The Silver Falcon (2 page)

The voice was deep, with the Kentucky drawl very pronounced. It was the first thing that had attracted her, that beautiful male voice, full of power.

‘Come here, my darling. I've been waiting for you. Where's Andy?'

‘Gone,' she said. She came and sat with him; their hands clasped tight.

‘I should have been here,' she said. ‘I took Sam for a walk.'

‘Damn little dog,' he said and smiled. ‘Sits by the bed here and as good as says to me, come on you lazy old bastard, get up and take me out – did he catch anything?'

‘No. We went through the woods and he raced around looking. It was lovely today. We both missed you.'

‘I guess Andy's told you,' he said.

She faced him without hesitating. ‘Yes, darling. He did.' She felt him shrug beside her; the grip of her hand increased for a moment.

‘It wasn't any surprise to me,' he said. ‘I didn't need any damned X-rays. I could've told them what they'd find. It doesn't bother me, Isabel. I want you to know that. I'm not scared.'

‘I know,' she said gently. ‘That's what Andrew said. And you needn't be, darling. They could even be wrong. It's happened before.'

‘No chance,' he said. ‘I want you to face that. No chance at all. Do you have any idea how much I love you?'

It was dangerous for her to answer. She only shook her head.

‘I was saying to Andy,' he said. ‘I've done two things in my life that I'm really proud of – I bred the Falcon and I had the good sense to run you off your feet and marry you. I've had three very wonderful years with you, Isabel. You made me young again.'

She put her arms round him and kissed him; her cheeks were wet and there was nothing she could do. He whispered to her.

‘It was good with us, wasn't it – the age didn't make a damned bit of difference.…'

‘It was wonderful,' she said. ‘I wish I'd had a child. I wanted so much to give you something – you'd given me so much.'

‘I didn't want children,' he said. ‘I told you that, right at the start. Just you and me. Kiss me, Isabel.'

He leaned his head back against the pillows. He was holding her hand in both of his. The room was very still.

‘I'm going to miss the Derby,' he said suddenly. ‘That really cuts me up. If I could buy time I'd give a million dollars to last out till June – I know he'll win.' He turned and looked at her. ‘To win every major Classic in the States – but never an English Derby. I've planned and worked towards this for the last four years. And now I'm not going to live to see the goddamned race. That hurts, Isabel. That really hurts.'

‘You might,' she started to say, and then stopped. There was no hope of deceiving him. Nobody had ever fooled Charles Schriber. And it was typical of him that his only regret in the face of death was that he would miss the race which he had set his heart on winning. He had bred the colt himself, and from the day it was foaled, it became an obsession with him. He was one of the best known breeders in the world, a millionaire many times over who had built up a famous stud in the thirty years he had been at Beaumont. He was an owner breeder, keeping what he considered the best stock to race for himself. A man of power and influence in his community and in the international world of racing.

Isabel's meeting with him had been pure chance. In three short years he had changed her outlook, her interests and her life. Sitting beside him, watching him in the moments when he closed his eyes and rested, it seemed impossible to believe that he was going to die. The personality, even in sickness, was still so strong, the willpower like a current, touching the nerve endings of anyone in contact with him. Isabel had only felt its beneficial influence; protecting, guiding, spoiling her. But it was known that he was a dangerous man to cross, a tough businessman, and an exacting employer. There were no second-raters at Beaumont. They didn't last more than a day or two before he found them out. Isabel had never been afraid of him, but a lot of people were.

‘Darling,' she said. ‘Shouldn't I let Richard know about this?' He opened his eyes slowly; there was no expression in them.

‘No.'

‘Why not,' she persisted. ‘He's your son. He has a right to know.'

‘He has no rights so far as I'm concerned. The day I die he'll throw a party.'

‘Why did you fall out?' Isabel asked him. ‘I've never asked you because it was obvious that you didn't want to talk about it, but how can you feel so bitter – what's he done to you, darling? If you could tell me, I might be able to understand.'

He squeezed her hand and let it go. ‘There's no mystery,' he said. ‘I didn't want to talk about him because there wasn't a good word I could say. He was a trouble as soon as he could walk. His mother spoiled him rotten, and when he inherited her money he took off. He's dragged my name in the dirt. Drink, women, gambling; never a day's work. You talk about having children. One was enough for me. Forget it, sweetheart. The last person in the world I want standing round my bed is Richard.'

He smiled at her; he looked drawn and very tired. ‘Now you put it out of your head. Put a call through to Tim and tell him to come on up here. I want a report on the horses.'

‘It'll tire you out,' she protested. ‘He can come in tomorrow.'

‘I want him tonight,' her husband said. ‘Make the call, sweetheart. And don't fuss over me. If I'm dying, I'm going to do it in my own damned way.'

Tim Ryan arrived some twenty minutes later; she went downstairs, leaving them together. Charles liked to talk over the day's progress without any interruption. She went back to the study and waited for Tim to come down. He had been one of her first friends when she came to Beaumont. He was in his thirties, and he had held the post of racing manager to the Schriber stable for almost five years.

She lit a cigarette and smoked it slowly; she felt a sense of profound unreality. It seemed impossible that the conversation with Andrew had taken place. The room was full of her husband's presence; his armchair loomed opposite to her, a chair where no one else ever sat, even when he wasn't in the room. The picture above the fireplace was his Christmas present to her, a magnificent Stubbs of a grey stallion. He had bought it because he said it reminded him of his colt, the Silver Falcon. The wall of silver trophies glittered in the lamplight; he refused to lock them away in spite of the insurance company's protests. What the hell was the good of keeping something in the bank; they were made to look at and to remember their significance. Life, as he said forcefully, was for living. The capacity to extract the maximum out of every moment, good or bad, was part of his magnetism; she had never met anyone like him in England or even in the States, where personal dynamism was far more common. And now that singular spirit was going to be extinguished. A matter of a few weeks, two months at the most; that was the verdict. Christmas. She closed her eyes, fighting the tears. Christmas at Beaumont was the highlight of their year; Charles loved entertaining, and he kept open house for the week before and over the holiday. There were presents for every member of the staff and a huge Christmas tree which they decorated themselves. Neighbours dropped in to see them in a constant stream, bringing presents, children and friends. It had been the greatest imaginable contrast to the austere university festivities of her own home. The polite sherry parties and compulsory attendances at the glorious services were no preparation for the roaring hospitality of Beaumont, presided over by Charles. Their first Christmas, soon after their marriage, he had given her a mink coat wrapped up in a gigantic tinsel cracker. In three years he had given her more furs and jewellery, the Stubbs painting, a custom-made Rolls-Royce and a dress allowance that she couldn't begin to spend. But he knew every item in the household accounts and nobody got away with overcharging him a cent. It seemed to please him to spoil and indulge her as if she were more like a daughter than a wife; and then the mood would change and he would be a man, wanting her urgently in his bed.

When they first married, Isabel had tried to become as much a partner as a wife; her attempts to share his early life had been skilfully frustrated, her questions turned aside. The subject of his first wife was never mentioned. Remembering his reaction to her the one time she asked him about Frances, chilled her even now. He was a very private man in some ways, as secretive and resentful of intrusion as he was open-handed and extroverted in the normal way. There was a hint of despotism in his relationship with her which she had resolutely ignored.

Then immediately he would do something loving and generous, so that she felt ashamed, and anxious to make up for the fleeting criticism. And it was fleeting. Now, sadly for such a powerful man, his dependence in the last stages of the fatal illness had reversed the roles. It had made her deeply grateful for the chance to give him back the love he had so lavishly given to her.

She heard the door open and sat up quickly. Tim Ryan came in. She touched the sofa seat beside her. ‘Get us both a drink, Tim, and sit down.'

He sat holding the glass in his hand, making the ice float from side to side. ‘He was in great spirits,' he said. ‘Full of plans for next season. He seemed to get tired, though. How is he, Isabel?'

And then she told him. He looked down for a moment, not saying anything. He had a narrow, Celtic face, with deeply set blue eyes, and thick dark hair.

‘I'm so sorry,' he said slowly. ‘He's a grand man. I'm going to miss him. Is there anything I can do for you – you know if there's anything at all –'

‘Just keep him happy,' Isabel said. ‘Come and see him every night, just as usual and cheer him up. He's very fond of you.'

‘We've always got along,' Tim said. ‘Right from the start. And he's been very good to me. Does he know?'

‘Yes,' she said. ‘He may tell you himself when he's ready. I can't believe it, Tim. I can't imagine life without him.'

He reached over and took her hand. ‘Don't think about it,' he said. ‘Close your mind. And when the time comes I want you to know something. I'll be right with you. We all will.'

He had been in love with her since she first arrived to work for Charles as a temporary secretary. He had liked the quiet young English girl immediately and set out to gain her confidence. Tim knew as much about women as he did about horses, and this was not the type to be rushed. She had quality, and quality was worth waiting for. But he hadn't calculated on his employer. Charles Schriber had adopted a very different technique. Not for him the patient pursuit of a shy quarry. She hadn't been at Beaumont more than a fortnight before he set out to rush her off her feet. Tim had stood aside, reluctantly and in silence. One hint of competition and he would lose his job. Charles Schriber didn't give away anything he wanted. And he wanted Isabel Cunningham.

Tim had stood by at the wedding, toasted them along with the hundreds of guests, listened to the whispers among the neighbours about how much younger she was, and seen his employer, proud as an old stallion, standing beside his new wife, slim and dark, in a long cream dress. And now it was ending. Sooner, much sooner than he could ever have expected. Or hoped. He went on holding Isabel's hand.

‘We'll see him through it,' he said. ‘He was fretting because he couldn't get down to the yard and see the Falcon. I told him I'd bring the box up here and unload him in front. If he can be moved to the window he'll be able to see him from upstairs.'

Isabel turned to him. ‘Thank you, Tim – that would really please him! I know how much he loves the colt. He was saying to me tonight that he minded missing the Derby more than anything. If only he could have lived till June!'

‘As far as I'm concerned,' Tim Ryan said, ‘I'm going to act as if he will.'

‘Would you do me a favour?' she asked him.

He nodded. ‘Anything.'

‘Stay and have dinner with me tonight. We can go up and sit with him afterwards. He sleeps very early. I don't want to be alone. Do you mind –'

He was careful not to look at her.

‘I'd be happy to stay,' he said.

The next weeks went by very quickly. It seemed to Isabel and everyone in the house and on the stud that the days of Charles Schriber's life were flying past. Nothing changed outwardly. The great occasion was the morning Tim Ryan kept his promise and brought the Silver Falcon up to the front of Beaumont in a horse box. Isabel, Rogers the coloured butler, and the nurse lifted Charles out of bed and into a wheelchair. He was brought to the window, and the colt was unloaded and walked up and down below where he could see it.

Everyone from the youngest stable lad, to Geoffrey Oliver the stud manager, turned up to see it, and when the horse walked down the ramp, and Charles was seen at the window, there was a spontaneous cheer.

Isabel was beside him; he caught hold of her in his excitement and his grip was surprisingly strong.

‘Look at him – doesn't he look great! Look at that walk – and the quarters he's got on him! He's better than ever, my darling. He'll murder them.…' He had looked at her, and his haggard face was flushed with excitement; the flash of fire was in his sunken eyes. For a moment, watching his horse circle below him, Charles Schriber seemed ready to hold death at bay. Then the coughing began, rending him in a brutal spasm that robbed him of all strength. He had been taken back to bed, exhausted and almost too weak to speak. It was a whisper as Isabel bent over him, terrified by the effect of the outburst.

‘He'll win … even if I can't live to see him … he'll win the Derby for me.…' He had lost consciousness then, and when Andrew Graham was sent for he said that there had been a serious deterioration. He hadn't blamed Tim or Isabel; he asked, in his slow, measured way, what had brought on the attack and then looked at both of them.