Falconridge

by Jennifer Wilde

  “You are afraid?” he repeated.

  I nodded. I could not speak. My throat was dry.

  “Good,” he said, the smile playing on his lips.

  “What—what do you intend to do?’

  “Frighten you,” he said. “Frighten some sense into you.”

  He released me and stepped back a little. I closed my eyes. I was aware of the dark wings fluttering inside my head, and then I stumbled. His strong arms flew about me, catching me as I tottered. I laid my head on his chest, trying to stop the trembling. Norman Wade held me to him. I could feel the pounding of his heart, and it seemed that it was as quick as my own. With his arms still around me, he led me away from the edge of the platform.

  “There,” he said quietly, letting me go.

  “That was a—dreadful thing to do, Mr. Wade,” I said, barely able to enunciate the words.

  “I suppose it was,” he replied calmly. “I’ve done a lot of dreadful things in my time.”

  “You followed me here?”

  “I saw you climbing down the side of the cliff. I was crossing the courtyard and could not believe you would do anything so foolhardy on a day like this. You could have fallen so easily.”

  “I held on to the roots. The path is safe.”

  “I beg to differ with you. It has never been safe, and it’s twice as dangerous when everything is shrouded with fog. Where are your shoes? Have you lost them?”

  “I left them at the foot of the cliff. I wanted to walk barefooted in the sand.”

  “You’ll catch pneumonia. You have no sense at all. You need a nursemaid.”

  “Is that your opinion?” I asked sharply.

  “That’s it,” he retorted, “and don’t contradict me.”

  “Well.…”

  “Why did you come here?” he asked, his voice gruff. “I don’t know. I—I wanted to see where The Falcon had been. Something—led me here.”

  “What kind of nonsense are you gabbling about now?”

  “It’s true. I didn’t know I was coming here. Something led me. I saw the boathouse rising out of the mists, and I knew that I had come to see it. I hadn’t known it before. Instinct. Some kind of instinct led me here.”

  He did not reply. He looked at me with a frown on his face. It was clear that he was irritated with me. His very stance showed it. He held his legs spread wide apart, his fists on his hips, his head held forward with the brows lowered, the eyes glowering at me through the forest of thick, sooty lashes. I pulled myself up haughtily, throwing the ends of the shawl about my shoulders as though it were an ermine cloak. Norman Wade continued to stare at me in that infuriated manner.

  “I don’t expect you to understand,” I said.

  “And I don’t expect you to understand what a little fool you are. I suppose I’ll have to keep my eye on you every minute. And if you say ‘I can take care of myself,’ I’ll slap you. I’m going to move my things into the house tonight. I’ll take my uncle’s room. It’s mine by rights now, I suppose. Now come on. Let’s see if we can get you back to the house without anything happening to you.”

  He took my wrist and practically dragged me out of the boathouse. I staggered along behind him as he marched along the shore, holding on to my wrist as a parent would hold on to a child who strayed when not kept secure. I stumbled once and fell to my knees in the damp sand. Norman Wade let out an exasperated sigh and waited while I stood up and brushed the sand from my skirt. Then we continued on our way. He stopped while I gathered up my shoes and put them on. He led me much further on down the beach where the land made a natural curve up the slope.

  The grass was dark green and damp with moisture. I looked back at the ocean. I could barely see the edge of the shore through the fog. I could see the tongues of water lapping at the sand, leaving foam as they slid away. The rest was obscured by fog that rose up in wavering white columns that swirled in the breeze. Ahead of us, I could see the roofs of Falconridge rising out of the mists. Only when we reached the courtyard did Norman Wade release me. He still seemed to be in a towering rage, and he left me there without another word.

  He moved his belongings from the carriage house that night. A manservant carried piles of clothes down the hall. I stood at the door of my bedroom and watched. The servants came back with another load as one of the maids did the room. Martha Victor stood in the hall. Her eyes were dark with resentment, and she watched the proceedings as she would watch an execution. When Norman Wade himself came down the hall, Martha did not try to hide the hatred that glittered in those eyes. He nodded to her and said some light word of banter, but she did not reply. Her lips were pressed together tightly and they looked a little white around the edges. She watched him until he disappeared down the hall, and then she left, moving as silently as a raven in her black dress.

  Helena was delighted. There was a flush of pleasure on her cheeks when he came to the table that evening. She wore a pale lavender dress and her diamonds in honor of the occasion. Although more subdued than before, some of her old spirit seemed to have returned. She and Norman talked pleasantly. I sat quietly in my chair, peeling a peach. Norman Wade, sitting at the head of the table, seemed to have taken on a new authority. He gave orders to the servants in a cool voice, and when the meat was not cut properly he reprimanded in the same cool tones. For the first time I could see a resemblance between him and Charles Lloyd. It was in manner, not in appearance. He was the Master of Falconridge now. It was what he had always wanted. I watched him with lowered eyes, and I wondered. I wondered.

  The body was recovered three days later. It had been found twelve miles down shore, washed up among the rocks. It had begun to decompose, and it had been badly battered. Only the thick blond hair and the black onyx ring carved in the shape of a falcon made identity certain. It was to be sent back in a closed coffin. Helena took the news calmly. The last ray of hope had long since died, and her light blue eyes were clear of any emotion. She did not cry. She gave instructions in a level voice, and then she walked slowly down the hall, ignoring the three dogs who went scurrying after her.

  XIII

  THE OLD GRAYSTONE church stood on a barren tract of land two miles from the village. Gnarled, ancient oak trees grew in the yard, reaching out to touch the roof with skeletal limbs, and all the surrounding land was flat, deserted, covered with brown grass that was seared by the wind. A drab sky hung low over the church the day of the funeral. Several carriages stood in the church yard, and inside there was the stifling odor of too many wax candles and too many people. Every pew was filled with grim, sober faced people, the same people who had been so gay the night of the party. The old gray walls were damp. Smoke from the candles rose to the oak beamed ceiling.

  The black coffin rested on a dais with a single spray of lilies on it. Behind it the Vicar stood, his lips speaking the words I found impossible to concentrate on. They were solemn and depressing, spoken in a monotone with an occasional thundering flourish. The atmosphere in the church was suffocating. Light came in through the green stained glass windows, bathing everything with a greenish hue. I had the unpleasant sensation of being caught up in a subterranean nightmare. None of this seemed real.

  Helena, Norman Wade and I sat in the family pew with its cushions of faded red velvet. The dusty old family escutcheon hung on the wall beside us, a fierce black falcon flying over a field of green. There was a black border about the shield, and I thought it appropriate now. The pew was of heavy oak, with high back and sides which afforded us a little privacy from the eyes of the curious. Norman Wade sat with his eyes fixed on the Vicar. His profile looked stony, the jaw thrust out a little, the mouth tight, the blue eyes hard. He might have been in a trance. Helena had a black veil over her face, and she seemed restless. She moved her hands about in her lap, twisting her gold wedding band. Her stiff black dress rustled crisply and she looked up to see if I had heard the noise. She did not cry. She had not cried once. I felt that all her tears for Charles Lloyd had been shed many years ago. />
  When the services were over we filed out in front of all the people who stood assembled on the front steps. No one spoke. They stood in little groups huddled together as though fearing that death would touch them too. An ancient black coach adorned with plumes of black ostrich feathers took us to the graveyard. It was a long drive through the barren countryside. The graveyard stood in the middle of the fallow fields, without a single tree to afford it protection from the wind. It was enclosed by a rusty iron fence, the tombstones yellow and crumbling behind the bars. I saw the newly dug grave with a pile of earth beside it. An old man with a shovel stood waiting.

  Not more than a dozen people followed us. The cemetery was too far, and Charles Lloyd had not been popular. Those who had felt it their duty to show their respects had come to the church, and they would send cards of condolence. Only a few had come to the burial. They stood quietly as the coffin was brought to the graveside. Helena, Norman Wade and I stood under a green awning that flapped in the wind. Helena’s face was hidden by her veil, and Norman Wade stood with his hands behind his back, his head lowered. He seemed to be examining the highly glossed toes of his boots. My eyes wandered over the faces of those present.

  Martha Victor stood with two other servants. She was shrouded all in black, and her face looked as though it had been chiseled out of granite. The wind whipped at her black garments. Lavinia Graystone wore a dress of dark green and a bonnet with a long semi-transparent black veil that fell over her face. She clutched a handkerchief in her hand, and when she raised it to her face, I saw that she was crying. Her brown eyes were filled with tears and they ran down her cheeks in sparkling rivulets. I thought it strange that she should be the only one crying. Perhaps Lavinia felt that she was responsible for my uncle’s death. If she had not come to Falconridge that night, he would not have gone out in the storm. I felt great sympathy for the woman and wished that there were something I could do or say that would make her feel better.

  A stranger stood a little apart from the other people, and there was something vaguely familiar about him. He wore soft gray trousers, a plum colored frock coat and a tall gray hat. One white gloved hand rested on the tip of a sleek ebony cane, the handle carved ivory. The man had the unmistakable look of the city about him. It was evident in his carefully trimmed mustache, in his elegant clothes, in the slightly nonchalant way he stood. I searched my memory, trying to place him, and then I realized that this was Mr. Stephens, the man Charles Lloyd had gone to see about some insurance when he was in London to pick me up. I had met Mr. Stephens at the restaurant and had been impressed with his well groomed hands and his beautiful manners.

  When the ceremony was over and the old man had begun to toss shovels of dirt over the coffin, Mr. Stephens came over to Norman Wade as we were on our way to the coach. He and Norman talked quietly for a little while as Helena and I got into the coach. When Norman joined us he did not say anything about the conversation. It was only after we had left the cemetary and were on our way back to Falconridge that he mentioned Mr. Stephens. He told Helena that the insurance man wanted to talk with her briefly about a policy and had asked permission to visit her the next day. He was staying at the inn in the village and would ride out to Falconridge. Norman Wade had given him permission to come.

  “Is there some question about the policy?” Helena asked.

  “I don’t believe so. I think he just wants to confirm a few things before he writes up the papers. I wrote to him about the accident, knowing my uncle had taken out a policy and that the firm should be notified. I believe a lot of money is involved.”

  “Charles was always so vague about the policy,” Helena said. “I have no idea what it entails. He kept some papers in the safe. Perhaps there is a copy of the policy there.”

  “I’ll check tonight,” he replied. “I want to go over some of those papers anyway. I’ll take care of everything, Helena. All you will have to do when Mr. Stephens comes is answer some questions and sign a statement. It won’t tax you too much.” He spoke in a tender voice, and he patted her hand.

  Helena looked up at him sharply. “I’m not afraid it will tax me,” she said. “I’m quite strong. You’re not dealing with a nimble-witted old woman, Norman. All I need now is a good strong glass of brandy.”

  Norman Wade sat back in the seat, his arms folded across his chest. He smiled at her tenderly, as though humoring a child. Helena gave him an exasperated look and turned her attention to the fields we passed. The rest of the drive was silent. I felt that Helena thought her nephew just a little presumptuous. What she had said was true. She was not a nimble-witted old woman. She had shown great strength of character throughout this whole business, and if anything she was sharper and more resourceful than before.

  The sun had already gone down when we reached Falconridge. None of us were hungry, and Helena told the servants to forget about the evening meal. Norman Wade went into the library and closed the door, ready to go over all my uncle’s papers. Helena and I went into the front parlor. She threw herself down on the sofa and called the dogs. They came bounding into the room, happy to see her attentive again. Helena rang for one of the maids and told her to bring in brandy and glasses, then she took off her veil and tossed it casually on the floor.

  “I refuse to wear mourning,” she told me, patting her silver curls. “Charles wouldn’t have wanted it, and besides, I would feel like a hypocrite. This has all been a great tragedy, and it distresses me, but I shall not mourn Charles. It should be no surprise to you that we shared absolutely no affection for one another.”

  I made no comment. The maid came in with the brandy. Helena poured out a drink for herself. I refused. She took a sip of the liquor and lit a cigarette. She smoked in silence for a while, long blue-gray plumes of smoke rising to the ceiling. Her eyes were reflective, and I could see that she was thinking about things past, about days when there had been love. I did not pressure her to talk about it. I felt it would be good for her, but it would have to be of her own volition.

  “Things weren’t always that way,” she said after a while. “I loved Charles passionately when we were first married. That love lasted through a lot. I knew that he had grown tired of me, but I tried to carry on. I looked the other way when he started going to other women. Oh, there were many, many—but I endured. I blamed them, not him. He was so very handsome, so magnetic. I knew they couldn’t resist him. Then when your mother came.…” she paused, looking at me. “You never knew why we were estranged, did you?”

  “No,” I replied quietly.

  “Louise came to Falconridge. She was eighteen and a dazzling beauty. She was already engaged to your father and seemed very much in love with him. She was so young, so fresh, so full of life and vitality. I could not really blame her for falling under my husband’s spell. He really put everything into it—all those little tricks, all that virile charm. She was captivated, helpless. She forgot all about her fiance. She woke up every morning with only one thing in mind—my husband.”

  “Did—did anything happen?” I asked, my voice a whisper.

  “I called her a silly goose. I told her to go back to her handsome young soldier and leave my husband alone. She told me that she was going to run away with Charles—they were going to the continent. I didn’t understand him—I need not go into all the details. Charles came into the room while we were arguing. Louise asked him to take her away with him. She had the foolish notion that he would throw her over his saddle and gallop away into the sunset. He didn’t. He laughed at her and took my part in the argument. Louise left the next morning. We never spoke to each other again. I knew her heart had been broken.…”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, sitting down on the sofa beside Helena. I was on the verge of tears.

  “It was my fault,” she said. “I should have handled her differently. I should have known she was an impetuous young girl, and I should have treated her like one, not like a woman. I never forgave myself, and I never forgave Charles. The love died then
, all of it. We lived in the same house and got along quite well, but our marriage was a marriage in name only from then on. I liked Charles, I was very fond of him, but I no longer loved him.”

  “It must have been dreadful,” I said.

  “Oh, no,” Helena replied. “I haven’t been unhappy. Life is too rich, too full for unhappiness. I have had this house, and I’ve had so many joys, little things, things that compensate when the big things don’t go as you would have liked. I’ve felt so bad about Louise for all of these years—I longed to make it up to her. I have you now.”

  She patted my hand and stood up, smiling brightly. Much of her old sparkle had returned, and I felt that now that the morbid business of the funeral was over she would be all right. “I shall go take off this hideous dress and burn it,” she said. “I will grieve Charles, of course I will. I will miss him—even though things were as they were. You are too young to realize this, my dear, but life must go on. We live, we suffer, we are disappointed, we grieve—but life goes on.”

  Helena was true to her word. There was no sign of mourning when she received Mr. Stephens in the drawing room the next day. She wore a dress of white linen printed with yellow daisies, and there was a yellow ribbon in her hair. She was grave and polite, but the sadness had gone out of her light blue eyes and they sparkled with interest as Mr. Stephens explained the policy and asked her questions about Charles Lloyd’s death. The sun was brilliant today. It poured through the open windows and made pools of wavering light on the pearl gray carpet, gleamed on the golden oak furniture and made a vivid sunburst on the silver pen set on the desk.

  Helena sat quietly on the sofa. A small blue bowl on the table beside her held a loose bouquet of daisies that were the same color as the ones on her dress. Norman Wade stood by the window, his hand holding back the sweeping white drapery. He listened intently to everything that was said, occasionally asking a question of his own or making a comment. He had gone over the policy thoroughly the night before and seemed to fear that something was wrong with it. He seemed nervous, a frown stamped on his brow in a deep line. I sat in the chair covered with light blue satin, the blonde Adele at my feet. Helena had insisted that I be here when she learned that I had met Mr. Stephens in London.