He had never in all the long years heard it applied to Sir Frank.
A look of relief settled on Nellie’s wise old face. ‘You remember now. I bin telling ya. Not over.’ All of a sudden her breath began to labour.
Francesca reacted at once. ‘Nellie, dear, you mustn’t worry. Everything is going to be fine.’ She drew the tiny bent frame beneath her arm. ‘Now, why don’t we show Bryn what we’ve been doing?’ she suggested bracingly. ‘You know how much he loves and appreciates indigenous art.’
It sprang to Bryn’s mind how Carina had once passed off her young cousin’s desire to promote the work of indigenous artists as ‘trying to exorcise the fact she’s an heiress by working among the aborigines.’
Carina wasn’t only callous, she could be remarkably blind—especially when it came to perceiving what was good. She was no judge of Francesca’s work. Francesca Forsyth was a multi-gifted young woman. His mind ran back to the many times he and Francey had got into discussions, not only about Titan, but about the various projects handled—or mishandled might be a better word—by the Forsyth Foundation. Francey had a seriously good brain. When he was in a position to do so, he would endeavour to get her elected to the board, no matter her youth. Hell, he was still considered very young himself, though youth wasn’t the issue it once was. It was more about ability. And Francey was ready for it. She had inherited her father Lionel’s formidable head for business. His grandmother had confirmed that with an ironic smile.
‘When it comes right down to it Francey, not Carina, would make the greatest contribution. Only as fate would have it Carina is the apple of Frank’s eye. He never was much of a judge of character.’
It was as they were taking their leave that Nellie found a moment to speak to Bryn alone. She raised her snowy white head a long way, trying to look him squarely in the eye. ‘You bin her family now,’ she said, as though impressing on him his responsibility. ‘Others gunna do all in their power to destroy her.’
‘Nellie—’
She cut him off. ‘You know that well as me. She sees good in everyone. Even those who will turn against her.’
He already knew that. ‘They will seek to destroy me too, Nellie.’ He spoke as if she were not a nomadic tribal woman but a trusted business ally. Moreover he saw nothing incongruous about it. These people had many gifts. Prescience was a part of them.
‘Won’t happen,’ she told him, her weathered face creasing with scorn. ‘You strong. You bin ready. This time you get justice.’
She might have been delivering a speech, and it was one he heard loud and clear.
They were in the station Jeep, speeding back to the homestead, with the silver-shot mirage pulsing all around them. The native drums had started up, reverberating across the plains to the ancient eroded hills glowing fiery red in the heat. Other drums were joining in, taking up the beat—tharum, tharum—a deeply primitive sound that was extraordinarily thrilling. They were calling back and forth to each other, seemingly from miles away. The sound came from the North, the North-West.
It was a signal, Bryn and Francesca realised. Now that Bryn’s coming had made it official, the message was being sent out over the vast station and the untameable land.
Francis Forsyth’s spirit had passed. Consequences would follow.
‘Nellie fears for me,’ Francesca said. ‘It looked like she was handing on lots of warnings to you?’ Her tone pressed him for information.
‘Your well-being is important to her and her friends.’ Bryn glanced back at her. She had taken off her straw hat, throwing it onto the back seat. Now he could fully appreciate her beautiful fine-boned face, which always seemed to him radiant with sensitivity. She was far more beautiful than her cousin. Her looks were on a different scale. The thick shiny rope of her hair was held by a coloured elastic band at the end and a blue and purple silk scarf at the top. Incredibly, her eyes had taken on a wash of violet. ‘You’ve been wonderfully helpful to them as a patron, and best of all your motives are entirely pure.’
‘Of course they are.’ She dismissed that important point as if it went without saying. ‘It looked like matters of grave importance?’
‘Isn’t your welfare just that?’ he parried.
‘Who is likely to hurt me?’ she appealed to him. ‘I’m not important in anyone’s eyes—least of all poor Grandfather. God rest his troubled soul. I do know he had his bad times.’
Why wouldn’t he? Bryn inwardly raged, but let it go. ‘You’re a Forsyth, Francey,’ he reminded her gravely. ‘It’s to be expected you’ll receive a substantial fortune in your grandfather’s will. It’s not as though there isn’t plenty to go around. He was a billionaire many times over.’
‘A huge responsibility!’ There was a weight of feeling in her voice. ‘Too much money is a curse. Men who build up great fortunes make it extremely difficult for their heirs.’
She was thinking of her uncle Charles. So was Bryn. ‘I think there’s an old proverb, either Chinese or Persian, that says: “The larger a man’s roof, the more snow it collects.” Charles, God help him, has had a bad time of it. I can almost feel sorry for him. Frank treated him very unkindly from his earliest days. Charles never could measure up to his father’s standards of perfection.’
‘Such destructive behaviour,’ Francesca sighed, thinking that at least her uncle treated Carina, his only child, like a princess.
‘I agree. It was your father who inherited the brains and refused point-blank to toe the line. It took a lot of guts to do that. Charles has worked very hard, but sadly for him he doesn’t have what it takes to be the man at the top. Charles is just valued for his name. ’
Unfortunately that was true. ‘Our name engenders a lot of hostility.’ She had felt that hostility herself. ‘It’s not all envy. The Macallan name, on the other hand, is greatly admired. Sir Theo was revered.’
‘A great philanthropist,’ Bryn said quietly, immensely proud of his grandfather.
‘And a great man. He had no black cloud hanging over him. I’ve never fully understood what my grandfather did to your family after Sir Theo died. No one speaks of it.’
‘And I’m not going to speak of it now, Francey,’ he said, severity back on him. ‘It’s a bad day for it anyway.’
‘I know. I know,’ she apologised. ‘But you haven’t put it behind you?’
‘Far from it.’ He suddenly turned his smooth dark head, so elegantly shaped. ‘You could be the enemy.’
She looked out of the window at the desert landscape that had come so wondrously alive. ‘You know I’m not.’ She loved him without limit. Always would.
He laughed briefly. ‘You’re certainly not typical of the Forsyths.’ She was the improbable angel in their midst.
Her next words were hard for her to say. ‘You hate us?’ It was very possible. She knew Lady Macallan had despised her grandfather with a passion. There had to be a story there.
A shadow moved across his handsome face. ‘I can’t hate you, Francey. How could you even think it?’
