by Peter Watt
Michael stared at the cedar-panelled wall opposite the settee and, despite her attempt to reassure him, he had a deep fear that could not be consoled. Something was very wrong and he had the terrible feeling that he would never see his father again. He also knew that his uncle Frank felt the same way.
‘I should see what Cribbs has prepared for our supper,’ Fiona said as she leapt up from the settee. ‘He can be a wonderful cook when he sets his mind to it and I can smell something delicious in the kitchen. I had some special things delivered on Friday for Cribbs to use in the cooking. Oh!’ she exclaimed with a sudden and terrible realisation. ‘I only hope he did not drink the port I had delivered.’ But her fear was quickly realised when she went to the kitchen. Cribbs had drunk the port intended for a pigeon casserole. So instead, he had roasted two wild ducks that he had trapped on a nearby lagoon and he’d fervently hoped that his culinary expertise in preparing the game birds would appease Fiona in lieu of the missing port.
Fiona discovered the switch and was extremely annoyed. But less annoyed when she saw the feast the old man had prepared. He had certainly earned a bottle of port for his efforts.
The table was laid with fine silver and candelabra in the dining room and the delicious aroma of roasted wild duck wafted through the cottage.
Michael lit the candles and Fiona told him to wait while she brought the food to him. The day spent in Manly Village and on the beach had made him ravenous, and she served the supper with an exaggerated flourish; roasted wild duck stuffed with rock oysters (an imaginative and delicious touch by Cribbs), green minted peas, straw potatoes and spiced peaches. Next to Michael’s plate she set a crystal goblet of the Macintoshes’ finest burgundy wine imported from France.
‘You are a fine cook, Miss Macintosh. And as fine a wench as I have seen in any good hotel,’ he said, laughing as he sliced a portion of rich dark meat from the crisp breast of the roast duck. ‘I think we should go to America and you could open a restaurant.’
‘You know I really did not prepare this wonderful supper,’ she said with a frown. ‘And it is not exactly restaurant cuisine.’
He gazed through the candle’s soft light at Fiona who sat and sipped delicately on her wine. ‘You mean you eat like this all the time?’ he said, with a hint of awe for the rich and imaginative variety the meal presented.
‘Michael. Do you know . . . you sound like some kind of peasant when you say things like that. Of course we eat like this,’ she answered with a small note of haughty disdain for his less than urbane question.
‘Yes, well for me it’s a long way from corned beef, cabbage and potatoes. Or pickled pork,’ he answered as he loaded his fork with succulent oysters dripping with their own gravy. ‘This is the kind of meal we starving Irish only dream about.’
‘You really are a peasant type,’ she said in a way that made him pause and glance up at her from his meal. There had been a hint of arrogance in her comment he did not like.
‘Us peasant types keep this kind of food on your plate, Miss Macintosh. But I think you know that,’ he said, and he felt uneasy at the tense atmosphere that had crept into the room between them. It was like some evil spirit haunting the cottage.
‘You sound annoyed, Michael,’ she flared, with a touch of Macintosh haughtiness. ‘I do not think your criticism of how we earn our wealth is warranted.’
‘Maybe it’s because without your clothes, or without your money, you are no different to any of the other women I know,’ he growled.
She flushed with anger and glared at him. How dare this man speak to her as if she had anything in common with the other women he knew. Penelope was right in trying to dissuade her from seeing him. She had been infatuated with him like a schoolgirl in love with her music teacher, and now that they were finally alone she was seeing him for what he truly was. Despite his peasant upbringing though, he was a damned desirable man.
They remained uncomfortably silent for the rest of the meal. Fiona picked at her food and wished she had been less haughty in her manner towards Michael, who tucked heartily into his own meal. She could not understand how he could eat when she herself was upset. Although he was disturbed by the tension between them, the roast duck tasted too good to be wasted, and when he had finished eating he wiped his mouth with a linen napkin.
‘Thank you for the meal, Miss Macintosh,’ he said formally, as he stood and walked across the room towards the door. ‘I hope all goes well for you in the future.’
‘Where are you going?’ she asked in a strained voice. She had not expected him to just suddenly depart. The realisation that her hold over him was very tenuous stunned her. Could he not see that she was practically sacrificing her noble body to him? It had not occurred to her that a working-class Irishman was capable of dismissing her. She was, after all, the daughter of the powerful and renowned Donald Macintosh.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said with a shrug of his broad shoulders. ‘Maybe the Steyne for the night.’
‘You cannot leave me alone here, Michael,’ she pleaded in her panic. ‘Something might happen to me.’
‘If it’s any consolation to you,’ he said bitterly, ‘it was I who forced my attentions on you. But I realise how right you have been about the situation. We have no future together in this country. Maybe if you had considered the Americas, we might have had a chance. But I know the idea was a foolish and stupid impulse of mine.’
She stared at him. The wine was taking effect as it flowed through her body, and she felt that same hot feeling that she had known alone in her bed when the images of the black stallion had come to her. There had to be a first time for every woman. And she wanted that first time to be with him. She did not know if she was using him or was in love with him. All she knew was the ache to be held in his arms and feel his sweet breath on her cheek. A feeling which had never been so strong as at the present moment. Had denial of her love for him been the reason for her haughtiness towards him? Had she tried to play a game . . . as Penelope might . . . to dominate him?
‘No, Michael,’ she whispered. ‘You only think you have all the control. Have you ever considered that I might want you as much as you want me?’
She rose from her chair and went to him and placed the palm of her hand on his cheek. Her hand felt soft and warm against his skin and he stiffened. The woman was confusing him! One moment she was arrogant and aloof. The next, soft and gentle.
‘Right now, all I know is that I want you,’ he said quietly, as he placed his hand over hers. ‘I want you like I have never wanted anything else in this world.’
She tilted her face to him and her lips parted, inviting him to taste the sweetness of her desire, and he covered her mouth with his kiss. It was at first soft – then demanding – and she could feel his body relax and fold into hers. Nothing else mattered between them for this moment in time.
She was vaguely aware that he had lifted her in his arms as he had when they were on the beach. She slipped her arm around his neck and curled into his chest. With little effort, he carried her across the room to drop her gently on a counterpaned double bed in the cottage’s master bedroom.
‘Wait,’ she said in a husky voice, as she knelt on the bed and began to undress. She removed the long white cotton dress, under which she wore a tight-fitting corset under a camisole bodice and a knee-length chemise. The cumbersome clothes fell to the floor one by one. Finally she knelt on the bed, wearing only her pantaloons which were divided at the crotch.
She did not feel embarrassed, as she had thought she might. Instead, she knelt near naked before him because it felt so natural. She reached out to draw him to her on the bed and he reached out to embrace her, sliding his hand up the inside of her thigh where his fingers found yielding flesh at the top of the pantaloons. She gasped and closed her eyes, absorbing the animal feelings that his touch triggered in her mind and body. And she thrust her hips towards him, moaning with pleasure as his fingers gently entered her. Whatever lingering doubts she might have h
ad about giving herself to him were gone. All that mattered was that this bed had become their universe, and this time exclusive to their lives.
The sharp physical pain she had initially experienced was soon forgotten as Michael caressed her body and soul with soft kisses and gentle, murmured words. The kisses all over her body were in places she had only imagined in her wildest and most erotic dreams while his hard body pinned her helpless in its embrace.
Their lovemaking continued throughout the night. At first it was passionate with the violence of mutual lust. But it soon became a tender expression of love and the experience was all Penelope had said. Fiona had gone to places without limit, experienced sensations explosive and sensual. And Michael had journeyed with her as a loving guide to those secret places in her mind.
The distant swish of the ocean breaking against the shore was as regular as a heartbeat. It was like a lullaby that finally soothed the two lovers into a deep and dreamless sleep in the early hours of the morning.
Fiona lay naked beside Michael in the time before dawn and gazed with wonder at his sleeping body. His soft snoring, a legacy of his nose broken in a fight, was itself a pleasant and reassuring sound of a man.
She touched his face with her fingers as lightly as a butterfly’s kiss and traced the outline of the hard muscle contours of his arm. She felt content and fulfilled in a way she had never known. But she was also frightened.
Slowly and reluctantly, she took her hand away from his arm and stared past him into the glow of the golden light that was creeping across the floor. It was a warning that the time had passed between them and with the new day she would have to leave him, probably forever. The joy and wonder of their love-making was now replaced by a sadness for what was to come.
She eased her naked body away from Michael and lay on her back staring at the ceiling. It was a dark place not yet touched by the sun, which was rising over a serene and crystal ocean. Dawn was upon them with its silence, a time where the soul was free to converse with the conscious mind.
She was not aware that sleep was returning to claim her. Nor was she aware of a disturbing voice that seemed to call from the depths of a desolate place as she twitched in the drifting world of half sleep. It was an eerie sound, like the voice of lost souls from far, far away. It was a lonely sound, a mournful cry in the depths of the early morning. There were whispers in the room that she could not hear.
The urgent rapping on the front door of the cottage woke Michael.
‘Fiona. Open the door. It’s me, Penelope. I must see you at once!’
Fiona snapped from her troubled sleep and dragged herself into a sitting position as her long raven hair fell across her face. Exhausted, she slipped from the bed and groggily pulled on the dress she had left on the floor. It clung to her body in a way that accentuated the curves of her hips and breasts.
Michael cast her a questioning look as she dressed. Puzzled, she shook her head before she padded across the bedroom floor. He waited until she had left the room before hastily dressing.
When Fiona opened the door to her cousin, she knew immediately that something was terribly wrong. It was clear in the anguished expression on Penelope’s face.
‘Penelope! What are you doing here?’ she asked as she closed the door behind them. ‘I thought you were up in the mountains with Mother and Granville.’
‘We were,’ her cousin answered as she glanced around the living room. ‘But David has returned early from Queensland and they are all in Sydney waiting for you to come home.’ She reached out and grasped Fiona by the arms. ‘There is something I cannot tell you here. Something that I think you should be told by your mother. Or David. Go and dress properly and we will return to Sydney on the next ferry. I have your mother’s carriage waiting for us at the Quay.’ Fiona stared at her cousin with a sick feeling in her stomach.
‘Does Mother know about Michael?’ she asked in a voice weak with fear, but Penelope shook her head.
‘I don’t think she is sure about Michael,’ she lied. ‘But she does know you were not at Sir John’s place last night. She asked Molly about where you might be, but she said she did not know. However, that is not why I have come to fetch you home,’ she added quickly to divert Fiona’s questions.
‘What is it, Penny? Is it about Father?’ Fiona gasped and was terrified at her cousin’s possible response to her question. Had her father been stricken with one of those fevers so prevalent in the north of Australia? Had there been an accident?
‘No, your father is as well as can be under the circumstances,’ Penelope answered evasively. ‘But I would rather you did not ask me any more questions here . . . or on the journey back to Sydney. Please accept what I say as any questions you have will be answered as soon as we are home.’ Fiona nodded and turned to the bedroom as Michael appeared in the doorway.
‘Good morning, Miss White,’ he said politely.
Penelope’s expression hardened at his appearance. ‘Good morning, Mister Duffy,’ she replied curtly. ‘I dare say you are well.’
She fell silent and looked away from him until Fiona was out of the room, when she said, ‘I believe you had a father in Queensland. And that your father’s name was Patrick?’
Michael stared at the young woman’s face now etched with a stony bitterness and he suddenly felt uneasy. She had used the past tense to ask about his father. Why? And it was something to do with the question she’d asked. So inappropriate to the moment.
‘Yes, my father is Patrick Duffy. How did you know my father’s name, may I ask?’
‘I suppose Fiona must have told me your father’s name at some stage,’ she replied. ‘If I could just ask one more question? Was there anyone else beside the Aboriginal called Billy with your father on the trip to Tambo?’ The hardness in her face was also in her voice.
‘Yes, my brother, Tom. But I don’t remember ever mentioning Old Billy to Fiona,’ he answered and his uneasiness became outright fear. ‘You are asking questions as if you know something of my father.’
Her reply was a cold and arrogant smile.
‘You know something about my father,’ he growled. ‘And I want you to tell me. Your questions were not made as part of polite conversation.’
‘I do not have to do anything of the sort, Mister Duffy,’ she spat venomously. ‘Especially to the son of a man who would give help to the murderer of a white man.’
Michael was lost to what she was saying, but her words had stung him to react. He took three long steps across the room to grip her by the shoulders and shook her as he roared, ‘What are you talking about? Damn you! What are you talking about?’
‘Michael!’
Fiona’s voice cut across the room and Michael released his grip on Penelope who stepped back and said bluntly, ‘Your father, Mister Duffy, is dead. And so probably is your brother. They were speared by the blacks on Glen View in November.’
Michael’s face drained and his shoulders slumped.
‘Oh, I almost forgot. The blacks speared Old Billy . . . as you call him . . . as well,’ she added viciously and turned calmly to her cousin. ‘Come, Fiona. I am sure Mister Duffy will find his way home,’ she said, and she was satisfied at the pain she had inflicted on him. Such is the wrath, Mister Duffy, for anyone who would dare take what was rightfully the property of a White, she thought, with a savage sense of victory over him.
She held out her hand to Fiona. ‘Come, Fiona. We must go immediately.’
Fiona responded to her cousin’s command like a sleepwalker. The events that had unfolded in the living room had shocked her into an almost comatose state. Deep in the now forgotten memories of her pleasure was an echo of a nightmare she could not remember.
TWELVE
Although Enid Macintosh wore the traditional black of mourning, she still radiated an elegance that accentuated her dignified beauty. She was composed and in control of her grief when her daughter entered the large and dark library with Penelope.
Enid did not greet her da
ughter, but merely nodded her head to recognise her existence. Fiona immediately sensed a hostility in her mother’s set expression and returned the formal nod. When she glanced at her brother, David, who stood beside his mother, she saw only grief in his face.
Across the room, Granville stood with his hands behind his back and stared out a full-length window at the gardener who was trimming a hedge that bordered the gravel driveway. The sombre atmosphere of the room was something tangible and stifling.
Fiona stood at the centre of the library where she had most of her memories of her estranged father. The library walls were covered in bookcases along which, behind glass doors, were the books that he had collected over the years; journals of explorers, farming almanacs, atlases and books on religious philosophies. Books which were practical guides to a man’s spiritual and temporal life.
Although David crossed the room to his sister, Enid did not move from where she was seated, glaring with a barely concealed hostility at her daughter. Granville turned from the window to watch with clinical interest the events about to unfold in the library.
‘Angus is gone, Fi,’ David murmured softly as he placed his hands gently on her shoulders. ‘He was murdered by the blacks at Glen View. Father has buried him on the property.’
Fiona wanted to cry but Angus was almost a stranger to her. They had seen very little of each other over the years. Angus had lived with her father while she and David had gone to live in England. She felt a touch of guilt for the relief that it was Angus who had been killed – and not her beloved father. But she wished she could feel something more for her dead brother.
‘It seems, Fiona,’ Enid said coldly from behind the mahogany desk, ‘that this Michael Duffy person whom you have been seeing behind our backs is the son of the man who helped the murderer of your brother escape retribution.’