Ghost Gum Valley

by Johanna Nicholls

  ‘Are the rumours true? Are there factions here who hold the same Republican ideas that caused the French Revolution and the Reign of Terror?’

  ‘I fancy the Colonists are more in line with the American way of doing business. First pressure the British to change the laws. If that fails fight for independence as a last resort.’

  Isabel gasped. ‘Good Heavens, Murray, you sound in sympathy with the rebel Yankees. Would you have fought on their side against our Redcoats?’

  Murray gave a rueful smile. ‘I am a Highlander. We have quite a history of fighting the English for our rights.’

  At the thought of her own impossible pursuit of independence Isabel sent a silent blasphemous message up to God.

  You made a big mistake trapping me inside this body. I should have been born a man!

  The sliver of land lying between sky and ocean grew in height as they approached the headlands guarding the mouth of the harbour. The storm clouds suddenly vanished to reveal the intense blue of the sky. Isabel returned to her cabin, intent on preparing to face whatever lay on the far side of The Heads.

  Isabel struggled to free herself from the drenched cotton dress that clung to her skin. She replaced it with her last remaining petticoat and bodice. She had left London on a cold March day that was nominally spring but the Colony’s reversed seasons meant that this was mid-winter and she only had one decent gown. Would the worsted wool make her perspire?

  She stared at her image in the sole fragment of mirror to survive the storms of the voyage. The cracked triangle reflected a pinched white face that she had sheltered from the sun for seventeen weeks. Her taut features were dominated by blue-green eyes ringed with shadows and the tip-tilted nose she would never learn to live with. She remembered Cousin Martha’s prediction, ‘You will blossom into a beauty, Isabel, when you least expect it.’

  Meanwhile, here I am, trapped inside this tall, bony frame better suited to house a boy. To think that as a child I was foolish enough to dream of love and marriage.

  What was it Uncle Godfrey had once said? ‘No de Rolland can ever expect to experience in tandem the opposing states of love and marriage.’

  Isabel instinctively ran her hand down her flat chest, remembering that extraordinary moment when a man’s hands had first touched her skin and fingered the tiny buds of her breasts. In her mind she heard his soft, urgent whisper, ‘You were made for me, Isabel. No other man will ever love you as I do.’

  Isabel blocked the voice from her head. She decided to lift her spirits by examining the contents of the large metal trunk that until today had been kept in the hold for the entire voyage so that her Paris trousseau would remain pristine for her arrival. Neatly painted on the lid were the words, Miss I. de Rolland. London to N.S.W. 1833.

  Unlocking the lid of the trunk for the first time she sat immobilised by the contents.

  So this is what I can expect from George Gamble. Like all men’s promises – worthless.

  Not a single article was new. All had been worn by her for years past and she had outgrown most of them. She had confined herself to wearing two old dresses on the voyage to save herself for this!

  Rummaging down to the false bottom of the trunk she rescued her treasures. The Bible and The Complete Works of William Shakespeare each bore the handwritten name Walter de Rolland on a bookplate in the flyleaf. These volumes were her last tangible link with her father and England. She held to her breast the memory book in which she had carefully pasted every review of Edmund Kean’s performances, even the cuttings from the trial brought against him by the husband of his lover Charlotte Cox. Poor Edmund.

  Opening the cover she discovered an envelope addressed ‘To My Beloved Cousin Isabel’ and gave an involuntary shudder at the sight of Silas’s strangely distorted, spider-web handwriting. As she had been cheated of her promised Paris trousseau, she felt certain it would not contain money. So why had Silas taken such pains to hide this letter? She struggled silently about whether or not to open it.

  He wants to continue playing his secret game. If I open this I’ll go on being his frightened little mouse. No Silas! I don’t want to feel any more pain.

  With trembling hands she finally found the strength to replace the envelope in the trunk and quickly covered it with the pile of worn clothing before locking the padlock.

  Placing the key in the carpetbag that now contained her three treasured books and a few items of underclothing, she hurriedly dressed in the travelling ensemble.

  Examining her face in the mirror again she pinched her cheeks to give them colour, tidied her hair and tied her bonnet strings firmly under her chin. She knew her miniature portrait had flattered her. Her fiancé was likely to be disappointed.

  What manner of man was he? At worst she pictured Marmaduke Gamble as an uncouth Colonial peasant who would keep her barefoot and pregnant in some hut in the wilderness. When common sense prevailed she decided she might expect a tolerable degree of comfort as the wife of a landed Emancipist’s son.

  But his conversation will probably be limited to wool and cattle prices.

  It irritated her that Gamble Senior had refused to supply a miniature portrait of his son. What on earth was wrong with him? The lawyers dismissed him in a few words as ‘Native-born’. What did this mean? Could he in fact speak English? Or was some Aboriginal language his mother tongue? Isabel felt sick at the thought of the unknown alien male who awaited her. A body she must suffer in bed for the rest of her life!

  I have no rights. No money. No escape.

  When she saw the shadow of fear in her eyes she gave her reflection a false smile. What am I worried about? The current generation of de Rollands may be scoundrels but my ancestral tree will be impressive to a family with the convict stain. No doubt they expect me to make this Marmaduke Gamble fit to dine at the Governor’s table. But how on earth can I turn a Colonial sow’s ear into a silk purse? I’m a de Rolland. Not a miracle worker!

  Grabbing her carpetbag she raced up on deck. The impact of the sheer beauty and size of the harbour took her breath away. But before she had time to absorb the details she was stunned by the sight of a man who seemed to be walking on water!

  He was positioned close to the shore, poised motionless on a sliver of boat that looked like the shell of a floating tree trunk. He had a lean, dark-skinned body with long, straight limbs and a handsome head that showed a flash of white teeth. One arm was raised above his head holding a spear until, in a lightning flash, the spear hurtled into the water to find its target in a large fish.

  It was only then that Isabel realised the youth was entirely naked except for a skimpy fold of cloth the size of a handkerchief that hung between his thighs. She hastily covered her face but was tempted to peer through her fingers. This was the first naked male body she had ever seen. She was shocked by the beauty of it.

  Isabel seized the moment when she saw the approaching figure of an elderly seaman with whom she had occasionally exchanged words. She approached him with what she hoped was a show of confidence befitting a lady of her class.

  ‘Sir, there is a worthless old trunk in my cabin. It is of no value to me or anyone else. Would you be kind enough to throw it overboard in the harbour at the first available opportunity? I thank you for your trouble.’

  Isabel extended her gloved hand and offered him a coin. She hoped its value was neither insultingly small nor large enough to be extravagant. She had seldom had the opportunity to handle money. In every port of call she had been determined to conserve the alarmingly few coins in her purse. She had no idea what was socially acceptable.

  The old salt had bright blue eyes in a weathered face and his mouth creased in a smile as he waved away her proffered coin.

  ‘No need, young lady. I’ll toss the trunk overboard afore we drop anchor.’ As he turned in the direction of the forecastle, he added over his shoulder. ‘Don’t you go believing all the tall tales you hear about the Colony, miss. It’s Heaven or Hell, depending on whose eyes are doing the
looking. You’ll fare well, you will.’

  Gazing across at the cluster of stone buildings that formed a frieze on the southern foreshores of Sydney Town, Isabel was startled by the unexpected evidence of fine Georgian architecture, a sight so indicative of civilisation that she felt her spirits rise. She removed from her reticule the key to her trunk and held it in the palm of her hand.

  This is the key to my past life.

  With her arm stretched behind her the way she had seen demon bowlers begin to hurl a ball down a cricket pitch, Isabel flung the key as far as she could and watched the arc of its flight before it sank with a splash in water so clear and deep it appeared to be fathomless.

  She remembered the words of Farewell to All Judges and Juries – the old song that had been printed on broadsides under different names and lyrics, all sung with bravado by Britain’s convicts as they were being transported here to the land still popularly known as Botany Bay. No doubt the well-known Old Bailey had passed sentence on many of these prisoners.

  Her eyes traced their faces. For the most part blank, listless, some mere boys were marked by a wild glimmer of hope.

  She quoted the words under her breath. ‘They left their country for their country’s good.’ Reminded that her own ‘judge and jury’ were her kinsmen, on impulse she sang the opening lines in a clear voice that carried on the wind.

  ‘Here’s adieu to all judges and juries,

  Justice and Old Bailey...too’

  One by one the prisoners’ voices joined in the song...

  Isabel sat on King’s Wharf clutching her carpetbag on her lap. Rivulets of perspiration rolled down her back and chest but there was no relief from the heat. Her jacket was fastened to the neck to preserve her modesty. Beneath it was nothing but her flimsy petticoat bodice.

  Murray had sat stoically by her side during the three hours since they had disembarked from the Susan. Even their lively discussions about Shakespeare’s plays and Murray’s insights into the colourful life and poetry of Robbie Burns had finally run dry.

  Finally Murray broke the silence. ‘Miss Isabel, I dinna want to cause ye any embarrassment but it must be said for the sake of your safety, lass. The night after we left King George Sound I was strolling on deck in the wee small hours to escape the heat. I was surprised to see ye walking towards me, barefoot in your nightgown. When I asked if ye were unwell, ye looked me in the eye but walked straight past me. Next morning you said you’d been reading a Jane Austen novel all night and hadna slept a wink.’ Murray looked discomforted. ‘Until I see ye safely in the hands of your fiancé I canna leave ye here alone.’

  Oh dear God, no. It’s started again. I had no idea.

  Isabel tried to sound confident. ‘Please don’t worry. I walk in my sleep occasionally. It’s not a problem but I promise you I’ll tell my fiancé. I was given instructions he’d meet my ship.’ She tried not to sound too hopeful. ‘Perhaps some terrible accident has befallen him?’

  ‘I pray naught. But surely a servant will soon arrive to assist ye?’

  ‘Oh yes, his family have scores of servants and many grand houses,’ she said airily. ‘I’ll be perfectly safe here. But you must go or you’ll miss your coach to Moreton Bay.’

  Murray glanced at his pocket watch. ‘I willna leave ye alone, Miss Isabel. I could cancel my seat and take another coach later.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t hear of it. But you did offer to help me if I were ever in need.’

  ‘Aye, name it.’

  ‘I have a rather unusual request. ‘Could you spare me one of your tartan caps?’

  Murray blinked but she knew he was too much the gentleman to comment as he opened his valise and began fishing around in the contents.

  Isabel thanked him for the cap then tried to sound matter of fact. ‘And Murray, there’s another small favour I have to ask you...’

  Her whispered words sounded so garbled to her own ears it was hardly surprising that Murray’s jaw dropped.

  He recovered quickly enough to assure her, ‘Aye, it’s no trouble at all, Miss Isabel.’

  Chapter 11

  There were scores of euphemistic terms for copulation that Marmaduke knew were in currency at different levels of society. They ranged from the genteel ‘to have connection’ and ‘to comfort’, to earthy sailors’ slang and thieves’ cant such as ‘rogered’, ‘launched’, ‘pinned’, ‘scored’ and ‘nailed’. The old biblical standby, ‘Adam knew Eve’, satisfied the churchgoers. But in Marmaduke’s eyes the so-called shocking Anglo-Saxon four-letter word that required smelling salts if overheard by a lady had for him the cheerful connotations of the name of the mischievous Puck in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

  Marmaduke dismissed all these definitions as inadequate when evaluating the nights and afternoons he spent in bed with Josepha St John. None of those terms even hinted at the exotic range of pleasures they exchanged. Freed from his bout of melancholia, Marmaduke found he had discovered a Junoesque woman of the world who met him on his terms – a liaison based on adventurous exploration, abandonment to the senses and total honesty.

  He had made it clear from the first passionate kiss, which led her to bed, that to him love was a debased currency. He was incapable of feeling it, giving it or accepting it. And Josepha must understand that while he was her ‘silent partner’ in public, in private there would only be one master. Him. Until such time as they parted as friends. Josepha accepted these conditions and his role as her lover and played her own role to the hilt. Marmaduke met and surpassed her demands, teasing her and making her beg before he led her to the wildest heights of ecstasy.

  Lying satiated in his arms, only once had she expressed a faint reservation about his performance, saying dreamily, ‘Darling, you know exactly how to make me surrender but you never lose control.’

  ‘And I never will. That’s my secret, sweet lady.’ He said it teasingly to disguise that it was the truth.

  Marmaduke’s time now revolved around two aspects of performance. He regularly attended the Theatre Royal, where Barnett Levey’s amazing presentations ranged from Shakespeare to melodrama, opera and ballet and changed several times each week. These nights were in juxtaposition with Marmaduke’s private performances with Josepha in one of the changing venues he arranged to keep their liaison secret from the Colonial press. He took particular care to avoid her name in Rupert Grantham’s company so that any leak would not be his doing.

  But this morning when Marmaduke awoke in bed at the Princess Alexandrina he had a champagne hangover and the uneasy feeling he had forgotten something. He had. Yesterday had been the first time in weeks he had failed to check the shipping arrivals.

  Foregoing breakfast except for a cup of whisky-laced coffee, he had Thomas drive him to the shipping office. To his horror he learnt that although no passenger ship had arrived, the convict transport Susan had dropped anchor the previous afternoon and had listed two passengers – I. de Rolland and M. Robertson. No doubt Isabel and her lady’s maid.

  At King’s Wharf, where he found the Susan moored, Marmaduke looked around in agitation. From the milling crowd came a babble of voices in which the English tongue was peppered by diverse foreign languages and racial features and costumes indicating far-flung corners of the British Empire, except for one group, who had clearly gained their independence. These officers wore the distinctive, smartly tailored uniforms of the United States Navy and to Marmaduke’s ears spoke a nasal form of English remarkable for its powers of projection. In contrast to them, His Majesty’s Marines and Redcoats stood apart, stiffly ‘at ease’ and issuing brisk orders to turbaned Indians engaged in unloading an East Indiaman’s cargo. Female faces, always a minority presence in the Colony, still covered a wide social spectrum from genteel ladies who sheltered under parasols to retain their fashionable English pallor to bawdy wenches touting for custom in accents that ranged from Cockney to Currency.

  Along the fringe of the wharves, Aboriginal figures stood like dark shadows in the sun, their eyes
seemingly fixed on a different, distant horizon. Most of them, their women included, smoked pipes. All wore an odd assortment of brightly coloured European attire that seemed to be chosen for novelty value rather than modesty.

  Marmaduke admired the confidence of one proud tribal warrior who stalked down the length of the wharf, nonchalantly wearing a discarded British officer’s short red coatee over a body stark naked except for the sheath covering his penis. He was amused by the stir he created. English ladies spun their parasols to shield him from their sight.

  Wincing in the sunlight that aggravated his splitting headache, Marmaduke searched with Thomas for a girl bearing any resemblance to the bland miniature he had rejected and left behind in Garnet’s hands. How useful it would prove right now.

  If I hadn’t been so involved in the pursuit of my own pleasure I’d have met this wretched girl’s ship on time yesterday and had the whole mess under control. Now I’ve put myself at a disadvantage.

  Perhaps the girl was marooned in her cabin in a state of hysteria, supplied with smelling salts by the lady’s maid Garnet had paid to accompany her. No English girl of Isabel’s station would disembark alone in an alien land or have the initiative to organise transport. Did she even know the Princess Alexandrina was her destination?

  Marmaduke strode up to a ship’s officer and stated his business.

  The response was cool. ‘Our sole two passengers disembarked yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘You must be mistaken. My fiancée was travelling with her maid and a heap of cabin trunks, her trousseau.’

  The officer gave Marmaduke a condescending smile as his gloved hand gestured to a pathetic-looking trunk abandoned on the deck.

  Marmaduke saw it was no joke. ‘That’s it? Miss de Rolland’s entire baggage?’

  ‘It appears the lady instructed a crew member to toss it in the harbour. It was such an odd request he decided to leave it here in case someone came to collect it.’ The officer added smugly, ‘and indeed, here you are, sir.’