Cry of the Curlew: The Frontier Series 1 (8 page)

Penelope had to agree, but she did not want to encourage her cousin in her admiration for the handsome young man. ‘He certainly is handsome, in a rough sort of Irish way. I grant you that,’ she grudgingly admitted. But there was no future in allowing one’s feelings to be drawn by such a man, Penelope thought, as her cousin prattled on with the deep sigh of a young woman in love for the very first time.

‘Oh . . . You should have seen those eyes of his,’ Fiona sighed. ‘So gentle.’ Penelope had seen those eyes, the broad shoulders and the slim waist and was duly impressed. Yes, she thought. He was like a Greek god. And she found herself imagining his hard body pressed against her own naked flesh in a sweating carnal and erotic embrace.

The thought caused her to shudder with a sensual fantasy. But she felt lust where Fiona imagined a romantic interlude. Penelope had no illusions about a man like Michael Duffy. He was extremely dangerous to women and, from his slightly scarred face, dangerous to men. Yes, she would have given much to have him naked in her bed and at her mercy. But that was unlikely as the young Irishman was not a man of their social circles. He was just another handsome Paddy from the wrong side of Sydney.

‘I feared that I may have lost you two ladies,’ Granville White said as he took Fiona’s elbow and guided her to the end of the jetty. Granville’s attention to Fiona was more than attentive. It had a touch of possessiveness about it. He held a cane picnic basket and spoke with an unmistakable educated English accent which was not surprising as he had lived all but two years of his life in England, managing the considerable family estates there. He was three years older than his sister, Penelope, and had the physical appearance of being ‘aristocratic’; pale, with a thin face and delicate hands. His eyes were blue like those of his sister and his prematurely thinning hair was a brown colour.

Ladies in the upper circles of Sydney’s gentry found him very attractive, not only for his wealth, but also for his genteel style. He had impeccable social manners and was what was termed a ‘true gentleman’ in colonial society.

‘I was frightened by the thunder,’ Fiona said. ‘But a gentleman came to my assistance to save me.’ Granville considered her explanation rather extravagant.

‘And who was this gentleman who
saved
you?’ he asked sarcastically. ‘Someone we know?’ He was peeved at the way she had lavished the praise on her ‘saviour’. A gentleman did not show his emotions which were the property of the common working-class Irish.

‘No, he is no one we have met before. It was that young gentleman standing over there,’ she said, turning her head to glance in Michael’s direction, and Granville followed her gaze to where a tall and broad-shouldered man stood. It was obvious that he was the one she referred to as he was intently watching her. Michael flashed her a smile when she caught his eye and she looked away shyly.

‘I am afraid the man is no gentleman by his appearances,’ Granville sniffed dismissively. ‘Probably one of those uncouth Irish navvies.’

‘He is
certainly
Irish,’ Penelope said with a hint of mischief in her voice. ‘But he is not uncouth. In fact, he is rather charming from what I have briefly known of him. I would even dare to say, a very attractive man.’ Granville glowered at his sister as he did not expect her to contradict his views. But it was obvious that the stranger had a certain charm about him that had infatuated both women.

‘The Irish are a brutish people loyal only to their church,’ he said with just an edge of anger. ‘You only have to read about their drunken brawling on their Saint Patrick’s Days to see how low their intelligence levels are. They are like those savage apes from Africa.’ His obvious bias against the Irish was fuelled by his desire to put down a man whom the two women found attractive. It was not natural that women born to a higher social class should be attracted by something almost animal-like in a man. Genteel ladies did not harbour carnal desires as men naturally did.

‘I think you should keep your voice down, dear brother,’ Penelope said, mocking him. ‘Or that Irish brute might hear you and give you a thrashing.’ He bristled, but did not reply to his sister’s taunt. Instead he turned to glare at the Irishman and both men locked eyes.

Michael wondered who the elegantly dressed man with Fiona was. There was no mistaking the murderous look he was giving him. He sized him up and dismissed him as no threat.

The storm broke as a rumbling growl followed by the hiss of cold raindrops on the hot surface of the jetty. The
Phantom
steamed into view around Middle Head and its timely arrival promised salvation from the pelting rain.

The rain lashed the usually placid blue waters into a sheet of cold grey. When the ferry steered into the main channel, it rolled and rose in the heavy swell that rushed in from the Pacific Ocean through the twin heads that guarded the harbour against the full might of the ocean’s power.

Under the canopy stretched over the ferry’s main deck, Michael and Daniel stood watching the foreshore of Manly disappear as the ferry rounded Middle Harbour and both men shivered when the wind blew a fine mist of spray under the canopy. They had been drenched to the skin waiting to board the ferry and the temperature had dropped dramatically with the arrival of the rain.

Further under the shelter, Michael propped himself against a support pole to sketch in his art book, and when he had completed the drawing he shoved his way through the close-packed passengers. Daniel had an idea where he was going. He rolled his eyes and groaned. He was up to some crazy scheme of his own making and was only going to make a fool of himself.

‘Miss Macintosh, I have something for you.’

Fiona was startled by the voice at her shoulder and felt her heart seeming to miss a beat. ‘Oh! Mister Duffy – it’s you!’ she exclaimed.

‘I thought you might like this as a memory of today’s outing,’ Michael said, as he pressed the sketch into her hand. ‘But I’m afraid it does not capture the beauty which is naturally yours.’ There were some wrinkles in the paper where water had splashed on it but the sketch remained reasonably intact. She glanced down and caught her breath with an audible sigh. It was a remarkable portrait of herself before the rain had drenched her and, in the sketch, fluttered tiny angels and the words, ‘May the Angels Protect You – Forever.’ She considered the Irishman’s gesture as the most romantic thing that had ever happened to her in all her seventeen years and gazed up into the face of the big man standing close enough for her to feel his body heat.

‘Penny! Look at what Mister Duffy has drawn,’ she said and her cousin could not help but admire the portraiture.

‘It’s very good, Mister Duffy. Are you an artist?’ she asked.

He shook his head. ‘I wish I were . . . But I have a lot to learn,’ he answered modestly. ‘I hope one day to go to Europe and be enrolled in one of the great art schools.’

‘I think they might learn from you . . . if this is any example of what you can do,’ Penelope said graciously and was now very impressed by Michael Duffy who, she had originally presumed, was merely just another handsome young working-class man. But she had noted that he had an educated lilt in his voice, and the sketch Fiona clasped in her hands demonstrated his creative talent. Penelope sensed that he was an interesting juxtaposition of the creative and destructive.

‘What do you think of Mister Duffy’s portrait of Fiona?’ Penelope said, turning with a wicked smile to her brother and added, ‘Very good for someone as you previously described to us.’ Granville shifted uncomfortably at his sister’s dangerous reference to his inflammatory opinions of the Irish race and fervently prayed that she would not go further.

Michael had noticed the tense exchange between the two. There was something deep and unresolved between them, he thought.

‘It has some merit,’ Granville conceded reluctantly.

‘I am sorry, Mister Duffy,’ Penelope apologised. ‘I have not introduced my brother Granville to you . . . Granville, this is Mister Michael Duffy.’ Neither man offered to shake hands as it was tacitly agreed that each disliked the other.

‘Do you work in town, Mister Duffy?’ Penelope asked. ‘From your manners I might presume you are employed as a clerk with a solicitor . . . or similar.’

Michael laughed softly at her interpretation of his social status. He had noticed that she was the more assertive of the two women and had an air of self-assurance about her to the point of being brazen.

‘Very flattering, Miss White . . . but no,’ he replied politely. ‘However, my cousin, Daniel, is undertaking his articles with a firm in town. I work for my uncle at the Erin Hotel in Redfern.’

‘Well, I would never have guessed you were employed in
that
kind of work, Mister Duffy,’ she commented. ‘Not with your obvious artistic talent.’

‘
That
kind of work, Miss White, enjoys a lot of patronage in Sydney,’ he replied in a manner which left her in no doubt that he had been insulted by her demeaning statement. ‘I would daresay that some of Sydney’s finest imbibe from time to time. As a matter of fact, they might even get falling down drunk,’ he added with a facetious smile. Penelope blushed. He was so damned sure of himself.

‘I did not mean to infer your work was not important.’ The words tumbled from her mouth. ‘And I humbly apologise if you took offence.’

Michael smiled. ‘I know what you meant, Miss White,’ he replied. ‘But I accept your apology.’

Penelope felt a surge of fury. He had made her do something she had never done before. He, a mere working-class man, had made her apologise. Some day, Mister Duffy, I am going to force you to submit to my will. And I don’t care how long it takes.

‘I think I should return to Daniel, my cousin,’ he said, as he noted with some satisfaction that he had caused Penelope to flush with anger. Ah, but the gentry could lose their composure as easily as the working class. ‘I hope I may be fortunate enough to meet both you ladies again in the near future,’ he added, catching a frank and admiring glance from Fiona.

‘Sydney is a rather large town,’ Penelope retorted coolly, still smarting from her apology. ‘It is not likely we would see you again.’

Michael stared her directly in the eyes before answering. ‘Two of its most beautiful ladies stand out in the largest of crowds,’ he said, holding her angry stare.

‘Sir, you are being impudent,’ Granville flared. ‘You should take back what you have just said. Immediately. And apologise to the ladies for your impudence.’

The Irishman burst into a deep laugh that rolled over them. ‘The truth need never be retracted,’ he said as he turned to stare at Granville. But there was no sign of merriment in the eyes to accompany the laughter. Just a deadly cold greyness that chilled Granville. Fiona unwittingly broke the tension between the two men.

‘I must give you back this drawing, Mister Duffy,’ she said, as she pushed the paper towards him. ‘It is too beautiful for me to keep.’

‘The portrait is yours, Miss Macintosh,’ he countered gently. ‘You can do whatever you like with it . . . except return it to me.’ She was aware that he had pressed a note into her hand as palms had touched and instinctively knew that the passing of the paper was a secret between them.

‘Thank you, Mister Duffy,’ she said coyly as she wrapped her fingers around the note. ‘I will always keep this wonderful gift to remember my meeting with the man who saved me from the thunder . . . If not the rain.’

He flashed her a knowing smile as he bade good afternoon, then turned on his heel to make his way to the rear of the ferry.

He was smiling as happily as a schoolboy who had been given the day off lessons as he pushed his way through the mass of wet bodies to reach Daniel.

‘I gather you made a further acquaintance with your young lady, boyo?’ Daniel asked his grinning cousin.

‘That I did, Danny boy . . . that I did,’ Michael replied with a sigh. Daniel frowned as he turned to stare at the pounding rain on the harbour waters. Nothing good could come of such an impossible affair, he thought sadly.

Both men watched in silence as the southern foreshore of Sydney harbour slid past the port side of the ferry and the paddlewheels churned the grey sea into a white wake trailing behind them. Michael was lost in thoughts of the anticipated rendezvous he had proposed in his note to Fiona and his wiser cousin brooded on the stupidity of even contemplating any form of courtship with the young woman. Sure and Michael might be better educated by the good Jesuit fathers of Saint Ignatius School than any gentleman in the colony, but he lacked the considerable means to support such a quest for the young lady’s hand. He was a young man rich in dreams – but poor in money. The Duffy estate was of moderate comfort but far from the unimaginable wealth of those whose class the beautiful woman appeared to be from. No, Michael was in for a big fall, when he confronted the fact that there could be no future between himself and Miss Fiona Macintosh.

The rain eased as the
Phantom
approached the clippers and sailing ships moored to the wharves busy with the commerce of the colony’s trade. And, as the ferry churned past the residences of the colonial elite dominating the heights east of the Quay, Michael stared over the water at the most imposing mansion of all – the Macintosh mansion. A magnificent home with beautiful gardens that spilled down to the harbour’s edge rivalling the homes of those of the other colonial aristocracy, the Wentworths of Vaucluse and the Macleays of Elizabeth Bay.

Fiona also gazed up at her home but she did not see the beautiful gardens or imposing structure of the house. She only saw a lonely place of restrictive confinement and little laughter. The house was not her home. It was the house of Enid Macintosh – her mother. A house where her mother ruled over the Macintosh financial empire as an iron fist inside a velvet glove, as she ruled the house of servants and her own children in the same manner. If only Father had chosen to remain in Sydney and not go to Queensland to manage Glen View personally, she thought wistfully. But he loved the land more than he loved the company of his family.