Flight of the Eagle (53 page)

Fiona did not reply. She wondered if he was bluffing in an attempt to make her admit her lie. She had advised her daughters not to mention that she had requested them to retain their shares. Denial now would be fruitless – and silence less incriminating.

‘Or did your mother write to them?’ he pondered as he sucked on the cigar, filling the bedroom with the acrid smoke. ‘I wouldn't put it past her.’

He had been bluffing, she thought with a rush of relief. Dorothy had not broken her confidence.

‘No matter,’ he brooded. ‘I will take a trip to Germany, after I arrange the sale of Glen View, and put my case to them.’

‘You cannot sell Glen View,’ Fiona said with a shock. ‘The place is very special to my family.’

‘Your family!’ he exploded. ‘Ha! You despise your mother and always told me you would do anything within your power to hurt her.’ It was then that the thought crept to him that Lady Enid was not the only family she had. ‘You mean that bastard son of yours, Patrick Duffy. Don't you? Is it that you plan to buy my daughters' shares yourself?’

Fiona felt the bile rising again in her throat. ‘My protest is in regards to you selling the place where my brother and father are buried, Granville. Nothing more. But you would not understand a woman's sentimentality for such things.’

‘My sister would,’ he snarled. ‘Do you discuss sentimental things when you are in bed together, dear wife? Or do you cry out with pleasure for the things she does to your body?’

Fiona felt her face burning as her husband suddenly turned on the most precious bond she had formed outside that for her children. A bond she did not expect anyone other than her gentle and passionate lover of many years to understand. ‘What do you do to each other when you are in bed together?’ he asked savagely. ‘Do you …’

‘Shut up, Granville,’ she snapped. ‘Shut your filthy mouth. As if you can talk. You with your penchant for young girls. Oh, I know all about your depraved ways. I know all about the girl, Jenny Harris, and how she bore you a son when she was only thirteen.’

Granville blanched at the mention of a subject he had thought she was unaware of and regretted goading her into the revelation. The ever-occurring thought of his wife in the arms of his own sister had almost driven him to the point of madness many times. ‘Does your precious son know that his mother is a whore who sleeps with another woman?’ Granville countered.

But Fiona was determined not to let him blackmail her. ‘I doubt that anything else said about me could make him hate me anymore than he does now,’ she retorted as Granville shrugged his shoulders. ‘You might as well know,’ she continued, ‘I have made arrangements to take a passage to Germany at the end of the year to live permanently with Penelope and my daughters. Oh, and before you ask what Manfred thinks of the arrangement I can assure you he fully approves. You see, he is a real man.’

At the intended slur upon his manhood Granville rose from the chair and advanced on his wife. She tensed with an eruption of naked fear for the unbridled hate that filled the room and which threatened to explode in violence towards her. But he hesitated just as he was about to hit her. A mask-like smile loomed over her, an evil cunning emanated from her husband's face. ‘You are not worth all the pain you have caused me,’ he said in a controlled voice. ‘I have ways of hurting you that you could not imagine in your worst nightmares.’

He backed away and turned for the open door. Fiona watched him leave, slamming the door after him. She lay in the dark too petrified to release her grip on the sheets around her chin. She knew her husband too well. His threat was not an idle one. Somehow she knew that his parting statement involved Patrick.

In the Great Australian Bight the
Lady Jane
fought the giant rolling black seas chilled by the currents of the Antarctic Ocean. Patrick Duffy stood on the deck, just as he had as a child sailing via the Cape of Good Hope for England with his grandmother many years earlier. The cracking of the hemp rigging securing the huge expanse of square canvas sails brought back many memories.

The bow of the graceful ship rose on a wave and slid with a terrifying falling speed into the trough below. She wallowed for just a moment as she fought off the seas which threatened to crash over the stern while the wind howled with an eerie banshee cry that reminded Patrick of his ancient Irish heritage. The furious winds soaked him in a fine mist of salty water but he cared little for the discomfort as he stood gripping the rails. For here in the vast loneliness of the ocean he could reflect on all that was his life. And in his pocket was the tiny stone goddess Sheela-na-gig.

The captain of the
Lady Jane
had informed him at dinner that night they would be in docking in Port Elizabeth, God willing and the winds prevailing, within four weeks. Not soon enough for Patrick who had never thought he would return to Africa. And what would he do when he finally confronted his father who was now his competitor for the love of Catherine?

But the howling winds of the southern ocean gave him no answers and he turned away from the ship's rail to make his way cautiously down the rolling deck of the clipper. He would share a game of gin rummy and a bottle of whisky with the captain.

FIFTY-FIVE

T
he last person Gordon believed he would ever see again was Sarah Duffy. She stood on the verandah of the Balaclava homestead staring at him with an enigmatic expression.

Astride his mount, and with his troopers and his prisoner in tow, he felt confusion race through his weary body like currents of electricity. His and Sarah's eyes met and he was aware of neither happiness – not that he would expect such a reaction – nor bitterness as he would also expect. Just an unfathomable depth to her eyes that said nothing.

‘Dismount!’ he ordered and the troopers slid gratefully from their saddles to stretch their tired bodies in the dusty yard that surrounded the homestead which was far grander than that of Glen View.

Sarah said nothing as she watched the troopers yank roughly at the white man who still remained in the saddle of his mount. His hands were manacled and he looked very ill. A bloody bandage was wrapped around the crown of his head under his hat.

Calder barely resisted the rough handling. He was indeed very ill from the blow to his head inflicted by Terituba's war axe and often over the two days that it had taken to reach the Balaclava property Gordon had thought that his death might cheat the hangman.

‘Troopers here, Missus Rankin,’ Sarah called inside the house.

Adele Rankin bustled onto the verandah to greet the visitors. She was dressed in similar manner to Sarah: a long dress caught tightly at the waist and plumed at the back with a bustle. Adele Rankin was in her late thirties but the desiccating effects of the Queensland sun had wrinkled her skin prematurely but she had a pleasant and not unattractive face. ‘I see you have an injured man, Inspector,’ she called to Gordon as she recognised his rank. ‘Bring him around the back to the kitchen.’ Injured and wounded men, Aboriginal and European, were a regular sight at Balaclava and her reputation as a nurse was akin to that of a local doctor.

An Aboriginal trooper prodded the manacled man forward as Gordon opened the creaking gate and led the way down the narrow footpath of hard packed earth. As he walked towards the house he was aware of Sarah's eyes following him.

‘The man is obviously your prisoner, Inspector,’ Missus Rankin said as she poured water into an enamel basin by the tank stand at the back of the house. ‘What has he done?’

‘Killed a couple of men,’ Gordon replied, without elaborating on the rape of the selector's wife as it would not gain anything to upset the kindly woman.

Calder leered at Sarah who had joined them. ‘Get your eyes off her, you bastard,’ Gordon growled.

‘You planning on getting some of the darkie later, Inspector James,’ Calder retorted crudely.

Gordon was sorely tempted to smash the man in the face with his fist but refrained. He did not want to risk injuring the man any further.
Better he lived longer to reflect on his fate at the end of a rope.

Adele Rankin glared at Calder.

‘Sorry, Missus,’ he said with the flash of an apologetic grin.

‘Sarah, fetch some clean rags from the house and bring me the medical chest,’ Adele ordered as she peeled away the dirty bandage from the injured man's head to examine the wound. Very carefully she probed the hair matted with blood. ‘Skull seems to be intact, not fractured.’ Calder winced and swore as her probing fingers caused a fresh flow of blood. ‘I'll stitch the wound. And that should keep him alive for you.’

‘That's all he needs?’ Gordon asked, somewhat surprised. ‘Just stitching up.’

‘That's all I can do,’ she replied as she waited for Sarah to return with her medical chest. ‘By the way, Inspector, you haven't introduced yourself,’ she added with a frankness gained from working most of her life around men.

‘I'm sorry, Missus Rankin. My name is Gordon James.’

‘Gordon James,’ she repeated and a look of hostility suddenly appeared in her expression. ‘From Townsville way?’

‘I was. But I'm stationed at Rockhampton now.’

‘You're the man who was responsible for the killing of all those poor blackfellas up north last year. And I believe you know my governess, Miss Sarah Duffy.’

‘Yes,’ Gordon mumbled. ‘To both your observations.’

‘Then if that is so, you are no more welcome here than this man,’ she said, indicating Calder.

‘We had no intention of staying, Missus Rankin,’ he replied politely. ‘Just imposing on your skills as a medical person. We will leave as soon as you stitch up my prisoner.’

Sarah returned with a small wooden chest and refused to look at Gordon. Adele Rankin proceeded to clean the wound by cutting away at his hair. He complained bitterly but she told him to act like a man and shamed him into silence.

When she had completed her preparation work with the scissors she produced an evil looking needle from the chest and some cotton thread. ‘Hold him,’ she ordered the Aboriginal trooper who stood to one side, watching the proceedings with some curiosity. ‘He's not going to like what I'm about to do.’

The trooper grasped Calder by the arms and hissed a threat in his ear. Between his strong grip and the whispered threat, however, the prisoner did not struggle and with great skill the former nurse stitched the wound. Tears of pain streamed from Calder's eyes but to his credit he did not attempt to struggle against the sharp point of the needle.

‘There!’ she said triumphantly when she had finished. ‘Almost done. I will just apply a clean bandage and then you can go, Inspector James.’

‘Thank you, Missus Rankin. For what you've done.’

Adele repacked her medical chest and stared at Gordon. ‘Nothing to thank me for. I would have even done the same for you, had you needed treatment,’ she replied pointedly.

Her meaning was not lost on Gordon who guessed that Kate had informed Missus Rankin of him in some detail. It was no wonder she was so hostile, he thought morosely.

Missus Rankin then closed the lid on the medical chest and strode towards the house without further ceremony. For a brief moment Sarah stood uncertainly as Adele departed.

‘Sarah,’ Gordon choked, knowing it was he who must break the silence between them. ‘Could we talk for a moment?’

‘Gordon, I …’ Sarah answered softly. ‘I do not think we have anything to discuss.’ She turned to stare at the house. ‘I think I should see if Adele needs my help.’

‘Please,’ Gordon begged as he took her arm, aware that his troopers were staring curiously at their boss and the pretty half-caste girl. ‘I would like you to just give me a couple of minutes … away from here,’ he said with a nod of his head in the direction of his troop and steering her to the shade of a big gum on the far side of the yard.

Sarah did not resist and looked directly into his eyes without turning away. ‘I came here to take up this position as Missus Rankin's governess so that I would be far away from the bitter memories that you caused in all our lives. It was Aunt Kate's suggestion that I take a position here. She thought I might be able to care for others and forget the pain that you brought to my life when you killed my brother.’

‘I did not mean to kill Peter. You must know that,’ Gordon said with a note of despair. ‘I loved Peter as I would my own brother but the day it all happened events occurred beyond my control. I swear, that if I could go back in time, I would have chosen to be the one who had to die, not Peter.’

Sarah felt his grip on her arm and saw the pain in his eyes. ‘What do you mean “had to die”?’ she asked. ‘No-one “had to die” if you had not sought to continue with the Mounted Police.’

‘It was always meant to happen,’ Gordon answered with a plea for understanding in his eyes. ‘Peter told me years ago what the ancestor spirits had told Wallarie. That he and I could never be friends in this life because of what my father had done to Wallarie's people before even your brother and I were born. That a blackfella destiny said one must kill the other in the future.’

For a moment Sarah felt as if she should tear herself away and scoff at his idiotic explanation, but she felt the intensity of his words. Did not Aunt Kate say that there were things beyond the world of light unexplainable to mortals? The good nuns who had taught her the catechism had also explained that some things in religion were mystical in their existence. So why could the beliefs of her mother's people not be equally accepted? Were they not older than the Christian beliefs of the white man? ‘Do you truly believe that?’ she asked. ‘Do you believe that there is a power in the spirit of my Aboriginal heritage?’

‘I do, Sarah,’ Gordon answered sadly. ‘I don't know why but I have come to believe that this land is different to anywhere else. It has a strange power that I think only the blackfellas know about.’

‘And now you,’ she said softly as tears welled in her eyes. ‘I wish I could forgive you, Gordon James, and know that you accepted that part of me is rooted in the same soil as my mother's people. I could accept your grief for those things that live in the shadows of our lives if you could accept that I live between two worlds.’