Falconridge Page 9

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, how do we get you away from here.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

  “You don’t? Then I’ll explain. Falconridge is no place for a young woman, Miss Moore, particularly a headstrong young woman like you. It is big and dark and brooding. It’s isolated. Falconridge is a place for the losers in life. It’s no place for youth.”

  “You want me to leave?” I asked.

  “I never wanted you to come in the first place.”

  “Evidently my aunt did.”

  “Helena is a marvelous person, and I adore her, but she’s very foolish at times, very foolish indeed. She lives in her own little world. She has drawn a self-protective shell around her. Nothing can penetrate it. I admire her for that. For her, that is the best way. She is blind to anything that does not fit into her self-imposed routine. When the letter arrived from London, I tried to keep her from sending for you. I told her you would not fit in at Falconridge.”

  “But she sent for me just the same.”

  “Yes. She felt it was her duty. She wanted to help you. She wanted a companion. I told her it would be better to send enough money for you to continue on at the school, but that wouldn’t do.”

  “So now I’m here, Mr. Wade. There isn’t much you can do about it.”

  “Perhaps not,” he said. “I can try to make you see things clearly. I can try to talk some sense into you.”

  “Why don’t you want me here?” I asked bluntly.

  “Why? Because—because you don’t belong. You will not be happy. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  “Hurt?”

  “Miss Moore, I have some money. I am willing to pay your expenses through the rest of the school year. You can go back and join all your friends. I will see that you are nicely provided for. I have some connections in London. I will see that you find some kind of suitable employment when you graduate. How does that sound to you?”

  “It sounds perfectly loathsome, Mr. Wade. I have no intentions of leaving Falconridge. I have a right to be here. I am not going to leave just to satisfy your—your greed.”

  “Greed?” he said, surprised.

  “Surely that’s why you want me to go. You are going to inherit Falconridge. You are the sole heir. You are afraid I might take something away from you. You might not get everything. Helena might leave me her jewels or some other valuables. I can see through your little scheme.”

  “Is that what you think this is all about?” he asked.

  “That’s exactly what I think!”

  “You poor child.”

  “I am eighteen years old.”

  “Terribly young, terribly vulnerable.…”

  “I can take care of myself, Mr. Wade.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said.

  “I certainly don’t need anything from you.”

  “You don’t think much of me, do you?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid I don’t, Mr. Wade. Now if you will excuse me.…”

  I started to walk past him. He reached out and took my arm. I tried to pull away, but his strong fingers gripped me firmly. He looked down into my eyes. His face was dark with anger, and for a moment I thought he was going to strike me. Then he shook his head, slowly, his mouth turned down.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, releasing me. “This has all been for your own good. You’ll understand that some day.”

  “I think I understand perfectly,” I retorted.

  “No, Lauren, you don’t. Until you do.…”

  “Until then I will stay out of your way, Mr. Wade,” I snapped. “I shall try to keep my presence here from being a hardship to you. You do not need to worry about me.”

  “I only wish that were true,” he said quietly.

  He laid his hands on my shoulders, and he looked into my eyes, his head tilted a little to one side. There was a smile on his lips but his eyes were pensive. He seemed to be reflecting on something, thinking about another time, another girl perhaps. The moonlight fell across his face, sculpting it in silver. I stood rigidly, filled with anger, but I felt something else, too, something that I did not want to examine too closely.

  “Too bad,” he said quietly. “Another time—under other circumstances, we could have—perhaps.…” He cut himself short, and his eyes grew darker. “If I let myself,” he said, “I could.…”

  “You could do what?”

  “This.…” he replied softly.

  He bent down and kissed my lips. His own were firm and hard, pressing against mine, and his arms wrapped around me, drawing me to him. I was lost to sensation for a moment. There was nothing but those lips on mine, probing urgently, and those strong arms holding me against him. He released me abruptly. I almost fell. He held my arm, supporting me. I felt weak, too weak to strike out at him.

  “Why?” I whispered. “Why did you do that?”

  “You don’t know? You really don’t know?”

  I shook my head. My lower lip quivered.

  “Little girls should be kept in school. They should be kept away from great big men. Little girls should do embroidery and paint water colors and read proper novels. They should be kept locked up.…”

  His voice was cold, hard. I looked up at his face. It was lined with anger, the eyes dark, the lips turned down. It terrified me, and at the same time it was fascinating. I wanted to rake my nails across that face, and I wanted to reach up and stroke it gently.

  “I would be so easy,” he said.

  “What would be?”

  “I am a gentleman. I won’t discuss it.”

  “Why did you kiss me?” I asked, my voice calmer now.

  “Run away, little girl,” he retorted. “Run away, before you find out.”

  “Before I find out what?”

  “That little girls can get hurt—so easily.”

  “You.…”

  “Go!” he shouted.

  I went past him and hurried up the steps to the courtyard. The wind was stronger now. The limbs of the trees creaked and groaned. Far below the waves crashed against the rocks. I stood in the courtyard, looking up at the huge old house. The wind tore at my skirts, whipping them violently about my legs. Falconridge was very still. The windows were like dark eyes, watching me. The house seemed to be waiting to swallow me up. I caught my breath, thinking of what Norman Wade had done. He had wanted to frighten me, just like Martha Victor. They wanted me to leave. I did not know why, but I intended to find out. They were both going to find that I had a will of my own. I was here at Falconridge, and nothing was going to drive me away.

  VII

  THE NEXT TWO WEEKS passed very quickly. Helena and I went to see Lavinia Graystone about new dresses for me, and we were soon caught up in a flurry of activity. We spent hour after hour choosing materials, deciding on patterns, leafing through all the fashion magazines to see what would be most flattering. There were many trips to and from Dower House. Lavinia was charming and very patient, but I felt that she was a little awed by Helena. She was reserved and a little distant when talking with my aunt, always polite, always respectful, yet never speaking unless she was first spoken to. She was far more relaxed and natural on the occasions when I went to Dower House alone.

  In addition to all the dress making activity, Helena was going ahead with her plans for the party. The servants were in the process of a full scale cleaning job. Windows were washed until they glittered, floors were waxed until they shone with a golden brown sheen, rugs were dusted, furniture was taken outside and revarnished. A troop of men had come in to touch up the gilding on the walls and ceiling of the ballroom. It was a gorgeous room with ivory walls and a sky blue ceiling, both adorned with a profusion of gilt swirls and leaves and flowers. Now it was a swarm of men and paint buckets and cloths and ladders, with Helena in the middle, giving orders, making threats, shouting, smoking too many cigarettes. I had to use much persuasion to keep her from scrambling up a ladder and doing the job herself.<
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  When she was not bothering the workmen or harrying the servants, she was stationed in the front parlor where she sat at the tiny rose wood desk making out invitations on cream colored stationery and compiling endless lists of things that must be done before the big night. I was afraid so much activity would tire her, but she scoffed at the idea. It was good for her, she claimed. She had never felt better. Indeed, she seemed to thrive on the work. Her blue eyes sparkled and her step was light as she flew from one part of the house to another, always chattering and ordering people about. Lucy told me that the Mistress had not looked so well in months.

  My uncle kept out of the way as best he could. He went riding every day and when he was at home he kept himself closed up in the library with a pile of leather bound ledgers, going over accounts and adding figures. In the few occasions when I saw him, he was grim and unpleasant, preoccupied with serious matters. Once I almost collided with him on the stairs. He caught me by the arm to keep us both from falling, and then he looked at me for a long time, holding my arm, not saying a word. Then he told me I must be careful of accidents, as he wouldn’t want anything to happen to me. I laughed pleasantly, but Charles Lloyd did not even smile. He went on down the stairs, slapping the side of his leg with his riding crop. I tried to avoid him as much as possible.

  I saw Norman Wade only once. He got up early every morning and rode out to inspect the tenant farms, coming in after sundown. He no longer took the evening meal with us, claiming he was too tired to dress for it. He would prefer a simple meal in his lodgings over the carriage house, he said, until he was finished with his tours of inspection. I suspected the real reason had to do with me. He did not want to sit face to face with me every evening and be forced to make polite conversation. I was glad he had excused himself. The ordeal would have been as bad for me as for him. I dreaded the evening meal as it was, for my uncle sat with a frown most of the time, speaking gruffly if at all.

  One afternoon I went to the courtyard to watch the sun set. I had had a day full of fittings, and after that I had helped Helena select the menu for the night of the party. I was very tired, and it was relaxing to watch the dark golden streamers of sunlight dissolving slowly into a dark blue sky. The sea made a gentle, whispering sound as it washed up on the shore, and the air was very still. All three spaniels were with me. They scampered about, sniffing at the hedges and playing with one another. I was lost in thought when I heard footsteps on the flagstone. The dogs began to bark happily, and I turned around to see them rushing to greet Norman Wade.

  He was evidently just coming in from the fields. His boots and his tight brown pants were covered with dust and his white linen shirt was soiled with perspiration. He knelt down to fondle the dogs. His face was tanned from being out in the sun every day, the dark skin making a startling contrast with the vivid blue eyes. The dogs clamored about him, vieing for his attention. He looked up at me, still petting the dogs. Then he stood up, throwing his shoulders back. He seemed exhausted, and I knew he really had been working hard.

  “Good afternoon, Lauren,” he said. He smiled. The smile seemed sincere. “How have you been?” His voice was pleasant.

  “Just fine,” I said, my own voice cold and haughty.

  “Still mad?”

  “Not at all,” I replied.

  “Then you are cold by nature, not by choice,” he said, laughing to himself.

  He made a little bow and went on up the steps to his lodgings. I was sorry I had spoken so harshly, and I wished I had not been wearing my oldest dress. I stayed there in the courtyard until the last streak of gold faded away and the sky grew misty purple. When I went inside, the crickets had begun to chirp under the stones and I was chiding myself for weakening in my attitude towards the man. I must be on my guard against his charm. I knew to succumb to it would mean trouble for me. He was a scoundrel, I told myself, regardless of how handsome he might be, and I must never forget that.

  Martha Victor was civil whenever I happened to see her. She spent most of her time in the servants’ quarters, overseeing their duties. She nodded to me when I passed her in the hall, but I could still feel her animosity. Once or twice I caught her staring at me but when I looked up she averted her eyes quickly, pretending to examine a spot of dust or a crack in the woodwork. Helena assured me that Martha was nasty to everyone but the Master of Falconridge and just laughed when I told her I thought the housekeeper didn’t like me.

  If Martha was unfriendly, Lucy made up for it. She was like a merry little magpie, coming into my room every morning to wake me up and chatter. She kept my things in perfect order and would have waited on me hand and foot had I allowed it. She gossiped blithely, and I soon knew everything about the servants’ private lives and the habits of half the county. Lucy had a vivid imagination, and I discounted most of what she said. One morning she told me she had seen someone in a black cloak moving across the front lawn, leaving the house, and when I told her it must have been a shadow, she swore it was a mysterious figure and that she had not been able to sleep for the rest of the night. I laughed at her, giving her a new blue ribbon for her long blonde hair.

  I had grown accustomed to the noises in the night at Falconridge. I could identify the shutters flapping, the creaks in the floorboard, the wind coming down the chimneys, the branches scratching against the windows. For a while I had lain awake nervously, listening intently to all the strange sounds, my imagination summoning up all sorts of fantasies, but after a few nights I no longer paid any attention to them. After spending the days trying to keep up with Helena’s pace, I was generally much too tired to do anything but climb in bed and go to sleep.

  I was making preparations to go to the village one morning two weeks after I had talked with Norman Wade in the gardens. Lavinia needed some thread and lining material, and Helena had a whole list of little things she needed. I wanted to go myself rather than send one of the servants, as I had never been to the village before and would enjoy the outing. I would drive the light phaeton with the gentle dappled gray horse, and it would be pleasant.

  Eager to be gone, I hurried downstairs to find Helena. I wore one of the dresses Lavinia had already finished—a rustling white silk with tiny blue and pink print flowers. It had puffed sleeves and a very full skirt that billowed as I darted down the hall and into the living room. Helena was at her desk, sorting through piles of paper. She looked irritated about something, a frown on her face. She took an angry puff on her cigarette and looked up at me with snapping blue eyes.

  “Oh dear, I’ve lost the list,” she exclaimed. “I had it here or at least I thought I did! Have you seen it, Lauren?”

  “No, Helena. Are you sure…?”

  “I may have left it in the library,” she said. “I went in there to get a new pen. Would you be a dear and run look? It would be somewhere about the desk, probably, if it’s there at all.”

  I smiled at her irritation and went down the hall to the library. It was one of my favorite rooms. The shelves were varnished golden oak, and they contained thousands of books, all of them in uniform sets of orange and brown and burnt gold leather, their bindings gleaming. The carpet of dark gray, the huge fireplace of gray marble, and the comfortable sofa and chairs of brown leather gave it an informal, relaxed atmosphere. I could smell the pleasant aromas of toabacco and leather and paste and the musty smell of old paper. My uncle’s desk sat in a corner, piled with papers and ledgers and a tray full of cigar butts. He had forbidden the servants to touch his desk, which explained the disorder.

  I looked through the papers, but I could not find Helena’s list. I moved the ledgers and looked under them, trying to put everything back as it had been as I knew my uncle would be furious if he thought someone had been prowling about his desk. I opened the top drawer to see if Helena had accidently dropped the list there when she got the pen. I moved some papers, and then I saw the curious scratch pad. I took it out, examining it.

  My uncle had written his name several times in his strong, fo
rceful handwriting, shaping the letters boldly. Then he had written the name Andrew Graystone and crossed it out. Below this there were a few illegible scribbles and marks, the kind a man will make when he is thinking, and then he had written his own name over again several times in an awkward, almost illiterate scrawl, deliberately making the handwriting poor and messy. I held the sheet up, puzzled by it, wondering what he had been thinking about when he had made these scrawls.

  I was startled when the door opened. I dropped the sheet back into the drawer hastily and turned around. Martha Victor was standing just inside the room, her large face expressing disapproval. I do not know why I should have felt guilty, but I did as she stared at me with those sullen black eyes. She moved towards me slowly.

  “You know your uncle doesn’t allow anyone to fool about his desk, Miss Moore,” she said.

  “I was looking for my aunt’s shopping list. She said she may have left it here.” I felt exactly like a child who has been caught in some small misdemeanor, and I was irritated with myself for the feeling.

  Martha Victor was standing beside me now. She had an unpleasant odor, some sharp, sour smell which probably came from the ointment she used on her iron gray hair. She looked down and saw the opened drawer, with the scratch pad on top. After rearranging the papers in the drawer, she closed it. And then sorted through the things on top of the desk, pulling out Helena’s list. It had been stuck in one of the ledgers, and I hadn’t seen it.

  “Is this what you were looking for?” she asked primly.

  “Thank you,” I said, taking it from her.

  “You uncle will be very displeased if he finds out that you were going through his things, Miss Moore. Very displeased.”

  “Do you intend to tell him?” I asked.

  “Not this time,” she replied, her voice low.

  I left the library, turning at the door to glance back at the woman. She was standing at the desk, her face hard. She seemed angry as though she had caught me doing something criminal. I closed the door behind me, trying to rid myself of the sensation of guilt.