Falconridge Read online

  It must have all been a joke, I thought, a cruel, malicious joke. Perhaps my aunt hadn’t really written the letter; perhaps my uncle wasn’t coming at all. I was stranded, with no place to go. I had never felt so desolate in all my life.

  Mary came back with a cup of tea and some little cakes on a plate. I sipped the tea slowly and stared at the cakes without interest. My stomach fluttered nervously, but I could not eat. I set the cup and plate aside and listened to the noise of the servants at their work. I looked out at the street, my heart palpitating every time a carriage passed.

  I thought about my mother. She had loved me in her way, but I had never really been a part of her life. Hers was a glamorous existence and she had moved in a bright, glittering swirl of activity. I was shut out, provided for nicely but shut out just the same. I remembered the luxury of earlier years, when I had had the finest clothes, and the best teachers. The quality gradually decreased, blue velvet smocks giving way to sensible cotton dresses, the vivacious French governesses giving way to brusque stern women to whom I was merely a charge. It had been a stroke of luck to be entered in Mrs. Siddons’ school, but even here I had always felt a little out of place. The other girls were rich, and pampered, receiving a generous allowance, while I barely got enough for necessities. I had not ever resented it. I had merely accepted it as part of life.

  It seemed that all my life had been gradually moving toward this day, this point in my life, this moment of desolation. One event after another paved the way, and now I sat here, intolerably alone, waiting for the arrival of a man I had never seen, doubting that he would come at all. I closed my eyes, fighting self-pity, knowing it would defeat me if I let it take hold.

  I must have fallen asleep, for my head nodded violently and I opened my eyes with a start. A carriage was stopping in front of the school and the noise of wheels grinding on the cobbles had awakened me. I stood up, my throat suddenly dry. The carriage door opened and a man got out, pulling on a pair of soft kid gloves. He looked up at the school and hesitated a moment. Then he began to walk briskly towards the door.

  Charles Lloyd had arrived after all.

  III

  HE WAS A tall man, heavy set, with a thick neck and powerful shoulders, and he carried himself with assurance and the suggestion of a swapper. He had dark blond hair, very thick and graying slightly at the temples. His dark brown eyes were almost black, the kind of eyes that could intimidate anyone, and his brows were thick, arched heavily over drooping lids. He had a Roman nose, large and distinguished, and his mouth was thin, the lips turned down at one corner. He was a man born to command and one who accepted his right to rule without question.

  “You are Lauren Moore?” he asked abruptly.

  I nodded, frightened by his manner.

  “I am Charles Lloyd. Is that your trunk?”

  “Yes—Mr. Lloyd.”

  “Very well then. We will leave. I have reservations at the hotel. Is there anything you need to do first, anyone you need to speak to?”

  “No.”

  “Come along then,” he said brusquely. He had a rich powerful voice with a strong gutteral quality. It was like the man, extremely masculine, extremely commanding.

  I followed him meekly out to the carriage. He was dressed elegantly in a dark gray tail coat and pants, with glossy black riding boots that came up almost to his knees. He wore a rich blue satin vest and an expensive gray Ascot with a garnet stick pin. The clothes showed considerable taste and a certain fastidiousness.

  Charles Lloyd took my hand to help me into the carriage. He looked directly into my eyes, his mouth tight. It was obvious that he did not relish this duty at all, and I was made painfully aware of my position. I was a poor relation, someone dependent on the charity of others, and I was really not related to this man at all. He had married my mother’s sister, so there were no blood ties, only those of law.

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  “Eighteen.”

  “You look older.”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  “It was a statement of fact.”

  He stood impatiently while the coachman got my trunk. Mary came out of the school, shading her eyes with her hand, peering at the carriage. I waved at her, and she nodded her head happily, relieved that someone had finally come for me. Charles Lloyd climbed into the carriage and we were on our way. He stared at me, quite openly, not trying to hide it. I had never met anyone so rude.

  “Is there something wrong with me?” I asked.

  “You are like your mother. The coloring is completely different, of course, but the features are the same.”

  “Did you know her, Mr. Lloyd?”

  “At one time—briefly.”

  He leaned forward, his hands on his knees, rocking his body easily with the movement of the carriage. The cobbles were rough, and we were joggled unpleasantly. Charles Lloyd smelled strongly of leather and of perspiration and some strong male lotion. He still stared at me, but he seemed to be preoccupied with something, and I sensed that he was not really seeing me now.

  “I am sorry about this,” I said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I am sorry to be a bother to you.”

  “You are my wife’s niece. There was nothing else to do.”

  “I hope I won’t have to impose on you for long.”

  “Oh?” he said, arching a brow.

  “I trust I’ll be able to find some kind of employment.”

  “Don’t prattle,” he said sternly. “It’s a most unpleasant quality in young women. They feel called upon to fill every moment with words.”

  I sat back, firmly put down. My cheeks were burning with humiliation, and I looked out the window, wishing that I could be anywhere in the world besides in this carriage with this insufferable man. It was not going to be pleasant, I thought.

  “I suppose you’ll want lunch?” he asked.

  “No, thank you. I had something at school.”

  “Fine. Then we’ll go directly to our rooms.”

  “Are we leaving for Cornwall tonight?”

  “I have business in the city tomorrow. We’ll leave after that.”

  “Very well,” I said.

  The hotel was not one of the elite, but it was elegant nevertheless. Charles Lloyd gripped my elbow and ushered me across a wide sweep of dark red carpet and up a curving staircase with mahogany banisters. He took a key and opened a door on the second floor, showing me into my room. It was very pleasant, with dark gray carpets and green velvet drapes at the windows. The furniture was heavy fumed oak, a green velvet spread on the bed, and there was a pitcher and bowl of white porcelain adorned with tiny pink roses.

  “It’s very nice,” I said.

  He ignored my comment. “I will see to your trunk. I have an appointment at two. I will call on you when I get back.”

  He left, closing the door behind him. I was incredibly weary, and my head ached. I stood at the mirror, rubbing my temples with my fingertips. A man servant brought my trunk and I took a coin out of my purse to tip him with. I wondered what kind of appointment Charles Lloyd had. He was probably a man of affairs. He certainly seemed to know London well. I supposed it had something to do with Falconridge.

  I rested fitfully for a while, trying to compose my thoughts. I was sitting at the mirror, brushing my hair, when Charles Lloyd returned. He still had that preoccupied look. He stood with his hands on his hips, his head held a little to one side, a frown creasing his brow.

  “Is that your best dress?” he asked.

  I was still wearing my dark green taffeta.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “You have nothing more—stylish?”

  “I haven’t much need for stylish frocks.”

  He stood there examining me, pressing his lips tightly together. “It won’t do,” he said after a while. “We’ll have to buy you something more fitting. We’re going to the Burmese tonight. There may be people I know there. Come along, we’ll go to the sho
ps.”

  “I can’t let you buy me a dress,” I protested.

  Charles Lloyd smiled grimly. “You have no voice in the matter,” he said. “You will do as I say. If you will remember that, it will save us a lot of time and trouble in the future. Now hurry up, the afternoon is half over already.”

  We went to a very expensive fashion salon. A woman in black silk met us at the door and seated us in elegant gilt chairs before a tiny stage. I marvelled at the lush gold carpets, the cream colored satin draperies, the exquisite crystal chandelier. Charles Lloyd sat back, entirely at ease. I wondered if he had been here before and, if so, upon what occasion. He had come here directly, without making any inquiries.

  “What do you wish to see?” the woman in black asked. She was middle aged, with enormous brown eyes and silver gray hair arranged in coils on top of her head. She spoke in a cultured voice, her manner patronizing. My uncle lounged in the chair, not at all intimidated.

  “Something grand,” he told her.

  “For this young lady?”

  He nodded. The woman examined me carefully, pursing her lips as if trying to visualize a dress that would suit me. Then she clapped her hands and a servant appeared. They talked quietly for a few moments, pausing to glance at me. Then the servant left, and in a few minutes a woman walked across the stage, wearing a lovely gown, pink and girlish.

  “It’s the very latest thing,” the woman in black assured my uncle.

  “The color is wrong,” he said, “and the dress isn’t sophisticated.”

  “I think it’s beautiful,” I remarked.

  He ignored me. “Something else,” he said.

  The model came out four different times, but none of the dresses had the right flair to suit Charles Lloyd. I thought them all lovely, but he had made it clear that I had nothing to say about the matter. Finally, he chose a dress of honey colored satin, lavishly trimmed with black fox fur about the bodice and hem. He nodded his approval.

  “It’s a little grown up for the young lady,” the woman informed him.

  “I think not. We’ll take it. Is there a matching cloak?”

  “Yes. When would you like it delivered?”

  “Now.”

  “But—I’m sorry. It will take two weeks at least to make it up for the young lady. This is only a model. We never sell—”

  My uncle smiled, He became very charming, telling the woman that we would be in London for only two days and that I had set my heart on a gown from this establishment. The model wearing the dress was about my size. A few quick alterations—I saw the woman melt under the power of his charm, and I realized that Charles Lloyd had quite a way with women. He could do anything he wished with them merely by exercising his powerful magnetism. I wondered if he had always been faithful to my Aunt Helena. He must be over fifty, but even I could see he still had a quality that would prove irresistible to most women.

  We left the shop an hour later with the dress and cloak in a long flat box. I wondered why he had gone to all the trouble and expense to buy the dress for me. It was certainly not out of consideration for me. My uncle was a vain man, I had already noted that, and it would be part of his vanity to want the woman who accompanied him for an evening on the town to be as attractive as possible.

  I was rather excited that evening, waiting for him in my hotel room. I had never worn such a lovely gown before. The thick honey colored satin and soft black fur heightened my coloring, and I felt truly beautiful for once. The gown was cut rather low to suit my taste, but it certainly showed off my shoulders to advantage. I had never gone to an expensive restaurant with a man before, and it was going to be a satisfying experience, even if the man was as destable as Charles Lloyd.

  When he came into the room, secretly I had to admire him. He might not be the escort a young woman would wish but he was certainly a handsome one. His black pumps were polished to a glossy sheen, his black trousers sleek, black satin lapels on the elegant jacket. He wore a gleaming white shirt, a white silk tie, and there was a red carnation in his button hole. As he came in he swirled the folds of a black cloak with a heavy white silk lining about his enormous shoulders. With top hat and cane, he presented the perfect picture of an affluent aristocrat.

  He was silent in the carriage. He had passed judgment on me back in the room, his eyes sweeping over me and showing their satisfaction. It was quite plain that I was an ornamental accessory for the evening, not a companion. Looking out the window and seeing the lights of the city burning mistily through swirls of fog, I was content to keep silent. I wondered what he was thinking about as he sat there, his arms folded on his chest. About the distastefulness of taking on the responsibility of a niece he had never seen until today? About the splendors of London after spending months in relative isolation on the coast of Cornwall? About the business he was attending to while he was here?

  The restaurant was even more elegant than I had imagined it would be. We entered through a colonnade of white marble and stepped into a room that was all white and gold. The carpet was golden, the walls pale white, the heavy draperies a stiff gold cloth that glittered in the light from half a dozen chandeliers that dripped crystal pendants. Music was coming from a recess hidden behind tall green plants, and stunningly dressed people sat at tables laden with exquisite china and silver. There was the gentle hush of subdued voices, the pleasant tinkle of glass, the pop of corks and the fizzle of champagne being poured. Several heads turned as we entered, and I felt regal as I stood waiting while my uncle checked our cloaks.

  A waiter showed us to a table and handed my uncle a wine list. I was far too impressed to speak, and I listened quietly as he chose an appropriate wine and ordered our meal. A man across the room nodded to my uncle, and after saying something to the woman he was with, he rose and came over to us.

  “Ah, I see we meet again today, Mr. Lloyd. What a nice surprise. And who is this charming young woman?”

  “My niece, Lauren Moore.”

  Charles Lloyd introduced me to the man, a Mr. Stephens, who managed an insurance firm he had been to that afternoon.

  “Charming,” Mr. Stephens said. “Is this how they grow them in Cornwall?”

  “Miss Moore had been going to school in London. I am taking her back to Falconridge with me.”

  “I am sure Cornwall will be fortunate to gain what London must lose. A lovely young woman like your niece must grace any part of the country she is in.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Stephens,” I said. I am afraid I blushed slightly. He gave me a little bow, quite pleased with himself.

  “Has any decision been made on the policy?” Charles Lloyd asked. His voice casual, his manner relaxed, yet I could tell that the question was an important one to him.

  “Ah—” Mr. Stephens said, spreading out his well groomed hands. “I think we can safely say so. Yes, we can say so. It’s a big policy, and I must say there was some hesitation about it, but I am sure any man who is taking such a lovely young niece back to Cornwall with him must be planning on a long and active life.”

  “The policy is a precaution, merely a precaution,” Charles Lloyd said. “Falconridge isn’t what it used to be, and I want to make sure that Helena is provided for in the event.…”

  “Of course, of course,” Mr. Stephens interjected. “Well, Lloyd, I just wanted to pop over and meet the young lady. The paper will be ready for you to sign in the morning.”

  “Fine, Stephens. I’ll be in your office at ten.”

  Mr. Stephens left, and my uncle sat with his chin resting on his fist. He looked very pleased with himself, as though he had just accomplished a business coup, and it suddenly dawned on me that meeting Mr. Stephens here had been no accident. Stephens must have mentioned that he was coming, and that had been when my uncle decided to come too. There had evidently been some doubt about the policy my uncle wanted to take out, and here in this condusive atmosphere Stephens had decided to pass his approval on it. It was obvious, even to me, that he had decided to grant the polic
y only a few moment ago, while he was standing at our table.

  That was the reason for the dress. That was the reason my uncle had brought me here. It had been carefully arranged. He must have known Mr. Stephens was susceptible to attractive young women. I was just a prop, and my uncle had had no scruples in using me as such. He was the kind of man who would stop at nothing to get his way.

  “What kind of policy were you talking about?” I asked.

  “Just life insurance,” my uncle replied. “Nothing you need bother your pretty head about.”

  “Life insurance?”

  “I am fifty two years old,” he said, “and in my prime, but one never knows—ah, here is the wine. Let me pour some for you, my dear. It is beautifully chilled.”

  He twirled the slender bottle around in its bucket of ice and took the gold foil off the top. He removed the cork expertly and poured the sparkling beverage into our glasses. I sipped it slowly, feeling the tiny bubbles tickling my nose. My uncle was smiling to himself, drumming his fingers gently on the edge of the table and drinking the wine with a great deal of savor.

  I noticed the strange ring on his finger for the first time. It was black onyx, carved in the shape of a falcon, set in silver, an old and very unusual piece of jewelry. I asked him about it.

  “It’s a family piece,” he said, “an heirloom of sorts. It’s been worn by the master of Falconridge each succeeding generation. It was made to order for the first master, the man who built the place three hundred years ago.”

  “Your son will wear it after you?”

  He smiled tightly. “I have no son. The ring will be passed on to my nephew, Norman Wade.”

  “Norman Wade?”

  “My sister’s son. I suppose that would make him your cousin by marriage. He will inherit Falconridge after I die.”

  “Does he live there?”

  “He has had lodgings over the carriage house ever since he came to us eight years ago, when both his parents died in a boating accident, but he hasn’t made much use of them until recently. He was out of the country awhile, pursuing some highly improbable money making schemes in Europe and other parts of the world. He’s back now, a rather surly fellow. I have turned most of the duties of running Falconridge over to him.”