Master of Falcon's Head Page 4

  Steven hunched his shoulders. ‘No, better not,’ he murmured awkwardly. ‘Couldn’t we walk a little?’

  Tamar frowned. ‘I’m tired, Steven. Some other time, perhaps.’

  Steven caught her arm. ‘Are you staying long in Falcon’s Wherry?’

  ‘Does that matter?’ Tamar stiffened,

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  Steven released her, shaking his head. ‘No reason,’

  he replied, but Tamar knew that there was. She felt impatient suddenly. So much reticence, so much intrigue. It was ridiculous.

  ‘I see you’re still here, anyway,’ she countered.

  Steven sighed. ‘Yes, I’m still here. I did go to Dublin, a few years ago, but I came back.’

  ‘Are you married, Steven?’ she asked questioningly.

  He nodded. ‘Yes, I’m married, Tamar. I married a girl from Dublin, Shelagh Donavan.’

  ‘A real Irish name,’ remarked Tamar dryly. ‘I didn’t know, of course. Do you have any children?’

  ‘No, unfortunately not.’ Steven turned away, thrusting his hands into his trousers pockets. ‘I suppose I’d better let you go in. I’d hate Father Donahue to imagine I was attempting to detain you.’

  Tamar felt a sense of defeat about him, and responded to it. With Steven, despite his being five years older than she was, she had always felt the stronger character. He was as different from Ross Falcon as chalk from cheese.

  ‘I - I would like to see you again,’ she ventured awkwardly. ‘That is, if you would like it.’

  Steven looked her way. ‘You’ve changed, Tamar,’ he said. ‘You’ve forgotten this is Falcon’s Wherry, not Knightsbridge. Here one has to observe the conventions. If I were seen in your company very often, people would talk.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Tamar opened the gate, and stepped inside, closing it and leaning on it, ‘I had forgotten, Steven. You’re a married man now.’

  ‘Hell, Tamar, why did you go away?’ he burst out angrily. ‘If you and Ross couldn’t make it, we might have done. I always thought you and I were well suited!’

  Tamar was astonished. ‘Steven!’ she exclaimed. ‘Honestly, I never suspected—’

  ‘How could you? You always had Ross around. I’ve never known a woman who could arouse my brother as you could. He had always seemed so much older, so remote - and then - and then—’

  ‘Forget it, Steven, please. I don’t want to talk about Ross.’

  ‘Why? Are you afraid?’

  ‘Of Ross?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Tamar shook her head. ‘Why should I be afraid?’

  Steven walked a couple of paces down the road. ‘If you don’t know, I can’t tell you,’ he replied enigmatically, and went, leaving Tamar more confused and disturbed than ever,

  The next morning everything looked different. Lying in bed, listening to the roar of the sea as it broke in foaming thunder on the rocks below Falcon’s Head, Tamar thought she had allowed the events of yesterday to escalate out of all proportion. Yesterday she had been tired and apprehensive, ready to feel concern at anything out of the ordinary. She had known it would not be easy re-orientating herself to the confined surroundings of village life, and because of Ross Falcon’s attitude and Steven’s vulnerability she had allowed her mind to dwell too long on things which should have bean of secondary importance to her own affairs. After all, it didn’t concern her what construction the Falcon family might place on her arrival here; she was no longer dependent upon them for her livelihood, her home; she was merely a visitor, as Father Donahue had said, and as such she should adopt a policy of noninvolvement.

  With this decision firm in her mind, she glanced at her watch, and slid out of bed. It was only seven-thirty, but she was aware that Father Donahue breakfasted about eight when he came back from Mass, so she washed in the icy water from the jug on the washstand and then dressed in cream corded cotton trousers and a blue and white checked shirt. Then she combed her short, curly golden hair. Examining her face in the mirror above the washstand, she assessed her appearance critically. Blue eyes, slightly slanted at the corners, small nose, and wide mouth. She was not pretty, but her face had charm, though she found little there to appeal. Only the long lashes that veiled her eyes, and the personality which lurked behind her smile, gave her something indefinable, something that Ben was constantly reminding her of. She smiled a little mockingly. Certainly, she thought, with self-derogatory candour, she would pass in a crowd.

  Leaving her room, she descended the winding staircase which had a door at its foot that opened into the kitchen of the cottage. Mrs. Leary was there, busy at the stove, a delicious smell of frying bacon filling the air.

  ‘Lord, Miss Sheridan,’ she exclaimed, in surprise. ‘I was going to bring you a tray to your room later. I didn’t think you’d want disturbing this early, or I’d have brought you a cup of tea.’

  Tamar smiled. ‘Oh, please,’ she exclaimed, ‘don’t stand on ceremony, on my account. I would rather you treated me with less consideration, then I wouldn’t feel I was putting you out so much.’

  ‘Heavens, Miss Sheridan, you’re not putting me out,’ exclaimed Mrs. Leary vehemently. ‘Does the Father good to have company now and then. Sure and he’s a lonely man, being the only priest hereabouts. Apart from visiting socially up at the big house, he never goes anywhere.’

  Tamar nodded, and seated herself at the scrubbed kitchen table. ‘Does he usually eat in here, Mrs. Leary?’

  ‘Mornings, mostly,’ agreed the housekeeper, ‘but naturally now I’ll lay a table in the dining room.’

  ‘Indeed, you won’t,’ exclaimed Tamar. ‘I - I rather like the idea of eating here. It reminds me of - of - home.’ She sighed.

  Mrs. Leary looked sympathetic. ‘Sure, it was a bad day that saw Daniel Donnelly’s boat capsize.’ She shook her head.

  Tamar lifted her shoulders. ‘It was, Mrs. Leary. My grandfather was too old really to be out with the boat. He didn’t stand a chance. But no one could tell him anything, could they?’ She smiled. ‘He was always better than the next man!’

  Mrs. Leary tinned back to her frying pan. ‘That he was, Miss Sheridan. He was a good man. I don’t really think he cared much for living after your grandmother died.’

  ‘No. They both went within six months of one another.’ Tamar accepted a cup of tea gratefully. ‘It was a terrible time.’

  ‘And those solicitors, contacting your father like that. Perhaps it was just as well, though. He took you away from all the heartache.’

  Tamar bent her head. ‘Yes,’ she said tightly, aware that Mrs. Leary had no conception of the misery her father had saved her from.

  ‘How was London, then?’ asked Mrs. Leary, conversationally.

  Tamar shrugged. ‘London is a big place. It can be very lonely, even with all those people. But fortunately my father knew a man who could help me to get a job, and when he died, I managed to support myself. It wasn’t until a couple of years ago that I began to paint really professionally.’

  ‘And what will you be having for your breakfast?’ asked the housekeeper, turning bacon into a warming dish. ‘Two eggs and some ham, and perhaps a slice of toast?’

  Tamar gasped. ‘Heavens, no! At home - at my apartment, that is, I just have fruit juice and coffee usually.’

  Mrs. Leary looked shocked, and Father Donahue, who was at that moment entering through the back door, said:

  ‘I knew it, Mrs. Leary. Alas, the girl’s dwindling away to nothing! We must do our best to fatten her up.’

  Tamar smiled. ‘Oh, good morning, Father.’

  ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Actually, yes, I did,’ admitted Tamar, who had half expected to lie awake half the night after the events of the day.

  ‘Good. It’s the air, of course. Very bracing! And won’t you join me in an egg and some bacon, Tamar? I don’t enjoy eating alone.’

  Tamar laughed a little self-consciously. ‘All right,’ she said, realizing she w
as hungry. ‘All right. But if I put on pounds, I shall expect you to pay the health farm bills!’

  Father Donahue laughed heartily, and even the sight of her attire, which once would have wrung protestations from him, caused nothing more drastic than an eloquent shake of the head.

  After breakfast, when Father Donahue went to his small study to work, Tamar put on an orange anorak, which ought to have clashed loudly with her hair, but didn’t, and left the house. She felt more equipped to face people she knew this morning, and she had collected her sketching pad before she went out.

  She went to the village stores and bought some cigarettes, had a casual word with the proprietor, and then guessing that that would provide gossip for him and his customers for the rest of the day, she walked briskly along the quay, and climbed the steep path to the cottage where she had been born.

  It was a cool day, a faint mist shrouding the horizon, while clouds scudded overhead, threatening rain. As she climbed, she looked back, seeing the small harbourage for the fishing boats. Fishing was really the only industry around Falcon’s Wherry, and even it was not a large concern. Most of the men who didn’t own their own boats worked for the Falcon estate, tending the crops that struggled to grow in the sometimes barren landscape. There were animals, and these provided meat and milk and cheese for the community, as well as providing a source of income for the Falcons.

  Not that Ross Falcon had ever depended on the estate for his income. The family had always had money, and investments that apparently paid dividends. But even apart from this, Ross was an historian, and wrote extensively about the country. He had had several books published, books that Tamar had always endeavoured to buy, even after leaving Falcon’s Wherry. One of his books had been taken up by the education authorities as a textbook and had become a best-seller. It was his interest in writing, in anything artistic, that had provided the basis for their relationship. He had encouraged her in her painting, seeing talent long before she realized it herself.

  Now she shook herself. All that was in the past. Whatever interest Ross Falcon had had in her she had paid for in more ways than one.

  The cottage was not locked, the door swung inwards on its hinges, squeaking eerily, and causing a suspicious rustling in the dust on the floor, as though other inhabitants had taken possession. Tamar wiped the window with a rag, letting in the pale light that was fading slightly with the onset of a shower of rain. The room struck chill, and she shivered a little, hugging herself as much against the chill of the past as the present. The door swung closed at her touch, blocking some of the draught, and she pushed open the door that led into the kitchen.

  There was the bare sink, the pump handle rusted and overhung with spider’s webs. And there was the table, unscrubbed and grubby, where she and her grandparents had eaten all their meals. She wondered if things would have been different if her mother had lived, and then shook her head. It was probably as well she had died. Her father would never have settled down for long. He was not the type. She had sensed that from the first moment of their relationship.

  She heard a sound suddenly in the other room, and the hairs on the back of her neck seemed to stiffen. She stood perfectly still, remembering vividly her grandmother’s assertions of life after death, and wondered with fatal apprehension whether the intruder was spiritual rather than physical.

  The door of the kitchen opened abruptly, interrupting her chain of thought, swinging back to bang heavily against the old iron cooking stove, and Tamar gave an involuntary gasp. Then her heart skipped a beat, and steadied, as she pressed a relieved hand to her throat. No spiritual visitor this, but a child, no more than five or six years, standing staring solemnly at her. At first Tamar couldn’t decide whether it was a boy or a girl, but somehow, after a moment, she decided she was feminine. Dressed in denim jeans and a T-shirt, an old anorak unfastened hanging off her shoulders and her hair an untidy mass of black curls, she looked lonely and neglected, and Tamar moved forward.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, smiling encouragingly. ‘Who are you?’

  The child did not answer, backing away slightly, as though unsure as to whether Tamar represented friend or enemy.

  Tamar wondered who she was. She could belong to anybody. Certainly there were plenty of children in the village, and possibly she had seen Tamar coming here and followed her.

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked Tamar, going down on her haunches to gain more eye level terms with her. ‘My name is Tamar. I used to live here - a long time ago. Probably before you were born.’

  The little girl backed away still more, until she was half-way across the living room floor. Tamar sighed, and stood up. Usually she could befriend children, and she wondered if she had anything with which to disarm her. Then she remembered her sketching pad and crayons, Walking across to the table where she had laid them, she picked them up, ignoring the way the child hovered uncertainly near the door, as though ready for escape should the need arise.

  ‘Look,’ said Tamar, sitting on her haunches again, and sketching rapidly. ‘Look. Can you see who this is?’

  It only took a moment to outline the child’s features so that they were recognizable. Then she held the pad out to the girl. At first she refused to take it, but when Tamar laid down the pad on a chair and stood back, the child came cautiously forward and peered at what Tamar had drawn.

  Tamar had expected some reaction, some word of surprise, but the girl said nothing, merely looked at the sketch, and then tearing it off the pad she thrust it into the pocket of her anorak.

  Tamar shrugged. Obviously, whoever she was, she had no intention of becoming friends. She had returned to her position by the door, and watched Tamar with dark eyes that were somehow familiar.

  Then, without warning, the door was thrust open, almost overbalancing the child, so that she stumbled and saved herself against the table.

  ‘Lucy, blast you, I’ve told you not to come here!’

  A man had entered the room, a tall dark man, whose voice was harsh and angry, and Tamar felt her legs go weak. Was this child Ross Falcon’s?

  Then he saw Tamar, and halted abruptly. ‘So,’ he said. ‘I might have guessed you would come here!’ He caught the child’s shoulder and drew her towards him roughly. Even so, the child went willingly, and Tamar wondered how gentle he might sometimes be.

  She swallowed hard, cleared her throat, and said: ‘Is - is Lucy your daughter?’

  He looked at her contemptuously, allowing his eyes to rake her insolently, so that she felt the hot colour burn her cheeks. Then he spoke.

  ‘Yes, Lucy is mine,’ he said coldly. ‘Why? Are you surprised?’

  Tamar shook her head vigorously. ‘No - no! That is – why - why should I be?’

  He shrugged. ‘Why indeed?’ he muttered bitterly. ‘However, it’s of no account. She’s as loved and lovable as any other child!’ He spoke defensively, and Tamar didn’t understand.

  ‘I - I never doubted it,’ she stammered. ‘If - if you’ll excuse me!’

  She would have got past him if she could, but he blocked the doorway, and she badly needed some air.

  Ross leaned against the door post. ‘And if I don’t?’ he countered mockingly.

  Tamar straightened, summoning all her small store of courage. ‘Don’t let’s have an argument,’ she murmured stiffly. ‘I - I don’t think we have anything more to say to one another.’

  ‘Don’t you, damn you!’ he swore angrily. ‘Do you think you can come back here with your city clothes and your city ways, and make a fool out of me?’

  ‘That was not my intention,’ said Tamar, turning the sketch pad in her hands.

  He looked derisive. ‘Indeed? Then why did you come back?’

  Tamar felt a sense of impatience. Here she was, allowing him to dictate to her like some omnipotent god!

  ‘I’m getting rather tired of answering that question,’ she said, holding up her head. ‘This is a free country. I don’t have to give you my reasons for doing anything! Now
- if you don’t mind—’

  Ross Falcon straightened, his eyes flashing angrily, and Tamar realized that was why she had thought Lucy’s eyes looked strangely familiar. Her heart constricted suddenly. This was the man she had once loved with every ounce of her being - the man who had only been playing with her while his serious intentions lay in an entirely different direction. How dared he treat her like this when so many painful memories could be placed at his door?

  With legs that felt shaky and jelly-like, she crossed the room and said: ‘Are you going to let me go? Or shall I scream and frighten the child?’

  Ross’s eyes darkened, and for a moment she thought he was going to strike her. ‘You wouldn’t frighten Lucy,’ he muttered savagely, ‘and well you know it!’

  Tamar frowned. ‘You’re talking in riddles - Mr. Falcon.’

  ‘Am I? Are you denying that Father Donahue has regaled you with full extent of my adversities?’

  Tamar shook her head. ‘I don’t know what you mean. So far as Father Donahue is concerned, I can assure you that he has not discussed your affairs with me. You ought to know him better than that.’

  Ross Falcon shrugged his broad shoulders. He had a lithe hard body, thinner than she remembered, but just as virile. He had always made the village boys she had grown up with seem naive and ineffective.

  Now he said: ‘Nevertheless, you’ve been in Falcon’s Wherry for twenty-four hours, and you must have heard.’

  ‘Heard? Heard what?’ Tamar’s curiosity overrode her hostile emotions. She looked at the child. Lucy was standing staring at her, with those wide dark eyes, and she felt a knife turn in her stomach at the knowledge that she had once imagined, foolishly, that she would have Ross’s children.