Macintosh,’ Matthew replied. ‘In that time, we can stow away the Bleriot and make a trip to visit my mother.’
‘A good idea,’ Randolph agreed. ‘It has been at least a year since Miss Tracy last saw you. It will kind of prove that you are still alive.’
Matthew winced. It had always been his friend who had sent the letters from different parts of the world to keep Kate Tracy up to date on where they were and some of what they were doing. Randolph knew that he could not tell his boss that her only son was popular with many of the ladies they encountered from Shanghai to Moscow and had indulged himself in the charms they offered. Nor could he tell Kate Tracy of the times that he had been called on to tend to the wounds her only son received as a result of the occasional bar room brawls and small wars they stumbled into in the course of their wanderings. From what Randolph knew of the extended family history, trouble was a constant shadow in their lives. Kate’s brother Michael Duffy had lived as a mercenary soldier from the battlefields of New Zealand through the end of the Civil War in Randolph’s country and Mexico to the veldt of South Africa. Patrick Duffy, Kate’s nephew, had served fighting from Egypt through the Sudan to South Africa as well. And Matthew too had served as a soldier in the war against the Boer farmers. Even now, Randolph could see that the young man’s experiences in South Africa had left an indelible mark on his soul. His fanatical interest in the use of aviation in warfare was only an extension of his past. But one thing stood out about Matthew – he was a patriot to his country and born to soar with the eagles.
‘Then we carry out our mission in Neu Pommern and come home.’
It sounded simple, Randolph thought. But what Colonel Duffy outlined earlier that evening was fraught with danger. The American brooded that he was participating in a mission that was of little concern to his own country. After all, a war among the Europeans that dragged their colonies into the conflict would not involve America, which had stated its neutrality in European politics. Only his friendship with Matthew dragged him into the plot.
Guy Wilkes angrily paced the carpeted floor of Fenella’s small house located not far from Arthur Thorncroft’s film studio. Patrick had purchased the house for her years earlier and because of its proximity to Arthur’s studio it had witnessed many parties to celebrate the completion of a project. On a narrow, tree-lined avenue, the house was situated in a pleasant, middle-class suburb within walking distance of the trams that rattled through the city streets. Fenella sat at a mirror in her room set apart from the small living room where the actor fumed in his jealousy.
‘You seemed rather enamoured of that bloody Yank tonight,’ Guy said in a fury when he ceased pacing the floor. ‘Don’t try to deny it.’
Fenella stopped brushing her long, lustrous hair. ‘I was not showing, as you are implying, any more interest in Mr Gates than I do in any of my admirers,’ she sighed. ‘From what I have been told by my father of Mr Gates he has led an interesting life.’
‘There are thousands of women out there,’ Guy said, entering the bedroom and waving his hand in the air, ‘who would give their right arm to bed me. You are a fortunate woman to have me court you.’
Fenella felt her anger rise. ‘Do you think that I have notmany admirers?’ she snapped, turning away from her reflection in the mirror. ‘What were you before Arthur employed you – a good-looking draper’s son from some godforsaken country town with big dreams of fame and fortune in the city. Well, you might have that, but you do not own me.’
Guy realised that he had over-stepped his mark. ‘I did not mean it that way, Nellie,’ he said, attempting to reconcile. ‘What I meant to say is that we are both lucky to have each other. As Arthur has often said, we are the darlings of the
‘A good idea,’ Randolph agreed. ‘It has been at least a year since Miss Tracy last saw you. It will kind of prove that you are still alive.’
Matthew winced. It had always been his friend who had sent the letters from different parts of the world to keep Kate Tracy up to date on where they were and some of what they were doing. Randolph knew that he could not tell his boss that her only son was popular with many of the ladies they encountered from Shanghai to Moscow and had indulged himself in the charms they offered. Nor could he tell Kate Tracy of the times that he had been called on to tend to the wounds her only son received as a result of the occasional bar room brawls and small wars they stumbled into in the course of their wanderings. From what Randolph knew of the extended family history, trouble was a constant shadow in their lives. Kate’s brother Michael Duffy had lived as a mercenary soldier from the battlefields of New Zealand through the end of the Civil War in Randolph’s country and Mexico to the veldt of South Africa. Patrick Duffy, Kate’s nephew, had served fighting from Egypt through the Sudan to South Africa as well. And Matthew too had served as a soldier in the war against the Boer farmers. Even now, Randolph could see that the young man’s experiences in South Africa had left an indelible mark on his soul. His fanatical interest in the use of aviation in warfare was only an extension of his past. But one thing stood out about Matthew – he was a patriot to his country and born to soar with the eagles.
‘Then we carry out our mission in Neu Pommern and come home.’
It sounded simple, Randolph thought. But what Colonel Duffy outlined earlier that evening was fraught with danger. The American brooded that he was participating in a mission that was of little concern to his own country. After all, a war among the Europeans that dragged their colonies into the conflict would not involve America, which had stated its neutrality in European politics. Only his friendship with Matthew dragged him into the plot.
Guy Wilkes angrily paced the carpeted floor of Fenella’s small house located not far from Arthur Thorncroft’s film studio. Patrick had purchased the house for her years earlier and because of its proximity to Arthur’s studio it had witnessed many parties to celebrate the completion of a project. On a narrow, tree-lined avenue, the house was situated in a pleasant, middle-class suburb within walking distance of the trams that rattled through the city streets. Fenella sat at a mirror in her room set apart from the small living room where the actor fumed in his jealousy.
‘You seemed rather enamoured of that bloody Yank tonight,’ Guy said in a fury when he ceased pacing the floor. ‘Don’t try to deny it.’
Fenella stopped brushing her long, lustrous hair. ‘I was not showing, as you are implying, any more interest in Mr Gates than I do in any of my admirers,’ she sighed. ‘From what I have been told by my father of Mr Gates he has led an interesting life.’
‘There are thousands of women out there,’ Guy said, entering the bedroom and waving his hand in the air, ‘who would give their right arm to bed me. You are a fortunate woman to have me court you.’
Fenella felt her anger rise. ‘Do you think that I have notmany admirers?’ she snapped, turning away from her reflection in the mirror. ‘What were you before Arthur employed you – a good-looking draper’s son from some godforsaken country town with big dreams of fame and fortune in the city. Well, you might have that, but you do not own me.’
Guy realised that he had over-stepped his mark. ‘I did not mean it that way, Nellie,’ he said, attempting to reconcile. ‘What I meant to say is that we are both lucky to have each other. As Arthur has often said, we are the darlings of the
Similar Books
