Falconridge

by Jennifer Wilde

  It happened as we started down the hall. There was a crash of thunder and then a moment of complete silence. Someone pounded on the front door, violently. The dogs, somewhere in the back of the house, began to bark. Helena squeezed my hand tightly, and we both stared at each other in silence. The library door opened and Charles came out, looking pale. From the back regions of the house Martha Victor materialized, her face as blank and expressionless as a mask. The four of us stood in the hall a moment, listening to the frantic knocking.

  My uncle threw a quick glance in our direction. He pressed his lips together very tightly, his eyes narrowed as though he was debating the wisdom of opening the door. Martha Victor glided up beside him. She looked into his eyes and nodded almost imperceptively. My uncle moved to the door and flung it back. A gust of rain swept in, wetting the floor. Lavinia Graystone stood in the doorway, her fist still raised to knock again. She stared at my uncle, her eyes wide with fright. She made no effort to come in. The rain swept past her, making puddles on the floor. She seemed paralyzed, unable to move. My uncle gripped her arm and pulled her into the house. He closed the door behind her, shoving against the wind to get it shut. It slammed loudly. Tiny pools of water stood in front of it.

  Lavinia was drenched to the skin. She wore a black cloak that clung to her shoulders like wet wings and a vivid pink dress that was molded against her body, every inch of the material soaked. Her skirts were streaked with mud, and her hair hung in wet ringlets about her face, one dark strand plastered against her cheek. She pushed it aside, her hand quivering like a small white bird as it moved. Her large brown eyes were filled with fright, and the corners of her mouth trembled. She was panting, as though she had been running. None of us made a move toward her. We were too stunned.

  My uncle was the first to compose himself. He seemed to be in a towering rage, but he banked it down, as one will bank down a fire. I saw him draw his shoulders up and pull the lines of his face together into a mask of calmness. He held his rage in check when he addressed her.

  “What is the meaning of this, woman?”

  “I—I had to come.…”

  “Why did you come here?”

  “It was—Andrew is.…”

  “Yes? Yes? Don’t stammer.”

  “Charles,” Helena interrupted. “Can’t you see she’s.…”

  “You keep out of this,” he said firmly. “Now, Mrs. Graystone, compose yourself.” It was a command.

  Lavinia looked up at him with brown eyes dark with fear. I could see that he terrified her. She pushed another lock of hair from her temple, and the trembling of her lips ceased. I could see her summoning up all her natural dignity. That was hard to do under the circumstances, but her native poise came to her aid. She stood very still, her eyes lowered, and when she finally spoke her voice was level, beautifully modulated.

  “My husband is gone,” she said quietly. “I thought at first it was just another of his sulky periods, but I began to grow anxious when he didn’t come back for dinner.”

  “He hasn’t come back at all?” My uncle asked.

  “No,” she replied.

  “He has been collecting rent money from the tenants all day.”

  She nodded. A flush glowed on her cheeks like a pink stain.

  “You think something has happened to him?” he questioned.

  Lavinia looked at him calmly. Then she slowly shook her head.

  “No. I think he has run away—with the money.”

  Charles Lloyd said nothing. I could see the dark fires in his eyes. He stared at Lavinia with pure hatred, and then he turned away. He hit his fist in the palm of his hand, cursing under his breath.

  “I was afraid this would happen someday!” he cried suddenly. “The man is a thief!”

  My uncle had always taken up for Andrew Graystone before, and I wondered why he was so violent in his condemnation now, so quick to accept Lavinia’s supposition without further questioning.

  “I waited and waited,” she said, “and he still didn’t come. I had to come tell you.”

  “In the middle of this storm?” Helena asked.

  “I didn’t think about that. I was—afraid to stay there, waiting. I knew Mr. Lloyd would want to know. I knew he would want to try to find my husband before it was too late.”

  “Where could he have gone?” Helena asked.

  “I—I don’t know,” she said, hesitating just a little. My uncle noticed the hesitation. He whirled around, facing her with venom. Lavinia met his gaze calmly.

  “Has he ever taken off like this before?”

  “No. Never with someone else’s property.”

  “But he has spent the night away from Dower House, hasn’t he?”

  “Once or twice.…”

  “Where did he go?” my uncle demanded.

  “He—we quarreled once. He stayed away for two days. He told me later that he had been at the lighthouse?”

  “The lighthouse?”

  “The old deserted lighthouse on the other side of the cove. No one goes there, but there is a little room beneath the observation tower. Andrew has gone there several times.”

  “You think he might be there now?”

  “I—I wouldn’t know.”

  “Did he take the horse?”

  “No. He took it this morning, of course, but the horse came back early this evening. The saddle empty. That was when I really began to worry. I thought Andrew might have had an accident. But surely someone would have known if that had happened. I would have been informed. Then I—I began to think about the money he had been collecting.”

  “Does he have access to a boat?”

  “There was a little rowboat he found deserted on the sand one day. He repaired it and used it to fish sometimes, and when he went to the lighthouse. I don’t know if the boat’s still there or not.”

  “He wouldn’t have gone into town,” my uncle said. “He would have been seen. He would have gone somewhere to hide for a day or so until a ship came in that he could board. He’s bound to be still around here somewhere.”

  “Charles.…” Helena began.

  “I’m going after him!” Charles Lloyd said, fierce determination in his voice. “I’ll go down to the boathouse and take out The Falcon. I’ll go to the lighthouse, and if he isn’t there I’ll search every inch of this county until I find him.”

  “Charles,” Helena said, her voice trembling, “you can’t go out now. Not in this storm. It can wait until morning. If he’s at the lighthouse he’ll still be there. Wait. Please wait.”

  He ignored her. He turned and went upstairs, his footsteps ringing loudly. After a moment Martha Victor followed him, moving silently, her black uniform looking like a shroud. The one candle flickered, threatening to go out. Lavinia stood very quietly, her wet pink dress clinging to her, her brown eyes fixed on that turn of the staircase where my uncle had disappeared. Helena stood with her hands clasped together. Outside the rain picked up in momentum. It sounded louder, pounding on the drive, lashing at the house.

  My uncle came downstairs. He wore a black suit, heavy black boots and a sturdy black cloak that enveloped his enormous shoulders. He had his riding crop with him, and he strode across the hall without even looking at us. He flung open the door, letting in sheets of rain. The cloak billowed about his shoulders like the wings of a bird of prey. He was drenched before he even stepped outside. He pulled the door shut behind him. The three of us stared at that closed door, wordlessly. There was no sound but the storm, increasing now in fury.

  XII

  THE SKIES WERE swollen with rain that would not fall. Ponderous gray clouds hung low, tormented by a lashing wind. There was one line of blue on the horizon, half concealed by the clouds. It had been like this all day. All day we had waited. Lavinia was still with us. She sat by the window, looking out, not speaking. For once Helena was silent. She had not said a dozen words all day. Falconridge was like a tomb, and we the living were trapped within it walls. Even the servants were quiet, mov
ing about their tasks with hushed voices and stealthy movements.

  It was after five o’clock when the men came. They had found the boat—The Falcon had been washed up on shore two miles down the beach and there was a huge hole in its bottom. The hull was smashed. It had undoubtedly crashed against the rocks in the fury of the storm. A fisherman found the mast splintered against rocks further on down the beach. The body had not been recovered.

  Helena took the news with dignity. She was polite to the men and thanked each of them seperately. When they left she stood for a long time watching the fire dying in the fireplace. When the ashes had turned from pink to gray and the room was permeated with a clammy chill, she turned and smiled. It was a vague smile, a mere upturning of the corners of her lips. She said she would go up to her room now. She nodded to Lavinia and me and left, holding herself erect, her shoulders straight. She had never looked so regal.

  Lavinia went back to Dower House. There was no news from Andrew Graystone. A week passed, and still she had had no word. Her husband did not return, and none of us believed he ever would. I thought it was the best thing for her. She could begin a new life, and she would be much better off without him. She came to Falconridge once or twice to see Helena during the first week, bringing a bouquet of flowers once, a loaf of newly baked bread another time. She stayed for only a short while, grave and graceful in manner. Then she stopped coming, and we did not hear from her. I supposed she had her own private grief to nurture.

  Norman Wade collected the rest of the rents. He went out every morning and did not come in until very late. He worked twice as hard as he had done before. He and Helena had agreed that everything must go on as normally as possible. There would be time to work out all the plans later. For the present, routine must be followed, and it was routine that saved us all. Tragedy had struck, but we were not allowed to sink under its weight.

  Helena carried on much as before, but there was a new gravity in her manner. She busied herself about the house, doing little jobs, inventing jobs to do when there were none that needed to be done. She painted and cleaned and polished and scrubbed. She relined the pantry shelves with new paper. She made new curtains for the kitchen and put them up herself. She spent a great part of each day in the gardens, weeding, hoeing, talking with the gardener and making plans for new shrubs.

  She did not talk about the accident, but I knew she still had hope. Perhaps he had been miraculously rescued. Perhaps he had gone on in his search for the missing bailiff. The hope was slender, but it was strong, at least during the first days. She would look up anxiously if there was the sound of hoofbeats on the drive. She would sit by the window during the rare moments when she was not busy. She stayed up late every night, sitting in the front parlor and listening for the sound she knew in her heart would not come. After a while, even this slender hope died away, and she had a look of resignation that I found very sad.

  A pall hung over Falconridge. We were all restless, waiting for something that we could not explain. I felt it in the air. It was a real thing, as tangible as the moist old walls and the drafty halls. We seemed to be in a state of suspension. Even Lucy noticed it. She was glum, silent, not at all her cheery self. She seemed to be harboring a terrible secret, and keeping it to herself was draining away all her spirits. Martha Victor kept to herself, spending most of her time in the servants’ quarters. One night as I was going to my room I saw her standing by the door of Charles Lloyd’s room, as though she had just come out of it. I wondered what she could have been in his room for. She was grimmer, more silent than ever, and I couldn’t help but shudder when I saw her.

  I did not sleep well. Every night when I closed my eyes I saw a whirlpool of images, all of them revolving around rapidly, and once again I felt that they were trying to tell me something. I could hear the whispering voices. The words seemed to be urgent, but I could not quite understand them. I saw my uncle and Andrew Graystone and Lavinia, and all three of them seemed to be telling me of a conspiracy. It was always very late when I finally went to sleep, and every morning I was pale and weary, with dark shadows under my eyes.

  Helena noticed this and commented on it. I told her about being unable to sleep properly. I told her that I heard noises that should not be there, that I saw faces and heard words that were always just out of reach. She said this had all affected my nerves and suggested that I get out more, go for walks. She offered to let me take some of her laudanum, but I refused that.

  One morning, almost three weeks after The Falcon had been found, I walked down to the boathouse. It was a foggy day, the pale blue sky half obscured by puffy gray clouds that hung low and moved slowly in the breeze. The mists were thin, not quite obscuring anything but covering every object with a hazy veil of moving white vapors. As I walked along the beach, I had the sensation of walking in a dream landscape. The waves washed over the sand with a soft swooshing sound and out in the water the large gray boulders were enveloped in swirling white vapors. I walked at the edge of the water, my feet bare, the waves splashing the hem of my light blue dress. My shoulders were wrapped in a dark sapphire blue shawl, and my hair flew free in the wind.

  The boathouse was built out over the water. The waves slapped against the flimsy wooden frame. The boards were encrusted with salt, and barnacles clung to the lower slats. It was a shabby structure, needing much repair. One of the window panes was broken and the roof sagged. The door stood open, banging monotonously in the wind. Half hidden by fog, it looked almost sinister. I thought about my uncle coming here the night of the storm.

  I pushed back the door and went inside. A platform was built around three sides, the fourth open to the water. In the middle there was a place for the boats. One old rowboat bobbed in the water, hitting against the side of the platform. There was a large empty place where The Falcon had been. There was a rusted anchor on the platform, beside it a coil of rope that was rotting. Fishing gear was hung on the walls, covered with delicate silken cobwebs that vibrated in the breeze that came through the broken window pane.

  The place made me uneasy, but something had compelled me to come here. I had set off this morning with no destination in mind, and my feet seemed to have brought me here of their own volition. I had been guided here by some power that I could not comprehend, and now that I stood looking down at the empty space in the water I felt a shiver go down my spine. Something was wrong. What? What? If only I knew, I could answer all the questions that had been haunting me ever since I first came to Falconridge. Something did not fit, and I felt that it should be obvious to me what it was. Something I had seen. Something I had heard. Something was there in the back of my mind, but it would not come to the surface.

  I had sensed an aura of mystery about Falconridge from the first night I had come here. My aunt had been the only one to welcome me. The others had clearly not wanted me. Martha Victor, my uncle, Norman Wade—all in various ways had shown their resentment of my presence. I was an intruder. I should leave. Falconridge was not the place for me. Why? Why had they wanted me to leave? There had been little warnings all along, and now one man had disappeared and another was dead, his body churning somewhere in the treacherous waters. I felt that the mystery was still present. It was there, permeating the very walls of Falconridge, even stronger now. In my present nervous state I was even more aware of it. I could not sleep, I could not rest—not as long as I felt this uneasiness in the air around me.

  The waves slapped against the sides of the boathouse. The floor swayed a little under my feet, the old warped planks groaning. Behind me the door banged open and shut, the broken hinge creaking with a shrill, raspy noise. I could smell the rotting rope and the dried salt and the unpleasant odors of decay. Several minutes passed, and I was suddenly aware of my own fear. I hardly dared breathe. Something had changed. Something was wrong. The door had stopped banging. It was silent, and the silence was terrifying. I whirled around. Norman Wade was leaning in the doorway, his thumb hooked in his belt, watching me with one dark brow
arched inquisitively.

  I had no idea how long he had been there. He was wearing a pair of boots and tight navy blue pants that clung to his calves and thighs like a second skin. His white cambric shirt had full sleeves that were gathered at the wrists. It was open at the throat, and the material was a little damp from the vapors. His hair was damp, too, the dark black ends curling about the nape of his neck. He looked menacing as he stood there, casually blocking the door. I stepped back, and the boards creaked. The water behind me slapped loudly against the wood. I tried to hide my fear, but he could see it. He frowned darkly.

  “Two more steps back,” he said quietly, “and you would be in the water. It would carry you out to sea. No one would ever know what had happened to you.”

  I stood nervously on the edge of the platform, my knees weak. I was afraid I would lose my balance. I stared at him defiantly, making no reply. He moved towards me slowly, not saying a word. He stood in front of me, his chest heaving a little. He put his hands on my shoulders. He was breathing heavily, and his eyelids drooped as he looked down at me. There was a drop of moisture in the cleft of his chin. His fingers gripped my flesh.

  “Or someone could push you,” he said. “Just one little shove and you would be gone. You could never swim in those skirts, not in this water. It would be so easy,” his voice was beautifully modulated. It seemed to caress the air. “So very easy.…”

  “And—what would it accomplish?” I asked, my voice trembling.

  “No more little girl who asks too many questions. No more little girl who is always in the wrong place at the wrong time. The corners of your lips are trembling. Are you afraid, Lauren?”

  “Yes,” I whispered, unable to lie.

  “I could kill you. So easily, so neatly.”

  His face was very close to mine. I looked into the dark blue eyes and saw the darker blue lights there. I seemed to be lost in them, to be held captive by their magnetic power. I watched his lips moving as they formed his words. The corners slowly curled up into a smile, and the dark lights flickered in his eyes.