Falconridge

by Jennifer Wilde

  Helena was busy with the gardens, which had already taken on a new beauty. Two extra men had been hired to help the gardener and under the supervision of my aunt they were working wonders with the shabby borders and lethargic plants. Norman Wade spent every day in a bustle of activity. When he was not going to the farms and seeing to improvements, he was in the library working over the ledgers and making plans for further improvements on Falconridge itself. He and Helena had several interview about finances, and I hated to see her agreeing to turn all the insurance money over to him to use for his ambitious plans. The money would be arriving any day now, and it would not remain in the library safe for very long. Both Norman Wade and Helena seemed pleased with all of their plans. Falconridge would be like it was in the old days. Helena said. I wished I could share her enthusiasm. I was dubious.

  Each day seemed longer than the next. I wrote copious letters to Clarissa, who was back at Mrs. Siddons’. Clarissa wrote to tell me all the gossip of the school, but it all seemed incredibly childish to me. I could hardly believe that I had once been part of that life, that the rather giddy, carefree young woman who wrote such vivacious letters had once been my best friend. I seemed removed from Clarissa by many years. Nevertheless, I made plans to visit her in late summer when she would be with her parents at their country home. Perhaps the visit would help me forget some of the gloom of Falconridge and restore some of my color and spirits.

  At Helen’s suggestion, I started visiting the tenant farms, making friends with the farm wives and seeing something of their way of life. They were a little reserved with me at first, but after I sat in their kitchens by the old stone fireplaces and watched them grind corn, they began to grow accustomed to me, even friendly. They found it flattering to have someone from the big house showing an interest in them, and I soon knew all the families by name. The children would come running out of the shabby farmhouses when they saw me crossing the fields, and their mothers would brew a pot of weak tea or put a batch of cookies in the oven. I enjoyed watching these women at their chores. They were all strong, rather grim in manner, their lives filled with work and sweat. But they seemed happy. The children were wild, like carefree little animals, their knees skinned and scratched, their faces dirty, their flaxen hair tangled and falling over freckled foreheads.

  Helena had suggested that I take one of the horses and ride over to the various farms, but I preferred walking. It was good to be out in the fresh air and to wander through the woods and across large fields where the grain was beginning to turn golden brown. I climbed over the primitive wooden fences and frequently stopped to gather up bunches of wildflowers in my skirts. I saw the cows with large sad eyes grazing on the horizon, and sometimes I passed farmers who pushed their plows through the soil, turning over rich furrows of earth. There were pig pens and chicken yards around every farmhouse, and I soon grew familiar with all the sounds and smells of this rustic life. It made a great contrast to the brooding, shadowy atmosphere of Falconridge.

  When one of the farm children came down with the flu, I sent word down to the kitchen to have some broth made. I would carry it over to the farm myself, as the little girl who was ill was one of my favorites. It was a rather cloudy morning, two and a half weeks after Mr. Stephens had been here. A messenger had arrived to say that the money would come the next day. I put on an old dress of yellow cotton, the hem slightly tattered, and took down the broad-brimmed straw hat. I felt tired and languorous after yet another night of only fitful sleep. My cheeks were pale as I brushed my long auburn hair. At least it hadn’t lost its rich color.

  The kitchen region was suffused with the delicious fragrance of baking bread, but the noise that I heard as I neared it made me stop. There were yells and a loud shrill scream, then the sound of something hitting the wall. I hurried into the kitchen in time to see Cook, her arms white with flour, holding a protesting Lucy by the ear. The child was terrified and her cheeks were wet with tears. Cook was yelling with rage. Martha Victor stood in a corner by the gleaming copper pans, her arms folded across her bosom, and a grim expression on her face.

  “What’s going on here?” I demanded.

  “The child’s a thief!” Cook yelled. “She’s been taking.…”

  “No, Miss Lauren,” Lucy cried. “It isn’t true.”

  “I tell you it is!” Cook said, her voice trembling with anger. “My pantry shelves are half-empty! Someone’s been stealing the food. Lucy is the only one who knows where I keep my key—she’s been stealing things. Probably been sneakin’ off to have picnics with that no good Teddy Lane! My canned peaches and a whole cured ham—just yesterday they were there, and this morning.…”

  “I didn’t take them,” Lucy said. There was a red welt across her face, and her shoulders were trembling. I stood in the doorway with a look of disapproval on my face. Cook stopped yelling, and Lucy huddled against the wall. I came into the room, looking around at the disorder. Cook had been in the midst of baking bread, and all the mess of her labor was strewn over the kitchen. A row of golden brown, newly baked loaves was on the table, their crusts golden brown and flakey, and from the oven came the smells of more baking. Flour had been spilled on the floor and dishes were piled on the drain board.

  “Did you take the food, Lucy?” I asked quietly. “Tell me the truth. I will see that you are not punished anymore.”

  “No, Miss Lauren,” the child said, her voice sincere. “Honestly, I didn’t. I don’t know what happened to it.”

  Martha Victor smiled slowly. She stepped over to the table. There was malice in her eyes. Lucy edged slowly away from her, moving towards me. I took her hand, holding it firmly.

  “This has all been a misunderstanding, Cook,” Martha Victor said. “A band of gypsies came last night. I didn’t like the looks of them, and I wanted to get rid of them. They were camped just over the hill. I gave them enough food to do them for a while and sent them away. I threatened to have the sheriff after them if they didn’t clear out.”

  “See!” Lucy cried. “See, Ma. I didn’t take it.”

  “Why didn’t you tell Cook this before, Martha?” I said. “Why did you stand there and let her accuse the child?”

  Martha Victor did not answer me. She drifted out of the room, moving silently. I had seen the smile on her lips. I shuddered. The woman had become even more intolerable since my uncle’s death.

  “Food’s been disappearing all along,” Cook said, still not thoroughly convinced. “It didn’t all just go at once. I’ve been missin’ one or two items every day.”

  “I’m sure there’s some explanation for it,” I said. “I don’t want you to strike Lucy again, Cook. If she needs reprimanding, you come to me and let me know. I’ll see to it.”

  Cook looked resentful, but she did not argue with me. She gave me the broth she had prepared for the sick child. “You won’t tell Mr. Wade about this, will you?” she asked, her eyes worried. I shook my head. Cook wrapped up a fresh loaf in a blue and white checked cloth and told me to take it to the farm as well. I left the kitchen, puzzled by the incident. Lucy trailed after me, staying close beside me until we were out of the region. She was still crying, sparkling tears rolling down her cheeks.

  I stopped just inside the main hall, near the staircase, while Lucy made an effort to stop sobbing. She looked so frail and tiny standing there in the shadows, her face pale with the red welt across it. I pushed a strand of pale blonde hair away from her temple, and she looked up with light blue eyes still filled with tears. I patted her shoulder and told her everything would be all right. She gave one last sob, then sniffled quietly for a moment.

  “It’s not true,” she said. “I didn’t touch them things. She took ’em—Mrs. Victor did. I saw her doin’ it. She wanted to get me in trouble. That’s why she did it. There weren’t no gypsies. She took the food herself and blamed it on me. She just said that about the gypsies because you came in. She hates me.”

  “No, Lucy.…” I began. “Why should she hate you?”
>
  “Because I know.…”

  “Know what?”

  “Miss Lauren, there’s something I’ve got to tell you. I’ve been on the verge of tellin’ you several times but—but I was too scared. I’ve got to tell you now, because.…”

  She hesitated a moment and looked over my shoulder. Her eyes grew wide with fear, and she put her hand to her mouth. I turned around. I saw the hem of Martha Victor’s skirt disappearing around the bend in the staircase. She had evidently been standing there, listening to us. Lucy was trembling visibly. She had seen Martha Victor, and now she was too frightened to speak.

  “What were you about to tell me?” I whispered, concerned. I did not like the look on the child’s face. It unnerved me. It was genuine. There was a twitch at the corner of her lips, and her brows were tightly contracted.

  “Not now,” she replied. “Later—tonight. Tonight, when I come to your room.…”

  Lucy scurried on down the hall, her light footsteps making hardly any noise at all. She disappeared in the shadows like a frightened little sparrow. I looked up at the staircase. I could sense Martha Victor hovering there, just out of sight. She made no sound, but I knew she was there. I left the house, going out the back way. My brain was in a turmoil, dozen of questions pleading to be answered, and I hoped the walk would ease some of the tension I felt.

  Hugo was chained up in the courtyard with a long leash. When Norman Wade did not have the animal with him, he kept him leashed, as the animal terrified the servants. He barked now, leaping up to greet me. I stroked his head, wondering how such an affectionate animal could, at the same time, be so vicious. Hugo looked up at me with yellow eyes, his strong body stretching with pleasure. The servants refused to cross the courtyard while he was here, even though the chain restrained him from going far. Hugo was friends with me, but he would bare his fangs and growl menacingly if anyone else besides Norman Wade came near him.

  The low gray clouds wallowed in the sky as I walked to the farm. A moist breeze ruffled the fields of grain as I passed, and they looked like seas of golden brown. I passed a little girl who led three noisy geese down the road, prodding them with a long stick. The child waved at me. The geense honked angrily, ill tempered fowl that they were. I climbed over the wooden fence and crossed a fallow field. A deserted barn stood in its midst, the red paint faded and peeling. The door of the loft was open, banging in the wind, and ancient hay stuck out. An old wagon with a broken wheel was upturned beside the barn, and stray chickens pecked at the brown grass in front of it.

  I delivered the broth and bread and talked for a few minutes with the farm wife in her kitchen. Strands of onion and garlic hung on the walls, and a brown and orange striped cat slept peacefully in a wicker chair in front of the fireplace. The sick child was asleep on a pallet in the corner, her thin cheeks flushed. Her mother cast worried glances at the child as she talked with me. She was peeling potatoes, dropping the peels in an old wooden bucket. Norman Wade had sent the doctor to see the child, she told me, and he had assured her that the flu would go away soon enough. He had left some medicine, but she didn’t trust it. She had prepared her own mixture of herbs and spices. I stayed only a short while, too preoccupied to pay much attention to her words.

  The clouds were grouping together in great dark shapes as I left and thunder rumbled in the distance. There was a faint greenish glow in the sky, and the clouds cast dark moving shadows over the field as I hurried away from the farmhouse. I had only gone a few yards when the first large drops of rain touched my cheeks. I ran towards the deserted barn. I saw a horse galloping across the field, both horse and rider silhouetted against the horizon. It started to pour and my dress was soon soaked. The horse stopped in front of the barn, and the man leaped down to throw open the doors. He led the horse inside, then he came towards me. He took my arm and led me across the field, hurrying me to the barn. I stumbled once and he threw out a strong arm to support me. He led me inside the barn, and we stood just inside the doorway, watching as the rain turned the field into a mass of dark, muddy puddles.

  “You should not have come on foot,” he said.

  “I had no idea it was going to rain,” I replied.

  “The skies were laden with it. Anyone should have known. I could hardly believe it when I saw you running across the field. First you go barefooted on the beach, then you run about in the rain. Are you deliberately courting pneumonia?”

  “Perhaps I am,” I said irritably.

  “That wouldn’t surprise me,” he replied smoothly, grinning.

  His clothes were soaked. The pants clung to his legs like a second skin, and the thin white material of his shirt was plastered against his chest. His hair was wet, clinging to his head in glistening black waves. There was a look of amusement in his blue eyes as he looked down at me, his hands on his hips. I knew I must look wretched with the wet yellow dress glued to my body, my hair falling in damp ringlets about my face. Norman Wade seemed to find the sight of me delightful, for he threw back his head and laughed merrily.

  I flushed, consumed with anger.

  “You’re not so smart,” I snapped. “You were caught in the rain, too!”

  “Yes. It seems we’re trapped here together until it stops.”

  “I’d as soon be out in it,” I retorted.

  “You find this so unpleasant?”

  “Hardly desirable,” I replied haughtily.

  “Well—you’re stuck with me. You’re not going to leave here until the rain is over. Then I’ll carry you back to Falconridge on the back of my horse.”

  The horse stomped his hoof on the earth floor behind us. There was a huge pile of damp hay in one corner, a pile of potato sacks beside it. Norman Wade spread the sacks over the hay, arranging them neatly. Old harnesses hung on the wall and from the rafters. Farm tools encrusted with rust were scattered about. The chickens had come inside when it started raining and they roosted on the rafters now, clucking unpleasantly. I could smell the hay and manure and rotting leather. Rain swept in through the opened door, and I stepped back. Only a little light entered the barn, but I could see Norman Wade sitting on the hay, watching me with an amused smile on his lips.

  “This may last for a long time,” he said. “You may as well join me.”

  I stood beside the horse, stroking the smooth jaw. He nuzzled the palm of my hand, making a pleased sound. He was a magnificent beast, his sleek black coat glistening with water. I looked over him at Norman Wade. He patted the sacks beside him, indicating for me to sit there. I held my chin high, ignoring him.

  “Are you afraid I will molest you?” he asked, chuckling.

  “Of course not!”

  “The circumstances are ideal for that,” he added.

  “I’ll bet you wish I was a full-blown country lass,” I said, “all ready to succumb to your—your persuasion. Or perhaps you wish I was Arabella. That would suit you fine, wouldn’t it?”

  “Arabella still rankles, does she?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know very well what I mean.”

  “I find you insufferable, Mr. Wade. I don’t trust you. Particularly since…” I hesitated, not quite daring to go further.

  “Since what?”

  “Since you’ve become Master of Falconridge. It’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it. Now you have it, and you will soon have my aunt’s money as well. Everything has worked out very nicely.”

  Norman Wade got to his feet slowly. There was a dark look in his eyes. He stood there by the hay, looking at me, and he came towards me, moving slowly. I gnawed my lower lip, trying to stare him down. He took both my wrists in his hands and held them tightly. When he spoke his lips were inches from mine.

  “Do you want to explain yourself?” he asked. His voice seemed calm, but I could sense the strong undercurrent of anger. His eyes stared steadily into mine. I tried to pull my wrists away, but he held them in a tight grip.

  “Let me go,” I whispered.

  “What is
it you accuse me of?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  He released me and stepped back. I rubbed my wrists, not looking up at him. I leaned against the horse’s flank, looking out at the wavering sheets of greenish rain that turned the field to brown mud. My heart was pounding, but I knew I had to defy this man.

  “Tell me,” he said quietly.

  “I can’t,” I replied. “I can’t explain it. Something is wrong. Something has been wrong ever since I came to Falconridge. There are so many little things that—don’t fit.”

  “Tell me about them,” he said.

  I threw all caution to the wind. I told Norman Wade everything I had seen or imagined that did not seem to fit into the smooth, silent routine of Falconridge. I knew that it was unwise. It might even be dangerous, but I had to speak to someone. I had to give voice to all those doubts and suspicions that had plagued me for so long. His eyes were calm, his face impassive. When I told him about the incident in the kitchen this morning, he seemed to grow tense. He narrowed his eyes, and a deep frown creased his brow.

  “What do you think is wrong?” he asked when I had finished.

  “I wish I knew. Something out of the ordinary.…”

  “You think Charles Lloyd was murdered?”

  He asked the question calmly, but the word came like a splash of cold water, chilling me. I looked at the man who had spoken it. He examined me with blue eyes that were icy. There was a long moment during which there was no sound but the falling rain. I was afraid, but I knew I had to face up to him.

  “How do you think it happened?” he asked.

  “The boat. Someone could have fooled with the boat. It was dark that night. He could have taken it out without being aware of whatever was wrong with it—a loose plank on the floorboard, perhaps, or a small hole that would let the water in.”

  “That sounds highly unlikely,” Norman Wade replied casually.

  “Someone could have been waiting in the boathouse. When he got into the boat, they could have struck him unconscious, smashed a hole in the boat and pushed it out into the water. The force of the storm would have carried it out far.”