‘No. Mr Kean will play tonight. Even more than he needs money, his son needs him.’
‘What touching faith you have in drunken actors, m’dear.’
Isabel turned to face him. ‘Perhaps I’d be wiser to put my faith in actors than in my kinsmen.’
Silas whispered in her ear. ‘You forget yourself, Isabel. If I had not lied to protect you, you might have been transported to the Colony. The minimum sentence is seven years.’
Isabel withdrew her hand, disguising her gesture of rejection by joining the wild applause that greeted The Great Kean’s entrance.
Edmund Kean brought his son forward to acknowledge the audience. Standing beside the taller figure of young Charles, the elder Kean seemed at first glance frail, almost shy, but was suddenly heartened by the warmth of their reception. Isabel felt a delicious tremor at the illusion that Edmund Kean looked directly up at her box. Those amazingly eloquent dark eyes blazed out from the Moor’s black countenance and seemed to speak to her alone.
At last the play began. In Isabel’s eyes the actors were transformed into living Venetians. Charles Kean’s Iago was indeed the double-faced Janus whose jealousy of his commander Othello caused him to hatch the plot to destroy the Moor, while presenting himself as a bluff, honest soldier and Othello’s friend.
The magic of Shakespeare’s dialogue held Isabel captive. Her lips moved in silent communion with Othello and Desdemona’s speeches she knew by heart. It seemed as if the flimsy barrier of oil lamps between stage and audience dissolved and she offered up her heart to the real world being created for her. Nothing else existed. Othello the Moor and Edmund Kean had fused to become one soul.
The first acts kept Isabel so entranced she refused to break the spell by leaving her seat at interval to take the champagne refreshment Silas offered her. But by the Third Act she grew tense, unable to block out the truth. Her hero was engaged in a life and death struggle to continue to perform. She willed him to draw strength from her own body, became one with the house in total silence, hanging on Othello’s tortured words after he was duped by Iago’s poisonous lie that his beloved Desdemona had betrayed him with a lover.
The agony in Edmund Kean’s voice pierced Isabel’s very body as he said the words: ‘What sense had I, in her stolen hours of lust? I saw it not, thought it not; it harmed not me. I slept the next night well, was free and merry; I found not Cassio’s kisses on her lips...’
But midway through his next speech Kean faltered. Isabel almost cried aloud to give him the cue. His eyes filled with black confusion.
Is this Othello’s agony? No. God help him, it is Edmund Kean’s!
Horrified, Isabel’s mind blotted out his words until suddenly aware of the dual significance of his speech.
The great actor paused as if fighting for breath but gave to Othello’s words a world of sadness, ‘Farewell! Othello’s occupation’s gone!’
Isabel covered her mouth to silence her cry. My God, this is not merely part of the play. This is real!’
Like an automaton Isabel joined in the audience’s warm applause at the end of this speech but although his son Charles silently acknowledged the compliment to his father, Edmund Kean stood as if abandoned, marooned on stage, his eyes downcast. After the last shouts of ‘bravo’ the silence was drawn out too long to be intentionally dramatic. An uneasy murmur spread throughout the theatre.
Isabel felt the actor son’s own quiet desperation seep through Iago’s line to Othello, ‘Is’t possible, my lord?’
Cracked words were torn from Othello’s lips. ‘Villain, be sure thou prove my love a whore—’
Isabel felt faint with fear. Othello did not complete this speech nor step forwards as she knew the scene demanded for him to seize Iago by the throat and throttle him.
Instead Kean broke into a desperate fit of weeping as he fell on his son’s neck and cried out to him, ‘Oh God, I am dying – speak to them for me!’
Charles Kean caught his father as he slumped unconscious in his arms.
The whole house rose as one with loud cries of encouragement as the great Othello was carried from the stage. Isabel did not know how long she sat there, isolated from everything around her, until Silas drew her into his arms, softly assuring her.
‘I am here, Isabel. Another actor is to take Othello’s place.’
Isabel was ignited by anger. ‘No one can ever take Edmund Kean’s place!’
The de Rolland townhouse faced a central park that was kept locked for the sole use by the residents of the terraced villas that surrounded it. Isabel desperately wanted to sit there alone with her thoughts but Silas dismissed the idea as absurd.
The oil lamps were alight in the entrance hall both the butler and old Agnes waited to attend to their needs. Silas ushered Isabel into an elegant small room in which supper had been prepared for them. He dismissed the butler then told Agnes that her mistress had no further need of her. But stubborn Agnes acknowledged no authority except Godfrey de Rolland and looked to Isabel to take her cue.
Isabel countered Silas’s order. ‘Please prepare yourself for bed, Agnes. I will be up in a moment. You can be sure I’ll call in to say good night.’
Left alone with Silas, Isabel watched him intently as he closed the door then poured champagne for them. She drank in silence, trying to divorce herself from the tragic final image of Edmund Kean’s face.
I must not appear vulnerable, tonight of all nights.
Silas took the chair close to her and looked searchingly at her before speaking.
‘I would not have had this unhappy ending occur for the world, Isabel.’
She was instantly on guard. She drained her glass to give herself courage but chose her words with care. ‘Are you referring to Edmund Kean’s temporary exit from the stage? Or my permanent departure from England?’
Silas’s eyes narrowed as if he was for once unsure how to gauge her true feelings. ‘The actor’s debauched history has brought about his own downfall, whereas—’
‘Mine has not?’ she said quickly. ‘Come, Cousin, I may be young and naive but I am not entirely stupid. This arranged marriage is an act of Divine providence. It restored the family coffers and settled that awkward question, “What on earth do we do with poor Isabel?”’
‘You surprise me, Isabel. You sound bitter. Yet you showed no emotion when the offer of marriage was put to you.’
‘What choice did I have? The decision was fait accompli. New carriages, lavish entertainment, your Grand Tour of Europe. Don’t lie to me! The marriage contracts were already signed by you and Uncle Godfrey, weren’t they?’
Silas didn’t flinch from her anger but leant closer and held her arms fast to restrain her. ‘If you want the truth you must hear the whole truth.’
Isabel was thrown off guard by his expression of tenderness. She had a sudden rush of memory of the night she had seen Silas for the first time, when she was nine years old and sitting in her nightdress, hidden at the top of the marble staircase awaiting the return of the family hero.
Cousin Silas entered the hall, tall, blond and handsome, resplendent in his cavalry officer’s uniform. He handed his cloak to the butler.
Isabel felt her breath sucked from her body, awed by the god-like creature who fixed his eyes on her as he sprang up the stairs and sat on a lower step to bring their eyes level.
‘So you are my little orphan Isabel come to live with us. I am your kinsman, Silas. I had great affection for your mother, Alizon. I promise to love and protect you like a brother.’
Isabel nodded, unable to speak. His gaze held her as he bent over her hand and kissed the fingertips just as if she were a grown lady.
‘I shall be your champion. Always. But one day when you are all grown up I shall ask you to marry me.’
She gasped with surprise when he whispered, ‘Will your answer be “yes”, ma petite cousine?’
The magic of the moment was shattered when Isabel turned to see the figure in evening dress standing in the do
orway of the assembly room. Uncle Godfrey frowned, an uncertain expression on his face as he curtly reminded Silas their guests were waiting.
Isabel closed her eyes to blot out that memory but was shaken by Silas’s perception. He had always been able to read her thoughts.
‘I pressured Godfrey for your hand in marriage before you reached the age of consent. He refused. Claimed our blood was too close. I would have defied him and waited for you but your fall from grace and your crime of infanticide made that impossible. Even then I forgave you. Surely you must know I have always loved you, Isabel.’
‘Stop! You must not speak of such things. Cousin Martha—’
‘She is dying. Everyone knows it – even Martha.’
‘No!’
‘The physician predicts she won’t outlive the spring.’ Silas’s expression frightened her. ‘Look at me, Isabel. This arranged marriage isn’t the end of the world. Do this for the family – for me. Go through with this wedding to that convict’s son. It will only be for one year. When your marriage fails, as it must, those Colonial rascals will have no chance to reclaim the money in the contract. When I’m free I’ll come to the Colony to claim you.’
Free? He means when Martha dies.
‘I can’t believe you’re saying this!’
‘There’s method in my madness. I’ll rescue you, bring you home to England. We’ll have the world at our feet. A life of luxury. And you will at last belong to me. Only to me.’
‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ Isabel said coldly. ‘No doubt my husband will expect me to bear him a child.’
Silas watched her reaction as he toyed idly with a cushion. ‘There’s a solution to every problem. A pillow can snuff out a life in seconds. Shakespeare made it seem so easy.’
Isabel felt her blood run cold. He means Othello smothered Desdemona.
‘Why does that idea shock you, Isabel? You’ve already solved that little problem once before.’ The statement was calmly delivered.
That little problem. Please God keep him believing I killed the babe.
Isabel made a rush for the door but Silas blocked her flight. His hands reached out and folded around her throat in a sign of possession, forcing her to look into his eyes. She saw it, that flash of something akin to madness. Was it also inside her?
Unable to speak she felt that familiar surge of fear mixed with guilt and desire.
‘You see?’ Silas said calmly. ‘You know it, too. I am the one man on earth who is strong enough to possess you, little witch. You will destroy any man who loves you – except me! I’m your kinsman. Double cousins, only a heartbeat away from being brother and sister. We share the same Plantagenet bloodline, the same ancestors on both sides. You shall become flesh of my flesh, as it was always meant to be.’
Silas’s mood altered so suddenly Isabel was shocked at how easily his voice resumed a business-like tone. ‘Now off to bed with you. We must deliver you to the Susan by three of the clock tomorrow afternoon.’
From the doorway she managed to ask, as if nothing was wrong. ‘What of my Paris trousseau? I understand the Gamble lawyers agreed to pay—’
‘All is in hand. Your trunks are already on board ship. Everything’s arranged with the ship’s master. No need for us to suffer a farewell scene, ma petite cousine. My new manservant will drive with you to the dock. He was a prize-fighter trained in his youth by Daniel Mendoza, but my man Cooper lives by a different code. He has no scruples about being heavy-handed with women, so don’t have any fancy ideas about missing the boat.’
‘I know my duty,’ Isabel said coldly. ‘But what of Agnes: isn’t she to sail with me?’
‘Only to see you on board for the sake of appearances.’
Isabel turned to gain what she hoped was her last ever sight of Silas. He stood before the fireplace, one foot on the fender, wineglass in hand. His smile was so conspiratorial it made her flesh creep.
‘No doubt Agnes will shed buckets of tears at the wharf as you sail away. But you’ll be dry eyed. Witches never cry.’
He raised a hand to halt her. ‘One final question. Uncle Godfrey says you never changed your story. You did not identify your partner in crime. But you know you can trust me, Cousin.’
Isabel’s mouth dried. She took her time, knowing that three lives depended on her answer. ‘He was just a boy, a traveller passing through the village. I never knew his name.’
‘Thought as much,’ he said idly. ‘Oh well, that’s ancient history now.’
Isabel closed the door behind her and ascended the stairs, feeling dazed and curiously empty. In her bedroom she discovered Agnes asleep on the sofa alongside her bed. A small coin purse lay on Isabel’s pillow. The accompanying note was reasonably legible so must have been dictated.
My dear little Lamb,
I know you’ll be making a fine Marriage when you gets to Botany Bay. But it don’t bear thinking about you sailing so far from Mother England without a penny to bless yourself. Your Guardian give me this money as a Reward for keeping you safe. But I ask you, what’s an old servant like me need with money?
Try and be happy, my good girl. They say Marriages are made in Heaven. I pray you’re going to a decent man who won’t beat you like my rotter did me.
I hopes you’ll forgive old Agnes for being cranky. I would have been glad to sail with you and look out for you. Mr Silas said there weren’t no money to waste on my Passage.
Ever your Faithful Agnes
Beside her name was a neat cross where Agnes had made her mark.
Isabel lay awake, clutching the purse inside her nightgown, marvelling at how strange life was. My family believe they are now rid of one unwanted de Rolland. They’re mistaken.
For the first time in her life Isabel felt the bittersweet taste of triumph. She had outwitted her de Rolland kinsmen. In time her guardian’s disgraced sister Elisabeth would be free to follow her to New South Wales.
And Cousin Silas will never know the truth about my ‘confession’ of infanticide. Or that the de Rolland family has another heir, my little Rose Alba.
Chapter 8
Bloodwood Hall, New South Wales, March 1833
‘Shut your mouth, you stupid bird. You’re lucky I didn’t wring your neck years back.’
Seated on the front terrace in his Indian planter’s chair, shaded by the network of purple wisteria that wound its way around the verandah columns, Garnet Gamble found a ready target for his fury in Amaru. The cockatoo responded with his own brand of anger. His sulphur-coloured crest fanned out to its full range as he strutted on his exercise bar.
‘Shame on you! Shame on you!’ Amaru kept repeating in the aggressive squawk that Garnet knew from experience would take time to cool. Miranda had spent endless months teaching her ‘clever bird’ to speak and he fancied he could hear the intonation of her voice in the bird’s words. It irritated him intensely to realise that this accursed bird would be spouting Miranda’s provoking words long after he was dead and buried.
He cast a steely glance at Elise, who was seated on a nearby sofa, her face shaded by a Leghorn hat adorned with too many flowers, her milk-white bosom flouting far more décolletage than any real lady would deign to reveal in daylight hours. He knew Elise was doing her best to imitate an English gentlewoman, working threads into a tapestry frame that she had laboured over for the past three years. Garnet suspected the floral design was decorated with more pinpricks of her blood than flowers.
We both know she’d never pass the test of behaving like a lady. Why doesn’t she give up? Stick to what she was born to do – being paid to perform in my bed.
Garnet was glad to be distracted by the sound of a horse’s hooves and the clang of the wrought-iron gates at the end of the avenue. Was this Marmaduke returning home with news of the bride’s arrival?
He hooked his spectacles in place. Not that they were the slightest use except on those occasions he pretended to read documents requiring his signature. Spectacles proved a useful foil against t
hose who suspected his illiteracy and tried to take advantage to cheat him of his fortune. He had recently dismissed his previous secretary.
No bastard’s going to get one over me! But there’s no one in the world I can trust.
When the horseman rode into his line of vision, Garnet felt a jolt of disappointment. The rider was not Marmaduke, just a scrawny messenger that Garnet’s instinct told him was an old lag who had done it hard to complete his time. Prison left an invisible brand on a felon’s face that no subsequent amount of freedom could entirely erase. Garnet saw that same mark in the face that looked out of his bedroom mirror.
He jerked his head in Elise’s direction. ‘See what this bloke wants.’
Elise’s fashionably pale face was instantly flushed with a pink dot on each cheek.
‘Surely that’s a servant’s role, Garnet dear.’
‘The only difference between you and my assigned servants is you get paid to do my bidding.’
He ignored her emotional sniffs. Elise tossed down her sewing, wrapped the shawl across her bosom to protect her from the sun and the horror of freckled flesh. She assumed a haughty duchess air as she descended the steps to ask the man his business.
‘Thank you, ma’am, but I’ve strict instructions to be handing over this letter into the hands of none but Mr Garnet Gamble himself.’
The Irishman doffed his hat to Elise but inclined his head at Garnet. ‘Would that gentleman be yourself, sir?’
‘Here, give it over.’
Garnet placed the large envelope on the footstool as if there was no urgency involved.
‘You’ve ridden your horse into quite a lather.’
‘Mr Bentleigh’s instructions were to deliver this to you post haste, sir.’
‘A horse deserves better treatment. Take him to the stables and get the ostler to see to him. Go to the rear of the house and ask for Cook. Tell her I said you’re to be well fed before you hit the road again.’
The Irishman mumbled his thanks but hesitated about leaving.
‘What are you waiting for, man? Your master pays you, don’t he?’
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