Master Of Falcon's Head

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ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the publishing industry, having written over one hundred and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful, passionate writing has given.

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I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is [e-mail] and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Master of Falcon’s Head

Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

TAMAR SHERIDAN walked slowly along the gallery, pausing now and then to study a picture with critical eyes. Deserted now, apart from a solitary cleaner, the lights dimmed, it was rather a melancholy place.

Another depth of feeling, another facet of emotional experience, another dimension, thought Tamar, amused by such dramatic inconsequence. She was allowing her imagination free rein because the exhibition was over, and although many of the pictures bore the satisfactory Sold tag, she felt rather melancholy herself because never again would she experience the thrill and achievement of a first exhibition.

She came back along the gallery. She could see Ben in the small glass office talking to Joseph Bernstein. They were both smoking cigars, and feeling very pleased with themselves, and Tamar allowed herself a faint smile in their direction. It was good, she supposed, to find yourself an overnight success, and yet in all achievement there was an element of disappointment. As though the achievement was in itself an anti-climax. She sighed. It was as well that she had the party this evening. She was in a mood for self-depression, a mood she determinedly shrugged away.

But near the end of the gallery, she halted beside the only painting that bore a Not for Sale notice. It was not one of her best – Tamar recognized this now. The brushwork was too harsh, the colours too insipid; and yet she would never sell it. Its subject prevented her from doing that. The pale oils gave the impression of mist and rain, an impression heightened by her own experiences. She felt derisive. Who would ever imagine that this amateurish attempt to transfer to canvas the splendid magnificence of Falcon’s Head represented the whole empty isolation of her life?

She turned away abruptly, unable to look long at the picture without recalling vividly the bitter intensity of youth. Was it really only seven years since she had left Falcon’s Wherry? Was it really only seven years since she had been that impressionable eighteen-year-old, with a wild imagination and a talent for trouble? So much had happened since then, so many experiences had overridden the pain and humiliation she had once suffered. She was no longer impressionable, she was no longer an irresponsible girl, she was a woman, mature and dedicated to her career.

Why then did she keep the painting? Why did she cling to it, persisting in tormenting herself this way? If she was as sophisticated and mature as she imagined herself to be, why did she not cast the painting aside?

Because, she told herself fiercely, so long as I have that painting, I will not forget that once I made a terrible mistake, and only my talent, my painting, saved me from utter humiliation!

‘Penny for them!’

She almost jumped out of her skin, so absorbed with her thoughts had she been.

‘Oh, Ben!’ she exclaimed, regaining her composure. ‘You startled me!’

‘Obviously.’ He smiled warmly down at her, then transferred his gaze to the painting. ‘What is it, Tamar? What is it about this old oils that disturbs you so?’

Tamar turned her back on the painting deliberately. ‘There’s nothing about it, Ben,’ she denied smoothly. ‘I was merely comparing my work now with my earlier attempts. Terrible, isn’t it?’ She infused just the right amount of careless amusement into her voice, and Ben was distracted from his trend of questions. Even so, he said:

‘Well, why do you keep it, then?’

Tamar shrugged. ‘Maybe to remind myself of my humble beginnings,’ she replied lightly. ‘What were you and Mr. Bernstein talking about?’

Ben gave up his questions altogether, and fell into step beside her as they walked towards the office.

‘He’s enormously pleased with your success, of course,’ he said, grinning. ‘And incidentally his own, naturally.’

‘Naturally,’ said Tamar dryly, looking up at Ben with wide interested eyes.

‘He wants to give another exhibition for you in the autumn,’ went on Ben. ‘Do you think you could be ready by then?’

Now Tamar hesitated. Things seemed to be moving too fast suddenly. ‘Oh, I don’t know, Ben,’ she began. ‘I – I need a rest.’

‘What! At your age?’ Ben laughed.

‘Seriously though, I had thought of taking a holiday.’

‘Good, good. I’ll come with you. We’ll take your equipment, and all summer long you can paint to your heart’s content.’

‘No!’ Tamar’s voice was just slightly sharp. Then she squeezed his arm. ‘Please, Ben, don’t rush me. I need time to think. I don’t seem to have had a minute to myself for the last three weeks. You’re going much too fast for me. Slow down!’

Ben sighed. ‘With this game you have to strike while the iron is hot. Just now the public are going for Tamar Sheridan’s work. Do you want some other would-be artist to steal your thunder?’

Tamar shrugged. ‘Is that possible?’

‘Honey, in this game everything is possible!’ muttered Ben darkly. ‘Anyway, don’t give old Joseph heart failure. Tell him you’ll think about his proposition – for my sake!’

Tamar looked at him. ‘All right, Ben,’ she said resignedly, and preceded him into the cigar-laden atmosphere of the cubicle.

Joseph Bernstein was in his late fifties, and well known for his active assistance to young artists. Not that his motives were purely altruistic, but Tamar liked him, and trusted his judgment. Of course, he was a friend of Ben’s, and it was to Ben that she owed everything.

‘Well, Tamar,’ said Bernstein, smiling. ‘Has Ben told you our little proposition?’

‘Yes, Mr. Bernstein, he’s told me,’ Tamar nodded.

‘Good, good. I want you to keep on the ball while it is rolling, yes? You have had a very successful exhibition, Tamar. This is not always usual for a first attempt. But I think the public are going more for the straight approach again, and your paintings have a certain – how shall I put it? – charm, earthiness? No – a simplicity of line that is wholly appealing. For a girl of your age you are remarkably talented. You have experience in your paintings, as though, like the famous painters of the past, you had suffered.’

Tamar felt a faint colour invade her cheeks. Mr. Bernstein was astute as well as trustworthy.

‘I’m grateful for your help, of course,’ she began, only to find Ben’s eyes upon her, pleading with her. ‘I – I want to do what you ask – I can try – but I—’

Thankfully she had to go no further. Bernstein interrupted her. ‘Of course, of course, Tamar. We’re rushing you. The true artist does not care to be rushed. I can see this – I can feel it. You’re tired – I understand this. You need time – time to assimilate your position, to discover your real desires. It is Ben. He is the instigator of my thoughtlessness. Forgive me!’

Tamar glanced helplessly at Ben, who half-smiled. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said, shrugging. ‘I know – I’m neither artist nor patron. Come on, Tamar, we’ll go find a bar and have a drink. Will you join us, Joe?’

Bernstein shook his head. ‘No, thank you, Ben. Your discovery is sick of the talk. Talk to her of more interesting things. Surely you don’t need me to tell you what these things might be.’

Ben grinned. ‘No, indeed. Coming, Tamar?’

Outside, a light drizzle was falling, and the lights from the street lamps cast pools of water in strange shapes and colours. London by night, thought Tamar. How many artists had attempted that particular subject? Then she thrust all thoughts of art out of her mind, concentrating on avoiding the pools of water, and keeping up with Ben’s giant strides, as he made his way to where his car was parked.

Inside the huge Aston-Martin, he turned to her, sliding his arm along the back of her seat possessively. ‘Oh, Tamar,’ he murmured softly, ‘I love you.’

His lips sought hers, gently and swiftly, and then he started the powerful automobile. He expected no answer and got none. Tamar shivered a little. Ben’s emotions disturbed her. Why did she not respond to them? Was she abnormally frigid or something, or had that earlier experience destroyed any natural emotions she might feel? At times thoughts like these were frightening, and tonight she felt intensely sensitive.

They drove to their favourite bar, a cellar below a hotel off Piccadilly, and there, in the discreetly-lit atmosphere of rich wines and expensive cigars, Ben said:

‘What is it with you tonight, Tamar? You seem different somehow. Introspective, almost.’

Tamar studied the amber liquid in her glass. ‘I don’t know, Ben, I just don’t know. Somehow, tonight, the exhibition, everything just suddenly seems empty!’

‘Empty?’ Ben looked horrified and summoned the bartender again. ‘Another scotch,’ he said bleakly, and then turned back to Tamar. ‘Why? Is it us? Me!’

‘Oh no!’ Tamar shook her head, and ran a hand over the smooth material of the sleeve of his jacket. ‘How could it be you, Ben? Without you, I’d be nothing.’

‘I doubt that. I doubt that intensely,’ retorted Ben hotly. ‘Sooner or later you were bound to succeed. I merely hastened the process, that’s all.’

Tamar shrugged. ‘Thank you, Ben. You’re very sweet.’

Ben lit another cigar. ‘I don’t want to be “very sweet”,’ he muttered impatiently. ‘You know what I want? I want to marry you.’

Tamar bent her head. ‘Oh, Ben, I wish I could believe we could make a success of that.’ She looked up. ‘But why me? I mean – you’re Benjamin Hastings. Your father is Allen Hastings, chairman of the Hastings Combine. I’m sure he’d have something to say if he thought you were serious.’ She smiled mockingly. ‘Me! Tamar Sheridan. A nobody, with no connections at all.’

‘That’s not fair!’ exclaimed Ben reproachfully. ‘You know my father is a great admirer of yours.’

‘An admirer of my work,’ said Tamar thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know whether he would welcome me as a daughter-in-law.’

‘Of course he would. Besides—’ there was a trace of arrogance in Ben’s tone, ‘—besides, I intend to choose my own wife, and you are that choice.’

Tamar sighed. ‘I wish I did love you, Ben. It would be so simple.’

Ben gave an exasperated gasp. ‘Honey, it is simple! I love you – you know I do – and I’m quite prepared to marry you now and teach you to love me.’

Tamar frowned. ‘Can one be taught how to love?’ she questioned curiously.

Ben looked down at his drink, and shook his head. ‘Tamar, Tamar!’ he said helplessly. ‘Is it necessary for you to explore every facet of our relationship? We get on well together, you know that’s true. Our interests – our tastes – are similar. Why shouldn’t our marriage be as successful as anyone else’s?’

Tamar bit her lip. ‘I don’t know, Ben. I used to think – oh, what’s the use? Can I have a cigarette, please?’

Ben handed her his case, and she extracted one and lit it from the combined lighter. Then she slid her arm through his.

‘Let’s not be serious tonight, Ben. There’s the party yet. It was sweet of you to arrange it, and I don’t want us to feel estranged tonight.’

‘Estranged!’ Ben gave her a weary look. ‘I wanted to announce our engagement tonight!’

‘Oh, Ben!’

‘Well, it’s true! Tamar, can’t you accept what we have?’

Tamar pressed her hands to her cheeks. ‘You’ve got to give me time, Ben.’

‘How much time do you need?’

Tamar saw the look of strain on his handsome face and felt remorse. ‘All right, Ben,’ she said slowly. ‘Give me till tonight – till the party. You can take me back to the apartment, I’ve got to change, and I’ll give you my answer when you come to collect me – right?’

Ben stared at her. ‘You mean that?’

‘Of course.’

He nodded, and finished his drink swiftly.

As they moved outside again, Tamar drawing her coat closer about her to counteract the chilly, misty atmosphere outside, he said softly:

‘In spite of my impetuosity, I want you to know, if your answer is no, I’ve still got to go on seeing you!’

Tamar looked up at him. ‘Ben?’ she murmured.

‘Well, that’s how it is with me. I mean – don’t break with me because of this. If – if we can never be more than friends, then let us at least remain that. Don’t think I would let this come between us.’

‘Oh, Ben!’ Tamar shook her head, feeling the prick of tears behind her eyes. ‘Why me? Why me?’

Ben shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’m just crazy that way, I guess.’

Tamar’s apartment was in a new block overlooking Regent’s Park, and she left Ben in the vestibule.

‘I’ll be ready in an hour,’ she said, and he nodded and left her.

The apartment on the fourth floor was inhabited by Tamar and a certain Emma Latimer, who acted as maid, cook-housekeeper, and companion, all rolled into one. Of uncertain age, Emma had answered an advertisement that Tamar had put in The Times two years ago when her income first began to stretch to living proportions. Supplementing her income with commercial undertakings, Tamar had been able to take this apartment, and employ Emma for a very small salary. She had hardly believed her good fortune at obtaining a treasure like Emma for such a small remuneration, and it was not until later, when they became friends, that she discovered that Emma had spent her whole life caring for ailing parents, and only death had provided her release. Ill-equipped as she was to face a world where qualifications counted for so much, the advertisement had been a blessing for both of them.

Now Emma’s wages were more than adequate, and the apartment was furnished as Tamar had always dreamed it would be. Entering the minute hallway, Tamar removed her overcoat before entering the huge lounge and calling:

‘Emma! I’m home!’

Emma Latimer emerged from the kitchen. Her mousy hair was drawn back into a bun, and she always wore the most unfashionable clothes, but to Tamar she was much more than a servant, she was the nearest thing to a mother she had ever known.

‘Well!’ said Emma now. ‘It’s over, is it?’

Tamar nodded, and seated herself on the couch, stretching out her long slim legs and kicking off her shoes.

‘Well, I’ve just made some tea. Do you want a cup?’

Tamar smiled, and then said: ‘Yes, please. Then I must have a bath. Ben is calling back for me in less than an hour.’

The tea was hot and strong, like Emma always made it, and Tamar sipped hers gratefully. It was heaven to relax and not have to think of anything for a few minutes.

Emma hovered in the background, and Tamar said: ‘Sit down, Emma. I want to talk to you.’

Emma hesitated, shrugged, and then perched on the edge of a chair. ‘Yes. What about?’

Tamar lay back lazily. ‘Ben has asked me to marry him.’

Emma made a resigned gesture. ‘You don’t surprise me.’

Tamar smiled. Emma was always so outright. ‘No, I don’t suppose I do,’ she said now. ‘The point is – should I?’

Emma shrugged. ‘That’s for you to decide.’

Tamar looked impatient. ‘I know it. But – well, what do you think?’

Emma bent her head and studied her neat fingernails. ‘You want my opinion?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I should say if you need my opinion – the answer should be no.’

Tamar frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, stands to reason doesn’t it? I mean – if you really wanted to marry Mr. Hastings, you wouldn’t ask me my opinion. You’d just tell me.’

‘Oh, Emma!’ Tamar stood down her cup and got to her feet. ‘You make everything sound so easy.’

‘Well, so it should be. It’s no use marrying the young man if you’ve any doubts. There’s too many of those unhappy marriages already, if you ask me.’

‘It strikes me they should have asked you,’ retorted Tamar, with some sarcasm, and Emma allowed herself a discreet chuckle.

‘I’m sorry if it’s not the answer you wanted, Miss Tamar,’ she said, sighing. ‘But you did ask me.’

‘Yes, I did,’ conceded Tamar unhappily. ‘Even so, I’m not sure you’re right. Marriage is a big step. And you’re the only one I could ask.’

Emma shrugged. ‘Well, Miss Tamar, no one can make the decision for you.’

‘I know,’ Tamar nodded.

‘There never was a woman who knew her own mind first off,’ remarked Emma, with some perspicacity. ‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t marry Mr. Hastings, mind. He’s a nice young man, good-looking, kind, and certainly you’d have no money problems. It all depends what you’re looking for. Personally, I never liked fair men. I like a man to be dark, dark-skinned, dark-eyed and dark-haired!’

Tamar felt an awful tugging inside her suddenly at Emma’s casual comments. All of a sudden she was remembering Falcon’s Head again, and it seemed significant that she should be doing so after her feelings earlier in the evening at the gallery. To hide her emotional disorder, she exclaimed lightly:

‘What man was that, Emma?’

Emma grimaced. ‘Only one, Miss Tamar. But he never came back from El Alamein.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Emma.’ Tamar was roused out of her black depression, and for a moment she was trying to imagine how Emma must have felt when the man she loved never returned. Was that why her devotion to her parents had never wavered? Had her emotional life died with this man?

‘Nothing to be sorry about,’ Emma was saying now. ‘Too many years ago now for me to feel anything but a sense of nostalgia.’ Then her penetrating eyes met Tamar’s dark blue ones. ‘We all have our little sorrows, don’t we, Miss Tamar?’

Tamar felt a surge of colour invade her cheeks. As always Emma was too perceptive.

‘Gosh!’ Tamar glanced pointedly at her watch. ‘Is that the time? I must go and get my bath. If Mr. Hastings arrives before I’m ready, ask him to wait, will you?’

She walked swiftly across to the bathroom, trying to shed her newly-aroused sensitivity. What was happening to her today? Why did it seem as though she had reached a crossroads? She was becoming fanciful. She was tired. She had told Ben she was tired, but he didn’t believe her. But she was. And she did need that break. A holiday!

In a deep bath of scented water she lay back wearily and closed her eyes. Of course, Emma had no idea of her past, and yet, unwittingly, she had put her finger on the one thing that could disturb Tamar.

Impatiently, she sat up and began to soap her arms thoroughly. She was being stupid and ineffective. Here she was, sitting in gloom, because she was remembering seven years ago when all this had first started. 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.