scowled from their dusty canvases, a once luxurious and now moth-eaten Turkish carpet stretched forward into the brown shadows of the inner house.
Lawrence looked around, listened. Nothing.
Silence.
“Hello!” he called. “Father?”
Nothing.
On a whim he called, “Ben?”
The only sound he heard was the steady ticking of the old family grandfather clock. That at least was a sign of life; somebody had to wind it. Lawrence moved to the foot of the sweeping double staircase that led to the upper landing. Between the stairways hung a tapestry depicting strange monsters and heroes from Hindu legend. Lawrence studied it for a moment, as fascinated now as he had been as a boy, always discovering a new creature,a new brave warrior. He absently twirled his new cane through his fingers, the wolf’s head chasing itself through the air. Lawrence sighed, slid the cane into a Ming urn full of umbrellas that stood beneath the tapestry, and turned to call out again . . .
. . . but a fierce growl froze him in place as something huge and furry rushed at him from behind.
Lawrence cried out in shock and recoiled as the massive form of a great Irish wolfhound—two hundred pounds of muscle and sinew—galloped toward him across the big foyer, its savage teeth bared in a terrible snarl of pure rage.
Lawrence instantly backed away, backpedaling until his heels found the stairs and then he began to climb backward as the hound stalked him. He raised an arm across his throat, but even the thick wool of his greatcoat would be like tissue paper to those fangs. The hound began barking with a deep-chested bay that shook the whole foyer. Lawrence flinched at the noise and then cried out again as he collided with something behind him on the stairs. He whirled.
And there was his father.
Sir John Talbot stood tall and imposing, a huge rifle in his hands.
“I—” began Lawrence. He awkwardly retreated a step or two, caught now between the barking hound and the sudden and powerful presence of his father.
Sir John’s eyes were cool and calculating and he looked down at his son, but spoke to the dog. “Samson!”
The hound instantly went quiet.
The hall fell into an electric silence. Lawrence stood on the bottom step, one hand gripping the banister, the other frozen halfway into a gesture of contact—hand open as if to touch his father, but his reach withheld. Heswallowed and took one last retreating step, standing on the landing. Close to the hound, but closer to his walking stick, totally uncertain how this drama would play out. There were so many ways it could turn bad.
Sir John descended the stairs until he stood in front of his son.
“Lawrence . . .” he murmured, and there was surprise in his eyes. Confusion, too, as if Sir John was waking from a dream and found that fantastic images had followed him into the real world. “Lawrence?”
Lawrence cleared his throat.
“Hello, Father.”
Sir John’s eyes roved over Lawrence, taking his measure. “Lo and behold,” he said softly. “The prodigal son returns. . . .”
Despite everything, Lawrence smiled.
Sir John blinked and looked down at the big Holland & Holland “Royal” double rifle he held, smiling bemusedly as if surprised to see such a thing in his hands.
“Not too many visitors these days,” he said as he broke the rifle open and draped it comfortably over the crook of his arm. With that done the tension in the room eased by slow degrees as father and son stood there, each lost in the process of calculating all of the possible meanings behind this encounter, and feeling the tides of memory surge in on them.
“Shall I slaughter the fatted calf?” said Sir John with a rueful grin.
Lawrence stiffened. “Don’t go to any trouble on my account.”
Sir John stepped closer and once again took his son’s measure. As an actor, Lawrence was skilled at reading faces, but as bits of emotion flitted onto and away from his father’s face he found it
Lawrence looked around, listened. Nothing.
Silence.
“Hello!” he called. “Father?”
Nothing.
On a whim he called, “Ben?”
The only sound he heard was the steady ticking of the old family grandfather clock. That at least was a sign of life; somebody had to wind it. Lawrence moved to the foot of the sweeping double staircase that led to the upper landing. Between the stairways hung a tapestry depicting strange monsters and heroes from Hindu legend. Lawrence studied it for a moment, as fascinated now as he had been as a boy, always discovering a new creature,a new brave warrior. He absently twirled his new cane through his fingers, the wolf’s head chasing itself through the air. Lawrence sighed, slid the cane into a Ming urn full of umbrellas that stood beneath the tapestry, and turned to call out again . . .
. . . but a fierce growl froze him in place as something huge and furry rushed at him from behind.
Lawrence cried out in shock and recoiled as the massive form of a great Irish wolfhound—two hundred pounds of muscle and sinew—galloped toward him across the big foyer, its savage teeth bared in a terrible snarl of pure rage.
Lawrence instantly backed away, backpedaling until his heels found the stairs and then he began to climb backward as the hound stalked him. He raised an arm across his throat, but even the thick wool of his greatcoat would be like tissue paper to those fangs. The hound began barking with a deep-chested bay that shook the whole foyer. Lawrence flinched at the noise and then cried out again as he collided with something behind him on the stairs. He whirled.
And there was his father.
Sir John Talbot stood tall and imposing, a huge rifle in his hands.
“I—” began Lawrence. He awkwardly retreated a step or two, caught now between the barking hound and the sudden and powerful presence of his father.
Sir John’s eyes were cool and calculating and he looked down at his son, but spoke to the dog. “Samson!”
The hound instantly went quiet.
The hall fell into an electric silence. Lawrence stood on the bottom step, one hand gripping the banister, the other frozen halfway into a gesture of contact—hand open as if to touch his father, but his reach withheld. Heswallowed and took one last retreating step, standing on the landing. Close to the hound, but closer to his walking stick, totally uncertain how this drama would play out. There were so many ways it could turn bad.
Sir John descended the stairs until he stood in front of his son.
“Lawrence . . .” he murmured, and there was surprise in his eyes. Confusion, too, as if Sir John was waking from a dream and found that fantastic images had followed him into the real world. “Lawrence?”
Lawrence cleared his throat.
“Hello, Father.”
Sir John’s eyes roved over Lawrence, taking his measure. “Lo and behold,” he said softly. “The prodigal son returns. . . .”
Despite everything, Lawrence smiled.
Sir John blinked and looked down at the big Holland & Holland “Royal” double rifle he held, smiling bemusedly as if surprised to see such a thing in his hands.
“Not too many visitors these days,” he said as he broke the rifle open and draped it comfortably over the crook of his arm. With that done the tension in the room eased by slow degrees as father and son stood there, each lost in the process of calculating all of the possible meanings behind this encounter, and feeling the tides of memory surge in on them.
“Shall I slaughter the fatted calf?” said Sir John with a rueful grin.
Lawrence stiffened. “Don’t go to any trouble on my account.”
Sir John stepped closer and once again took his son’s measure. As an actor, Lawrence was skilled at reading faces, but as bits of emotion flitted onto and away from his father’s face he found it
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