To Chase the Storm: The Frontier Series 4 (38 page)

Colonel John Hughes stepped forward to take the offered hand.

‘Got back a fortnight ago, old chap,’ Colonel Hughes said with a broad smile. ‘Heard you were staying up at the family estate and decided to pop in while I was in this part of the world. Your man was kind enough to let me in to wait for you.’

‘I hope he offered you a drink,’ Patrick said as he moved to the warmth of the fire to rub his hands.

‘As a matter of fact he did,’ Colonel Hughes replied. ‘But I thought it would be awfully rude to have one without you. I am sorry that I did not send my card ahead, but I ran out of time and decided to fall on your colonial lack of formality by just dropping in.’

‘Why is it that I sense you are not here just to say hello?’ Patrick asked.

The officer shifted just slightly. ‘I hope that we have the opportunity to do a little fly fishing on my estate after I finish my current assignment with the intelligence chappies,’ Colonel Hughes said. ‘But you are right, Patrick, I need to solicit your assistance in an ongoing matter we originally discussed in Sydney.’

‘It’s Martin, isn’t it?’

‘I am afraid so. It seems that he is now linked to a group of Irish killers planning to assassinate a British subject of some importance to the war effort.’

‘How do you know all this?’ Patrick queried.

The colonel could see that the man he had
soldiered with in the Sudan was attempting to hide his annoyance.

‘The police have informants amongst the Irish population of Liverpool and they passed on the information to us. But I cannot tell you any more than that, old chap. I know you will understand, being a commissioned officer in His Majesty’s army.’

‘I am an officer in the Australian army nowadays,’ Patrick said with a wry smile, ‘or haven’t they told you yet that the colonies federated to become a nation?’

‘Just a mere formality,’ John Hughes returned with his own smile. ‘You will always look to Mother England for your foreign affairs.’

‘No doubt, John. But what of Martin?’

‘As far as I know he is in Ireland and in contact with some rather shifty locals from the village of your ancestors,’ Colonel Hughes said, as if delivering a briefing. ‘I was hoping that you might once again find a reason to pop over and visit the old sod.’

‘I haven’t been back since ’86,’ Patrick said wearily. ‘It is not a place with fond memories for me anymore.’

‘I heard,’ John Hughes said gently. ‘I’m sorry, old chap. You have not heard from your wife then?’

‘No,’ Patrick said moving away from the warmth of the fire. ‘Not even when I was wounded.’

‘I know what I am asking may bring you into contact with your wife,’ Hughes said sympathetically. ‘But we are both soldiers for the Empire and what I can tell you is that contacting your cousin is no less important than the surrender of one of those
damned elusive Boer generals. We need you to persuade him that we are onto his every move and if he knows what is good for his Church’s reputation he should desist.’

‘Why don’t you get someone else to tell him?’ Patrick asked. ‘Why me?’

‘Not as easy as it seems,’ the colonel coughed. ‘Martin too is as elusive as De la Rey himself out there on the African
veldt
. I suspect that he would reveal himself to you out of a sense of family.’

‘You know I will do it,’ Patrick conceded. ‘Because I suspect that if I don’t something untoward might happen to him.’

Hughes did not answer but turned to look at the flames in the open hearth. Patrick knew he was right. He and Martin had shared so much as young boys, growing up in the loving environment of his Aunt Bridget and Uncle Frank’s hotel in Sydney. Patrick had always stood up for his once gentle and scholarly cousin against bullies. But this time the perceived bully was the whole British Empire.

‘Ahem!’

Both men turned to the door where Davies stood discreetly.

‘Miss Cohen has arrived, Major Duffy,’ he said. ‘Shall I show her in?’

‘Miss Deborah Cohen?’ Colonel Hughes asked with a raised eyebrow.

‘You should know, John,’ Patrick said with an edge of disapproval in his voice. ‘I have no doubt that the army has been keeping my life under scrutiny since I am related to a Fenian.’

‘Not I, Patrick,’ the colonel said as he reached for his cap and swagger stick on the mantelpiece. ‘We have been friends for too long. But there are those who might. When this dreadful matter is out of the way you and I shall do that spot of fly fishing. Davies can show me the way out. You are a lucky man, old chap.’

Patrick felt himself blushing. But part of the flush was caused by the thought that John Hughes was first and foremost a soldier for the Empire rather than a loyal friend. Patrick knew that he was indeed suspected by those in Protestant London of harbouring papist loyalties. Ancient sectarian animosities had not died with the new century.

He heard muffled voices from outside the room and realised that the colonel had introduced himself to Deborah in passing. Gathering his composure, Patrick turned as Deborah swept into the drawing room as a queen would into her court.

‘Patrick, it is so good to see you,’ she said. ‘I had the brief pleasure of meeting Colonel Hughes. What a charming man. Will he be visiting again this weekend?’

‘I am afraid not,’ Patrick said with as much sincerity as he could muster. ‘The colonel has to return to London.’

Deborah removed the feather-adorned hat from her head with the flourish of an actress and dropped it on a chair. There was something slightly unsophisticated about the gesture that Patrick liked. Perhaps it was a reminder of his less than formal colonial roots. ‘I am delighted to have you as my guest,’ he
said. ‘I will have Davies show you your room, and when you are ready, we can sit for dinner.’

‘Is something wrong?’ Deborah asked, moving closer to Patrick. ‘Did Colonel Hughes bring you disturbing news of some kind?’

‘Oh, I am sorry,’ Patrick quickly replied. ‘It was just a military matter of no real consequence,’ he lied, ‘but it is forgotten now that you have brought some brightness to this house. One could say a little bit of that Queensland sunshine I vaguely remember from my visits north.’

Deborah laughed lightly at Patrick’s clumsy attempt to divert her question. ‘Major Patrick Duffy, I strongly suspect that the heart of a poet beats in your chest as strongly as the drums of your regiment.’

‘Now who is being melodramatic?’ Patrick asked with a broad smile.

Deborah’s very presence seemed to make the rest of the world and its intrigues grind to a halt. For the moment the colonel’s ominous visit was already forgotten. Patrick knew he was under Deborah’s spell. Her company and conversation felt so natural and yet he was acutely aware of his sworn vow of fidelity. He was a man who lived by a code of honour as binding as the oath of allegiance he had sworn as an officer to the Crown. He had never questioned this even when Catherine had betrayed her oath of loyalty in marriage.

The lilt of Deborah’s voice blended seductively with the fine food and excellent French wine of the
evening. Why had he so quickly invited this beautiful woman to share the weekend with him, Patrick wondered, unconsciously turning his glass to reflect the candlelight in the blood red wine of his crystal goblet.

‘You are in a faraway place, Patrick.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Patrick apologised, noticing that Deborah was watching him with a curious smile. ‘I did not mean to be so rude.’

‘A penny for your thoughts,’ Deborah said.

Patrick found that his attention was on the swell of her breasts just above the daring black dress she wore so well. He was also guiltily aware of how darkly red her lips were.

‘I was just wondering why I wanted your company so much, and how I have been like a schoolboy waiting for the report. Kind of nervous but with an anticipation of doing well.’

‘I must confess that I have had little sleep thinking about my visit,’ Deborah said in a husky voice. ‘I don’t know what it is, but all the idle chatter we have indulged ourselves in before dinner has been like marking time.’

‘It is wrong, I know,’ Patrick said with an expression of anguish. ‘But I have wanted you even from the moment I first saw you at the opera, and yet I know it is wrong to just want someone if it is not based on love.’

‘Do you know, Patrick, that is the very quality I admire about you above all other men I have known in my world. You have a beautiful simplicity in your approach to life. I suppose I came here hoping that
you might take me to your bed and yet I think I should have known better. You are a man who would rather die than betray all that we women secretly hold most sacred.’

‘And what is that?’ Patrick asked.

‘What we most desire is for a man to put us on a pedestal to the exclusion of every other female. I am no different. I have always tried to convince myself that I am a libertine, but through the years I have rejected offers of marriage from some of the most eligible men in Europe because I fear that they have too ready an access to other women. I want a man who will love me to the total exclusion of any other.’

‘That I cannot do,’ Patrick said softly. ‘I have a wife, and although she may have chosen to disregard her vows of obedience and fidelity, I cannot.’

Deborah glanced away. She hoped that the disappointment in her face would not show. She had also felt the attraction from the moment they had met in the hotel foyer. Admiration for a man’s sense of honour was one thing, she thought bitterly, but wanting to feel him possess her with his body and soul was another.

‘Do you know what I am looking forward to this weekend?’ she said brightly, surprising Patrick with her sudden change in mood. ‘I think I would like to stroll down to the village and buy a big bag of fish and chips. We could find a pretty paddock and sit under one of those English oak trees and eat them.’

Patrick found that he was smiling despite the disappointment he sensed in Deborah. If only she knew just how tough it was for him. Maybe his father
would have handled the situation in a different manner, he mused. From what he had heard of his reputation with the ladies, Miss Deborah Cohen would not have made it through the entrée before he had her bedded. But he was not his father.

‘Davies tells me that they have a good fish and chip shop in the village. Weather permitting, tomorrow we shall partake of England’s national dish down by the brook that runs through the estate.’

The weekend was truly memorable, if largely for the fact that when they parted on Sunday afternoon it was with regret for what might have been.

Patrick waved and watched until the little horse-drawn cart was out of sight around a bend in the lane leading from the house, then sighed and walked back to the house. Neither had mentioned ever seeing the other again. Maybe it was for the best, Patrick consoled himself. After all, the army medical board had passed him fit for active service and he had his covert mission to Ireland, a land that did not welcome those wearing the King’s commission.

But as Deborah watched the gentle English countryside pass by her she intuitively knew that one day Patrick Duffy would be hers. For now she would be patient and allow Patrick’s life to run its course. When they would be together, Deborah did not know.

THIRTY-NINE

W
ith his head down and dressed in the garb of an Irish working man, Father Martin Duffy drew no attention as he stood aside to let a platoon of English soldiers march past him along the narrow road leading from the Fitzgerald manor beyond the village. Extra patrols had been mounted on orders from London. There were rumours that the Irish Fenians were planning something and a show of force just might quell any ideas to raise arms against the occupiers of the ancient Celtic lands.

Martin even tipped his hat at the soldiers with their rifles sloped at the shoulder. When they were gone, he continued his walk to the house, passing the strange man-made hill before arriving at the ivy covered mansion. As was his habit in these troubled times, he stopped and scanned the building and could see that the house had fallen into the
first stages of disrepair, a sure sign of an absentee landlord.

When Martin knocked on the door he was met by the housekeeper, who asked what his business at Mr Norris’s house was. He asked politely if she would deliver a letter to the mistress of the house and the old woman gave him a curious look.

‘Yer not from around these parts,’ she commented.

Martin only smiled in reply and remained patiently by the door as it was closed to him. Hands in his pockets, he stamped his feet against the cold until a good time later the housekeeper returned to open the door.

‘Yer can come in,’ she said. ‘Mrs Duffy will see you.’

Martin followed the broadly proportioned woman to a room lined with bookcases. It was stuffed in every corner with papers, books and the occasional work of the taxidermist, a swooping owl or falcon with wings outstretched.

‘Father Duffy,’ Catherine said in a tired voice as she clumsily attempted to rise from a wooden swivel chair. ‘We have never met but I have heard of you from my husband.’

Martin motioned for her not to rise. He could clearly see that Patrick’s wife was in the last weeks of her pregnancy, the swelling very obvious under the peasant-style skirt she wore. She appeared tired and pasty-faced, as if the library had been her permanent home during the confinement.

Martin engaged Catherine in small conversation for some minutes, talking about the weather. But
Catherine sensed that Patrick’s cousin had not come to merely engage in trivial chitchat and have a cup of tea. She could see it in the tenseness of his body posture and the fact that he was not dressed in the traditional garb of a priest.

‘May I call you Catherine?’ he finally asked politely. ‘I was informed by Eamon that you might be in need of some spiritual solace,’ Martin lied. ‘He has confided in me of his concern for your welfare and I hoped out of my respect for Patrick that I might be of some comfort.’

‘What comfort do I need?’ Catherine flared. ‘As you can see, I am with a bastard child born of the devil, and nature will run its course. Given time, I shall bear more of the devil’s brood when he comes to me from the hill.’