To Touch the Clouds : The Frontier Series 5 (7 page)

‘Then we carry out our mission in Neu Pommern and come home.’

It sounded simple, Randolph thought. But what Colonel Duffy outlined earlier that evening was fraught with danger. The American brooded that he was participating in a mission that was of little concern to his own country. After all, a war among the Europeans that dragged their colonies into the conflict would not involve America, which had stated its neutrality in European politics. Only his friendship with Matthew dragged him into the plot.

Guy Wilkes angrily paced the carpeted floor of Fenella’s small house located not far from Arthur Thorncroft’s film studio. Patrick had purchased the house for her years earlier and because of its proximity to Arthur’s studio it had witnessed many parties to celebrate the completion of a project. On a narrow, tree-lined avenue, the house was situated in a pleasant, middle-class suburb within walking distance of the trams that rattled through the city streets. Fenella sat at a mirror in her room set apart from the small living room where the actor fumed in his jealousy.

‘You seemed rather enamoured of that bloody Yank tonight,’ Guy said in a fury when he ceased pacing the floor. ‘Don’t try to deny it.’

Fenella stopped brushing her long, lustrous hair. ‘I was not showing, as you are implying, any more interest in Mr Gates than I do in any of my admirers,’ she sighed. ‘From what I have been told by my father of Mr Gates he has led an interesting life.’

‘There are thousands of women out there,’ Guy said, entering the bedroom and waving his hand in the air, ‘who would give their right arm to bed me. You are a fortunate woman to have me court you.’

Fenella felt her anger rise. ‘Do you think that I have not
many admirers?’ she snapped, turning away from her reflection in the mirror. ‘What were you before Arthur employed you – a good-looking draper’s son from some godforsaken country town with big dreams of fame and fortune in the city. Well, you might have that, but you do not own me.’

Guy realised that he had over-stepped his mark. ‘I did not mean it that way, Nellie,’ he said, attempting to reconcile. ‘What I meant to say is that we are both lucky to have each other. As Arthur has often said, we are the darlings of the film-going public.’

Fenella placed the brush on the dresser in front of her. ‘I don’t give a damn for what the public think of us as a couple,’ she said slowly, choosing her words precisely. ‘I am with you because I love you – not because you are Guy Wilkes, the dashing thespian. No more or no less than that. I do not care if Uncle Arthur feels our relationship is good for business.’ She stood and walked towards Guy, whose eyes were still glazed from the withdrawal of the heroin he had inhaled. She touched his face with the tips of her fingers. ‘You have to trust me or we have nothing together.’

Guy was surprised that her caress felt condescending rather than affectionate. Carefully keeping his emotions under control he raised his own hand to grasp her fingers and draw them down to her side. ‘I do trust you,’ he said quietly, turning away from her. ‘It is time that I left to return to my place.’

As Guy made his way to the front door he congratulated himself on agreeing to George Macintosh’s request. Fenella Macintosh was as traitorous as all other women that he knew – just like his own mother who had deserted his father and him when he was only five years old. When he was able to really confront himself, Guy had to admit that he despised women for their nature. It was ironic, he mused,
that women loved him for his handsome looks and charm. Destroying Fenella Macintosh would teach her a lesson she would remember all her life, he thought as he closed the door behind him. It did not hurt that he would be richly rewarded for his services. Fenella needed to learn that she was a mere woman who should not upset him with her flirting ways. Yes, she would pay dearly.

George Macintosh slipped the gears of his Buick two-seater into neutral and left the car at the front of the old horse stables, now converted to a shed to garage his cars. He would let his manservant park the car inside as he did not want to bother himself with the effort. Miss Coral Gregory-Smith was safely at her home and it was time to retire to his grand house – once the property of his relatives, Granville and Fiona White. The house was smaller than the Macintosh mansion but still built of sandstone and two storeys high, with ivy creeping up the front and framing the array of windows looking out to the harbour. Alighting from the car George walked across the fine, gravel driveway to open his front door where he was met by a sleepy, older man dressed in a much-worn dressing gown.

‘Sorry, Mr Macintosh,’ the elderly manservant apologised. ‘I thought that you might arrive home earlier. I seem to have dozed off.’

George eyed his manservant. Maybe he was getting too old for the job, he thought, and might best be replaced. He did not reply to the older man but pushed past him with a grunt of acknowledgment. When he had reached the bottom of the ornate stairway he turned to the servant. ‘I am expecting a visitor around eleven o’clock tonight, Curtiss,’ he said. ‘Please ensure you are awake to allow her
entry. Oh, you can put the Buick in the stables,’ he added, tossing the key to the old man who fumbled with them, dropping the key to the floor.

‘Very good, Mr Macintosh,’ the servant replied, rising from his knees after retrieving the key and shuffling out the door.

George climbed the stairs to his library and found a bottle of fine Scotch whisky in a cocktail bar adjoining the wall-to-ceiling shelves of musty books collected by the Whites over the years they had resided in their Sydney house. Given what George anticipated would fill the rest of his evening, he broke his strict rule on the consumption of alcohol and sat down in a chair behind his desk to gaze about the library, reflecting for a moment on the previous owner. George had heard the family stories about Granville White. A man of peculiar tastes, was the way his father had described Granville, leaving the rest to the imagination. George somehow felt that he might have liked the man if he had still been alive.

He poured a generous shot of whisky and his attention returned to a ream of papers stacked neatly before him. They were the financial statements of Arthur’s film company and did not reflect a good showing for the Macintosh companies to which it was indebted. George took a swallow of the fiery liquid and flipped a page of the report while removing his tie and loosening the top button of his crisply starched shirt. In the morning he would visit the bank that held the lien on the film company and either transfer funds or agree to fold the enterprise. Guy Wilkes’ agreement to help him in his special project to discredit Fenella in her father’s eyes had changed matters considerably and George knew that he would keep Arthur’s project alive for the moment.

He turned over the page that he had been viewing and
stared into the dark recesses of his library. His eyes rested on an array of old Aboriginal weapons – spears, shields and nulla nullas attached to the wall. For a brief moment the thought of a curse on his family flitted through his mind. Something that his grandmother Lady Enid Macintosh believed in, he mused, sipping at the Scotch. So much so that she had the collection moved to the house he now occupied. George did not believe in the power of superstition.

A gentle knock at the door alerted him to the fact that his guest had arrived.

‘Come in,’ he called from his chair and the door opened to reveal a young woman he guessed to be in her late teens. ‘You must be Florence,’ he said, not bothering to rise from his chair. ‘A mutual friend recommended your services.’

‘I am,’ she replied, attempting to appear confident.

George rose from the chair and strolled across the dimly lit library to stand before her. He could see that she wore the heavy make-up that stamped her trade on her face. ‘Pull up your dress and lay across the table,’ he commanded, walking to a corner of the room where a hollowed elephant’s foot contained a collection of canes.

The girl moved uncertainly to the desk, bent over, revealing her naked backside. She watched George across her shoulder, her confidence mixed with fear. ‘You will not hurt me,’ she pleaded.

George flexed a thin cane as he returned to stand alongside the girl. ‘That is why you are being paid so well,’ he sneered. ‘I may hurt you, but I will not harm you.’

The cane swished through the air, striking the girl painfully on her bare buttocks. She yelped and buried her head in the blotting paper on George’s desk. Tears of pain flooded her eyes and, biting her lip, she reminded herself that this
form of perverse entertainment was worth a month’s pay to a working man.

George’s face contorted with his pleasure at inflicting the pain on the helpless girl. His eyes bulged and the flush of excitement rose in him like a raging bushfire. Five more times the cane rose and fell until the girl could no longer restrain the tears that flooded her eyes. When the caning ceased she was aware that he was behind her with his pants to his ankles. Grunting like an animal, George spent himself in the girl who offered no resistance.

‘That, my love,’ George gasped, ‘is what money can buy. Your body and soul.’

The young prostitute did not answer but bit back the pain. George was only warming up and felt a rush of ecstasy for the further pleasures that lay ahead before the sun rose.

5

A
lex Macintosh had met many beautiful women in his quarter century on earth but Giselle Schumann was probably the most exquisite woman he had ever seen. At twenty years of age, her sun-gold hair, striking blue eyes, slender neck and pert nose sprinkled with freckles from her time living in the Southern Hemisphere were not her only attributes. She had a fashionable hourglass figure and moved with the grace of an aristocrat. Although she was not tall in an elegant way, being a head shorter than Alex, he knew from the moment his eyes met hers he was smitten by the young woman.

She stood with her mother at the bottom of the stairs leading to the plantation house, surrounded by suitcases as a couple of native servants manhandled the luggage from Schumann’s car. Albert Schumann was obviously delighted to see his wife and daughter and after an exchange of warm
greetings Schumann turned to Alex standing at the top of the stairs and introduced him.

‘This is my beautiful wife, Karolina, and my equally beautiful daughter, Giselle,’ he said proudly. ‘I would like you to meet a guest of ours from Sydney, Mr Alexander Macintosh.’

Both women smiled and Alex attempted to read Giselle’s expression. It was warm and he thought he saw a glimpse of a challenge in her eyes.

When the luggage was stored away Schumann arranged for coffee and cakes on the verandah. Alex was struck with the warmth of the family to each other and they were inclusive of his presence as well. When Albert Schumann was forced to excuse himself to attend to an urgent matter on the property Alex was left with his wife and daughter.

‘My husband has informed me that you are related to the von Fellmanns from Prussia,’ Karolina Schumann said in German. ‘I know the Count and his wife well.’

‘I must confess that I have not kept contact with that side of the family,’ Alex replied, sipping delicately from a fine china cup. ‘A relative on my grandmother’s side married into the von Fellmanns and one of their sons currently has a Lutheran mission station in Queensland. I met him many years ago when I was with my grandfather.’

‘They are a very wealthy and respected family in east Prussia,’ Karolina continued, keeping Alex’s attention. He could see where Giselle inherited her beauty. ‘But so much for idle chatter concerning family,’ Schumann’s wife said, placing her coffee cup on the cane table. ‘My husband has also informed me that the ship we noticed in the harbour belongs to your family and that you are here to negotiate a cargo of copra before you leave us.’

‘That is correct,’ Alex replied, glancing at Giselle who
had so far remained out of the conversation. ‘We only have to agree on a price.’

‘I hope that you and my husband are able to arrive at one that is mutually agreeable,’ Karolina said. ‘In the meantime, I trust our hospitality meets with your satisfaction.’

‘Your husband has proved to be more than a kind host, Mrs Schumann,’ Alex said. ‘And it has been a privilege to meet you both.’

‘You must excuse me, Mr Macintosh,’ Karolina said, rising and straightening her long, flowing cotton dress. ‘I must organise with our servants for the dinner tonight. I am sure that you and my daughter are able to carry on a conversation.’

Alex rose from his chair as Karolina departed to go inside the house. He sat down and turned to Giselle who was smiling enigmatically at him. ‘What is funny,’ he blurted, sensing that he had done something to amuse the young woman.

‘Your German,’ she said with the noticeable trace of an educated English accent. ‘It is not very good.’

Alex blushed. He should have known that Giselle spoke English. Her father had informed him that not only was she born in Australia but had spent all her schooling there in an exclusive ladies’ college in Sydney. ‘Well, I was tutored in your language with the aid of a cane,’ Alex said, reverting to his native language. ‘It did not endear me to German language lessons.’

‘But you do have German relatives if not our blood,’ Giselle said, raising her cup to her lips. ‘I must confess to you that I feel more English than German although I would never tell my parents that. I have spent most of my life living among English speakers in your country and have come to admire your way of life so far from our home in Prussia.’

‘Have you visited your home in Germany?’ Alex asked, pleased to be able to slip into a conversation with the young woman in his own language.

‘Yes,’ Giselle replied. ‘We have spent the occasional Christmas at home. My father has done so to remind me of my roots and our culture, but I am afraid the snow was not as pleasant as walking on the beach in summer in Sydney.’

Alex was surprised at how Australian Giselle was, considering that she was classed as a German by the fact of her parents’ heritage. He was aware that she was watching him with a decided interest and then and there decided that Giselle would remain in his life forever. Fate had sent him to this remote German outpost in the Pacific to meet the woman whom he would share the rest of his life with. Her presence caused his real mission to fade away as easily as dust before a storm.