Читать книгу Master Of Falcon's Head - Anne Mather, Anne Mather - Страница 7

TAMAR’S room in Father Donahue’s presbytery was small and unpretentious, with woven rugs on the polished floor, and an iron bedstead that was softer than it looked. There was an old-fashioned washstand with jug and bowl, and a chest of drawers bigger than any Tamar had ever seen. The wardrobe, too, was huge, but at least she was able to hang out the more crushable of her dresses.

During the afternoon, while Father Donahue went about his duties, Tamar stayed indoors, and it was not until the early evening, when she thought everyone would be at their evening meal, that she ventured out again. Dressed in a light coat over a woollen dress, she walked down to the quayside, shivering a little in the chill wind that had arisen. The stars were very bright in an almost cloudless sky, and a pale moon was rising.

Tamar walked slowly, her arms wrapped about her, holding her coat in place, her hair, which had been smooth when she left the house, tangled into disorder by the wind. And yet, for all her anxieties of the day, her re-establishment in the place of her birth, and the violent scene with Ross Falcon, she felt more relaxed than she had done for some time. There was peace in the solitude, and a sense of well-being in the shrill cries of the birds. Isolated Falcon’s Wherry might be, but it possessed something London in all its tawdry splendour could never possess – for her at least – the feeling of belonging.

The track where the jetty petered out led steeply up the cliffs to Falcon’s Head, but below the impressive façade of that fortified dwelling, there was a cottage, deserted now, falling gradually victim to the encroaching weeds and vegetation that possessed its walls and prodded into every nook and cranny. This had been her grandfather’s cottage, owned, as were all the cottages in the village, by the Falcon estate, but now neglected and left to the fierce onslaught of the elements.

Tamar did not go right up to the cottage. Her shoes were hardly suitable for the rough track, and besides, it aroused too many memories in her. She wondered why it had been left to nature, and not re-tenanted. Obviously, from its appearance, it had never been used since her grandfather died and she left.

She turned back, stumbling a little in her haste, always conscious of the lights from the house on the headland. She wondered if Ross was there now, and if so, what he was doing. Virginia would be there, of course, and their child, whatever it had turned out to be. She must ask Father Donahue about the child. Surely that did not constitute curiosity? Father Donahue was loath to discuss the Falcons with her, and while she knew she could have the gossip in O’Connor’s hotel, or the Wherry tavern, she had no desire to hear about the Falcons from anyone else.

As she walked back along the quay, she wondered about Ross’s mother, too. She must be quite old now, in her seventies at least – old Bridget Falcon, the most arrogant Falcon of them all. Her eyes softened as she thought of the way her grandfather had always stood up to Bridget Falcon. He had not been afraid of her, as most of the villagers had been.

She turned back into the curving street that led towards Father Donahue’s house, and almost jumped out of her skin when a voice said: ‘Hello, Tamar,’ close to her ear. In the gloom she had not seen anyone nearby, but now she could make out a man’s silhouette. As she stared at him, she felt a wave of apprehension assail her, and then suddenly she recognized him.

‘Steven!’ she exclaimed, in astonishment. ‘It is Steven, isn’t it?’

The young man grinned, his teeth showing up in the gloom. ‘In person. And you’re the village sensation, I hear.’

Tamar laughed a little, her nervousness evaporating in relief. At first she had thought it was Ross, but now she realized this man was younger, slighter, less aggressive – Steven Falcon, Ross’s younger brother.

‘Hardly that,’ she cried, shaking her head. ‘But why are you here? Is this a coincidence?’

‘No, of course not. I came looking for you. Ross told me you were here.’ He said this last rather dryly, and Tamar realized he was aware of his brother’s attitude.

Tamar ran a tongue over her dry lips. ‘Yes, I saw Ross earlier. He came to Father Donahue’s. I’m staying there for the moment.’

They began to walk up the street towards the presbytery, and Steven said: ‘Why have you come back? Not to stay, I’ll warrant.’

Tamar shook her head. ‘I needed a holiday, so I thought of Falcon’s Wherry.’

‘Hell!’ Steven sounded incredulous. ‘As if the famous Miss Tamar Sheridan couldn’t find some more exciting place than Falcon’s Wherry to spend a holiday!’ he exclaimed.

Tamar shrugged. ‘Why shouldn’t I come back?’ she questioned lightly. ‘It was my home.’

‘Oh, yes. It was – with the accent on the was. Honestly, we were absolutely astounded. We never thought – at least – anyway, tell me about yourself. How have you been? I believe your father died soon after you arrived in England.’

‘That’s right, he did.’ Tamar bit her lip. ‘Well, I guess I was lucky. Father had connections. He was quite an artist himself, in his way.’ She sighed. ‘When he could force himself to do any, that is. He introduced me to Ben Hastings. Ben is the son of Allen Hastings, you may have heard of him.’ Steven nodded. ‘Ben isn’t exactly a patron of the arts or anything like that, but he does have money, and he can recognize talent – at least so I believe,’ she amended modestly. ‘At any rate, he introduced me to all the right people, and I got a job in commercial art – doing book jackets, illustrations, that sort of thing, and training for my real career in my spare time. Ben’s been marvellous!’ Her voice was warm as she spoke, and Steven raised his eyebrows.

‘So he has,’ he remarked lazily. ‘I hear you’ve had an exhibition.’

Tamar stared at him. ‘Why, that’s right,’ she exclaimed. ‘How did you know?’

‘We aren’t exactly uncivilized here,’ returned Steven coolly, and Tamar flushed.

‘I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry, it’s just that—’

‘I know, I know. But anyway, we heard.’

Tamar nodded slowly. ‘It’s been quite an exciting time for me, but exhausting. Between Ben, and Joseph Bernstein, the owner of the gallery, I seem to have lost my own identity in that of my work. Can you understand that?’

Steven grimaced. ‘Perhaps.’

They reached the gates leading to the church and the presbytery.

‘Will you come in?’ asked Tamar, glancing towards the house.

Steven hunched his shoulders. ‘No, better not,’ he murmured awkwardly. ‘Couldn’t we walk a little?’

Tamar frowned. ‘I’m tired, Steven. Some other time, perhaps.’

Steven caught her arm. ‘Are you staying long in Falcon’s Wherry?’

‘Does that matter?’ Tamar stiffened.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

Steven released her, shaking his head. ‘No reason,’ he replied, but Tamar knew that there was. She felt impatient suddenly. So much reticence, so much intrigue. It was ridiculous.

‘I see you’re still here, anyway,’ she countered.

Steven sighed. ‘Yes, I’m still here. I did go to Dublin, a few years ago, but I came back.’

‘Are you married, Steven?’ she asked questioningly.

He nodded. ‘Yes, I’m married, Tamar. I married a girl from Dublin, Shelagh Donavan.’

‘A real Irish name,’ remarked Tamar dryly. ‘I didn’t know, of course. Do you have any children?’

‘No, unfortunately not.’ Steven turned away, thrusting his hands into his trousers pockets. ‘I suppose I’d better let you go in. I’d hate Father Donahue to imagine I was attempting to detain you.’

Tamar felt a sense of defeat about him, and responded to it. With Steven, despite his being five years older than she was, she had always felt the stronger character. He was as different from Ross Falcon as chalk from cheese.

‘I – I would like to see you again,’ she ventured awkwardly. ‘That is, if you would like it.’

Steven looked her way. ‘You’ve changed, Tamar,’ he said. ‘You’ve forgotten this is Falcon’s Wherry, not Knightsbridge. Here one has to observe the conventions, If I were seen in your company very often, people would talk.’

‘Oh yes.’ Tamar opened the gate, and stepped inside, closing it and leaning on it. ‘I had forgotten, Steven. You’re a married man now.’

‘Hell, Tamar, why did you go away?’ he burst out angrily. ‘If you and Ross couldn’t make it, we might have done. I always thought you and I were well suited!’

Tamar was astonished. ‘Steven!’ she exclaimed. ‘Honestly, I never suspected—’

‘How could you? You always had Ross around. I’ve never known a woman who could arouse my brother as you could. He had always seemed so much older, so remote – and then – and then—’

‘Forget it, Steven, please. I don’t want to talk about Ross.’

‘Why? Are you afraid?’

‘Of Ross?’

‘Yes.’

Tamar shook her head. ‘Why should I be afraid?’

Steven walked a couple of paces down the road. ‘If you don’t know, I can’t tell you,’ he replied enigmatically, and went, leaving Tamar more confused and disturbed than ever.

The next morning everything looked different. Lying in bed, listening to the roar of the sea as it broke in foaming thunder on the rocks below Falcon’s Head, Tamar thought she had allowed the events of yesterday to escalate out of all proportion. Yesterday she had been tired and apprehensive, ready to feel concern at anything out of the ordinary. She had known it would not be easy re-orientating herself to the confined surroundings of village life, and because of Ross Falcon’s attitude and Steven’s vulnerability she had allowed her mind to dwell too long on things which should have been of secondary importance to her own affairs. After all, it didn’t concern her what construction the Falcon family might place on her arrival here; she was no longer dependent upon them for her livelihood, her home; she was merely a visitor, as Father Donahue had said, and as such she should adopt a policy of non-involvement.

With this decision firm in her mind, she glanced at her watch, and slid out of bed. It was only seven-thirty, but she was aware that Father Donahue breakfasted about eight when he came back from Mass, so she washed in the icy water from the jug on the washstand and then dressed in cream corded cotton trousers and a blue and white checked shirt. Then she combed her short, curly golden hair. Examining her face in the mirror above the washstand, she assessed her appearance critically. Blue eyes, slightly slanted at the corners, small nose, and wide mouth. She was not pretty, but her face had charm, though she found little there to appeal. Only the long lashes that veiled her eyes, and the personality which lurked behind her smile, gave her something indefinable, something that Ben was constantly reminding her of. She smiled a little mockingly. Certainly, she thought, with self-derogatory candour, she would pass in a crowd.

Leaving her room, she descended the winding staircase which had a door at its foot that opened into the kitchen of the cottage. Mrs. Leary was there, busy at the stove, a delicious smell of frying bacon filling the air.

‘Lord, Miss Sheridan,’ she exclaimed, in surprise. ‘I was going to bring you a tray to your room later. I didn’t think you’d want disturbing this early, or I’d have brought you a cup of tea.’

Tamar smiled. ‘Oh, please,’ she exclaimed, ‘don’t stand on ceremony, on my account. I would rather you treated me with less consideration, then I wouldn’t feel I was putting you out so much.’