To Touch the Clouds : The Frontier Series 5 (11 page)

‘That is sad to hear,’ Fenella said, impulsively touching his face with her fingers. ‘I would have thought that such a
charming man as yourself would have known the touch of many beautiful ladies.’

‘Not much time for that,’ Randolph replied. ‘My life has been mostly spent in the company of rough men or roaming those places in the world hardly on the map.’

‘You are a very interesting man, Mr Gates,’ Fenella said. ‘I am sure that you have the opportunity to share your time with female company.’

Randolph was aware of how close Fenella was. His attention was drawn to the moist outline of her lips. He reached out and drew her to him, kissing her with tenderness.

‘Mr Gates!’ Fenella gasped, breaking the embrace to draw away from him. ‘I do not think that was appropriate.’

Randolph silently cursed himself for his impetuous action. ‘I am sorry, Miss Macintosh,’ he mumbled in shame. ‘It is just that you are the most beautiful woman I have ever met.’

Brushing down her dress, Fenella stepped back, indicating that the American should leave the room. Randolph understood her gesture and, hat in hand, departed the room without another word being spoken between them.

‘God damn you, Gates,’ he muttered as he placed his hat on his head. ‘You deserve to be horse-whipped, tarred and feathered, and run out of town on a rail.’

When he found the hotel where Bob Houston and Matthew were washing down their cheese sandwiches with a cold beer he strode across to their table.

‘Did you ask Nellie to escort you to the regimental ball?’ Matthew asked, glancing up. But his friend’s sorrowful expression answered his question. ‘I take it she must have said no.’

‘Worse than that,’ Randolph said, taking a seat at the table. ‘I doubt that Miss Macintosh will ever speak to me again.’

Randolph stared at the working men crowding into the bar for a meal and ale. What he would have given to have had a steady job and the chance to prove his worth to Miss Fenella Macintosh.

7

P
atrick Duffy sat alone at the dining room table by the large French window that overlooked the well-manicured gardens below. In front of him was an article reporting that the Australian Prime Minister, Mr Joseph Cook, had called a double dissolution of both houses of Parliament. He had complained to the Governor-General, Sir Ronald Munro Ferguson, that his Liberal Conservative majority of one in the House of Representatives and minority in the Senate were unable to govern properly. The PM’s adversary on the Labor Party opposition, Billy Hughes, had stood and predicted that the Liberals would be cast out of power. Patrick pondered on what a change of government might mean to their mission and so absorbed in the article was he that he was hardly aware his son had entered the room carrying a cup of tea.

‘Good morning, Father,’ George said, standing by the
window to gaze out on what was shaping up to be a beautiful, clear and warm winter’s day in Sydney.

‘George,’ Patrick said, glancing up from the paper he now folded neatly on the table. ‘What brings you here this morning?’

‘Oh, I have brought some papers for you to sign . . . nothing of great importance . . . and thought that I might ask what is going on with cousin Matthew and his Yankee friend. In my opinion, there seems to be a lot of cloak and dagger stuff underway. I just hope that it does not jeopardise any of our German trading interests.’

‘You know better than to ask me about my work,’ Patrick replied. ‘I can reassure you that none of it puts our financial affairs with the Germans in jeopardy.’

‘You really think that a war is coming?’ George asked, taking a sip of his tea.

‘I know that to most people there appears no real sign of war but in my business I am paid to be ready. Yes, I think that we could very easily be at war with Germany sooner rather than later.’ Patrick spoke in a measured tone, silently reflecting on the arms race between Britain and Germany for naval supremacy.

‘Does my brother think the same way?’ George persisted. ‘He is, after all, one of your officers in the regiment.’

‘I have not had much opportunity to discuss the matter with Alex,’ Patrick answered. ‘You seem to have tied him up with company matters.’

‘If I remember rightly,’ George continued, ‘it was you who insisted that Alexander undertake the trip to New Guinea and Rabaul when you heard that I was looking at expanding our operations with the Hamburg merchants. You have never done that before.’

Patrick was growing uncomfortable with his eldest son’s
questions. They were infringing on his military role rather than that of chairman of the family companies. It was a father’s duty not to differentiate his love for his children but in the case of George, Patrick knew this was not so. From childhood the man before him had exhibited disturbing traits of coldness and cruelty. He had demonstrated many times that his only interest was his own pleasure and the acquisition of power. Nor had George any sense of duty. He had refused to take a commission in Patrick’s militia regiment and had insisted on taking possession of Granville White’s house for his sole use. Patrick had agreed because he had to admit that his eldest son was very good at managing the many companies Patrick had inherited from his grandmother Lady Enid Macintosh. Patrick had little interest in the world of banks and trading, preferring to spend most of his time in the company of fellow soldiers. He had been promoted to command a militia battalion of infantry in Sydney with Scottish traditions and his duties as commanding officer to his soldiers called on most of his time. He had been delighted when his youngest son had shown a keen interest in soldiering and taken a commission to rise to his current rank of captain acting as a company commander. Patrick suspected that the influence of his own father, the legendary soldier of fortune Michael Duffy, had a lot to do with Alexander’s choice. Alexander knew all the stories of how his mysterious grandfather had fought – from the New Zealand wars through the American Civil War to the arid lands of Mexico’s revolt against the French and finally in South Africa against the Dutch farmers. Along the way Abraham Lincoln had personally awarded his grandfather the Congressional Medal of Honour. Patrick himself had fought in colonial wars in Africa, commanding the fierce Scotsmen who had enlisted in the English army after the
Highland clearances. Soldiering was very much in the Irish-Scottish Celtic blood of his ancestors.

‘I thought that the sea voyage would be good for Alex, that is all,’ Patrick finally replied, dismissing any further attempts at interrogation from his son. ‘I have to change and attend duties at the regiment,’ Patrick continued, rising from the table.

‘Do you know that we have a German relative visiting our shores?’ George said. ‘Major Kurt von Fellmann is currently on a Pacific tour to inspect military installations and part of his inspection brings him to Sydney to meet with members of the German Australian Station.’

Patrick paused at the doorway to the dining room. ‘You mean Penelope’s son, brother of Karl?’

‘Twin brother, I believe,’ George answered, smug in the fact that he was privy to news that not even the formidable military intelligence apparatus he suspected his father of being part of was yet aware of. ‘I could offer him an invitation to the regimental ball when he arrives.’

Patrick could see the smirk on his son’s face. ‘How did you find out about his visit?’ he asked, suspicious.

‘I have friends in the German consulate here in Sydney,’ George replied. ‘They are, after all, not enemies of Australia.’

‘Leave an invitation for him,’ Patrick said. ‘He is related, albeit distantly.’

George placed his empty cup on the table. ‘I already have,’ he said, wiping his mouth delicately with a linen napkin from a silver holder. ‘I anticipated that you would like to meet him. After all, you are both officers with much in common.’

Patrick wanted to say something about his son’s presumption in extending the invitation before consulting with
him but let it slip, accepting that his eldest son was a very clever man despite all his darker traits. In a sense, George was attempting to please him, which was not something he often did. After signing the papers on the table before him Patrick departed, leaving George alone in the dining room.

A damned war with Germany was the last thing his family’s financial interests needed, George thought. He had just invested heavily in German chemical production and that money could easily be lost in the event of war. The loss might not be enough to send the family to the poor house but could cause some tightening of belts. George had good reason to show his distant cousin hospitality. The man belonged to a powerful Prussian family and if war broke out he just might be in a position to help save any investments in Germany. But George also suspected that any deal he might be able to arrange with the von Fellmanns would come at a cost. But what it might entail was of little relevance to him so long as it meant money. He dismissed the tiny voice in his head that warned him he might be treading the delicate line between patriotism and treachery.

For the moment he was more interested in his plot to discredit his sister. The first stage appeared to have been enacted and, according to the weak Guy Wilkes, it had not taken very long to reach the second stage. The thought of his sister being disowned by his father brought a smile to George’s face.

The winter sun was at its zenith and Arthur Thorncroft was angry. He paced the sandstone cliff, stopping occasionally to gaze down at the Pacific breakers swirling over the rock platforms below. Hours had passed and Fenella had not arrived for the final scenes to be filmed. His crew lounged
about in deck chairs smoking or just simply dozing in the warming sun. Arthur’s leading man chatted to a small cluster of people who had wandered onto the outdoor set and, recognising their Australian film idol, engaged him in conversation.

‘Guy,’ Arthur called from the edge of Sydney’s South Head. ‘I would like to speak to you.’

Reluctantly, Wilkes disengaged himself from his adoring fans and wandered across.

‘When you last saw Nellie she was well?’ he asked, brushing back hair that had blown onto his face.

‘I do not see her all that often now,’ Guy shrugged. ‘But the last time I saw her . . . the day before yesterday . . . if I remember rightly, she appeared well.’

‘That is all,’ Arthur said, dismissing him.

Guy promptly returned to his adoring gathering of young ladies all eager to report to their friends that they had spoken to the famous Guy Wilkes. He had hardly joined his followers when a black sedan pulled into the end of the road. It was Fenella’s chauffeur-driven car. The driver held open the passenger door and Fenella alighted.

Arthur waited until Fenella had exchanged a few words with her admirers and made her way to him.

‘You are a half a day late,’ he growled. ‘This project is costing me by the hour.’

‘I am sorry, Uncle Arthur,’ Fenella said, touching his arm with her gloved hand. ‘I was not feeling well.’

‘You do not look well, dear girl,’ he answered, softening in his anger. ‘I am prepared to cancel the work today and possibly resume tomorrow.’

‘Oh, do not do that,’ Fenella countered. ‘I will make my preparations and we can shoot the scene before the light is gone.’

Arthur stared into Fenella’s face. Something there disturbed him. He had a terrible thought, desperately wanting to be wrong. ‘Are you using opiates?’ he asked softly.

Fenella’s startled expression answered his question and her initial surprise turned to a look of haunted sadness. ‘I only use a little when I have had a stressful day,’ she replied, attempting to deflect the disappointment she could see in Arthur’s face.

‘Is it opium that you are using?’ he asked, gently grasping her arms.

Fenella shook her head and looked away. ‘No, just a little heroin from time to time.’

Immediately Arthur thought of Guy. He had suspected for some time that his leading actor was using the substance and the thought that he had introduced Fenella to the white powder infuriated him. He had the urge to walk over to the man, pick him up by the waist of his pants and toss him over the side of the headland. But he was on the verge of completing his film and recuperating the money lost in the last project. He needed both his stars to finish the film. After that, he could look around for someone to replace Guy Wilkes.

A dark thought crossed Arthur’s mind: what if Patrick learned that his cherished daughter was becoming addicted to the drug? What would be his reaction? Would he hold his friend responsible for allowing his beloved daughter to mix with the wrong crowd in the film industry? Arthur shuddered. He could remember a young officer of the Queen many years before who had survived in the wild deserts of the Sudan, killing the Bedouin with a knife and covering himself with their blood. Patrick Duffy was not a man one would want as an enemy seeking vengeance. It would be up to him to steer Fenella away from the drug before her father could discover her growing addiction to the narcotic.

‘We will call it a day but I would like to speak to you about what you are doing to yourself,’ he said gently.

Fenella hesitated. ‘You will not tell my father,’ she pleaded tearfully, reaching out for Arthur’s hand.

‘I will not tell your father,’ Arthur replied. ‘We have been friends for too long and shared a battlefield when we were young. No, but you must start to resist using the drug to satisfy your needs, my dear child, or your life will change for the worse. I have seen it happen to others.’

‘I promise that I will try, Uncle Arthur,’ Fenella said, sniffing back her tears just as Guy Wilkes ambled over to join them.

‘Ah, Nellie, I see that you have finally decided to join us,’ he said with a self-satisfied smirk.

‘Shut up, Mr Wilkes,’ Arthur snapped. ‘I think we can all take the day off and go for a stroll along the beach. After all, we have lost the sun,’ he growled, glancing at the clouds gathering over the sea and threatening heavy rain.

Guy threw up his hands to imitate hurt from the rebuke. ‘I will tell the crew,’ he said.