Flight of the Eagle (24 page)

Fiona's own dark beauty also remained although her ebony tresses were flecked with silver. Her startling emerald green eyes glowed with a vitality which was heightened by the presence of her cousin. Together in the drawing room of Penelope's lavish house the two women provided a distinctive physical contrast. Fiona's slighter figure, dark hair and ivory coloured skin contrasted with Penelope's golden skin and her sensual fullness of figure. Penelope's azure blue eyes gazed into the emerald green of Fiona's with a love that neither woman had experienced in a long time. Not for at least three years, when Fiona had visited the von Fellmann's estate, in Germany.

She had travelled with her daughters, Dorothy and Helen, to Europe from England where the two young women, in their late teens, were to finish their education. Fiona had chosen Germany as she knew the girls would have Penelope and her husband Manfred to watch over them, which was of extreme importance.

Granville White had destroyed any semblance of a marriage after molesting his own daughter. Fiona had even attempted to kill her husband when she discovered what had been occurring with Dorothy in their library. As her attempt had been unsuccessful, she had settled for estrangement, and her return to Australia was merely a business interlude before she returned to Germany, and Penelope's bed.

Manfred knew of his wife's affair with Fiona and he had even arranged for them to stay together at a hunting lodge which he owned in Bavaria. He did not fear losing his wife to Fiona as he knew that his wife also loved him. Equally, but in a different way.

Granville White was also well aware of his wife's infidelity with his sister. But his acceptance of the situation was now based on indifference. Or was it helplessness? The affair that had started many years before between the two women had stripped the man of any hope of a natural love between husband and wife. But not only had he lost his wife, he had also lost his two daughters. Fiona had vowed that he would never see them again.

The two women sat chatting about the education of Penelope's twin boys, Otto and Karl, who were almost ten years old, and of Fiona's own daughters' progress in the expensive German college for ladies. The talk of children inevitably raised the ghost of a young man Fiona had lost to her own mother. Her son, Patrick Duffy.

‘Have you seen him since your mother took him to England?’ Penelope asked gently, and reached out to hold her cousin's hands in hers.

Fiona smiled sadly. The question hurt her with a pain that had never left her life. Although the mention of her estranged son's name evoked the bitterness of decisions made, she had a need to talk. ‘After I visited you and Manfred in Prussia I visited my mother's family in England. I wanted to see Patrick at his school at Eton …’ She trailed away and a tear splashed Penelope's hand.

‘Did you see him?’ she prompted softly.

‘No. I was afraid that he might greet me with the hate for me that my mother has poisoned him with,’ she replied in a whisper, and looked away.

Penelope allowed the silence. She knew there were no words that could ease the pain of a mother losing a son twice in her life. Once, when she had reluctantly given up her son at birth and a second time, when she was forced to choose between the deep and abiding love she had for Penelope and the return of her son. She had decided to retain Penelope's love. It was a cruel choice her mother had forced on her and Fiona had to live with the agonising consequences.

Finally Fiona withdrew her hands from Penelope's and wiped away the tears from her eyes. ‘I even went to Eton and talked to his masters. They were very nice and told me that Patrick was at the top of his classes, but just a little bit unruly, and had almost been expelled from school for his insubordination. They said the senior boys were wary of him as he was prone to thrashing them if they attempted to impose their will on him.’

Penelope smiled and broke into a merry laugh. ‘He certainly has taken after his father,’ she said, realising that Fiona was speaking with pride of her son's past rebelliousness. ‘I could never imagine Michael bowing to fagging if
he
had been at Eton.’

At the mention of Michael's name Fiona's own smile faded. ‘Have you seen Michael?’ she asked.

And Penelope also ceased smiling. ‘No, not for many years. But Manfred often curses his name. He has told me Michael has been working against the Kaiser's interests in the Orient. For that horrid little Englishman Horace Brown.’

‘Did Manfred say when he last knew of Michael's whereabouts?’ Fiona asked softly. Although she loved Penelope she had never been able to forget the passion of the young Irishman who had opened the door to her deep and, until then, repressed sensuality.

‘He thinks he was in Shanghai last year. But Manfred's contacts lost him there,’ she answered, and took her cousin's hands in hers once again. ‘Michael Duffy is like some beautiful big cat with nine lives.’

‘Nine lives is a limited number,’ Fiona sighed. ‘From the little I know of him from you he must have used at least eight. I pray that my son has the same luck as his father.’

Michael Duffy had always been a haunting presence between the two women. Penelope felt twinges of guilt whenever she was with her beautiful cousin in bed. Guilt that she had shared her body with the only man Fiona had ever truly loved. But she consoled herself with the conviction that Michael's tormented and dangerous existence put him beyond the reaches of a normal life. He was a man who would always be forced to seek snatches of temporary love in the brief moments he spent in many women's arms. His dangerous life had little to offer beyond the sun that rose in the mornings when he left a woman's bed. And it had been his very love for Fiona that had forced him into the lonely life he now led. ‘I'm sure Patrick is blessed with his father's luck,’ Penelope said as she knew Fiona was thinking about her son's welfare in the war being fought in the Sudan. ‘He has already survived a campaign with the army in Egypt.’ Better he was in Sydney, Penelope thought. Even if it meant being with his grandmother whose unrelenting bitterness towards her own daughter was preferable to the uncertainties of a battlefield.

‘I wish I could just see Michael once more,’ Fiona whispered hoarsely. ‘Oh, if I just had the chance to talk to him, he might be able to tell Patrick I did not willingly send him away when he was a baby, that circumstances conspired against me and I made a choice I thought was right at the time. I truly believed Molly would find him a loving family to live with.’

‘She did,’ Penelope said gently. ‘She took him to Michael's family where he was loved.’

‘I know that now,’ Fiona replied, and the haunted look came to her eyes. ‘But I fear my mother has poisoned my son's mind forever. She has told him that I intended to send him to a baby farm.’ She paused and the haunted look took on a savage edge. ‘And it was
she
who told Molly to send my son to one. She must have known the unwanted babies were disposed of by starvation or other means.’

‘Your son will return some day to Sydney’ Penelope reassured. ‘And I am sure you will have the opportunity to tell him the truth then.’

Fiona tried to smile at her cousin's soothing words but her smile turned into a bitter look, ‘
if
he ever returns to Sydney I fear he will have to fight another war,’ she said bitterly. ‘Granville plots to see that he is not able to take his place in the family.’

‘I doubt that he could do that,’ Penelope replied. ‘Your mother has quietly declared that Patrick is your son and no doubt has the proof to back her claim to his rights.’

‘She has, but Granville has threatened to fight her in the courts to disinherit him.’

‘Surely he has no grounds to do such a thing,’ Penelope scoffed. ‘No doubt she has the Duffys as witnesses in her case. And you?’

Fiona lowered her eyes and it dawned on Penelope that she did not want to answer the question. ‘You are going to remain silent?’ she asked, and Fiona nodded. ‘Why remain silent concerning your son's identity? I doubt that the threat of scandal would deter you. So why remain silent?’

‘I have come to an agreement with Granville,’ Fiona answered. ‘I have given my word that if I remain silent he will not pursue the matter in court. But if he does, then I will break my silence and acknowledge Patrick as my son.’

‘But my brother will still have Patrick as his rival under the terms of the will,’ Penelope said. ‘I cannot see why he should accept the agreement, knowing my brother as I do.’

‘I agreed to signing over my share of the inheritance Father left me,’ Fiona said, and her cousin cast her a horrified look.

‘Granville will then have a third of the estate,’ Penelope said. ‘And if your daughters side with their father with their shared third when they turn twenty-one he will have the majority of the shares. He will then be the undisputed master controlling the Macintosh holdings.’

‘I know,’ Fiona replied softly as she contemplated her momentous decision that had changed the fate of the Macintosh name. She had granted control to Granville who had schemed for years for such control. Now the prize was within his unscrupulous grasp. But the signing over of the shares did come at a monetary expense to Granville. His credit with the banks was stretched as a result of the transfer.

The ramifications of her cousin's decision was not lost on Penelope. Under the terms of Sir Donald's last will and testament he had generously left his sole remaining child a third of the companies. Another third was left to be divided between her heirs, his grandchildren, and the final third of the estate to his wife, Lady Enid.

Dorothy and Helen's shares were being managed by a trustee company until they came of age. But Sir Donald had not anticipated an illegitimate grandson when he dictated the terms of his will. Lady Enid, however, had already put in motion the plan for Patrick to take up his share, a minor but critical share that would give Enid the majority edge over her hated son-in-law – at least until Dorothy and Helen came of age when it was possible the balance of control over the Macintosh financial empire could tilt back to Granville.

Penelope realised her cousin's foolish decision had been made as a gesture of maternal love for a son who would have nothing to do with her. She had signed away the very inheritance that was hers to a man they both knew was capable of doing anything to achieve his aims. Ironically, though, in the signing over of her shares to Granville, Fiona had struck a blow against her mother. Enid would now see her own ruthless dreams of the companies remaining with the male blood of a Macintosh heir shattered. Although Patrick would never be in a position to control the family empire, Fiona knew he would still be provided for in a comfortable manner for the rest of his life. If nothing else, her estranged husband was a very astute businessman who would ensure the companies prospered.

Penelope had trouble digesting the news concerning her brother's possible control of the companies. The realisation of his extended power burnt her stomach like acid and she reflected bitterly on the man who had abused her so many years earlier. In winning Fiona's love she had struck her own blow of revenge by taking her from his bed. But that had not been her primary aim. She had always genuinely desired her cousin in a way no man could understand.

TWENTY-TWO

B
efore the sun could savage the British army forming up in its monolithic square which was edged with rifles and bayonets, the order was given to advance. Horses of the escorting cavalry neighed and snorted and the gun carriages of the artillery rattled into motion as they moved forward. Mules left with their handlers at the Zareba brayed calls to those of their cousins who carried on their backs the squadrons of Bengal Lancers, fierce, hawk-eyed men wearing the distinctive turban and sporting bushy beards. The dust rose up from under the boots often thousand infantry soldiers who shouldered arms to march on Osman Digna's warriors in the hills beyond the ruins of Tamai while a small force of soldiers was left behind at the fortified camp to protect the precious supplies of the commissary from a sneak attack.

Located at the rear of the British square, Captain Patrick Duffy and Private Angus MacDonald trudged forward with the New South Wales infantry. In a cloud of dust, and under a blazing sun, they advanced through the silent, deserted ruins of the mud houses of the village. Around them were signs that the village had been used as a base of operations by the Dervishes.

The army did not stop, but continued to advance on the parties of warriors who they could see filling in water wells as they retreated. The enemy remained tantalisingly out of range of a major engagement and General Graham was frustrated at not having Osman Digna hurl his army at his mobile fortress of human flesh. His faith in the iron discipline of his well-trained and seasoned troops was unwavering and he knew a decisive battle now with Oman Digna could possibly bring the Mahdi to heel. But his hope that the fuzzy haired warriors might be savaged by bullets, bayonets and bombs on his square appeared to be disappearing as fast as the retreating Dervishes who fully realised that their spears, shields, swords and antiquated muskets – backed by all the fanatical courage of religious fervour – would not guarantee a victory.

Digna's commanders used instead guerrilla tactics, denying the land's most precious resource of water to the invaders while they sniped from the cover of the rocky hills.

In dashing forays the fierce Bengal cavalry squadrons galloped forward in an attempt to encircle the Dervishes before impaling them on the tips of their long cavalry lances. The accompanying gunners of the artillery unlimbered their field guns with the highly trained and precise movements that had been drilled into them on the more peaceful gun parks of England. The guns boomed and hurled the heavy explosive projectiles into the hills where they exploded in sprays of shrapnel balls.

Cheers rose from the ranks of infantry whenever they could see the columns of earth and smoke rising in the hills as dirty tufts to then wither and die in the air. From the front ranks facing the retreating skirmishers the British fired controlled volleys into the hills. Smoke, dust, noise and the inevitable desiccating heat of the arid land rolled over the square as it stood temporarily still to allow the rifles and guns of the army to seek targets.