Ghost Gum Valley

by Johanna Nicholls

  Marmaduke knew he defended many convicts trapped in that nebulous zone between guilt and innocence and unable to pay him, yet Edwin fought for them with the same zeal he would bring to the defence of his sovereign, King William IV.

  Outside the court Edwin shrank into a shy, perennial bachelor resigned to living under the thumb of his widowed mother in a Wool-loomooloo Hill cottage. Marmaduke had never seen him in the social company of a woman and wasn’t sure whether this was due to lack of courage or inclination.

  They laughed and jousted for half an hour, filling in the gaps between four years of letters, Edwin quietly enjoying Marmaduke’s stories of his lost innocence abroad.

  ‘You appear to have created quite a stir at Home, old chap.’

  ‘Odd thing is, mate, I had to go to the Old World to feel really accepted as a native-born Australian. But back on my own home turf being a Gamble is the kiss of death. Garnet may be the second richest man in the Colony, able to buy and sell the Quality in business, but you know as well as I do, no Emancipist’s son can ever break the class barrier or marry into their mob. This penal colony’s invented more levels of society in forty-five years than Europe chalked up in ten centuries.’

  Slipping into legal questioning mode, Edwin made seemingly casual enquiries about whether Marmaduke had returned to the Colony ‘heart whole’.

  ‘While you were away were you never tempted to ask for a lady’s hand in marriage?’

  ‘Hey, what do you take me for – a prize idiot?’ Marmaduke said lightly. ‘Once was more than enough. Being left high and dry at the altar at nineteen was the only chance any female will ever get to trap me in matrimony.’

  Edwin said quietly, ‘The bride wasn’t worth a broken heart, old chap. I hope you realise that now.’

  ‘I had a lucky escape,’ Marmaduke said a shade too quickly. ‘You were the best possible best man, mate. But there’s no chance we’ll front up for a repeat performance.’

  ‘I trust you haven’t foresworn the fair sex,’ Edwin asked anxiously.

  ‘Not a snowflake’s chance in hell. I’m no misogynist. But maybe because I’m totally discreet I enjoy my fair share of “women of a certain age” as the gallant French say. Virgins are safe around me, mate. Voltaire said it in a nutshell. “It’s one of the superstitions of the human mind to have imagined that virginity could be a virtue.” I’ll second that!’

  ‘But you are young, Marmaduke, one day you may want to have children.’

  Marmaduke sliced his hand through the air with the finality of a guillotine.

  ‘Hold your horses, Edwin. You’re so anxious to see me settled you’d marry me off to a bearded lady in a circus. Let me make it clear. There’s no way I’m ever going to breed, Edwin. The Gamble dynasty began with Garnet and ends with me!’

  Clearly troubled, Edwin gave a sigh of resignation best suited to an old man.

  Marmaduke added casually, ‘While we’re on the subject, has Father’s mental imbalance increased in my absence?’

  ‘He’s still in control of his empire, axing financial advisors in his customary style. He’s expended large sums of money – with no known objective.’

  Marmaduke shrugged and turned to the subject uppermost on his mind. ‘Let’s get down to brass tacks. Taking rightful possession of Mother’s land means more to me than inheriting a gold mountain. I’ll honour the promise I made when I was sixteen.’ The words said in anguish on his mother’s deathbed were now quoted coolly. ‘“I give you my solemn oath, Mother. I shall reclaim your land, become master of Mingaletta. And make Garnet Gamble pay for everything he did to you”.’

  Marmaduke’s stare was intended as a silent challenge.

  Edwin returned his gaze. ‘I see. Miranda Gamble’s Will did more than bequeath you her property. She left you a legacy of revenge against your father.’

  Marmaduke shrugged. ‘I’ve discovered that hatred is an emotion easier to sustain than love. Where do I sign my name to the transfer deeds, mate?’

  ‘I regret to say, Marmaduke, it’s not quite as simple as that. It is only in recent weeks that your father agreed to hand over your Mother’s last Will and Testament. There is an irregularity. Please read it then we shall discuss ways to deal with it.’

  The document was written on parchment yellowed with age. Marmaduke read it quickly the first time then evaluated every word on the second reading.

  ‘It’s as clear as a bell. I am to take possession of Mingaletta on my marriage or my twenty-fifth birthday, whichever comes first. Mother left several items of family jewellery and a sum of money to my childhood nanny, Queenie, whom she describes here as “my faithful friend and servant whom I love as my sister”. She left nothing to Garnet, except Amaru, her sulphur-crested cockatoo that drove father nuts. Mother’s insult reminds me of Shakespeare’s Will – leaving to his estranged wife, Anne Hathaway, his second-best bed.’

  Marmaduke tossed the document on the desk. ‘So what’s the problem, mate?’

  Edwin sighed. ‘This Will isn’t signed, Marmaduke.’

  ‘But I heard her dictate it. We’ll demand Garnet hand over the original copy.’

  ‘This is the original. It was immediately written up by Garnet’s manager and returned within the hour for her signature. But your mother had died minutes earlier.’

  Marmaduke’s voice rose in frustration. ‘But I was there. So was Garnet – he was drunk at the time – in one of his manic moods. He’d brought an Irish fiddler to the house to play jolly Irish jigs to cheer up my dying mother, for God’s sake. But Garnet’s had ten years to remember that night and honour Mother’s wishes!’

  ‘I regret I must act as the legal servant to two masters, Marmaduke. But you can count on me as your friend. Your father insists on sticking to the letter of the law. Challenge him in court if you will but I believe every barrister in Sydney will give you the same advice. Garnet Gamble has the law firmly on his side.’

  ‘You mean the bastard never intends to hand over Mother’s estate to me?’

  ‘He will...on condition you return to Bloodwood Hall to sign the deeds face to face.’

  ‘Face to face? I’d rather kill the conniving bastard!’

  Edwin thumped the table in an uncharacteristic display of aggression. ‘Don’t be a damned fool, Marmaduke. You are his only son and heir. You stand to inherit his whole empire – given you don’t lose your head and sign your own death warrant!’

  ‘If I killed Garnet Gamble in a duel half of Sydney would applaud me!’

  ‘I managed to get you off one murder charge for killing a man in a duel because you were a wet-nosed youth of sixteen. But don’t count on me or the law to prevent you swinging on Green the Finisher’s rope if you murder your own father!’

  Marmaduke quietly digested those words until his mood turned to icy calm.

  ‘I thought I’d felt the full gamut of hatred. For my father and that villain I killed. But I see now there’s no end to Garnet’s manipulation and no end to my hatred.’

  Edwin ran his fingers through his hair and seemed to have aged in the past hour. Marmaduke felt a sting of pity for his friend and hastily assumed a cavalier manner.

  ‘Forgive me for shooting the messenger, mate. I can see it’s a helluva role playing lawyer to both father and son. Don’t worry. I’ll return to Bloodwood tomorrow and play Garnet at his own game. I’ll talk him into his grave.’

  Marmaduke grabbed Edwin’s hat and jammed it on his friend’s head.

  ‘That’s enough real-life sturm und drang for one night. You and I are off to enjoy the French chef’s cuisine at the Princess Alexandrina. My treat to celebrate my homecoming. And after we’ve drunk our fill of the new Hunter Valley wines I’ve read about, We’re off to the box I’ve taken at the Theatre Royal. No arguments. They’re giving us scenes from Hamlet tonight.’

  He steered a mildly protesting Edwin out the door and bundled him into the carriage, quoting lightly, ‘“The play’s the thing to catch the conscience of the King!”’<
br />
  Beneath the surface of his changed mood, Marmaduke examined his options.

  Unlike the Prince of Denmark I’m not indecisive. If push comes to shove I won’t baulk at murder. They say the second time a man kills is so much easier than the first.

  Chapter 2

  De Rolland Park, Gloucestershire, England, December 1832

  ‘Do I really have to wear this awful corset, Agnes?’ Isabel groaned, holding onto the bedpost as Agnes laced her so tight she could hardly breathe. ‘It’s not as if I need this. I’m built like a boy. I wonder if I shall ever have any curves.’

  ‘Keep still, lamb, and I’ll have you all trussed up in a minute. You’re seventeen – you can’t run around like a tomboy, it ain’t seemly.’

  ‘What’s the point? I’m not allowed to go into the village nor attend church. Nobody ever sets eyes on me except you, the other servants and occasionally the family. I haven’t even been allowed upstairs to visit Cousin Martha in her sickbed. I might as well be in Newgate Prison.’

  ‘Don’t say such things, even in jest,’ Agnes said quickly. ‘You must not dwell on the past. Your sleepwalking sickness was to blame, not you, dearie.’

  Isabel sighed, ‘“What’s done is done and cannot be undone.”’ Her hand flew to her face in horror. ‘My God, I just quoted from The Scottish Play – that’s bad luck!’

  Realising she had broken the theatrical taboo against quoting from Macbeth in a dressing-room, Isabel flung a shawl around her shoulders and broke free from the bedchamber she had been forced to share with Agnes for the past three years. She bolted along the long, winding corridors with Agnes racing after her, begging her to stop.

  On reaching the kitchen herb garden she turned around three times and spat into the garden, watched in horror by Agnes.

  ‘Have you gone out of your mind, Isabel?’

  ‘No, that’s what actors must do to reverse their bad luck if they quote lines from Shakespeare’s The Scottish Play. You see they call it that to avoid saying its true title.’

  Agnes looked thunderstruck. ‘But you’re not an actress! You’re a born lady, a de Rolland!’

  ‘Yes, unfortunately. But I would far rather be an actress. And I don’t want to tempt fate to bring me any more bad luck than it has already wished on me.’ Her mood was suddenly serious but she pushed past images from her mind.

  ‘Come indoors, lamb, or you’ll catch your death of cold,’ Agnes said, gently shepherding her inside. ‘Your guardian wants to see you at three o’clock sharp and we must have you looking presentable.’

  Back in the chamber, Isabel sat impatiently while Agnes dressed her hair with side curls. A pretty blue ribbon was small compensation for her scuffed shoes and the hand-me-down jacket and skirt that she had outgrown over the past two years and now needed to tug down to cover her ankles. New clothes never came Isabel’s way – one small sign of the severely straightened circumstances into which the grand de Rolland ancestral home had been sinking for several years, sucked down by the quicksand of extravagance and gambling.

  With an hour to spare before her encounter with her guardian, Godfrey de Rolland, Isabel insisted they go to the library, the one communal room in the great house that she was free to enter. She had continued her studies there alone following the departure of her governess – another luxury the family no longer chose to afford.

  Isabel knew exactly how she would spend this precious hour. For years Cousin Silas had forbidden her access to their ancestral family tree, claiming it was for her own protection. Why? What was the dark secret involving her? This question had gnawed at her curiosity until yesterday during Silas’s absence in London. She had chanced on a rare encounter with her guardian, as he paused on the landing of the staircase, frowning as he read some papers that she recognised by their red seal as legal documents.

  Seizing her chance Isabel had made a hasty curtsey. ‘You know how much I love history, Uncle Godfrey. Is there any reason why Cousin Silas says I may not study our de Rolland family tree?’

  Godfrey de Rolland peered at her over the rim of his pince-nez as if weighing his words. ‘Silas considers himself the Keeper of the Seal. Like his father, Silas sees darkness and evil where others do not. In medieval Spain my brother Henri would have gloried in the role of Inquisitor. I think, Isabel, you are now sensible enough to understand that all old families have their share of secrets. Heroes or villains, none of us is perfect. You have my permission to peruse the document but remember it is ancient and fragile. Handle with care, what?’

  ‘Indeed I shall, Uncle. Thank you...’

  Now as she waited to be summoned Isabel tried to dismiss her unease about her guardian’s opinion of her. Would Uncle Godfrey consider me sensible if he knew that I was born with the gift – or curse – of being able to see ‘the Other’, the presence of departed souls who no one can see but me – and that Silas says is born in witches.

  With a feeling of suppressed excitement mixed with trepidation Isabel slipped on the white cotton gloves that must be worn on pain of death when handling rare manuscripts and carefully removed the ancient vellum scroll from the safe.

  ‘This family tree should prove whether or not I was born on the wrong side of the blanket, Agnes,’ Isabel added under her breath, ‘yet another Plantagenet bastard.’

  She carefully unfurled it. The de Rolland family tree traced the generations of her ancestors back to 1154 and down to the births, deaths and marriages of the living generations of Uncle Godfrey, his nephew and heir, Silas, married to Martha, and Isabel – the poor relation that Uncle Godfrey had made his ward after the death of her young parents. But did it record the details of her father Walter de Rolland’s youthful marriage to Alizon – the mysterious girl no one wanted to remember?

  Isabel vividly remembered the first day she had been brought to this Gothic mansion as a five-year-old orphan and was made to watch as the name Alizon de Rolland was struck from the list of family names written in the ancient bible.

  Isabel looked across at the faithful old servant who was gazing in awe at the document, even though she was unable to read a word.

  ‘What’s the big secret about my birth? Was I born five months before my parents’ marriage – or five months after? Did I miraculously survive a premature birth? Or I was conceived by lovers who couldn’t wait for the priest’s blessing?’

  Agnes looked flustered but Isabel rather liked the idea of a wicked liaison.

  ‘In or out of wedlock, at least someone in this cold-blooded family was conceived in love.’ She began at the top of the tree. ‘For generations every de Rolland except my father Walter wedded their cousins to keep the fortune in the family. Even Silas did – although Martha was the heiress when he married her. He was hoisted on his own petard!’

  Agnes hid a giggle behind her mittens. ‘Isabel, you do have a naughty tongue!’

  The clock in the corridor outside the library chimed the hour, reminding Isabel that, as fond as she was of Agnes, she valued these golden hours of freedom.

  Ever since that terrible day three years earlier when she was found wandering in the woods, unable to remember the two missing weeks in her life, Isabel had been forced to eat, walk and sleep with Agnes, a condition laid down by her guardian to avoid the dishonour the public revelation of her crime would bring to the family name.

  Even in bed I have no freedom to dream without Agnes spying on me.

  Isabel paused as honesty forced her to face the unpalatable truth. I can hardly blame her for my sleepwalking illness. Agnes is paid to protect me – from myself! She ran her finger down the scroll, hoping it would reveal the family secrets. Nobody tells me anything. I’m forced to indulge in subterfuge – or go to my grave dying of curiosity.

  The yellowed parchment revealed the complex pattern of genealogical branches that sprang from their founding ancestor, King Henry II, the son of Geoffrey V of Anjou, who established the House of Plantagenet, until in 1399 it split into two branches represented by the White Rose o
f York and the rival Red Rose of Lancaster, who for generations battled in the War of the Roses for lands and titles stretching from Ireland to Jerusalem. Reverently Isabel touched the name of the last Plantagenet king, Richard III.

  ‘Shakespeare’s play Richard III is great drama but it made poor Richard notorious. I never believed he murdered the two little Princes in the Tower of London. I’m sure it was Henry Tudor’s dirty work but historians made poor Richard go down in history as the villain – to bolster the Tudors’ claim to the throne.’

  Agnes nodded sagely. ‘I always thought so, too.’

  By the time Isabel reached the present de Rolland generation, she was convinced that, despite Silas’s claim to the contrary, their link to the Plantagenet bloodline was indeed via a cadet branch ‘on the wrong side of the blanket’.

  ‘Do the servants think I’m illegitimate too, Agnes? Is that why I’m treated like the poor relative?’

  Agnes looked discomforted so Isabel added, ‘Never mind, I’ll soon find out.’

  The current generation seemed like a last withered branch on the tree. It confirmed that Uncle Godfrey, her guardian and head of the family, had married his cousin. No issue. His only sister Elisabeth had been banished in disgrace after her elopement with a mariner. No issue. The middle brother, Henri, had contracted a marriage with the elder of two Lancastrian sisters who was mistakenly believed to be an heiress. This unhappy union had produced Godfrey’s heir, Silas. Godfrey’s youngest brother, Isabel’s father Walter, had married the younger sister, Alizon, under mysterious circumstances. The date showed he had died of consumption in 1816, the year after Isabel’s birth.

  Agnes said guardedly, ‘When your father Walter fell in love with Alizon, the more beautiful of the two sisters, his jealous brother Henri tried to block their marriage.’

  ‘I see. So two de Rolland brothers fathered children to two sisters – which makes Cousin Silas my ‘double cousin’, the closest relationship to brother and sister. But what is the awful mystery about my birth?’