Kal (48 page)

‘I feel like a little male companionship,' he said at the end of ‘Oh Come All Ye Faithful'. ‘Let's go to my study, Paolo, we'll have a cigar.' He could curb his impatience no longer.

Paolo was nonplussed. ‘I don't smoke, sir.'

‘I know, I know. High time you learned.' One of the grandest moments in Paul's life had been the first time Quenton had offered him a cigar. ‘Have Edith bring some coffee and cognac up to my study, would you, dear?'

What on earth was going on? Meg wondered. Her father, normally an abstemious man, had had too much to drink and was obviously excited about something. And cigars? Her father didn't even like cigars, he only smoked them when he was celebrating a business coup or wanted to impress somebody.

Elizabeth rose from the piano stool. ‘Play something for me, dear,' she said. ‘One of the nocturnes, you play them so prettily.'

‘Of course.' Her mother was uneasy, Meg could sense it. She sat, arranged her skirts about her, and painstakingly played a Chopin nocturne. Meg's musical abilities were average and she did not enjoy performing for her mother who was an excellent pianist with a fine natural ear. But even as she watched her fingers and concentrated on each note, her mind was filled with questions.

Finally, she excused herself. ‘I need to go to the bathroom, Mother, I shan't be long.' Her mother nodded distractedly. She hadn't really been listening to the music at all, Meg thought as she slipped quietly from the room.

Meg was right. Elizabeth felt distinctly ill at ease. It had started with her husband's announcement as they were dressing to go downstairs for pre-dinner drinks.

‘This is going to be a momentous Christmas Eve, Elizabeth.'

‘Oh yes, dear, in what way?' She hadn't taken much notice at first. Christmas Eves were always momentous for Paul.

‘I have plans. Plans which will affect the future of this family.' He'd refused to tell her more, but had promised, mysteriously, that all would be revealed by the end of the evening. Still, she hadn't worried too much; Paul enjoyed creating dramatic suspense. He was probably going to announce a business merger or a property investment.

But, as the evening unfolded, he had drunk far more than he usually did and his manner had been so distracted that Elizabeth had started to feel a little uneasy. And when, after dinner, he'd demanded that Paolo join him in the study, her unease had turned to alarm as she recalled his mysterious announcement in the bedroom.
Something was going on, Elizabeth realised, and she didn't like the feel of it at all.

 

P
AOLO WAITED UNTIL
the maid had left the room. ‘I'm sorry, sir, I don't understand,' he said as Edith pulled the study door closed behind her.

Out on the landing, before she could turn the doorknob, a hand appeared on top of Edith's. She glanced up, startled, to see Meg, a finger to her lips.

Edith smiled conspiratorially, she and Meg had been partners in crime on a number of occasions. If Miss Dunleavy wished to eavesdrop on her father, then it was nobody's business but her own, Edith thought. She nodded obligingly and trotted back downstairs to the kitchen.

Meg held the door an inch or so ajar and peered through the gap. Her father was seated behind his desk and Paolo, with his back to her, was seated in the armchair opposite. ‘Adoption, boy,' Meg heard her father say a little impatiently. ‘Legal adoption—what could be more simple?' Again there was a pause. Paolo seemed to be as confused as she was, Meg thought.

This was certainly not the response Paul Dunleavy had expected. Paolo remained staring at him, as if the words he was hearing were incomprehensible. Then he realised. The magnitude of his offer was overwhelming; of course, that was it. ‘Yes, Paolo,' he said expansively. ‘You are to be my son and heir. Everything I have will be yours. My name, my home, my property.'

Meg gripped the doorknob, her knuckles white. ‘You will give this family sons,' she heard her father say. ‘Sons to continue the Dunleavy bloodline …'

Paul sucked heavily on his cigar. The rich taste of tobacco, the heavy claret he'd drunk during dinner, the headiness of his words, all mingled fittingly. ‘… One of the finest bloodlines in the history of this country.' He
pushed his chair back loudly and picked up his brandy balloon. He felt drunk with pride, this was the most momentous night of his life. ‘I tell you, Paolo,' he started to circle the desk, ‘I tell you …'

In the second before Meg pulled the door shut, her father seemed to look directly into her eyes. The latch clicked loudly. They must have heard. Heart pumping, she crossed the landing and stole quickly down the stairs.

‘… you will be a son I will acknowledge with such pride.' Paul had neither seen nor heard Meg as he stood beside Paolo and raised his brandy balloon in salute.

But Paolo had heard the latch. He turned briefly, thinking someone had entered the room but, when he registered no one there, he returned his gaze to his coffee cup. He could not believe the words he was hearing and he could not meet Paul Dunleavy's eyes. They held the fire of fanaticism; the man was behaving like one possessed. He was drunk of course, but he was nevertheless in deadly earnest. Had this always been Dunleavy's intention? Paolo cursed his own naivety. How could he have placed himself in such debt to a man who had simply wanted to buy a son?

Never once had Paolo thought of Paul Dunleavy as his father. Strangely enough, he had felt more distanced from the man here in Boston than he had during their meetings all those years ago in Kalgoorlie. There had been a bond of sorts then, between the outback boy and the worldly American who had fed his dreams of travel and adventure. But of course that would all have been part of his plan. Paolo cursed himself again. How could he have been so stupid?

Having drunk deeply from his brandy balloon, the fumes of the cognac adding fresh fuel to his exhilaration, Paul was waiting for a response. He sat heavily on the corner of the desk, his legs a little unsteady. ‘So, Paolo,
what do you say? My legally adopted son and heir. What do you say to that?'

‘Well, sir …' Paolo picked up his coffee cup and drained the contents in an effort to buy time and to eradicate the foul taste of the cigar he'd been forced to light up earlier. It now sat burning in an ashtray on the desk, a wisp of its smoke constantly and magnetically finding its way into his left eye.

‘I think …' Of course! That was it! He had the answer! He put down the coffee cup and looked up, his eyes finally meeting Paul's. ‘I think it would not be possible to adopt me, sir.'

Dunleavy was momentarily halted. Through the haze of cigar and cognac fumes he wasn't quite sure whether he'd heard correctly. ‘Why would that be?'

‘Legally I am already your son, sir. I do believe it would be impossible to formally adopt your natural son,' Paolo wasn't absolutely certain he was right, but it was a pretty fair assumption, and it might rescue him from this awkward situation. One fact of which he was sure, Paul Dunleavy would never acknowledge a bastard son. ‘So you see, the only way you could recognise me as your son would be to admit to … well, sir, to my illegitimacy.'

Damn it, Paul thought, the boy was right. It was something which, during all the years of his planning, Paul had never taken into consideration. Of course, he should have checked with the authorities, but the boy was bound to be right.

So what? Damn propriety, Paul thought with reckless abandon. He would do as Paolo suggested; he would claim the boy as his own son. A sense of freedom overwhelmed him. The boy was true Dunleavy blood when all was said and done, and he would let the world know it!

It was an audacious idea and one which Paul would
not have entertained sober. Allow a bastard to bear the Dunleavy name? Why, his father would turn in his grave. And how could he expect Elizabeth to acknowledge another woman's bastard son as rightful heir to the Dunleavy name and fortune? Why, she might well leave him if he suggested it. But, in his drunkenness, Paul was so fired with the notion of a son that, even as such objections raised themselves, he instantly dismissed them.

‘Then that is what we will do, Paolo,' he announced, triumphant. ‘We will admit to your illegitimacy and I will recognise you as my son. Now come, let's drink to it.' He thrust Paolo's brandy balloon into his hand. ‘And then we'll smoke our cigars together. Father and son.'

Paolo stared back, at a loss for words.

 

M
EG HAD RETURNED
to the drawing room for only a moment. ‘I don't feel very well, Mother,' she said. ‘I'm going to bed.'

‘Of course, dear.' Elizabeth was relieved. Still wondering what was going on between the men in the study, she couldn't help but think that perhaps it was for the best that Meg retire. ‘I'll have Edith bring you a hot water bottle.'

‘No.' Meg sensed her mother's relief. ‘I don't want a hot water bottle. Thank you.' Her mother obviously wanted her out of the way so that they could talk about their plans. Well, of course, her mother was part of it, her mother had never cared about her, in fact the whole idea was probably her mother's. ‘Good night.'

Automatically, Meg washed her face, cleaned her teeth, brushed her hair, put on her nightdress. But all she could hear were her father's words.

‘… My son and heir … everything I have will be yours … my name, my home, my property …'

She lay in her bed staring blankly at the night sky through her attic window.

‘… You will give this family sons … sons to continue the Dunleavy bloodline …'

But
she
was the Dunleavy bloodline. What about
her
sons? The sons from her womb would be Dunleavy flesh and blood, did that mean nothing to her father? Perhaps if she were to demand that the man she married change his name. Yes, that's what she'd do. Then her children would be born Dunleavys in name as well as blood. Anything. She would do anything for her father.

Until Paolo Gianni had arrived, Meg had been the centre of her father's existence, she had been his son, his daughter, the very pride of his life. Gradually anger overtook her pain. Anger at Paolo Gianni. How dare a stranger attempt to usurp her position. How dare Paolo Gianni attempt to steal her father's love.

She dozed fitfully and she wasn't sure what woke her, but when she heard a door opening, she knew it was Paolo. His bedroom was not far from hers, several doors along the landing and, as she thought of him, her anger returned.

 

P
AOLO WAS TIRED
. The emotional fencing match with Dunleavy had been exhausting. ‘It's a great honour, sir, and I'm deeply flattered …' he'd started to say.

‘Flattery be damned, son, this is about love. Family love. The love between a father and a son.' Paul picked up the decanter and poured himself a liberal measure of cognac.

‘Perhaps we could discuss it a little more fully in the morning, sir.' The man was well and truly drunk now. Paolo could only hope that, come morning, the magnitude of admitting to a bastard son would discourage Dunleavy from the course upon which he appeared set.

‘Yes, yes, you're right, boy, of course. “The wine's in, the wit's out” as my father was wont to say. No point
in further discussion …' He plonked himself heavily in the armchair alongside Paolo's. ‘But come, let's share a drink.'

Paolo picked up his untouched cognac. ‘I'm deeply grateful for all you've done for me, sir,' he said diplomatically.

‘Ah,' Dunleavy waved his cigar in the air. ‘It's no more than any man would do for his own flesh and blood.'

They clinked their glasses and sipped their cognac and Paolo even forced himself to smoke a little of the abominable cigar whilst Dunleavy once more expounded upon his father, his grandfather and the bond between all Dunleavy men.

Over an hour passed before Paolo was able to make his escape. ‘If you don't mind, sir,' he said as Dunleavy rose to refill their glasses, ‘I'd like to retire. It's been a night of surprises,' he added quickly, warding off objection. ‘There's a lot I'd like to think about.'

‘Of course, son, of course.' Paul was disappointed, but he could see that the boy was overwhelmed. It was only natural. ‘We'll discuss everything over breakfast,' he said, clumsily embracing Paolo.

Paolo went downstairs and out into the cold night air to clear his head, the study had been dense with cigar smoke. He walked to the embankment and looked out over the Charles River, his mind a blank. Apart from the shock of Dunleavy's announcement, there was really very little to think about. In the sober light of day, faced with the prospect of a bastard son, Paul Dunleavy would retract his offer, Paolo was sure of it.

An hour later, when he crept in the front door and up the stairs, the lights were out and the household was sleeping.

By now Paolo was worn out. Let tomorrow bring what it may, he thought, as he undressed and tried to
clean the taste of cigars from his mouth, there was nothing that could be done tonight. He lay down and was asleep in a matter of minutes.

He didn't hear her come into his room and he didn't hear her gentle whisper.

‘Are you awake, Paolo?' In the dim light from the open doorway, Meg could see him. Lying on his side, his back to her. Was he awake? She couldn't tell. ‘I wanted to say goodbye,' she whispered, very quietly. Still no answer. She pulled the door closed behind her. They were in darkness now.

She undid the sash at her waist and let her dressing gown drop to the floor. Naked, she crossed to the bed and pulled back the covers.

Anger and hurt had lent Meg all the courage she needed; seduction was easy if revenge was the motive. But, as she lay silently beside him and felt the warmth of his body so close to hers, she couldn't help herself. She was aroused. If, in seeking revenge she could satisfy her curiosity and assuage her desire, then all the better, she thought.