Kitabı oku: «Australia: Outback Fantasies»

Australia Outback Fantasies
Outback Heiress,
Surprise Proposal
Margaret Way
Adopted:
Outback Baby
Barbara Hannay
Outback Doctor,
English Bride
Leah Martyn

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Outback Heiress, Surprise Proposal

About the Author

MARGARET WAY, a definite Leo, was born and raised in the subtropical River City of Brisbane, capital of the Sunshine State of Queensland. A Conservatorium-trained pianist, teacher, accompanist and vocal coach, she found her musical career came to an unexpected end when she took up writing, initially as a fun thing to do. She currently lives in a harbourside apartment at beautiful Raby Bay, a thirty-minute drive from the state capital, where she loves dining alfresco on her plant-filled balcony, overlooking a translucent green marina filled with all manner of pleasure craft—from motor cruisers costing millions of dollars, and big, graceful yachts with carved masts standing tall against the cloudless blue sky, to little bay runabouts. No one and nothing is in a mad rush, so she finds the laid-back village atmosphere very conducive to her writing. With well over a hundred books to her credit, she still believes her best is yet to come.

PROLOGUE

IT HAPPENED very unexpectedly—as an extraordinary number of things tend to do. An unusually tense meeting of the board of the giant mining company Titan was in progress. Sir Francis Forsyth, Chairman and CEO of the company, and patriarch of the largest land-owning family in the country, was seen to be becoming increasingly angered by some concerns being voiced by his middle-aged son and heir, Charles.

The still strikingly handsome septuagenarian, piercing blue eyes narrowed, addressed his hapless son in a tone of voice that sent a shiver of pity through the other board members who found this belittling of Charles very much like a public caning. The general feeling was that Charles, admittedly not the brightest chip off the block, endured a lot of punishment from his dynamo of a father, who looked on him with a ferocious disappointment he rarely bothered to hide.

Like now.

‘Charles, when are you going to face the fact you’re becoming a bloody liability around here?’ Sir Francis gritted, removing his glasses. ‘Because that’s what you are. You are not the man to find solutions to problems. You have to look to me as your source of guidance. Not fire off these pie-in-the-sky suggestions. You do realise as a businessman profit is the name of the game? That and keeping our shareholders happy. Yet you continue to—’ He broke off abruptly as another voice, vibrantly attractive, completely self-assured, spoke up in defence of the now ashen-faced Charles.

‘What is it, Bryn?’ Sir Francis turned his handsome head with exaggerated patience to the young man on his right.

Bryn Macallan was the brilliant grandson of his late partner, Sir Theodore Macallan, co-founder of Titan. Everyone on the board shared that opinion. Sir Francis, too, greatly admired him, yet paradoxically also feared him. Bryn Macallan, who had already gained an impressive reputation at an early age, was the real thing. An actual chip off the old block. On top of everything else, he was making it increasingly difficult for Sir Francis to retain the control he had settled into since Theo had died some years back. Bryn Macallan, no bones about it, was after the top job sooner rather than later—and there didn’t seem a damned thing Francis Forsyth could do about it.

Could it perhaps be divine retribution?

‘I’m drawn to at least some of Charles’s suggestions,’ Bryn was saying, completely unfazed by the chairman’s mood and attitude. ‘We do have a duty of care to our workers. We have the expert’s safety report on Mount Garnet. We’ve all had time to read it.’ He glanced around the table to receive confirmation. ‘I’d like to raise a few concerns of my own, as well as making some additional suggestions as to how we can best go about implementing necessary changes. We have the eyes of the nation on us. We carry a great responsibility. I know we’re all aware of that.’

‘Hear, hear!’ Several of the other board members—the most powerful and influential, it had to be noted—nodded.

Bryn Macallan, though barely thirty, was held in very high regard around the table. The way he looked, the way he spoke, and his formidable brain power brought vividly to mind his late, deeply lamented grandfather. Bryn Macallan was the up-and-coming man. He far outstripped poor Charles, or indeed any other contender for the top job. Such was his aura. An aura given to few people.

Francis Forsyth more than anyone else was acutely aware of it. ‘We are indeed, Bryn,’ he countered smoothly, knowing Bryn’s recommendations would be positive, but less harmful to Titan. He needed to be heeded. ‘I’m equally sure we’re all eager to listen to what you have to say. But not to Charles’s blathering. He sounds like a man on some sort of guilt trip.’

Charles sat frozen in place. ‘Why do you do this to me, Dad?’ he asked with a bizarrely child-like hurt in his voice. ‘Never a word of encouragement.’

Maddened, Sir Francis jabbed the air with a forceful finger. It made not only his son flinch. ‘The last thing you need is encouragement,’ he told his heir blisteringly. ‘You can’t seem to understand—’ He stopped to draw more breath into his lungs. The breath appeared to fail. Instead, it turned into a violent paroxysm of coughing.

Bryn Macallan, predictably, was the first to react.

‘Get the paramedics here now!’ he shouted, rising swiftly from his chair. He was sure all at once that this was something very serious. Alarmingly so. But before he could get to Sir Francis, the chairman slumped sideways, then toppled to the floor, his face taking on the colour of a wax sculpture.

The life of arguably the richest and certainly one of the most powerful men in the country was all but over.

Bryn began CPR—he had to if there was any chance of saving Sir Francis. He was thankful he had spent time perfecting the procedure.

The paramedics, urgently despatched, arrived in under six minutes. They took over from Bryn Macallan, but it was evident to them all that the nation’s ‘Iron Man’ was dead.

Charles Forsyth was so shocked by the violence and suddenness of the event he sat in the grip of paralysis, unable to stand, let alone speak. The truth was he had thought his father was going to live for ever.

It was left to Bryn Macallan to take charge. Bryn, though he experienced the collective shock, felt no great grief. Sir Frank Forsyth had lived and died a ruthless man—brilliant, but guilty of many sins. Wearing the deep camouflage of long friendship he had done terrible things to the Macallan family in business since the death of his grandfather.

‘Frank has always had the potential to be an out-and-out scoundrel,’ Bryn’s grandmother had warned him after his grandfather’s funeral. ‘It was Theo, as honourable a man as Frank is amoral, who kept that potential for ruthlessness in check. Now Frank holds the reins. Mark my words, Bryn, darling. It’s time now for the Macallans to look out!’

Her prediction had been spot-on. Since then bitter rivalries and deep resentments had run like subterranean rivers through everything the Forsyths and the Macallans did. But the two families were tied together through Titan.

The Forsyths had their vision. Bryn Macallan had his.

It was Frank Forsyth and Theo Macallan, geologists, friends through university, who had started up Titan in the late 1960s. They had discovered, along with part-aboriginal tracker Gulla Nolan, a fabulous iron-ore deposit at Mount Gloriana, in the remote North-West of the vast state of Western Australia—a state which took up one-third of the huge island continent. Today this company, Titan, was a mighty colossus.

Within minutes the death of the nation’s ‘Iron Man’ was part of breaking news on television, radio and the internet. The extended family was informed immediately. The only family member not present in the state capital, Perth, was Francesca Forsyth. She was the daughter of Sir Frank’s second son, Lionel, who had been killed along with his wife and their pilot in a light plane crash en route from Darwin to Alice Springs. Francesca had been orphaned at age five.

It had been left to her uncle Charles and his wife Elizabeth to take on the job of raising her. Indeed, Elizabeth had taken the bereaved little girl to her heart, although she and Charles had a daughter of their own—Carina, their only child, some three years older than her cousin. Carina had grown up to be the acknowledged Forsyth heiress; Francesca who shunned the limelight was ‘the spare’.

What was not known by society and the general public alike was that Carina Forsyth, for most of her privileged life, had harboured a deep, irrational jealousy of her young cousin—though she did her best to hide it. Over the years she had almost perfected the blurring of the boundaries between her true nature and the role of older, wiser cousin she presented to the world. But sadly Carina was on a quest to destroy any chance of happiness her cousin might have in life. She had convinced herself from childhood that Francesca had stolen her mother’s love. And the melancholy truth was that, although Elizabeth Forsyth loved her daughter, and went to great lengths to demonstrate it, the beautiful little girl, ‘child of light’ Francesca, through the sweetness of her nature had gained a large portion of her aunt’s heart.

Francesca, acutely intelligent and possessed of a sensitive, intuitive nature, had not been unaware of her cousin’s largely hidden malevolence. Consequently she had learned very early not to draw her cousin’s fire, and was equally careful not to attract undue attention. Carina Forsyth was the Forsyth heiress. What Carina did not appreciate was that Francesca had never found any difficulty with that. Enormous wealth could be a great blessing or a curse, depending on one’s point of view. Being an heiress was not part of Francesca’s ethos.

Even the cousins’ looks were polarised. Both young women were beautiful. Not just an accolade bestowed on them by a fawning press. A simple statement of fact. Carina was a stunner: tall, curvy, a blue-eyed blonde with skin like thick cream, and supremely self-assured as only those born rich could be. Francesca, by contrast, was raven-haired, olive-skinned, and with eyes that were neither grey nor green but took colour from what she was wearing. Seen together at the big functions their grandfather had expected both young women to attend, they made startling foils: one so golden, secure in her own perfection, with the eye-catching presence of—some said cattishly behind her back—a showgirl, and the other with an air of refinement that held more than a touch of mystery. Carina went all out to play up her numerous physical assets. Francesca had chosen to downplay her beauty, for obvious reasons.

The greatest potential for danger lay in the fact that both young women were in love with the same man. Bryn Macallan. Carina’s feelings for him were very much on show. Indeed, she treated Bryn with astonishing possessiveness, managing to convey to all that a deep intimacy existed between them. Francesca had always been devastated by the knowledge. Indeed, she had to live with constant heartache. Bryn preferred Carina to her. There was nothing else to do but accept it—even if it involved labouring not to show her true feelings. She knew exactly what might happen if she allowed her emotions to surface, however briefly. There could be only one outcome.

What Carina wanted, Carina got.

While the heiress was at the family mansion to receive the news, Francesca was at Daramba, the flagship of the Forsyth pastoral empire, in Queensland’s Channel Country. Francesca, a gifted artist herself, since leaving university—albeit with a first-class law degree—had involved herself in raising the profile of Aboriginal artists and acting as agent and advisor in the sale of their works. For one so young—she was only twenty-three—she had been remarkably successful.

Unlike her glamorous high society cousin, Francesca Forsyth felt the burden of great wealth. She wanted to give back. It was the driving force that paved the way to her strong commitment to the less fortunate in the broad community.

Francesca, it was agreed, needed to be told face to face of her grandfather’s sudden death and brought home. Bryn Macallan elected to do it. An experienced pilot, he would fly the corporation’s latest Beech King Air. He was considered by everyone to be the best man for the job. Though everyone knew the late Sir Frank had dearly wished for a match between Bryn and his elder granddaughter Carina, the fulfilment of that wish had always eluded him. The two rival families were also keenly aware that Bryn and Francesca shared a special bond, which was not to be broken for all the families’ tensions. Bryn Macallan was, therefore, the man to bring Francesca home.

CHAPTER ONE

LOOKING down on the ancient Dreamtime landscape, Bryn experienced such a feeling of elation it lifted the twin burdens of ambition and family responsibility from his shoulders—if only for a time. He loved this place—Daramba. He and his family had visited countless times over the years, when his much-loved grandfather had been alive. These days his mother and his grandmother didn’t come. For them the close association had ended on the death of Sir Theo, when Francis Forsyth—mega-maniac, call him what you will—got into full stride. It had been left to Bryn to bridge the gap. It was part of his strategy. His womenfolk knew what he was about. They were one hundred per cent behind him. But in spite of everything—even the way his family had been stripped of so much power by stealth—he found Daramba miraculous.

The name in aboriginal, with the accent on the second syllable, meant waterlily—the native symbol of fertility. One of nature’s most exquisite flowers, the waterlily was the totemic Dreamtime ancestor of the Darambal tribe. The vast cattle station, one of the largest in the land of the cattle kings, was set in the Channel Country’s riverine desert. That meant it boasted numerous lagoons in which waterlilies abounded. This was the year the long drought had broken over many parts of the Queensland Outback, giving tremendous relief to the Inland. Daramba’s countless waterways, which snaked across the station, the secret swamps where the pelicans made their nests, and the beautiful lagoons would be floating a magnificent display. Even so, there was nothing more thrilling than to see the mighty landscape, its fiery red soil contrasting so brilliantly with the opal-blue sky, cloaked by a glorious mantle of wildflowers that shimmered away to the horizon.

It was a breathtaking display, almost too beautiful to bear—as if the gates of heaven had been opened for a short time to man. All those who were privileged to see the uncompromising desert turned into the greatest floral display on earth—and there weren’t all that many—even those who knew the desert intimately, still went in awe of this phenomenal rebirth that flowed over the land in a great tide. Then, when the waters subsided, came the all too brief period of utter magic when the wildflowers had their dazzling days in the sun: the stiff paper daisies, the everlastings that didn’t wilt when plucked, white, bright yellow and pink, the crimson Sturt Peas, the Parrot peas, the native hibiscus, the Spider lilies and the Morgan flowers, the poppies and the Firebushes, the pure white Carpet of Snow, the exquisite little cleomes that were tucked away in the hills, the lilac Lambs’ Tails and the green Pussy Tails that waved back and forth on the wind. One would have to have a heart of stone not to be moved by such a spectacle.

Bryn was vividly reminded of how in her childhood Francesca had revelled in the time of the flowers. All those miles upon miles of flowers and perfume. It had been her own childhood fantasy, her dreamworld, one of her ways of surviving the tragic loss of her parents. He remembered her as a little girl, running off excitedly into an ocean of white paper daisies, her silvery laughter filling the air, while she set about making a chain of the wildflowers to wear as a diadem atop her long hair. Beautiful hair, with the polished gloss of a magpie’s wing. Usually Carina had ruined things, by eventually tugging the garland off her younger cousin’s head and throwing it away, claiming the paper daisies might be harbouring bugs. The truth of it was Carina had been sending out a message that demanded to be heard. Francesca was meant to live in her shadow. And she never let her forget it.

‘There’s no telling where this might end!’ his grandmother, Lady Macallan, had once confided, a furrow of worry between her brows. ‘Carina deeply resents our little Francey. And it will only grow worse.’

It had. Though a lot of people didn’t see it, Carina was very cunning—but Francey wouldn’t hear a word against her. That was the essential sweetness of her nature. Francey was no fool—Bryn was certain she privately admitted to herself that Carina was as devious and manipulative as that old devil Sir Frank, and he knew he, himself, was a bit of an erotic obsession with Carina. It was naked in her eyes, every time she looked at him. And he had to admit to a brief, hectic affair with her when the two of them were younger. Carina was a beautiful young woman, but, as he had come to discover, there was something twisted in her soul. He supposed he could live with it as long as no harm came to Francey—who, in her way, was as big an obsession with Carina as he was. Carina’s mother, Elizabeth, had doted on the angelic bereaved child that had been Francesca. She had taken Francey to her heart. That was when it had all started. He was sure of it.

The Beech King Air B100, their latest acquisition, was flying like a bird. It differed from Titan’s other King Airs, its model easy to distinguish on the ground, with different engine exhausts, and the propellers in flat pitch at rest. Bryn loved flying. He found it enormously relaxing. He had already commenced his descent. The roof of the giant hangar was glinting like molten silver, almost dazzling his shielded eyes. He fancied he could smell the scents of the wild bush. There was no other smell like it. Dry, aromatic, redolent of vast open spaces and flower-filled plains.

Station kids on their lunchbreak ran at him the instant he stopped the station Jeep. He patted heads and shoulders while distributing a small hoard of sweets, asking how they were doing and telling a few kid-oriented jokes that were greeted with merry peals of laughter. Rosie Williams, the young schoolteacher, stood on the porch, smiling a bright welcome.

‘Good to see you, Mr Macallan.’

‘Good to see you too, Rosie.’ He sketched a brief salute. No matter how many times he told her to call him Bryn, she couldn’t get round to it. ‘Hope these kids aren’t giving you any trouble?’ He ruffled the glossy curls of a little aboriginal child standing next to him, confidently holding his hand.

‘No, no—everything’s fine. We’re making a lot of progress.’

‘Great to hear it.’

More giggles. Sunlight falling on glowing young faces.

A few minutes later he was back in the Jeep, waving a friendly hand. He hoped to find Francesca at the homestead, but that was all it was—hope. He’d probably have to go looking for her. The remote station had not yet been contacted with news of Sir Frank’s death. Best the news came from him. Face to face.

Five minutes more and he came into full view of the homestead. After Frank Forsyth had acquired the valuable property in the late 1970s he’d lost little time knocking down the once proud old colonial mansion that had stood on the spot for well over one hundred years, erecting a huge contemporary structure more in keeping with his tastes. Eventually he’d even got rid of the beautiful old stone fountain that had graced the front court, which had used to send sparks of silver water out onto the paved driveway. Bryn remembered the three wonderful winged horses that had held up the basins.

His grandfather, when he had first seen the new homestead, had breathed, ‘Dear God!’

Bryn remembered it as though it were yesterday. Sir Francis had come tearing out of the house when he’d heard their arrival, shouting a full-throated greeting, demanding to know what his friend thought.

‘It’s very you, Frank,’ his grandfather had said.

Even as a boy he had heard the irony Sir Frank had missed.

‘Fantastic, Sir Francis!’ Bryn had added his own comment weakly, not wanting to offend the great Sir Francis Forsyth, his grandad’s lifelong friend and partner. Anyway the new homestead was fantastic—like a super-modern research station.

It faced him now. A massive one-storey building of steel, poured concrete and glass, four times as big as the original homestead, its only nod to tradition the broad covered verandahs that surrounded the structure on three sides. No use calling it a house or a home. It was a structure. Another monument to Sir Frank. The right kind of landscaping might have helped to soften the severity of the façade, but the approach was kept scrupulously clear. One was obviously entering a New Age Outback homestead.

Jili Dawson, the housekeeper, a strikingly attractive woman in her early fifties, greeted him with a dazzling smile and a light punch in the arm.

‘Long time, no see!’

‘Been busy, Jili.’ He smiled into liquid black eyes that were alight with affection. Jili’s eyes clearly showed her aboriginal blood, which came from her mother’s side. Her father had been a white stockman, but Jili identified far more with her mother’s family. Her skin was completely unlined, a polished amber, and her soft voice carried the familiar lullaby rhythms of her mother’s people. ‘I don’t suppose I’m lucky enough to find Francey at home?’ he asked, casting a glance into an entrance hall as big as a car park.

‘No way!’ Jili gave an open-handed expansive wave that took in the horizon. ‘She with the group, paintin’ out near Wungulla way. Hasn’t bin home for coupla days. She’s okay, though. Francey knows her way around. Besides, all our people look after her.’

‘Wasn’t that always the way, Jili?’ he said, thinking how close contact with the tribal people had enriched his own and Francey’s childhood. Carina had never been a part of any of that, holding herself aloof. ‘Listen, Jili, I’ve come with serious news. We didn’t let you know yesterday because I was coming to fetch Francey and tell her in person.’

‘The man’s dead.’ Jili spoke very calmly, as though the event had already cast its shadow—or as if it was written on his forehead.

‘Who told you?’ He frowned. ‘Did one of the other stations contact you?’ News got around, even in the remote Inland. On the other hand Jili had the uncanny occult gift of tribal people in foretelling the future.

Jili rocked back and forth slowly. ‘Just knew what you were gunna say before you said it. That was one helluva man. Good and evil. Plagued by devils, but devils of his own makin’. We know that, both of us. I honoured your fine, wise grandad, and your dear dad. A great tragedy when he bin killed in that rock fall. But they’re with their ancestors now. They look down from the stars that shine on us at night. I have strong feelings for your family. You bin very kind to me. Treat me right. Lot rests on your shoulders, Bryn, now Humpty Dumpty has gone and fallen off the wall. What I want to know is this—is it gunna change things for Jacob and me? Are we gunna lose our jobs?’

Jacob Dawson, Jili’s husband, also part aboriginal, was a long-time leading hand on the station—one of the best. In Bryn’s opinion Daramba couldn’t do without either of them. And Jacob would make a far better overseer than the present one, Roy Forster, who relied far too heavily on Jacob and his diverse skills.

‘It all has to be decided, Jili,’ he said, with a heartfelt sigh. ‘Charles will inherit. I can’t speak for him. He can’t even speak for himself at the moment. He’s in deep shock.’

Jili looked away, unseeing. ‘Thought his dad was gunna live for ever,’ she grunted. ‘Seems he was as human as the rest of us. How have the rest of ’em reacted?’ She turned to stare into Bryn’s brilliant dark eyes. They were almost as black as her own, yet different because of their diamond glitter.

‘Some are in shock,’ he said. ‘Some are in surprisingly good cheer,’ he added dryly.

‘Well, wait on the will,’ Jili advised. ‘See if he try to put things to rights. There’s an accounting, ya know.’

Bryn didn’t answer. In any case, it was much too late now. His grandfather and his father were gone. He came to stand beside her, both of them looking out at the quicksilver mirage. They both knew it was the end of something. The end of an era, certainly. But the fight was still on.

Jili was watching him. She thought of Bryn Macallan as a prince, grave and beautiful; a prince who acknowledged all his subjects. A prince who was ready to come into his rightful inheritance. She laid a gentle, respectful hand on his shoulder. ‘I promise you it be right in the end, Bryn. But a warning you must heed. There’s a bad spell ahead. Mind Francey. That cousin of hers is just waitin’ to swoop like a hawk on a little fairy wren. Bad blood there.’

Wasn’t that his own fear?

He changed up a gear as he came on a great sweep of tall grasses that covered the flat, fiery red earth. Their tips were like golden feathers blowing in the wind. It put him in mind of the open savannahs of the tropical North. That was the effect of all the miraculous rain. The four-wheel drive cut its way through the towering grasses like a bulldozer, flattening them and creating a path before they sprang up again, full of sap and resilience. A lone emu ducked away on long grey legs. It had all but been hidden in its luxuriant camouflage as it fed on shoots and seeds. The beautiful ghost gums, regarded by most as the quintessential eucalypt but not a eucalypt at all, stood sentinel to the silky blue sky, glittering grasses at their feet. It was their opal-white boles that made them instantly recognisable.

A string of billabongs lay to his right. He caught the glorious flashy wings of parrots diving in and out of the Red River gums. Australia—the land of parrots! Such a brilliant range of colours: scarlet, turquoise, emerald, violet, an intense orange and a bright yellow. Francey, when six, had nearly drowned in one of those lagoons—the middle one, Koopali. It was the deepest and the longest, with permanent water even in drought. In that year the station had been blessed with good spring rains, so Koopali, which could in flood become a raging monster, had been running a bumper. On that day it had been Carina who had stood by, a terrified witness, unable to move to go to her cousin’s assistance, as though all strength had been drained out of her nine-year-old body.

It was a miracle Bryn had come upon them so quickly. Magic was as good an answer as any. A sobbing, inconsolable Carina had told them much later on that they had wandered away from the main group and, despite her warnings, Francey had insisted on getting too close to the deep lagoon. With its heavy load of waterlilies a child could get enmeshed in the root system of all the aquatic plants and be sucked under. Both girls could swim, but Francey at that time had been very vulnerable, being only a beginner and scarcely a year orphaned.

Could she really have disobeyed her older cousin’s warnings? Francey as a child had never been known to be naughty.

When it had been realised the two girls had wandered off, the party had split up in a panic. He had never seen people move so fast. Danger went hand in hand with the savage grandeur of the Outback. He had run and run, his heartbeats almost jammed with fear, heading for Koopali. Why had he done that? Because that was where one of the itinerant aboriginal women, frail and of a great age, had pointed with her message stick. He had acted immediately on her mysterious command. Yet how could she have known? She’d been almost blind.

‘Koopali,’ she had muttered, nodding and gesturing, marking the word with an emphatic down beat of her stick.

To this day he didn’t know why he had put such trust in her. But he had, arriving in time to launch himself into the dark green waters just as Francey’s small head had disappeared for probably the last time. That was when Carina had started screaming blue murder …

So there it was: he had saved Francey’s life, which meant to the aboriginal people that he owned part of her soul. Afterwards Carina had been so distraught no one had accused her of not looking after her little cousin properly. Carina, after all, had been only nine. But she could swim and swim well. She’d said fright had frozen her in place, making her incapable of jumping into the water after her cousin.

It had taken Bryn to do that.

‘Thank God for you, Bryn! I’ll never forget this. Never!’ A weeping Elizabeth Forsyth had looked deep into his eyes, cradling Francey’s small body in her arms as though Francey was the only child she had.

Like all inhabitants of the great island continent, in particular of remote Western Australia, he was used to vast open spaces, to incredible emptiness, but on his own admission something about Daramba spooked him. It was there, after all, that Gulla Nolan had mysteriously disappeared. The verdict after an intensive search at the time was that Gulla had been drunk and had slipped into one of the maze of waterholes, billabongs, lagoons and swamps that criss-crossed the station. Everyone knew Gulla had had a great liking for the booze. Gulla Nolan had been the famous tracker Sir Theodore Macallan and her own grandfather had taken along with them on their expeditions. Gulla had been with them when they had discovered Mount Gloriana.

To this day no one knew Gulla’s fate—although it was Sir Theo who had set up a trust fund which had grown very substantially over the years, for Gulla and his descendants. One of them was a well-known political activist—a university graduate, educated through the Gulla Nolan Trust and—ironically—a sworn enemy of the Forsyths. It was quite possible, then, that her uncle would sell Daramba, if not the whole chain.

CHAPTER TWO

THE funeral of Sir Francis Forsyth was unique in one respect. No one cried. Though it should be said there was no easy way to shed a tear for a man more often described as ‘a ruthless bastard’ than a jewel in the giant State of Western Australia’s crown. Nevertheless, the Anglican Cathedral St George’s—Victorian Gothic Revival in style, and relatively modest compared to the huge Catholic Cathedral, St Mary’s, built on the site that had actually been set aside by the Founding Fathers for St George’s—was packed by ‘mourners’. This covered anyone who was anyone in the public eye: a federal senator, representative of the Prime Minister, the State Premier, the State Governor, who had once privately called Sir Francis ‘an appalling old villain’, various dignitaries, representatives of the pastoral, business and the legal world. All seated behind the Forsyth family on the right, the Macallan family to the left.

The truly ironic thing was that Sir Theodore Macallan, co-founder with Sir Francis of Titan, had been universally loved and admired. But then, Sir Theo had been a great man, with that much-to-be-desired accolade of being a true gentleman bestowed on him. That meant a gentleman at heart as well as in the graciousness of his manner. It had helped that he had been a huge benefactor to the state as well. Sir Frank, on the other hand, had always kept his philanthropy in line with tax avoidance schemes—all legal, naturally. He had long been known to proclaim he paid his taxes along with everyone else, of course. One didn’t get to be a billionaire and not have an army of lawyers whose whole lives were devoted to protecting the Forsyth business empire against all comers—including the government.

The Forsyth heiress, Carina, looked wonderful, they all agreed. Everyone craned their heads for a look, even though footage of the celebrity funeral would appear on national television.

The whole funeral scene had been revolutionised over recent years: the style of eulogies, the music that would never have been allowed in the old days, the kind of people given the opportunity to speak, even the things they got away with saying. The entire ritual had been rewritten. And today most of the mourners, some of whom had expressed behind-the-scenes opinions that the world was a better place without the deceased, had dressed up as much as they would have if they’d been going to a huge social function like the Melbourne Cup. There was even the odd whiff of excitement in the air. Many, on meeting up with old friends, had to concentrate hard on not breaking into laughter, though some light laughter would be allowed during the eulogies.

Carina Forsyth attracted the most attention. She always wore the most glamorous clothes and jewels—even to her grandfather’s funeral. Everyone looked at the size of her South Sea pearls, a steal at $100,000 a strand! The state had always been famous for its pearling industry. No one was about to bring up a fairly recent scandal when a society wife—present on this sad day—had accused the heiress of having an affair with her businessman husband and labelled her ‘a tramp.’ Well, not today anyway. Not before, during or after the service. Possibly over drinks that evening.

The ‘spare’ Forsyth heiress, as Francesca had long been dubbed by the press, by comparison was very plainly attired. A simple black suit, modest jewellery, no big glamorous hat, and her long hair arranged in a low coil at her nape, held with a stylised black grosgrain ribbon. She even wore sunglasses in church—a sure sign she wanted to hide. Not that the ‘spare’ needed to hide. Francesca Forsyth had already established herself in the general community’s good books. As a Forsyth, like her cousin, it wouldn’t have been necessary for her ever to lift a finger, but Francesca was creating a real niche for herself in public-spirited good works—like the aunt who had reared her, the much admired Elizabeth Forsyth, who—oddly—was seated with the Macallans. Then again, everyone knew about the split in the Forsyth family ranks.

While Carina was feted, and treated with a near sickening degree of deference—at least to her face—her cousin was winning for herself a considerable degree of affection and admiration of which she was unaware.

What everyone needed to know now was this: what were the contents of Sir Francis Forsyth’s will? It was taken for granted that his only son Charles Forsyth would be the main beneficiary, though Charles had always been judged by the business community as ‘dead wood’. There were all sorts of interlocking trusts in place to provide income for various members of the extended family, but the bulk of the Forsyth fortune would pass by tradition to his eldest son—Sir Francis’s younger son, Lionel, with whom he had fallen out anyway, being deceased.

The entire business world could clearly see Charles Forsyth’s clear and present danger. He was sitting in the front pew on the left.

Tall, stunningly handsome, powerfully lean and sombre of expression, Bryn sat between his aristocratic grandmother, Lady Antonia Macallan, and his beautiful mother, Annette Macallan, who had never remarried despite the many offers that had followed in the wake of the tragic death of her husband. Bryn Macallan was firmly entrenched as a power player. It was said he had handled without effort everything the late Sir Francis had thrown at him—and Sir Francis had done a lot of throwing. Considered one of the biggest catches in the country, he was not yet married. Everyone in the state knew Sir Francis had worked for an alliance—a business merger—between Macallan and his granddaughter Carina, but so far nothing had eventuated. It was generally held that it was only a question of when.

The mining giant Titan was too big to be owned by any one family—indeed, any one person—but Macallan, through his family history, his prodigious intellect and business acumen, looked very much as if he could at some stage become the man in control. Surely that was reason enough for him and Carina Forsyth to finally tie the knot? Both of them had ‘star quality’.

Hundreds of people flocked back to the Forsyth mansion, a geometric modern-day fortress, wandering all over the huge reception rooms and the library as if it was open house and the property would soon be up for auction. Very few of them had ever been invited inside, so most faces were stamped with expressions of wonderment, amazement and occasionally dismay—but huge curiosity none the less.

Although the day was quite hot, Charles Forsyth stood in front of a gigantic stone fireplace—one might wonder from whence it had been acquired … from one of the Medici clan, probably—looking chilled to the bone. The aperture, filled on that day with a stupendous arrangement of white lilies and fanning greenery, was so vast a fully grown man could have been roasted standing up.

‘Buck up, Dad, for God’s sake!’ Carina uttered a wrathful warning into her father’s ear. Though she loved her father, sometimes his manner simply enraged her. She quite understood how it had enraged her grandfather.

‘The devil with that!’ her father replied. ‘I’ve seen the will.’

‘So?’ Carina drew back, as if a particularly virulent wasp, hidden away in the lilies, had chosen that moment to sting her. ‘It’s what we expected, isn’t it?’

‘No, it isn’t,’ Charles Forsyth admitted, his face abruptly turning red.

Carina turned her back to the huge crowded living room, squarely facing her father. Her eyes had turned a chilling iceberg blue. ‘So when were you going to tell me?’

Her tone was so trenchant, so much like his father’s, that for a moment Charles Forsyth looked terrified. ‘You’ll know soon enough. I wish you weren’t so much like him, Carrie. It frightens me sometimes. You’re right. I should buck up and circulate. Most of them have only come to goggle and giggle anyway. This place is in appalling taste. Forget any notion Dad was revered, or even liked. Even the Archbishop was hard-pressed to come up with the odd kind word. My father has the rankest outside chance of getting into heaven.’

Carina gritted her perfect white teeth. ‘Get a grip, Dad! There is no heaven.’

He laughed sadly. ‘You may be right. But there is, God help us, a hell. There’s no glory in inheriting a great fortune, Carina. Whatever you believe. You’ve no idea of normal life because you’ve been so pampered. Nothing has been expected of you except to look glamorous. The job of stepping into your grandfather’s shoes is bigger than you and I can possibly imagine. I’ll be the first to admit I don’t have the intellect. And I’m far from tough. Everyone knows my bark is worse than my bite. We need someone as tough as he was, even when he was slowing down. He knew it himself. He was coming to rely more and more on Macallan’s judgment, and the good will that goes with the Macallan name. Sir Theo wasn’t a scoundrel.’

It took all of Carina’s self-control not to lash out in anger. She had adored her grandfather. She adored strength and ruthlessness in a man. They were assets, not mortal sins. ‘I’m not going to listen to this!’ she said, her eyes turning hard and cold as stones. ‘Gramps was a great man.’

‘That’s your view, certainly,’ her father answered wearily. ‘But you won’t find many to agree with you.’ For a minute Charles Forsyth was almost tempted to tell his daughter just a few of her grandfather’s venial sins, even if he left out the mortal ones. But what purpose would that serve? ‘We owe our great success in the main to Sir Theo,’ he told his daughter patiently. ‘We owe him many times over. What we need now is a fighter! You must be aware Orion is awaiting its opportunity to move in on us? I’m not a fighter. I’m a coward. Your mother told me that at the end, before the divorce. I have no guts. She was right. She was always right.’

‘Leave Mum out of this,’ Carina said furiously. ‘She betrayed us both when she left you. See the way she was sitting with the Macallans? Hiding behind that black veil? She hated Gramps.’

‘And she despised me while she was at it,’ Charles Forsyth said sadly. ‘I don’t blame her. Every time Dad bawled me out I crumpled like a soggy sponge. I spent a lifetime being despised by my father. I was so in awe of him, so desperate to please him, I never got a chance to develop my own character. Can I help it if with his passing it seems like an intolerable burden has been lifted from my shoulders—?’ He broke off, as if exhausted. ‘The best thing you can possibly do, Carrie, for yourself and for the rest of us is get Macallan to marry you. That would solve all our problems. He’s a man who could handle the Forsyth Foundation as well. But Macallan doesn’t seem to be in any rush to ask you.’

That touched an agonisingly raw nerve. ‘Keep out of it, Dad,’ Carina warned, staring at her father with something approaching ferocity. ‘I’ll handle this in my own way.’

‘No doubt!’ Charles shot a troubled glance across the room, to where Bryn Macallan was standing in quiet conversation with his niece, Francesca. Macallan’s height and his superb athletic build made Francesca, who was tall for a woman, look as fragile as a lily on a stalk. Beautiful girl, Francesca. Totally different style from his daughter. Far more elegant, he suddenly realised. And so much more to her. Already at twenty-three she was making quite a name for herself as an artist. Not that any of that mattered any more …

Carina’s gaze had followed her father’s, because she always followed Bryn and Francey’s whereabouts. ‘Just like Gramps didn’t tell you everything, neither do I. Sometimes it’s best not to know. Francey’s no threat, if that thought has ever crossed your mind. It’s me Bryn wants, but he needs to bring me to heel. I rather like that.’ She gave her father a vixen’s smile. It was more chilling than her glare.

For some years now it had been Charles Forsyth’s worst nightmare that his daughter would morph into his father. It was happening right in front of his eyes.

‘There is a bond between them, you know.’ Unwisely he found himself pointing it out. ‘Bryn did save Francey’s life all those years ago.’

Carina’s eyes flashed blue lightning. ‘Bryn—always the hero! Dear little Francey had taken Mum over even then.’

Charles Forsyth was shocked by her tone. ‘Nothing deliberate, Carrie. Francesca was such a lovely child.’

‘And I wasn’t?’ Carina asked fiercely, her creamy flushed cheeks only heightening her knock-out beauty.

‘Of course you were. You were perfect. You are perfect,’ her father lied desperately. Often as a child Carina had been truly horrible. Once she had even ransacked her mother’s study. Horrible! ‘Poor little Francey was an orphan,’ he said, in an effort to win his niece some sympathy. ‘She was in desperate need of tender loving care, which your mother gave her. You were never neglected, Carrie. Not for one moment. Why do you blame your cousin so? She was the innocent victim.’

‘Actually, I was the victim,’ Carina said, never more serious in her life. ‘Though you and Mum never noticed. Francey was no innocent. She might have started out that way, but as time went on she and Mum were always in league in a conspiracy against me.’

Charles Forsyth was torn two ways. Between love for his daughter and a growing fear that he didn’t really know or possibly even like her. ‘That’s not right, Carrie! You should speak to someone about this. What you have is a phobia, and it seems to be growing worse.’

Carina laughed. ‘Sorry, Dad, but I’m spot-on. Mum lived for Francey. Think of it! My own mother loves my cousin far more than she loves me, her only child.’

‘Maybe you wouldn’t let her love you?’ her father countered.

‘How could I, when she was always turning to Francey?’ Carina answered, as though the explanation was obvious. She put up a hand to pat her father’s cheek. Oddly, it caused him to jump as if she had administered an electric shock. ‘Look, Dad, I love Francey. I admire her essential goodness. We’re not only first cousins, we’re the closest of friends. She often comes to me for advice, and I’m delighted to give it. I can’t help it if occasionally I have a little growl about Mum’s affection for her. I’m no saint.’

No, you’re not, God help us! Charles Forsyth felt a blindingly sharp pain in his right temple. Lord knew what might happen if Macallan suddenly switched his attentions from Carina to Francesca. With all he now knew, it could happen. There were all sorts of surprises in life. A huge one was about to hit them like a tidal wave. And there would be hell to pay if ever Carina’s plans were thwarted. Carina had a formidable array of weapons—not the least of them his father’s legendary ruthlessness. He wouldn’t want to be in the shoes of any woman who tried to oust Carina in Macallan’s affections.

Now more than ever early retirement seemed a welcome option for Charles Forsyth. He was ready to quit the stage. He hadn’t really needed to be shoved.

The reading of the will was set for an hour after the last mourner had left. Francesca thought she might faint away from distress and fatigue by then.

‘Are you okay?’ Bryn found her sitting quietly in a corner, partially obscured by a tall and luxuriant indoor palm. He drew up a chair beside her.

‘Sort of,’ she said, enormously grateful for his company. ‘Death is very sobering, isn’t it? What I profoundly regret is the fact I wasn’t able to make a real connection with Grandfather and now I never will. But Carina was his great favourite, after all.’

‘She was so like him,’ Bryn offered by way of explanation.

Francesca smiled faintly. ‘Yes. I always understood it was my job to keep quiet and out of the way. Lord knows how I would have turned out if not for Elizabeth and the innumerable kindnesses shown to me by your family. In a way—’ she looked about them at the daunting opulence of the room ‘—I still feel like I’m in enemy territory in this great terrible house.’

‘It is a bit of a monstrosity,’ Bryn quietly agreed. He’d thought that the first time he had walked into the mansion all those years ago.

‘I used to hope and pray Carrie and I might become inseparable,’ Francesca confided poignantly. ‘The two Forsyth girls.’

‘It never happened.’ A simple statement of fact.

‘No. Our relationship, nevertheless, is close and binding. But somehow, underneath it all, I felt unsettled and confused. I’m much happier now living my own life, standing on my own two feet, looking to the future.’

‘The future is what matters, Francey,’ he told her, continuing to watch her closely. She was very pale, and far more genuinely upset than Carina. ‘You have to let everything else—the bad things—recede into the past. Something inside tells me you’re fated to be a powerful force for good.’

His comment made her heart topple. ‘Oh, Bryn!’ She waved an agitated hand, as if dismissing the very idea.

‘No, I mean it,’ he said. ‘You have a light around you, Francey. You did from your childhood. That light drew me to you.’

She was starting to feel really dizzy. ‘You mean the day I nearly drowned?’ What was going on inside his head? His heart? She couldn’t be mistaken. There was a lot of feeling somewhere there.

‘Then, and now,’ he said.

She gave an involuntary shiver as memories crowded in. ‘I often revisit that day in my dreams. The sense of danger is still with me.’

‘Danger?’ His black brows drew together in a frown. ‘You’ve never spoken of it before.’

‘So much I haven’t put into words.’ She sighed, feeling the weight of her suspicions. Carina, her own flesh and blood, a threat to her? Nothing good could possibly come out of saying that to Bryn. She knew better than anyone the relationship between Carina and him was too close. Her subconscious might grapple with her clouded memories, but she had to keep them under lock and key. Who would believe her anyway? She had often heard Carina describe her as ‘nerve-ridden’, all the while managing to sound deeply concerned. One thing was certain: exposing Carina could only bring heartbreak.

And trouble.

There was always that nagging thought. Crossing people like Carina, who thought what she wanted should be the law of the land, could develop into a life-threatening matter.

‘No point in keeping it locked up inside you.’ Bryn’s frown darkened his handsome face. ‘Better to speak to someone you trust about these things. I’ve told you I’m always ready to listen.’

‘And I appreciate that, Bryn.’ She made no attempt to conceal it. ‘Life can be a lot tougher when you’re rich.’ She gave a little laugh, but the sound was very tense. She didn’t want to be around for the will reading. She wanted to be well away.

Bryn briefly touched her hand, giving her his beautiful magnetic smile. ‘Isn’t that the truth? Look, you sit here quietly. I have to have a word with Frank’s elder sister and her husband. But I’ll be back.’

‘Don’t worry about me,’ she said, realising her head was lolling slightly forward. ‘I’ll be fine.’

‘I’ll be back,’ he repeated, looking every inch the hero.

Hang in there, Francey, she urged herself as Bryn walked away to join the Forsyths. Everything passes.

A moment later, Carina zoomed across the room to chide her. ‘Don’t droop, Francey. We have a duty to support one another.’ Her eyes flicked over Francesca’s slender figure. ‘And couldn’t you have done better than that suit? It’s okay, I guess, but you try much too hard to pretend you don’t have money when the whole damned country knows you have.’

‘Perhaps you’re right. Anyway, you look a billion dollars.’

‘That’s my job. Gramps took such pleasure in how I looked. It’s no easy task to look this good every day—especially when one has to attend the funeral of the person who loved me most in this world.’

Francesca realised that just might be true. ‘I’m sorry, Carrie,’ she murmured. ‘Truly sorry. Grandfather did love you. He adored you.’

‘And he would have loved you too, only there was always something difficult about you, Francey. You didn’t fit in, and you never gave Gramps the reverence he deserved. He was a great man, yet that seemed to mean nothing to you.’

It took an effort, but Francesca had to deny the charge. ‘That’s not true. I gave Grandfather all the respect in the world. I couldn’t rise to reverence. I associate reverence with saintly people—fallen war heroes, great humanitarians and the like. And, let’s face it, I didn’t have your wonderful self-assurance and I didn’t have the Forsyth blonde, blue-eyed good-looks.’

‘No, you missed out there. But you’re attractive enough,’ Carina told her, quite objectively. ‘The pity of it is you don’t do much for yourself.’

‘Well, I intend to make a start,’ Francesca said, making a visible effort to straighten her shoulders. ‘Maybe tomorrow. I apologise if I’m looking a bit fraught. I haven’t had much sleep.’

‘And I have?’ Carina cast her large blue eyes towards the ceiling. ‘You do have dark circles under your eyes. No wonder you were hiding behind those sunglasses. Perhaps I should give you a good shake?’ She glanced at Francesca sidelong. ‘Remember how I used to shake you awake when we were kids? You used to keep me awake with your night terrors. Mum had fixed you up with a nightlight too. Sconces were left burning along the corridor, and if that weren’t enough, I was in the next room. No one seemed to care much if I didn’t like all that light shining in on me.’

‘Poor, poor Carina. I do remember.’ Francesca reached out a hand for the high back of a chair that really should have been in a museum to steady herself.

‘You were always having such terrible dreams. What were they about? Nightmares about drowning?’

Why did Carina always bring that subject up? Was she constantly checking to see if Francesca’s memory of the near tragedy remained dim?

‘They were the worst.’ Francesca gave a shudder. Pitching or being pushed headlong into the dark green lagoon. Even when she woke up she had felt bruised.

‘Needless to say Mum always had to get up to comfort you. You weren’t happy with little me. Mum had to come to pet you and soothe you back to sleep. Pathetic, really. Sometimes I used to think Mum loved you more than me.’ She smiled into Francesca’s eyes as if asking a question: what sort of mother would do that?

‘Have a heart.’ Francesca shook her aching head. ‘I was only a little lost kid, Carrie. Your mother was just looking out for me.’

‘Something she’s doing to this day.’ Carina only just succeeded in covering her intense resentment. ‘Dad and I were terribly upset she sat with the Macallans. We could see that as a betrayal.’

‘Perhaps Elizabeth wasn’t prepared to be hypocritical?’ Francesca suggested, loyal to the woman who had reared her from the age of five. ‘She didn’t have a good relationship with our grandfather, did she? His fault, not hers.’

‘Hey, hey—be fair now!’ Carina was looking more taken aback by the minute. ‘I suppose it was Dad’s fault she couldn’t get far enough away from him?’ she asked heatedly.

Francesca could see Carina was as upset in her way as she was in hers. ‘Look, don’t upset yourself, Carrie. It’s just that your mother didn’t believe it possible to remain locked in a marriage that wasn’t working.’

‘How can you be sure of that?’ Carina’s matt cheeks were hot with blood. ‘You have no insight into relationships. God, you haven’t even had a real one, have you? You can’t count Greg Norbett … or Harry Osbourne,’ she added contemptuously.

‘Certainly not after you made a play for him.’ Francesca surprised herself by making the charge. ‘Why did you do that? You weren’t interested in Harry.’

Carina backed off a notch, touching Francesca’s cheek very gently. ‘I only did it to make you see what he really was. I didn’t want you to get hurt. I’ve never wanted to see you suffer, Francey. You’re still my little lost cousin. I have to look out for you. Harry Osbourne was no good for you.’

‘Harry was okay,’ Francesca said. ‘He was never as close to me as you thought. We weren’t lovers. Nothing like that.’

Carina made no effort to conceal her amusement. ‘Gosh, are you still a little virgin? I bet you are!’ She trilled with laughter that caused heads to turn.

‘Maybe, as a Forsyth, I don’t fancy the idea of my affairs getting around.’

That appeared to hit the bullseye. ‘What does that mean?’

Francesca shrugged. ‘Nothing, really.’ What sense was there in baiting Carina? ‘Sadly, not all married couples live happily ever after.’

‘Well, I plan to.’ Carina stared fiercely at her cousin, like a fencing opponent determined on slicing her through. ‘I love Bryn. I’ve always loved him. I was meant to have him and I’m going to make certain I do. So don’t ever be fool enough to get in my way, cousin.’

Threat came off Carina in waves.

Francesca was all too familiar with the look. Just so had their grandfather looked when he was laying down the law. ‘When have I ever done that, Carrie?’ she asked quietly. ‘We could have been good friends if you’d only given me a chance.’

‘Given you a chance?’ Carina couldn’t have looked more taken aback. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. To my mind we’re the best and closest of friends.’

‘Surely it’s time to face the truth? We’re not, Carrie. We might as well stop the pretence.’

Carina was holding her hands so tightly together she might be fearing she would lash out. ‘I don’t believe this. And on this day of days!’

‘Maybe that’s the reason. It’s the end of an era; the end of the old life. I wanted to belong. I wanted us to be more like sisters than cousins. But sadly we were never that.’

Carina’s anger suddenly disappeared like a puff of smoke. ‘I hate to hear you talk like this, Francey,’ she said. ‘It makes me feel quite wounded. You obviously have no memory of all the fondness I showed you. What you’re saying sounds quite neurotic. I can’t help knowing all these years that you’ve been sick with envy. Don’t worry. I forgive you. It’s natural enough. But I’ve always tried to be there for you. I’ve always tried to protect you from unpleasantness. I shielded you from Gramps. You made him angry, always looking at him with those big tragic eyes. Anyone would think you were accusing him of something.’

Francesca shook her head. ‘Nonsense!’

‘Not nonsense at all. If I were you, I’d count myself lucky.’

‘A lot of the time I do,’ Francesca freely admitted. ‘Look, Bryn’s coming over.’

‘He’s coming to me!’ Carina pointed out very sharply, her possessive blue eyes following his progress. ‘I dearly need his support.’

‘Of course you do.’

The life force that was in Bryn Macallan made him fairly blaze. Both young women felt it. Both were electrified by it.

Francesca made her escape as swiftly as she could. She mightn’t know the whole truth of Bryn’s relationship with her cousin, but she knew enough not to interfere.

If only … If only …

She made the mistake of glancing back, and any tiny hope she might have nourished withered and died. Bryn held an anguished-looking Carrie against his breast, his raven head bent over hers, a shining blonde against the funereal black of his jacket.

Who said unrequited love wasn’t hell?