Master Of Falcon's Head

‘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.