The Silver Falcon

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The Silver Falcon

Evelyn Anthony

To Pat Redford with my love

With grateful thanks to Simon Parker-Bowles,

John de Burgh, Peter O'Sullevan and the staff

of BBC ‘Grandstand' for their kind help and

advice

1

Autumn was the most beautiful time of the year at Beaumont. In late October the leaves had not finished falling, and the massive beech trees round the house were still in full colour. When Isabel Cunningham came to work as Charles Schriber's secretary three years earlier, it had been in the middle of a blazing Kentucky summer. By the time September came, she was his wife.

It was four o'clock and she had been out walking with her husband's favourite terrier; they had gone through the wood at the north side of the grounds. The little dog had scampered through the leaves, barking and bustling round, looking for rabbit holes, Isabel following slowly after him. The wood was dim and peaceful, with lovely paths which in April were full of spring flowers. The sunlight filtered through the trees, making bright patterns at her feet. Charles loved to walk there with her, and to go on and inspect the rolling paddocks where the mares and foals were out at grass. It was too late to see them that afternoon; they would have been brought in for the night. She called the dog and came out into the sunlight, taking the way round through the large formal gardens at the rear of the house. Her husband hadn't been interested in the gardens; he was content to have a neat, conventional frame for his house, and the house itself was the centre of the all-important stud. Isabel had taken charge of the gardens, planting out beds in the front to provide colour against the stark Georgian white of Beaumont itself and the harsh brilliance of the rolling green paddocks that surrounded it.

It was a beautiful house, built in the late 1780s by a wealthy merchant whose family had emigrated from England; the style was semi-classical, with a central block supported by massive white pillars and two wings that curved outwards. She came round to the front and saw Andrew Graham's car. The terrier was walking quietly at her side; he stopped as she did, and looked up at her, with the bright intelligence of his breed. He seemed to sense that there was something wrong.

She hadn't expected Andrew to come round. He had promised to telephone the results. The fact that he had come in person could only mean one thing. She hurried to the front door, always left open in Kentucky fashion, and glanced up quickly at the first-floor windows.

It was two months since Charles Schriber became ill. The summer cold had turned into an ugly cough, the cough into a persistent chest infection which did not respond satisfactorily to drugs. For the past two weeks he had been too ill to come downstairs. He was a big man, as tough mentally as he was strong physically. He had a profound contempt for illness and a disregard of his own health. It often seemed strange to Isabel, that a man so lustily alive should choose his doctor as his greatest friend. His resistance to suggestions that he should call in Andrew Graham at the beginning of his illness, coupled with his refusal to rest or go to bed, had delayed proper diagnosis. Summer colds were always hell in the hot weather, he insisted, while the cough went on and on and the temperature refused to settle. By the time she over-ruled him and sent for Andrew he was already very ill.

She found the doctor in the study; it was Charles's favourite room, panelled in the original pine, one whole wall covered in his racing trophies. Andrew got up as she came in; he was the physical opposite of Charles. Of medium height, rather slightly built, with receding sandy hair and a diffident manner. He walked with a horseman's gait; he had been a gifted amateur jockey in his youth. He was a typical Kentuckian, courteous, somewhat old-fashioned, ultra conservative, slow to give his trust. It had taken a long time before she felt he had accepted her after the marriage. He came and held out his hand and took both of hers.

‘Andrew?' she couldn't keep her voice quite steady.

‘Sit down, Isabel,' he said. She did so and he placed himself beside her. ‘I've had the X-ray results,' he said. ‘I'm afraid it's very bad news. The left lung has been completely invaded and there are signs that the cancer has gotten a hold generally.'

‘Oh God –' She didn't cry; there was a sick, empty feeling that increased as he talked. He used technical terms which she didn't really understand, trying to explain that the condition was inoperable; the dreadful tentacles had crept too far and surgery would release more. There was nothing to be done for Charles, but keep the pain at bay and wait with him till the end came.

‘He won't accept it,' Isabel said slowly. ‘He keeps threatening to get up. He won't take the medicines – you know he's living for going to England next year. Isn't there any hope even of that –'

‘None,' Andrew shook his head. ‘He'll last a month or so, if he stays bedridden. He'll be too weak to do anything else.' He turned away and she saw there were tears in his eyes.

‘It's a bastard,' he said. ‘He's the best man I know. It shouldn't happen to him, Isabel.' He blew his nose and cleared his throat.

‘I'm not going to tell him,' Isabel said slowly. ‘He's not to know. We'll go upstairs and see him together, and you can tell him the X-ray showed something trivial like an infection. I'm going to go on as if nothing was wrong.' She looked at the doctor, and her own tears fell. ‘I've loved him so much,' she said. ‘I'm going to lie to him now and I want you to do the same.'

Graham glanced at her, and shook his head.

‘He knows,' he said. ‘He wanted me to keep the truth from you. Charles has never ducked out of anything. He won't be afraid of this. He told me so. We've talked about it, Isabel. I've already been up to see him.'

She didn't know what to say to him. There was his twenty years of friendship and his medical position, ranged alongside her three-year marriage. He hadn't consulted her. At this the crucial moment in Charles Schriber's life, he had acted as if she were not there.

She got up, and after a moment he did the same. She stood facing him.

‘You had no right to do that, Andrew. You had no right to tell Charles without first talking to me.'

‘I'm sorry,' he said quietly. ‘But all along he's been worried about the effect this would have on you. He told me to give him the results first. I had to do as he asked.'

She turned away from him then, but he went on talking, explaining patiently. ‘You mustn't feel shut out, Isabel. Charles wanted to keep it from you. I wouldn't agree. I persuaded him you ought to know the truth. He's upstairs waiting for you, and he's very cheerful. Don't let him see you crying. It won't help him. I'll get you a drink.'

He went to the trolley by the sofa, and poured out a measure of Scotch for her, and one for himself. He came up and made her take it.

‘Come on now,' he said. ‘This is doctor's orders. Drink this and take a good pull on yourself. Think of him.'

She did as he suggested; she drank the whisky and forced herself to be calm, to suppress the agony that wanted to express itself in a torrent of crying in a private place. Three years. Three years of being happy, of living with a man she loved and upon whom she totally relied. Strong and safe and indestructible. And now dying of a loathsome creeping illness that was eating away at his strength, wasting the powerful body, frustrating the courageous will. He had known all along that he was mortally ill. His only thought had been to save her pain. Andrew Graham was right. This was no time for petty feelings, for personal quibblings between the people he loved.

‘Thanks,' she said. ‘I'm better now. I'm sorry I said that, Andrew. I didn't mean it. I was just so shocked –'

He smiled at her and patted her shoulder. ‘I know,' he said. ‘I know.'

‘What about Richard?'

She saw him stiffen. His shoulders went back and his head turned quickly, at the mention of Charles Schriber's son.

‘Richard – what about Richard?'

‘He ought to know,' Isabel said. ‘His father's dying and he ought to be told.' He relaxed as visibly as he had tensed up. He shook his head, slowly, with an air of patience. It made her feel like a child instead of a woman of twenty-seven. With a husband thirty years older than she was.

‘Charles wouldn't want it,' he said carefully, his tone the slow explanatory one she knew so well. ‘It wouldn't be in his best interests at this moment. You don't want to upset him, Isabel. They never did get along.'

‘I know,' she said, ‘or at least I don't know, because Charles never wanted to talk about it, but this is different. This is the time to end a quarrel! Surely Richard should be given the chance.…'

‘I wouldn't advise it,' he said. ‘I'll talk to Charles about it if you like, but I know he won't want any part –'

‘No thank you,' she said. ‘I'll talk to him. It's my job to make peace between them, if I can. I'll go up and see him now. You'll see yourself out, Andrew?'

‘Of course. I'll call by tomorrow and see him. Tell him that.'

She went out of the room and across the spacious marble floored hall to the sweeping staircase that led to the two upper storeys, paused for a moment to collect herself, and heard the study door open behind her and the doctor walking out to the front door as she began to go up the steps to her bedroom and her husband.

It was one of the biggest rooms in the house, built above the drawing room, with magnificent views over the paddocks. Charles was propped up in the double bed on a throne of pillows. He loved to look out during the day and see his beloved mares and foals. It was weeks since he had been well enough to go down and visit them. He turned as she came in; his thick hair, so full of life, was visibly whiter, and there was a faint sheen of sweat over his forehead and the ridge of cheekbone, which now stood out from loss of weight. It was a distinctive face, handsome in a rough-cut way, with dark eyes that were always penetrating. He smiled as soon as he saw her, and held out his hand.