Master Of Falcon's Head. Anne Mather
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She ought to be remembering the past with agreeable pleasure at the knowledge that it was past. As it was she was behaving like some moonstruck teenager, allowing her emotions to rule her brain. She should be sitting here considering Ben’s proposal in a serious light, not contemplating the lonely splendour of Falcon’s Head, and the cold arrogance of its master.
And yet, the more she thought about it, the more she became convinced that only in complete acceptance of the past could there be acceptance of the present. In spite of the bitterness she felt towards the past, it would always be there to torment her so long as she allowed it to do so.
But what solution was there? How could she escape the bitterness? Unless …
She shook her head violently. No, that was impossible!
And yet the more she thought about it, the more it became imperative that she should satisfy herself once and for all that she had changed, completely. And the only way to do that was by going back, back to Falcon’s Wherry, back to the village in Southern Ireland where she had spent the first eighteen years of her life.
She had been brought up by her grandparents. Her mother had died when she was born, and her father, a lazy, no-good Englishman, according to her grandfather, had not appeared again until much later. That he had returned for her at all had been a source of much amusement in the village. But then her grandparents were dead and there was nothing left for her in Falcon’s Wherry. Nothing at all, Tamar recalled bleakly, climbing out of the bath.
As she dried herself she panicked a little. How could she go back? In what capacity? Falcon’s Wherry got few summer visitors. It was picturesque, but that was all. There was little there – apart from Falcon’s Head, of course.
And as she thought of Falcon’s Head she knew what she must do. She must return as the artist she was, and paint Falcon’s Head again. Then she could destroy the old painting, and all the pain and heartache that went with it. That would be her holiday – a couple of months in Ireland.
But how would Ben take to that? And what was she going to tell him when he asked for his answer? How could she expect him to understand why she was going to Ireland in the first place? Particularly, as she definitely wanted to go alone to disperse the ghosts that still threatened to haunt her.
As she creamed her face later in her bedroom she wondered why she had any doubts about Ben, why she hesitated to take that initial step. If she was to go to Falcon’s Wherry how much easier it would be to go with Ben’s ring on her finger.
But she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t use him in that way. She would have to tell him that she needed this break, this trip into the past, and then she would give him her answer.
As she had expected, Ben was violently opposed to her leaving England at all.
‘If you insist on taking a holiday, at least stay near enough for me to come visit you if you won’t let me come with you,’ he begged.
‘You don’t understand, Ben,’ she said awkwardly. ‘This place was my home.’
‘But you told me yourself that your parents are dead.’
‘So they are. You know my father died only six months after I arrived here.’
‘That’s true.’ Ben had known Trevor Sheridan. Wasn’t that how he had come to know his daughter?
‘Well then!’ Tamar sighed. ‘Ben, when I left Ireland I never expected – or wanted – to go back. But somehow it intrudes—’ She sought for words to explain. ‘It’s like – well, like something larger than life. I – I’ve got to go back – to restore it in my mind to its normal proportions. Try and understand me, Ben. I must go.’
Ben looked brooding. ‘Was there a man?’ he asked huskily.
Tamar’s face suffused with colour. She pushed back the heavy swathe of golden-coloured hair from her cheeks and said:
‘Not in the way you think.’
‘What other way is there?’
Tamar swallowed hard. ‘I can’t tell you that. Let me go, then when I come back I’ll tell you the whole truth.’
Ben grunted. ‘Do I have any choice?’
‘You could finish with me here and now. I wouldn’t blame you.’
He shook his head. ‘No. Not me, Tamar.’
‘Well then?’
‘All right, go to Ireland, to this horrible little village. But remember, if you don’t come back in six weeks, I’ll come for you.’
Tamar nodded. ‘I can ring you, Ben. They do have phones.’
Ben half-smiled. ‘You amaze me! All right, ring me when you know where you’re staying. Are there hotels in Falcon’s Wherry?’
Tamar shook her head. ‘Not hotels. There’s one inn, I think it was called the Falcon’s Arms. I shall probably stay there to begin with. I may be able to hire a cottage later.’
Ben grimaced. ‘The name Falcon figures pretty strongly in this place, doesn’t it?’ he remarked dryly.
Tamar bent her head. ‘Yes. The Falcon family are the local – well, squires, I suppose you would call them.’
‘Hmn.’ Ben looked at her strangely. Her reactions to the name Falcon had not gone unnoticed. ‘Anyway, as you’re determined to go, at least allow me to see you off. Have you made any plans yet?’
‘No, not really. I thought – perhaps the end of this week.’
‘So soon?’
‘Yes. The sooner I go, the sooner I shall be back.’
‘True enough. Will you fly?’
‘Yes, I’ll fly to Shannon. Falcon’s Wherry is on the west coast. I can arrange for a hired car to meet me at the airport. I intend to have my own transport.’
‘You could take my Mini, if you like,’ Ben offered.
But Tamar shook her head. ‘No. I’ll be independent for a little while longer,’ she replied, smiling gently at him. ‘If – if I get lonely, I’ll ring you, and you can join me. Yes?’
Ben squeezed her hand tightly. ‘Yes,’ he said, with feeling.
TAMAR stayed overnight in Limerick. She had only visited the city once before and that was when she was on her way to England with her father, and it was such an attractive place that she longed to stay more than just one night. But it was no use putting off her eventual destination, and as the small Vauxhall she had hired was ready and waiting in the hotel car-park there was little point in delaying.
So the following morning she loaded her artist’s paraphernalia of easels, canvases, tubes of paint and brushes into the back of the car, along with the two cases she had brought as well, and set off.
It was a cool morning in late April, but already the hedges were burgeoning with colour, and the smell of damp grass and earth was in the air, mingling with the inescapable scent of the sea. She drove west from Limerick, sometimes following the line of the coast, and at others curving inland where the hedges were bright with fuchsias gallantly defying the icy blast of the Atlantic gales which often swept the coast at this time of the year. She had forgotten, or perhaps she had deliberately refused to acknowledge, the beauty of the island, and she felt a sense of nostalgia which overrode her natural inhibitions. Everything was so green, much greener than she remembered, while the rugged coastline was as harsh and dramatic as she could wish. Already her fingers itched to transfer some of that forbidding grandeur to canvas, and she realized that far from escaping from her profession, she was merely encouraging it. It was an artist’s paradise, and she ought to have realized it long ago.
Still,