Master Of Falcon's Head

‘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.