by Darry Fraser
‘You’re still drunk, Reilly.’
‘That I am, Mr Foley. I reckon ol’ Barnes thought I’d kill meself down there with the gallons of the stuff they threw at me. Not likely. Not likely on rum. An’ where’s that girl—’
Dane took a step closer, shouldered the rifle and took aim at Reilly’s head. ‘You filthy bastard.’
Reilly swung his head around, blinking fiercely. ‘Whosat?’
Foley stepped closer. ‘Get up, you imbecile. You’ll be going to gaol in Swan Hill.’
‘Not fuckin’ likely, Mr High an’ Mighty. But come and get me anyway.’ He struggled to his feet, oblivious to the rifle aimed at his head. ‘Course, p’raps yer couldn’t come get me—Mrs Hodge sez yer not got the block ’n’ tackle to take a trick on her—’
Foley roared and lunged at the drunk. Reilly swung an arm and took a fist of Foley’s hair and they both crashed to the ground on the other side of the cellar’s opening. Reilly beat Foley mercilessly, as if his brain had snapped.
Foley’s head, held by hair still clutched in Reilly’s fist, was crunched down onto Reilly’s knee, the thwack thwack of bone against bone sickening. Reilly bellowed, spittle leaping from his mouth as he battered Foley bloody. Foley’s voice had gone, his throat crushed under the first brutal assault.
Dane aimed the rifle back and forth as the two men grappled close to the edge. He couldn’t get a clear shot at Reilly and instead fired into the air, hoping to stop the fight. Then he aimed at Reilly’s feet and the rifle reported again. Somewhere in the distance, a woman screamed.
Reilly bellowed again, bursting with rage, his face mottled and purple veins swelling over his forehead. He swung Foley down the steps of the cellar as if the other man were a rag doll. With both hands now in Foley’s hair, he lunged the man’s head at the closest step.
The crunch was gut-churning, the explosion of blood and bone and brain hideously final; the loud splat of it landing on the ground was loud and would echo in Dane’s nightmares.
The rifle roared again, and Reilly’s own head burst like an overripe melon.
Twenty-Five
Georgie had, as always when Conor was away, amused herself. She had persuaded Buttons to take her to the stables on Domain Road.
‘I dare not, Mrs Foley. It’d mean me job. Mr Foley has forbidden—’
‘There’s a gold sovereign and a month’s supply of quality rum in it for you.’
Buttons looked despondent.
‘What is it, now?’
‘I’d never be able to spend a sovereign, Mrs Foley. They’d think I’d stolen it.’
Georgie reddened. She hadn’t thought of that, and immediately found shilling pieces to impart.
At the stables, she’d had a great deal more trouble convincing the stable boy to allow her any horse to ride. The man was staunch in his refusal, and no amount of cajoling could budge him. On one occasion when he was trying to politely ignore her pestering, Georgie’s temper rose and she let fly with a tirade only Joseph O’Grady, the stableman on Jacaranda, had heard.
That, too, had cost her a sovereign’s worth in small pieces and a month’s rum, to keep the boy quiet about her visit to the stables and to ensure poor Buttons wasn’t punished for bringing her. Conor Foley’s temper and fondness for retribution were well known. Buttons had even suggested there was a violence to his master. Her insides fluttered and her arms ran with goose bumps with her own memory of it.
Her next outing would be to the horse sales. Buttons would certainly drive her, and she would choose a mount.
Removing herself from afternoon teas with Mrs Cawley and the other ladies would be the next item on her list of things to do. Her plan was to plead illness to Kate if she had to attend another such afternoon. She wondered how her sister-in-law managed to enjoy herself as much as she did. Heartily sick of tea, Georgie found the Madeira from New South Wales that so many others seemed to enjoy did strange things to her eyesight. She would decline that type of refreshment as well.
Kate was coming to lunch today and she would certainly be armed with invitations to more tedious daytime parties, all of which Georgie would try to turn down.
Conor had been gone longer than expected this time. He’d always told her he would arrive as close to the day he had originally said, but not to expect him until he actually arrived. She had let this Thursday pass without a thought of his being late. She used the time instead to sit in his great study, a room normally off limits to her.
At first, she just sat in his big chair behind the ornate timber desk inlaid with a fine burgundy leather. His scent, faint but still present, pervaded the room. She was smiling, as much for the unexpected pleasure it gave her to sit in the room, as for the knowledge that he would have frowned upon her being there. She clapped her hands on his desk and leaned forward over it, grumbling wordlessly at an imaginary employee.
Spying his cigar box, she flipped it open and removed one. She hesitated before putting it in her mouth and when she did, she promptly withdrew it and threw it back in its box, a grimace on her lips.
She ran her hands along the numerous volumes of diaries and adventure biographies. Nothing really captured her interest until she spied a large pile of books stacked neatly under the desk. When she reached for the top one, she noticed it was the main book Conor’s accountant normally carried with him.
Bending down to lift it with both hands, she laid it on the desk. It fell open to where a marker had been placed.
It only took a couple of minutes for her to realise she didn’t have a clue as to its contents. A lot of figures in columns, notations, the names of various companies. Really, nothing she could decipher.
Sitting back in the deep leather chair, her feet swinging off the floor, she stared at the globe across the room, and focused on England. Loneliness surged through her. It wasn’t that she longed for England, or even to see her stepfather, but seeing that tiny island so far away from Australia made her feel suddenly small and inconsequential.
She shook her head quickly. I must be going soft. It’s the lack of activity—I should be riding every day and educating myself. She made a mental note again to tackle Conor on his return about being a part of his business.
She envied Kate and Angus for their loving relationship. She knew her relationship with Conor was not the same as the Forrestors’s. Kate loved Angus. Georgina and Conor’s marriage didn’t contain the type of love she’d previously thought it would. It wasn’t the type of love she’d hoped it would be. In fact, it was as far from it as she could have imagined.
As Conor never let her know anything of his business, she had become, so she thought, just an addition to the porcelain and crystal—a possession to be petted. When she tried to argue with him or press a point, he would merely laugh at her, and pat her hand absently. In time, he said. In time. It had been her frustration with him that had led to the last insidious scene. Georgie had witnessed Kate, on the other hand, argue a point politely with Angus—something she had once yearned to do, but now she no longer dared to offer Conor so much as a differing opinion.
But she was an intelligent woman. She would do what she wanted and not ask for it. Perhaps, like Conor, she would only answer when questioned.
At least babies were not on her agenda. She had no maternal instincts at all. Thankfully, Kate had only broached the subject once, and Georgie had shrugged and that had been the end of it. She knew enough to know that a certain act would have to have occurred between her and her husband for there to be a chance of babies. And she was glad it had not. Foley knew she was not interested in children so perhaps that was why. And she was heartily glad of that. Especially now, when she looked forward to his absences more than she did to his return.
She glanced at the desk under her hands. She should write a letter. The only people she had ever written to were Rupert and, more recently, Jemimah.
As she found some clean paper, Manning bobbed his head inside the doorway.
‘Oh, Mrs Foley. Thi
s is the last place I would have looked.’ He stepped inside, giving the open drawer and the papers in her hands a swift glance. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt you. There is a gentleman to see you.’
‘A gentleman.’ Georgie looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was nearly midday. ‘Has Mrs Forrestor also arrived?’
‘Yes, madam. Mrs Forrestor is in the Garden Room. She’s ordered your lunch be served there.’
‘Oh good. Now, a gentleman, you say. Who is it?’
‘A Mr MacHenry, madam.’
Georgie’s stomach lurched.
She instructed Manning to have the gentleman wait in the drawing room for her. She hurried into the Garden Room and Kate smiled as she entered.
‘Oh, there you are. Are we ready for lunch? I’m absolutely famished. Sandwiches in here, is that all right?’
Georgie nodded, then found her voice. ‘He’s here,’ she blurted, wringing her hands on her skirts.
‘Who’s here?’ Kate, unperturbed, rearranged cushions on the settee.
‘I wondered how long it would take him to come here. He must know Conor is away.’
‘Who, dear?’ Kate asked, this time attentive.
‘Dane MacHenry. The man at the wedding reception. The man who—’
‘Oh, that man. What on earth can he be here for, I wonder?’ She watched Georgie as she blushed furiously. ‘Well, for heaven’s sake, go and see what he wants.’
‘Come with me, Kate,’ Georgie pleaded. ‘You must.’
‘Off you go, you’re a big girl now and a married woman. I doubt there’s anything to worry about. Perhaps he has word of his mother for you.’
Georgie stared at her for a second or two, and decided not to compound her problem by arguing. She marched out of the room, her heart thumping madly.
What on earth could he want? It’s been months—what possible piece of news could be so important he would have to come to my own home? It would be about Jemimah, or Tom … In that case he could have written me a note.
Manning was waiting outside the drawing room. He seemed in a hurry as he hastily opened the door for Georgie to swish through, her temper rising. As he closed the door Dane MacHenry had his back to her, infuriating her further.
‘Why have you come?’
Dane turned and faced her, a glass in his hand. ‘I have—’
‘I see you’ve helped yourself to my husband’s rum. As he is not here to receive you, please state your business quickly and leave.’ She stood not two paces inside the door, her hand on the back of a chair to steady her shaking limbs.
He stared at her.
She began to tap her foot.
‘Sit down,’ he said softly.
Georgie thought his eyes looked red-rimmed with fatigue. ‘Why?’
‘Sit down, for God’s sake. Don’t make this harder for me.’ He waved her into a chair.
She sat, swallowing any retort. His tone of voice … Dread coiled in her belly.
He handed her the rum. ‘This is not for me, it’s for you.’
She looked at the glass, bewildered, and then at him.
‘I’ve come from the homestead, Georgie, from Jacaranda. I met Foley on the way up there.’ He sat down on a chair opposite her, steepling his hands and concentrating on them. ‘It’s about Foley, Georgie.’ He looked at her then. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you. Foley’s dead. He was murdered in front of my eyes.’
She placed the glass carefully on the table in front of her. Foley is dead, he tells me. Murdered. She folded her hands in her lap and sat upright, eyes unblinking as they focused on him. ‘What a dreadful thing to say to anyone.’
He shook his head. ‘Georgina, I have his death certificate with me if my word will not suffice.’ He removed an envelope from his pocket and laid it beside the glass of rum. ‘I made a decision to come and tell you myself, rather than having a policeman deliver the news.’
Georgie stared at the envelope, her eyes still unblinking. She picked it up, turned it over, tore the seal and retrieved the paper. She recoiled as she realised he was telling the truth. She folded the paper and looked back at him. ‘Murdered.’
Dane nodded. ‘Shall I call someone in for you?’ he asked quietly. ‘I have sent Manning for Forrestor.’
‘Who killed him?’ She held a hand to her head. Her face was hot, damp.
Dane said little of the turn of events except to tell of the murderer and the reason for both men visiting the homestead at the same time.
Georgie broke at that. ‘Uncle Tom as well?’ She reached out to Dane and clasped his hand.
It was then Kate walked in and stood at the door. ‘Mr MacHenry?’
Dane went to her, and took her to a seat close to Georgie. He related again the events that had unfolded and found himself with two bereaved women, one in silence, the other weeping softly into her handkerchief.
Upon Forrestor’s arrival, Dane retold his story once more as quickly as he could. Angus rushed to comfort his wife. Dane called Manning to order a doctor.
Deborah was brought upstairs and informed of the news. She fell to weeping, struggled a moment to regain composure then came to stand by Georgie. ‘Let us go upstairs, Mrs Foley,’ she said.
Georgie hesitated at the door and looked over her shoulder at Dane. ‘Thank you for coming to tell me. I know it would not have been easy.’
He inclined his head.
Angus helped Kate to the guest room, not before inviting Dane to meet with him in the drawing room.
The men sat and nursed glasses of rum by the fire.
‘I cannot believe what you told me. Murdered—both of them. You do have my most heartfelt condolences, Mr MacHenry.’
Dane nodded. ‘Thank you. Mr Foley had the unfortunate chore of telling me of my father’s death only days before, but to witness his death in turn—it was an atrocity I will never forget.’
‘And the murderer?’
Dane bent his head, then raised it. ‘Dead, at the scene.’
‘Terrible business. Terrible.’ Angus rubbed his face tiredly. ‘You must be exhausted.’
Dane took a swallow of rum. ‘I got to Melbourne in the early hours yesterday and at my place of abode took advantage of a bath, a good night’s sleep, clean clothes. One day more was not going to change the news.’
‘Of course not. My wife is taking it very badly, as you would imagine. However, according to Deborah, Georgina has shed few tears. It will be a long road for her.’ He stared into the crystal tumbler. ‘At least Foley’s affairs are in order. He had a will, legal and witnessed—by me—and he named his wife his legal heir.’
Dane hesitated. ‘He named his wife his heir?’
Angus raised the glass and downed its contents in one gulp. ‘Oh, yes. God only knows why, but he did. As his widow, she inherits everything anyway, but due to a little known law passed some time back, she also gets to administer it all.’ He tut-tutted. ‘Conor presumed he would live a long life, as we all do. I don’t believe there will be any children to inherit, so truthfully, she’s now a very rich young woman. Quite frankly, she has absolutely no idea of the enormity of it.’
Dane stared at him a moment. The family was, of course, unaware of his feelings for Georgina. He reasoned it should stay that way, at least for the present.
‘I would like to help in any way I can, certainly with any advice I could impart. I have considerable holdings myself, though not as lucrative a portfolio as Mr Foley.’
‘Yes, yes, thank you. Georgina may have need of a family member in the very near future.’
Dane nodded and shifted in his seat. He wouldn’t exactly be offering brotherly support. His true intentions would have to wait a while, but at least he had her brother-in-law’s approval to stay close.
‘As his executor,’ Angus Forrestor continued, ‘I will be reading the will tomorrow. By the way, Conor’s burial place?’
‘He was taken to Swan Hill, interred there. After the inquiry, the magistrate suggested because of the state he was in, it w
as deemed wise to leave him there.’
‘Yes. Quite agree. The heat and dust and flies … you did the right thing. We will check with authorities there to finalise the bill, organise a headstone.’ He extended his hand and Dane shook it. ‘On behalf of the family, I do thank you for all your trouble. Of course, you’ll stay to hear the will read?’
‘I wouldn’t intrude, but I will be close by. I have rooms at the Cawley home. However, I would like your permission to call every day, if I may.’
‘Of course. Absolutely. I must also arrange for a chaperone to stay with Georgina. I don’t want to leave Kate here for too long, although this week we must certainly stay. But do stay here, Dane, at least until we leave. There’s plenty of room.’
The door to the drawing room opened as Dane began to answer. Georgina stood there, startled.
Both men stood.
‘Georgina.’ Angus stretched his arms out to her. ‘Are you sure you should not be resting?’
Georgie hesitated, then her chin came up. ‘No, thank you, Angus. I’m really all right.’ She eased away from her brother-in-law’s arm and looked at Dane. ‘Thank you once more, for coming to tell us of—it’s not easy to be the harbinger of bad news.’
‘The very least I could do.’ We are being so polite to each other—it irks me. Everything had happened so fast Dane hadn’t had time to process his own feelings. He’d had to re-settle his mother and his sister, and organise to clear Jacaranda of their remaining property. He’d also had to face a magistrate over Reilly’s death, but thankfully it was decided there was no case to answer.
But days later on his ride south, the dull and heavy weight in his heart could no longer be swept away. He had wept for his father: tears of grief, and tears of guilt. He was a prodigal son, returned too late to be a cautious one.
He watched Georgina, attempting to gauge her grief. It pained him to think she might be stricken by the death of her husband, but to his eyes she did not appear so.
Angus steered her towards a chair, as if she might be frail or tired. ‘Did you want to see me about something, Georgina?’ he asked as she was seated by the window.