Cry of the Curlew: The Frontier Series 1 (14 page)

The sharp physical pain she had initially experienced was soon forgotten as Michael caressed her body and soul with soft kisses and gentle, murmured words. The kisses all over her body were in places she had only imagined in her wildest and most erotic dreams while his hard body pinned her helpless in its embrace.

Their lovemaking continued throughout the night. At first it was passionate with the violence of mutual lust. But it soon became a tender expression of love and the experience was all Penelope had said. Fiona had gone to places without limit, experienced sensations explosive and sensual. And Michael had journeyed with her as a loving guide to those secret places in her mind.

The distant swish of the ocean breaking against the shore was as regular as a heartbeat. It was like a lullaby that finally soothed the two lovers into a deep and dreamless sleep in the early hours of the morning.

Fiona lay naked beside Michael in the time before dawn and gazed with wonder at his sleeping body. His soft snoring, a legacy of his nose broken in a fight, was itself a pleasant and reassuring sound of a man.

She touched his face with her fingers as lightly as a butterfly’s kiss and traced the outline of the hard muscle contours of his arm. She felt content and fulfilled in a way she had never known. But she was also frightened.

Slowly and reluctantly, she took her hand away from his arm and stared past him into the glow of the golden light that was creeping across the floor. It was a warning that the time had passed between them and with the new day she would have to leave him, probably forever. The joy and wonder of their love-making was now replaced by a sadness for what was to come.

She eased her naked body away from Michael and lay on her back staring at the ceiling. It was a dark place not yet touched by the sun, which was rising over a serene and crystal ocean. Dawn was upon them with its silence, a time where the soul was free to converse with the conscious mind.

She was not aware that sleep was returning to claim her. Nor was she aware of a disturbing voice that seemed to call from the depths of a desolate place as she twitched in the drifting world of half sleep. It was an eerie sound, like the voice of lost souls from far, far away. It was a lonely sound, a mournful cry in the depths of the early morning. There were whispers in the room that she could not hear.

The urgent rapping on the front door of the cottage woke Michael.

‘Fiona. Open the door. It’s me, Penelope. I must see you at once!’

Fiona snapped from her troubled sleep and dragged herself into a sitting position as her long raven hair fell across her face. Exhausted, she slipped from the bed and groggily pulled on the dress she had left on the floor. It clung to her body in a way that accentuated the curves of her hips and breasts.

Michael cast her a questioning look as she dressed. Puzzled, she shook her head before she padded across the bedroom floor. He waited until she had left the room before hastily dressing.

When Fiona opened the door to her cousin, she knew immediately that something was terribly wrong. It was clear in the anguished expression on Penelope’s face.

‘Penelope! What are you doing here?’ she asked as she closed the door behind them. ‘I thought you were up in the mountains with Mother and Granville.’

‘We were,’ her cousin answered as she glanced around the living room. ‘But David has returned early from Queensland and they are all in Sydney waiting for you to come home.’ She reached out and grasped Fiona by the arms. ‘There is something I cannot tell you here. Something that I think you should be told by your mother. Or David. Go and dress properly and we will return to Sydney on the next ferry. I have your mother’s carriage waiting for us at the Quay.’ Fiona stared at her cousin with a sick feeling in her stomach.

‘Does Mother know about Michael?’ she asked in a voice weak with fear, but Penelope shook her head.

‘I don’t think she is sure about Michael,’ she lied. ‘But she does know you were not at Sir John’s place last night. She asked Molly about where you might be, but she said she did not know. However, that is not why I have come to fetch you home,’ she added quickly to divert Fiona’s questions.

‘What is it, Penny? Is it about Father?’ Fiona gasped and was terrified at her cousin’s possible response to her question. Had her father been stricken with one of those fevers so prevalent in the north of Australia? Had there been an accident?

‘No, your father is as well as can be under the circumstances,’ Penelope answered evasively. ‘But I would rather you did not ask me any more questions here . . . or on the journey back to Sydney. Please accept what I say as any questions you have will be answered as soon as we are home.’ Fiona nodded and turned to the bedroom as Michael appeared in the doorway.

‘Good morning, Miss White,’ he said politely.

Penelope’s expression hardened at his appearance. ‘Good morning, Mister Duffy,’ she replied curtly. ‘I dare say you are well.’

She fell silent and looked away from him until Fiona was out of the room, when she said, ‘I believe you had a father in Queensland. And that your father’s name was Patrick?’

Michael stared at the young woman’s face now etched with a stony bitterness and he suddenly felt uneasy. She had used the past tense to ask about his father. Why? And it was something to do with the question she’d asked. So inappropriate to the moment.

‘Yes, my father is Patrick Duffy. How did you know my father’s name, may I ask?’

‘I suppose Fiona must have told me your father’s name at some stage,’ she replied. ‘If I could just ask one more question? Was there anyone else beside the Aboriginal called Billy with your father on the trip to Tambo?’ The hardness in her face was also in her voice.

‘Yes, my brother, Tom. But I don’t remember ever mentioning Old Billy to Fiona,’ he answered and his uneasiness became outright fear. ‘You are asking questions as if you know something of my father.’

Her reply was a cold and arrogant smile.

‘You know something about my father,’ he growled. ‘And I want you to tell me. Your questions were not made as part of polite conversation.’

‘I do not have to do anything of the sort, Mister Duffy,’ she spat venomously. ‘Especially to the son of a man who would give help to the murderer of a white man.’

Michael was lost to what she was saying, but her words had stung him to react. He took three long steps across the room to grip her by the shoulders and shook her as he roared, ‘What are you talking about? Damn you! What are you talking about?’

‘Michael!’

Fiona’s voice cut across the room and Michael released his grip on Penelope who stepped back and said bluntly, ‘Your father, Mister Duffy, is dead. And so probably is your brother. They were speared by the blacks on Glen View in November.’

Michael’s face drained and his shoulders slumped.

‘Oh, I almost forgot. The blacks speared Old Billy . . . as you call him . . . as well,’ she added viciously and turned calmly to her cousin. ‘Come, Fiona. I am sure Mister Duffy will find his way home,’ she said, and she was satisfied at the pain she had inflicted on him. Such is the wrath, Mister Duffy, for anyone who would dare take what was rightfully the property of a White, she thought, with a savage sense of victory over him.

She held out her hand to Fiona. ‘Come, Fiona. We must go immediately.’

Fiona responded to her cousin’s command like a sleepwalker. The events that had unfolded in the living room had shocked her into an almost comatose state. Deep in the now forgotten memories of her pleasure was an echo of a nightmare she could not remember.

TWELVE

A
lthough Enid Macintosh wore the traditional black of mourning, she still radiated an elegance that accentuated her dignified beauty. She was composed and in control of her grief when her daughter entered the large and dark library with Penelope.

Enid did not greet her daughter, but merely nodded her head to recognise her existence. Fiona immediately sensed a hostility in her mother’s set expression and returned the formal nod. When she glanced at her brother, David, who stood beside his mother, she saw only grief in his face.

Across the room, Granville stood with his hands behind his back and stared out a full-length window at the gardener who was trimming a hedge that bordered the gravel driveway. The sombre atmosphere of the room was something tangible and stifling.

Fiona stood at the centre of the library where she had most of her memories of her estranged father. The library walls were covered in bookcases along which, behind glass doors, were the books that he had collected over the years; journals of explorers, farming almanacs, atlases and books on religious philosophies. Books which were practical guides to a man’s spiritual and temporal life.

Although David crossed the room to his sister, Enid did not move from where she was seated, glaring with a barely concealed hostility at her daughter. Granville turned from the window to watch with clinical interest the events about to unfold in the library.

‘Angus is gone, Fi,’ David murmured softly as he placed his hands gently on her shoulders. ‘He was murdered by the blacks at Glen View. Father has buried him on the property.’

Fiona wanted to cry but Angus was almost a stranger to her. They had seen very little of each other over the years. Angus had lived with her father while she and David had gone to live in England. She felt a touch of guilt for the relief that it was Angus who had been killed – and not her beloved father. But she wished she could feel something more for her dead brother.

‘It seems, Fiona,’ Enid said coldly from behind the mahogany desk, ‘that this Michael Duffy person whom you have been seeing behind our backs is the son of the man who helped the murderer of your brother escape retribution.’

Fiona stared disbelievingly at her mother. How could she know so much about Michael? And the answer came almost immediately.

‘Penelope confirmed that this Michael Duffy you have been seeing is the son of a man called Patrick Duffy. David was told by your father that this Patrick Duffy stopped a police officer from performing his duty in apprehending the black murderer of your brother. The irony of the whole situation is that the blacks repaid the misguided man’s gesture by spearing him and his black companion to death. It was certainly God’s will that the man died for the sin he had brought on himself.’

Fiona gave Penelope a withering and accusing look that said: How could you betray the confidence that I had placed in you? And why? It was the ‘why’ that puzzled her most.

Penelope looked away with the guilt of her betrayal etched in her face. Any sorrow Fiona might have been able to muster for Angus was soon replaced with bitterness towards all her family.

‘I find it hard to believe that Michael’s father would help a murderer, Mother,’ Fiona spat defiantly. She could still feel Michael as if he were inside her. It did not seem possible such a man could be born of the man her mother spoke of. ‘There must be more to the events than you have told me.’

‘Lieutenant Mort of the Native Mounted Police confirmed to David the events I speak of, Fiona. It is not likely that a Queen’s man such as Mister Mort would tell lies. No, the only person who has been involved in lies here has been you, sneaking away like some common whore to see your Papist Irishman.’ She said this venomously with all the hatred she could muster for her daughter’s unforgivable betrayal. A daughter who had knowingly stepped outside her assigned station in life. Her duty was to her family first – and last.

Granville watched with great interest. With Angus dead, David was the next in line to inherit the family wealth. He regretted the unexpected change in the line of succession, as dealing with Angus was far easier than dealing with the sanctimonious David Macintosh. Oxford learning had put in his head strange and dangerous ideas about social reform and equality for all.

Then a not so disturbing thought occurred to Granville as he brooded on the implications of the eldest heir’s untimely demise. If something happened to David, Fiona would be the next apparent heir to the family business ventures. But David was young and healthy and it was unlikely he would die of natural causes for many years. Only an
unnatural
cause of death could change his luck. Granville tried to shake the troubling thought from his head. But as an ambitious and ruthless man, he could not completely discount the murder of his cousin. Under the right circumstances . . . He turned his attention to Fiona’s predicament.

Tears of rage and frustration had welled in Fiona’s eyes as she was left speechless by her mother’s invective.

‘I think I should be taking Miss Macintosh out of here, Missus Macintosh.’ The controlled anger in Molly O’Rourke’s voice cut across the room. ‘I think Fiona has had enough suffering for one day,’ she said as she went to Fiona and placed her arms around the young woman’s trembling shoulders. Molly O’Rourke, servant, and Enid Macintosh, mistress of the house, locked eyes.

‘I did not call on your services, Miss O’Rourke,’ Enid said imperiously. ‘So I would ask that you leave the room immediately. This is family business and has nothing to do with you.’

Molly stood her ground and refused to budge. She had held Fiona as a baby in her arms and had travelled to England with her to care for her in the Whites’ home there. No, she was not going to let anyone hurt her Fiona. She was not leaving the library unless it was with her baby. ‘We will, Missus Macintosh,’ Molly said firmly as she gently guided Fiona to the door.

‘Damned old Irish witch,’ Granville swore when she was gone. ‘You should throw her out on the streets where she deserves to be.’

‘Over my dead body,’ David said unexpectedly. ‘No one dismisses Molly while I’m alive. That woman has given everything for Fiona and me over the years, cousin, and no one dismisses her.’

Granville glared at him then looked to Enid for support. ‘I am sure the decision to dismiss the services of that Irish hag is in your mother’s hands, David, not yours,’ he said smugly.

Enid felt her son’s eyes on her. It was not a bullying stare, but one of a request. ‘As much as I detest the woman, David is right,’ she replied quietly. ‘With all her faults, her greatest virtue is that of loyalty to Fiona and David. No one will be dismissing her.’

Loyalty, David thought. More like love. But that was not a term used in the Macintosh house. Words like
position
and
duty
described their family relationships and David could not remember ever hearing his mother use the word ‘love’.

Another example of Macintosh solidarity, Granville thought bitterly when he observed Enid bow to her son’s request. Another example of David flexing his authority just as Penelope had predicted. He was becoming a dangerous man.

‘If I am not required any longer, I think I will leave, Aunt Enid,’ Penelope said, as there were matters to be discussed and an attempt at reconciliation between herself and her cousin.

‘I would hope you would go to Fiona and convince her that seeing that Irish boy has no future,’ Enid said to her niece. ‘I would rather you do it that way, than have me take stronger measures to prevent her seeing him.’

‘I will try,’ Penelope replied. ‘But I fear she thinks she is in love with the man.’

‘She only thinks she is in love with him,’ Enid snorted. ‘Remind her of who she is and her duty to the family. Remind her that the Irish rendering of love is a house full of dirty squalling children and the eternal stink of cabbage, while the husband spends all his time drinking himself into a stupor. Just remind her of that.’

Penelope nodded. ‘I am sure your description of life with the Duffy boy will change her mind,’ she replied facetiously then turned her back and, with a rustle of her dress, swished from the library.

Granville tried to make light of his sister’s parting sarcasm. ‘One would think Penelope was in sympathy with Fiona. Possibly have some sort of liking for the Irish lout herself.’

Neither David nor his mother could see the humour in his attempt to excuse Penelope’s retort. From what Enid had heard about Michael Duffy, she would not be surprised to find that her niece indeed had a ‘liking’ for the Irishman, as she was well aware of Penelope’s scandalous sexual escapades and she blamed her daughter’s infatuation with the Irishman partly on her niece. But the matter of Penelope’s morally degenerate influence on Fiona was something that could wait for the moment, as the events concerning the existence of Tom Duffy were of more pressing concern. She turned her attention to her son.

‘You mentioned that this Patrick Duffy had a son with him at the time he was speared?’ she queried.

‘Yes . . . and no. It appears that the son was with the dray when the natives speared his father and their darkie. At the time Lieutenant Mort found the deserted bullock team, one of his native troopers told him of the existence of the second white man, who we now know was Tom Duffy. According to Mort, Duffy would not last long out in the bush without assistance.’

The Duffy name was like an Irish curse on them. First in Queensland where Patrick Duffy had knowingly taken sides with the murderer of her son, and now in Sydney, where one of his sons had . . . she shuddered . . . she could not even entertain the thought that her daughter might have slept with the man. And now she had learnt of yet another of the man’s sons in Queensland. In all probability the son was dead and her husband had nothing to fear from him. But there was just that tiny irrational fear . . .

‘Biddy, I am going to need your help with Michael,’ Frank Duffy called to his wife from the kitchen.

She dropped the well-worn rosary beads on her bed and quickly threw a shawl over her long nightdress as she hurried down the staircase to the kitchen. She had recognised both anger and concern in her husband’s urgent entreaty for her to join him and her own concern was heightened by the muffled sound of Constable Farrell’s booming voice. She knew the voice well as the huge Irish policeman was a frequent visitor to the back door of the Erin Hotel for the occasional drink while he was on his beat.

‘Dear God. Not Michael,’ she muttered as she hurried to the kitchen where her husband met her with a scowl on his face fit to frighten the devil.

‘What has happened to Michael?’ she gasped, throwing her hands to her face. ‘Is he hurt?’ she asked anxiously with a maternal concern.

‘Worse than that . . . he’s drunk. And he didn’t make it to work today when I most needed him to help Max in the cellar. Constable Farrell has been kind enough to bring him home when a night in the lock-up might have been a better idea.’

She glanced at Michael who was sitting slumped over the heavy slab kitchen table. ‘Dear God! What has happened to you, Michael?’ She gently lifted his bloodied head from the table. His clothes were torn, a sweet and sickly smell of alcoholic spirits wafted from him and it was apparent that he had been in a brawl.

‘Sorry, Aunt Bridget,’ he mumbled through split lips. ‘Got into a bit of a fight.’

‘Get a bowl of hot water . . . Not too hot, Francis, and a couple of clean cloths,’ she ordered. This was not the first time she had cleaned Michael’s wounds after a fight. But then the injuries were not as severe as now, and it was obvious that he had not fared well in whatever donnybrook he had been involved in.

‘I wouldn’t be feeling too sorry for him if I were you, Biddy,’ Frank grumbled irritably as he filled an enamel basin with warm water. ‘It’s obvious that the man has decided to get drunk and get into a fight rather than do a day’s work. Never thought he would be one for taking to strong liquor. Never has in the past.’

‘Then he must have had a good reason to be this way, Francis,’ she snapped as she carefully prised away a section of blood-matted hair from Michael’s scalp to reveal a deep cut.

‘I will be all right. It’s nothing,’ Michael said apologetically as he gave her thin and fragile hand a gentle squeeze.

‘It is more than nothing to be sure, Michael,’ she countered softly. ‘You have a serious cut on your head and heaven knows where else you are hurt. We will clean you up first and see if we have need of fetching Doctor Hughes.’

‘I will live, Aunt Bridget,’ he protested. ‘I just let my guard down.’

‘What happened to get you into this state?’ she asked.

He knew she meant more than his physical injuries, and he could not look at her when he whispered hoarsely, ‘Da is dead. So is Old Billy. Tom is missing. Probably dead.’

‘God almighty!’ Frank swore and almost dropped the enamel dish of warm water he had filled. ‘How do you know this?’ he asked and Michael focused on his uncle’s face through a haze of rum and pain.

‘I know, Uncle Frank,’ he replied. ‘It would be hard for me to tell you how I know but believe me, I believe what I know to be true. Da and Old Billy were speared by the blacks on the Tambo trip. I don’t know all the details, except that it happened in November. I don’t know much about Tom’s fate. I suppose that is why we have heard nothing from them all these weeks.’

Frank collapsed into a chair and his face crumpled like wet paper as he stared past the battered face of his nephew.
Pat dead! And Tom missing!
The sudden and unexplainable lack of letters that had arrived regularly from the colony of Queensland now had a logical explanation. But not this terrible explanation. It was almost impossible to comprehend that a man like his brother, who had once defied the might of the British Empire both in Ireland and the colony of Victoria, could have fallen to the primitive spears of the wild black men of Queensland. Poor Katie! She was somewhere north and expecting to be reunited with a father and brother.

‘Dear God, Katie will be on her own!’ Bridget said, reflecting her husband’s unspoken thoughts. She ignored the fact that her niece was now a married woman as she had little faith in Kevin O’Keefe’s ability to be strong for his wife. O’Keefe was a city man, a womaniser, whom Katie had the misguided idea she could change with the words of the marriage vows. Bridget had never liked him but she had never told Kate of her doubts concerning the man she had married. She knew that any words against him would have only alienated her niece.