Master Of Falcon's Head. Anne Mather

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 that there was. She felt impatient suddenly. So much reticence, so much intrigue. It was ridiculous.

      ‘I see you’re still here, anyway,’ she countered.

      Steven sighed. ‘Yes, I’m still here. I did go to Dublin, a few years ago, but I came back.’

      ‘Are you married, Steven?’ she asked questioningly.

      He nodded. ‘Yes, I’m married, Tamar. I married a girl from Dublin, Shelagh Donavan.’

      ‘A real Irish name,’ remarked Tamar dryly. ‘I didn’t know, of course. Do you have any children?’

      ‘No, unfortunately not.’ Steven turned away, thrusting his hands into his trousers pockets. ‘I suppose I’d better let you go in. I’d hate Father Donahue to imagine I was attempting to detain you.’

      Tamar felt a sense of defeat about him, and responded to it. With Steven, despite his being five years older than she was, she had always felt the stronger character. He was as different from Ross Falcon as chalk from cheese.

      ‘I – I would like to see you again,’ she ventured awkwardly. ‘That is, if you would like it.’

      Steven looked her way. ‘You’ve changed, Tamar,’ he said. ‘You’ve forgotten this is Falcon’s Wherry, not Knightsbridge. Here one has to observe the conventions, If I were seen in your company very often, people would talk.’

      ‘Oh yes.’ Tamar opened the gate, and stepped inside, closing it and leaning on it. ‘I had forgotten, Steven. You’re a married man now.’

      ‘Hell, Tamar, why did you go away?’ he burst out angrily. ‘If you and Ross couldn’t make it, we might have done. I always thought you and I were well suited!’

      Tamar was astonished. ‘Steven!’ she exclaimed. ‘Honestly, I never suspected—’

      ‘How could you? You always had Ross around. I’ve never known a woman who could arouse my brother as you could. He had always seemed so much older, so remote – and then – and then—’

      ‘Forget it, Steven, please. I don’t want to talk about Ross.’

      ‘Why? Are you afraid?’

      ‘Of Ross?’

      ‘Yes.’

      Tamar shook her head. ‘Why should I be afraid?’

      Steven walked a couple of paces down the road. ‘If you don’t know, I can’t tell you,’ he replied enigmatically, and went, leaving Tamar more confused and disturbed than ever.

      The next morning everything looked different. Lying in bed, listening to the roar of the sea as it broke in foaming thunder on the rocks below Falcon’s Head, Tamar thought she had allowed the events of yesterday to escalate out of all proportion. Yesterday she had been tired and apprehensive, ready to feel concern at anything out of the ordinary. She had known it would not be easy re-orientating herself to the confined surroundings of village life, and because of Ross Falcon’s attitude and Steven’s vulnerability she had allowed her mind to dwell too long on things which should have been of secondary importance to her own affairs. After all, it didn’t concern her what construction the Falcon family might place on her arrival here; she was no longer dependent upon them for her livelihood, her home; she was merely a visitor, as Father Donahue had said, and as such she should adopt a policy of non-involvement.

      With this decision firm in her mind, she glanced at her watch, and slid out of bed. It was only seven-thirty, but she was aware that Father Donahue breakfasted about eight when he came back from Mass, so she washed in the icy water from the jug on the washstand and then dressed in cream corded cotton trousers and a blue and white checked shirt. Then she combed her short, curly golden hair. Examining her face in the mirror above the washstand, she assessed her appearance critically. Blue eyes, slightly slanted at the corners, small nose, and wide mouth. She was not pretty, but her face had charm, though she found little there to appeal. Only the long lashes that veiled her eyes, and the personality which lurked behind her smile, gave her something indefinable, something that Ben was constantly reminding her of. She smiled a little mockingly. Certainly, she thought, with self-derogatory candour, she would pass in a crowd.

      Leaving her room, she descended the winding staircase which had a door at its foot that opened into the kitchen of the cottage. Mrs. Leary was there, busy at the stove, a delicious smell of frying bacon filling the air.

      ‘Lord, Miss Sheridan,’ she exclaimed, in surprise. ‘I was going to bring you a tray to your room later. I didn’t think you’d want disturbing this early, or I’d have brought you a cup of tea.’

      Tamar smiled. ‘Oh, please,’ she exclaimed, ‘don’t stand on ceremony, on my account. I would rather you treated me with less consideration, then I wouldn’t feel I was putting you out so much.’