The English Bride Read online

  Francesca’s delicately arching brows drew together. “I know and I love you for it but I have to take my own chances in life, Brod. Make all my own mistakes. That’s as it should be. My friendship with Grant has gone a step further. Everyone is aware of it. We’re more involved and as a consequence we’re coming increasingly into conflict.”

  “You know what they say. Life isn’t meant to be easy. I can see it happening, Fran.” Brod accelerated away from the compound. “Grant has never felt a woman’s power. He’s had casual affairs but they never burned him. What happens when you go back to Sydney? Have you thought of that?”

  “Of course I have!” Francesca exclaimed, trying to push the thought away. “I don’t want this time with you and Rebecca to end. I’m longing to see Ally when she gets home. Rafe, too, though I know he has reservations about my friendship with his ‘little brother.’”

  Brod chose his words carefully, knowing what she said was quite true. “Responsibility is Rafe’s middle name, Fran. He damned near had to father Grant when their parents were killed. In his shock and grief Grant went more than a little wild. He was always getting into trouble, always trying to bring some daredevil prank off. That tragedy has shaped him. Put fear in him. Showed him about loss. It might well be to remember it. Grant mightn’t let a woman get too close to him. His grief at the loss of his parents was enormous. He was very close to his mother as the youngest.

  “They were wonderful people, the Camerons. They took pity on Ally and me and our chaotic home life. They as good as fostered us. Rafe is as close to me as a brother. Come to that I always thought of Grant as a younger brother. To love is to lose. Grant learned that early.”

  When they arrived at the airstrip Grant was close to taking off. He saw them coming and jumped down again onto the tarmac. There was Francesca looking like someone who should be scattering rose petals at a wedding, Titian hair flying all around her lovely head. He tried to keep a sudden anger down, wondering why he was feeling so angry at all. He didn’t want her hurt. That was it. He didn’t want her exposed to danger. In short he didn’t want her to come.

  She was running towards him, crying out in reproach. “You surely weren’t going to leave without me?”

  He nodded more curtly than he intended. “I don’t have a real good feeling about this, Francesca. It might be better if you stay home.”

  “But you promised me last night.” Her churning emotions sounded in her voice.

  “You agree with me don’t you, Brod?” Grant shot his friend a near imploring glance.

  Brod considered a while. “I figure she’ll come to no harm with you, Grant. She may see something she’s not prepared for but knowing her I’d say she is adult enough to handle it. There may not be much wrong at all. A choke in the fuel pipe, or running too low on petrol to reach the scheduled landing.”

  “Which places him fair and square in a difficult and potentially dangerous situation,” Grant said, feeling the pressure. “The sun is generating a lot of heat.” Both men knew a lost man could dehydrate and die within forty-eight hours in the excessively dry atmosphere.

  “We’re all praying, Grant,” Brod said.

  “I know.” There was tremendous mateship in the bush. Grant turned to see Francesca tying her hair back with a blue scarf for all the world as if she was donning a nurse’s cap. She looked achingly young. Adolescent. No make-up. She didn’t need it. No lipstick, her soft, cushiony mouth had its own natural colour. What was he to do with this magical creature? But she was game.

  A few minutes later they were airborne, heading in the direction of Curly’s flight path. Grant pointed to various landmarks along the way, their flight level low enough for Francesca to marvel at the primeval beauty of the timeless land.

  Beneath them was lightly timbered cattle country, with sections of Kimbara’s mighty herd. Silver glinted off the interlocking system of watercourses that gave the Channel Country its name. Arrows of green in the rust-red plains. Monolithic rocks of vivid orange stone thrust up from the desert floor, thickly embroidered with the burnt gold of the spinifex. The aerial view was fantastic.

  Kimbara stockmen quenching their thirst with billy tea waved from the shade of the red river gums along a crescent-shaped billabong. This was vast territory. Francesca could well see how a man could be lost forever.

  While Grant spoke to Bob Carlton on Opal, Francesca looked away to a distant oasis of waterholes supporting a lot of greenery in the otherwise stark desert landscape. The sky was a brilliant cloudless enamelled blue and the heat was beginning to affect her.

  This wasn’t the super aeroplane, the great jet she was used to on her long hauls from London to Sydney. This was a single rotor helicopter she knew little about except it could fly straight up or straight down, forwards, backwards, hover in one spot, or turn completely around. It could do jobs no other vehicle of any kind could do like land in a small clearing or on a flat roof. In many ways, a helicopter was pretty much like a magic carpet and Grant was known as a brilliant pilot. That gave her a great deal of confidence.

  A lot of time passed and they saw nothing to indicate closer inspection. Francesca’s eyes were moving constantly, trying not to concentrate on the extraordinary surrealistic beauty of the great wilderness, but on spotting a yellow helicopter. Huge flocks of budgerigar, the phenomenon of the outback often passed beneath them, the sunlight striking a rich emerald from their wings. She could see wild camels moving across the red sand beneath them and looking east a great outcrop of huge seemingly perfect round boulders for all the world like an ancient god’s marbles.

  They were now within the boundaries of Bunnerong with several large lagoons coming up. Fifteen minutes on, Grant pointed downwards then proceeded to tilt the rotary wings in that direction.

  They both spotted the company helicopter at the same time. It had come to rest on a small claypan that was probably baked so hard it was like cement and virtually waterproof. Dead trees supporting colonies of white corellas like a million flowers ringed the shallow depression. A short distance off was one of the loveliest of all desert plants the casuarina, a mature desert oak with its foliage spreading out to form a graceful canopy. Beneath the oak Francesca could plainly see the body of a prone man, his face covered by the broad brim of his hat. He didn’t rise at the sound of the helicopter. He didn’t lift the hat away from his face. He didn’t wave. He kept on lying there like a man dead.

  Dear God! Francesca felt a moment of sheer terror. She had never seen death before.

  In a very short time they were down on the fairly light landing pad, Grant on the radio again to let Bob Carlton back on Opal know he’d found Curly grounded, the helicopter apparently safe. More news would follow.

  Outside the helicopter Francesca looked to Grant for instructions.

  “Stay here,” he ordered, just as she knew he would. “And take this and put it on.” He handed her his akubra knowing it was much too big but it would have to do. “You go nowhere without a hat. Nowhere. And you the redhead!”

  She took the reprimand meekly because she knew she deserved it. If she hadn’t slept in she would have brought one of her wide-brimmed akubras. “Do what I say now,” Grant further cautioned. “Stay put until I see what’s going on.”

  It seemed sensible to obey. The birds outraged by the descent of the helicopter into their peaceful territory were wheeling in the sky, screeching a deafening protest before flying off.

  She looked at Grant’s broad back as he moved off, sharply aware he felt deeply responsible for this pilot. The moment he called back to her, “He’s alive!” was to stay bright in Francesca’s memory. She ran without thinking towards them, even though he stood up abruptly, holding up his hand.

  She hadn’t seen the blood. It had dried very dark, almost dyeing the pilot’s shirt.

  “What’s happened. What is it?” she asked in considerable alarm.

  “I don’t know. It looks like something has attacked him.” Grant strode off to the helicopter, re
turning with a rifle just in case. Wild boars. Bound to be plenty about. Dingo attack. He didn’t think so. Then what? God forbid the attack was human. “Poor old fella! Poor Curly!” he found himself saying.

  Francesca went to the unconscious man and fell to her knees. “He needs attention quite urgently. Whatever’s done this to him?” Very gingerly she began to unbutton the pilot’s blood-soaked shirt and as she did so he started to moan, beginning to come around.

  “Here, let me take a look,” Grant said urgently, gazing down at the fallen man with perplexity. “He landed the chopper quite okay. He must have become ill. Maybe he’s had a heart attack. But those wounds!” Grant looked closer as Francesca working deftly peeled the shirt away. “God!” Grant exclaimed, “It’s like claw marks. Feral cats.”

  “Could they do so much damage?” Francesca asked dubiously, used to the adorable home variety.

  “They could slash you to pieces,” Grant said grimly. “So many introduced animals do terrible damage to native wildlife and habitats. The camels, brumbies, foxes, wild pigs, rabbits, you name them. I’ve seen a man gutted by a wild boar. Feral cats aren’t like your domestic tabbies. They’re ferocious. More like miniature lions.”

  “They must be if they’ve done this.” Francesca turned her head briefly. “Why don’t you get the kit from the chopper,” she urged. “I’m okay here. These wounds need to be cleaned. A lot of them seem to be fairly superficial although he’s bled a great deal. Others are deep.”

  “They could start bleeding again,” Grant warned, looking at her closely. In the shade of the casuarina she had discarded his hat, which in any case had fallen down over her eyes. She had gone very pale but her hands were rock steady.

  “I’ll be very careful,” she said. “Blood is horrible but I won’t faint if that’s what’s bothering you.” In fact she was willing herself to remain in control. “Hello there,” she said in gentle amazement as Curly opened his eyes. “Lie there quietly,” she bid him swiftly, fearful his wounds would reopen. “You’re fine. Fine.”

  Curly’s alarmingly grey face took on the faintest colour. “Have I died and gone to heaven?” His voice was little more than a rusty croak.

  Grant moved so he was in Curly’s sights. “Hi there, Curly. I’m not paying you to rest easy under a tree.”

  This time Curly tried a smile. “Hi, boss. I wondered when you’d get here.”

  “Don’t try to speak, Curly. Save your strength,” Grant urged, perturbed his man looked terrible. He’d get onto the flying doctor right away. Curly could be airlifted to Bunnerong, which had its own airstrip. The Royal Flying Doctor’s Cessna could land there.

  “Bloody cats, would you believe it,” Curly groaned. “Bloody feral cats, savage little bastards. A whole pack of them came at me out of nowhere while I was off balance being as sick as a dog. Never had such a thing happen to me before. Must have scared them somehow. Reckon I passed a kidney stone I was in so much pain. The radio is out. Needs an expert. I had to land. Just made it before I passed out. Agony I tell ya! Hell wouldn’t be too strong a word for it. Now I open my eyes to an angel with eyes like the sky and hair like the sunset.”

  “Don’t talk, Curly.” Francesca smiled, knowing it was taking too much out of him. “You’ve had a very bad experience. I’ll try not to hurt you but those scratches need attention.”

  Curly gave the ghost of a cheeky grin. “Whatever you do to me, I’ll love it.”

  Come to think of it she could pass for a celestial creature, Grant thought as he walked back to the helicopter to put through his calls. She could be counted on, too, to keep her head in an emergency as well. He had to admit he was impressed with her quiet efficiency.

  A day later Curly was sleeping peacefully in hospital minus his gall bladder, lamenting the fact the “angel” who had tended his lacerations so tenderly had been replaced by a burly male nurse.

  The following week saw the return of Fee and David Westbury, arms full of presents, looking wonderfully rested and increasingly affectionate after a fortnight on a small exclusive Great Barrier Reef island. Both wore becoming golden tans, Fee telling all and sundry she wasn’t in the least afraid of the sun, it was “absolutely” essential. Of course Fee was blessed with a good olive skin, well hydrated, well cared for and she’d spent nearly all of her adult life in misty England.

  “I’m not like you, my darling!” She looked across worriedly at Francesca. “You’ve got to watch yourself with that red hair and de Lyle skin. You’d shrivel up if you lived out here,” she said innocently.

  Well thank you, Mamma, Francesca heaved a small inner sigh. Thank you for confirming Grant’s worst fears.

  They were all at dinner in Kimbara’s truly beautiful formal dining room, Brod, their host at the head of the long, gleaming mahogany table, Rebecca in a lovely aquamarine silk shift with a slightly ruffled hemline facing him at the opposite end. Fee, with David beside her was to Brod’s right, ever glamorous in some kind of sophisticated tiger stripe drapery with a deep cowl neck. Facing them Francesca wore a simple shift dress similar in style to Rebecca’s but a glowing midnight-blue, with Grant beside her. Their bright colouring was startling under the light from twin chandeliers. Francesca all rosy apricot reds and golds, individual strands of hair glittering like jewellery, Grant tawny bronze, hair and skin.

  Brod, sensing Francesca’s discomfit, and aware of Grant’s misgivings about her, decided to weigh in. “Fee’s just having fun, Fran,” he told her lightly. “It’s simply a question of taking care. Rebecca has perfect skin.” Brod raised his wineglass to his beautiful wife in salute, his eyes full of admiration.

  “Of course she has, darling.” Fee reached out to pat his hand. “But it’s that thick, creamy magnolia skin. My darling girl’s is eggshell thin.”

  “Does that mean it can’t wait to crack?” Francesca gave a little wail, her cheeks catching colour as they always did when she was upset. “Anyway eggshell may be delicate, but it’s strong.”

  “The answer is as Brod says,” Rebecca intervened gently. “Good sun protection and protective clothing plus the essential, wide-brimmed hat. I think Fran could not only survive but flourish out here,” she added, earning Francesca’s gratitude.

  “Becky, darling.” Fee finished her wine with amazing speed and no apparent effect. “Don’t give Francesca any ideas. She’s all but promised to Jimmy Waddington. That’s the Honourable James Waddington. His father Peregrine is de Lyle’s closest friend. Jimmy was distraught when Francesca quit her job to come to Oz. He’s fully expecting her to return. As is her father. Believe me I know my daughter loves it here, but England is her real world.”

  “What a pity nobody told me.” Francesca tried to smile, wishing for the ten thousandth time her mother wouldn’t volunteer so much information. But then no one could stop Fee. She had a terrible habit of letting the cat out of the bag and if that didn’t go off too well to shove it back in.

  “Just knew she’d left a boyfriend behind.” Grant turned his head to give Francesca a direct look. “Jimmy Waddington. The Honourable James Waddington. That sounds just about right.”

  “Breach of privacy, Fee.” Brod tapped his aunt’s magnificently beringed hand. “Now let’s hear Fran’s version.”

  Oh, thank you, Brod, Francesca thought, diving into an explanation. “I think of Jimmy as my friend. I’ve known him all my life. I love him in that way because he’s a truly lovable person. He’s decent and kind and he’s very intelligent.”

  “In short someone you ought to marry,” Grant inserted in a voice like dark polished silk.

  “Except I don’t love him in any romantic way. I forgot to mention that.” Francesca returned his gem-hard gaze.

  “Believe me, darling, liking is much better.” Fee of the fantastic love affairs pronounced without turning a hair. “You simply must have things in common. Have the same friends, share the same tastes, the same background. Passion is all very well but unless a man and a woman have similar views of life, th
ings can become very quickly unstuck. Your father for instance was madly in love with me but he should never have married me.”

  “I can’t imagine why he did.” Brod gave a brief laugh. “Obviously you were much too hard to resist, Fee, let alone control.”

  “Well, as they say, it seemed like a good idea at the time,” Fee replied. “I desperately want my girl to be happy. I don’t want her to make an awful mistake, like me. One should approach marriage in a cool and rational manner.”

  “That’s why you did just the opposite,” Francesca pointed out with less than her usual tolerance, causing David to chuckle out loud.

  “Fee often says things she doesn’t mean,” he told Francesca soothingly. “Being in love is the grandest feeling of all. It makes one come alive. It makes one whole. Which brings me to my announcement of this evening.” David tapped his crystal wineglass with a spoon and looked around the table. “Fee and I have something to tell you and we hope you’ll be as happy about it as we are. We have decided to get married.”

  Brod was the first to respond, “Now why doesn’t that surprise me?” Then everyone stood up at once. Francesca running around the table to kiss her mother, followed by Rebecca, while the men shook hands.

  “Congratulations!”

  “We’re both so happy.” A very becoming blush spread over Fee’s golden cheeks. “Life is wonderful with David around. Of course he’s the man I should have married.”

  Brod, catching David’s eyes gave a sardonic little grin, but didn’t point out David was married at the time. “I think this calls for champagne.” He looked to his wife, loving her madly, this woman who was making him extraordinarily happy. “Would it be too much to hope we’ve got something really good in the frig?”