Taste of Victory

by Sandra Dengler

  Samantha. Where was Sam now?

  He forced his thoughts back to the moment as Hilary arranged her hand on his arm. He had to shorten his stride considerably to fit it to her mincing walk.

  “All this traffic!” she cooed. “Who would think it at eight at night?”

  This much traffic at eight was normal for the height of the social season, particularly with the weather this warm. Sloan held his peace. Letting her babble on was a lot less taxing than trying to educate her constantly. She had grown up here in Sydney, as had Sloan himself, but she somehow seemed a stranger wandering absently through the fields of life.

  Bright light poured out the great opened doors of Exeter Hall and evaporated into the damp darkness. Sloan escorted her into the hall, from subtropic Sydney, Australia, into merrie olde England. Servants, attendants, the doormen were standing about with nothing to do—all decked out in court livery. A couple of the major domos even sported powdered wigs. Here it was 1906, with 1907 looming perilously close, and these people were still clinging to the eighteenth century. No wonder Australia sloshed in the backwaters of progress.

  The unnatural brilliance from electric chandeliers altered colors and gave the vast open room a garish intensity. Several hundred people milled about here, fashionable high-society ladies escorted by prominent men, every one. Sloan grew up in this sort of pretentious atmosphere, for his mother was as pretentious a person as you’d ever find. It bored him.

  He guided Hilary over to the punch table, greeting acquaintances along the way, smiling affably on the outside and grinning smugly on the inside. He was comfortable in this milieu, but you could detect in an instant who was not. This assemblage of men from all over the fledgling federation included backblockers and city people, pastoralists and bankers. The men with tanned and leathery hides shifted from foot to foot and tried to look as if they belonged. Their ladies gazed open-mouthed at the opulence and usually approached the refreshment table with their gloves on.

  Carroll Swipes, fifty-ish, gray, paunchy, and worth at least two hundred thousand pounds, motioned to Sloan. Hilary was digging deep into the refreshments, so Sloan whispered in her ear and left her there. He crossed to Swipes alone.

  “Glad you could make it tonight, Cole.” Swipes extended a broad, tender hand for a handshake. “I want you to meet the pastoralists’ conference representative from the Mitchell District up in Queensland. He’s a pastoral tenant of the Crown like his father before him, and shows great promise as a leader….”

  Sloan listened to the extravagant introduction with only half an ear. Swipes was always promoting some jackaroo as the next prime minister. This fellow was as good a candidate as any. He was a backblocker; you could see that from his deep suntan and the looseness in his stance. But he knew how to wear a suit, and he didn’t seem ill at ease in the midst of all this power and prestige. What held the bulk of Sloan’s attention, though, was the beauty on this fellow’s arm. She was a natural blond, tall and graceful and obviously in complete charge of herself. This lady used money and held responsibility; you could read it in the way she moved, even in the way she stood still. Her mien of confidence stopped just a shade short of haughtiness. He admired that in a woman.

  His attention and his thoughts slammed to a halt.

  “Martin Frobel…” Swipes was saying, and he had just spoken Sloan’s full name.

  Sloan could feel himself gaping, and this young Frobel had frozen just as solidly. Yes, you could see the family resemblance there, especially in the chocolate-colored eyes. The Martin Frobel, Jr., before him reflected the ghost of the Martin Frobel, Sr., he knew too well.

  Young Frobel snapped out of it first. He extended his hand. “Pleased. Isn’t too often I get to meet someone who shot it out with my father.”

  It was Swipes’ turn to gape.

  Sloan gripped Frobel’s warm hand, rough and calloused. “My pleasure. Hope he’s doing well.”

  “Very well. I’ll tell him you inquired.” He nodded toward the blond beauty. “My wife, Pearl.”

  “Delighted.” And Sloan was. He scooped up the graceful hand and kissed it.

  Pearl Frobel smiled, radiant as the sun. “Now I see why Margaret’s sister gets stars in her eyes when she talks about you. You’re a handsome and gracious man, Mr. Sloan.”

  “Samantha! You’ve seen her recently. How is she?”

  “Fine. She should be in Melbourne by now. She thought she’d try there for a domestic position since jobs like that are scarce here in Sydney.”

  Sloan nodded. “She shouldn’t have any trouble. She’s the best employee I ever had.” Melbourne. Buried in a bustling city. I’ll never find her again…not that I want to, of course.

  Not too many months ago, Sloan had defended himself against an old nemesis from his past, and in the process had ended up in a gunfight with this fellow’s father. Did the young man harbor any animosity toward the person who could easily have killed dear old dad? He ought to. Yet Sloan could feel no tension, no malice. Strange. Surely Sloan couldn’t be so quickly absolved. And Luke Vinson. Had Vinson not been carrying a big thick Bible, Sloan’s bullet would have nailed him for sure.

  “How’s Luke Vinson? Doing well with his pastorate, I trust. You do know him, I assume.”

  Frobel was probably Samantha’s age, but he looked like a grammar school lad when he grinned like that. “He married us.”

  Pearl was smiling also. “The stockmen’s association needed a representative for the conference down here, and we needed somewhere to honeymoon.” She shrugged fetchingly. “We never imagined meeting you, though. Fascinating.” Her voice dropped, sobered. “Marty’s father and Samantha described that battle, and the destruction…You lost a great deal.”

  “Enough that I decided to give up sugar and tea.” He nodded to young Frobel. “My warmest congratulations. I wish you a long and happy life together.” Not only could Sloan detect no animosity; this young woman, a complete stranger, sounded genuinely solicitous. The sincerity of her interest made him uncomfortable. She should be distant, cool toward him. And young Frobel appeared just as concerned. Sloan would frankly have preferred some plain old hostility; it was what he deserved.

  From nowhere, Hilary latched on to his arm. A few cake crumbs clung to the corner of her mouth. “They’re readying the orchestra. A waltz, I heard someone say.”

  Sloan made introductions and Swipes, with a few words, excused himself. The usual pleasantries were exchanged; Hilary was very good at surface pleasantries; but Sloan’s mind worked on other things. The string quartet Hilary had called an orchestra opened with a moderately paced waltz and Sloan knew what he wanted to do.

  “Mr. Frobel, may I have a waltz with your lovely bride?”

  Frobel caught his wife’s eye briefly, and in that swift glance they spoke volumes to each other. These two were not just bride and groom; they were good friends. Pure, unadulterated jealousy wrenched Sloan’s heart. How much would he give for a happy union like this with a smart, sensible, beautiful woman? Frobel here had everything Sloan wanted and more.

  “Certainly,” the young pastoralist said, and Sloan swept her away lest the lad change his mind. From the corner of his eye Sloan watched Frobel lead Hilary out toward the dance floor.

  “Mrs. Frobel, your man seems at home here, as do you. Are you both originally from Sydney?”

  She smiled as she laid a hand firmly on his shoulder. “I was born in Parramatta and raised here and in Brisbane. He spent his whole life in the outback. He calls all the big-city financiers silvertails, and suspects every city bloke of being a lurk merchant out to get the backblockers. Other than that, he has a fairly healthy attitude toward urban life.”

  Sloan chuckled. Silvertail. Obviously that includes me. You’re just polite enough not to say so.

  Pearl Frobel was not one to waltz in silence. “So you gave up growing sugar and tea in the jungle. What has replaced it?”

  “Commodities trade. Broker. I’m finding I enjoy it very much. A diff
erent sort of jungle, this, but still a jungle.”

  She laughed, and her voice lilted. “When Mr. Swipes first spotted you here, he instantly launched into a lengthy explanation about how you can help sell Queensland beef. Export markets?”

  “Who is the stockmen’s representative, you or your husband?”

  She smiled knowingly. “Behind the scenes, Mr. Sloan, or in front of them?” She was a wonderful dancer; for a woman so cocksure of herself, she followed well and smoothly. “Marty has an excellent business acumen. He established and kept his station through the worst drought in many years, and he’s displayed a fine political sense. But I’ve a head for business also, and he trusts my judgment. We work well together.”

  “That I don’t doubt.” The knife of jealousy stabbed anew.

  They completed the waltz with not-so-small talk about cattle and sheep and the difficulty of procuring dependable markets. Sloan reluctantly returned her to her bridegroom and made a business appointment with them both for the following morning in Crown Street.

  He sought out Carroll Swipes and thanked him for the timely introduction. With some difficulty he fielded the inevitable barrage of questions about shoot-outs and hastened on to other contacts. For Hilary, this was a grand party. For most of the others there it was a means to get acquainted, both socially and for business purposes—an important place to see and be seen. But to Sloan this soiree could make or break his very living. He knew nothing of brokering. He knew precious little about the commodities he planned to handle. Here he could learn and learn quickly while he still had the capital to maintain a well-appointed office in one of Australia’s two most expensive cities. He poised on the brink of either ruin or glory; how much he learned and how quickly he acted would determine his future.

  On the brink. The story of his life was that simple phrase. He always and ever seemed to be leaping from crisis to crisis. Why could he not just enjoy a peaceful, stable means of living with a comfortable financial return? Even in the heat of some heady deal, he yearned for quiet stability.

  Curious, the way he loathed this frantic struggle and yet played the game so eagerly. Once he established himself—if ever he did—perhaps he could relax a bit. He was not yet thirty-one, and he was beginning to feel tired. He’d watched men drop over from nothing more than keeping a constant frantic pace. If this weariness was his body telling him something, his very health might depend upon success.

  “Well, Sloan! Never expected you here.”

  Sloan wheeled. Here it came. He adjusted his voice and his mien to communicate confidence, friendliness. “Mr. Beckerstaff, good evening. How’s the sugar business?”

  The balding businessman drew himself up to his full five-feet-eight. “I think you know. Either you have more courage than a bulldog to show up at this function, or you have a stupid streak.”

  “Probably a little of both. Sorry you’re unhappy.”

  “You knew, didn’t you? You knew what was coming with that Kanaka business. I see now why you arranged the deal you did when I bought your plantation from you. ‘Sugarlea will return her price in five years,’ you said. You took me for a fool, and you were almost right.”

  “Sorry; I don’t understand.”

  “Yes, you do. You knew Melbourne was going to order the repatriation of all those Kanakas. You had to know; Sugarlea used more of them than any other holder in Queensland. You knew the expense that was coming, and you left it for me to pay.”

  “There was a rumor going around that Melbourne was going to send the Kanakas back to the islands they came from, but that’s all it was—a rumor. I figured if Melbourne wanted them sent home, Melbourne would send them home.”

  “And tender a bill. I’ve been assessed more than I paid you for the holding.”

  Beckerstaff raised a finger. “Rest assured you’ll pay, Sloan, one way or another. I didn’t know where you were until this moment, but I have you now, and I’ll not lose you again.”

  “You’re overreacting to circumstantial evidence. There’s nothing to suggest I misled you when we made our deal. The courts weigh evidence, not your personal bitterness.”

  The man’s voice dropped to a hiss. “I never resort to the courts, Sloan. Takes too long, and it’s expensive. No. No, I’ll ruin you. Smarter men than you have tried to best me. Now they’re picking rags behind the buildings by the bridge. Your ruin will bring me great personal satisfaction.”

  Sloan held the man’s piercing little eyes firmly. “By that I take it that the gauntlet is thrown down.”

  “You crack hardy now. But I’ll watch you come crawling to me, Sloan.” Beckerstaff turned on his heel and walked away.

  How much of Beckerstaff’s threats were idle skitting, and how much damage could he do? Sloan was up King Street already, practically bankrupt. He smirked. Beckerstaff could have an easy go of it if he only knew.

  Between dances with Hilary, Sloan made seven other contacts and arranged several more appointments. He was able to listen in on some excellent casual talk about beef raising and wine culture. When at last he called for his carriage, he could look back on the evening with a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment.

  Satisfaction? Not completely. Two haunting, jarring discordances poked at the edges of his mind. On the one edge, Beckerstaff’s vitriol. And on the other, Martin Frobel and Pearl. Why were they so open and friendly, so ready to discuss business? Why of all the people in this great nation were they the ones here tonight? Might they, as it appeared, give Sloan an inside track to a major source of cheap beef, or was he being set up for some elaborate plan of revenge and retribution? What if they were somehow allied with Beckerstaff—he the snarling dog out front, and they the snakes waiting in the grass? Sloan didn’t dare trust the Frobels, pere or fils. Or femme, for that matter; Pearl was just as crafty as any man.

  “Hilary, what’d you think of that Frobel bloke?”

  “Did you see his boots?”

  “No, I didn’t notice his boots.”

  “They’re made out of some kind of lizard skin or snake skin. Or crocodile. I forget which. He ought to wear patent leather like everyone else when he’s in town, don’t you think?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it. Does he seem trustworthy to you?”

  “He didn’t make any unseemly suggestions. But of course, he just got married a month ago. I suppose I could trust him.”

  Sloan sighed. Why had he asked?

  “Cole, you made lots of money growing sugar, didn’t you?”

  What should he tell her? That after the fire destroyed his home he sold off everything—land, mill and all—and worked the payments in such a way as to leave his debtors weeping? That he came away from the north Queensland coast with far fewer assets than when he had started up there? Would she appreciate the intricate deals he had wrought to save from the disaster enough money to set himself up as a broker of means? Hardly. “Enough. Yes.”

  “Then why aren’t you a planter anymore?”

  “Because, luv, a planter risks his own money, same as a pastoralist does. As a broker I risk other people’s money. I much prefer it that way.” He frowned. “What did he tell you, anyway, about—uh, the past?”

  “Nothing. Oh, wait. He mentioned his father met you once.”

  “That’s all?”

  “What else is there?”

  “Nothing.” He lapsed into silence. Hilary’s soft warmth pressed against his side and he thought of Samantha.

  What a drongo you are, Sloan, to daydream over one stubborn Irish lass while sitting in the midst of one of the world’s great cosmopolitan cities full of nubile and willing young ladies.

  “Cole, don’t you think crocodile boots are grotesque?”

  “I own a pair.”

  “Oh.”

  Silence.

  “Cole, have you ever seen a real crocodile?”

  “I killed the beast that is now my boots.”

  “Oooh.” She pondered the cosmic meaning of it all for a while. “Cole? I al
ways thought you were more sophisticated than that.”

  Chapter Three

  Linnet’s Song

  It looked almost like a cathedral, a great brick box two stories high, replete with spires and flying buttresses, and in the very top of the gable, a round rose window. “Elder Hall and Conservatorium” the sign said. Here in serene majesty were perpetuated the muses of music and the arts. Linnet Connolly climbed the steps into the high foyer. The interior, a single great and echoing hall, lacked only the stations of the cross and a few statues from being truly holy ground. No pews, though. Seating consisted of chairs, hundreds of chairs. At the far end, where one would properly expect an altar, a massive pipe organ filled a story-and-a-half alcove.

  Linnet walked the length of the hall, passing the rows and rows of silent chairs. She climbed the steps of the non-altar to get a better view of the organ console—banks and banks of stops, keyboard stacked upon keyboard. More foot pedals than toes on ten feet, it seemed, jutted out of the dark paneling. What great artist could claim skill divine enough to master this amazing instrument?

  “Young lady!”

  Linnet gasped and wheeled as the accusing voice echoed from the cantilevered rafters. She curtsied. “G’day, sir!”

  “Well.” His voice rang with authority, but his slight, sauntering appearance suggested a music hall comedian or juggler—an entertainer with a strange accent Linnet had never heard before. “Perhaps you’re the charwoman, hey? You here to clean the place?”

  “Clean the—nae, sir. But I…” Linnet drew a deep breath, gathering what precious little courage she had. “Are ye saying they’ve need of a cleaning woman here?”

  “They need everything here. What is your business, please?”

  “I’m a…I hope to be…” She took one last glance at the organ console and stepped down to floor level.