Marmaduke continued on. ‘Wealthy Emancipists leap-frog from class to class to do business with the Quality, join the Masonic brethren, sit on juries and even on the boards of banks. But Heaven help their sons and daughters if they try to mingle convict bloodlines with the Exclusives’. In a nutshell, Isabel, we all tend to marry – at our own level.’
Elise looked nervous. ‘Goodness, Marmaduke, you’ll have Isabel thinking we’re all of us – free or bond – confined in a rigid class prison.’
‘I’m surprised you haven’t noticed, Elise. We are!’
Marmaduke’s eyes were gentle as he slipped his arm around Isabel’s waist. ‘But believe me, I would have tried to win this girl’s heart if she had been a kitchen maid.’
Garnet Gamble made a larger than life entrance. ‘Spoken like a true gallant! I didn’t know you had it in you, Marmaduke. The special wine is in hand. Dinner is ready.’
Marmaduke turned to his father. ‘Perhaps we should give dinner a miss tonight, Garnet. Isabel has been on the road since dawn. We’d welcome retiring early.’
‘Whenever you wish, darling,’ Isabel responded with an adoring look. Damn you Marmaduke, I’m starving!
The Master of the house gave a knowing laugh. ‘Ah! The siren call of young love! But first allow me the pleasure of your bride’s company at dinner.’
At Marmaduke’s nod Isabel accepted her father-in-law’s arm to escort her in to the dining room.
Garnet seated the bride at his right hand and the bridegroom at this left with Elise at the foot of the table looking petulant. Garnet was a jovial host. After the first course, on a note of triumph, he announced to Isabel, ‘Things move fast in the Colony, m’dear. Your arrival has already been noted in the highest circles. A letter with the vice-regal seal awaits you in my office.’
Marmaduke said languidly, ‘Isabel and I plan to divide our time between Sydney Town and Mingaletta, after you find time to sign those papers, Garnet.’
The provocative words drew a heavy silence that Garnet broke. ‘Patience, m’boy. Bentleigh has all that in hand. I’ll make the formal announcement at the banquet. This one will be a special joy to me – a banquet to welcome our bride!’
Isabel gritted her teeth. Our bride again! Anyone would think we were polygamists.‘I shall gladly share your destiny wherever you choose to live, Marmaduke. As the biblical Ruth said to Naomi, “Whither thou goest, I will go also.”’
Elise looked sulky. Isabel could see the wine had turned her head when she switched her attention to Marmaduke.
‘You once told me that destiny was...what did you call it? A fabrication of the mind?’
‘That was before I met Isabel. A pretty face is fine and dandy as our American cousins would say. But it can’t compete with an intelligent mind and a faithful heart. I was lucky enough to marry the only woman I have ever met who combines all three attributes.’
Marmaduke raised his glass in silent tribute to Isabel.
Garnet’s watchful gaze reminded Isabel of the falcon trained for the hunt by Cousin Silas before he grew bored with the sport and the bird suddenly died.
By the third bottle of wine Garnet was expansive. ‘Tonight you and your bride will sleep in the Rose bedchamber. Miranda’s four-poster bed, where you were born, lad!’
Isabel read the look of cold horror in Marmaduke’s eyes. Oh God, wasn’t that also his mother’s deathbed? How could Garnet be so callous?
Marmaduke stepped in. ‘We would not dream of evicting Elise from her bed, Garnet.’
‘Nonsense. You will please your father on this one small point, eh, Marmaduke? I am sure your dear mother would want you to begin your life together in her bed.’
Marmaduke’s face was drained of all emotion. All evening Isabel had tried to remain aloof from the undercurrent running between Garnet, his mistress and his son. Yet their emotions were so strong they felt like currents passing through her body en route to their target.
Exhausted from trying to steer clear of their tangled web she instinctively touched Garnet’s hand. ‘I am deeply touched by your generous welcome. I never really knew my own father, but I hope that one day you will come to look on me as your loving daughter. Tonight is very special to me – my first night under the roof of your most beautiful home. I trust you will forgive my boldness in asking a special favour of you, Garnet.’
‘Name it, it is yours!’ Garnet said so confidently that Isabel was reminded of King Herod’s rash promise to Salome, offering her up to half of his kingdom if she would perform the dance of the seven veils, then forced to honour his promise by having John the Baptist’s head delivered on a platter.
‘Marmaduke has told me such wonderful stories about his childhood here, Garnet. How you taught him to ride, to grow up to be a strong man like you.’
She saw her father-in-law was mellowed by wine, nodding at the memories.
‘Garnet, nothing would delight me more than to fall asleep tonight in my husband’s arms.’ She held Garnet’s eyes. ‘In the bed in his old nursery.’
Garnet leant forwards, clearly excited by the revelation of such unladylike passion.
‘Then you will please us both tonight. Your wish is granted!’
The footsteps of the two assigned servant girls faded down the corridor leaving Isabel thankful to be alone at last in the nursery chambers.
Dressed in her nightgown she sank gratefully across the damask cover of the bed that had been Marmaduke’s as a child. The room had been sturdily furnished to suit the needs of a schoolboy, with Bloodwood timber pieces, its bookcase heavy with well-worn books. As curious as she was to explore the titles of the volumes that she knew had become his friends, this must wait until tomorrow.
She stretched out one bare foot and gently set the rocking-horse in motion, thinking of the toddler who must have felt abandoned here at the end of the west wing far from his mother’s chambers. At least his nanny slept in the dressing-room to calm him after his nightmares.
Isabel was alerted by the sound of footsteps on the back stairs that she could already identify as Marmaduke’s tread. She pretended to stir from sleep to discover Marmaduke leaning back against the door watching her. There were beads of perspiration on his forehead, the lines of his cheekbones so taut he looked gaunt.
He crossed to the window and drew back the velvet drapes to look out at the storm.
‘You don’t know what you’ve done for me tonight, soldier. Your instincts were dead right. Mother’s bed has quite a history.’
She remembered his words at his mother’s grave. But now his lack of emotion was all the more chilling.
‘When I was sixteen Mother was with child, the first since I was born. I returned from a boundary ride to find she’d been in heavy premature labour for two days. The infant was trapped in her womb. Queenie had done everything she could but even laudanum failed to reduce her agony. I confronted Garnet downstairs, drinking and dancing to the music of an assigned Irishman’s fiddle. Garnet refused to send for Doc Llewellyn, called him a charlatan and a drunk. Queenie could manage “women’s business”. To drown out Mother’s cries Garnet made the fiddler play louder and wilder. I’ll remember those Irish jigs till I die.’
Marmaduke’s face glistened with sweat but he stared ahead, oblivious to everything.
‘Mother dictated her Will. When she knew she was dying she begged Garnet to get the doctor to perform a caesarean. Cut her open and save the babe. Garnet refused.’
Isabel covered her mouth in horror.
‘Oh, he was heartbroken at her funeral. The whole county rallied in sympathy around the grieving widower. Yet within weeks of her death Garnet slept in Mother’s bed with the first of a string of servant girls.’
His eyes were bleak. Isabel felt she could drown in the depth of their sorrow.
‘Garnet hates me because I’m the living reminder of the night he claims he can’t remember. But I can never forget.’
Marmaduke sat with his head in his hands. Isabel felt a bew
ildering impulse to stroke his hair. She reached out to him but, as if he regretted his display of emotion, Marmaduke crossed the room and opened the door to Queenie’s old room.
Isabel sprang from bed. ‘No! You must sleep here. I’ll take your nanny’s bed.’
He gave a short, painful laugh. ‘Loyal as a cattle dog, eh?’
Isabel stood her ground, hands on hips. ‘You said you wanted a mercenary to be your ally. Well here I am! Use me! Together we will mould your father to your will.’
Marmaduke looked at her with weary admiration. ‘You’re really quite ruthless. I hope for your sake you can sustain that, soldier.’ He closed the door quietly behind him.
Isabel lay listening to the raging storm that rattled the shutters and whined like a banshee.
I signed a contract. I’m Marmaduke’s ally for better or worse. But it’s oddly comforting to know he’s asleep in the adjoining room.
This time when the recurring nightmare came to her she knew it was a dream from which she must struggle to wake up. She fought against the sense of sinking beneath the cold waters of the lake, struggling with bulrushes entwined in her hair. She was aware that this time there was an odd sound distorted under water.
Isabel awoke sharply. The sound muffled by her dream was close at hand. A single sharp clicking sound that seemed to come from the corridor.
Marmaduke had locked the door and taken the key. She trembled as she fumbled with the waxed matches, lit the candle and padded across the room to peer through the keyhole.
There was no longer any sound except for the blood pumping in her ears. Was this a sign of the Other? Isabel shuddered when she recognised a familiar smell that she linked to death and dying. The smell of laudanum.
Chapter 25
‘My God! Have you sent me to Heaven or Hell? Or is this the Garden of Eden?’
Alone after Marmaduke’s departure before she woke, Isabel surveyed her new world from outside the nursery chambers on the balcony that ran around two sides of the house. In the middle distance double folds of hills stretched towards distant mountains. At the side of the house lay an expanse of lush tropical garden.
Last night she had been disoriented by the discovery of an Antipodean replica of the de Rolland manor house. This morning she was struck by the differences. Despite the echoes of Gothic architecture and surroundings – the same splendid rose garden, vine-shaded summer house and an aviary shaped like a giant birdcage – she now saw that Bloodwood Hall was a microcosm that could belong nowhere else but in Governor Bourke’s ‘most peculiar Colony’.
The variety of birdlife amazed her. Swarms of exotic rosellas and rainbow lorikeets squawked in excitement as they swooped in chaotic formations, flashing their bright tropical plumage through the canopies of the eucalypt forest.
At the rear of the house was an apparent village of single- and double-storey whitewashed buildings. Smoke rose from their chimneys and the wind carried the smells of a tannery, a bakery, a timber yard. The sounds of sawyers and carpenters and a blacksmith hammering on an anvil were mingled with the guttural sounds of men’s voices as they filed out of long cabins shaped like pigeonholes. These assigned men’s quarters bordered three sides of a flagstone parade ground in which there was a water pump, a triangle and flogging post. A man’s body was slumped in the stocks.
Isabel shuddered at the thought of what unknown depths of brutality and depravity these convicts might suffer at the hands of their master, overseer or even their own kind.
She was happily distracted by the sight of an animal at the fringe of the garden. Was it a kangaroo or a wallaby? Whatever it was Isabel was sure it was a mother. It held its head on one side as if sensing her observation. Then the little miracle happened. A baby joey stuck its head out from its mother’s pouch followed by a delicate paw, like a swimmer testing the temperature before entering the water. As if satisfied all was safe in his world, the joey wriggled free of the pouch and hopped beside his protective mother. Isabel felt she had been given a gift from the gods to compensate for her fears.
Last night I panicked. My frightening sense of déjà vu, the storm, my dream. I felt swamped by the hate and grief inside everyone – the legacy of the tragic acts that happened here. Last night the house felt on the brink of imploding.
‘And yet today the sun is shining.’ Isabel tried to reassure herself that at least by contract’s end, she’d have money to build a new life for the only people who mattered to her. Then she would be free of all of this.
Yet why was she haunted by the expression in Marmaduke’s eyes? I keep seeing the sad child inside him but that’s a weakness I must guard against.
Dressed in yesterday’s day dress until her trunks arrived, Isabel lingered in the picture gallery before going downstairs to the breakfast room. She admired a stormy seascape she recognised was a copy showing Sir Walter Raleigh’s fireships attacking Spanish Armada galleons. The others were portraits. Isabel was struck by the odd disparity of their features.
Marmaduke’s ancestors obviously didn’t marry their cousins for generations. They look quite unrelated and not an ounce of humour between them.
Two superior full-length portraits appeared to be the work of the same artist. The man was unmistakeably an earlier edition of Garnet Gamble – here the shock of white hair was dark brown. He was handsome and wore with pride his Masonic regalia, which included a beautifully detailed painted apron combining the traditional Masonic symbols of the three pillars, compass, an anchor and a stylised eye she presumed represented the eye of God – or was it an Egyptian symbol? It moved her to think that her young father Walter had also taken great pride in being a Freemason.
The other half of the diptych was a portrait of a woman dressed in a scarlet sari that was so arresting it drew Isabel to a halt. Who else could this be but Miranda McAlpine?
Despite her flawless Anglo-Saxon beauty she projected an exotic Indian quality. The colours of her sari drawn from the artist’s palette were intense, the pale skin tones and dark eyes were luminous. Her jewellery was breathtakingly real. Isabel was fascinated by the necklace studded with large gems of contrasting colours that formed an intricate collar around her neck.
Despite her eastern costume Miranda was not a woman who could be overpowered by the beauty of her apparel. Her classical features were beyond mere perfection – they were alive. The expression in her eyes, the curve of her mouth showed confidence in her power to enchant – even from beyond the grave. Yet despite the sensuality of her face and body, she was clearly every inch a lady.
Isabel spoke the thought aloud. ‘Marmaduke was right about you!’
‘Really? What did Marmaduke say?’
Isabel spun around to see him propped against the wall, casually dressed in riding clothes that today made him look far more Currency than Sterling.
‘You said your mother captured the heart of everyone who saw her. Or words to that effect. I can certainly see why. If she wore sackcloth and ashes she’d start a new fashion. Her beauty must have made other women green with envy.’
‘Emerald green. Mother wasn’t a woman who attracted female friends. She didn’t need them. Queenie was her sole lifelong confidante.’
Marmaduke was studying her with that maddening half smile as if his painful confession last night had never occurred.
‘Who is the artist? He’s clearly a professional. But he didn’t sign it.’
‘That’s quite a story. Augustus Earle was one of a family of famous American and English artists. During his world travels he became the rage here and in Van Diemen’s Land. Painted wonderful landscapes and portraits, including Governor Brisbane and Darling, Captain John Piper, Mrs Blaxland – the Quality were eager to be immortalised. So naturally Garnet commissioned him to paint him in his Masonic regalia. He even commissioned Earle to paint the designs on his actual Mason’s apron to outshine Sam Terry’s. I remember meeting Earle when Mother sat for her portrait in his studio. A charming man and a great storyteller, but known to
live a dissolute life. Mother’s portrait took so long Garnet turned up at the studio in Sydney in a jealous rage. Refused to pay him a penny. Earle was booked to sail for India. He had Mother’s portrait delivered to her, unsigned, as a gift. I understand he later joined Charles Darwin’s voyages on HMS Beagle as official artist but by then he was broken in health and was replaced by Conrad Martens. Garnet wrongly claims he had Earle kicked out of the Colony for trying to seduce Mother.’
‘Your father seems a law unto himself.’
Marmaduke shrugged. ‘Few would argue with that.’
‘It was a shock to see Garnet’s dark hair. He’s rather young to have white hair.’
Marmaduke looked cynical. ‘Garnet claims it turned white with grief.’
‘Well, they say Queen Marie Antoinette’s hair turned white overnight in prison.’
Marmaduke quickly changed the subject. ‘Do you fancy Mother’s jewellery? Or is it too exotic for your Anglo-Saxon sensibilities?’
‘You forget I’m of half Plantagenet, half Celtic descent. But yes, her jewels are magnificent. I imagine there’s a story behind them, too?’
‘Yeah. The necklace is a traditional navratan from the Mogul period last century. The name means “nine stones”. These precious and semi-precious gems represent nine deities in the Hindu pantheon. The nine gems are said to capture in microcosm the power of the heavenly bodies. To act as a storehouse of endless energy and power that enhances the life of the wearer. Maybe it worked for the Maharajah’s favourite. It didn’t save Mother’s life.’
‘Perhaps it was the key to her extraordinary powers of attraction. What are the gems?’
He identified the nine gems, the emerald, diamond, pearl, ruby, topaz, coral, sapphire, cat’s eye and zircon, plus the white sapphire teardrops skirting it and the graduated pearls.
‘Altogether worth a king’s ransom.’
‘You sound as if you could write a book on the subject.’
Marmaduke shrugged off her praise. ‘Picked up stuff from Queenie – her mother was a Hindu. And Josiah Mendoza taught me a bit about gems.’
Ghost Gum Valley Page 26
