Falconridge

by Jennifer Wilde

  “But, alas, when you spend so much time in the stables you carry the smell of the stables with you. A quite bracing smell, not at all unpleasant, but not to my taste. I prefer the perfume of the parlor. Your hair has a very lovely aroma, Lauren. Like spring flowers, fresh, clean. I find it delightful.”

  “I—I had better go in now,” I said, my voice not at all level. I half turned to leave, but he blocked my way. I could see his face in the faint glow of moonlight. The lips were grinning, the eyes mocking. He was teasing me, as one would tease a child. I was infuriated with him. I wanted to slap that arrogant face. He sensed my anger, and the grin broadened.

  “Afraid?” he asked.

  “Is there anything to be afraid of?”

  “There could be. There just possibly could be.”

  “Your arrogance is overwhelming.”

  “So is your charm, my dear. I hadn’t realized before just how much charm you have. The little peasant girl among the poppies was delightful, of course, but the woman in satin and emeralds is—how shall I put it?—delectable.”

  “You’re making fun of me,” I said defensively.

  “Not entirely,” he said, his voice low pitched. “No—I’m not just making fun of you. You haven’t had much experience with men, have you?”

  “None whatsover!” I retorted, “and I’m not sure I want any if you are any example of the men I shall meet!”

  Norman Wade laughed loudly. He stepped back, holding out his hands as though giving up. He continued to laugh while my cheeks burned hotly. I wanted to run into the house and be swallowed up by the crowd, but he was still standing between me and the door, and I was afraid of making an even greater fool of myself. Norman Wade tossed his cigar over the railing and folded his arms over his chest. His laughter subsided, but his eyes were still full of amusement.

  “You’re quite right,” he said. “I mustn’t let the clothes fool me. You’re still an innocent little school girl, despite the air of sophistication. Far be it from me to be the one to indoctrinate you into the mysteries of the adult world. You stick to your novels and your sketch book for a while. That’s the safest course.”

  “You—you’re intolerable,” I said.

  “Do you find me so?”

  “Entirely!”

  “I’m delighted. It’s refreshing after all that primping and fawning from the local lasses.”

  “Intolerable!” I repeated vehemently.

  I started to go past him. He put his hand on my shoulder, restraining me.

  “Not just yet, Miss Moore,” he said. His voice was serious now, no trace of mockery in it. “Have you been behaving yourself?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you been minding your own business?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “My uncle mentioned that he found you prowling around the house in the middle of the night last week. That isn’t wise. You’ve also been going to Dower House quite frequently. I wouldn’t. I would stay away from there. You ran into Andrew Graystone, I understand. Helena said Hugo almost attacked you. He never attacks unless he’s told to do so. You are causing entirely too much bother around here.”

  “What I do is my affair.”

  He clenched my shoulders angrily.

  “You little fool!” he said passionately. “Can’t you see—no, you can’t. I don’t expect you to. You’re an innocent little thing with no idea what you’re up against. You stay in your room, and stay away from Dower House. Do as I say. You just tend to your own business.”

  “And just what is that, Mr. Wade?”

  “I wish I could say,” he replied. He released me. He seemed wary now, as though exhausted from so much emotion. “You are a little girl. You must act as proper little girls do. You must be a companion to Helena and occupy yourself with innocent things. I wish you would take up embroidery.”

  “Don’t count on it, Mr. Wade,” I retorted.

  I swept past him and went into the house, closing the door firmly behind me. I leaned against it for a moment. My temples were throbbing, and I was in a wretched mood, but my head was quite clear now. Billy Randall saw me, and he hurried over. I permitted him to bring me a plate of food and then I danced with him again. The color and movement of the party engulfed me, and I tried to forget Norman Wade and his strange words. Several men asked me to dance, and I whirled around the floor, my head held high. I chatted and smiled and flirted politely and laughed when they said something they thought amusing. I gave myself up entirely to the sound and movement. An hour passed, two, and I was exhausted from the effort of being charming and gracious.

  “Mrs. Henderson drank too much champagne and passed out in the cloak room,” Helena said. “Her poor husband had to take her home. She’s dreadfully common, for all their money and position in the community.”

  We were standing by the French doors. I begged off dancing for a while, and it was a relief just to stand there and watch the couples glide over the smooth parquet floor. My head ached, and my whole body felt sore. I had thrown myself into the activity with too much abandon and it was beginning to tell. Helena looked slightly agitated, although she smiled and nodded to friends who passed.

  “You look a little pale,” she remarked.

  “I’m exhausted,” I told her.

  “Yes, you’ve done nothing but dance for two hours, and with so much vivacity! All the young men are quite beyond themselves with eagerness to know you better. Several of them have asked me about you. Did you find any who suited you?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Not even Billy Randall?” she asked, smiling wickedly.

  “Him least of all.”

  “Oh dear, I so wanted you to meet a nice young man who could become your beau. I adore playing Cupid, but there’s not much to work with. Oh, I don’t mean you dear. I mean the men. A rather drab lot, for all their respectability. I don’t imagine any of them would make a maiden’s heart flutter. Can you imagine poor Billy on a charging white horse?”

  “Hardly,” I replied, smiling at the thought.

  “The party is a smashing success,” she said, waving her fan. “No doubt about it. It’s the event of the season. Everyone’s delighted with the music, and the ballroom has never looked so grand, not even in the old days. And the food! My dear, there isn’t a crumb left. Not a crumb! They went after it like a hoard of starved ruffians.”

  “Where’s my uncle?” I asked. “I haven’t seen him in over an hour.”

  “Oh, Charles has closed himself up in the library, quite bored with everything. I told him how rude it was, but he’s been disgruntled since morning. I wish I knew why. What a night.…”

  The candles had burned down and were beginning to splutter when the guests began to leave. The musicians folded up their music and put their instruments away in black calf cases. Carriages began coming up the drive to pick up happy but wearied guests. I stood beside Helena on the front porch, shaking hands and bidding good night. The thunder rumbled loudly and there was a streak of lightning. The first drops of rain began falling as the last guests scurried to their carriages. The drive was at last empty. Only the Japanese lanterns waved wildly like living things as the rain began to pour in torrents.

  XI

  HELENA AND I were both far too overstimulated to sleep after the guests had departed. We sat in the front sitting room, weary but wide awake. Helena slumped on the sofa, her feet propped up on a stool. She smoked a cigarette voraciously, casually flicking the ashes into a tray. Her lovely blue gown was rumpled, and her careful coiffure had fallen into a mass of silver curls. I stood at the window, holding the curtain back and watching the rain. It splashed and whirled and completely enveloped Falconridge, making it seem even more isolated. Lightning bolts crashed with savage silver-blue anger, and the thunder was deafening. We were in the midst of a terrific storm, the worst since I had come to Falconridge over a month ago.

  “I hope all the guests get home safely,” Helena s
aid. “Some of them will undoubtedly be caught in the middle of the storm, those who have a long way to drive. I’d certainly hate to be out in it. Listen to that wind. It’s vicious.”

  “I’ve never seen it this bad before,” I remarked.

  “Oh, this is nothing compared to what I’ve seen,” she replied. “I remember once when I thought the whole house would come toppling down. I was younger then and hadn’t lived in Cornwall long.”

  “The house seems strangely deserted now, doesn’t it?” I said. “After all the noise and activity and movement of the party filling it up with life—it seems empty.”

  “Like a room that has just been vacated by a group of people,” Helena added. “Yes, I get that feeling. It’s sad. This poor old house. It’s seen so much life in its day, and it’s been so empty recently, no swarms of young people, no parties, just two middle-aged people rattling about in all these rooms. Tonight was like the old days—Falconridge was a jewel then, every door open, every room throbbing with life. Now it’s like an old maid that life has passed by.”

  “You really love it, don’t you?” I said quietly.

  “With all my heart. I hate to see it like this. Someday, perhaps, when Norman inherits it, it will revive some of its lost youth. He has the same love for the place. He and his wife and children will fill it up and live in it like it’s meant to be lived in.”

  “He seemed very interested in that redhead,” I said, “Arabella, I think her name is.”

  “The little Treveleyan girl? No, I’m afraid not. None of these girls around here seem to interest him, not the suitable ones anyway. I think he wants someone special.…” She scrutinized me with narrowed eyes, her head held a little to one side.

  “He must be very particular,” I said.

  “Oh, he is, my dear. Haven’t you noticed that?”

  I did not reply. I thought about Norman Wade. I had not seen him again after I had left him on the front porch. I had looked around for him, but he had been nowhere to be seen. He had not put in an appearance when the guests began to leave, and I had thought that Arabella had looked disappointed when she left and did not see him. Perhaps he had gone to his lodgings early, before the party was over. I was certain that he had not gone off with one of the girls. I had counted them, irritated at myself as I did so.

  “I think I’ll go watch the storm from the back door for a moment,” I said. “I imagine the water is in waves on the courtyard. Can I bring you anything when I come back?”

  “No, thank you, dear,” Helena said, looking at me with a curious expression, half-inquisitive, half-smiling.

  I walked through the halls to the back of the house. The ballroom looked ghostly now with only one or two candles burning, the floor littered with little scraps of debris: a dance card, a faded rose, a bit of ribbon. The buffet tables were barren, the gleaming white linen table cloths soiled and grayish in the gloom. The servants had cleared away the dishes earlier, and they would all have a busy day tomorrow cleaning away all the signs of the party and putting the house in order. They had all gone to bed, even Lucy, who had wanted to wait up for me and hear all about the dancing. I passed down the back hall and stood in the little foyer that looked out over the courtyard.

  The rain swept in waves over the flagstones, splattering in great gusts. The wind tore at the box hedges, that waved dark green arms in protest of the violence. The carriage house was dark. I had come to see that, of course. If Norman Wade was there, he had gone to sleep already. I stood watching the rain come down in mighty sheets that slammed against the house and splattered loudly against the window panes. I was ashamed of myself for coming for such a reason, and I turned to go back and join Helena.

  By rights I should be bone-weary and longing for bed, but I was in a strange restless mood. The storm added to it, and I was certain that I would not be able to sleep at all tonight. I had an overpowering feeling that something was about to happen. I could not explain it, but it was strong, impossible to shake. I walked on down the hall towards the lamp that glowed in the front part of the house. I had brought no lamp of my own, as the lightning constantly illuminated the halls with its violent phosphorescent blasts.

  It felt strange to be wandering the halls still in my evening gown. The skirt made soft, silken noises as it swayed over the hoop, and my bare arms and shoulders were exposed to the chill. An explosion of thunder rent the air, and I thought I could feel the house tremble. I went hurriedly towards the lamp.

  Martha Victor was standing by the front staircase, still in her neat black uniform. She was immobile, like a statue, but her dark eyes watched my progress as I came down the hall. The grandfather clock that stood in the hall struck, one loud clang. Martha nodded to me as I came past her. I thought there was a wry smile on her lips, but her face was in the shadows, only her eyes and broad forehead really visible. I wondered why she was still up. There was no reason for it, surely. It was as if she was waiting for something, I thought.

  I hurried on down the hall, wishing I did not have that feeling of inferiority when I was around the woman. There was something about her that intimidated me, made me feel small and foolish, though I tried to hide the feeling with a haughty bearing around her. It was not fear. I was not afraid of her, but she made me feel—vulnerable, I thought. I had never been able to find the right word for it before. Yes, she made me feel vulnerable.

  I had just passed the library door when I heard it open. Charles Lloyd stepped into the hall. He had changed from his evening clothes to a pair of black trousers and a dark yellow smoking jacket with black velvet lapels. His forehead was lined and, seen unguarded, his face looked worried. A lock of hair had fallen over his forehead, and his eyes were dark with introspection. There was a bottle of port on a table behind him, an empty glass beside it. I wondered how long he had been drinking. His shoulders were slumped a little, and looked older. When he saw me, his whole manner changed. A dark frown came onto his face, and he straightened up, looking at me angrily.

  “Still up? Roaming again?”

  “Helena and I are staying in the sitting room. I am on my way back there.”

  “It’s one o’clock.”

  “Neither of us can sleep in this storm.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “I just wanted to watch the storm from the back windows. The court yard is like a lake.” I wondered why he was so curious about my whereabouts.

  “I’ve spoken to you about prowling,” he said sharply.

  “I wasn’t prowling,” I replied testily.

  “Helena is still up? She hasn’t taken her laudanum?” This seemed to disturb him.

  “We—we plan to talk. Would you care to join us?” I asked, hoping he would refuse.

  “I’ve had my share of gabbing females for one night,” he replied, his voice gruff. “You two had better go on up to bed soon. This storm may last all night.”

  As I left, I noticed Martha Victor going to the library. She and Charles Lloyd stood in the doorway for a moment, talking quietly, and then they both went in, closing the door behind them. What could my uncle want to see the housekeeper about at this time of night? I wondered. I assumed that she had been waiting for his summons. Perhaps he wanted to go over some household accounts, but at this hour. It was very strange, but then this was not a normal night. There was something in the air. The whole house seemed to be holding its breath, waiting. For what? What was wrong?

  I went on to the sitting room. Helena had lighted a small fire in the tiny white marble fireplace, and the flames were beginning to lick the logs like tiny orange and blue tongues. The fire helped a little, but there was a chill in the room. Helena smiled when I came in.

  “Was there a light?” she asked.

  “Where?”

  “Why, in the carriage house, of course.”

  “I—I didn’t notice,” I lied.

  Helena laughed to herself. It was a pleasant sound, but I found it irritating. She missed nothing, I thought. Helena was shrewd and ob
servant, and she probably knew all about my feud with Norman Wade. She probably knew that that was the reason he had stopped taking the evening meal with us. I went over to the window, making no comment. The storm seemed to have abated somewhat. The thunder rumbled in the distance, but not as loud. The lightning was not as frequent nor as bright. The rain, still falling heavily, did not fall with such fury.

  I told Helena about seeing Martha Victor going into the library to see my uncle. I said I thought it strange that they should be together at this time of night. Helena merely smiled, somewhat bitterly.

  “Martha is like a broody old hen where Charles is concerned. If he was in the library—with a bottle of port, no doubt—it’s only natural that she would be up and that she would go see if he needed anything. Her devotion to him is—quite touching, I suppose one should say. I find it rather irritating.”

  She lit a fresh cigarette, took two long puffs and then crushed it out in the tray. Helena looked tense, not at all herself. She stood up, her blue eyes filled with a strange emotion I could not read.

  “I think I’ll go up now,” she said. “The rain is slacking. The storm should die down in a little while.” She smiled at me, but it was a forced smile. I wondered why my mentioning her husband and Martha Victor had affected her in such an unusual way. She looked upset, and there was not any apparent reason for it.

  “I’ll go up with you,” I said, concerned. “I know I won’t be able to sleep, but I will read for a while.”

  “Come, then,” she said. “It is terribly late. I hadn’t realized I was so very tired.”

  We stepped into the main hallway. Only one candle gleamed, and it cast a faint light. The dark parquet floor gleamed with a dull shine and dark shadows climbed to the high beamed ceiling. The sound of the rain was a dull, monotonous background noise. Helena clasped my hand, and we stood in the dim half light, watching the candle flame flicker. Again I had the eerie sensation that the house was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. Helena seemed to feel this way, too.