Master of Falcon's Head

by Anne Mather

  He hesitated a moment, then flung open the door. ‘Go! I don’t intend to engage in verbal fencing with you!’

  Tamar felt uncomfortable now. Surely a child of Lucy’s age would understand a little of this and wonder what was going on? She wondered whether Ross was concerned about this, and about whether she would talk about it to her mother.

  ‘Goodbye, Lucy,’ she said, smiling at the little girl, but Lucy did not reply. She merely thrust her hands into the pockets of her jeans, and looked down at the toes of her scuffed sandals.

  Tamar brushed past Ross, feeling a sick nausea assailing her. It was all right dictating to herself what she ought to do, how she ought to act, what she ought to feel, but in practice it was rather more difficult.

  She halted at the head of the path and looked back. Ross and his daughter had emerged from the cottage and were standing watching her.

  She sighed. In spite of everything she would like to have made friends with Lucy. Somehow she seemed a lonely child, and she wondered whether Virginia had changed, too. Was she the kind of woman who was quite prepared to shelve her responsibilities if someone else was there to shoulder them? Tamar had never seen her as the motherly type. She had always been too obsessed with herself; with her clothes, her hair, her make-up. In a village like Falcon’s Wherry she had seemed out of place. And yet Ross had married her. He had wanted her, made love to her, given her his child.

  Tamar shook her head, and turning, hastened down the path. It was getting late. It would be lunch time soon. It was as well to think of other things. To put Falcon’s Head and its occupants out of her mind.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Days in Falcon’s Wherry were so much alike that they had a habit of drifting into one another and losing their identity. Tamar found in the days that followed her own existence there seemed to adopt the same mould. She usually had breakfast with Father Donahue, then went out, sometimes sketching, sometimes merely exploring, taking the car and discovering again the delights of the rugged coastline. She had not ventured into the water, the sea was too cold and too rough for that, but she walked on the sand, collected shells, and led the lazy life of the beachcomber.

  Not that she was happy, exactly. It was more a question of filling her days to the exclusion of any discomforting thoughts, and having a nightly glass of Irish whiskey with the Father, which usually assured her a night’s sleep.

  Father Donahue was negotiating with the Falcons about the lease on Flynn’s cottage, but Tamar wondered whether she would stay as long as she had originally intended. Somehow everything seemed to have fallen flat, and she felt restless most of the time. Ben had written to her telling her of the press coverage she had achieved with her exhibition, and of how several television producers had suggested she might like to join panels or debating programmes. Tamar was flattered, but disinterested, although she managed to veil this when she wrote back to Ben.

  She was in the post office one morning, mailing her letter, when a hand closed on her shoulder, and she swung round to face Ross Falcon yet again.

  She moved slightly, forcing him to remove his hand, though his expression did not change. ‘I want to speak to you, Miss Sheridan,’ he said, in his usual harsh tone. ‘Come outside.’

  Aware that they were causing a minor sensation in the small stores, Tamar did not argue, but preceded him out of the door without a word. Outside, she faced him angrily, disliking the way he had commandeered her attention.

  ‘Yes?’ she said coldly. ‘What do you want?’

  In the village street they were almost as conspicuous as in the shop, and Ross glanced round impatiently. A sleek green saloon was parked in the narrow roadway, and Tamar recognized it as an Aston Martin.

  ‘Come,’ he said, indicating the car. ‘This is too public.’

  ‘Are our conversations private?’ she questioned coolly.

  Ross ignored this, and putting a hand under her elbow steered her towards the car. Tamar wrenched her arm away.

  ‘Whatever you have to say can be said here!’ she exclaimed furiously.

  Ross glared down at her. ‘Do you want me to pick you up and put you in that vehicle?’ he snapped,

  Tamar seethed, but realizing that they were attracting more attention every moment, she ignored him and climbed into the car. Ross slammed her door, then strode round to slide in beside her. He started the powerful engine and the car roared away up the main street towards the pass. About a quarter of a mile out of the village, he brought the car to a halt again, and turning off the engine turned to look at her.

  Tamar stared straight ahead, refusing to allow him to intimidate her as he had done at the cottage. He studied her profile for a moment, then brought a piece of paper out of his pocket. He held it in front of her eyes so that she was forced to look at it. It was the rough sketch she had made of Lucy.

  ‘Well?’ she said, not turning. ‘What of it?’

  ‘How did the child get this?’

  Tamar looked at him now. Her eyes were cold and angry. ‘Why don’t you ask Lucy?’ she exclaimed fiercely.

  He stared at her then, his eyes narrowing so that their expression was hidden, long lashes veiling their depths. He had strange eyes, sometimes grey like the sea on a stormy day, sometimes green like the lush grass that grew in such abundance, and sometimes yellow like the tawny yellow of the tigers. Just now they were grey and stormy, and cold as ice cubes.

  ‘Lucy is deaf and dumb,’ he said bleakly.

  At first Tamar felt numb. She couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t believe that that tousled, healthy youngster could neither hear nor speak. No wonder she had seemed so afraid, so unwilling to acknowledge the stranger. She must have wondered why she was there, and what she was doing.

  She shook her head incredulously, and said, inadequately: ‘I’m – I’m sorry!’

  Ross’s gaze did not waver. ‘You did not know?’

  ‘No, of course not. How could I? Father Donahue doesn’t gossip, and there was no one else.’

  ‘Steven didn’t tell you?’

  ‘No.’

  Tamar slid out of the car suddenly. Ross’s eyes were too intent, too penetrating. She was afraid he might see something in the depths of her eyes that exposed the awful sense of helplessness that had enveloped her.

  Ross slid out of the car too, tall and dark and forbidding, his expression showing no trace of compassion at the cruel way he had thrown his daughter’s disablement at her.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘there remains the question. How did Lucy get this?’ He indicated the sketch.

  Tamar sighed, her face drawn and nervous. ‘When - when I met her at the cottage!’ She shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘She was reticent - unwilling to make friends. I thought she was one of the village children—’

  ‘So she is!’

  “You know what I mean,’ she exclaimed tremulously. ‘Anyway, as I had my sketch pad with me I did a rough drawing of her, just enough for her to recognize herself.’ She turned away. ‘She seemed to like it. She tore it off the pad and put it in her pocket.’

  ‘And it’s been with her ever since,’ he said, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his car coat.

  Tamar glanced at him. It was difficult not to stare at him and go on staring. He was the only man who had ever had this effect on her. He was not handsome; his features were too harsh, too rugged to be called handsome. But he was attractive, the dark tan of his skin adding to his vaguely foreign appearance. No wonder Virginia had used every trick in the book to bring him to complete surrender of his freedom. Maybe she had been afraid he would do to her what he had done to herself, Tamar.

  Now she said: ‘Is that all, then?’

  Ross shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘No, that’s not all. My mother wishes to see you.’ He said this last reluctantly, so reluctantly that Tamar could almost hear the argument that must have ensued when Bridget Falcon voiced such a suggestion.

  ‘Does she?’ she said, managing to keep her voice cool and disinterested. ‘Then
as she knows where I’m staying, why doesn’t she come and see me?’

  Ross looked contemptuous. ‘Things have changed, Miss Sheridan, as you must be blandly aware. My mother is confined to a wheelchair. She had a stroke - some years ago — and the doctor says the paralysis is something she must live with!’

  Tamar pressed the palms of her hands to her cheeks. There was an awful choking sensation in her throat, but she would not allow him to see how he could hurt her still. Biting her lips to stop them from trembling, she said: ‘You’re just loving this, aren’t you, Ross? Forcing me into situations - and then removing all supports! Why are you doing it? What reason have you for hating me? I’m not to blame for your daughter’s disability - your mother’s paralysis!’ Her voice broke, and she moved away from him, shivering violently.

  Ross swung her round to face him, his hands hard and biting on her shoulders. ‘Are you not?’ he muttered angrily. ‘Are you not to blame for everything?’

  Tamar struggled to free herself, as spots of rain started to fall, blinding her vision slightly. ‘You’re crazy!’ she cried bitterly. ‘You chose to marry Virginia - you chose to - to anticipate your - your marriage!’ She wrenched herself away.

  ‘Anticipate my marriage? What in hell are you talking about?’

  Tamar shook her head. “Nothing, nothing! Look, go away. I - I don’t want to see you any more!’

  Ross strode to the car. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you back.’

  Tamar ignored him, and began to run down the road towards the village. Ross had to turn the car, and if she could reach the field path she could take a short cut to the back of the church. That way she would not have to suffer any more of Ross’s ill temper.

  Unfortunately, the rain began to really pour, and she had difficulty in seeing her way when she was running. Then without warning her heel turned and she stumbled, falling ignominiously in the road in the path of the approaching car. Ross pulled up beside her, his tyres splashing her with mud, so that as well as being caked with mud from head to foot, she was sprayed as well. She felt hot tears burning her eyes, as much from anger and humiliation as anything else.

  Ross slid out, and walking round the car hauled her to her feet unceremoniously. Then he looked at her intently seeing a bedraggled girl, with golden hair, hanging in lank wet strands about a face that was as caked and grubby as her clothes with the mud. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and Tamar felt a rising sense of fury at his complacence.

  ‘I hate you, Ross Falcon,’ she cried chokingly. ‘Oh, go away, go away. Leave me alone! This is all your fault! If it hadn’t been for you I wouldn’t be here! Look at my clothes - oh, what a wreck I must look!’ Tears overflowed and streamed down her cheeks, and she rubbed her cheeks with her hands, trying to hide her stupidly sensitive emotions.

  Surprisingly, Ross’s face had cleared a little, and his voice was almost gentle as he said: ‘I’m sorry, Tamar. It was my fault. I should have made sure you got in the car. I might have known you’d do some damn fool thing like this!’

  Tamar glared at him. ‘Damn fool thing!’ she echoed. ‘Do you imagine I’m sorry I did what I did? Because I’m not! I wouldn’t get in your car again if – if - if I had to crawl home in the mud!’

  Ross stared at her for a moment longer, and then shrugging he turned and walking round the car, slid in. He started the engine, and without another word he drove away, leaving her there, in the rain, to walk back to the presbytery. Tamar couldn’t believe it. That he should have actually taken her at her word!

  Wiping her eyes, she began to walk, slowly at first, and then more swiftly as the rain soaked her through. She took the field path, praying no one would see her, and reached the chinch grounds without mishap.

  Mrs. Leary was in the kitchen preparing lunch when Tamar came in, and she stared at her in amazement.

  ‘Good heavens!’ she exclaimed. ‘What have you done?’

  Tamar shook her head. ‘Would it be possible for me to have a bath?’ she asked. ‘As you can see, I fell in the mud, and of course, I was caught in the rain.’

  Mrs. Leary nodded. ‘Well, I don’t see why not. I’ve had the boiler on all morning, but I’m afraid you’ll have to carry the hot water upstairs yourself. Father Donahue isn’t here, and I’m not supposed to carry heavy weights since my operation, you know.’

  Tamar sighed. That’s all right, Mrs. Leary. I can do it.’

  Even so, after trudging up and downstairs with a dozen buckets of water, Tamar had lost her earlier enthusiasm. To think she had given up an apartment in London, with every modern convenience, to stay in a village where the most ordinary plumbing was a luxury. She must be mad!

  However, after lying for almost an hour in the scented depths of the bath she had provided, she felt slightly more mellow. Even her encounter with Ross Falcon had lost its sting, although there was a disturbing ache in the pit of her stomach every time she thought about the master of Falcon’s Head.

  Late in the afternoon, a telegram was delivered for Tamar. It was from Ben, and merely advised her that he had found out the telephone number of the Falcon’s Arms, and if she could be there at eight that evening he would phone.

  It was like news from another world, and Tamar folded the paper with some satisfaction. It would be good to talk to Ben again. During the past week she had almost completely detached herself from her other life in England, and that in itself was very unsatisfactory. London was the reality; Falcon’s Wherry was the transitory thing in her life, not the other way about.

  Tim O’Connor was only too pleased to provide Tamar with a drink in his parlour while she waited for the call, and when it came through he tactfully left her to attend to his other customers.

  Ben’s voice sounded hollow and far-away, and Tamar said: ‘You’ve no idea how good it is to hear from you, Ben!’ in a warm, enthusiastic tone.

  Ben chuckled. ‘Perhaps you should go away more often if that’s the effect it has on you,’ he said teasingly. ‘Seriously, though, love, I’ve missed you damnably. Have you missed me?’

  Had she missed him? Or had he, like her life in London, become unreal and remote?

  ‘Of — of course I have, idiot,’ she said warmly, forcing herself to believe it, too. ‘How are you?”

  ‘Oh, all right, I guess.’

  ‘Have you been anywhere exciting?’

  ‘Actually I’ve been living at home,’ replied Ben gloomily. He had an apartment in town, but when he said ‘home’, Tamar knew he meant the family home in Cambridge.

  ‘Have you? Why?’

  ‘Well, it was Margaret’s birthday a couple of days ago, and naturally Dad gave her a huge party, and I was expected to attend. Since then, I’ve not been able to get away. You know what Mother’s like!’

  Tamar did know. While Mr. Hastings did not trouble her, she found Mrs. Hastings less easy to understand. As a woman with a beautiful home, two attractive children, (Margaret was Ben’s younger sister), and as much money as she could spend, she should have been happy, but instead she spent her time grumbling about the emptiness of her life, clinging to her children possessively. She was jealous of anyone who threatened her hold over Margaret and Ben, and in consequence, Tamar was not welcomed with any enthusiasm.

  ‘I see,’ Tamar nodded. ‘Are you ringing from there?’

  ‘Yes. This afternoon I was going mad. I had to talk to you. Why haven’t you replied to my letter?’

  ‘I have. That is - I posted it this morning.’ This morning! Tamar recalled this morning’s events with a terrifying clarity,

  ‘Then I must get back to London. You’ve never written to me before, darling. I shall treasure it.’

  Tamar’s fingers tightened round the receiver. Why couldn’t she love Ben? Why couldn’t she marry him? If they were married, maybe she would not experience this turmoil that seemed to be tearing her apart.

  Ben was talking. He told her about the television producers, he told her that Joseph Bernstein thought she wa
s the most talented painter of the year. He told her where he planned to take her when she returned. Tamar answered him. She supposed she must have made the correct noises for Ben seemed satisfied, but her mind was far from their conversation. Suddenly she wanted to put down the phone, sever the link with that other life, become the carefree girl she had once been.

  And then common sense prevailed, and when he rang off, he had her promise that she would be in the Falcon’s Arms two nights hence, when he would ring again.

  Tamar replaced the receiver and sat staring at the telephone with thoughtful eyes. She wondered how she would have felt if Ben had said that before he decided to marry her he must return to some place of his childhood, some other country where he had once known great happiness and great sorrow. She doubted whether she could have borne to be treated in such a way. She would probably have demanded an instant decision. Why then did she persist in treating Ben so shabbily? Of course she was going to marry him.

  Sooner or later he would persuade her, and this time in Falcon’s Wherry would become the past again, never to be recalled.

  The next morning, when Father Donahue had departed on his usual rounds, Mrs. Leary came into the parlour to tell Tamar that she had a visitor. Tamar rose to her feet as she saw Ross Falcon behind the housekeeper; she felt a ridiculous sense of satisfaction that she was dressed quite elegantly in a cream linen shift embroidered with red cotton. Its short length revealed the long slenderness of her legs, and her hair was smooth and silky after the thorough washing it had received the previous day. She felt much different from the bedraggled creature who had confronted him on the pass so childishly.