Free Flight of the Eagle by Peter Watt Page A

Catherine flared in defence of Patrick who was now standing with his back to them.
    Brett could see where Catherine's attention was directed. ‘Ladies might be infatuated by the likes of such men, my dear young Catherine,’ he said. ‘But they have enough practical sense to marry men like me. Men who will inherit wealth and power and who can provide the luxuries they so much yearn for in their years ahead.’
    Catherine felt the breath of pragmatism blow softly in her ear and remained silent. Yes. A woman did have to be practical when it came to the future. But this was the present – and she was acutely aware that she was a woman who loved the romance of life, as much as the luxuries of wealth. At her elbow was a devilishly attractive young man who would do anything for her. In the circle of men stood Captain Patrick Duffy who she could easily give herself to. The choice was hers alone and she replied softly, ‘It may be possible I am not the lady you think I am.’
    ‘Catherine, come and join the ladies and let your young man alone for a moment,’ Lady Garnett commanded rather than requested. ‘I am sure Mister Norris has a point of view to add to the conversation of the men.’
    Catherine normally did not find the small talk of the women interesting but Lady Garnett's imperious invitation gave her the opportunity to part with Brett Norris's company and be alone in her thoughts. ‘Thank you, Lady Garnett, I would love to join you,’ she answered. ‘Possibly you might relate your experiences in the south of France to me. One day I hope to visit the Riviera and take in the sunshine.’
    Miffed at Catherine's subtle rebuke, Brett Norris idled over to the circle of men to join his father. At least he could talk confidently in such distinguished company of power and wealth. More than the uncouth and arrogant Captain Duffy could with his limited world of soldiering!
    The cool summer's eve held the mists of magic – at least it felt that way to Patrick when he bid his host good evening and stepped into the open air. Or was it that he had drunk too much port and was feeling the romance of the land of his Irish ancestors? Despite his last glimpse of Catherine in the company of Brett Norris, he was determined not to let the bitter memory spoil his last night of leave in Ireland.
    ‘Would ye be likin’ a lift back to the village, Cap'n Duffy?’ the coachman asked from the seat of the gig. He had been hired by George Fitzgerald to ferry the Reverend and his wife from the vicarage, as well as pick up Patrick from Bernard Riley's pub. Between visits to the kitchen of the Fitzgerald manor for fine table scraps and some alcoholic refreshment he had waited patiently while puffing on his battered pipe for the guests to leave.
    ‘No, but thank you. I think I will walk home tonight,’ Patrick replied politely. ‘It will do me good.’ There would be a lot of walking ahead when he reached the Sudan's arid and rock strewn deserts with their craggy hills …
    ‘Very good, Cap'n Duffy, and top o’ the eve'n to you then.’

SEVEN
    T he twitter of bush birds, and the snort of a horse being saddled in the soft light of the predawn, were now familiar sounds to Kate Tracy.
    Kate Tracy, sister of Michael Duffy, had once been known as Kate O'Keefe. In Sydney at the age of sixteen she had married a shiftless handsome son of Irish convicts. A marriage motivated out of infatuation for the man who would leave the young girl almost destitute and pregnant at Rockhampton when he ran off with the wife of a local publican. That had been in 1863 and Kate had not seen her estranged husband until she visited his grave at Cooktown twelve years later. But her ill-chosen marriage had put her on a path north to the untamed Colony of Queensland and eventually to amassing a personal fortune through bullock teams transporting sorely needed supplies to the people of the frontier.
    Approaching her fortieth year she was now one of the wealthiest women in