Falconridge

by Jennifer Wilde

  “Something went wrong. It always does. I found myself in trouble. My friend was married. He left me to my own devices. That’s when I met Andrew. He was a sailor, or had been. He was in Liverpool looking for work of some kind. He found me—quite overwhelming. I found him a solution to my problem. He married me so that the child would have a name. When it was born, he—he made me give it away. We left Liverpool. He took all kinds of jobs, but he wasn’t satisfied with any of them. It is hard for him to get along with people.”

  I wondered why Lavinia Graystone was telling me this story. She was a reserved woman who quite plainly suffered in silence and kept her own counsel, but I had caught her in an awkward situation this afternoon. She was not herself after the quarrel with her husband. Perhaps she needed to talk and found me a trustworthy audience. Perhaps she sensed my curiosity and was discreetly trying to answer the questions I hadn’t the temerity to ask.

  “I met your husband as I was on my way to Dower House,” I said.

  “Oh?”

  “He saved me from his dog.”

  “Hugo is quite vicious with strangers but he’s a fine animal. I feel safer with him around. He’s a good watch dog, and it’s so isolated here at the house. Did—did Andrew mention me?”

  “No,” I lied. “He just introduced himself.”

  “Andrew is—moody. He’s—really not so bad. He just wants so much from life, and he doesn’t know how to get it, so he rebels. He rebels against authority and against people in general. He can be quite nice at times.”

  I wanted to tell her that she did not have to justify him to me. She finished with the hem of the dress and I got down from the table and went to take the dress off. When I returned, Lavinia was gathering up all of her sewing things: the tape measure, the pins, scissors, bits of ribbon. She looked a little embarrassed, afraid that she had talked too much. She told me that she wanted to work on the dress a little more and would have it delivered tomorrow. She was very reserved now, her charm the careful professional charm of a paid employee.

  “Thank you so very much for—putting up with me,” she said. “This has been a bad day, as I said earlier. And, Miss Moore.…”

  “You don’t need to say it,” I told her, smiling. “I don’t carry tales, Lavinia. What you have told me is between us, between friends.”

  Lavinia returned my smile, relaxing a little. Her eyes seemed to shine, and for a moment I thought she was going to cry.

  “One needs friends,” she said. “I am happy to have found one in you.”

  The sun was already going down when I left Dower House. The afternoon had vanished away, and I quickened my step as the evening shadows began to spread. The sky was a deep blue gray when I reached the clearing before Falconridge. I stared up at the towering pile of gray stone so massive and so formidable. One of the curtains parted on the second floor. I saw a hand holding it back and the white blur among the shadows that would be the face of whomever was watching me.

  It was a moment before I realized that the window was one of those in the left wing. The hand moved and the curtain fell back. Who could it have been, I wondered. Martha Victor? What would she be doing in the left wing at this hour?

  I barely had time to change for dinner. Helena and Charles Lloyd were waiting for me, as usual. I wondered how long it would be before Norman Wade joined us for dinner again.

  My uncle was in his usual irritable mood. He snapped at one of the servants because the soup was not warm enough, and he seemed to find any number of things wrong with the meal. He was tense, and he kept drumming on the table with his fingertips, as though he were waiting for something and could not bear suspense. Helena looked tired, and her conversation was not as animated as it usually was.

  “Did you get the dress finished?” she asked.

  “Lavinia wanted to make a few minor alterations. She’ll have it delivered tomorrow.”

  “So it is ‘Lavinia’ now?” Charles Lloyd said. “You seem to have become fast friends with our Mrs. Graystone.”

  “She is a charming woman,” I replied.

  “Charming? I suppose so. The woman irritates me. She is too downcast and humble for my taste. Needs a little spirit.”

  “I should think being married to Andrew Graystone would take the spirit out of any woman,” Helena commented. “Beastly man.”

  “I met him today,” I remarked.

  “Oh? How pleasant,” Helena said. “Did he growl at you?”

  “No, but his dog certainly did. He almost attacked me. Mr. Graystone had to restrain him. It seems dangerous, having such an animal roaming about.”

  “The animal is necessary,” my uncle said. “He keeps poachers away. There used to be a lot of that, until I bought Hugo.”

  “You bought the dog?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I trained him myself. He was a friendly, playful pup, too eager to lick your hand, but all the right instincts were there all right.”

  “The right instints?”

  “The instincts to kill,” he said flatly.

  “Every animal has them?”

  “Of course. So does every man. It just takes the right amount of pressure to bring them out—in an animal or in a man. It took a lot of work to train Hugo to attack. Had to starve him and use the whip. He’s a proper beast now, though, the best breed.”

  “I think the whole thing is abominable,” Helena said.

  “Abominable, my dear, but necessary. Hugo won’t kill unless he’s told to do so. There are only three people who can command him, Graystone and I, and Norman.”

  “Norman?” I asked.

  “He was quite fond of the dog, still is. Frequently Hugo will go out with him on a hunting trip. Norman kept the dog in the downstairs of the carriage house when I was training him, pampered the beast. He would have kept him for his own if I hadn’t assigned him to Graystone.”

  “Norman is certainly keeping to himself lately,” Helena said. “I hardly see him from day to day. The tenants must be taking up a lot of his time. One of the servants told me she saw Norman working on one of the fields, pushing a plow behind an oxen while the farmer was working another lot.”

  “He coddles them,” Charles Lloyd said. “He treats them as equals, and they take advantage of that. You need a strong hand with these people, to keep them in line.”

  “Like yours?” she inquired, a touch of acid in her voice.

  Charles Lloyd arched an eyebrow and looked at his wife. “Yes, my dear, like mine,” he said.

  “Isn’t it almost time to collect the rents again?” she asked.

  “Graystone is going to do it next week.”

  “I do hope there’s no unpleasantness,” Helena remarked. “It has been a bad time for them. Some of them could hardly scrape up enough for the rents last fall. I’m sure it will be worse now.”

  “They can always leave,” Charles Lloyd said.

  “Most of the families have lived on the land for generations. They are as much a part of Falconridge as we are.”

  “Hardly, my dear. The land belongs to me. So long as they work it, they must pay. The sum isn’t much.”

  “It is when there’s no income,” Helena replied.

  “Would you have me run a charity?” he asked testily. “The men are able bodied. The land is good. There only needs to be a little sweat, a little backbone to make it produce.”

  “But Norman says.…”

  “I don’t care a hang what Norman says,” he said violently. “Norman doesn’t run Falconridge—yet. I think you would do better to stick to your dresses and your party, my dear, and leave the business affairs to those who are qualified to discuss them. Now, if you will excuse me, I think I’ll go to the library.”

  He left the table, bowing to both of us. Helena sighed, throwing up her hands and shrugging her shoulders. A servant brought our dessert and Helena began to chatter about the Japanese lanterns she was going to have strung up along the drive and on the terraces for the party. We spent half an hour or so discussing t
he party, Helena telling me about the musicians she had hired and the extra servants who would come in to help for the affair. It was almost ten o’clock when we left the table, and I went up to my room immediately, quite exhausted.

  Lucy was disappointed that I didn’t have the dress to show her. I told her that it would be ready tomorrow, and her eyes widened at the prospect of seeing it. She had picked a bouquet of flowers for me—yellow roses and golden white daisies with long stems overflowed in a small green vase. She looked much better than she had this morning, although her eyes were still shadowed and she was not as vivacious as she ordinarily was. I slipped into my nightgown and let her brush my hair for a while before I sent her away.

  When I blew out the lamp and climbed into bed, I thought that I would go to sleep immediately. I was so weary, yet it eluded me. Try though I might, I could not sleep. Moonlight streamed in through the window, gilding the furniture with a soft silver sheen and throwing the rest of the room into misty blue shadow. A gentle breeze rustled the bed hangings, the thin yellow curtains billowing about me. I tried to pretend I was in a boat, sailing away into the darkness, the sound of the sea whispering me into oblivion, but the harder I tried to induce sleep the wider awake I grew.

  An hour passed, perhaps two, and I lay there in a state of semi-consciousness, my mind going around in curious circles. I saw all the faces of the people of Falconridge. They seemed to be floating around me, Martha Victor’s grim and threatening, my uncle’s frowning, Norman Wade’s smiling, Helena’s looking puzzled. They merged into one another and they seemed to be whispering. I listened closely. One of them was trying to tell me something, something important, and the words were there, hanging in the air, waiting for me to comprehend. I closed my eyes, hoping to shut off the phantoms, but the words were still in the air. I had the feeling that there was something I must know, something that would save me from danger. The old grandfather clock downstairs struck one. The noise was vibrant, echoing through the house in waves of sound. I sat up, rubbing my eyes.

  If sleep wouldn’t come, then I wouldn’t try to sleep. I lit the lamp, and the phantoms disappeared as the warm yellow glow brought the room into its proper perspective. The sea still whispered, the waves washing over the rocks with a gentle, monotonous sound. The house creaked and settled, the wind rattling the window frames. I pulled on my blue dressing gown over the ruffled white nightgown, fastening the sash at my waist. I was wide awake now, atune to every noise, my senses magnified with the feeling of isolation, of being the only person awake in the massive old house.

  I thought that if I read for a while I might grow drowsy enough to go to sleep. There were two books by my bedside, a novel by George Eliot and a travel book written by a prim lady who had gone tromping off through darkest Africa in a pair of high button shoes. I had read both books already, and there was nothing else in the room to read. I would go down to the library and find something, a book of dull sermons or a history of Parliament, something dreary enough to make me sleepy. I turned up the wick of the lamp and left the room.

  It was cold in the corridors, and the heels of my slippers made a loud rapping noise that echoed against the walls. I slipped them off, not wanting to awaken anyone with my nocturnal wandering. My bare feet tread silently down the hall. The lamp flickered, casting large black shadows over the walls. The house seemed empty, deserted. I might be the only person alive, wandering about in a tomb. The sensation was a spooky one, and I tried to laugh at myself. I paused at the head of the staircase, looking down into the nest of shadows. A draft of cold air came shivering up from below, as though a door had been left open somewhere. I had the sensation of cold fingers stroking my cheek.

  I walked down the stairs slowly, holding on to the railing. I made no noise except for the soft, silken rustle of my nightgown. I stood in the main hallway, looking around at the vast black walls and the high ceiling, all shadowy and dark. The tapestries fluttered, flapping on the walls. There was a tapping noise at one of the windows that sounded like someone trying to get in. I looked up, seeing the pane silvered by the moonlight. The branch of a tree scratched against it. I smiled at myself. Lucy was the imaginative one, not me, I told myself, and then I wished that I had not thought of Lucy and her fantasy. It had been a fantasy, of course, but I would have preferred not to think of it at that moment. I walked on down the hall, holding the lamp high. The library door creaked as I pushed it open, and I paused, sure that the noise was loud enough to awaken everyone.

  No one came and the noise died away, leaving an even deeper silence in its wake. The library was close and stuffy, all the windows tightly shut, with the heavy draperies pulled across them. There was a smell of stale cigar smoke and the musty odor of books, stronger now that the room was so still. I set the lamp down on a table. It gave only a little light, just enough to fill one corner with its yellow glow. The rest of the room was dark, the furniture like squat black figures that crouched down, trying to conceal themselves in the shadow. The lamp illuminated one section of books, the gold stamped titles, gleaming. There was a volume of lectures on Ancient Greece, and I thought it would do nicely for my purpose. It was heavy, bound in calf, and a cloud of dust rose in the air as I pulled it off the shelf.

  Suddenly there was a gust of wind and the library door slammed shut with a mighty bang. The lamp flickered wildly for a moment and then went out. I leaned against the shelf, startled, my lips parted in a silent cry. I stood very silently for a long moment, listening to the sound of my own breathing. It was absurd, of course, but I felt that there was someone in the room with me. It took a moment for me to pull myself together and rid myself of the idea. My nerves were on edge. That was all.

  I had brought no matches with me. That had been foolish. The lamp had blown out that first night I was in Falconridge, and Helena had warned me of the drafts and sudden gusts of wind that played havoc with candles and lamps. I should have had the foresight to bring matches. I felt terribly foolish, standing there in the darkness, panting just a little. I still held the heavy book in my hand.

  There were matches in my uncle’s desk. He kept them to light his cigars. I groped my way across the room and found the desk. The surface was icy cold to the touch. I drew open the top drawer and felt for the matches. My hand slid over several objects, a pen, a knife, a stack of papers, a small paper weight, and finally I found the box of matches. I struck one, smelling the sharp smell of sulpher. I held my palm cradled around the tiny flame and took it over to the lamp. In a moment the lamp was burning nicely, and I sighed with relief.

  I tugged open the door and left the library, the lamp in one hand, the book in the other. I was a little weak from fear. Although I tried to scold myself out of the notion, I felt that eyes were watching me, that someone was listening to my movements. I stopped once, straining to listen to a sound. It was a creaking floorboard, nothing more. The wind had come up strongly since I left my room, and the house was full of all those familiar noises I had grown accustomed to.

  I paused at the foot of the staircase, listening again. I thought I heard footsteps passing on the floor above. No, it was just the wind flapping the tapestries. I started up the staircase, and I was half way up when I heard the sound again. Footsteps. There would be no mistake this time. They were passing down the hall, towards the closed wing. There was a great curve in the staircase before one reached the second floor, and the lamp light was weak. It was unlikely that whoever had passed had noticed the light. I blew it out, huddling against the wall. I could feel the damp wall behind me, and my knees were weak. There was someone on the floor above. I was sure of it.

  I stood there for several moments but the sound was not repeated. I could hear the tapestries, and there was a strange rustling noise, but the footsteps were gone. Perhaps I had imagined them. I was in a highly nervous state—sleepless, restless, exhausted after a trying day. How foolish to be standing here with a palpitating heart, surrounded by darkness, listening for a sound that had never been, and to have
been so hasty to have blown the lamp out made it even worse. Now I would have to go all the way back to my room without any light at all. I had calmed myself down and was ready to go on up the staircase when I heard the whisper.

  “This can’t go on. It’s too dangerous, too dangerous.…”

  The whisper was hoarse, barely audible. I could not recognize the voice, but it was the voice of someone in torment. Those strange words seemed to hang in the air, vibrating, only to disappear in the ensuing silence. I shut my eyelids very tightly, trembling, and a moment passed, two, several more. The pulse in my temple throbbed, and my body arched against the damp wall.

  This is absurd, I told myself, absurd. I imagined the whisper. It was like the phantom faces in my room earlier in the night. It was the product of an over stimulated imagination. It must be. The words had come out of the emptiness of silence, like things with a life of their own, disembodied. They had not been in the house at all. They had been only in my mind. I couldn’t stand here all night in the cold air, too frightened to move. It was absurd.

  I walked on up the staircase, holding my shoulders straight, determined to win control of myself. I turned down the hall and went in the direction of my room, dreading the long walk. I felt along the wall for the turning that led to my room, and I stumbled, dropping the heavy book. The crash as it hit the floor sounded like an explosion. I let out a little cry. There were tears of frustration on my cheeks. I was acting like a child, a child frightened of the dark and imagining all kinds of terrors.

  The footsteps were real this time. So was the glow of light. It flickered against the walls from another passage of the hall, and I was not imagining it. The glow grew wider and brighter, and Charles Lloyd stepped into the hall, holding the lamp in front of him. He was wearing a black brocade robe with quilted blue satin lapels. His heavy blond hair was all disarrayed, and his face was lined, disturbed. He held the lamp up in front of me, and his dark brown eyes looked black with anger. I stared up at him, too intimidated even to speak.