Ghost Gum Valley

by Johanna Nicholls

  You stole Isabel’s innocence, her childhood. But I’ll die before I let you claim the rest of her life.

  Chapter 27

  ‘That damned Merlin’s Mechanical Chair – where the hell have you hidden it?’

  Garnet’s voice was so loud it ricocheted off the walls right down the length of the east wing. It gave him a sense of pleasure to know that at least his voice was as strong as ever and could still trigger the response of rattled servants’ footsteps that responded to him like scurrying mice.

  Three of the convict ‘Marys’ appeared at either ends of the corridor. Black Mary, Red Mary and Spotty Mary, the girl with skin like a speckled hen – each was still young enough and newly assigned enough to panic when he bellowed his commands. In contrast, Bridget always took her time to respond, playing on her unspoken status in the relationship with her Master. But lazy as she was Garnet knew she could be counted on to boss the other assigned lasses into doing her share of the work. Bridget had her uses. Not least, she was the sharpest of his informers.

  Bridget was last to arrive with her usual swaying of the hips. ‘You called, sir?’

  ‘You took your time! I’m holding you responsible for finding that damned Merlin chair before sunset. I haven’t used it for a year since I broke my ankle but it must be stored somewhere. Cost me a fortune to import it. This place is falling apart. Fordham’s slacking. If I don’t get all the assigned men back into line nobody will. You lot! First one of you to find my Merlin wheelchair contraption gets a half day off!’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ ‘Indeed, sir,’ came in a flurry of accents as they fled in different directions. In contrast Bridget stood her ground.

  ‘It’s being where you left it, sir. You presented it to the Catholic priest last winter because he was suffering the gout. He’s had your Irish assigned men praying for you at Mass ever since, he has.’

  Embarrassed by his lapse of memory Garnet stomped off down the path with Amaru chortling on his shoulder. His eye was caught by two figures seated in the shade of a tree.

  Rhys Powell and Elise sat on separate benches but their heads were close together as Rhys bent over the book in Elise’s lap and underlined a phrase with one finger. She nodded like an obedient child and began to mouth the words, darting anxious looks at Rhys to seek his approval. Both were clearly unaware of being observed.

  Garnet grudgingly gave a silent nod of approval. His shy young Welsh secretary was clearly doing his utmost to make his master’s mistress literate but Garnet was not fool enough to show Elise open encouragement. The woman expected to be rewarded financially for every favour she did, in bed or out of it. He considered she was overpaid as it was.

  On second thoughts, Garnet wondered who else could be relied on to keep his dark secret when he felt that terrible need taking hold of him, blotting out all reason, except for the desire to inflict pain. No one but Elise. Now more than ever these increasing episodes must remain their shared secret. He was determined that Isabel as the new mistress of Bloodwood Hall would not discover his secret life and be repelled by him.

  He looked up at the sky and sent up a mental challenge.

  If you are there, do the decent thing and grant me time to see Marmaduke and his bride settled here and my dynasty safe in their hands. Before I go the way of old Macarthur.

  Fired by the sudden suspicion that Marmaduke might have played a monumental trick on him, Garnet let out a roar across the garden that caused Rhys Powell to jump to his feet and Elise to drop her primer. Garnet noted that today her gown was surprisingly demure, a modesty scarf covered the expanse of white flesh she usually flaunted in the presence of men.

  He did not stop to speak but Amaru acknowledged them with a litany of cheerful encouragements. ‘That’s the way to do it! That’s the way to do it!’

  When Garnet reached Queenie’s cottage she opened the door, wearing a purple sari and her traditional haughty expression.

  Garnet stared her out. ‘I need your help,’ he said quietly. ‘Your promise.’

  The expression in Queenie’s black eyes was instantly on guard. He realised he had finally succeeded in throwing her off balance but he took no joy in the discovery.

  ‘What is this? Blackmail?’ she asked.

  ‘Call it a compromise. Ever since the day I married Miranda she insisted her half-sister must live here in my original old cottage under my protection. I have kept my word, even though you’ve shown me nothing but antagonism.’

  ‘Mutual contempt,’ she said acidly.

  ‘In all these years you and I shared only one good thing. Our concern for Marmaduke.’

  Queenie snorted in derision. ‘Liar. You’ve put that poor lad through Hell ever since he was in swaddling clothes. Nothing he ever did was right in your eyes. You broke his heart when you caused his mother to die from your neglect. Then on his wedding day—’

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know!’ he shouted. ‘Don’t you understand, woman, I would cut off both my legs with a hacksaw if I could change the past!’

  The raw passion in his voice stunned them both. Queenie pulled the veil of her sari around her head and watched him with a new look in her eyes, as if uncertain how to evaluate the change in him.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re growing soft in your old age,’ she said warily.

  ‘No chance of that. But it’s not too late for us to save the lad. Cut him free from the legacy of hate inside him that will destroy him. I want only one thing. To live long enough to see Marmaduke take his rightful place in the world. Learn to trust himself. Learn to love.’

  ‘Trust? Love? Did you think you could buy all that for him? By an arranged marriage with a de Rolland bride? You must be mad.’

  ‘Don’t you see? I was desperate. For years I’ve kept tabs on him. Despite his wild living he refused to court young girls. He abhorred the idea of marriage.’

  ‘After Elise jilted him,’ she said sharply.

  ‘All right! But there was never any proof he’d even slept with a woman. He never laid a hand on Elise.’

  ‘Just proves his good taste! He’s not like you. Bedding everything in petticoats.’

  Garnet clenched his teeth, knowing his anger would not win Queenie to his cause.

  ‘Listen, Queenie, believe one thing of me. Ever since Marmaduke was a little chap I could see what was inside him and tried to curb it. He’s intelligent and gifted but also impulsive, headstrong, undisciplined, lazy. He’s inherited the worst traits of his mother.’ He forced himself to say the painful words. ‘Yes, yes, and his father!’

  The weight of the silence that hung between them was so leaden Garnet didn’t know what words to choose to exact from Queenie the promise he desperately needed. She leant forwards in her chair and watched him like a hawk.

  ‘What do you want of me, Garnet? I promise nothing, except I will hear you out. But only for Marmaduke’s sake.’

  ‘The moment I sign over Mingaletta to Marmaduke he’ll turn his back on me.’

  ‘You’ll lose your control over him!’

  ‘I’ll lose my son! His bride is my one hope of keeping a link with him. Isabel is very young, inexperienced and charming. She appears to be devoted to him. But I have reason to believe she carries scars from her childhood. She’s proved her loyalty to the de Rolland family. But I must know. Is she true of heart? Will she stick by my boy for better and worse? Or is she here purely out of honour? Does she have her eye on my fortune? You’ve talked to her. Tell me the truth. I trust your judgement.’ He gave a sharp laugh. ‘Do you know what it cost me to admit that?’

  She stared at him. ‘You know, I almost believe you.’

  ‘Will you grant me your promise you won’t wreck his life? Give those two a chance to find each other. Before you honour your promise to Miranda?’

  Queenie nodded slowly. ‘I agree to wait until we prove whether that girl is true blue.’

  The old shrew said ‘until we prove’. I’ve got her on side!

  Garnet hurled himself out of
his chair and grasped both her hands so tightly he made her flinch. ‘I have your word on that? Do you solemnly swear it on Miranda’s memory?’

  ‘I swear it.’ She rose and broke free of him, crossing to the door with the veil of her purple sari fluttering behind her. Pausing in the doorway she cocked her head to one side like some strange breed of wizened Indian owl.

  ‘I have never been sure, Garnet Gamble, if you are mad or bad. Or both. But make no mistake. If you betray Marmaduke again I’ll do what I’ve wanted to do to you for years. Swing for your murder!’

  Chapter 28

  Isabel awoke in alarm, her heart beating rapidly at the sudden realisation she was alone in an unknown place, wrapped in a blanket. Where was Marmaduke?

  A cave! Daylight streamed through the entrance, transforming last night’s place of sinister shadows. The campfire was now reduced to a thin spiral of smoke rising from the embers.

  Last night was a jumble of memories. She remembered the wine that warmed her body had sent her to sleep filled with uneasy dreams. Had wine also freed her tongue?

  Or was I sleepwalking again? Where the hell is Marmaduke?

  Isabel sat up in her blanket roll and combed her fingers through her hair to clear her line of vision. She brushed one long coil away from her eyes. The other side was nothing but a tangle of short ends.

  ‘Where’s my hair gone? What’s that monster done to me?’

  She shed Marmaduke’s outsized shirt and vest but had no idea where Murray’s clothing was stored. She was desperate to see her reflection. No mirror. So she pounced on metal pots and pans in the hope of gaining some rough reflection. All they offered were distorted grimaces like gargoyles in medieval churches.

  ‘My God, I wish I was dead!’

  Death! She was suddenly halted by the memory of what had happened yesterday. The accident at the billabong. Marmaduke had saved her life. She was overcome by a rapid series of images. And finally that extraordinary moment after she had cheated death, when she had crossed the boundary of reality...lying in Marmaduke’s arms, lost to all but the blind instinct to be part of his body. A dream like no other.

  Distracted by the alarming sounds of gunfire she ran to the mouth of the cave to hear the sharp retort of firearms being exchanged in rapid fire.

  ‘Bushrangers! And Marmaduke’s all alone!’

  She pulled on her boots and ran outside, blinking in the strong sunlight at the solitary figure in the landscape. Marmaduke stood with arms outstretched firing at his fleeing target. The thunder of galloping hooves retreated in the distance – the bolters’ horses were nowhere in sight.

  Isabel slithered down the incline and ran to his side, determined to hide her fear.

  ‘Are you all right? I heard the attack. And their horses. How many were there?’

  ‘Rough count. Twenty or more,’ he said, laconically examining his pistol.

  ‘Twenty! They might have killed you! Did you manage to shoot any down?’

  ‘Why? They’ve as much right to this land as I have.’

  It was then she saw that odd twitch at the corner of his mouth and felt confused.

  ‘I must say you’re mighty generous about the rights of bushrangers.’

  ‘No bushrangers, love. Those horses were Mother’s brumbies. I wasn’t aiming at them. Just a bit of target practice to keep my hand in. It’s quite a few years since I killed a man. Never know when I might come face to face with another villain.’

  He glanced at her with an oddly embarrassed expression. ‘Are you all right? Yesterday’s swimming lesson was more than I’d bargained for. But all the more reason to learn to swim, right?’ He avoided her eyes. ‘I’m sorry if I let you down. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘I suppose it’s a good idea to learn to swim.’

  Looking strangely relieved by her reaction he resumed firing at a metal target tied to the trunk of a gum tree.

  Isabel was startled by an unfamiliar emotion.

  The sun was shining on the long fall of chestnut hair that hung down Marmaduke’s back. The sleeves of his striped bush shirt were rolled back over arms that looked muscular enough to fell a forest. His pale moleskin trousers were moulded to his thighs like a second skin. His tall, broad-shouldered frame made him look strong enough to run Mingaletta single-handed.

  Today there was no remaining trace of his initial persona as a counterfeit English gentleman. The young man standing before her was the pure embodiment of a Currency Lad.

  Isabel felt her heartbeat quicken at the memory of that wild night in the Surry Hills when he had carried her on his shoulders in their race against Maggie the whore.

  She blushed at the thought of the warmth of his hair pressed against the tops of her stockings, all modesty lost in the thrill of the chase. That was the most exciting night of her life – except for that moment yesterday on the banks of the billabong. But was that real?

  Aware of her scrutiny Marmaduke looked her over with a teasing glint in his eye.

  ‘Madam, you’re standing with the sun shining straight through you. Your nightgown leaves nothing to the imagination. Any other bloke would take that as an open invitation.’

  Isabel clenched her legs together in embarrassment. ‘Any bloke would have to be desperate. Look what you’ve done to my hair!’

  ‘Women!’ He sighed in mock exasperation. ‘I save your life and you complain about my hair-cutting skills.’

  Her fear revived the memory of being trapped under water with Marmaduke swimming towards her, his knife clamped between his teeth.

  ‘Thank you for my life. But it’s easy for you to be so cavalier. You’re blessed with beautiful hair.’

  Marmaduke staggered back a step in exaggerated amazement. ‘This is a Red Letter Day. That’s the first compliment you’ve ever paid me. I feel as strong as Samson.’

  He packed his pistols away and Isabel saw the odd, wary expression in his eyes as he swaggered towards her. What exactly did I do last night?

  ‘I wouldn’t be quick to ape Samson if I were you. Look what Delilah did to him. Cut off his hair so he lost all his strength and power!’

  Marmaduke’s tone was light. ‘Is that a threat, soldier? Can I expect to wake up one morning to find you’ve shorn me in my sleep?’

  ‘Easy for you to laugh. I don’t dare show my face in public.’

  Marmaduke studied her. ‘It’s not quite as bad as you imagine.’

  ‘Oh, that’s wonderful comfort! I’m expected to meet the Quality at Governor Bourke’s Balls looking like a scarecrow.’

  She jerked her head away from his hand as he tried to stroke her hair.

  ‘Don’t panic,’ he said gently. He piled her hair on top of her head then stood at arms’ length to deliver his verdict.

  ‘Yeah. Quite fetching. Curl the short bits. I’ll buy you some ostrich feathers. And the ladies of Sydney Town will think it’s the latest London fashion. Before the week’s out they’ll all be cutting off one side of their hair in imitation of you.’

  He unhooked his jacket from a tree branch and bundled her into it.

  ‘Yesterday I taught you to swim. Today it’s time for Colonial Survival Lesson Number Two. I’ll teach you to shoot a pistol – straight and accurate. When the occasion demands you can cut a man down with a bullet. As you do so well with words!’

  Isabel suddenly felt as if she was enfolded in the embrace of a very warm grizzly bear. Marmaduke’s head was close to hers, his arms around her, guiding her hands. He gave patient directions how to grip the pistol, steady her aim and fire.

  As the sun rose in the cloudless sky Isabel’s confidence grew. When she managed to hit the metal target twenty yards away and send it hurtling into the bush, she crowed in triumph.

  ‘I really did it!’

  ‘Why are you surprised? You’re a quick study. A born survivor. And I’m the man to teach you anything, girl – with your permission. Just name it!’

  The look in his eyes made her uncomfortably suspicious there was a
serious invitation lurking below the surface.

  ‘Fishing!’ she said quickly. ‘I don’t want to eat those beautiful kangaroos and wallabies unless we’re desperate to survive. But you said tribal Aborigines have clever ways to trap fish. And I am hungry.’

  ‘Right. Get dressed in your boy’s gear and I’ll show you how to tickle fish. And if we’re lucky we’ll catch a special big one the blacks taught me how to trap and cook when I was a little squirt. I’ve never tasted anything so good. You’ll think you’re in seventh heaven.’

  Marmaduke gave her a light slap on the rump to send her on her way but for once she accepted the casual liberty and marched off feeling pleased with herself.

  I’ve mastered my fear of water. I could wing a bushranger within twenty paces. And my hair’s going to set a new fashion in the Colony. Maybe being stuck with Marmaduke for a whole year won’t be so bad after all.

  Dressed in her breeches Isabel rode with Marmaduke through the bush to another extraordinary cave screened by the white trunks of the eucalypts that gave the name to Ghost Gum Valley.

  Marmaduke pointed to the black hands that covered the cave wall.

  ‘Tribal elders brought me to this place when I was a kid. Those aren’t paintings, y’know. They’re real Aboriginal handprints.’

  Isabel felt she was in the presence of something so lost in time that it was both a holy place and a prehistoric work of art. At the foot of a cliff beneath an overhanging ledge was a long expanse of natural rock face fringed by ferns. Like a canvas the size of the Bayeux Tapestry, this Aboriginal wall painting recorded a people who had vanished from sight. The entire expanse was covered by a pattern of black handprints, each one outlined in white like reverse cameos. At first glance it seemed a random pattern, but when Isabel held up her own hand in comparison she saw that these prints were of individual hands of different sizes. Presuming that each palm faced the wall, each print was of a left hand. On closer examination she saw that one hand had the top joint of the middle finger missing. Another hand consisted of six splayed fingers. At the heart of this sea of palm prints were two curved shapes like thick sticks.