The Gallant by William Stuart Long Page A

willing, we’ll not have come in vain. But you must not lose heart.”
    “No,” Kitty agreed, her lower lip still visibly trembling. But she managed to give him a shaky, uncertain smile and, freeing her hand from his, tossed her dark head defiantly. “No, I’ll not lose heart. It is my patience that is wearing thin. And having to leave most of our inquiries to Mary O’Hara. She is a good, loyal soul, heaven knows, but she is not blessed with very much intelligence.”
    “She does her best,” Patrick defended.
    Their carriage joined a small procession of other vehicles heading in the same direction, and the coachman reined back his horses to the more leisurely pace of the phaeton immediately in front of them, as it turned into Macquarie Street.
    Patrick leaned forward to take stock of its occupants and,
    resuming his seat, flashed his sister a mischievous grin. “Why, Kit, look, will you-a captain of the Royal Navy with red hair, who, I take leave to surmise, is Red Broome, commander of the Galah,
    with a beautiful wife beside him! And a fine-looking fellow with a beard, who appears to be unaccompanied … and who is feasting his eyes on you,
    unless I’m much mistaken.”
    “You are mistaken,” Kitty asserted. But she found herself peering round their coachman’s broad back and met the undoubtedly interested gaze of the man her brother had described as a fine-looking fellow.
    He was in civilian dress-a tall,
    broad-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed beard, who was seated with his back to the coachman’s box, facing his two companions. She quickly averted her gaze, conscious of her own heightened color, and Patrick’s grin widened in affectionate mockery.
    “He’ll seek you out, Kit,” he prophesied.
    “You see if he doesn’t. And that might well be the stroke of luck that’s been eluding us. If the Galah
    is about to sail for Norfolk Island, what better than the chance to make the acquaintance of her captain without appearing to have any motive for doing so? Don’t be riding on your high horse now … if there’s to be dancing, you’ll want a better partner than myself, in any case.”
    Perhaps she would, Kitty was forced to concede. Her twin was accomplished in virtually every social grace save dancing, for which, as she knew to her cost, he appeared temperamentally unsuited, moving clumsily and possessing no ear for music.
    “That is the plain truth, Pat my dear,“8she agreed. “But all the same, it will be for the bearded gentleman to make the first move, for I shall not.”
    Joined by others from neighboring streets, the procession

of
    carriages slowed to walking pace, and when, some twenty minutes later, Kitty and her brother alighted in front of the ornate Gothic pile that was the official residence of the governor of the state of New South Wales, the occupants of the phaeton were nowhere in sight. Having deposited her cloak, Kitty took her brother’s proffered arm and they mounted a short flight of richly carpeted stairs, leading to what she deduced was the ballroom, at the entrance to which Sir William and Lady Denison were waiting to receive their guests.
     

William Stuart Long
    Immediately ahead of them in the slowly advancing line were two scarlet-robed prelates of the Catholic Church, flanked by their chaplains, and beside her Kitty felt Patrick suddenly stiffen and draw in his breath sharply as a liveried footman, positioned by the balustrade, announced the churchmen’s names in stentorian tones.
    “The Most Reverend Dr. Polding, archbishop of Sydney, Your Excellencies, and the Right Reverend Robert Willson, bishop of Hobart, with the Reverend Father John Joseph Therry
    and-was
    Patrick whispered excitedly, “Now that is
    a stroke of luck, Kit-Bishop Willson is largely responsible for the British government’s decision to close Norfolk Island as a penal settlement! You remember what Captain Thomas told us about the treatment meted out to-what was his name?
    The man who was