Read an Excerpt

The Silver Falcon

OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA

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.

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.

---

Excerpted from The Silver Falcon by Evelyn Anthony. Copyright © 1977 Anthony Enterprises, Ltd.. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

---