Falconridge

by Jennifer Wilde

  “I see.”

  “I must say, though, she’s perked up quite a bit since you’ve come here. I think that’s just what she needed—a responsible job and some one to look after. She’s like a new person. I’m fond of the child, always have been.”

  “You wouldn’t pay too much attention to what she says?”

  “None at all, my dear. The child had a nightmare. It’s as simple as that.”

  I did not disagree with her. Her explanation was probably the most reasonable one. Lucy had thought she saw something, had told her mother about it and been scolded. She no doubt exaggerated the account to me, hoping for a little sympathy. I stayed for a while with Helena, talking about inconsequential things, until lunch time. I put the incident firmly out of my mind. I had far too much to think about to let what a child imagined in the night bother me.

  The walk to Dower House was always a pleasant one. A well worn path led through the woods, lush green now and dappled with yellow sunlight. A rustic wooden bridge crossed over a brook, the water rushing over small rounded gray and white pebbles. I paused at the bridge for a moment, looking down at the water. It made me a little dizzy, and I gripped the rough wooden railing. A bird swooped down from a tree to dip its beak into the water. It was peaceful and serene here. I tried to pull my mind away from the enormous house I had just left and the dark brooding atmosphere of the place.

  I slowly walked on down the path. The trees were all twisted overhead, making a dark green canopy over the path, with spots of sunlight dancing through, making yellow splashes on the worn ground. I could hear the birds calling, hear the swoosh of their wings as they flew through the thickets in search of food. A spray of blue flowers grew beneath the trunk of a tree, and I stopped to examine them. Their delicate blue blossoms were just uncurling, and I touched one of them with a gentle fingertip.

  As I did so, I heard a great crash in the underbrush behind me and a large gray mastiff leaped towards me, his fangs showing. I jumped up, a look of terror on my face. The dog stopped a few yards away from me, his strong legs spread wide apart. He growled viciously. His fur was bristling, and his yellow eyes were filled with vicious lights. I backed against the trunk of a tree, searching frantically for a stick or some object with which to ward the dog away. The strong body leaned forward ready to leap at me. My heart pounded, and my throat was dry.

  “Back, Hugo!”

  A man stepped onto the path. He held a shotgun loosely in his arm. The dog acknowledged his presence by a brief turn of the head, then he continued to growl at me, moving a little closer. The man stepped over to the mastiff and kicked it violently in the side. The dog whimpered, curling its tail between its legs and moving away.

  “He don’t mean no harm,” the man said. “Just don’t like strangers hanging around.”

  “He—he frightened me.”

  “He never attacks unless I tell ’im to. Then he’s real mean. Tore the arm off a poacher last year, tore it clean off. Folks around here know Hugo. They know to keep away from where they don’t belong, mind their own business.”

  I looked at the dog. He was still whimpering, huddling behind the man, his large yellow eyes mournful. He didn’t look vicious now. He merely looked abused. The kick had been powerful enough to break a rib or splinter a bone. The man swung his gun to the ground and rested his hand on its butt, leaning forward a little and studying me with smouldering brown eyes. Helena had said they were smouldering. I could see now what she meant.

  Andrew Graystone was a large, loosely built man with large bones and too much flesh. While not stout, he gave the impression of being heavy, lumbering. His hair was shaggy, the color of tarnished gold, falling over his deeply tanned forehead. Heavy brows arched over brown eyes that seemed to be banked with black fires. His nose was large and fleshy, his thick lips loose and sensual. He wore a leather jerkin over a soiled white shirt, the full sleeves hanging down over his wrists. His light brown pants were stained with mud, as were the heavy brown boots. There was an air of the animal about him, something slightly untamed. He looked as vicious as his mastiff had, and just as dangerous.

  “Do you want to explain yourself?” he asked. His voice was gutteral, very husky.

  “Explain myself?”

  “What are you doin’ here, Miss?”

  “I am on my way to Dower House to have my fitting,” I said, my own voice quite superior, putting him in his place, I hoped.

  “You’re the new girl, aren’t you? I heard you was here. Heard you come from London. Lavinia said she was makin’ some fine new dresses for you. I ain’t never been there when you come to Dower House before. Been out doin’ my job. Some of us has to work.”

  That last remark, uttered in a sneering tone, told me quite plainly what he thought about those people who did not have to work to earn a living. I could sense his resentment. Perhaps that explained why he and Norman Wade had so many differences of opinion. Andrew Graystone was crude, a peasant. Three hundred years ago he would have been the leader of a revolt, bearing a pitchfork and a flaming torch, leading his men against the castle. I stared at him coldly.

  “I am Lauren Moore,” I said.

  “Andrew Graystone,” he said, nodding slightly, “the bailiff. You better make friends with Hugo, Miss Moore, in case you ever meet up with him again. Here—pet his head. He likes that. Don’t be afraid.…”

  “I—I’d rather not,” I said, eyeing the dog.

  “You got to,” he said, “if you intend to roam around these parts.” He grinned. “He’ll tear you apart if you don’t.…”

  Andrew Graystone took my wrist roughly and pulled my hand down until it touched the dog’s head. He guided my hand over the dog’s skull, his fingers gripping my wrist firmly. “Friend, Hugo,” he said, “friend.” The dog looked up at me, his eyes curious now. After a moment, he licked my palm. Graystone released my wrist and stood back while I stroked the dog’s ears, scratching them a little. Hugo wagged his tail, a friend now.

  “He won’t never bother you again,” Andrew Graystone said. “Once he knows a person, he’s like a pup, wantin’ ’em to pet him. He likes that. Yeah—he likes the pretty lady.”

  I straightened up, brushing my skirts. Andrew Graystone was grinning, pleased with himself. I did not like the way he was looking at me. His eyes seemed to labor as they looked me over, taking in every detail. I rubbed my wrist that ached from the pressure of his fingers. I felt as though his touch had left me soiled. He seemed to sense what I was thinking, and he grinned all the more.

  “You’re a fine lady, ain’t you?” he said.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Think you’re pretty grand with all them fine airs. I can tell. You don’t like me, do you?”

  “Really, Mr. Graystone.…”

  “I can tell.” His eyes suddenly grew very dark, almost inky black, and he frowned. I could tell that he was thinking of something else, something completely unconnected with me. He stood there leaning on the butt of his gun, and he suddenly looked vulnerable, almost like a child whose pretense of ferocity had been stripped away. His face was very serious, heavy and grave.

  “Not many people like me,” he muttered under his breath, “but I’ll show ’em. They think they can use me. They think they’re gettin’ away with something, that I’m a fool ’n they can use me like a fool. It ain’t going to be that way much longer, not much longer.…”

  I parted my lips, ready to ask him what he meant, but something about his face caused me to hesitate. He seemed to be in a brown study, a deep mood completely different from his previous belligerent manner. I wondered what he could possibly have been talking about.

  Andrew Graystone stared down at his feet. When he lifted up his head a shadow seemed to pass over his face. He curled his lips, all his former belligerence coming back. The strange mood that he had lapsed into was gone.

  “You ain’t any better than them,” he said. “All your fine airs ’n snotty words. I may not be gentry, but I can tell you rig
ht now I’m as good as a lot of fine people as thinks they’re so high and mighty. Yeah, I’m as good as some.…”

  “I don’t understand, Mr. Graystone.”

  He was talking in riddles. There was a mystery behind his words. I could sense that he had been talking about something else besides my own haughty manner. He was a sullen brute, staring at me with a sneer on his face, but he knew something important, something he had hinted at just now. I wondered if it had something to do with Norman Wade and all the arguments they had had.

  “You gonna tell you uncle I was fresh with you?” he asked.

  “I don’t think there’s any reason for me to do that,” I replied as calmly as I could.

  He smiled slightly. “You’re smart,” he said.

  “Smart?”

  “To keep your mouth shut. That’s the best policy around here. Just keep your eyes open and your mouth shut. That’s the best way. Be dumb, then you won’t need to worry none.”

  I wondered if these words contained a threat. They were laden with meaning, but I didn’t know if they contained a threat or a warning. I was thoroughly perplexed by this crude man. He was crafty, sly. I sensed that he had knowledge of some secret, and this knowledge gave him a feeling of power and superiority.

  “Go on and get your dress made now,” he said. “Vinny’ll be glad to see you. She gets lonely, she says. She’s always glad to see someone who ain’t crude. She ain’t so happy to see me, ’cause she’s stuck with me and I won’t put up with her fine airs. I put her in her place and it makes her angry.”

  He snapped his fingers at Hugo and shambled on down the path, his shoulders swinging. The dog bounded after him. I watched the man leaving, my eyes focused on the back of that tarnished gold head. He turned off the path and went into the woods, holding his gun in his arms. My head ached, and my wrists felt a little limp. I stood under the shade of the oak tree a long time before I continued on my way to Dower House.

  IX

  DOWER HOUSE SAT in a clearing, about a mile from Falconridge. It was made of the same gray stone, but there were charming dormer windows and dark blue shutters that gave it an individual character. An oak tree grew in front, its sprawling limbs touching the weathered blue slate roof. There was a shabby herb garden at one side of the house and an old wheelbarrow and a stack of cordwood at the other. Dower House was small and run down and there was a certain air of sadness about the place, set off here all by itself in the middle of the woods.

  When I first knocked at the door there was no answer. I thought that curious because Lavinia had known I was to come for my fitting. I knocked again, then peered through the window. The frayed muslin curtains kept me from seeing much. When I knocked for a third time I could hear the sound echoing inside, and I felt very foolish standing on the doorstep, knowing there was someone inside. I could sense a presence in the front room. I could feel someone hesitating, listening to my knock.

  “Mrs. Graystone,” I called. “Lavinia.…”

  There was a slight shuffle. I heard footsteps. Then Lavinia opened the door, holding it back for me. The front room was dim, all the curtains pulled to keep out the sunlight. In the dimness I saw a table with two bowls and a half a loaf of bread on it. On the old iron stove there was a pot of stew. I could smell the odor of cabbage and boiled beef. Lavinia went to the windows and pulled back the curtains. Sunlight flooded into the room, making me blink a little after the dim half light.

  The room was a combination sitting room and kitchen, and it was very untidy. Dishes were piled on the drain board. The fireplace was littered with cold ash. Stacks of fashion magazines were piled on an old chair with a broken wicker bottom. The room was ordinarily very neat, but today the old straw broom leaned against the wall and dust and bits of scrap were scattered over the floor.

  “You must forgive me…” Lavinia said. Her voice sounded strange. It was very weak, as though she had to make a strong effort to speak. “This mess,” she said, “I haven’t had time to clean up—He didn’t go out this morning as he usually does. He just left a short while ago.…”

  Lavinia was always neatly groomed, fresh and crisp and ready to begin with her duties. She was always gracious and polite and a little reserved. This afternoon she wore a flowered cotton wrapper that had clearly seen its best days. Her hair, always so beautifully brushed and shining, fell in untidy waves about her too pale face. There were heavy mauve shadows about her sad brown eyes, and I noticed a swelling on her jaw, as though she had suffered a physical blow. It was obvious that she had been crying, too. The dried tears were still salty on her cheeks.

  “What has happened?” I asked, my voice quiet.

  “Nothing.” she replied.

  “But—you’ve been crying.”

  “Nothing,” she repeated. “I’ll be all right.”

  “I can come back for my fitting another day,” I said. “You’re not up to it now. I can see that. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

  “No.” she protested, raising her hand as though to prevent me from leaving. “I’ll be all right. I’ll just make a little tea. You will have some with me, won’t you? Then—then we can work on your dress. It’s almost finished.”

  “If you’re certain.…”

  “Please,” she said. Her voice seemed to entreat me. I nodded. She smiled sadly, brushing a lock of raven hair from her temple. She put the tea on and asked me to excuse her for a few moments. She went into the next room, and I sat down, looking around at the messy room. Mrs. Graystone was not at all herself today, and I knew the reason why, as surely as if she had told me.

  She had been quarreling with her husband. He had not gone out to his duties this morning. He had stayed in, something he didn’t ordinarily do. They had argued, and he had struck her. Helena had told me Andrew Graystone beat his wife. I did not doubt it after my own encounter with the man. Evidently he had just left Dower House when I met him on the path. There were two bowls on the table. Lavinia must have cooked lunch for him. The tea kettle began to whistle shrilly. I took it off the stove and prepared the tea. It was ready when Lavinia came back into the room.

  She looked much better now. She had brushed her hair into its usual neat cascade of waves, and she had changed into a dress of subdued orange linen adorned with small brown velvet bows. She had applied lip rouge and powder and her face did not look nearly so ravaged. She came into the room with her customary pose, and a smile on her lips. But the smile was an effort, her lips tremulous, and her eyes could not hide the incredible depths of sadness.

  “You must forgive me,” she said, trying to sound light. “I have been feeling—very poorly this morning. A headache. Ghastly. I did not sleep well last night, and, of course, with Andrew being here all morning my day has been disrupted. I see you have the tea ready. How nice of you. Tell me, how is your aunt?”

  “Helena is fine,” I said. I admired the woman for her ability to dissimulate so smoothly. She had had a wretched experience with her husband. He had struck her, and yet she was able to gloss it over with a few casual gestures, a smooth bit of chatter. Putting the tea pot and two blue cups on a tray, she lead the way into the sewing room. She moved gracefully, smiling still, and only her eyes betrayed her true emotions.

  Lavinia Graystone made pleasant small talk as we drank our tea. She talked about the dresses she had made for me and the gowns she had made for other women in the community. She discussed the newest trends in fashion from Paris and chatted on about her one brief visit to that capital. I listened politely and answered when an answer was required but all the time I studied the woman and wondered how she could possibly be married to someone like Andrew Graystone.

  Lavinia was an attractive woman, beautiful in her way, poised in manner, charming. She was intelligent, and she had finesse. She was skillful in her work as a seamstress, very adept with a needle and always tasteful in her own choice of clothes. She had all the graces so admirable in a woman of breeding, and yet she was married to a man who should have repelled her. She
lived in a shadow of sadness, and that shadow was thrown by the man whom she had agreed to love, honor, and obey.

  After the tea things were put away I changed into the ball gown and stood up on a small round table so that Lavinia could work on the hem. The gown was lovely, all cream satin, the skirt belling out over a large hoop skirt. Lavinia moved around the table, adjusting the hanging of the material, putting a pin in here, taking one out there. I was still brooding over the enigma of the woman, and I decided to see if I could find out anything that might answer some of the questions that kept bothering me.

  “Tell me about your shop in Liverpool,” I said. “Helena told me you had one before you married.”

  Lavinia did not answer for a moment. Her hands worked skillfully on the hem of the dress, gathering up the rich satin, smoothing it, putting in pins. “It was very nice,” she said finally. “My parents left a little money when they died, just enough for me to open the shop. It wasn’t easy at first—there seems to be a conspiracy against women in business—but I managed to survive. I had a friend.…” She hesitated, looking up at me as though debating whether or not to reveal more. “He helped me quite a bit, sent customers to me, helped with the finances. I couldn’t have done it without him. I—I was very young, only a little older than you are now.”

  She did not need to tell me what her relationship had been with the “friend.” I was not shocked, although as a student of Mrs. Siddons’ School for Young Ladies I should have been. I had already begun to learn that the world of real people was quite different from that that one saw from within the cloistered confines of a proper school.

  “He taught me a lot, too,” she continued, her voice quite low. “He taught me how to speak properly and how to walk, how to dress with taste and how to conduct myself in society. I was very raw and unlettered—he had a lot of work on his hands. For three years.…” She paused. Her eyes seemed to be turned inwards, looking back on that period of her life. Her mouth drooped sadly, and after a moment she shook her head, as though to shake away unpleasant memories.