Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

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.

We are sure you will love them all!

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 mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Master of Falcon’s Head
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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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.

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.

CHAPTER TWO

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, it had taken until now to gain the courage to return.

Falcon’s Wherry lay in a fold of the cliffs surrounded on three sides by water. The River Falcon lay to the north and east, while the surging waters of the Atlantic provided a natural barrier to the west. The valley of the Falcon was descended by a narrow winding road, from the head of which the white-painted cottages of the village could be clearly seen. So too could the stark, stone-built façade of Falcon’s Head. It stood on the cliff top, bleak and isolated, a symbol of power and arrogance in Tamar’s eyes, the family home of the Falcon family for generations. Local landowners, they had survived war and famine, always retaining their position whatever their circumstances. Indeed, Tamar could never imagine anyone defying them – least of all herself.

Dragging her eyes away from Falcon’s Head, she allowed the car to cruise gently down the curving descent, unwilling even now to admit to a certain nervousness. People were bound to recognize her, just as she was bound to recognize them. But apart from Father Donahue and one or two others, she had had few real friends. Her grandparents had not encouraged her to associate with the village boys and girls, and in consequence she had been rather a lonely child. Even so, there was bound to be speculation, particularly as any strangers in Falcon’s Wherry were an event, or at least they had been. Maybe things had changed here, too.

The main street of the village meandered alongside the river which had its estuary into the wild waters of the ocean beyond. Here at low tide there were mudflats and marsh land, and it was here that Tamar had first experienced the desire to paint. She had loved the flats at low tide, early in the evening when the sun was a dark red ball sinking in the west. Barefooted, she had searched for shells, and the eggs of seabirds, at one with the plaintive cries of the gulls, with the inquisitive roll of the sand crabs.

Tamar felt a reluctant smile curve her lips. There might be more to this visit than she had at first imagined.

Now she was driving between the cottages, many of which had women leaning curiously against their doorposts, wondering who was visiting Falcon’s Wherry and why. The children peered in at the car’s windows, showing little concern for their own safety, and Tamar was forced to drive at a snail’s pace.

There was the Wherry tavern, meeting place for all the men of the place, and where most of the village gossip had its inception. She saw the general stores and post office, the shop which sold practically everything one could ask for. And there was the slightly more imposing frontage of the Falcon’s Arms, its grey stone weathered with age and the harsh winter blast of the gales from across the Atlantic.

Tamar drove into the inn’s yard and halted by a row of flower tubs, colourful and appealing in the pale sunshine that was dispersing the clouds rapidly. She slid out, suddenly intensely conscious of the pale blue tweed slack suit she was wearing. While such attire might go unnoticed in Limerick, it could not fail to cause a stir in a place like Falcon’s Wherry, and she ought to have thought of that.

Still, what of it? she thought impatiently. She had no desire to fall victim to the petty conventions of the place again, and she was no longer the penniless teenager she had been when she left.

Hauling out her handbag, she slung it over her shoulder, and walked into the inn before anyone could approach her. As she entered the inn, she glanced round once, her expression softening as it lightened on the white walls of the church of St. Patrick opposite. She wondered if Father Donahue was still there.

Then, with a sigh, she walked purposefully along the inn passage to the taproom. Here shutters dimmed the light, and it struck cool after the mildness outside. A man was polishing the bar counter, and looked up in surprise when he saw her.

‘Yes, miss?’ he said, peering curiously at her. ‘Can I help you?’

Tamar advanced into the room, looking at him just as curiously. ‘Hello, Mr. O’Connor. It is Tim O’Connor, isn’t it?’

‘That’s me!’ The man frowned, and straightened. ‘Do I know—!’ He smote his hand on the bar. ‘God’s blood, is it Tamar Sheridan?’

Tamar relaxed a little. The initial sortie had been made without too much difficulty.

‘Yes, Mr. O’Connor, that’s my name. It’s a great pleasure to know you remember me.’

Tim O’Connor, a man in his late forties with greying dark hair, scratched his head disarmingly. ‘Well, for heaven’s sake, would I not be remembering our Kathleen’s daughter,’ he said, shaking his head now. ‘Sure and didn’t Kathleen and myself go to school together!’ He sighed. ‘You’re a lot like her, Tamar.’

Tamar smiled, and came across to perch on a bar stool. She knew her mother and Tim were not related, but they had been sweethearts, so she had been told, before her father had arrived and swept the pretty Kathleen off her feet. There was much more she had been told, but she had put most of it down to her grandfather’s dislike of all the English, and her father had never got along with his in-laws.

‘Tell me,’ said Tim, unable to contain his curiosity, ‘what are you doing here in Falcon’s Wherry? I heard tell you were painting – for a living!’ He sounded flabbergasted.

Tamar smiled, and lit a cigarette. ‘Well, so I am. At least, I’m on holiday at the moment. I just – wanted to come back, to see the old place.’ She glanced round. ‘Nothing seems to change here.’ She laughed a little.

Tim’s face had darkened. ‘Oh, there’s been changes,’ he said, his voice less jovial now. ‘My Betsy died last year.’

‘Bet – your wife?’ Tamar was horrified.

‘Yes, that’s right. Heart attack it was – sudden. One minute she was here, the next—’ He sighed. ‘Still, you’ll not be interested in my troubles,’ and when she would have protested, he went on: ‘Nothing ever stays the same, Tamar. Don’t you know that?’

Tamar bent her head. ‘I suppose I do.’ Then she looked up. ‘How about accommodation? Do you still let rooms if any summer visitors come?’

Tim shook his head. ‘No, not us. Not these two years now. Wasn’t the need for it, and then after—’ He shrugged. ‘You be wanting accommodation, Tamar?’

Tamar nodded. ‘I did. I do. That is, maybe there’s somewhere else—’ She frowned. She didn’t want to have to return to Limerick tonight, not now that she had actually broken the ice and come here. She doubted whether she would have the courage to drive down that village street a second time.

Tim was frowning now, too. ‘I don’t know what to suggest, Tamar. Ah; but here’s a friend of yours. Sure and he must have heard you were here.’

Tamar felt the colour drain out of her cheeks, and she swung round on her stool, only to say: ‘Father Donahue!’ with some relief, when she saw the priest standing in the doorway to the taproom.

‘Tamar! Is it really you?’ he exclaimed, his lined face beaming. ‘O’Rourke from the tavern, he said it was, but I couldn’t believe it. Tamar Sheridan, by all the saints!’

Tamar slid off her stool, allowing the Father to lead her across the room and flick open the shutters wide to let in more light. Then she said:

‘Oh, Father, it is good to see you. How are you?’

Father Donahue shook his head. ‘Sure, I’m fine. It’s yourself I’m thinking about. My, you’re thin, Tamar. What have you been doing with yourself? Are they all like beanstalks back in England?’

‘Now that’s not very complimentary,’ exclaimed Tim, behind them. ‘I think the lass looks fine.’

Tamar cast him a smile, and Father Donahue shook his head again. ‘Ah, well, it’s good to have you back. What is this? A holiday? Or are you back to stay?’

‘A holiday,’ said Tamar, feeling a faint sense of guilt. Since leaving Falcon’s Wherry she had written exactly half a dozen times to Father Donahue, while he had corresponded much more frequently, only giving up in later years when she did not reply. But how could she have explained to him why she wanted to sever all ties with the place of her birth?

The priest nodded now, and said: ‘Well, Tamar, are you going to come across to the house and have a glass of morning chocolate with me? Sure I know it’s late, and almost lunch time, but Mrs. Leary will need some time to prepare an extra place.’

‘Why, that’s very kind of you,’ began Tamar, pressing her lips together. She glanced at Tim O’Connor. ‘I – I will see you before I leave, Mr. O’Connor.’

‘Sure, you won’t be leaving us yet awhile,’ exclaimed Tim O’Connor sharply. ‘We’ll get you fixed up, one way or another.’

Tamar smiled. ‘Well, we’ll see. Thank you.’

She went outside with Father Donahue, and across the narrow thoroughfare that led down to the small quay where the fishing boats were moored. The salty tang was stronger here, and seabirds wheeled overhead. Tamar glanced up and sighed.

‘I’d forgotten how beautiful it was,’ she said softly, and Father Donahue nodded.

‘There’s beauty in all things, if we look for it,’ he said.

The small priest’s dwelling which adjoined the church was little more than a cottage itself, except that it sported a bathroom and electric light, which not all the cottages possessed. A huge fire burned in the hearth in the living room, and Tamar received a warm welcome from Mrs. Leary, the priest’s housekeeper. Then, over cups of steaming chocolate, Father Donahue obtained by subtle questioning an outline of Tamar’s life in England, and the success she had attained.

‘Tell me,’ said Father Donahue suddenly, ‘why have you come back, Tamar? Seriously.’ He bit his lip. ‘I don’t want to pry you understand, but there were circumstances – after you’d left – that had I been able to see you, to speak with you, I would have discussed with you.’

Tamar rose to her feet and walked to the window to look out on the harbour, with the cliff and Falcon’s Head towering above it. Her eyes were drawn upwards, but she averted her gaze.

‘Circumstances, Father,’ she said, trying to keep her voice light. ‘What circumstances?’

‘Ross Falcon,’ said Father Donahue bluntly.

Tamar stiffened, but she did not turn.

‘What about Ross Falcon?’ she murmured, almost inaudibly.

Father Donahue rose to his feet. ‘You knew him?’

‘Doesn’t everybody?’ she temporized.

‘Ross Falcon is the head of the family, Tamar. Everyone knew that. Everyone knew him as a just man, a man who knew his position in society, what was expected of him. I meant, you knew him – personally, didn’t you?’

Tamar swung round, and as she did so the door to the parlour opened without ceremony, and a man stood on the threshold – tall, and lean, with hard unyielding features, dark-skinned, dark-eyed and dark-haired, as Emma had once described, dressed in dark trousers and a dark car coat, his hair persisting in lying across his forehead despite many attempts to rake it back. His eyes swung round the room to come to rest on Tamar, and then he swore savagely.

‘By God! Kinraven was right!’

Tamar felt the blood draining out of her cheeks. Ross Falcon, of all people. Older than she remembered; of course, he must be nearly forty now, but just as powerful and dynamic and arrogant.

Father Donahue looked disturbed. ‘Ross, what are you doing here?’

Ross Falcon looked derisive. ‘You’re joking, of course. I had to see for myself that it was Tamar Sheridan, and not some filthy hoax.’

Father Donahue wrung his hands together. ‘Well, now you’ve seen her, aren’t you going to say hello?’

Tamar shrank back against the stark hatred in the black eyes that were turned in her direction.

‘What should I say, Father?’ he muttered harshly. ‘You think I should welcome her back? You think perhaps I might be glad to see her?’

Tamar felt frozen. This was worse than anything she had ever imagined.

‘Ross!’ exclaimed Father Donahue imploringly. ‘This is a house of God, a house of love, not hatred!’

Ross Falcon’s eyes turned in the priest’s direction. ‘Yes, Father, so it is. But this village is mine, is it not? Therefore I have the right to – to—’ his expression was harsh and tense, ‘—to inspect its visitors!’ There was contempt in every word he spoke. Then he straightened. ‘But as you say, this is God’s house, and I have no right to violate its sanctuary. Forgive me, Father!’ and without another word, he turned and strode out of the room.

After he had gone, there was a terrible, pregnant silence, and Tamar wished the floor would just open up and swallow her into its depths. She had imagined meeting Ross, she had imagined being coolly polite to him, treating him to a little of the hauteur he was so adept at meting out to others. But never in her wildest dreams had she supposed that he might react in the way he had. He hated her, he actually hated her! But why? What had she done to deserve such contempt? Surely she was the one who ought to have felt the hatred. Yet in his attitude, all her preconceived ideas of him had fallen away. As always, Ross Falcon was unpredictable, as unpredictable as his ancestors, Spaniards who had settled on the west coast years ago when their ship had foundered on the rocks that guarded the coastline.

Father Donahue walked wearily across the room and closed the door with deliberately slow movements. He was giving her time to collect her scattered senses, and she was grateful.

She fumbled in her handbag, found a cigarette, and lit it with trembling fingers. Then she inhaled deeply, and walking across to the fire held out her suddenly chilled hands to its warmth. She finished her chocolate in a gulp, and shivered.

Father Donahue leaned against the door and sighed heavily. ‘I’m sorry, Tamar,’ he said, at last.

Tamar swung round. ‘You’re sorry?’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s not your fault. I ought never to have come here. Obviously things are much different from what I imagined.’

The priest came across to the fire and rubbed his hands together. ‘Maybe, maybe,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘The Falcons were ever proud folk.’

Tamar shook her head. ‘He was so bitter!’ she murmured, almost to herself.

‘Yes.’ Father Donahue lifted his shoulders helplessly. ‘Ross has much to be bitter about.’

‘Why?’ Tamar stared at him in surprise. ‘Why?’

Father Donahue shook his head. ‘You left here, Tamar. You went of your own accord. You dissociated yourself from our affairs here. Your reasons were your own, I suppose. Yet I can’t help but feel that in spite of your long association with this village, you’re merely here now in a transitory capacity, and it’s not up to me to reveal the personal circumstances of a man I respect and admire.’

Tamar’s cheeks burned. ‘You’re right, of course,’ she said dully. ‘I shouldn’t have asked you.’ She compressed her lips, and then Mrs. Leary appeared to announce that lunch was ready.

The meal was served in the tiny dining alcove adjoining the parlour, and although the soup and trout and fresh fruit salad were delicious, Tamar could hardly force anything down. With gulps of water, she managed to swallow a little of the fish and a couple of mouthfuls of the fruit, but she felt her throat was constricted tightly, not allowing any relaxation.

When it was over and they rose from the table, she said:

‘I think perhaps it would be as well if I returned to Limerick tonight.’

Father Donahue shook his head vigorously. ‘Oh, no, my dear child, please. Don’t leave on Ross’s account. I’m convinced he’ll apologize for his actions later—’

‘No!’ exclaimed Tamar swiftly. ‘I doubt that, Father,’ she amended, more calmly. ‘He – he obviously believes that I should not have come here, and quite honestly, I’m inclined to agree with him.’

‘Why did you come, Tamar?’ he asked suddenly. ‘You never did really tell me.’

She shrugged. ‘My reasons are slightly obscure,’ she murmured. ‘There’s a man in London, Ben Hastings, he wants to marry me.’

‘Yes?’

‘Yes.’ Tamar bit her lip. ‘I – I never intended to marry anyone. I don’t love him. I don’t think I’m capable of loving anyone any more.’

Father Donahue seized on her words. ‘Any more, Tamar?’

‘Yes. I guess I’m the frigid kind.’

Father Donahue half-smiled. ‘With that hair, I doubt it!’

Tamar smiled a little sadly herself. ‘Well, anyway, this place haunts me. I have a painting – do you remember it? – an oils, that I did of Falcon’s Head before I left. I guess I wanted to come here before I resigned myself to that other life.’ She sighed. ‘Can you understand that?’

Father Donahue frowned. ‘Are you sure it’s the place that haunts you, Tamar? Or is it Ross Falcon?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Father Donahue stifled an epithet. ‘God forgive me,’ he muttered, ‘of course you do!’ He smote his fist into the palm of his hand. ‘Haven’t I just witnessed with my own eyes the reaction you had to him?’

Tamar’s hands were balled into fists. She liked the Father, he was the only man in Falcon’s Wherry with whom she could be completely herself, but even he should not know the depths of desolation she had once suffered over Ross Falcon.

‘You’re wrong, Father,’ she said tautly. ‘My reactions to Ross Falcon were the normal ones of anybody confronted with such arrogant hatred. I don’t know why Ross Falcon hates me, but if he does, then it’s as well that I go away. I have no desire to cause any trouble.’

Father Donahue looked impatient. ‘Tamar, there was trouble enough seven years ago. All right, go! Run away a second time, but don’t tell me that you’re indifferent towards Ross Falcon because I simply do not believe you.’ He stared angrily at her, roused out of his cool calmness. ‘You may hate him too, for all I know, but that was not indifference I sensed in this room!’

Tamar turned away. ‘You’re mistaken, Father.’

Father Donahue sounded sceptical. ‘All right, all right,’ he said, ‘if that’s so, why are you leaving? Your actions belie your words!’

Tamar twisted her hands together. Of course, Father Donahue was right. If she ran away a second time she would never come back, never discover the real truth of her feelings.

But did she want to know? Wasn’t she secretly afraid of what she might discover? And if she left, she would always be left with the picture of Falcon’s Head to haunt her. Was she such a weak person, hadn’t past experiences taught her anything? Where was the shell she had grown to protect her from just such situations? She was stupid and ineffective, and Father Donahue was right, she was leaving because she was afraid.

She swung round. ‘There’s nowhere for me to stay,’ she challenged.

‘That’s little excuse. You could stay here, at least temporarily.’ He glanced round. ‘I have room. And maybe we might be able to find you a house or a cottage to rent. There’s a place down near the beach, old Flynn’s cottage. He went to visit his sister in Cork in March, and he hasn’t returned.’

Tamar felt her nerves were stretched to fever pitch. Then she sighed, and hunched her shoulders.

‘All right,’ she said, a little tiredly. ‘I’ll stay.’

Father Donahue looked pleased. ‘Good. Now, shall we have a small glass of wine to celebrate?’

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