Shadow of the Osprey (13 page)

The rush to the Palmer had stripped Kate of teamsters to work with her small fleet of wagons but she had been able to recruit Ben back to her business, even though she knew he had intended to try his luck on the fields. Ben gave up his ambitions to make his fortune prospecting, his unstinting loyalty ensuring that she continued to build on her fortune. But it was a fortune tied up in capital investment: land, wagons, cattle, mining shares and a string of supply depots. Her business enterprises now overlapped with those of the Cohens who had expanded into hotels and even shares in enterprises in Sydney and Brisbane. The informal partnership proved extremely profitable for Kate and the Cohens and was firmly established on nothing more than a handshake of trust.

Emma reached over and touched Kate’s hand. It was a familiar gesture between them and she returned the gentle gesture with a weary smile. ‘I will be all right Em,’ Kate said. ‘The trip back was a little rough.’

Emma worried for her friend who drove her self so hard. There was not a bad bone in the woman,
she thought with a sigh.
Her only fault was that she worked like a man and denied the woman in her. Kate’s once flawless pale skin was now tanned to a golden hue and her hands were callused from the tough, physically demanding work of handling the bullock teams. But the gruelling work could not dim the beauty of her grey eyes which burned with an intensity touching all around her with their light. Emma could see that she was depressed about all that had happened in the last few days.
‘Your husband came here a couple of weeks ago,’ Emma said. ‘He said he would catch up with you when you returned.’

‘Instead I caught up with him,’ Kate replied wearily, as she stretched her long legs and reflected on her visit to Kevin’s grave.

‘The children missed you,’ Emma said, by way of letting her know that there were people who needed her. ‘Sarah in particular,’ she added.

At eight years Sarah seemed already a young woman with her own mind. Although she played rough and rowdy games with her older brothers Tim and Peter, she was a serious young lady, with big brown eyes and a pert nose. And she idolised her aunt Kate and followed her whenever she could.

Life had not been easy for the children. To many of the white children they were ‘darkies’, and Kate’s three adopted charges found themselves cruelly isolated in the town.

Young Gordon James proved the exception. The son of Henry and Emma, he was a constant companion of the three Duffy children. So when Kate had moved temporarily to Cooktown to oversee the hauling of stores to the Palmer, she had brought the three children with her, rather than leave them in the care of a stranger. All three had inherited much of their father’s rebelliousness, which had brought about the resignation of more than one nanny.

Of the three children Peter proved to be the most difficult. He preferred to roam the bush and often camped with the wandering Aboriginals on the outskirts of the town. He was growing fast and already showed the promise of his father’s muscled build.

Gordon was only nine but big for his age. Often he would disappear with his best friend Peter to go bush where the two lived the life of the Aboriginals who accepted the boys into their nomadic life. The Aboriginal men taught both boys the skills of the bush. Gordon was a quick learner and better at tracking than Peter. Little Sarah secretly adored him. Indeed, she knew, even at her tender age, that she would always love the son of Henry and Emma James.

The news that her aunt Kate was home had reached Sarah. She ran all the way to the store, wearing a dress covered in dirt from the rough games the boys played. She burst in. ‘Aunt Kate, Peter and Gordon have run away again,’ she said breathlessly, as she gave her aunt a crushing hug.

‘Stop telling tales on your brother, Sarah,’ Kate said with a gentle squeeze. Kate was not concerned about the disappearance of the two boys. They always came back after a couple of days. Or, if not, Henry would track them down and bring them back by the scruff of their necks. Besides, they rarely went any further than the Aboriginal camps just outside of town. ‘Where is Henry?’ Kate asked Emma. She had not seen him at the store.

‘He’s gone off to see someone about a prospecting job or something like that,’ she replied with a worried expression. ‘At least that is what he told me.’

‘He is finding it hard to work in the store?’ Kate asked sympathetically.

‘He misses the bush so much Kate. He misses all the excitement of his days with the police. But he does not miss the work he did for that horrid and evil Lieutenant Mort. Henry is like a man haunted,’ Emma added with a frown. ‘He lives with a terrible guilt for what he has done to the Aborigines on the dispersals. He is not a bad man. Just a man who feels that he did bad things in the name of the law. I do not understand it but he loves the bush out there and wants to return to his days roaming the tracks. But I know you need him here to help out and I feel guilty that my husband would even think about deserting you for a job in the bush.’

Kate gave her friend a reassuring smile. Both women knew it was really Emma who did most of the work around the depot when Kate was out with the bullock team, even though Henry was useful when he was needed. ‘I think I know how he feels Em,’ Kate said as she remembered her experiences on the track. ‘There is something beautiful out there which you have to experience to understand.’ How could she put into words the majesty of freedom on the track. Sure there was danger. But there was danger in the almost lawless frontier town on the Endeavour River. ‘Did he say what he was going to do?’ she asked out of a sense of curiosity.

‘No. He just looks for jobs that his past experience might suit,’ Emma replied.

Kate shrugged. She wondered how he would cope with his almost crippled leg if he did get a job back in the bush. The old war injury had grown worse with the passing of the years and gave him a lot of pain. But he rarely let on about his suffering from the shrapnel wound. She could see that Emma was worried and hoped that Henry would not get the job back in the bush for Emma’s sake. Knowing Henry as Kate did, she surmised that there would have to be an element of danger to get his interest.

‘I think I will attend to the correspondence before I wash and change,’ Kate said, as she stroked Sarah’s long dark hair with her fingers. ‘Then I can go and sleep on a real bed.’

She heaved herself wearily off the bale of cloth and stretched. The trauma of the last few days had taken a greater toll on her reserves of strength than she had admitted to herself. But she had reason to smile when she remembered that Luke had come back into her life. It was still like some wonderful dream.

The smile turned to a frown however as she allowed a doubt to creep into her thoughts. There was a nagging question that neither had resolved as they had walked side by side with the big wagons. Luke had said so little, but she had sensed a tension in him that she could not reach. And yet when the sun was gone from the tropical skies they had sat together discussing little other than the events that had transpired in their lives. Why did it have to be so difficult? Why was it that neither seemed to be able to reach out without the fear of failure? For now she would attend to the mundane business of running a company and put aside thoughts of him.

She found a pile of correspondence Emma had placed in an old chocolate box kept under the counter and wearily shuffled the piles of invoices and receipts looking for personal letters. She found two. One was from Sydney and she recognised her cousin Daniel’s handwriting. The other was from Hugh Darlington. She was surprised to find a letter from Hugh and opened his letter first. She read it and groaned. It was not possible, but it had happened. Another blow! This time it was financial.

Despite his past betrayal of her trust she had re-employed Hugh’s law firm to handle her legal matters after the death of Sir Donald Macintosh. Better the devil she knew, she had rationalised at the time. He was after all the best in his business on the northern frontier. But now, as she stared at the contents of the letter she wondered if she had not made a huge mistake in her decision to hire him once again. What else could go wrong? According to his letter her former lover would be in Cooktown within a fortnight. When she glanced at the date on the letter she realised he was already in town. She hoped Luke was not aware of her past relationship with the suave Rockhampton lawyer.

D
etective Kingsley’s meeting with Lady Enid Macintosh proved to be interesting. He was served cucumber sandwiches as he sat in the parlour of the great mansion overlooking the harbour.

Lady Enid was all that the detective imagined a titled lady would be – and he had to admit that she was a beautiful woman for one he guessed must be in her fifties. Her flawless skin was unwrinkled and her jet dark hair only beginning to show the grey streaks of time. But it was her striking large emerald green eyes that he noticed above all her features.

She was aloof but polite to the likes of himself. He was pleased to see the faintest crack in the obvious contempt she had for mere working class police detectives when he related how Horton had told him that her son-in-law Granville White was behind the death of her son David Macintosh years earlier.

Before he died Horton had managed to tell him of how Mort had left David on the beach to be butchered by the natives and that the
Osprey
captain had once had a conversation with Granville White about what might happen to David Macintosh on such a trip. Lady Enid’s son-in-law had hinted heavily too that any ‘accident’ would not be held against the captain of the
Osprey.

Horton also mentioned that Granville White had hired him and his half-brother to kill an Irishman by the name of Michael Duffy. But Duffy had instead killed Horton’s brother in self-defence.

Enid interrupted the detective. Michael Duffy was dead, killed in the war against the New Zealand Maoris. So the information that Horton had confessed to Duffy’s innocence was of no value. Unfortunately Kingsley had not corroborated the confession with a witness and it would come down to only his word in any court of law. Kingsley himself did not know of the Duffy case but guessed that the records would probably be held by the Darlinghurst police.

Enid listened impassively. At least that is how she appeared. So Granville was instrumental in the death of her David. For that he would pay dearly! The policeman was only confirming what she had always suspected and the wheels had already been set in motion for her son-in-law’s demise as a power in the colony. Revenge would come slowly but surely. Granville would pay dearly for the murder of David, she vowed. And so too her daughter for siding with him.

‘I realise that what this Jack Horton told me could prove to be an embarrassment to the good name of yourself and your family, Lady Macintosh,’ Kingsley said, balancing a teacup and saucer on his knee as he munched at a cucumber sandwich. ‘So I thought it best to tell you first. Only fair.’

Enid stared coldly at the man across the room from her. His manners were atrocious and his feigned servile demeanour insulting. She well knew why the detective had come to her with the information instead of going to his superiors. ‘I know I am speaking for my late husband when I say how grateful we are for your consideration in this matter, Mister Kingsley,’ she said politely. ‘I am sure a gift of money might express our gratitude for your discretion.’

Kingsley could detect the contempt in her voice. In his job he had long learned to read the difference between a person’s words and the way they said them. A cunning look came over his face. ‘Any amount Lady Enid,’ he replied solicitously. ‘I trust you know how much my discretion is worth. But no cheques. I prefer that you pay me in the legal tender of the colony.’

She nodded her understanding. The policeman was shrewd and this might be a sign of some intelligence – hopefully enough for him to realise that reneging on the deal to remain silent could prove detrimental to himself as much as to the Macintosh name. ‘I happen to have enough to pay you presently. If you wait here I will fetch it,’ she said, rising to go to the library.

When she returned she passed the notes to the detective. He stuffed the money into the pocket of his trousers and scooped up the last of the sandwiches from the silver salver.

‘There is one other thing,’ Enid said as the detective prepared to leave. ‘I will be needing your services as a policeman in the future.’ Kingsley looked surprised. ‘Although we both understand the rather sensitive nature of what has been confided to you by Mister Horton, I may have recourse to call on you to give evidence in a court of law as regarding Captain Mort’s involvement in the murder of the native girls.’

‘Of course, Lady Macintosh,’ Kingsley replied. ‘It is my duty to give evidence in criminal matters.’

‘Then I would like you to speak to Mister Daniel Duffy of the law firm Sullivan & Levi. They are located in the city.’

‘I know Mister Duffy,’ the detective growled. ‘He and I have had occasion to clash over cases in the Petty Sessions.’

‘Then you will appreciate Mister Duffy enjoys somewhat of a formidable reputation as a practitioner of the law,’ Enid said with just a touch of satisfaction. ‘I would like you to tell him in confidence all that you have told me here today, with the exception of matters relating to the conspiracy to kill Michael Duffy.’ Kingsley frowned and Enid added, ‘Michael Duffy was Mister Daniel Duffy’s cousin. I have my reasons for your silence on that matter.’ Kingsley nodded his understanding and after the maid had shown him out Enid stood and walked across to the big bay window to look down on the policeman walking down the crushed gravel driveway. The information concerning Michael Duffy’s innocence had come too late for the unfortunate man, she thought idly as she watched the policeman disappear through the wrought iron gate. But even if he had been alive she doubted that she would have revealed what she knew of his apparent innocence. No, Michael Duffy might have proved to be a formidable man to deal with had he lived, she realised, recalling his magnetic attraction to her daughter Fiona, an attraction that had been powerful enough to produce a son.

She dismissed any thought of declaring Michael’s innocence to Daniel Duffy as she could see no value in the proposition. It was not in her nature to have the man who had stolen her daughter’s heart perceived as a martyr. She turned away from the window and let a rare smile purse her lips. The ironies of life, she thought. That the son of a man who she had once hated with the venom of her class for Papists was the key to destroying her most hated of enemies – her own daughter and her daughter’s husband. Very soon it would be time to activate a contract formulated so long ago in the Botanic Gardens between herself and the Irish lawyer Daniel Duffy.

The house that Fiona White shared with her estranged husband had been a wedding gift to her from her father. A two-storey stone house with a sweeping coachway, it was in many ways a replica of the elegant family mansion of her estranged mother Lady Enid Macintosh. And, as with her family estate, Fiona thought of it as a house rather than a home.

In the early hours of the evening an elegant carriage brought her to the entrance of the house and Fiona was helped down by her driver who bid her a good evening as she walked up the broad steps. At the front door she was met by a maid who followed her through to the drawing room where her two daughters, Dorothy and Helen, sat with their nanny, happily playing with porcelain dolls. Dorothy, the elder at nine years of age, was very much like her aunt Penelope in appearance and had also inherited her extroverted nature. Helen, the younger at eight years, took very much after her mother with her dark looks and emerald green eyes.

With grave faces her daughters bid their mother a good evening. Spontaneous expressions of delight were not encouraged by the nannies. Young ladies must learn to control their emotions.

Fiona asked polite questions about her daughters and was assured by the stern woman that the two girls had been veritable angels. Fiona gazed at their serious little faces staring back at her and gave them an impulsive hug. She watched as her daughters were bustled up the stairs by the nanny who chided them for their unladylike outburst of delight when their mother had embraced them.

The two girls were growing so fast and Fiona reflected guiltily on how little time she had spent with them. She had promised herself that her daughters would receive the attention that her own mother had denied her. But there always seemed to be functions to attend, dinners to organise and the constant social visits to support Granville’s growing position of prestige in colonial society. Indeed the nanny saw more of the girls than she did, just as her own gentle Molly O’Rourke had spent more time with her than her own mother had. And now she was growing daily in the same mould as her severe and unyielding mother. If only Molly could be there to advise her.

But the gentle and loving Irish nanny was long gone. Fiona missed her more than she missed any person in her life. It was not a yearning she could admit as Molly had been little more than a paid servant carrying out what was expected of her. Often she would find herself searching for Molly in the areas of Sydney where the Irish tended to congregate. But she was never among the faces she saw pass by her carriage. Molly had simply disappeared and her mother remained tight-lipped as to her whereabouts.

Fiona hated her mother even more for the silence that denied her a chance to confront Molly. She wanted to ask the woman she had trusted above all others in the world just one question. Why had she betrayed her, the person who she professed to love above all others? Why had she conspired with her mother Lady Macintosh to have her newborn disposed of at one of the infamous baby farms?

When the two little girls had been tucked into bed by their nanny, Fiona dismissed the servants for the night, and went up to her room. She had not shared her bed with Granville since the night six years earlier when she had slept with her beautiful cousin Penelope.

Fiona shed her cumbersome clothes and stood naked before the mirror. She admired her body as she knew her cousin admired her in the privacy of their world – Penelope’s bed. The birth of her two daughters had done little to alter her soft shape except to fill out her small breasts. She cupped them in her hands and was displeased to feel that they sagged a little more each year. Even so, Penelope found her desirable, and that was what mattered most.

Fiona sat on her bed and sighed. She ached to feel Penelope’s body against hers, to feel her moist lips on her breasts and the sweet taste of her mouth on her own. But Penelope had made excuses for not being able to be with her this night. Had her desire been prompted by the unexpected memories of Michael Duffy that the meeting with the mysterious, handsome American provoked? His uncanny resemblance to Michael aroused bittersweet memories of the younger man whom she had briefly loved. And she found herself thinking about the son who had been taken from her at birth.

How different things might have been if only Michael Duffy had lived to be part of her life. But she knew that Michael would not have forgiven her for allowing Enid to dispose of their child. The child had probably been sent to one of the infamous baby farms where unwanted babies were slowly starved to death. Had her baby lived he would have grown to be a young boy by now, eleven years old! What would he have looked like? Like Michael, or would he have had the Macintosh looks?

The thoughts of her lost child brought bitter tears to her eyes. She had often hoped that her son was actually with a good family, growing into a young man who would search for her one day. She forced away the tears and refused to allow her thoughts to dwell on her loss. Still, she wondered what life might have been with him if Penelope had not touched that hidden part of her. Was it that her desire for another woman had always been just below the surface? She knew the sensual love between two women was wrong. But Penelope’s bed was a different universe, not part of the world she knew in her day-to-day life. How could the feelings her beautiful cousin aroused be wrong in the eyes of her unforgiving Christian God? Had not women in past times and cultures shared with each other that special kind of love that only one woman could give another?

Fiona sighed, slipped between the sheets and drifted into a troubled sleep.

George Hilary’s young apprentice fetched his boss to the front counter. A potential customer was perusing the stocks of rifles on display and had asked some particularly difficult technical questions beyond the knowledge of the apprentice gunsmith.

Hilary entered from the back of his shop, beaming his customary smile for anyone prepared to buy his lethal merchandise. He was greeted with the promising sight of a well-dressed, portly gentleman carrying a silver-topped cane, all of which appeared to indicate some moderate financial means. A potential customer for one of the more expensive sporting guns, Hilary calculated, rather than the stock of ruggedly functional Snider rifles for use on the frontier. ‘Yes sir, and what can I do for you?’ Hilary asked by way of greeting.

The portly man turned from a display case of expensive English Tranter pistols. ‘You are Mister George Hilary I presume sir,’ he said, ‘the proprietor of this shop.’

Hilary nodded. ‘I am sir.’

‘Good! I prefer to do business with the proprietor rather than the servant,’ Horace said, extending his hand to the gun dealer.

Hilary quickly wiped his greasy hand on his trousers before accepting the extended hand. ‘I am Mister Horace Brown. Gentleman wanderer of these parts.’

Remittance man, Hilary thought as he shook hands. Still, they usually had some money and a lot of idle time to spend shooting. ‘I see that you were looking at the Tranters. Good choice for personal protection,’ Hilary said, removing one of the weapons from its case. He held it at arm’s length and pointed at the busy street through the glass pane splashed with his name and occupation. ‘Five shot double action, gun of choice for any man who wishes for the best insurance on his life.’

‘The gun of choice for the bushranger,’ Horace said with a smile.

Hilary dropped his arm and gave a short cough to clear his throat. ‘Men who know their guns Mister Brown,’ he retorted defensively. ‘The only insurance they have.’

‘I was looking more in the line of a rifle,’ Horace said, turning his attention to a rack of Sniders. ‘Preferably one of those new Winchester repeating rifles that load a metal cartridge.’