The Silver Falcon (17 page)

She freed herself from him. There was nothing in his face but passion and tenderness. There was no reason for suspicion. Everything he said made sense. Cut the cord, belong to yourself. But it wasn't the reason and she knew it.

‘Will it matter all that much to you,' she said slowly, ‘if I rob Charles of what he wanted most?'

He didn't falter or deny it. But the arms holding her were tense and the fingers on her shoulder were rigid. Their grip hurt.

‘I can't ask you to do it for me. But I'd feel a lot better to see him lose for once. It's not a valid promise you gave; the whole thing is just a monument to his vanity. Winning from the grave. It's obscene. You know it is.'

‘It didn't seem so,' she said quietly. ‘I wish you didn't hate him so much. If you can't cut loose from him, how can I hope to?'

‘We can do it by going away together,' he said. ‘By getting out of his world. So long as you stay in racing, you're part of the Schriber myth. Ryan is part of it too; get rid of him. Send him home. Cancel the lease on this place at Coolbridge. You don't want a furnished house; you only took it because it's near Epsom. The whole thing is crazy –' he said. ‘I love you – and I know you love me.'

Isabel got up; he held on to her hand and she gently drew it away. He stood and put his hands on her shoulders.

‘Think about it,' he said. ‘I won't try to rush you. But get it in perspective. We could have everything together. I've lived my life in a certain way and I'm sick of it. I'm sick of the tramps and the booze and the whole set-up. I want to be with you. We can kick the past in the teeth and start again. Just think about it.'

He kissed her again, and this time it wasn't gentle. Then he left her.

She hardly slept that night. Images chased each other in the darkness, adding to the profound confusion in her mind and feelings. Charles, loving, strong, generous-hearted, had been presented to her in a hideous guise. A savage bully, obsessed with pride, punishing his unhappy wife for her one mistake, hating the innocent child who had been born as a result. Richard's words kept ringing through her head.

‘He hit me across the face. You're the bastard –' She could see him as a boy, all of fourteen, however he described himself as big enough to stand up for his mother, staggering back under the blow. It was unbelievable that the man she had lived with for three years could be capable of such an act.

And now Frances Schriber was very much alive; the wistful figure in the portrait had been flashed out by her son, into a frightened, bullied human being who had succumbed at last and taken her own life. And still Charles's hatred had followed her. Her son had been driven out of the house, and all trace of her existence removed.

It was horrible and it was completely at variance with everything she knew about her husband. And then there was that other revelation. Richard hadn't known its significance to her. Charles had been sterile; his refusal to have children was a lie, concocted to hide his own shortcoming. And yet she could understand it; she had only to think of him, so vigorously male, to know what an agonizing blow to his self-respect that discovery must have been. It wasn't all on one side; there was no excuse in Richard's eyes, but he must have suffered too. And some people reacted to pain by being cruel and unforgiving.

She found herself crying, without being sure whether it was for Richard and his mother or for Charles, his memory tarnished, his pride in ruins.

She tried very hard to keep herself and Richard in perspective. When he accused her of wanting to go away with him, he had been right. Part of her longed to abandon everything and give herself completely to this new relationship. But it wasn't the strongest part. The other self refused, holding back from a final commitment, reluctant to cast off from the responsibilities her husband had entrusted to her. And if she dared to admit that she was falling in love with Richard Schriber, then where did her first loyalty lie …

In the morning, the issues were no clearer. The hotel bedroom was claustrophobic, the prospect of spending more time in London seemed unbearable. She phoned through to the estate agents and asked if she could take immediate possession of Coolbridge House if she paid the full rental in advance. It didn't take too long for the agents to decide. Money expedited everything.

There were two messages from Richard, taken by reception while she was with the agents. She telephoned him back, and a manservant answered. She was leaving for Coolbridge the next morning; he could contact her there. She suggested that he might come down on Sunday and spend the day.

That evening Tim Ryan came down to dinner. Mrs Jennings had prepared the meal; she had quickly decided that she liked working for Isabel. She was considerate and friendly, and her appreciation of the house pleased the housekeeper. They had drinks on the terrace; it was a lovely cool May evening. Isabel wore trousers and a silk shirt; Tim Ryan watched her. She looked relaxed and rested; much of the tension he had noticed since she came to England had gone.

‘You're happy here, aren't you?'

‘I love it,' she said. ‘I feel as if I've lived here for years. I went shopping in the village this morning. You know, I've forgotten how easy country life is in England. People are friendly and helpful – I hope you've noticed my flowers?'

Tim had noticed. There were huge vases of lilacs in the drawing room and the big hall. The gardens at Coolbridge were full of flowering shrubs to give colour and variety before the roses came in June.

‘What does Richard think of it?' he asked her.

‘He hasn't been down yet,' Isabel said. He thought she had hesitated.

‘I wanted to get settled first,' she said. They were sitting outside the drawing room on a flagged terrace; the rose garden, enclosed by dwarf hedges, stretched in front of them. It was a scene of soothing beauty. She hadn't wanted Richard to come immediately. She wanted to shelve everything, just for a few days, and indulge her fantasy that in a strange way she had found a home. That idea shocked her too. It showed how far she had moved from Beaumont in the few months since Charles died. Or how superficial its grip upon her had been without him. She was deeply glad to see Tim.

‘Can you bear to talk business for a minute?' he said. ‘Horse business, that is.' He noticed a look of strain that just as quickly disappeared.

‘Yes, of course.'

‘Foster wants to run the Falcon in the Prix Lupin. He doesn't fancy the Two Thousand Guineas after all. He wants to give the horse his Derby trial in France. What do you think?'

‘Why has he changed his mind about the Two Thousand?'

‘He doesn't want to give him more than one race. The Lupin is worth sixty grand, and he thinks the track at Longchamp will suit Falcon perfectly. He likes a bit of give in the ground and it's on the firm side here. What do you feel about it?'

‘I don't know. Do you think it's a good idea?'

‘Yes,' Tim said. ‘As a matter of fact, I do. Nigel's delighted with the way he's been working. He's getting himself fit with the minimum trouble and the timing for the Lupin is just about right. If he wins that, he's got three weeks before the Derby. The race will put him right at the top of his form. I'd go ahead and send him. It'd be fun for us too.'

And much less dangerous to the horse than running him at Newmarket in the cavalry charge of the Two Thousand Guineas. There were at least three jockeys riding hopeless horses who might have been prevailed upon to crowd in and put him on the ground. Just one clever collision with a horse galloping at thirty miles an hour, and there would be no Derby.

‘I've had some news about the lad who was injured,' he said. ‘But I'm afraid the outlook is pretty bleak. He's going to be in a wheelchair.'

‘If he's crippled,' she said slowly, ‘I want to make arrangements to keep him comfortably for life. I'd also like to see him.'

‘I talked that over with Nigel,' Tim said. ‘If you come in on it, Long might get the idea he could sue for damages. And we don't want that. We don't want any adverse publicity for the Falcon before the Derby.'

The Derby. Suddenly the illusion she had fostered round herself was gone. The peaceful garden with its mellow brick walls and the ancient house behind them was no real protection. The decision hadn't been made; she had been running away from it. She couldn't go on letting Tim and Nigel Foster make their plans, without saying anything. She couldn't let the issue drift until it was too late to do anything about it. That was the coward's way.

And the last person in the world to listen to her with sympathy was Tim Ryan. Devoted to Charles, a professional with a great Derby prospect waiting to go for his first big contest as a three-year-old. She could imagine his reaction when she suggested withdrawing the colt. But she had to try and clarify her own feelings and it had proved impossible to do alone.

‘Tim,' she said. ‘There's something I've got to discuss with you. It's about the Falcon.'

There was a long silence when Isabel had finished. Mrs Jennings came to announce dinner, and they went into the dining room. It was a beautiful room, panelled in eighteenth-century pine: there was a fine Alan Ramsay portrait of a woman and two children over the fireplace.

‘Help yourself, Tim,' she said. There were gulls' eggs and lobster salad. He ate very little; she could see how upset he was, and she didn't know how to cope with it. It seemed more than the disappointment of a racing manager. In the end she couldn't bear the awkwardness. The simple, delicious food tasted of nothing; he was drinking the wine as though it were whisky.

‘I know what you feel,' she said at last. They had coffee in the drawing room; the curtains were drawn and it was just beginning to get dark. Mrs Jennings had lit the fire, because the evening had turned suddenly cool. It was a scene of elegance and serenity, and Isabel had seldom felt more miserable. ‘Tim,' she said. ‘Please, talk to me about it.'

He shrugged. ‘How can I? You tell me you've decided not to run the horse because Richard hated his father and doesn't want to have him win the race. What can I say to that?'

‘I didn't say that,' she said. ‘I told you I felt perhaps that was the right thing to do. It's so difficult for me to know.'

He put the cup down. ‘It isn't really difficult, Isabel,' he said slowly. ‘You promised Charles, and now you're letting Richard talk you out of it. I can't argue about whether he's got the right to do this or not; his relationship with Charles is none of my business. They didn't get on, and everyone knew that. But to persuade you to withdraw the Falcon – out of personal spite against his father – that's unforgivable!'

‘He has his reasons,' Isabel said. ‘I can't explain them to you, but I promise you I can understand how he feels. There's so much I can't tell you because it wouldn't be fair. To him or to Charles. Please, Tim, you've always been such a friend to me – we've never had a quarrel – don't let's fall out about this!'

He got up and she thought he was going to leave. At that precise moment she was right. Everything on which he had based his hopes for the future was being destroyed. And then he saw the distress on her face, and his anger subsided. He chided himself bitterly. What a fool to lose his head and his temper – to walk away leaving the field clear for the man who was trying to spoil everything for him. He had never given way to outbursts of Irish temperament in his life; at this, the most important juncture in it, he was about to break that rule. He sat down again, beside her this time.

‘I'm so sorry Isabel,' he said. ‘I've been rude and thoughtless to you over this. And you're right. I ought to help you think it through instead of going up like a bloody rocket. Can I get us both a drink?'

She was glad to see him smile. There had never been friction between them before and she found it disturbing. ‘Yes please. Brandy – it's on the table over there.'

They sat together. He lit a cigarette.

‘Let's put Richard and his attitude aside,' he said. He felt calm now, ready to fight on any level. ‘Let's think of Charles for a minute. He bred that horse; we saw it foaled together; we talked about it the night he died, remember?' She nodded, not speaking.

He went on, remorselessly reminding her. ‘You asked me to help you run the stud and carry on the racing. Most of all you wanted to win the Derby for him. You told me it was his dying wish. We both know that he only held out against the cancer as long as he did in case he could get through till June. Isn't this true?'

‘Yes,' she said. ‘It is.'

‘He trusted you,' Tim said. ‘He put everything into your hands because he knew you'd take care of the horses and keep it all going. Richard hates the set-up; he's never pretended anything different. He hasn't any sentiment for Beaumont or what it means.'

‘It isn't only that,' Isabel said. ‘He feels Charles did it deliberately, to keep a hold on me. He says I'll never be free of him and able to find myself till I've got rid of all the associations with Beaumont and racing. And the trouble is, there's a lot of truth in it. Charles didn't give me any choice. Maybe I am in his shadow – perhaps he's right –'

‘He's wrong,' Tim said. ‘The only way you'll get free of Charles if you feel you have to – is when you've carried out your obligation to him. Run his horse, Isabel. Try and win for him. And then you can close the door on it all, if you want to. A lot of people are depending on you over this. There's Nigel; he's going to suffer professionally if you withdraw the Falcon – you know what a thing like that could do to his reputation. God knows how many people have backed it – they'll lose their money too. And then there's me. I've spilt my guts watching over the Falcon, planning for him, pointing him to that race. And if he wins I get a quarter of a million dollars under Charles's will. I'm being honest with you; my personal future depends on the Falcon. If you pull him out you've wrecked everything for me, too.'