Cry of the Curlew: The Frontier Series 1 (12 page)

‘Why would Katie want to marry me, you bog Irish bastard?’ O’Keefe panted as he jabbed at Michael’s face with a short left.

‘Because she is going to have your kid,’ Michael hissed back as he unleashed a left and a right to O’Keefe’s face, who unwisely dropped his fists and stared at his future brother-in-law in amazement. ‘And she wants you as her husband.’

Kevin had never really considered marriage to Kate as he knew Frank Duffy’s low opinion of his convict parentage. Now Michael was saying he had to marry Kate because she was expecting their child!

Michael saw the opening when O’Keefe dropped his hands and instinctively capitalised on the other man’s mistake. A single blow sent O’Keefe crashing into the ground. He sat up groggily rubbing his jaw. The red haze was back, but this time it was full of swirling black spots.

‘Are you saying all this is about me marrying Katie?’ he groaned.

Michael kept his fists up waiting for his opponent to rise to his feet. ‘That . . . and a matter of honour,’ he panted. ‘For what you have done to my sister, O’Keefe.’

Kevin tried to grin but his face hurt too much. It was a strange way to become a member of the family! But it was no less than he expected from the likes of the Duffys.

‘Well, then, I suppose it’s my duty to stand you all a drink to celebrate the occasion,’ he said, extending his hand in a gesture of peace. ‘If you will only help me up. I am sure old Frank will let me buy a bottle of the best.’ Michael eyed the outstretched hand with suspicion.

‘Ja, Mikey. O’Keefe can buy us a drink,’ Max said as he retrieved Michael’s coat, now equally as tattered as the two fighters’ faces.

Michael dropped his fists and took the offered hand of his soon-to-be brother-in-law and heaved him to his feet.

O’Keefe placed an arm around Michael’s shoulders. ‘I could have beaten you,’ he said with a grimace, spitting blood on the ground. ‘If you hadn’t told me about Katie. Except Katie would never have forgiven me for hurting her precious brother.’

Michael returned the grin. ‘No chance of that,’ he replied. ‘No one beats a Duffy. Especially an O’Keefe.’

They laughed as they shook hands and Daniel breathed his second audible sigh of relief for the night.

But his relief was cut short when the kitchen door was flung open and all four men cringed at the sight of the woman standing with her hands on her hips in the doorway. There was a fire in the beautiful eyes and they instinctively winced at what they knew was coming. They were like guilty schoolboys caught stealing apples from an orchard.

‘Michael Duffy! Daniel Duffy! And you . . . Uncle Max! What have you done to Kevin?’

Michael attempted to protest. ‘
Us
, look at . . .’ He stopped short as the withering glare of his sister came to rest on him. The grey eyes softened noticeably when she saw the amount of blood on his face. But just as suddenly the coldness returned to her eyes.

‘What am I going to tell Aunt Bridget?’ she snapped. ‘You know she hates you fighting, Michael.’

‘
Me
fighting!’ her brother protested. ‘What about . . .?’ Her withering glare cut him short again and he knew that his protests were futile. He hung his head like a little boy. What could you do when a sister gets angry with you?

Daniel foolishly decided that he should try legal logic about the merits of natural justice employed to defend a sister’s honour. But as soon as he opened his mouth he only brought himself to her attention, and he wisely decided that it was best to save his legal logic for reprieving men from the gallows. It would be easier than reasoning with Kate Duffy when she was in this kind of mood.

Sheepishly all four men followed Kate into the kitchen where she poured hot water into an enamel bowl from the big kettle that remained permanently simmering at the edge of the stove. She fetched clean rags from a kitchen cupboard as Michael and Kevin sat at the table side by side, waiting meekly for her nursing skills to be applied to their battered faces.

Max and Daniel made a tactful retreat from the kitchen, leaving the angry young woman alone with the two battered fighters as she dabbed at Kevin’s bleeding nose.

‘You will have to hold the cloth underneath until the bleeding stops,’ she said gently. But when she dabbed at her brother’s split lip with a clean cloth she was not so soft and gave him another of her withering looks.

He took away the blood-soaked rag from his swollen and bleeding lip. ‘Kevin says he wants to marry you, Katie,’ he said and hoped that his statement of the marriage proposal might soften his sister. ‘Told me out in the backyard himself.’

She paused as she washed and wrung out a blood-soaked cloth in the enamel basin. ‘Kevin will ask me when he is ready,’ she answered. ‘I don’t think it is the concern of brothers, uncles or cousins, to be the first to know. And it’s not as if I am prepared to marry the first man who asks me for my hand.’

Confused, Michael shut up to dab at his lip, and he noticed that her eyes said silently, ‘Leave us’. He nodded his understanding and, as he closed the kitchen door quietly behind him, he was able to catch Kevin’s mumbled proposal. ‘Kate Duffy, will you honour me by becoming my wife?’ Michael did not have to hear his sister’s reply because he knew what it would be.

He smiled and winced as he dabbed at his bleeding lip and mused on the profound differences between men and women. How was it that his sister had no sympathy for a matter of honour that was inevitable under the circumstances? He sighed and shook his head at the eternal mystery of life. Ah, but they were wondrous and mysterious creatures, despite all their vagaries.

ELEVEN

T
he seagulls rose as a squalling white cloud over the yellow sands of Manly beach. Michael Duffy watched the birds float on a gentle breeze before they descended again on the dismembered carcass of a cuttlefish. He scooped up a scalloped shell and tossed it at the squabbling seabirds but the shell fell short.

‘Leave them alone, Michael,’ Fiona gently scolded. ‘They are doing you no harm.’

The barefooted Irishman stood in the break of the wave’s wash that ebbed and retreated hissing back to the ocean. His trouser legs were rolled just below his knees and his shoes strung around his neck by the laces. Fiona had also removed her shoes and she carried them in one hand. She also carried a colourful parasol as the late afternoon breeze plucked at the long filmy material of the white cotton dress she wore. The sea had soaked the hem because she had not been fast enough to avoid one of the big breakers rushing ashore when she had played the timeless game of daring the ocean to catch her with its watery fingers. She would shriek with delight and fearful anticipation as the sea rushed up the hard-packed sand towards her. Then she would dance away nimbly to avoid its clutches. Once or twice the ocean had won the dare.

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 his.

‘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.