by Judy Nunn
In the second before Meg pulled the door shut, her father seemed to look directly into her eyes. The latch clicked loudly. They must have heard. Heart pumping, she crossed the landing and stole quickly down the stairs.
‘… you will be a son I will acknowledge with such pride.’ Paul had neither seen nor heard Meg as he stood beside Paolo and raised his brandy balloon in salute.
But Paolo had heard the latch. He turned briefly, thinking someone had entered the room but, when he registered no one there, he returned his gaze to his coffee cup. He could not believe the words he was hearing and he could not meet Paul Dunleavy’s eyes. They held the fire of fanaticism; the man was behaving like one possessed. He was drunk of course, but he was nevertheless in deadly earnest. Had this always been Dunleavy’s intention? Paolo cursed his own naivety. How could he have placed himself in such debt to a man who had simply wanted to buy a son?
Never once had Paolo thought of Paul Dunleavy as his father. Strangely enough, he had felt more distanced from the man here in Boston than he had during their meetings all those years ago in Kalgoorlie. There had been a bond of sorts then, between the outback boy and the worldly American who had fed his dreams of travel and adventure. But of course that would all have been part of his plan. Paolo cursed himself again. How could he have been so stupid?
Having drunk deeply from his brandy balloon, the fumes of the cognac adding fresh fuel to his exhilaration, Paul was waiting for a response. He sat heavily on the corner of the desk, his legs a little unsteady. ‘So, Paolo, what do you say? My legally adopted son and heir. What do you say to that?’
‘Well, sir …’ Paolo picked up his coffee cup and drained the contents in an effort to buy time and to eradicate the foul taste of the cigar he’d been forced to light up earlier. It now sat burning in an ashtray on the desk, a wisp of its smoke constantly and magnetically finding its way into his left eye.
‘I think …’ Of course! That was it! He had the answer! He put down the coffee cup and looked up, his eyes finally meeting Paul’s. ‘I think it would not be possible to adopt me, sir.’
Dunleavy was momentarily halted. Through the haze of cigar and cognac fumes he wasn’t quite sure whether he’d heard correctly. ‘Why would that be?’
‘Legally I am already your son, sir. I do believe it would be impossible to formally adopt your natural son,’ Paolo wasn’t absolutely certain he was right, but it was a pretty fair assumption, and it might rescue him from this awkward situation. One fact of which he was sure, Paul Dunleavy would never acknowledge a bastard son. ‘So you see, the only way you could recognise me as your son would be to admit to … well, sir, to my illegitimacy.’
Damn it, Paul thought, the boy was right. It was something which, during all the years of his planning, Paul had never taken into consideration. Of course, he should have checked with the authorities, but the boy was bound to be right.
So what? Damn propriety, Paul thought with reckless abandon. He would do as Paolo suggested; he would claim the boy as his own son. A sense of freedom overwhelmed him. The boy was true Dunleavy blood when all was said and done, and he would let the world know it!
It was an audacious idea and one which Paul would not have entertained sober. Allow a bastard to bear the Dunleavy name? Why, his father would turn in his grave. And how could he expect Elizabeth to acknowledge another woman’s bastard son as rightful heir to the Dunleavy name and fortune? Why, she might well leave him if he suggested it. But, in his drunkenness, Paul was so fired with the notion of a son that, even as such objections raised themselves, he instantly dismissed them.
‘Then that is what we will do, Paolo,’ he announced, triumphant. ‘We will admit to your illegitimacy and I will recognise you as my son. Now come, let’s drink to it.’ He thrust Paolo’s brandy balloon into his hand. ‘And then we’ll smoke our cigars together. Father and son.’
Paolo stared back, at a loss for words.
MEG HAD RETURNED to the drawing room for only a moment. ‘I don’t feel very well, Mother,’ she said. ‘I’m going to bed.’
‘Of course, dear.’ Elizabeth was relieved. Still wondering what was going on between the men in the study, she couldn’t help but think that perhaps it was for the best that Meg retire. ‘I’ll have Edith bring you a hot water bottle.’
‘No.’ Meg sensed her mother’s relief. ‘I don’t want a hot water bottle. Thank you.’ Her mother obviously wanted her out of the way so that they could talk about their plans. Well, of course, her mother was part of it, her mother had never cared about her, in fact the whole idea was probably her mother’s. ‘Good night.’
Automatically, Meg washed her face, cleaned her teeth, brushed her hair, put on her nightdress. But all she could hear were her father’s words.
‘… My son and heir … everything I have will be yours … my name, my home, my property …’
She lay in her bed staring blankly at the night sky through her attic window.
‘… You will give this family sons … sons to continue the Dunleavy bloodline …’
But she was the Dunleavy bloodline. What about her sons? The sons from her womb would be Dunleavy flesh and blood, did that mean nothing to her father? Perhaps if she were to demand that the man she married change his name. Yes, that’s what she’d do. Then her children would be born Dunleavys in name as well as blood. Anything. She would do anything for her father.
Until Paolo Gianni had arrived, Meg had been the centre of her father’s existence, she had been his son, his daughter, the very pride of his life. Gradually anger overtook her pain. Anger at Paolo Gianni. How dare a stranger attempt to usurp her position. How dare Paolo Gianni attempt to steal her father’s love.
She dozed fitfully and she wasn’t sure what woke her, but when she heard a door opening, she knew it was Paolo. His bedroom was not far from hers, several doors along the landing and, as she thought of him, her anger returned.
PAOLO WAS TIRED. The emotional fencing match with Dunleavy had been exhausting. ‘It’s a great honour, sir, and I’m deeply flattered …’ he’d started to say.
‘Flattery be damned, son, this is about love. Family love. The love between a father and a son.’ Paul picked up the decanter and poured himself a liberal measure of cognac.
‘Perhaps we could discuss it a little more fully in the morning, sir.’ The man was well and truly drunk now. Paolo could only hope that, come morning, the magnitude of admitting to a bastard son would discourage Dunleavy from the course upon which he appeared set.
‘Yes, yes, you’re right, boy, of course. “The wine’s in, the wit’s out” as my father was wont to say. No point in further discussion …’ He plonked himself heavily in the armchair alongside Paolo’s. ‘But come, let’s share a drink.’
Paolo picked up his untouched cognac. ‘I’m deeply grateful for all you’ve done for me, sir,’ he said diplomatically.
‘Ah,’ Dunleavy waved his cigar in the air. ‘It’s no more than any man would do for his own flesh and blood.’
They clinked their glasses and sipped their cognac and Paolo even forced himself to smoke a little of the abominable cigar whilst Dunleavy once more expounded upon his father, his grandfather and the bond between all Dunleavy men.
Over an hour passed before Paolo was able to make his escape. ‘If you don’t mind, sir,’ he said as Dunleavy rose to refill their glasses, ‘I’d like to retire. It’s been a night of surprises,’ he added quickly, warding off objection. ‘There’s a lot I’d like to think about.’
‘Of course, son, of course.’ Paul was disappointed, but he could see that the boy was overwhelmed. It was only natural. ‘We’ll discuss everything over breakfast,’ he said, clumsily embracing Paolo.
Paolo went downstairs and out into the cold night air to clear his head, the study had been dense with cigar smoke. He walked to the embankment and looked out over the Charles River, his mind a blank. Apart from the shock of Dunleavy’s announcement, there was really very little to think about. In the
sober light of day, faced with the prospect of a bastard son, Paul Dunleavy would retract his offer, Paolo was sure of it.
An hour later, when he crept in the front door and up the stairs, the lights were out and the household was sleeping.
By now Paolo was worn out. Let tomorrow bring what it may, he thought, as he undressed and tried to clean the taste of cigars from his mouth, there was nothing that could be done tonight. He lay down and was asleep in a matter of minutes.
He didn’t hear her come into his room and he didn’t hear her gentle whisper.
‘Are you awake, Paolo?’ In the dim light from the open doorway, Meg could see him. Lying on his side, his back to her. Was he awake? She couldn’t tell. ‘I wanted to say goodbye,’ she whispered, very quietly. Still no answer. She pulled the door closed behind her. They were in darkness now.
She undid the sash at her waist and let her dressing gown drop to the floor. Naked, she crossed to the bed and pulled back the covers.
Anger and hurt had lent Meg all the courage she needed; seduction was easy if revenge was the motive. But, as she lay silently beside him and felt the warmth of his body so close to hers, she couldn’t help herself. She was aroused. If, in seeking revenge she could satisfy her curiosity and assuage her desire, then all the better, she thought.
Paolo was dreaming. Fingers were touching the naked skin of his back. Gently, very gently, they were tracing the curve of his spine. It was pleasant and he murmured in his sleep.
In his dream, there was a body beside him, easing closer, an arm encircling him, the fingers now caressing his chest. He willed himself not to wake up, it was a wonderful dream. Now he could feel a woman’s breasts against his back and the fingers were moving downwards, towards his groin.
He fought to stay asleep but the dream was becoming too real. Then the fingers stopped, confused by the knot tied in the cord of his pyjama pants, and Paolo was wide awake. This was no dream. He rolled over to face her, his hand brushing a naked thigh.
‘Sssh, Paolo, sssh.’ Her breasts were against his chest now and her mouth close to his.
‘Meg! Jesus Christ!’ He threw aside the covers, jumped out of bed and turned on the light. ‘Jesus Christ! Meg!’
She didn’t attempt to pull back the covers but lay looking up at him, her naked body fully exposed. ‘This might be our only chance, Paolo,’ she smiled seductively. ‘Wouldn’t you like to make love to me?’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Paolo looked around wildly. Her dressing gown was lying on the floor. He picked it up and threw it over her. ‘Get out of here, for God’s sake!’
She stood, ignoring the gown, and took his hands in hers. ‘Make love to me Paolo.’ She placed his hands on her breasts.
‘My God!’ He pulled away from her as though he’d been burned and once more grabbed her gown. Thrusting it about her shoulders, he pulled her towards the door. ‘Get out of here, Meg. Get out of here.’
As he opened the door and pushed her onto the landing, she started to scream.
‘Shut up, they’ll hear you,’ he hissed. What on earth was happening? he thought frantically. ‘Go to bed,’ he urged. But she only screamed louder. And louder. Paolo was getting desperate. ‘For God’s sake, Meg, calm down,’ he cried, trying to drag her along the landing to her room. But by now the screams were no longer theatrical. The girl was becoming hysterical.
Downstairs, doors opened. Concerned voices called out.
‘Meg? Meg, are you all right?’ Elizabeth, worried.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ Paul Dunleavy, still slurred with alcohol.
Footsteps on the stairs. Elizabeth the first to appear, horrified. Paul, close behind, agog at the sight of his naked daughter. Geoffrey, the butler, following at a discreet distance, eyes averted, standing by for instructions.
Meg continued to scream hysterically, the dressing gown slipping from her shoulders as quickly as Paolo fought to keep it there.
‘Thank you, Geoffrey,’ Paul dismissed the butler, ‘we have no need of you. Tell everyone to go back to bed.’ Damn it, he thought, the servants would already be gossiping below stairs.
Elizabeth took control. ‘Come along now, Meg. Come along now,’ she forced her daughter’s arms into the sleeves of the gown, ‘dress yourself.’
Elizabeth’s natural authority over her daughter asserted itself and the screams died down to sobs as Meg allowed her mother to take over.
‘What’s happened?’ Paul demanded. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘He tried to rape me,’ Meg threw herself at her father and clung to him desperately. ‘He tried to rape me, Daddy,’ she sobbed.
In the shocked silence that followed, broken only by Meg’s distraught weeping, Paul attempted to put a fatherly arm about her, but he was painfully conscious of the fact that Meg’s gown was open and her breasts visible. ‘Don’t be silly, Meg.’ He signalled Elizabeth to come to the rescue. ‘That’s impossible.’
His tone was so dismissive that Elizabeth was shocked. He was drunk, she realised that—when they’d gone to bed nearly two hours previously, he’d been as drunk as she had ever seen him. Indeed, if she’d not insisted they retire, he’d have stayed up for the rest of the night toasting his triumph. ‘I have a son, Elizabeth,’ he’d kept saying, ‘I have a son.’
Elizabeth had realised then that her fears had been justified. Father and son had spent a night of camaraderie celebrating their relationship. Well, first thing in the morning, Elizabeth vowed, when the man could draw a sober breath, she would remind her husband of his earlier promise. ‘The boy is never to be recognised as a member of this family … Will you swear it, Paul?’
Now, watching her husband trying to extricate himself from Meg’s embrace, Elizabeth felt deeply angered. He’d spent a night getting drunk with his bastard son and yet, confronted by his daughter who was genuinely distraught, he showed a complete lack of concern.
Elizabeth took Meg in her arms. She knew that Paolo had not molested her daughter, but she would not have her husband simply dismiss the claim. ‘Why is it impossible?’ she demanded. ‘Sssh, my darling, ssh. Why is it impossible? Look at him, he’s half-naked.’
Paolo stood, bewildered, speechless. He always slept half-naked. Until he had come to Boston, he had slept entirely naked. In Kalgoorlie he had never even owned pyjamas.
‘Come along, Meg,’ Elizabeth insisted. ‘Come along to your room and tell me what happened.’
But Meg would not be led away. She broke from her mother’s embrace, screaming, ‘He tried to rape me, Daddy, I swear it, he tried to rape me!’
Paul’s embarrassment was turning to anger now. ‘Do as your mother says and go to bed, girl, you don’t know what you’re saying.’
Meg was once again becoming hysterical. ‘He tried to rape me. He did. He did, Daddy. Why won’t you believe me?’
‘Stop it, Meg!’ Paul’s own voice was raised now, he took her by the shoulders and shook her. ‘I said stop it! Calm down!’
But the more he shook her the more hysterical Meg’s screams became. ‘He raped me! He raped me! He raped me!’
‘I said stop it!’ Paul struck her hard across her left cheek. There was a sharp intake of breath and the screaming stopped as she stared back at him in shock. ‘He did not rape you. He’s your brother!’
In the total silence which followed, Meg looked slowly from her father to her mother and, finally, to Paolo. Something was wrong, she thought. No one was contradicting her father.
‘You’re going to adopt him,’ she whispered, ‘that’s what you said. You’re going to adopt Paolo as your son and heir, I heard you say it.’ Elizabeth turned to her husband, confused. Surely Meg had it wrong, surely he couldn’t have said that. But Paul could not meet his wife’s eyes.
‘He is already my son and heir,’ he said. ‘There is no necessity for adoption. He is my blood and will be recognised as such.’
Elizabeth’s confusion turned to shock. Her husband was going to recognise a bastard? Clearly he was pr
epared not only to break his daughter’s heart, but to humiliate his wife as well.
‘Forgive me, sir, but I will not.’ Paolo had registered the look of utter horror on Elizabeth’s face and finally found his voice. ‘I will not be recognised as your son.’ Turning to Elizabeth, he said, ‘I’m sorry, Elizabeth, I had no idea this was what he wanted.’ She looked at him sceptically. ‘That may sound naive, but it’s true.’ Then he turned to Meg. ‘I’m sorry, Meg. I’m truly sorry for having hurt you.’
‘Rubbish, son, she’ll get over it.’ Paul’s voice was hearty, jovial. The boy didn’t mean what he was saying, he was merely affected by the women’s emotional overreaction. ‘A touch of jealousy, that’s what it is. Perfectly natural.’ They all stared at him but, in his intoxication, Paul didn’t register the antagonism. ‘Now let’s go to bed, it’s been a long night, we’ll discuss it in the morning.’ And he turned to go.
‘No, sir, I shall be leaving first thing in the morning.’
Paul wasn’t sure if he’d heard correctly. Slowly, he turned back. The boy’s eyes met his directly. It was clear he was serious. Paul tried to paint the smile back on his face. ‘Oh come, come, Paolo, don’t let the women’s reactions affect you. They’ll get used to it.’
He looked at his wife. ‘Elizabeth, tell the boy he’s a welcome member of the family.’
But Elizabeth said nothing. Her arm protectively about her daughter’s shoulders, she stared unwaveringly at her husband. So Paul would sell them both for a son.
Paul read the accusation in her eyes, but his attention returned to Paolo, a note of desperation creeping into his voice. ‘You’re my son, Paolo, nothing else matters. Damn it, this is your family. This is your home. You belong here.’
‘No sir. This is not my family and this is not my home. I do not belong here.’ Paolo walked along the landing to his bedroom.