Flight of the Eagle (46 page)

‘My little Irish rose,’ Michael finally said when he turned from the view. ‘I have things to do today. If you like you can go to the markets and buy us something for supper.’

Catherine frowned. He rarely did not invite her to be with him and his statement only caused her more consternation. I am acting like a foolish young girl, she chided herself. I must not let him see that I am upset. ‘Cannot I come with you?’ she asked, hoping it did not sound like a plea.

Michael selected a Turkish cigarette from a tin and lit the pungent stick. He looked so maddeningly handsome, Catherine reflected, as she watched him puff contentedly on the evil smelling cigarette.

‘I will see you tonight,’ he replied as smoke hung in the still, warm air. ‘I have some business concerning money.’

‘I have money’ Catherine quickly countered. ‘I have my grandfather's legacy which can support us both for life.’

Michael puffed on the cigarette and smiled with tenderness. ‘That is your money, Catherine, and that is how it is going to stay. I am a man and the first rule of any man is that he does not live off a woman. It's up to the man to look after his woman.’

The frown dissipated from Catherine's face. He had called her ‘his woman’ and she was quick to pick up on that. ‘I will miss you,’ she said, as he kissed her gently on the forehead. She did not see the pain in his face as he turned away and walked out the door. Michael sat at a rickety table outside a coffee shop and watched the Greek villagers go about their lives. Occasionally some would cast a curious glance at the tall stranger with the black leather patch over one eye. Michael puffed on a cigarette and toyed with his glass of thick, black coffee without much thought for the villagers. His thoughts were troubled as he reread the correspondence he had carefully concealed from Catherine.

Father Eamon O'Brien's letter had reached Michael through a tortuous route. The priest did not know where he was but suspected Michael's past had links with the murky world of international intrigue. On a gamble he had placed it in the hands of the British Foreign Office and they had tracked the Irishman to Greece.

The man who had delivered the letter to Michael now strode across the cobbled plaza to join him. Another version of Horace, Michael thought. But only younger.

‘Mister Duffy,’ the man said, as he sat down uninvited at the table. ‘I hope you are well.’

Michael stared at the younger man, taking in his appearance. He had receding sandy hair, light blue eyes and a thin nervous face. Michael guessed him to be in his mid-twenties and judging by his white suit soaked with sweat he also guessed the man had walked a long way to meet him. Had he been someone of more importance he might have had transport provided.

‘Mister Clark, I see you made it,’ Michael said, with a slight smile of amusement at the man's dishevelled appearance. ‘I hope my conditions were acceptable to your employers.’ Clark took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. ‘There was only the matter of you signing the papers to say that you accepted that the ticket would be deducted from your payment. I have the documents with me, along with the ticket.’ He reached in his coat pocket and placed a pile of papers on the table beside Michael's coffee.

Michael glanced at them. ‘As your people felt free to read my mail before I received it, I feel that you can trust me when I say that I don't have to sign the papers to honour my word.’

Clark pulled a strained expression. ‘Mister Duffy, a man with your past must have taken for granted that any letter delivered into our hands from a priest in that troubled land to you must have an interest to us. You were, after all, born in Ireland.’

‘The letter was of a personal nature and had nothing to do with my work in the past,’ Michael growled. ‘I doubt that my family life is of interest to the British Empire. At least your Mister Horace Brown respected my privacy in such matters.’

Clark's apologetic expression softened Michael's anger. He could see that the young man was merely the courier and not one of the faceless men in London who had indirectly ruled much of his life through Horace Brown. ‘I am sorry, Mister Duffy, for the intrusion on your privacy. I was a great admirer of Mister Brown and agreed with his opinions on Bismarck's ambitions in the Pacific. Mister Brown held you in the highest of regard and even requested that your services to Her Majesty's government be recognised with an imperial award.’

Michael was mildly shocked by Clark's statement. He could never have imagined himself the recipient of a British award. He, an Irishman, who had made his feelings clear to Horace on the antagonism he harboured for British imperial ambitions around the globe. ‘I work for money, not medals,’ Michael replied, and could see that his pragmatism shocked the status conscious public servant.

‘Well, as for your mission, I am sure that it pays well enough for you. You will also be doing a great service for Her Majesty where you are going.’

‘Her Majesty, or Mister Rhodes?’ Michael queried sarcastically. ‘I read that there is a big grab for African land by British interests.’

‘Better that we get our hands on Africa than the Germans,’ Clark replied quietly. ‘We, after all, play cricket,’ he added with a crooked grin.

Michael smiled at the Englishman's statement. ‘We Irishmen don't – and never will.’

‘So much for cricket, Mister Duffy,’ Clark said as he stood to leave. ‘I will not concern myself that you have not signed the papers. If Horace thought so highly of you in his reports, than I can only be guided by his judgment.’

Michael nodded but did not stand to bid the English agent farewell. ‘I will do the job and Her Majesty will get an honest day's work from me,’ he said as he picked up the bundle of papers from the table and pocketed them. ‘You can tell your boss that I will be leaving tonight.’

‘Will you be telling Miss Fitzgerald of your assignment?’ Clark asked.

Michael stared at him for a brief moment with his good eye before answering, ‘Not that Miss Fitzgerald is of any concern to your interest, but I will tell you that she will not be coming with me to Africa.’

‘Sorry, old chap,’ Clark mumbled. ‘But I had to ask. Secrecy and all that, you know. Well, I will bid you a good day and best of luck for your mission, Mister Duffy.’

Michael remained at the table. The coffee was strong enough to caulk a ship's timbers. Eamon had mentioned in his letter that Patrick had returned to Ireland to find Catherine. The news had stunned Michael as no-one in the village had mentioned his son's previous visit – least of all Catherine. The priest's letter intimated that Patrick was very taken by Catherine and that he would go to any lengths to find her.

When Michael had finished reading the letter his world was in turmoil. It was not that he was in love with Catherine. He was too practical to let himself become emotionally involved with any woman. He knew that the longer he remained with her the harder it would be to leave. She was everything a man could love in a woman. But he was also aware that his life was measured by the violence of his future. He had come to bitterly learn that he would never be a great artist. What he really knew was the life of a mercenary soldier. At least he could still earn a living working for Britain in those dangerous places that were not receptive to English accents. As an Irishman he was less suspect.

Along with the delivery of the letter had been a proposal for another mission for England. It was as if the faceless men knew that as soon as he read it he would opt to work for them. And they had been right. If nothing else Michael had his sense of honour. Had he ever known that his son was interested in Catherine, then he would have resisted her charms. It was too late to do that but not too late to make amends to a son he hardly knew.

Catherine returned later in the day from the markets with a basket of special treats. She had planned a romantic candlelit dinner on the tiny balcony overlooking the sea. And then they would make love on the big, sprawling bed.

The room seemed empty, she mused. She glanced around and with rising horror realised that Michael's single battered bag was gone. And there was a large envelope on the bed. Immediately her rising horror turned to outright fear.

‘No,’ she heard her strangled cry as the basket spilled its contents across the floor. She stumbled across the room and tore open the envelope of papers. Inside was a ticket for a sea voyage and a letter. With trembling hands she held the single page up to the fading light. It said little other than that he had enclosed the ticket for her and that it was better their parting was this way.

Catherine swooned and collapsed on the bed. Racked by sobbing, she cried herself to sleep. When she woke in the early hours of the morning she felt truly alone for the first time in her life. Ending her life was an option she briefly considered until she remembered a sentence from Michael's short letter.

The ticket is more than a sea voyage. It is a ticket that will take you to your destiny with one who can truly give you the life you deserve. What we had together will keep us in the winter days of our lives as a sweet memory to cherish. I pray that one day you will understand why I had to leave without saying goodbye. I did so because I did not want you to see the pain that leaving you has caused.

By candlelight Catherine searched for the ticket. She read the destination printed on the slip of paper. Tears welled in her eyes. ‘Oh Michael, I loved you,’ she whispered. ‘I truly loved you.’

Thousands of miles east of the Greek village another woman cried for the loss of the man in her life. Here, however, the warm sun was not shining and the constellation of the Southern Cross reigned in the heavens.

Kate Tracy sat in her Townsville office and sobbed alone, her only companions the feeble light of a kerosene lantern and the mournful hooting of a mopoke owl. She had worked late into the evening and whilst clearing a little used desk she had discovered Luke's battered tobacco pipe. Its pungent scent had caused the doors of her mind to swing open and flood her with memories. Although it had been over a year since his disappearance somewhere on the frontier she had lived every day in her well-concealed grief.

She cradled the old pipe in her hands and the racking sobs tore through her body as if they would never end. ‘Oh Luke, I miss you so much,’ she cried as the tears splashed the desk. ‘I miss you with every ounce of my body and soul.’

‘Aunt Kate?’ the voice questioned gently from the door. ‘Are you all right?’

Kate peered through the dim light to see Sarah standing hesitantly in the doorway. ‘I came over to see if you were going to bed soon. You have been working too hard lately.’

‘Come in,’ Kate responded, making a feeble attempt to wipe away the tears with the back of her hand. ‘I was going to finish anyway.’

‘You were thinking about Luke,’ Sarah stated, as she moved to stand beside her aunt and place her hand on her shoulder.

Kate nodded and took Sarah's hand. Such a simple gesture could mean so much. ‘I am one of the wealthiest women in the colony and yet I would trade it all to just see his smile once more,’ she said.

‘You do, Aunt Kate,’ Sarah replied softly. ‘Every time you look at baby Matthew.’

Kate glanced up at her niece and felt a touch of pride for the young woman's wisdom. She is a remarkable young woman – with the proven resilience of both the Irish and the Nerambura, she thought. But she could not bring herself to tell Sarah that Matthew's grin was not the same as having Luke's protective arms around her or smelling the scent of his hard body, a scent that reminded her of the very country itself.

‘What has kept you so long at the office?’ Sarah asked to distract Kate from her melancholy thoughts. ‘You seem to have been preoccupied with something the last few days.’

‘I can tell you now,’ Kate replied with a wan smile. ‘I think there is a good chance that I may be in a position to purchase Glen View from the Macintosh companies. I have come into possession of information that my nephew Patrick has taken an influential position with the Macintosh enterprises, and I think that he would be sympathetic to any offer that I make for the property.’

Sarah caught her breath. Her aunt's obsession to own Glen View was well known – as was the Macintosh resistance to any Duffy stepping foot on the place.

‘Do you really think that Patrick would accept an offer?’ she asked.

‘He is still a Duffy,’ Kate replied, with the conviction of her ancestral clannish roots.

‘He is also of Macintosh blood,’ Sarah gently reminded her aunt. ‘Time changes people.’

‘So much wisdom for one so young,’ Kate retorted. ‘But not wise enough to choose to stay with me.’

Sarah looked away with an expression of hurt. ‘You know why I feel that I must leave Townsville and take up a new position, Aunt Kate,’ she answered. ‘I am not leaving you or Matthew. It's just that I need to get away from the memories that are so strong around here.’

Kate felt a twinge of guilt for reproving her beloved niece who was as close as any daughter might be. She had raised the girl from a toddler and shared in her joys as well as sorrows over the years. Lately it had been sorrow that had dominated both their lives. Sarah's decision had been well thought out but still Kate could not help but feel that her leaving would be another loss in her life. ‘I am sorry, Sarah, for my selfish comment,’ she said gently. ‘It's just that I will miss you so very much, and I know Matthew will too.’

Sarah wrapped her arms around her aunt's shoulders and kissed her on the forehead. ‘And I will miss you both but Matthew has a good nanny and you are a woman who will continue to be absorbed by your work running the company – and all its prosperous enterprises, thanks to your brilliance.’

‘Flatterer,’ Kate laughed, and in that moment truly realised how close she was to her niece. ‘Our brilliance,’ she added. ‘It only needs two women to take on the pompous might of the men in this colony.’

‘You will come home now?’ Sarah asked, and Kate rose stiffly to join her niece.

‘I will go home now. And one day we will walk on Glen View land to visit the grave of my father and his friend Old Billy and place flowers on Peter's grave.’