CHAPTER THREE
TAMAR’S room in Father Donahue’s presbytery was small and unpretentious, with woven rugs on the polished floor, and an iron bedstead that was softer than it looked. There was an old-fashioned washstand with jug and bowl, and a chest of drawers bigger than any Tamar had ever seen. The wardrobe, too, was huge, but at least she was able to hang out the more crushable of her dresses.
During the afternoon, while Father Donahue went about his duties, Tamar stayed indoors, and it was not until the early evening, when she thought everyone would be at their evening meal, that she ventured out again. Dressed in a light coat over a woollen dress, she walked down to the quayside, shivering a little in the chill wind that had arisen. The stars were very bright in an almost cloudless sky, and a pale moon was rising.
Tamar walked slowly, her arms wrapped about her, holding her coat in place, her hair, which had been smooth when she left the house, tangled into disorder by the wind. And yet, for all her anxieties of the day, her re-establishment in the place of her birth, and the violent scene with Ross Falcon, she felt more relaxed than she had done for some time. There was peace in the solitude, and a sense of well-being in the shrill cries of the birds. Isolated Falcon’s Wherry might be, but it possessed something London in all its tawdry splendour could never possess – for her at least – the feeling of belonging.
The track where the jetty petered out led steeply up the cliffs to Falcon’s Head, but below the impressive façade of that fortified dwelling, there was a cottage, deserted now, falling gradually victim to the encroaching weeds and vegetation that possessed its walls and prodded into every nook and cranny. This had been her grandfather’s cottage, owned, as were all the cottages in the village, by the Falcon estate, but now neglected and left to the fierce onslaught of the elements.
Tamar did not go right up to the cottage. Her shoes were hardly suitable for the rough track, and besides, it aroused too many memories in her. She wondered why it had been left to nature, and not re-tenanted. Obviously, from its appearance, it had never been used since her grandfather died and she left.
She turned back, stumbling a little in her haste, always conscious of the lights from the house on the headland. She wondered if Ross was there now, and if so, what he was doing. Virginia would be there, of course, and their child, whatever it had turned out to be. She must ask Father Donahue about the child. Surely that did not constitute curiosity? Father Donahue was loath to discuss the Falcons with her, and while she knew she could have the gossip in O’Connor’s hotel, or the Wherry tavern, she had no desire to hear about the Falcons from anyone else.
As she walked back along the quay, she wondered about Ross’s mother, too. She must be quite old now, in her seventies at least – old Bridget Falcon, the most arrogant Falcon of them all. Her eyes softened as she thought of the way her grandfather had always stood up to Bridget Falcon. He had not been afraid of her, as most of the villagers had been.
She turned back into the curving street that led towards Father Donahue’s house, and almost jumped out of her skin when a voice said: ‘Hello, Tamar,’ close to her ear. In the gloom she had not seen anyone nearby, but now she could make out a man’s silhouette. As she stared at him, she felt a wave of apprehension assail her, and then suddenly she recognized him.
‘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
