Cry of the Curlew: The Frontier Series 1

by Peter Watt

  Michael had scooped her up into his arms when an extra-large wave threatened to swamp her. When the wave broke around his knees and rushed back to the ocean, he had gently placed her on the beach with his arm around her slim waist. Oh, if only the day could go on forever, she wished. The moment was perfect. The serene beauty of the summer’s day as the sun’s bite had gone in the late afternoon, and the gentle presence of Michael. But the nicest thing of all was that they were finally alone to share the intimacy, just as they had been alone the first time after their initial meeting on the Manly jetty. In the weeks following their first rendezvous at Hyde Park, they had always been accompanied by either Molly O’Rourke or Penelope. Both chaperones conspired with Fiona to keep the meetings with Michael from the rest of her family. Especially from her mother.

  Although they agreed to be involved in her secret meetings, both chaperones had their own personal reasons for never letting the couple out of their sight. For Molly, her motivation was driven by maternal concerns. Fiona was as dear to her as if she were her own daughter, and she knew well enough, after seventeen years of rearing her, that she would not be able to talk her out of a meeting with Michael Duffy. To try to do so would only cause the young woman to find another way of meeting the man she was so obviously infatuated with, and chaperoning was the best alternative to allowing the young woman any practical opportunity to be seduced by the charming Irishman. But even Molly could not help but fall under his charm.

  Such men Molly had known as a young girl in Ireland. Big handsome lads who could sing with the sadness of lament for Ireland’s persecution and bring tears to her eyes while making her laugh with their funny stories. But such men had stood against the British and died for their beliefs. Ah, she had been young and beautiful herself in those days! And not the shell of a woman bent in the bitterness of her lost innocence. A loss of innocence at the hands of the Royal Marines who had stripped and raped her in the hold of a convict ship bound for New South Wales, and a lifetime of service to the Macintosh family where devotion to the children was viewed as little more than paid service by Enid Macintosh.

  She knew well why Fiona found Michael overpowering in his attractiveness. He was a raw and unbridled spirit. But she also knew that there were social differences that could never be bridged. At least not in her lifetime. She must let the infatuation take its course, and Fiona would eventually realise who she was, and leave the young Irishman. When that day came, as it must, she would be there to comfort her as she always had in the past.

  Penelope’s reasons for chaperoning her cousin were not as altruistic as Molly’s. Her motivations were selfish, even spiteful. She did not want her cousin to have something she desired. But there was an even deeper desire that she tried to deny to herself. One which persisted in her constant and passionate yearnings to be with her in every sense. Like Molly, she accompanied Fiona to ensure that in subtle ways, her cousin was denied opportunities to be alone with the Irishman.

  Thus the excursions to Hyde Park to listen to the Regimental Band perform, the trips into Sydney for the late evening markets with their bustle and brashness and the occasional visits to the newly opened Sydney Library under the everwatchful eyes of Molly or Penelope. As wonderful as those times had been, they were not conducive to the couple’s sharing of confidential thoughts or intimate caresses.

  After such frustrating outings, Fiona would return home to spend a restless night in her bed where strange and erotic thoughts haunted her. She was disturbed by the exquisite – almost physically aching – effects of the vivid images, and her distress caused her to confide to her more worldly wise cousin what she was experiencing.

  Penelope had smiled mysteriously when she broached the subject and told her she suspected that every woman born, at one time or another, escaped into the privacy of her imagination. It was a place where she could be seduced by her private and erotic images without fear of judgement or guilt and Penelope reminded Fiona of what she had meant by . . . being anyone . . . or anywhere. There were no taboos in those private places of the mind and she explained how she could go about relieving the agonising tension such images evoked when she was alone in her bed.

  Fiona was both shocked and fascinated by her cousin’s explicit description of what she should do. But that very night she explored the depth of her sensuality and, alone in the night, her thoughts drifted to Michael.

  She lifted the end of the long nightdress and tentatively slid her hand down to rest between her legs. But instead of an image of Michael, she imagined a black stallion – nostrils flaring and eyes rolling – proudly displaying its distended maleness. She tried to block the image but it persisted. She felt her heart pounding and was vaguely aware that she was wet and swollen where her fingers rested. The stallion was somehow Michael! And she the helpless mare. Or was she herself?

  The black stallion’s eyes rolled back as it mounted her. She felt her back arch as the powerful animal serviced her with brutal thrusts of its huge organ and she gasped, surrendering to the animal’s domination of her body. She imagined the stallion filling her with its seed and shuddered violently. She was not aware that she had cried out just before she felt the sublime darkness overwhelm her. It was like some small insight into death, she vaguely thought, as she lay back against the pillows and time ceased to be of any consequence. If only the moment could go on forever. The entity of the black stallion was very gentle as it nuzzled between her legs with its soft tongue lapping her.

  Her opportunity to be alone with Michael had come indirectly through an invitation from Sir John Merle and his wife, Lady Susanna. Their offer for her to visit their estate at Penrith had arrived earlier in the week and Enid had wholeheartedly given her permission for Fiona to stay with them. Sir John had financial interests in the Macintosh companies and was a close friend of the family. His sprawling property was renowned for its magnificent gardens and many eligible young men were often weekend guests at the estate. Enid knew Sir John and Lady Susanna were especially fond of Fiona as they had no children of their own, and they had watched the pretty young daughter of their friend and business colleague grow into a beautiful young woman.

  Fiona knew that her mother planned to be at their cottage in the Blue Mountains, which were a popular retreat for Sydney’s wealthy during the hot sweltering months of summer. The cooler mountain breezes carried the scent of eucalyptus and flowering gums – and not the stench of Sydney’s primitive sewerage system – to the delicate noses of the colonial gentry.

  Fiona had not confided in Molly what she had planned as she knew that her old Irish nanny would not approve of her being alone with Michael for a day – let alone a night. But she did confide in Penelope, who reluctantly agreed to help establish an alibi for her temporary absence from Sir John’s estate.

  As she watched Michael walking ahead of her with his coat thrown casually over his shoulder, she was acutely aware of the power in the movement of his body; the broad shoulders that tapered to a slim waist, the flat buttocks and muscles that rippled along his arms like steel cords when he had lifted her so easily from the sand.

  The stallion . . .

  The realisation of what she was imagining shocked her. But then, what had she expected might be the outcome of all her planning anyway? She smiled when he turned and walked back to her. But her smile had a sad edge.

  ‘Sure and you could not be thinking sad thoughts, Miss Macintosh,’ he said in a mocking but gentle voice. ‘On such an evening, God is at rest and the angels are playing in the waves out there,’ he said, gesturing towards the lazy roll of the sea. ‘And what would you be thinking to cause such melancholy?’

  ‘Oh, nothing of great importance. Well . . . yes,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I was thinking that this day will end. I was thinking how different everything seems on this beach, when there is just you and me together. Now there is nothing between us. Not family, nor who I am . . . who you are.’

  He stood very close to her and reached down to take her hand in h
is.

  ‘Who am I, Fiona? Who do you think I am?’ he asked quietly, and her eyes were moist with tears as her troubled thoughts welled.

  ‘I don’t know. I have only known you for such a short time,’ she answered, trying to avoid looking into his eyes. She did not want him to see her distress as her hand slipped from his. He turned to gaze at the ocean which had become an oily grey, tinged with a golden sheen as the sun slowly disappeared behind the mountains.

  ‘I have a few regrets in life,’ he sighed. ‘I regret that I did not join my father and brother in Queensland last year and see the harshness and beauty of this land as they have. But I do not regret meeting you. I suppose I know there is little chance of a life together here in a society that has rules for people like we Irish . . . and a place for who you are,’ he said as he turned to face her. ‘I told Daniel that some day I was going to marry you. But I know that was said on impulse. Ahh . . . but it’s a foolishness that bedevils Duffy men . . .’ His voice trailed away and he fell silent for a moment. ‘You don’t have to tell me what is troubling you because I think I know.’

  ‘Do you?’ she whispered as she fought back the tears. ‘Do you know what I am thinking? Or are you making assumptions, Mister Duffy?’ she said defiantly. He could see the set look on her face and he realised that this was the first time that he had seen her angry. There had been times that he had seen flashes of something troubling her which were never far from the surface.

  ‘I think you want to tell me,’ he answered quietly, ‘that you and I cannot meet after this day.’

  ‘Yes, you are right. I do not think we should meet again.’ She fell into a short silence. ‘I do not know why I wanted to see you this day. I think that I am too frightened to let myself admit what I want . . . and I know that I am confusing you. Penelope and Molly tell me I confuse men all the time.’

  He reached out and cupped her chin in his hand as he gently forced her to look at him. ‘You are saying that you love me,’ he said sadly. ‘But once we leave here, everything changes. You become Miss Fiona Macintosh and I . . . I go back to being just another Irishman. Yes, I know the rules of your society. But there are other societies where you and I could be equal . . . where you and I could be together.’

  Fiona shook her head sadly. ‘I do not think such a place exists, Michael.’

  ‘America,’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s where we could go. Your English system is dead there. In America, we would be accepted for who we are. Not who we were.’

  She was frightened. America was so alien. The people were rough and rude, and devoid of the elegance that the class system bestowed on society. The Americans were lost children, brawling with each other in a bloody civil war.

  She felt a sudden coldness and recognised the fear of what she could lose if she loved Michael. But when it came down to hard choices, she knew that she did not want to give up the security and comforts of her way of life for anything – or anyone!

  ‘What are you going to do, Michael, if you go to America?’ she asked in a frightened voice. ‘Did you not say that you wanted to go to Europe to learn to paint? What would you do in America?’

  He frowned, as he had not previously thought about emigrating. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘All I know is that we would be together and start a life where . . .’ his voice tapered off as he realised how frightened she appeared at his suggestion. ‘Damn! Sure and it was not such a good idea. I will think of something else,’ he continued and her eyes expressed relief at his shift in ideas. At the same time she felt guilt at her own denial for the man she thought she loved and his mooted suggestion for her to give up all she had known for an uncertain future had tested her and she had failed. At least the realisation of what she was – rather than who she was as a woman – had become clear in her own thoughts. Penelope had been right! Michael was truly a dangerous man around women.

  Now she was faced with a decision that she had tried to deny to herself. Would she give herself to him? For her, the issues of not seeing Michael in the future, or living for the moment, were in a turbulent conflict with each other.

  She made her decision. ‘Michael, I think we should go back to the cottage,’ she said lightly, as she took his hand in hers. ‘Cribbs will have made us supper and I do not want him to be disappointed by not availing ourselves of his undoubtedly fine efforts.’

  The young Irishman shook his head and folded his big hand around her delicate fingers. What man could know the intricate workings of the female mind?

  The sandstone beach cottage was as fine as any good home Michael knew in Sydney. It had well-kept gardens and a high timber verandah.

  At the top of a broad set of steps facing the sea, they were met by a wizened old man who had once been a convict. His skin was as leathery as the broad belt about his waist and he was stooped with arthritis. Fiona had bribed Cribbs with a good supply of gin to remain silent concerning her presence at the cottage, and the gin had also purchased a prepared supper and the old caretaker’s absence for the night. He was more than happy to accept the opportunity to go fishing.

  ‘Good even’n, Miss Macintosh.’ He greeted her and carefully ignored Michael. It was his way of showing he could be discreet. ‘I left yer supper in the kitchen. Nuthin’ fancy, but all fresh. Trapped ’em meself yesterday.’

  ‘Thank you, Cribbs. I appreciate your thoughtfulness,’ she replied graciously, and the old man beamed happily. He liked the young mistress, whom he had known since she was a child when he had carved her tiny horses from driftwood. But he eyed Michael suspiciously and decided that he did not like him as the young man did not have the appearance of a gentleman. His face had scars that were reminiscent of a man who knew the meaner streets of Sydney and not the town’s more genteel parlours. Why Miss Macintosh was with such a man mystified him as she was more than worthy of the company of the colony’s finest gentlemen.

  ‘If’n there be nuthin’ else, I’d be seein’ to the nets, Miss Macintosh,’ he said before hobbling away.

  Michael had remained silent as he sensed the animosity towards him. Fiona waited until Cribbs was out of sight before she took Michael’s hand and led him up the broad steps and into the cottage.

  Inside, he was duly impressed by the subtle display of vast wealth the Macintosh cottage held. The internal timbers were of dark cedar brought down by Macintosh ships from the northern rainforests of the colony and the furniture was the best money could buy. The Persian carpets had been imported from the Holy Land and there were even one or two expensive vases from the land of the Chinese.

  The polished timber floor echoed their footsteps as he followed Fiona down a hall that led into a sitting room with a commanding view of the ocean. If this is what she called a cottage, what would a house be like, Michael thought.

  ‘My brother, David, is going to stay at the cottage for a while when he returns from visiting Queensland. I think he will be bringing young ladies here,’ Fiona said with a conspiratorial giggle.

  Michael scanned the room, admiring the decor. ‘Is that a common occurence?’ he asked, as Fiona sat on a settee decorated with a floral pattern. She brushed down the cotton dress she wore.

  ‘Granville says my brother is quite a ladies’ man,’ she answered, with a sisterly note of pride. ‘He says David was almost expelled from Oxford for having a lady visit him in his rooms after hours. It caused quite a scandal. But they excused him in the end because they said that they expected no better from a colonial.’ She reached up and drew Michael down beside her on the settee.

  ‘I didn’t know your brother was in Queensland,’ he said, by way of small talk. He had an impulsive desire to explore her body with his hands and mouth.

  ‘David left before Christmas to see Father about land purchases,’ she explained. ‘He really did not have to go. But he has not seen Father or Angus for over five years and he thought that he should spend Christmas with them since they were unable to join us this year. We expect him to be returning next month when he and Fa
ther have finished their business. Father has plans to extend our properties in Queensland and stock them with cattle because he feels that the land is more suited to cattle than sheep. Angus will manage Glen View while Father sets up a new run.’

  Michael had learned a lot about the Macintosh family. Fiona had spoken about them at great length when they had met on their first secret rendezvous. He’d formed the impression that they were not a close family. At least not in the sense that the Duffy clan were. So the wealthy paid a price for what they had, he thought as he listened to the young woman bemoan the fact that business took precedence over a family reunion. He also knew from the way she spoke of her family that she was closest to three people; her brother David, Molly the Irish nanny, and Penelope her cousin. Although he had never met David, he felt that the man did not sound as pompous as Granville White whom he had instinctively disliked for his arrogant and foppish manner.

  ‘I hope David enjoyed his Christmas up north with your father and brother,’ he said wistfully. ‘My father and my brother were supposed to come down to Sydney to spend Christmas with us. But we have heard nothing from them since October when we received their last letter. Da said they would make one delivery out to some place called Tambo and then return to Rockhampton.’

  She squeezed his hand gently and said, ‘I am sure nothing has happened to them. Daddy says in his letters that they have a lot of rain this time of year and that often they are cut off from the coast for weeks. But you have said that your father and brother are teamsters, so they should not starve with all the supplies they undoubtedly have should they have been cut off.’