Rise of an Eagle

by Margaret Way

'I'll get you back to the house,' Ty told her, slipping his arms beneath her slight, prone body. 'Follow us up, Pat, with the horses. I recognise those puncture bites. We have the serum. That's it, Morgan,' he encouraged her. 'Keep your arm down low. I'll have you home in no time.'

  Even though Ty's quick action had arrested the spread of the venom, they had to stop while Morgan retched her heart out. Ty held her head, talking calmly to her all the while, telling her she was over the worst of it, cradling her in his arms until she was ready to go on.

  At the homestead Cecilia was galvanised into action, rushing ahead to locate the correct serum. She stood at Ty's side while he administered it, her face anxious. Afterwards, with the wound washed and dressed, Ty carried Morgan to bed, where she fell into a sick sleep. She had lived all her life in the bush, even in a region where one could step over a snake every day, yet she had never been so unlucky as to fall on top of one. It was the worst sickness of her life, she considered. She was still nauseous, but her stomach was bone dry.

  When she awoke at intervals, Ty was still there, though it was Cecilia who stepped over to the bed to ask how she was.

  'Terrible!' Morgan whispered each time. 'I've never had a snake do that before.'

  In the early hours of the morning she awakened suddenly, staring directly into Ty's eyes. He was sitting in a chair beside the bed, looking as though he hadn't had a wink of sleep.

  'How's it now?'

  'Wonderful,' she told him. 'My stomach seems to have settled. I'd better not move.'

  He put out his hand and smoothed her hair off her forehead. 'How many lives is that now you've drawn on?'

  'I'm not sure, but you've saved at least four. How's Pat?'

  'Shocked out of his mind. The last time I saw him he was sitting up in bed crying.'

  'Poor old Pat!' Morgan slanted him a faint smile. 'Do you think I'll pull through?'

  'Len will be here in the morning to check you over, but yes, I think you'll be fine.'

  'I want you to know I'm grateful. I only went with Pat because you took off with Sarah.'

  'I have a feeling Sarah might want to leave the day after tomorrow.'

  'I know. I'm sorry.'

  'No, you're not.'

  'Anyway, I learned a lot.'

  'And what was that?'

  'Go easy on the vinegar and more on the honey.'

  He smiled. 'Isn't that what I've been trying to tell you all the time?'

  'I'm going back to sleep now.' Her long eyelashes began to droop.

  'I'll be here.'

  'Thank you.'

  She put out her hand and he held on to it.

  The week before Morgan's party the presents started to arrive. Soon an entire room was stacked with boxes of all sizes.

  'We'll display them in the billiard-room,' Aunt Cecilia decided. 'People do like to see their gifts on show.'

  'Then we'd better start on it tonight,' Sandra suggested. 'It's amazing how much is there.'

  'I truly never expected it!' Morgan exclaimed as she stood in the double doorway, staring in. 'I'm overwhelmed by everyone's thought fulness.'

  'What a pity Sarah had to leave,' Sandra said slyly. 'You know something I don't?'

  'I think she thought there was a possibility of snaffling Ty.'

  'Well, it was a great idea but it didn't work.' Sandra began to pull the wrapping-paper off a large box. 'Helen and John Philips,' she read. 'Oh, look, it's a... what?'

  'A sculpture.'

  'Something for the coffee-table?'

  In contrast with the stark white modern sculpture, a silver fruit-basket followed, crystal galore, porcelain, dinner services, linen on a lavish scale. There was a beautiful biscuit figure of cupid from Patrick, a magnificent Wedgwood jasper-ware vase from his parents, six beautiful Waterford decanters and a number of very pretty clocks. After a half-hour they started to get rather tired, 'I'll go and get Claire to help us, lazy creature,' Sandra announced, struggling up from the rug. 'She can fold the wrapping-paper if nothing else. There's a mountain of it. I say, doesn't it look great? You seem to have an army of figurines. And birds. The big porcelain peacock is my choice. I'm sure it's modelled after something by Kandler. It would look marvellous against a screen. Would you like coffee to keep us going?'

  'Love it.' Morgan looked up from admiring a silver rose bowl, it looks as if we might be here half the night.'

  There was nothing to indicate who had sent one small flat package. From the feel of it, Morgan was sure it was a small painting or possibly a decorative frame. She had already unwrapped an art nouveau silver frame. The paper was rather odd, not at all in keeping with the occasion. Most of the paper had been specifically designed for a twenty-first birthday. The very severity of the paper on this package sparked her interest. She held it in her hands, holding it up to the light, then she slowly unwrapped it.

  A striking male face looked back at her. She would have recognised it anywhere. It was a framed glossy photograph, obviously a publicity photograph, showing a man dressed for the concert platform, black jacket, white tie, holding a violin in the crook of his arm.

  She didn't move. She sat as though she had been frozen over.

  She knew then that somebody hated her.

  'My God, just look at all this stuff!' Ty, on his way from the study, put his head around the door. 'Now I know what they feel like at royal weddings. Most of this will have to be stored away.'

  Morgan was in deep shock. The pain was spreading from the region of her heart out to her limbs. She had the feeling nothing would ever come right again.

  'Morgan?' Ty walked over to her, alerted by her utter stillness, then the tightly shuttered expression on her face. 'What is it? Are you ill?' He crouched down beside her, taking the photograph out of her hands. 'Good God!' he said, in a deeply shocked voice.

  'What a way to learn,' she whispered desolately.

  'Learn what?' His tone was angry, fiercely protective.

  'Please, Ty.' She turned to him with tortured eyes. 'That's my father!'

  'More like a cruel joke.'

  'Don't.' Her head fell forward. 'You know it. I know it. Now we both understand.'

  'Understand what?' he asked harshly.

  'I'm nothing. Nobody.'

  He put his arms around her and lifted her from the floor. 'We don't know who he is, Morgan.'

  'He's my father,' she insisted, starting to shiver. 'And I'm his imbecile daughter. I'm not family, Ty. I never was.'

  'Let me take you upstairs.'

  'I'll give you back everything. Everything. It's all yours.'

  The twins walking casually back into the room, stopping in astonishment as they saw their brother comforting Morgan.

  'What's wrong, Ty? Is she sick?' Sandra asked anxiously, hurrying forward. 'Maybe she never got over the snake-bite.'

  'Possibly,' Ty clipped off. 'Sandy, do you think you could go upstairs and turn the bed down? Claire, tell Mother I need her.'

  'Of course, Ty,' the twins replied as one.

  No sooner had they left the room than Ty swooped on the photograph, shoving it behind the skirt of a long trestle ingeniously covered in gold-fringed green velvet to dress it up.

  'Never.' Morgan shook her head. 'You can't hide it, Ty. Not now. I feel changed forever. An heiress to nothing.'

  Cecilia came rushing into the room in answer to the summons, her lovely face dismayed. 'Whatever has happened, Ty? She's been so well.'

  'You know who I am, Cecilia?' Morgan asked, lifting her head, 'I'm no one.'

  'Whatever is she talking about?' Cecilia looked with alarm to her son.

  'Someone sent her a photograph. I've shoved it behind the table. I don't want the girls to know.'

  'A photograph?' Cecilia frowned, 'What sort of a photograph?'

  'It's my father,' Morgan said very quietly, and fainted.

  The twins accepted that Morgan felt a little sick and they quietly returned to the task of unwrapping the presents. 'She fights everything so hard,' Sandra excl
aimed. 'She should have stayed in bed longer, instead of getting up.'

  This is the way I want it, Morgan.' Ty told Morgan after the girls had returned downstairs. 'Nothing has changed. You've been a Hartland all these long years.'

  'Who did this?' Cecilia demanded. 'Who would be so cruel? And in this way?'

  'You believe it, don't you, Cecilia?' Morgan asked. 'You haven't seen the photograph, yet you know.'

  'I know, Morgan, you're one of us.' Cecilia told her firmly. 'Marcia is your mother and you were reared as a Hartland. The same thing.'

  'Not the same thing at all. You knew about Marcia. The life she had led. You knew she was pregnant when she married?'

  Cecilia pushed her hand through her copious blonde hair. For once it was disordered. 'Please don't talk, my dear. You look so pale.'

  'Let her talk.' Ty ordered. 'Let her get the poison out of her system.'

  'She denied it, you know. I asked her.' Morgan lay back, her black hair fanning out over the lace-edged white pillows. 'She swore E.J. was my grandfather. I believed her. I believed her because I wanted to belong. I belonged for twenty-one years. Now I don't.'

  'Nonsense!' Ty spoke in his normal authoritative fashion. His blue eyes sparkled, very direct and hypnotic. 'None of this matters to us. We've already discussed this, Morgan. Time after time.'

  'How awful!' She stared from one to the other. 'You knew all the time?'

  'None of us exactly knew, Morgan.' Cecilia told her quietly. 'We had our private thoughts.'

  'Then how did you allow it to happen? Why was I reared a Hartland?'

  Cecilia considered. 'E.J. loved you in his way. He certainly meant you, to have your inheritance.'

  'I'm not entitled to it.' Morgan's eyes filled with tears, 'I'm taking so much from you and nobody was going to say a word. Not you. Not Ty.'

  'Why would we?' Ty sat down on the side of the bed, taking her hands firmly between his own. 'E.J. wanted a grandchild. He got you. I expect he knew all about Marcia. Maybe he didn't. Either way, I don't think he cared.'

  'But I'm his image. 'I'm that man's image.'

  'Is she?' Cecilia looked worriedly at her son, who sat staring at Morgan's pale, traumatised face.

  'The same eyes, brows, mouth. The resemblance can be seen at a glance.'

  Morgan gave a broken laugh. 'He was a musician, you know. A concert violinist.'

  'What?' Cecilia drew back, her expression startled. 'It must have been a publicity photo.' Morgan shifted restlessly in the bed. 'He must have visited the Reef. Nearly all our overseas visitors want to fly there. It's so beautiful, so tropical, so romantic. I think Marcia would have been very pretty.'

  'Lovely!' Cecilia sighed deeply, her gaze introverted. 'We need time, Morgan, to work this thing out. We need to know who sent this photograph.'

  'Not Marcia.' Ty said briefly, 'I think I recognise the malicious hand.' He gave a faint smile. Like a tiger.

  'Who, darling?' Cecilia wanted to know. 'We must find some way to force them to admit it. This whole thing has to be kept quiet, Morgan is a Hartland. A Hartland she remains.'

  'I shall try to find my father.' Cecilia hesitated, but only for a moment. She reached out to Morgan. 'Of course, we don't know. We're making enormous assumptions purely on the basis of a physical resemblance, but I'm almost certain the man you speak of, the concert violinist, was killed in a plane crash on a return flight to America. There was a great deal of publicity at the time. It was a disaster. I believe he was an American citizen, but of Russian origin. I even remember his name.'

  'Go on.' Morgan looked at her, mesmerised. 'Zakarov. Mikhail Zakarov. The only reason I remember is because I'm greatly interested in music, as you know. The violin is my favourite instrument. I had absolutely no idea this young man who was only at the beginning of a brilliant career had spent any time on the islands. Why do you mention it?'

  'Because Marcia forgot herself. She handed me a clue. She said, 'What is it you're expecting to hear? Your father was a visiting musician?' She met him on the islands, not the man she later married. Or maybe they were both there, Marcia deciding who was the greater catch. She never expected to become pregnant. That's Marcia. She acts first and thinks later. It must have come as quite a shock to know she was carrying me.'

  'Do you really think it wise for her to talk?' Cecilia asked Ty worriedly. 'She's as white as a sheet.'

  'It's not every day one finds out they're illegitimate.' Morgan laughed a plaintive sound.

  'And who gives a damn, since you never knew any different? You're a Hartland.' Ty told her deliberately.

  She turned her head to stare into his eyes. 'I'll give it all back to you. As soon as I can. I can't think of anything now.'

  'You'll rally, Morgan. You've got plenty of guts.'

  'Have I?' she asked faintly, 'I feel as if I'm falling apart.'

  'So do I.' Cecilia collapsed into a chair. 'On the eve of her birthday. This is quite unreal.'

  'She had to find out,' Ty offered sombrely, 'I'm Miss Zakarov. Is that exotic enough for you?' Morgan laughed. 'Morgan Zakarov. I knew I looked like a girl in my ballet be ok. You're like my mother,' Marcia said. I intend to take Marcia apart.'

  'Good.' Ty approved the first flicker of fire in her eyes Marcia should be introduced to the truth, but once you know it, Morgan, you'll have to file it away. We don't intend to hand the press any spicy stories. I'm sure you won't want to hurt Marcia, either.'

  'Why not? She hurt me.'

  'The world regards you as Edward Hartland's heiress,'

  Ty said decisively. 'That's the way you've lived all your life.

  If Zakarov really was your father and he was involved in that tragic incident, it serves no good purpose to reopen old wounds.'

  'It's wrong for me to take what is not mine. I have no claim at all.' Morgan said with finality.

  Chapter Eight

  Marcia was amazed to see her, her expression faltering when she saw the depth of animosity in Morgan's eyes.

  'Why, darling, where did you spring from?' she cried expressively, trying as usual to ignore reality, 'Sydney is the last place I expected to see you at the moment. Is something wrong?'

  'Try betrayal,' Morgan shot back. 'As soon as Ty turned his back, I stowed away on the freight plane. An awful trip.' She pushed past Marcia and walked into the house. 'You have to be one of the great unsung actresses of all time!'

  Marcia was wearing a dress of softest green, and now it was echoed by the pallor of her face. 'Go into the drawing-room, Morgan. Don't yell at me out here.'

  'Who's yelling?' Morgan asked. 'You mean you're terrified someone might hear me speak?'

  'That, and you're obviously angry about something.'

  'Angry?' Morgan tapped her breast. 'Angry, dear God!'

  'Really, Morgan! Go in. Sit down.'

  'You think you can handle me like you've handled me before? No way, Mother, the day of reckoning is at hand.'

  'Rubbish!' Marcia exhaled dramatically. 'Whatever it is, Morgan, we can sort it out.'

  'Let's see.' Morgan looked down at her watch, 'it's nearly four. What time will Philip be home?'

  'Please leave Philip out of this,' Marcia said.

  'It will sure make things uncomfortable for you if I won't. I have to admire the way you do it, Marcia.

  Practice, I expect. I have something in my bag I want you to see.'

  Marcia gestured firmly with her hand. 'The drawing- room please, Morgan. Please don't drop any of your bombshells here.'

  'My bombshells?' Morgan laughed. 'We're going to talk about your exploits, Mother.' Morgan walked into her mother's white and gold drawing-room and deposited her carryall on the floor.

  'Whatever in the world is all this about?' Marcia followed her, standing her ground coolly.

  'Your mistake was in thinking I would never find out.' Morgan delved into the bag and withdrew a large yellow envelope.

  Instantly Marcia sat down, staring in fascination at the glossy photograph Morgan drew out.


  'Do you know this man, Mother? Do you know anything at all about him?'

  Marcia drew back fastidiously. 'Should I?' she asked in apparent bewilderment.

  'Look again. Shall I find your glasses?'

  'I don't wear glasses.'

  'Even if you did, you wouldn't need them. Who is he, Mother? I think you owe it to me to speak the truth.'

  Marcia leapt up, shocked, 'I don't know what you're talking about. You're such an odd girl. So intense. You hate and resent me for leaving you the way I had to.'

  'I don't hate you, Mother,' Morgan said, 'I hope to God I don't hate anybody. What we're talking about is disillusionment. So deep I can hardly speak of it.'

  'I know better than that,' Marcia said. 'You hate me. E.J. turned you against me. Where did you get that photograph, anyway? Did he leave it for you?'

  Morgan shook her head. 'Someone sent this to me as a birthday present. How's that for hating? I'm simply not in that class.'

  Marcia looked at her astounded. 'You mean someone sent this through the mail?'

  'No other way.'

  'But for what purpose? That man is a complete stranger to me.'

  'I'm the image of him.' Morgan replied.'

  'I don't see it.'

  'You can't even bear to look at the photograph.'

  'What are you trying to do, ruin me?' Marcia suddenly clutched a chair, as though afraid of fainting.

  'Who is he, Mother?' Morgan asked bleakly.

  'Who the hell do you think he is?' Marcia suddenly exploded.

  'My father.'

  'How can he be? You're a Hartland. You've just been left a fortune. Are you going to pass that up?'

  'Yes, I am.'

  'I won't allow it, you little fool!' Marcia's voice shot up in panic and outrage. 'Do you really think after all these years I'm going to allow you...'

  'It's already too late, Mother. Ty knows. So does Cecilia. They have always known, I suppose.'

  Marcia's silken cheeks had lost all colour. 'You mean, you showed them?'

  'Face it, Mother. I'm not a Hartland. I never was.'

  'Oh, yes, you are. We earned it. E.J. wanted a grandchild. He got one.'