There was a slight chill in the room. I slipped a tan linen robe over my chemise, belting it tightly at the waist, and, picking up the beautifully bound French history I had taken from the study, I sat down in the chair to read.

The book was a privately printed history of the de Soissons, a noble French family actively involved in public affairs since the reign of Henry of Navarre, their private affairs even more energetic. I read for over an hour, to the point where a particularly racy de Soisson made improper suggestions to Madame de Montespan and incurred the wrath of Louis XIV. I wondered idly what such a book was doing in my adopted father's collection. Although it was entertaining enough and shed brief sidelights on history, it had obviously been commissioned by a member of the de Soisson family, for family consumption. I set it aside, something gnawing at the back of my mind.

I had the feeling there was something I should know, some connection I should make, but I was too weary to let it bother me now. Removing the robe, I turned off the lamp and climbed into bed: The wind made a forlorn serenade, sweeping over the moors and swirling about the house, and the velvety darkness was soon alleviated by flecks of moonlight that splattered through the window and made dancing silver patterns on the floor and ceiling. I was soon asleep.

I dreamed.

“She's asleep,” the voice said.

I moaned, turning on the mattress, flinging my arm out.

“I wish you hadn't brought her here, Charles.”

“Eleven years! Eleven years I've searched—”

“She can't remember. And even if she does, she may know nothing. It was foolish. She's only in the way.”

In the way, in the way
, the echoes rang, and the dream dissolved and another took its place: a child, a handful of stars, glittering, fear, panic, a low rumble, an explosion. I sat up with a start, trembling. It was three o'clock in the morning. Someone was prowling in the west wing. I could hear them moving about over the stones.

Go back to sleep, Jane, you've had a nightmare, I told myself, but I knew the noise wasn't my imagination this time, nor was it the wind. I trembled, my hands clutching the sheets, and then I got out of bed and put on my robe. It was madness. I couldn't possibly be contemplating such an insane idea, but …

I had to know. I had to know it was not a neurosis, not an over-strained imagination. I could never sleep otherwise. I was certain someone was prowling in the west wing, and I had to investigate. That determination was even stronger than the fear that caused my whole body to shiver.

Opening the door as quietly as possible, I slipped out into the hall. It was probably Susie, I reasoned, having a clandestine meeting with Johnny Stone … or Brence staggering around in a drunken stupor. The hall was a nest of moving shadows, and it was cold, the wind whistling through the ruins and blowing through the opening. The skirt of my robe billowed. My loose hair spilled over my face in soft waving strands. I pushed them back and crept slowly along the hall until I reached the doorway that led into the ruined wing.

I saw a black sky sprinkled with frosty stars, broken walls silhouetted against it. My pulse was racing, and I felt sure I would collapse with fear. Perhaps I was still asleep. Perhaps this was still part of the nightmare. Stepping over stones, moving alongside half-standing walls, I entered the labyrinth of ruined rooms, jagged walls standing at crazy angles, some completely fallen, replaced by piles of stones higher than my head.

“Susie! Is that you?” I called.

The wind caught the words, shattered them.

“Brence?”

Whispers all around me, but no footsteps now, no sound but the sound of the wind and my own pounding heartbeat. There was someone here. I could sense it. Someone was watching me, waiting. I stopped, leaning against a shoulder-high wall, and then I saw the light. It was very dim, barely visible, a spot of yellow that vanished quickly, swinging out of sight. Someone carring a hooded lantern, I thought. The lights. Johnny had mentioned the lights. The villagers thought the west wing was haunted, but ghosts didn't carry swinging lanterns.

I felt as though something had called me, but I was awake now, not in a trance as I had been in the library. My conscious mind had given the directions. I listened, and there were no footsteps, no lights, only the sensation of being watched. I could almost feel the eyes touching me, and the fear was tangible, gripping me with physical force.

The ruins were splattered with moonlight. At the end of what would have been the main hall I could see a curving stone staircase climbing up into empty air, broken off abruptly, leading nowhere. Beyond it were dark caves, rooms that had retained their ceilings. The second story had been completely demolished, but part of the first remained, crumbled, shattered, buried in rubble

I stood there for perhaps ten minutes, perhaps two, time without meaning in this eerie world of rubble and ruin, and then I crept forward, frowning. I was not so frightened now. I could have been mistaken after all. I might have imagined the footsteps and the eyes watching me, a continuation of the nightmare that had awakened me. I walked toward the point where I had seen the light. Seen, or imagined I saw? What would anyone be doing in the ruins at this hour? A thief could not hope to find anything here. He would be stealthily hunting the silver in the dining room.

I stepped through a still-standing doorway and found myself in a damp, clammy cave that had once been a room. The sky was gone. The moonlight vanished. Shadows stirred, the wind soaring through the cracked walls with a sound like breathing, heavy breathing, someone leaning against the wall and breathing heavily. It was so real, so … I froze statue-still. It was not the wind. Someone was in the room. I could see a dark form merging into the darkness, the shape barely silhouetted against the lighter darkness behind it. I could feel the presence, the evil, and the eyes were watching me again.