Kal

by Judy Nunn

  ‘You will be the most beautiful woman present,’ he whispered.

  A small willy-willy swept down Hannan Street. As they stepped from the pavement, it whirled about them and Kate grasped at her hat. The unruly auburn curls she had so painstakingly pinned up escaped in an instant. ‘I will be the untidiest woman present,’ she laughed as they walked up the front steps to the Restaurant Picot.

  ‘Giovanni.’ Paul Dunleavy broke off his conversation with Tony Prendergast and Freddie and extended his hand to the Italian. ‘And your family. At long last I meet your family.’ Paul glimpsed a beautiful face beneath the blue hat as the woman smiled at her husband.

  ‘Yes, sir. Caterina, this is Mr Dunleavy. Mr Dunleavy, my wife—’ Giovanni had been about to say ‘Kate’, but Dunleavy interrupted.

  ‘Caterina…’ The eyes that had looked up to meet his were eyes so blue that they danced. Her mouth was full and sensual, rich auburn curls framed her face, and Paul recognised her in an instant.

  Caterina was momentarily disconcerted. She knew this man. From where? ‘I am called Kate,’ she corrected politely but firmly. ‘Caterina is a family name.’ This might well be the powerful Mr Dunleavy, she thought, but only Giovanni called her Caterina. She smiled to soften the words and hoped she did not sound rude, but Mr Dunleavy appeared not to have heard. His eyes, strangely familiar, remained transfixed upon her. He reminded her of someone. Who? And suddenly she remembered. Paul. Her Paul from the chalet. His name had been Dunleavy—how could she have forgotten?

  There was a moment’s awkward pause as they stared at each other. Giovanni was confused, tonguetied, knowing something was happening between his wife and Mr Dunleavy. It was Tony Prendergast who came to the rescue and continued the introductions.

  ‘This is Kate’s son, Paul,’ he said.

  ‘Paolo, sir. How do you do?’ Paolo’s correction was automatic as he shook the hand extended to him.

  ‘And this is Briony.’ It was Giovanni who finished the introductions and the girl bobbed a curtsy as her mother had taught her. But Paul Dunleavy had not released the boy’s hand. Now it was Paolo upon whom his gaze was focused.

  The eyes that looked back at him could have been his own, Paul realised. Clear, grey, questioning eyes. He was looking at himself as a boy.

  ‘Paolo was it?’ he said. He knew he was holding onto the boy’s hand too long, but he was loath to relinquish it. Paolo. He’d loved the way she’d called him Paolo, he remembered now, particularly as they lay in each other’s arms, warm and sated, watching the snow through the chalet windows gently blanket the mountainside.

  ‘Yes, sir, Paolo Gianni.’

  ‘Well,’ Paul turned to Giovanni, forcing his mind back to the present, ‘this is a fine family you have, Giovanni.’ He beamed his most avuncular smile at the girl he’d ignored. ‘And Briony must be the prettiest young lady in Kalgoorlie, she obviously takes after her mother.’ He risked a smile at Kate. She’d recognised him, he knew it. He would try and see her alone later. ‘Please, enjoy yourselves.’ He gestured expansively to the waiters with their trays of food and drinks, then turned to greet the new arrivals.

  ‘Look after Briony,’ Kate instructed as Paolo left to join a group of the younger guests. She accepted a glass of champagne from the tray a waiter offered them. Giovanni said nothing, but watched her closely as he sipped from his own glass. There was a query in his eyes and she knew he was waiting for the answer.

  ‘I knew him,’ she said, ‘a long time ago.’ She looked at Paul Dunleavy as he played host. He wore his power and wealth with ease. He had been born to it, she realised. He had always been born to it; she had simply been an adventure. He was very recognisable to her now. Age had thickened his body and his fine patrician face had coarsened a little with time but he was the same man, even in the way he swept his now greying fringe from his brow. She smiled to herself. How easily she had forgotten him. He darted a glance in her direction and she looked away. ‘A very long time ago,’ she said.

  ‘Paolo…?’ Giovanni asked. He already knew the answer.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you love him?’

  ‘I thought I did.’ As she put one arm around his waist, he automatically returned the embrace and he could feel the softness of her skin under the fabric; she was nearly five months pregnant and no longer wore corsets beneath her gowns. Giovanni wished they could go home and make love. Gently, lying sideways as they now did during her pregnancy.

  ‘He was the first,’ she continued. She could feel Giovanni’s thigh against hers and, beneath her fingertips, she could feel his hip bone. If she were to run her fingers lightly down that beautiful groove between his hip bone and his groin…She wished they could go home. ‘He was the first,’ she shrugged, ‘so I thought I loved him.’ She moved her thigh very gently against his and he slid his hand up from her waist until it was almost upon her breast. They smiled teasingly at each other. ‘I was very young,’ she whispered, ‘how was I to know?’ His hand closed upon her breast and he leaned down under the blue hat to kiss her, but she ducked quickly out of the embrace, spilling her champagne. ‘Giovanni!’ she hissed, but her eyes sparkled with desire as she darted self-conscious looks at the guests milling about.

  ‘Nobody would notice if we went home,’ he murmured.

  ‘Yes they would.’

  ‘But we have a responsibility,’ Giovanni said seriously. ‘We must discuss what has happened, whether we tell Paolo or—’

  ‘There is plenty of time to discuss what has happened,’ she smiled. ‘Paolo has lived without the knowledge of his father for sixteen years, a day or two more won’t hurt. Now come along.’ She put her arm firmly into his. ‘We are going to mingle and we are going to say all the right things to all the right people.’ She led him into the fray.

  IT WAS TOWARDS the end of the luncheon that Paul Dunleavy approached her. He had been seated at the far end of the restaurant, at a table near the balcony, with Harry and Maudie Brearley and Henry Vandenberg and his wife. Kate and Giovanni had been seated at the far wall, on the other side of the main staircase. Harry had made sure of that.

  ‘Mrs Gianni,’ he said quietly. She turned to see him standing beside her chair. ‘May I have a word with you?’ Kate looked at Giovanni who nodded. She thought it rude of Dunleavy not to have referred to her husband.

  ‘Of course,’ she said and she accompanied him downstairs to one of the deserted front booths, away from the excited cries of the children being entertained by the magician at the rear of the lounge.

  She was pregnant, he realised. Not hugely, but noticeably. He didn’t comment upon it. It was unusual for a noticeably pregnant woman to be seen in society—but then, this was Kalgoorlie.

  ‘Caterina…’

  ‘Kate.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Kate.’ He was disconcerted. He remembered the vividness of her blue eyes. He remembered, as if it were yesterday, how they had looked at him so trustingly. ‘Io sono vergine,’ she had said. How could he have forgotten? Now, these same blue eyes disconcerted him. He didn’t know where to begin.

  ‘I wanted to come back and find you,’ he said. It was a lie. He hadn’t. He had married Elizabeth only months after his return from Steinach that winter. Everyone had approved. Elizabeth was old family too. A true Bostonian.

  She nodded and smiled and he sensed that she didn’t believe him, but also that she didn’t care and that it didn’t matter. He was even more disconcerted. He cleared his throat. ‘Paolo…’ he began.

  ‘Paolo is your son.’

  Paul wasn’t sure whether he admired her for such a blatant admission or whether he found it tasteless. There were ways of conducting such a conversation, surely.

  ‘Yes.’ He fought against clearing his throat again. ‘Does Giovanni know?’

  Kate felt intensely irritated. Not only by his intimation of a secret shared, but by the manner in which he referred to her husband. She understood the protocol within the hierarchy of the Midas, she had learned it t
hrough her years with Evan. Paul Dunleavy was ‘Mr Dunleavy, sir’ and Giovanni was merely ‘Giovanni’, she understood that. But she found the condescension in Paul’s tone offensive.

  ‘I have no secrets from my husband,’ she replied stiffly.

  Paul realised that he had offended her in some way but he didn’t know how. Damn it, why was the woman being so proud? The situation was awkward enough as it was.

  ‘What exactly does Paolo know of his natural father?’ He thought he had voiced the question delicately. Surely the boy didn’t know he was a bastard?

  Kate relaxed a little. She wondered why she was being so defensive. Paul Dunleavy was a proper man and he was finding the situation very confronting. But what did he want of her? An oath of silence? Did he fear that she would broadcast the news of his bastard son? Was he afraid that she would blackmail him? She wished he would get to the point.

  ‘I have not lied to Paolo,’ Kate said. ‘I told him when he was very little that his father was an American. No more, no less.’

  ‘I see.’ He seemed about to say something, then thought better of it.

  ‘What is it you want…?’ She couldn’t bring herself to call him Paul and she was certainly not going to say ‘Mr Dunleavy’.

  Blunt as her question was, there was no animosity in her voice and Paul found himself answering with equal bluntness. ‘I would like to know my son.’

  Kate was taken aback—it was not what she had expected. She studied him for a moment. ‘I will speak with Paolo,’ she said finally. ‘If he wishes to meet with you I will have no objection.’

  Paul rose from the table, relieved that the interview was over. ‘Thank you, Caterina,’ he said.

  ‘Kate.’

  ‘SHOULD I DO it?’ Caterina asked Giovanni that night. ‘Should I tell Paolo?’

  To Giovanni the answer was simple. ‘Yes. It is a good thing for the boy to know his natural father.’

  Paolo’s reaction proved to be just as simple. So the American who happened to be his father was none other than the powerful Mr Dunleavy. Paolo was impressed, but it meant no more than that to him. He couldn’t really think of Mr Dunleavy as his father—as far as Paolo was concerned Giovanni was his father. But the boy was proud that the American showed an interest in him.

  So each weekend, on a Saturday afternoon, Mr Dunleavy paid a visit and they would talk together. Usually away from the house. Kate would offer tea but invariably Mr Dunleavy would say, ‘Let’s have a walk, Paolo, what do you say? I need the exercise.’ And the boy came to recognise that Mr Dunleavy was not comfortable in the presence of his mother and Giovanni.

  Paolo fascinated Paul Dunleavy. The boy didn’t belong in Kalgoorlie. He was a brilliant student, just as Paul himself had been. And, just as Paul had done, he wanted to study mining engineering. He intended to enrol in the Kalgoorlie School of Mines.

  There was nothing wrong with the Kalgoorlie School of Mines, Paul thought, it was a recognised place of learning. But it was not Harvard. And when the boy had graduated, what then? He would be stuck for the rest of his life in Kalgoorlie. Looking after his peasant family, marrying a peasant daughter of one of their peasant friends. No, the boy did not belong in Kalgoorlie at all. He didn’t even look the part. His was a patrician face, his whole bearing was one of breeding. There was Dunleavy blood in him.

  As the months went by, Paul filled the boy’s head with stories of his travels. Then he fired the boy with excitement at what lay ahead for a successful man in his chosen field. ‘A first-rate mining engineer has the world at his feet, Paolo.’ He wanted to say ‘son’ but he dared not. Paul was aware of the bond between the boy and Giovanni, he knew he must tread warily. He talked of the vast mines in South Africa and North America, all the while watching the growing excitement in the boy’s eyes. Paolo wanted to travel, he was hungry to adventure and see the world. And so he would.

  As the summer passed and the goldfield’s brief suggestion of autumn slid into winter, Paul became obsessed. Soon he would be returning to Boston, to the home where the boy belonged. The boy was his son. His only son and heir. The boy belonged to him.

  ‘IT’S A VERY generous offer, Paul.’

  Kate had become comfortable enough with their first-name basis, Paul noticed, but Giovanni had not.

  ‘Yes, it is very generous,’ Giovanni agreed. ‘Have you spoken to Paolo?’

  ‘No, no, no,’ Paul waved a magnanimous hand as if outraged by the suggestion. ‘I couldn’t possibly fill the boy’s head with such dreams if his own parents were against the idea. But I know that he is very keen to travel, and Harvard will most certainly accept him, be assured of that.’ He smiled and added, ‘I happen to be on the board of directors.’

  ‘Why would you wish to do this?’

  It was the question Paul Dunleavy had been expecting. Kate’s eyes were searching his, measuring his every word, and he knew he must answer carefully. He had the feeling that Kate didn’t particularly like him, although he didn’t know why, and she certainly didn’t trust him. Giovanni was the simple one, Paul had come to realise. A good man who expected goodness in others. There was a shrewdness in Kate and she was the one he must convince.

  He leaned forward in his chair in the little front parlour of the Giannis’ house where they were taking afternoon tea, and spoke with the earnestness of truth.

  ‘He is a fine student, Kate. You know that. With his academic abilities there is no limit to the heights he could achieve. And the Kalgoorlie School of Mines, excellent as it is, could never offer the connections he would make at Harvard. One must not underestimate the power of the old school tie.’

  ‘That doesn’t really answer my question.’

  Paul refused to be disconcerted. ‘I am deeply fond of Paolo, as I’m sure you’re aware.’ He addressed himself to Giovanni as well as Kate now. ‘But I have no wish to interfere with his family life. It would mean only four years at the university and then he could have his choice of positions right here in Kalgoorlie.’ He grinned at Giovanni. ‘Why, he could even qualify for my job. How would you like your son as a boss, Giovanni?’

  Giovanni smiled politely back. He saw no reason to distrust Mr Dunleavy. It seemed a fine opportunity for Paolo if he wished to accept the offer.

  Paul relaxed. ‘And of course it would allow you the financial freedom to concentrate upon your new arrival.’ He glanced at the cradle in the corner where the three-month-old baby girl lay peacefully asleep. ‘That is surely worthy of consideration.’

  ‘It is worthy of no consideration at all.’ Paul was taken aback by the edge in the Italian’s voice. ‘There will be money enough to educate Paolo, you need have no fear of that.’

  ‘Well of course, Giovanni, of course.’ Paul cursed himself. Damn it, that had been a mistake. ‘I’m merely offering—’

  ‘It is a generous offer, as we have agreed,’ Giovanni cut him short, ‘but it is Paolo’s decision. He is of an age when he can choose his own future. I will fetch the boy.’ He left abruptly and Paul was nonplussed. He had expected to win the Italian over with ease. Kate was the one whose arguments he’d feared. But he had a further weapon to use if necessary, and now was the time.

  ‘Life’s opportunities, Kate, one must always seize them when they arise, God knows they may never materialise again.’ He smiled and leaned back affably in his chair. ‘Giovanni, for instance. It’s a rare thing for an Italian to achieve the status of underground boss. There is an element of dislike for foreigners here in Kalgoorlie. Of course I personally disapprove of such discrimination—the best man for the job is what I say, and Giovanni is certainly that—but I would hate to see my successor revert to the discriminatory pattern which seems to be the rule.’

  ‘You would go that far?’ Her voice was cold.

  ‘Oh no, Kate, no. Good God, you misunderstand me.’ Excellent, he thought, she had read his veiled warning and he was glad that he’d been saved a more explicit threat. ‘Of course I shall ensure that Mr Vandenburg honours Giovanni
’s contract. I’m merely pointing out how advantages must be grasped when they are offered.’

  The blue eyes drilled into his. ‘Why? Why do you want to do this for Paolo? You have still not answered my question.’

  ‘I want to see the boy realise his potential, Kate, no more than that. I want to offer him the opportunity to do so.’

  ‘Very well.’ She didn’t believe him for a minute and he knew it. ‘As Giovanni says, it must be Paolo’s decision.’

  ‘Fine, fine.’ Paul relaxed. He knew what the boy’s decision would be.

  In eighteen months’ time, when he was eighteen, Paolo would come to Boston. It was a pity he had to wait so long, Paul thought, but Kate would most certainly be suspicious if he urged the boy to join him before his eligibility for Harvard. In the meantime, he would write regularly to Paolo, and keep the fire of excitement raging in the boy.

  Kate believed in the power of her influence over her son, Paul realised. She believed that, after his schooling, he would return to the family fold. She was wrong. Once Paul had him in Boston, the die would be cast. His son and heir would never return to Kalgoorlie. Paul Dunleavy would see to that.

  ‘It’s a matter of days I tell you.’ Lord Lionel Laverton took a final sip of his tea, placed the Royal Doulton cup and saucer back on the lace-clothed table and blotted his heavy handlebar moustache with a damask napkin.

  ‘Call for another brew, my dear,’ he muttered to Prudence and without drawing breath continued loudly, ‘it’s been going on for forty years or more, ever since the Germans took Alsace-Lorraine from the French. “The weak were made to be devoured by the strong”, that’s what Bismarck said then and, by Jove, it’s what that megalomaniac of a Kaiser is saying right now. It will only be a matter of days before it comes to a head.’