Falconridge

by Jennifer Wilde

  “He runs the estate for you?”

  “Most of it. I find it a bore.”

  “You don’t love Falconridge?”

  He smiled that tight smile again, and I felt I was asking too many questions, but this was the only way I could get any information. I was probably going to spend a long time at Falconridge, and I wanted to learn all I could about the place and the people I would meet there.

  “It’s too large,” he said, “too taxing. One whole wing is closed off, and all the attic rooms. It’s a grand old estate, or was once, but it’s damp and drafty and takes far too much money to keep up. I would gladly sell the place, if anyone were fool enough to want to buy it.”

  “But it’s been in the family for so long,” I protested. “Surely you feel something for it.”

  My uncle shook his head, his eyelids drooping like hoods. “You will find me a very unsentimental person,” he said. “Things like that are for weaklings, people who cling to the past because they have no present. I live at Falconridge out of necessity, not because of any deep sense of family ties.”

  “How does my aunt feel about the place?” I asked.

  “Helena would gladly die for the place. It is her life.”

  He said this disparagingly, and I wondered what kind of relations the two of them had. I could not imagine my uncle attached to anything human or material. He was cold, calculating, and I doubted if he had the ability to love.

  “And Norman Wade?” I asked.

  “My nephew has all those sentiments you seem to think appropriate. He will attach himself to Falconridge like the captain of a ship that is slowly sinking, holding on to the helm until the last wave has gone over his head.”

  “You don’t think that admirable?”

  “I think it foolhardy,” he replied brusquely.

  The waiter brought our food. We had guinea hens stuffed with wild rice, the meat succulent and tasty. I ate slowly, looking around at the glamorous people and thinking about what Charles Lloyd had said. He was at least honest about his sentiments, or lack of them. I did not ask any more questions, and we ate in silence. I was not enjoying the meal. My uncle kept staring at me, his mouth curled in a wry smile. There were brandied cherries with our coffee, and after that we left. The wine had gone to my head a little, and I felt slightly dizzy as he helped me into my cloak:

  Charles Lloyd left me at the door of my hotel room. He took some money out of his wallet and put it in my hand.

  “This is for tomorrow morning,” he said. “I will be gone and you can amuse yourself, do some shopping. I will pick you up here shortly before noon.”

  “I don’t want your money,” I said.

  “Take it,” he ordered.

  “No, thank you.”

  Charles Lloyd gripped my wrist, twisting it a little.

  “I should think you would have already learned not to argue with me, Lauren,” he said, each word sharp and distinct. “You are in my charge, and you will do what I think best. You will take what I give you, and you will obey me without question. Is that clear?”

  My cheeks flushed and my eyes flashed, and a quick retort rose to my lips, but I did not speak. His eyes were staring into mine, and he was smiling grimly. His fingers gripped my wrist like bands of steel. For a long moment we stood like that, defiance in my eyes and determination in his. Then I looked away, unable to stand the force of that cold stare.

  “I seem to have no choice,” I said.

  “That’s right, my dear. You have no choice.”

  He released me and walked away, leaving me there holding the wad of notes. I went into my room and locked the door, leaning against it and trying to still my pounding heart. All the dizziness of the wine was gone now. My head was very clear. I felt as though I had just been submerged in ice cold water. I walked across the room to the mirror and looked at myself. A lock of auburn hair had fallen across my forehead, and my eyes were very dark. I sat down, the heavy folds of honey colored satin making a loud rustling noise. I suddenly hated this dress, just as I hated the man who had given it to me. Charles Lloyd was a demon, but I must not be afraid of him. I must not let him have that power over me. If I was to endure at Falconridge, I must fight him in every possible way.

  It seemed that I had been on the train forever. It was noisy and uncomfortable. I tried my best to concentrate on Mr. Thackery’s novel, but I turned the pages listlessly, unable to keep interest in the characters. My uncle sat facing me, his arms folded across his chest. He seemed to be in a reflective mood, his lids lowered, his brow creased. We had exchanged hardly a dozen words since we got on the train yesterday afternoon. He was polite enough when it was necessary, but I might as well have been another piece of luggage so far as he was concerned.

  A woman with three children sat across the aisle. She passed out apples and the children munched on them loudly. Her old face was lined, and she wore a soiled black dress. The youngest child began to cry. She took him in her arms, resting his small blond head on her shoulder and hummed a lullaby. Together, they presented a picture of pathos. I wanted to talk to the children and try to make the ride more pleasant for them, but I knew that Charles Lloyd would disapprove.

  I sat back on the cracked green leather cushion, putting the novel aside. Someone had opened a window up ahead, and a cold wind blew into the car with a cutting force, but the wind was better than the smell. I lifted my handkerchief to my nostrils. It was dampened with rose water. We could have had grander accomodations on a train that was leaving later this afternoon, but my uncle did not want to wait. His business successfully accomplished, he was eager to leave the city.

  We were passing through Devon now. I saw ancient hedges of hazel, brown and bleak, and flat wastelands with towering gray granite heights called tors. This terrain alternated with lovely green meadows, neatly plowed fields and pleasant farm houses. It was a country of great contrasts, completely unlike anything I had ever seen before, and it made me feel all the more lost and lonely. The train rocked and rattled, and I stared through the dirt smeared window, watching the black clouds that were massing together. Soon it began to rain, and I could see nothing through the driving downpour. The rain outside made the inside of the car seem all the more depressing.

  I felt Clarissa’s pendant on my bosom. It seemed years ago since she had given it to me. I wondered how long it would be before I would see her bright, happy face again. I wondered if I would ever see her again. She belonged to a part of my life that was closed forever. The grim reality of the moment made those days seem a dream world. I picked up the novel again, determined not to indulge myself in such thoughts. I couldn’t afford them.

  “Restless?” my uncle asked.

  I looked up, startled. This was the first time he had spoken in over an hour. He was looking at me with those brooding brown eyes that looked like impenetrable black pools. His brows were arched like raven wings, and his mouth was pressed tightly together.

  “Not particularly,” I replied.

  He laughed. “You are determined, aren’t you?”

  “Determined?”

  “Not to give me the satisfaction of knowing you are uncomfortable. You haven’t uttered a single complaint, even when the cinder blew in your eye. You’ve got spunk.”

  “I try to make the best of things,” I retorted coldly.

  “And spirit, too. I like that. You don’t whine. That is something I admire. We may get along better than you think. Most people are easily intimidated. They give way. Personally, I prefer a good fight.”

  “You enjoy imposing your will on others, don’t you,” I said.

  “That’s man’s nature,” Charles Lloyd replied.

  “Not all men,” I retorted. “There is kindness.…”

  “There is weakness,” he interrupted.

  “You think that’s what kindness is?”

  He nodded. “The world is for the strong. The weak perish, or suffer silently in the backwash of life. That’s something they didn’t tell you at your f
ine school, young lady.”

  “How does my aunt feel about your philosophy?” I asked.

  “Helena lives in a world of her own. She’s blind to any other kind. She lives for her sudden enthusiasms, her teas and bazaars, her cocker spaniels, her tobacco and novels and noise, and her beloved, decrepit old Falconridge. She goes blithely through the day, untouched by the world around her.”

  “And you think that’s bad?”

  “Oh no, to the contrary. I admire Helena for her stamina. She is one of the strongest women I know. She has the kind of life she wants.”

  “And you?”

  He frowned. The question did not please him.

  “Strong people take what they want, make the kind of life they desire,” I continued, paraphrasing his words. “And you are still living at a place you do not like, leading an existence that doesn’t suit you, or so you have implied.”

  His eyes were cloudy, and I could see that I had touched the sore spot. “There are some things you are too young to understand,” he said curtly. His tone made it clear that the conversation was over. I picked up the novel again, trying to read in the faint greenish light. Charles Lloyd stared out at the rain. He was vulnerable after all, I thought. I had scored a point. I wondered how he would take his revenge.

  The rain had long since ceased as the train began to slow down for its stop in a small town in Devon. Everything was peaceful now, the sky pale blue and cloudless, the grass a vivid green, with lemon colored sunlight filtering through the boughs of massive oak trees. The town was serene, resting in its nest of farmland in a huddle of brown and gray buildings. I saw the towering bronze steeple of a church and the faded red buildings of the depot. The train chugged to a stop with much jerking and screeching, and I sighed with relief at the cessation of motion.

  The mother across the aisle got up, gathering her things together. I watched as she took down a shabby carpetbag and packed away the things her children had scattered over the seats. Then she took the youngest child in her arms, gripped the arm of another child and proceeded down the aisle. This was evidently her final destination. I fancied that she must be a widow, coming to live off the kindness of relatives.

  “There will be a thirty minute stop,” my uncle said. “You may want to stretch a bit while we’re waiting.”

  It was eleven o’clock, and this was the first stop since early in the morning. I gladly left my seat, eager to stretch my cramped legs. It was nice to leave the stuffy confines of the train and step out into the vivid sunshine on the platform. Men were unloading crates further on down, and most of the other passengers had alighted, too, brushing the dust off their clothes and taking great breaths of the fresh air. An old woman wearing a faded blue shawl was selling fresh egss and vegetables, and a small girl in tattered clothes held up bunches of flowers, her large blue eyes pleading silently for someone to buy them.

  I took a coin from my bag and purchased a bunch of daisies. They were white and gold, with dark brown centers. The little girl looked up with a weary smile on her dirt smeared face. She was very skinny, the basket of flowers on her arm almost dwarfing her.

  Charles Lloyd stood behind me, his hands in his pockets. He had an indulgent expression on her face and I knew that my sympathy for the child amused him.

  “When will we reach Falconridge?” I asked.

  “Late this afternoon, if everything goes well.”

  “They are expecting us then?”

  He nodded and began to stroll on down the platform. He held his head a little to one side, the dark blond hair ruffling in the breeze. Great puffs of steam spewed from the engine of the train, blowing bits of trash and paper over the platform. I watched my uncle sauntering along, taking long strides, disdainful of the other people around him. He was like a lord among peasants, too mighty even to notice them. Then he stopped and took his hands out of his pockets, bowing to a woman who stood beside the door of the station house. She nodded to him and pointed to the small brown suitcase beside her.

  I had not noticed the woman before, and I studied her carefully now. I wondered who she could be and why my uncle had stopped to speak to her. She was in her late thirties, and very beautiful in a sad, resigned kind of way. Her long black hair had a dark blue sheen and fell in soft waves about her pale oval face. She had delicate features, thin nostrils, and pink lips turned down at the corners as though in defeat. Her brown eyes looked up pensively at my uncle, and I noticed that there were light mauve shadows about her eyelids. She looked like someone who had suffered a grave disappointment in life and found it hard to carry on. She wore a white silk dress printed with tiny lilac blossoms and minute jade green leaves, and she held a lilac parasol, protecting her face from the sun. She and my uncle exchanged a few words. She seemed to be protesting something. Then she smiled submissively as he picked up her suitcase and they came towards me.

  “This is my niece, Lauren Moore,” he said. “She is going to stay with us at Falconridge.”

  “I am sure that will be nice,” the woman said. Her voice was silken and melodious, a lovely voice.

  “This is Mrs. Graystone, Lauren. Lavinia and her husband are a part of Falconridge, so to speak. They live in the Dower House, and Andrew has charge of the fields and tenants. He also does odd jobs around the estate. Lavinia is also our local seamstress. She makes the dresses Helena wears.”

  “I am pleased to meet you,” I said.

  Lavinia Graystone smiled. It was a warm smile, her large brown eyes glowing, yet I felt that she was uncomfortable.

  “I have been visiting my sister here in town,” she said. “I was very surprised to see your uncle. I had no idea he had left Falconridge. He insisted on taking my bag and having me join you. I am on my way back, too. Will you be staying at Falconridge long?”

  “She’s been put out of her school in London,” Charles Lloyd said before I could reply. “Both her parents are dead. She’ll be staying with us indefinitely.”

  The woman sensed my discomfort at his abrupt manner of answering her. She gave him a brief glance and then turned her attention back to me. She smiled again and took my hand.

  “I am sure it will be nice for you,” she said. “It’s a large place, and you’ll find many things to do. Your aunt will be delighted with your company, I know.”

  “We’d better board the train,” my uncle said. “They’re getting ready to leave. Lavinia, you will join us, of course. I’ll talk to the porter about your seat.”

  “Please don’t go to any trouble.…” she began.

  “Nonsense. You’ll sit with us.”

  The three of us rode silently for a long while. The presence of Lavinia Graystone did nothing to improve my uncle’s sullen mood. He looked out the window, brooding. Mrs. Graystone sat with her hands in her lap, very ill at ease, I thought. My uncle was her husband’s employer, and I was sure the relationship could not be an overly friendly one. I felt she would much rather be in her own seat, away from the man, but she no doubt knew that he would not stand for any opposition. After a while, he went up to the front car so that he could smoke a cigar, and Lavinia let out a little sigh.

  “You live at Falconridge?” I asked.

  “The Dower House is about a mile away from the main house,” she said. “You can see it over the tops of the trees if you are standing at one of the second floor windows. It was originally built so that young married couples could get away from the rest of the family for a while. It’s small, but I find it very comfortable.”

  “How long has your husband worked for my uncle?”

  “For three years now. Before that, we drifted about. Andrew took one job after another, never staying with one for long. He doesn’t have a particularly easy-going disposition and it’s hard for him to get along with the people he works for.”

  “And he gets along with my uncle?” I asked, surprised.

  “Mr. Lloyd gives Andrew a free hand. All he is interested in is the money Andrew collects from the tenants—and that everything is run
smoothly. He never interferes. We seldom see him.”

  “What about Norman Wade?”

  Lavinia frowned. “Mr. Wade makes his presence felt very strongly. He and Andrew have many conferences. There’s been a little disagreement, but your uncle has managed to work things out to the satisfaction of both men. I am afraid Mr. Wade has quite a temper.…” She looked up, afraid that she had said too much. I was, after all, part of the family now, or I soon would be.

  “Tell me about your school,” she said, clearly anxious to change the subject. We talked about inconsequential things until my uncle came back, and then the silence settled again. There was only the sound of screeching wheels and rattling windows. I watched Lavinia Graystone, fascinated by her beautiful, tragic face.

  Was she unhappy because of her husband? She had said they had drifted about before coming to Falconridge. That implied instability. Perhaps he was cruel to her. She had mentioned his disposition. He did not get along with people. Did he get along with her? I studied the sad eyes and the drooping mouth, and I wondered what secrets they held. I wondered too about Falconridge. The people there were a strange lot. I wondered if there was something about the place that caused them to be this way.

  IV

  THE SUN HAD NOT yet gone down as the carriage drove us towards Falconridge. It sank slowly, spreading gold and yellow banners of light that gradually melted against a darkening green hued sky. The air was different here. It was more bracing, laden with the tangy salt smell of the sea. I could sense the presence of that great body of water, just out of sight, a magnificent power that dominated this part of the country. We were driving through a wooded area, tall oak trees close on either side and spreading their heavy boughs over the road. Lavinia Graystone had remained at the station to wait for her husband but the carriage had been waiting for Charles Lloyd and me. I was tense with excitement, all the fatigue of the long train ride momentarily forgotten. My uncle seemed depressed, not at all eager to get to the house.