"With you, mon coeur, every day will be Christmas." Then Nicole laughed mischievously. "I shall have to think up something very special for Guy Fawkes Day."
This time when they kissed, she didn't shed a single tear.
The Black Beast of Belleterre
He was ugly, very ugly. He hadn't known that when he was young and had a mother who loved him in spite of his face. When people had looked at him oddly, he had assumed it was because he was the son of a lord. Since there were a few children who were willing to be friends with him, he thought no more about it.
It was only later, when his mother had died and accident had augmented his natural ugliness, that James Markland realized how different he was. People stared, or if they were polite, quickly looked away. His own father would not look directly at him on the rare occasions when they met. The sixth Baron Falconer had been a very handsome man; James didn't blame him for despising a son who was so clearly unworthy of the ancient, noble name that they both bore.
Nonetheless, James was the heir, so Lord Falconer had handled the distasteful matter with consummate, aristocratic grace: he'd installed the boy at a small, remote estate, seen that competent tutors were hired, and thought no more about him.
The chief tutor, Mr. Grice, was a harsh and pious man, generous both with beatings and with lectures on the inescapable evil of human nature. On his more jovial days, Mr. Grice would tell his student how fortunate the boy was to be beastly in a way that all the world could see; most men carried their ugliness in their souls, where they could too easily forget their basic wickedness. James should feel grateful that he had been granted such a signal opportunity to be humble.
James had not been grateful, but he had been resigned. His life could have been worse; the servants were paid enough to tolerate the boy they served, and one of the grooms was even friendly. So James had a friend, a library, and a horse. He was content, most of the time.
When the sixth lord died—in a gentlemanly fashion, while playing whist—James had become the seventh Baron Falconer. In the twenty-one years of his life, he had spent a total of perhaps ten nights under the same roof as his late father. He had felt very little at his father's death—not grief, not triumph, not guilt. Perhaps there had been regret, but only a little. It was hard to regret not being better acquainted with a man who had chosen to be a stranger to his only son.
As soon as his father died, James had taken two trusted servants and flown into a wider world, like the soaring bird of the family crest. Egypt, Africa, India, Australia; he had seen them all during his years of travel. He had discovered that the life of an eccentric English lord suited him, and he also developed habits that enabled him to keep the world at a safe distance. Seeing the monks in a monastery in Cyprus had given him the idea of wearing a heavily cowled robe that would conceal him from casual curiosity. Ever after, he wore a similar robe or hood when he had to go among strangers.
Because he was young and unable to repress his shameful lusts, he had also taken advantage of his wealth and distance from home to educate himself about the sins of the flesh. For the right price, it was easy to engage deft, experienced women who would not only lie with him, but would even pretend that they didn't care how he looked. One or two, the best actresses of the lot, had been almost convincing when they claimed to enjoy his company, and his touch. He did not resent their lies; the world was a hard place, and if lying might earn a girl more money, one couldn't expect her to tell the truth. Nonetheless, his pleasure was tainted by the bitter awareness that only his wealth made him acceptable.
He returned to England at the age of twenty-six, stronger for having seen the world beyond the borders of his homeland; strong enough to accept the limits of his life. He would never have a wife, for no gently bred girl would marry him if she had a choice, and hence he would never have a child.
Nor would he have a mistress, no matter how much his body yearned for the brief, joyous forgetting that only a woman could provide. Though he was philosophical by nature and had very early decided that he would not allow self-pity, there were limits to philosophy. The only reasons why a woman would submit to his embraces were for money or from pity. Neither reason was endurable; though he could bear his ugliness and isolation, he could not have borne the knowledge that he was pathetic.
Rather than dwell in bitterness, he was grateful for the wealth that buffered him from the world. Unlike ugly men who were poor, Falconer was in a position to create his own world, and he did.
What made his life worth living was the fact that when he returned to England, he had fallen in love. Not with a person, of course, but with a place. Belleterre, in the lush southeastern county of Kent, was the principal Markland family estate. As a boy James had never gone there, for his father had not wished to see him. Instead, James had been raised at a small family property in the industrial Midlands. He had not minded, for it was the only home he had ever known and not without its own austere charm.
Yet when he returned from his tour of the world after his father's death and first saw Belleterre, for a brief moment he had hated his father for keeping him away from his heritage. Belleterre meant beautiful land, and never was a name more appropriate. The rich fields and woods, the ancient, castlelike stone manor house, were a worthy object for the love he yearned to express. It became his life's work to see that Belleterre was cared for as tenderly as a child.
Ten years had passed since he had come to Belleterre, and he had had the satisfaction of seeing the land and people prosper under his stewardship. If he was lonely, it was no more than he expected. Books had been invented to salve human loneliness, and they were friends without peer, friends who never sneered or flinched or laughed behind a man's back. Books revealed their treasures to all who took the effort to seek.
Belleterre, books, and his animals—he needed nothing more.
Spring
Sometimes, regrettably, Falconer deemed it necessary to leave Belleterre, and today was such a day. The air was warm and full of the scents and songs of spring. He enjoyed the ten-mile ride, though he was not looking forward to the interview that would take place when he reached his destination.
He frowned when he reined in his horse at the main gate of Gardsley Manor, for the ironwork was rusty and the mortar was crumbling between the bricks of the pillars that bracketed the entrance. When he rang the bell to summon the gatekeeper, five minutes passed before a sullen, badly dressed man appeared.
Crisply he said, "I'm Falconer. Sir Edwin is expecting me.
The gatekeeper stiffened and quickly opened the gate, keeping his gaze away from the cloaked figure that rode past. Falconer was unsurprised by the man's reaction; doubtless the country folk told many stories about the mysterious hooded lord of Belleterre. What kind of stories, Falconer neither knew nor cared.
Before meeting Sir Edwin, Falconer knew that he must ascertain the condition of the property; it was the reason he had chosen to visit Gardsley in person rather than summon the baronet to Belleterre. Once he was out of sight of the gatekeeper, he turned from the main road onto a track that swung west, roughly paralleling the edge of the castle.
On the side of a beech-crowned hill he tethered his mount and pulled a pair of field glasses from his saddlebag, then climbed to the summit. Since there was no one in sight, he pushed his hood back, enjoying the feel of the balmy spring breeze against his face and head.
As he had hoped, the hill gave a clear view of the rolling Kentish countryside. In the distance he could even see steam from a Dover-bound train. But what he saw closer did not please him. The field glasses showed Gardsley in regrettable detail, from crumbling fences to overgrown fields to poor quality stock. The more he saw, the more his mouth tightened, for the property had clearly been neglected for years.
Five years before Sir Edwin Hawthorne had come to Falconer and asked for a loan to help him improve his estate. Though Falconer had not much liked the baronet, he had been impressed and amused by the man's sheer audacity at asking
a complete stranger for money. Probably Hawthorne had been inspired by stories of Falconer's generosity to charity and had decided that he had nothing to lose by requesting a loan. Sir Edwin had been very eloquent, speaking emotionally of his wife's expensive illness and recent death, of his only daughter, and how the property that had been in his family for generations desperately needed investment to become prosperous again.
Though Falconer had known he was being foolish, he had given in to impulse and lent the baronet the ten thousand pounds that had been requested. It was a sizable fortune, but Falconer could well afford it, and if Hawthorne really cared that much about his estate, he deserved an opportunity to save it.
But wherever the ten thousand pounds had gone, it hadn't been into Gardsley. The loan had come due a year earlier, and Falconer had granted a twelve-month extension. Now that grace period was over, the money had not been repaid, and Falconer must decide what to do. If there had been any sign that the baronet cared for his land, Falconer would have been willing to extend the loan indefinitely. But this… ! Hawthorne deserved to be flogged and turned out on the road as a beggar for his neglect of his responsibilities.
Falconer was about to descend to his horse when he caught a flash of blue on the opposite side of the hill. Thinking it might be a kingfisher, he raised his field glasses again and scanned the lower slope until he found the color he was seeking.
He caught his breath when he saw that it was not a kingfisher but a girl. She sat cross-legged beneath a flowering apple tree and sketched with charcoal on a tablet laid across her lap. As he watched, she made a face and ripped away her current drawing. Then she crumpled the paper and dropped it on a pile of similarly rejected work.
His first impression was that she was a child, for she was small and her silver-gilt tresses spilled loosely over her shoulders rather than being pinned up. But when he adjusted the focus of the field glasses, the increased clarity showed that her figure and face were those of a woman, albeit a young one. She was eighteen, perhaps twenty at the outside, and graceful even when seated on the ground.
In spite of the simplicity of her blue dress, she must be Hawthorne's daughter, for she was no farm girl. But she did not resemble her florid father; instead, she had a quality of bright sweetness that riveted Falconer's attention. His view was from the side and her pure profile reminded him of the image of a goddess on a Greek coin. If his old tutor, Mr. Grice, could have seen this girl under the apple tree, even that old curmudgeon might have wondered if all humans were inherently sinful.
She was so lovely that Falconer's heart hurt. He did not know if his pain was derived from sadness that he would never know her, or joy that such beauty could exist in the world. Both emotions, perhaps. Unconsciously he raised one hand and pulled the dark hood over his head, so that if by chance she looked his way, she would be unable to see him. He would rather die than cause that sweet face to show fear or disgust.
When he had made his plea for money five years earlier, Sir Edwin had mentioned his daughter's name. It was something fanciful that had made Falconer think her mother must have loved Shakespeare. Titania, the fairy queen? No, not that. Ophelia or Desdemona? No, neither of those.
Ariel—her name was Ariel. Now that Falconer saw the girl, he realized that her name was perfect, for she seemed not quite mortal, a creature of air and sunshine. Her mother must have been prescient.
Though he knew it was wrong to spy on her, he could not bring himself to look away. From the way her glance went up and down, she was sketching the old oak tree in front of her. She had the deft quickness of hand of a true artist who races time to capture a private vision of the world. He was sure that she saw more deeply than mere bark and spring leaves; a pity that he couldn't see her work.
A puff of breeze blew across the hillside, lifting strands of her bright hair, driving one of her crumpled drawings across the grass, and loosening blossoms from the tree. Pink, sun-struck petals showered over the girl as if even nature felt compelled to celebrate her beauty. As the scent of apples drifted up the hill, Falconer knew he would never forget the image that she made, gilded by sunshine and haunted by flowers.
He was about to turn away when the girl stood and brushed the petals from her gown. After gathering her discarded drawings, she turned and walked down the opposite side of the hill, away from him. Her strides were as graceful as he had known they would be and her hair was a shimmering, silver-gilt mantle. But she had overlooked the drawing that had blown away.
After the girl was gone from view, Falconer went down and retrieved the crumpled sheet from the tuft of cow-parsley where it had lodged. Then he flattened the paper, careful not to smudge the charcoal.
As he had guessed, the girl's drawing of the gnarled oak went far beyond mere illustration. In a handful of strong, spare lines, she had implied harsh winters and fertile, acorn-rich summers; sun and rain and drought; the long history of a tree that had first sprouted generations before the girl was born and should survive for centuries more. That slight, golden child was indeed an artist.
Since she had not wanted the drawing, surely there was no harm in his keeping it. And, knowing himself for a sentimental fool, he also plucked a few strands of the grass that had been crushed beneath her when she worked.
He watched for the girl as he completed his ride to the manor house, but without success. If not for the evidence of the drawing in his saddlebag, he might have wondered if he had imagined her.
Sir Edwin Hawthorne greeted his guest nervously, gushing welcomes and excuses. He had been a handsome man, but lines of dissolution marred his face and now sweat shone on his brow.
As Falconer expected, the baronet was unable to repay the loan. "The last two years have been difficult, my lord," he said, his eyes darting around the room, anything to avoid looking at the cowled figure who sat motionless in his study. "Lazy tenants, disease among the sheep. You know how hard it is to make a profit on farming."
Falconer knew no such thing; his own estate was amazingly profitable, for it flourished under loving hands. Not just the hands of its master, but those of all his tenants and employees, for he would have no one at Belleterre who did not love the land. Quietly he said, "I've already given you a year beyond the term of the original loan. Can you make partial payment?"
"Not today, my lord, but very soon," Sir Edwin said. "Within the next month or two, I should be in a position to repay at least half the sum."
Under his concealing hood, Falconer's mouth twisted. "Are you a gamester, Sir Edwin? The turn of a card or the speed of a horse is unlikely to save you from ruin."
The baronet twitched at his guest's comment, but it was the shock of guilt, not surprise. With quick mendacity he said, "All gentlemen gamble a bit, of course, but I'm no gamester." He ran a damp palm over his hair. "I assure you, if you will give me just a little more time…"
Falconer remembered the neglected fields, the shabby laborers' cottages, and almost refused. Then he thought of the girl. What would become of Ariel if her father's property was sold to pay his debts? She should be in London now, fluttering through the Season with the rest of the bright, well-born butterflies. She should have a husband who would cherish her and give her children.
But a London debut was expensive, and likely any money her father managed to beg or borrow went on his own vices. In spite of the isolation of his life, Falconer was not naive about his fellow man. He was surely not Hawthorne's only creditor; the man had probably borrowed money in every direction and had debts that could not be repaid even if Gardsley was sold.
Falconer felt a surge of anger. A man who would neglect his land would also neglect his family, and a girl who should have been garbed in silks and adored by the noblest men in the land was wearing cotton and sitting alone in a field. Not that she had looked unhappy; he guessed that she had the gift of being happy anywhere. But she deserved so much more.
If Falconer insisted on payment now, her father would be ruined, and the girl would probably end up a
poor relation in someone else's house. Unable to bear the thought, Falconer found himself saying, "I'll give you three more months. If you can repay half of the principal by then, I'll renegotiate the balance. But if you can't pay…"It was unnecessary to complete the sentence.
Babbling with relief, Sir Edwin said, "Splendid, splendid. I assure you I'll have your five thousand pounds three months from now. Likely I'll be able to repay the whole amount then."
Falconer looked at the baronet and despised him. He was a weak, shallow man, unable to see beyond the fact that he had been spared the consequences of his actions for a little longer. Abruptly Falconer rose to his feet. "I'll be back three months from today."
But as he rode home to Belleterre, he was still haunted by one thought. What would happen to the girl?
Ariel returned to the house for lunch, pleased that she had done several sketches worth keeping. Her satisfaction died when she found that her father had taken the train down from London that morning. As soon as the butler told her, Ariel put one hand to her untidy hair, then darted up the back stairs to her room.
As she brushed the snarls from her hair, she wondered how long Sir Edwin would stay at Gardsley this time. Life was always pleasanter when he was away, which was most of the time. But while he was here, she must tread warily and keep out of his sight. Alas, she could not escape her daughterly duty to dine with him every night. He would criticize her unladylike appearance; he always did. He would also be quite specific about the many ways in which she was a disappointment to him.
Once or twice Ariel had considered pointing out that he didn't allow her enough money to be fashionably dressed even if she had been so inclined, but caution always curbed her tongue. Though not a truly vicious man, Sir Edwin was capable of lashing out when he had been drinking, or when he was particularly frustrated with his circumstances.
Still brushing her hair, she wandered to her window and looked out. She loved this particular view. The clouds were quite dramatic this afternoon; perhaps she could go up on the roof and try to capture the sunset in watercolors. But no, that wouldn't be possible tonight, since she would have to dine with her father.