Australia Outback Fantasies

by Margaret Way

  ‘Maybe they did know something but feared to speak out.’ She looked back at him, huge-eyed. ‘Who would have believed them anyway? Things being what they were—still are—an aboriginal’s word against the findings of Sir Francis Forsyth? Unthinkable! They hated him with a passion. Maybe they even put a curse on him and his family. My family. My parents—’ She broke off, knowing she was deeply overwrought.

  He retraced his steps. ‘No, Francey, no!’ He made no further attempt to touch her. ‘Don’t even go there,’ he warned. ‘My grandfather had Gulla’s disappearance investigated. He shared a real bond with Gulla. But in the end no one knew anything. Gulla went on extended binges. That in itself was a danger. His disappearance is just another bush legend.’

  ‘You don’t really believe that,’ she said. ‘I can hear it in your voice. You’re just saying it to make me feel better. Even if he had died out there and the dingoes had taken his body the bones would have been found, traces of his clothing.’

  Resolutely he turned on his heel, ignoring the dull roaring in his ears. ‘We should go downstairs.’

  ‘You mean before Carina comes up?’ Her voice shook.

  ‘Neither of us should put it past her.’ His tone was openly ironic. ‘Look, Francey, I don’t want you walking around in a state of dread. I won’t even look sideways at you if you don’t want it.’

  ‘Don’t look at me at all might be better.’

  He gave a hard, impatient laugh. ‘I can’t go so far as to promise that. So don’t expect it. Let’s just take it one day at a time, shall we? And do try to remember I’m not a married man. Not engaged either, last time I checked.’

  Douglas McFadden, distinguished senior partner of McFadden, Mallory & Crawford, the Forsyth family solicitors, was seated behind the late Sir Francis Forsyth’s massive, rather bizarre mahogany desk in the study. The desk was lavishly decorated with ormolu mounts and lions’ feet, the gilded claws extended. Francesca had been truly frightened of those claws as a small child.

  Like the rest of the mansion, the ballroom-sized study was hugely over the top. A life-size portrait of Sir Francis in his prime—some seven feet tall and almost as wide, its colours enriched by the overhead light—hung centre stage on the wall behind the desk. It said a great deal for her grandfather—undeniably a strikingly handsome man, if not with the look of distinction the Macallans had in abundance—that the portrait was able to dominate such an impressive room. The artist was quite famous, and he had captured her grandfather’s innerness, Francesca thought. The man behind the mask. Francesca found herself looking away from those piercing, somehow gloating blue eyes.

  The beneficiaries, some fourteen in all, looked suitably sober. With the exception of Bryn they were all Forsyths, like herself: some the offspring of her grandfather’s two younger sisters, Ruth and Regina, who wisely lived very private lives, well out of their brother’s orbit. Four of the grandsons, however, worked for Titan. Sir Francis himself had recruited them, as some sort of gesture towards ‘family’. They did their best—they were clever, highly educated—but they could never hope to measure up to Bryn Macallan in any department. At least one of them—James Forsyth-Somerville—knew it. Bryn Macallan was his hero.

  Bryn, the outsider, sat as calm and relaxed as though they were all attending a lecture to be given by some university don. Possible topic: was Shakespeare the real author of his plays? Or was it much more likely to have been the brilliant and aristocratic Francis Bacon, or even Edward De Vere? Anyway, it was a talk Bryn appeared to be looking forward to. He sat wedged—the delectable filling in a sandwich—between herself and Carina. The two Forsyth heiresses. She had to recognise she was that. Much as she had sought to remain in the background, she was an heiress—a Forsyth, like it or not.

  ‘I don’t care where the hell you sit, as long as Bryn is with me!’ Carina had snapped at her as they had entered the study, lined with a million beautifully bound books her grandfather had never read.

  Bryn, however, had taken his place on Francesca’s right. ‘Okay, I hope?’ he’d asked with faint mockery, causing Carina, who had seated herself dead centre, directly in front of the desk, and had patted the seat beside her, indicating for Bryn to take it, to jump up and grab the other chair, pure venom in her eyes.

  In the end everyone was arranged in a two-tiered semicircle in front of the huge mahogany desk. It was difficult to believe Sir Francis was dead. One of the great-nephews, Stephen, kept looking behind him, as though expecting Sir Francis’s ghost to walk right through the heavy closed door.

  Francesca had noticed her uncle Charles had poured himself a stiff whisky before positioning himself to one side, as though instead of being her grandfather’s only surviving son and heir he didn’t think he would figure much in the will. How very odd!

  A quick glance at Bryn confirmed it. ‘Could be a rocky ride!’ he murmured, just beneath his breath. He looked tremendously switched on. Ready for the performance to begin.

  The elder of Sir Frank’s two sisters, Ruth, choked off a little sob, probably thinking there was still time to show a little grief. She hadn’t been able to manage it up to date. Carina, however, wasn’t impressed by the display. She swung about to frown at her great-aunt. ‘For God’s sake, not now!’

  Ruth leaned towards her, murmuring a falsehood. ‘But I’m missing him so!’

  ‘Rubbish! You haven’t so much as spoken to him for months,’ Carina flashed back, before turning to address the always dapper solicitor, with his full head of snow-white hair of which he was justifiably proud. ‘Well, what are we waiting for, Douglas? Read it out.’

  Bryn leaned in towards Francesca, his voice low. ‘A command—and a very terse one at that! Frank couldn’t have done better.’

  Francesca prayed fervently there wouldn’t be more outbursts from Carina. If their grandfather had been a tiger, Carina was a tigress in the making.

  As though in agreement, Charles Forsyth sank back heavily in his chair. The room stank of danger! Ruth gave another hastily muffled moan. She too was unnerved by the fact that her great-niece had turned into what looked very much like the female version of her late brother. Frank might have come back from wherever he had gone.

  Francesca stole another glance at Bryn, thinking that in some strange way they were acting very much like a pair of conspirators. Bryn reacted by raising his brows slightly, his smile laced with black humour. He was inoculated against Carina’s outbursts.

  Francesca sat quiet as a nun, pale as an ivory rose, her elegant long legs to one side, and her head, with her hair in a sort of Gibson Girl loose arrangement, inclined to the other, showing off her swan’s neck and the delicate strength of her clean jawline. She might have been the subject of a painting herself, Bryn thought. A study of a beautiful, isolated young woman. He vowed to himself that state of affairs wasn’t going to continue. The sleeping princess had to wake up.

  Douglas McFadden responded impassively to Carina’s rudeness. He had had half a lifetime of it from Sir Francis. ‘Very well, Carina,’ he said obligingly, picking up his gold-rimmed glasses. He did, however, take his time to settle them on his beak of a nose. Once done, he appeared to take a deep breath, then launched into the reading of the last will and testament of Sir Francis Gerard Oswald Forsyth …

  Already Francesca had begun to panic. She desperately wanted it all over. Great wealth ruined people. She had seen it with her own eyes. But none of them, with the exception of Charles Forsyth, was prepared for what was to come.

  It was Carina who tempestuously brought proceedings to a halt.

  ‘It can’t be true!’ She catapulted out of her chair, sending it crashing to the floor. Her blonde hair flew around her visibly blanched face. Her furious blue eyes lashed the solicitor. ‘What kind of bloody lunacy is this?’ she shouted, her voice loud enough to shock the profoundly deaf. Her arms flailed wildly in the air, causing her copious eighteen carat gold bracelets to out-jangle a brass band.

  ‘Carrie … Carrie.’ Char
les Forsyth very belatedly tried his hand at remonstrating with his headstrong daughter, while the great-aunts moved their chairs closer together, in case things got so bad they might have to cling to each other for support. Their menfolk stared steadily at the Persian rug, their faces varying shades of red.

  Bryn moved smoothly to pick up Carina’s chair, setting it right. ‘Why don’t you sit down again, Carrie?’ He placed a kindly restraining hand on her shoulder. He didn’t appear at all shocked by Carina’s outburst, Francesca noticed. Indeed, he was looking about him, as though deciding on the next object Carina might send toppling.

  ‘You’re supposed to be here to support me, Bryn!’ she protested, not sparing a glance in her father’s direction. She ignored him. As she would from that day forward. Nothing her father said from now on would hold much value for her.

  ‘Please. Sit down,’ Bryn advised, bringing his powerful influence to bear.

  Carina obeyed. ‘Just when did Gramps make such a will?’ she cried out the moment she was seated. ‘I know what was in his will—the real will—and it surely wasn’t this! This stinks to high heaven of conspiracy.’

  Douglas McFadden pursed his lips and looked profoundly displeased. ‘I beg your pardon, Carina.’

  ‘Carrie … Carrie,’ Charles Forsyth bleated. His fair handsome face was ruddy with distress. ‘It’s all in order, I assure you.’

  Carina’s blazing blue eyes narrowed to slits. ‘You knew about this, Dad? What kind of a fool are you? You’re the great loser! You’ve been cut out, and you look like you’re accepting it. Gramps has publicly dismissed and humiliated you. You are the rightful heir. You administer the Forsyth Foundation. You have to fight this. By my reckoning you’ll win.’

  ‘Don’t bet on that.’ Bryn sent her a lancing glance.

  ‘But … But …’ Carina actually sputtered, looked fearfully taken aback.

  ‘I’m not fighting anything, Carina,’ Charles Forsyth told her quietly, but with surprising finality. ‘I’m very happy with my lot.’

  ‘Which is a lot indeed,’ Bryn murmured. Maybe Charles would become a better man, a more self-confident man, without his father forever glowering over his shoulder, stripping him of any hope of self-esteem.

  Carina glared her contempt for her father. ‘Why would you be happy?’ she cried, turning into the daughter from hell right in front of his glazed eyes. ‘Gramps was right about you. You don’t fire on all cylinders. Don’t you understand what’s happened here? You don’t even look upset. You’ve been treated disgracefully. I’ve been treated disgracefully.’

  ‘You’ve been left a great fortune, Carrie,’ Bryn pointed out. ‘Give yourself a moment to let that sink in.’

  She blushed hotly. ‘Do you mind? We’ve been passed over.’

  ‘Not really, Carrie. What more do you want?’ her father added, grateful for Bryn’s intervention.

  ‘A damned sight more than you seem to think.’ Carina swung her blonde head back to face the solicitor. ‘You ought to be disbarred, McFadden. You’re as big a fool as Dad.’

  The great-aunts gasped. They had never heard anything so nasty. And to dear Douglas!

  ‘I really don’t have to listen to this, Carina.’ Douglas McFadden, veteran of countless highly volatile will-readings, spoke in a perfectly even tone. ‘I have carried out your late grandfather’s instruction to the letter. It was his wish that his granddaughter, Francesca Elizabeth Mary Forsyth, should control the Forsyth Foundation. I would remind you, as Bryn has tried to do, that your late grandfather knew exactly what he was doing.’

  ‘He couldn’t have!’ Carina was just barely resisting the violent urge to scream. ‘Gramps had no great love for Francesca. Hell, most of the time he ignored her.’

  ‘Perhaps he knew things about you, Carrie, that made him act like that?’ Charles Forsyth suggested, in a voice that bore overtones of guilt.

  ‘That’s the trouble with you, Dad—’

  Once again Bryn put out a restraining hand. ‘There’s more to be read, Carrie. Why don’t you let Douglas get on with it?’

  ‘I’d like to,’ Douglas McFadden said, peering over the top of his spectacles. ‘I really would. As Sir Francis has clearly stated, he deeply regretted falling out with his late son Lionel, Francesca’s father. He may not have shown the depth of his regret, but he spoke to me many times about it. It was very much on his mind. He trusted me as his friend and adviser—especially after the loss of his closest lifelong friend Sir Theo.’ The solicitor inclined his head respectfully in Bryn’s direction. ‘Sir Theo’s much loved grandson is here today, and is also a beneficiary. I would like to point out that Francesca was at the very top of the law graduates of her year—no mean feat—though she has chosen art as her career. A successful career, I might add.’

  Again Carina projected her naturally loud voice, as though the solicitor was in desperate need of a hearing aid. ‘Since when were you an authority on the kind of things Francesca does, Douglas?’ she challenged him. ‘All that Dreamtime stuff.’

  Bryn turned on her eyes that had grown daunting, with a downward cast to his beautifully curved lips. ‘If I were you I’d be a little bit worried about heaping ridicule on the Dreamtime, Carrie. There could be some danger in that. And actually, Douglas is a recognised art connoisseur, with a fine collection.’

  ‘That Gramps paid for,’ Carina bit off. ‘But not Francey’s own stuff. I think it’s pitiful.’

  ‘Then we can all rest assured that it’s good,’ Bryn returned suavely, forcing Carina to swallow hard.

  Oh, my Lord! Francesca furtively pressed Bryn’s jacketed arm, trying to signal him to stop. It was abundantly clear that Carrie was bitterly resenting Bryn’s defence of her.

  Douglas McFadden judged it time to intervene. ‘What conversations Sir Francis and others have had with Francesca—who was named after her grandfather—led him to believe she has a very fine mind. Her viewpoint counted, in his opinion. He was convinced she had inherited his and her own father’s head for business.’

  ‘And you expect us to believe this?’ Carina ground out the words with difficulty, her jaw was so locked on its hinges. ‘Francesca has a fine mind and I don’t?’

  ‘Of course you do, Carina.’ Douglas McFadden gave her a deeply conciliatory look. ‘But, well … you never did take much interest … I mean …’ Unusually for him, he began to stammer, but Carina Forsyth in full flight was not a pretty sight. She had broken through all normal control. Which didn’t really surprise him after all.

  To prove it, Carina’s voice rose meteorically. ‘Gramps wasn’t happy about women in business, Douglas. You know that. Tell him, Bryn.’ She appealed to the still seated Bryn. He was unmoving, yet he still exuded energy and a blazing intensity. ‘Don’t just bloody sit there mocking us all. Gramps was very proud of me the way I am. I’m the most photographed woman in the country, and certainly the best-looking and the best dressed. Now this! Why should one person have control? And Francesca, at that! She has absolutely no right.’ She flashed her cousin a look of furious anger and betrayal, as though Francesca had spent years working on their grandfather behind the scenes.

  ‘She is a Forsyth,’ Bryn pointed out provocatively.

  It caught Carina blindside. ‘Oh, Bryn!’ She would devour the woman who took Bryn away from her.

  ‘It has come as a shock to you, Carina. I can see that.’ Douglas McFadden spoke with empathy in his voice. ‘But Sir Francis gave long and careful thought to this. As your father and Bryn have pointed out, you have been left a great fortune. You were considered at one time … but your grandfather had to make a final decision. Charles had indicated he feared the heavy responsibilities. Isn’t that so, Charles? Your grandfather took note. You, as of now, are one of the richest women in the country, Carina—free to do anything you want for as long as you want. But in the end Sir Francis came to believe Francesca was the best person in the family to head up the Foundation. She’s clever. She gets on well with people from all walks of life
. She is highly principled. She knows what duty is all about, and the burden of responsibilities that come with great wealth. She is her father’s daughter, and she will have her advisers around her. Her grandfather firmly believed she would have the wisdom to listen to what they have to say and take it on board. He believed she has the capacity to properly evaluate the thousands of requests the Forsyth Foundation receives annually. Furthermore, he believed she would carry out his wishes to the letter. He may not have been the greatest of philanthropists during his lifetime—’

  Many would have said miserly, Bryn thought.

  ‘—as was his closest friend and partner Sir Theo, but he wished for things to be different in the future. He was, in fact, very proud of the way Francesca has set about making something of herself. The way she’s using her own money to fund the promotion of aboriginal art. Very proud indeed. Francesca is a compassionate young woman. Compassion is what the Foundation needs when it comes to prioritising future grants.’

  Not everyone agreed. ‘Francey? But she’s only a baby. This sounds like a disaster!’ A scandalised Ruth whispered to her shellshocked sister behind her hand. ‘What will people think?’

  ‘Yes, what will people think?’ Carina, who had the hearing of a nocturnal bat, swung her blonde head over her shoulder to stare down her flustered great-aunts. ‘God knows what you two will get. That’s if anything is left.’

  Bryn, every nerve-ending in his body sensitised to Francesca’s reactions, extended the hand that had been hanging loosely at his side. Francesca grasped it for dear life. It couldn’t have been more obvious that she was stunned by all she had heard. Perhaps most of all the fact her grandfather had been proud of her.

  To confirm it, Francesca took a deep, shaky breath. Her grandfather had always acted as if she barely existed for him. Now this! This was a whole new dynamic. Couldn’t he have said just once he was proud of her? Given her a clue? She would only have needed him to say it once.

  Francesca, I’m proud of you!

  She could have lived on it for years.