Jamintha (5 page)

Self pity is for fools, Jane, I admonished myself. You are eighteen years old, a grown woman.
Act
like a grown woman.

I briskly began to prepare for bed, forcing myself to put all disturbing thoughts aside. Removing my dress and petticoats, I hung them in the wardrobe and, wearing only a thin cotton chemise, sat down at the dresser to unbraid my hair. I brushed it vigorously, staring into the mirror with level blue-gray eyes. A black ormolu clock ticked on the mantle. The fire had burned down, the log a heap of crackling pink-gold ashes. I turned off the lamps and climbed into bed.

The coarse white linen sheets were crisp, smelling of soap, and the heavy violet satin comforter was deliciously warm. I was incredibly weary, but sleep evaded me. Through the openings of the canopy I watched shadows frolic over the walls like dark black demons, alternating with flecks of moonlight. Night noises abounded, floorboards groaning, joints settling, underlined by the anguished sound of the wind sweeping over the moor. Someone was prowling in the west wing. I could hear footsteps stumbling over the loose stones. No … it was the wind, only the wind. Eventually my eyelids grew heavy and welcome oblivion came.

I awoke abruptly from a sound sleep. In the moonlight the hands of the clock showed three o'clock in the morning. The noise had been loud, jerking me into consciousness. I sat up, completely awake, every nerve taut. Someone was laughing, a rich, uproarious laughter that rang clear in the night. The sound seemed to be coming from outside. My heart pounding, I slipped out of bed and moved to the window, brushing the curtain aside to peer out through the misty pane.

The gardens were bathed in moonlight, shrubs casting long shadows. I could see the carriage house and stables to one side and, behind the line of trees, the moors beyond. Someone was moving along the flagstone path. He was moving quite unsteadily, head lowered, hands thrust into the pockets of his trousers. He stumbled near the lily pond, almost tumbling into the water. Emitting a loud curse, he stared at the house, the wind tearing at his hair and causing his jacket to flap. It was too dark and he was too far away for me to discern any features, but I could tell that my cousin Brence was tall with a lean, powerful build. After a moment he staggered on toward the house, moving out of my line of vision. What demon drove him? What made him stay out till all hours, indulging in such deplorable vices? I went back to bed, disturbed at what I had seen.

I finally slept. I dreamed of Jamintha. I dreamed she was sitting on the edge of the bed. She spoke to me in a comforting voice. She told me not to worry. She promised to come as soon as possible.

CHAPTER THREE

Charles Danver was waiting to see me. Susie had knocked on the door to inform me of this fact. Before returning to her duties she had told me how to locate the drawing room, her directions simple and clear. He was waiting, and still I had not left my room. It was after ten o'clock. I had had my breakfast two hours ago. It was raining outside, sheets of swirling rain pouring over the countryside, creating a wet, muddy, desolate world. It pounded noisily on the roof and it made glistening silver-brown webs over the window panes. There was no sunlight, and the room was so dim that I could barely see my reflection in the large mirror over the dressing table.

I was nervous. I wanted him to like me. I wanted him to approve of me. I wanted to be pretty and vivacious like Jamintha, the kind of niece a man like Charles Danver could appreciate. I had selected my dress with care. It was my best, sprigged muslin, tiny blue and violet flowers against a gray backgound. I had braided my hair into a tight, neat coronet on top of my head, but the effect was still dismal. There were shadows about my eyes, and my face was too pale, the skin stretched tightly over high cheekbones, the nicely shaped lips only faintly pink. If only I had Jamintha's luxuriant coloring. If only my blue-gray eyes could sparkle as hers did. Jamintha would have greeted my uncle with teasing aplomb. I could only try to still the nervous tremors inside.

I finally left the room, following Susie's directions. I tried to remember the house. I must have known it well as a child. I must have been familiar with every room. Had I raced down these long halls, sliding on the highly polished wooden floors? Had I hidden behind those dusty red velvet curtains, investigated those dark corners and recessed stairs? The house was completely unfamiliar. I might never have been here before. I moved quietly across the main hall and followed the narrow passageway that led to the drawing room. The great mahogany doors were closed. I paused in front of them, trying to summon enough courage to knock.

My knuckles rapped gently against the polished wood. A stern masculine voice commanded me to enter.

The room was enormous, the lower section of the walls paneled in rich brown walnut, the paper above a light green with swirls of darker green and dull gold. Faded oriental rugs covered sections of the dark parquet floor, and although the furniture was heavy and oppressive the room was so immense that it seemed sparsely furnished. A long green velvet sofa crouched before the huge marble fireplace. A fire burned behind the brass screen, tall black andirons holding stout, crackling logs, yet the room remained icy cold. A row of French windows, tightly closed now, opened out into the northeast gardens. The stiff green brocade draperies had been left opened, and through the dripping panes I could see part of the stables beyond.

No lamps burned. The room was dim. My uncle was standing in the shadows. I did not see him at first.

“Uncle Charles?” I said.

He moved away from the huge sideboard where he had been pouring brandy from a tarnished silver decanter. Glass in hand, he approached, pausing a few yards away from me to take a swallow. He did not speak. He stood there drinking his brandy and staring at me with the cool objectivity a scientist might give to a curious new specimen. His dark eyes took in every detail, yet they showed no reaction. His manner was intolerably rude, but it gave me an opportunity to study him in turn.

Charles Danver was forty-five years old. He was a large man, solidly built, with broad shoulders and a strong lean body that had begun to thicken just slightly with middle age. His black boots were highly glossed, his dark broadcloth suit expertly tailored to minimize the excess weight. The plum colored vest was embroidered with black silk, and a buff colored stock rested against his chin. He was still impressively handsome with unruly raven black hair and strong, virile features. Thick black brows arched over the stern, dark brown eyes, and the lids were heavy, giving him a lazy, insolent look. The nose was large, slightly crooked, and the wide mouth was undeniably sensual.

Men would be intimidated by my uncle, and certain women would find him irresistible. Hard, unscrupulous, fully aware of his power, he would seize what he wanted without the least regard to others. He would take a cruel satisfaction in crushing an enemy, and he would treat his women with a cold, arrogant disdain. I sensed this instinctively, and I knew that everything Johnny had told me about him was true.

“Your hands are shaking,” he said.

“I—I'm sorry,” I replied, clasping them together.

“You find me frightening?”

I nodded, unable to speak.

His lips curled into a sarcastic smile. He finished his glass of brandy and set it on a table, his eyes never leaving my face. His complexion was ruddy. The flesh was beginning to sag at the jaw, and there was the faint suggestion of a double chin. Strangely enough, this only made him all the more attractive, and Charles Danver was a vastly attractive man. He had authority, a commanding presence that would put many younger men to shame.

“Many people find me intimidating,” he admitted.

And you revel in it
, I thought, standing there with my hands clasped tightly at my waist.

“So you are Jane,” he said in a bored, lazy voice. “I must apologize for my son's failure to meet you. He left the house early and, unfortunately, stepped into one of the pubs. He spent the night drinking and whoring, completely forgetting his reason for going to the village.”

I tried not to look shocked, but Charles Danver noticed.

“Do I startle you? I see no reason to mince words about my son. He is a profligate young scoundrel, pickling his brain with alcohol, squandering his energy on women—and with his name and devilish good looks they're all too available. When he was younger I could beat him into submission, but he's too old to thrash now. The only hold I have over him is a financial one. I control the purse strings, and therefore I have at least some control over my son. Not much, I grant you, but enough to keep him from completely kicking over the traces.”

I made no comment. From what I had seen last night, I imagined that Master Brence Danver was enough to turn even the kindliest father into a stern patriarch. He was no doubt in his room this very moment, sleeping off the effects of last night's dissipations. I wondered how long it would be before I met my cousin. It was not a meeting I looked forward to with anticipation.

“You're not a pretty girl, Jane,” my uncle said abruptly.

“No, Sir,” I replied with lowered lashes.

“Speak up, girl, and look at me when you speak.”

I raised my eyes. Charles Danver was smiling. He was enjoying this. He was a natural bully, and he gloried in his ability to intimidate me. I tried to look at him with a level gaze. He opened a porcelain box and took out a slender brown cigar, lighting it and narrowing his eyes to avoid the smoke.

“You have none of your mother's beauty, none of her vitality.”

“She was—beautiful?” I asked.

He nodded, a crease between his brows. He looked almost angry.

“And my father?” I inquired.

“I have no idea what your father looked like. I never met him.”

“But–”

Charles Danver stared at me with flat, expressionless eyes, and his voice was granite hard.

“Your mother was a French trollop, a dazzling beauty without a sou to her name although she was descended from one of the noblest families of France. My brother took a grand tour of Europe. He was nearing forty and still unwed. As the eldest son, it was imperative that he produce an heir, unless, of course, he wanted me to inherit. He didn't want that, let me assure you. He met your mother at a watering place outside Paris. He was captivated by her beauty and fell head over heels in love. He asked her to become his wife, even though he had learned she was carrying the child of a military man who had deserted her. They were wed. Five months later, you were born. My brother never sired a child.”

“Then—”

“You're a bastard,” he said bluntly. “Oh, you bear the name of Danver—George always was a fool, he recognized you as his own—but the fact remains.”

If Charles Danver had slapped me across the face, I couldn't have been more stunned. My blood seemed to turn to water, and my knees grew weak. I had to summon all my control to keep from fainting. The man who was not my uncle stared at me with those expressionless eyes, or was there a touch of malice in them? I could not give him the satisfaction of seeing me faint. I squared my shoulders. I held my chin high. I managed to look at him with a cool, level gaze.

“I am not your niece, then,” I said.

“In name only.”

“Why did you pay for my schooling? Why have you sent for me? I can't believe it was because of your generous heart.”

“A point well taken,” he said, flicking ashes into a porcelain tray. “I have not the slightest interest in you as an individual, but you do, unfortunately, bear the name Danver. It is a very important name in London. I have a number of business associates, a number of enemies who are always interested in anything pertaining to Charles Danver.”

“I think I understand,” I said stiffly.

Charles Danver took the cigar out of his mouth, blowing a wispy plume of blue-gray smoke that curled slowly to the ceiling. A half-smile played on his wide mouth, and his heavy eyelids drooped. I was no longer intimidated, no longer afraid. This interview had been one shock after another, and tremulous apprehension had been replaced by an icy calm.

“As far as the world is concerned, you are my niece,” he continued, “and a niece of Charles Danver cannot grow up in an orphanage. I paid for your schooling because it was necessary, and I have brought you to Danver Hall because I could not allow you to seek employment as a governess, although I understand you were prepared to do so.”

“I shall,” I retorted, “I shall leave this house at once.”

“No, my dear,” he said, “you shall not. Your true paternity aside, I am, nevertheless, your legal guardian until you are twenty-one years of age. Until that time, you shall do precisely as I say.”

His voice was lazy, almost gentle, but there was a lethal undertone. I was helpless, and I had the good sense to realize it. I was his ward, and, Victorian laws being what they were, I had no recourse but to obey him to the letter. I could run away, but where could I go? What could I do? He would track me down, and he would show no mercy in dealing with any rebellion. Of that I was certain.

Charles Danver seemed to be reading my thoughts. He crushed the cigar out, jabbing it brutally against the tray, and folded his arms across his chest. Tilting his chin down, he stared at me, a wave of dark, unruly black hair spilling forward over his brow.

“What do you expect of me?” I asked calmly.

“Complete submission,” he replied.

“I have no alternative, have I?”

“None whatsoever,” he agreed.

“Am I to be your servant?”

He arched one dark brow in mock surprise. He smiled, thoroughly enjoying his position. He would have liked for me to cringe and cower, but I had far too much pride. Timid I might be, nervous and highly strung, yet I refused to succumb before this man.

“A servant?” he inquired. “My dear, you've been reading far too many cheap novels. You've been brought up as a young gentlewoman, as my niece. You could hardly expect me to banish you to the kitchens.”