Read Online To Chase the Storm: The Frontier Series 4 by Peter Watt - Free Book Online
Authors: Peter Watt
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don’t have to change the subject because of my apparent melancholy. I will adjust in my own good time.’
Arthur sighed with relief and took a long swallow of his cool ale. ‘I know you will, Patrick,’ he said, wiping the creamy froth from his moustache. ‘All will work out for the best.’
But his last statement was delivered without conviction, for he knew what the rest of Sydney knew: Patrick Duffy’s beautiful wife was most often seen in the company of the English capitalist Brett Norris at the city’s cafes, theatres and hotels. Rumour had it that she was known to stay all night with the suave and elegant millionaire at his rooms in the city’s best hotel. But not even Arthur dared bring the matter to his old friend’s attention. If he didn’t know already, better that he find out in his own way.
The two men passed the afternoon drinking together. They talked mostly of Arthur’s coming voyage to Europe and what he hoped to achieve, andthey reminisced briefly on their experiences in the Sudan campaign. Finally they departed the hotel and rolled out onto a street covered in the backwash of a farewell party: lank red, white and blue bunting strewn in gutters where a downpour had attempted to wash the colours away. The rain had finally driven most of the party-goers from the street and both men were able to hail a Hansom cab. Arthur bid his friend a good evening, thoughts on his young man and a warm place by the hearth of the studio they shared. But for Patrick there was only the return to a sprawling mansion. It was a lonely place to be.
When Patrick arrived at his residence he slumped into his chair in the library. The room was his retreat from the world and his children had come to respect that this was not a place to enter unless summoned. So the timid knock on the door and the sight of his youngest son Alexander surprised him.
The boy stood awkwardly, framed by the open door awaiting permission to approach. Patrick nodded his assent and it was only when Alex came close that Patrick could see the bruising and swelling on his son’s face. Alex stood anxiously before him, his expression alternating between fear and resolve.
‘What is it, son?’ Patrick gently asked.
The boy’s battered face was twisted in anguish. ‘Do you want to tell me something about why your face appears as if it was kicked by a camel?’
‘I . . . I don’t think . . . ,’ Alex stammered as hiscourage dissolved and he realised his question was beyond his daring to ask.
Patrick reached out to grip his son’s shoulders gently. Displays of affection were not normally encouraged in the house of Lady Enid and so his father’s compassionate gesture gave the boy courage. He took a deep breath and let the question tumble over itself.
‘Are you a coward, Father?’
Patrick was stunned by the question. ‘Who says I am a coward?’ he redirected quietly. Alex stood mute. ‘Someone I know?’
His son shook his head vigorously. But his answer was a lie. How could he tell his father that his own brother George had accused his father of cowardice?
Patrick sighed and slumped back into his chair, leaving his son gazing at him forlornly. ‘Do you think I am a coward,’ he asked the boy in a tired voice, ‘because I didn’t go with my men to war?’
‘No, Father. I think you stayed because of Mother and us. But . . .’ he trailed away as he realised that he had almost mentioned his brother’s name.
‘But what?’ Patrick asked.
‘Nothing important.’
‘Is that how you got your beating?’
‘Yes,’ Alex answered uncertainly, and then lied a second time. ‘Some boys from school.’
He could not say that he had received the beating from his brother after flinging himself at him, the accusation levelled at the man whose strength he idolised more than he could bear. George had taunted him after the beating and Alex had cried in shame at his inability to put right a wrong.
‘Has your mother seen the state you are
Arthur sighed with relief and took a long swallow of his cool ale. ‘I know you will, Patrick,’ he said, wiping the creamy froth from his moustache. ‘All will work out for the best.’
But his last statement was delivered without conviction, for he knew what the rest of Sydney knew: Patrick Duffy’s beautiful wife was most often seen in the company of the English capitalist Brett Norris at the city’s cafes, theatres and hotels. Rumour had it that she was known to stay all night with the suave and elegant millionaire at his rooms in the city’s best hotel. But not even Arthur dared bring the matter to his old friend’s attention. If he didn’t know already, better that he find out in his own way.
The two men passed the afternoon drinking together. They talked mostly of Arthur’s coming voyage to Europe and what he hoped to achieve, andthey reminisced briefly on their experiences in the Sudan campaign. Finally they departed the hotel and rolled out onto a street covered in the backwash of a farewell party: lank red, white and blue bunting strewn in gutters where a downpour had attempted to wash the colours away. The rain had finally driven most of the party-goers from the street and both men were able to hail a Hansom cab. Arthur bid his friend a good evening, thoughts on his young man and a warm place by the hearth of the studio they shared. But for Patrick there was only the return to a sprawling mansion. It was a lonely place to be.
When Patrick arrived at his residence he slumped into his chair in the library. The room was his retreat from the world and his children had come to respect that this was not a place to enter unless summoned. So the timid knock on the door and the sight of his youngest son Alexander surprised him.
The boy stood awkwardly, framed by the open door awaiting permission to approach. Patrick nodded his assent and it was only when Alex came close that Patrick could see the bruising and swelling on his son’s face. Alex stood anxiously before him, his expression alternating between fear and resolve.
‘What is it, son?’ Patrick gently asked.
The boy’s battered face was twisted in anguish. ‘Do you want to tell me something about why your face appears as if it was kicked by a camel?’
‘I . . . I don’t think . . . ,’ Alex stammered as hiscourage dissolved and he realised his question was beyond his daring to ask.
Patrick reached out to grip his son’s shoulders gently. Displays of affection were not normally encouraged in the house of Lady Enid and so his father’s compassionate gesture gave the boy courage. He took a deep breath and let the question tumble over itself.
‘Are you a coward, Father?’
Patrick was stunned by the question. ‘Who says I am a coward?’ he redirected quietly. Alex stood mute. ‘Someone I know?’
His son shook his head vigorously. But his answer was a lie. How could he tell his father that his own brother George had accused his father of cowardice?
Patrick sighed and slumped back into his chair, leaving his son gazing at him forlornly. ‘Do you think I am a coward,’ he asked the boy in a tired voice, ‘because I didn’t go with my men to war?’
‘No, Father. I think you stayed because of Mother and us. But . . .’ he trailed away as he realised that he had almost mentioned his brother’s name.
‘But what?’ Patrick asked.
‘Nothing important.’
‘Is that how you got your beating?’
‘Yes,’ Alex answered uncertainly, and then lied a second time. ‘Some boys from school.’
He could not say that he had received the beating from his brother after flinging himself at him, the accusation levelled at the man whose strength he idolised more than he could bear. George had taunted him after the beating and Alex had cried in shame at his inability to put right a wrong.
‘Has your mother seen the state you are
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