Jamintha by Jennifer Wilde Page B

wall, only the back of it visible. I turned it around and knelt to examine it.
    Though the canvas was cracked and covered with dust, the face stared out at me vividly, life-like. She was beautiful, her long blond hair falling in glossy curls, pink lips, merry blue eyes full of vitality and mirth as though she shared some naughty secret with the artist. She wore a low cut dress of pink velvet, and around her neck hung a spectacular necklace, a glittering web of diamonds any queen would have envied. I set the painting on the mantlepiece, leaning it against the wall, and stepped back to study it, trying to remember that face.
    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.
    â€œWhat’s the meaning of this!” I exclaimed.
    â€œI thought—”
    â€œWhy are you spying on me!”
    â€œReally, Miss Danver—”
    â€œDon’t try to deny it. You’ve been spying on me ever since I arrived. Why? What do you hope to discover?”
    â€œYou’re imagining things,” she said.
    â€œAm 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.
    â€œPerhaps you’d better explain your presence in this part of the house, Madame DuBois,” I said coldly.
    â€œI was—”
    â€œYou were following me, weren’t you?”
    â€œYes,” she admitted. “I thought it might be a good idea.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œYou might have gotten lost,” she replied. It was a feeble excuse. Even she realized that.
    â€œAnd you could show me the way back,” I said.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI’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.
    â€œThis was my mother’s bedroom, wasn’t it?” I said abruptly.
    â€œHow did—I wouldn’t know,” she replied, catching herself just