What is happening? Who am I really?
Her impulsive decision to drop her robe and stand naked beside the first naked male she had ever seen had been like plunging into cold water. After the initial shock it had felt almost natural. Not the unforgiveable sin that Silas had made her believe she must have committed to become a fallen woman.
It felt innocent. Is this the way God really intended it to be?
The sound of the dinner gong reverberated through the house as Isabel hurriedly rustled through the new gowns hanging in her wardrobe and chose another of Marmaduke’s designs made by Madame Hortense. Isabel slipped the turquoise belled skirt over her head and slid her arms through the fashionable balloon sleeves, ready for Marmaduke to lace up the back placket. She looked at her reflection in the ‘magical’ mirror, conscious of a second wave of liberation quite unlike any previous emotion she had experienced.
When I stepped into the world on the other side of this mirror I suddenly wasn’t afraid any more. I was free! Like a butterfly breaking out of a chrysalis. I felt I was truly inside Eve’s skin and Marmaduke was truly Adam. What on earth is happening to me? Is this the way actors feel when they’re on stage?
Isabel said the words out loud to the girl in the mirror. ‘Does this mean that even the wildest dreams are possible?’
The girl in the mirror smiled knowingly back at her. ‘It’s all done with mirrors.’
Chapter 31
The dinner gong had just sounded its summons to dress for dinner when Garnet strode into the empty dining room. His eagle eye scanned the dining table extended with leaves to its full length. Was any detail contrary to his instructions to Elise? Everything must be perfect.
Tonight’s intimate dinner for six was a dress rehearsal for his forthcoming birthday banquet for twenty of the local gentry who had shunned his invitations since Elise’s installation as resident mistress after Miranda’s death.
Aware that Elise was hovering nervously in the doorway, Garnet gave a snort of amusement at the sight of her, tightly laced to the point of fainting in a Regency-striped affair that some whorehouse madam might wear.
‘Look at you, woman. More feathers than a lyrebird.’
‘Aren’t I fine enough for Isabel’s company?’ Elise asked plaintively.
‘You’ll do well enough.’ He added grudgingly, ‘Colour suits you.’
‘Is everything to your liking, Garnet? I wrote the placecards myself – with Rhys’s help. He’s most pleased with my reading progress.’
Garnet was irritated by her air of superiority, her intended oneupmanship. His own literacy had never progressed beyond the signature he signed with a flourish on the legal documents he was unable to read.
‘What’s so damned clever about being able to read nursery rhymes and the 23rd Psalm?’
He pointed to the framed gilt-edged Masonic certificate he had ordered to be hung here to impress his guests. This document was the first time he had signed his name, no longer a ‘marksman’, confined to a humiliating cross.
‘Now that signature was a real milestone. The third of March 1823 when I – and Sam Terry – were initiated as Freemasons in the Australian Social Lodge 260. Its roots were in Ireland so its bold decision to accept Emancipists as Masons really put the cat amongst the pigeons for Exclusives the selected!’ he said triumphantly.
‘Sam and I dined with our Masonic Brothers that night at the Freemasons’ Tavern in George Street. Drank the health of our sponsor, Francis Greenway.’
‘Wasn’t he the architect transported for forgery?’ Elise asked slyly.
‘So what? Governor Macquarie granted him an Absolute Pardon in 1819. And Greenway fulfilled Macquarie’s grand architectural vision for Sydney Town.’
Garnet flicked a finger at a wineglass, satisfied by the ringing tone that it was genuine crystal. ‘Poor bastard fell from grace. He’s doing it tough. Barely able to subsist on his marshy land grant on the Hunter but too proud to accept charity. I must get Powell to commission him to design a house for me somewhere.’
Elise was eyeing him warily. ‘Has Dr Bland accepted your invitation to the banquet? It would be good for you to see him, Garnet, yes?’
The inference was clear. Bland was the one physician who might be able to control Garnet’s dark ‘episodes’. For years Bland had generously provided his professional medical expertise to the Benevolent Society. The bitter irony of this did not escape Garnet. The most wretched lunatics benefitted from Bland’s knowledge but it was impossible to keep madness under wraps in Sydney.
‘I don’t need Bland for medical advice,’ he snapped. ‘I refuse to be made a public spectacle in lampoons like mad King George III. Or poor old John Macarthur, who no longer has control of his land and fortune.’
He turned on her. ‘And don’t drink too much wine, tonight. That arsenic cosmetic has turned your skin so white your nose goes red at the smell of a cork.’
Elise’s eyes flashed in a way that he had never noticed. Had she grown to hate him more than she loved his money? He threw her a crumb of kindness to mollify her. ‘Bright idea of yours ordering this new mirror.’
Elise flushed with pleasure. ‘They say it’s a larger version of the one that will grace the mansion the Colonial Secretary is building on his Elizabeth Bay grant.’
‘That so? Alexander McLeay thinks he’s the arbiter of good taste in Sydney.’ Garnet eyed the mirror with satisfaction. ‘Mine’s bigger than his, is it? Just proves anything that a Scots Tory can do, Garnet Gamble can go one better.’
The mirror was not unduly large but had an extraordinary range of vision. Its concave glass gave a fish-eye perspective of the entire room.
Elise slipped her arm through his. ‘Once the assigned servants serve each course, they must line up facing the mirror, their backs to the company. I gave them strict instructions to keep their eyes on the mirror to anticipate anything that we or our guests require. Watch!’
Like a mischievous child she ran to the far end of the table and seated herself in Garnet’s master chair. ‘Look in the mirror. Can you see me? What am I doing now?’
‘Touching your glass to show you want more wine,’ he said.
‘Right! This clever mirror also gives us a measure of protection from servants’ gossip. They’ll miss out on the conversation of their betters.’
At the second ring of the Chinese dinner gong Garnet crossed to the withdrawing room to welcome his guests. Rhys Powell arrived dead on time, his shock of dark hair and side whiskers groomed to a shine, but as nervous as a colt in his well-worn frockcoat.
Diminutive Queenie sailed into the room with all the dignity of a Maharani, adorned in a midnight blue sari patterned with silver stars. Her collection of exotic Indian jewellery was a painful reminder of Miranda.
The arrival of Isabel on Marmaduke’s arm caused Garnet’s heart to race with pride. Isabel looked enchanting in a bare-shouldered turquoise gown with huge belled sleeves. Her complexion glowed in the candlelight. He noted there was something unusual about the way her hair was threaded by a rope of pearls, a single lock trailing down her naked shoulder in a way that made her look innocently coquettish.
He welcomed Isabel with a kiss on the cheek and an audible aside. ‘Don’t hesitate to draw Elise’s attention to anything that’s amiss. Her knowledge of etiquette is limited.’
He noticed Isabel flush but put that down to upper-class modesty.
Garnet escorted her into the dining room then gestured to Rhys Powell and Queenie to take their seats on either side of Elise at the far end of the table. He directed the newlyweds to be seated at his left and right hand and steered the conversation with gusto.
Garnet noted the unfashionable tan Marmaduke had gained during his bivouac in Ghost Gum Valley. The informant he had paid to ride out and check on the couple had reported back that they were living off the land and Marmaduke had taught his bride bush skills, even how to crack a stock whip like a drover.
Intrigued, Garnet wanted to hear I
sabel’s account. ‘So how was your first bivouac together, young lovers?’
Isabel responded with charm and enthusiasm, praising Marmaduke for giving her ‘the most romantic honeymoon adventure any bride ever had’.
Garnet nodded tolerantly but he wasn’t fooled. He knew from every nuance of his son’s face, every quicksilver change of mood that Marmaduke was hiding his true feelings.
The lad’s a fool to try to out-trick me. I’m the puppet master – I pull the strings. Damned if I know what’s wrong with him, but I’ll dig out the dirt before the moon turns over.
Garnet dominated the conversation but nothing worth noting escaped him. For Isabel’s amusement he held forth about the Colony’s most powerful men, ignoring Marmaduke’s raised eyebrow in response to the impression he was trying to create for Isabel that he was on intimate terms with them.
‘Take William Charles Wentworth, a powerful barrister and major landholder. He’s the acknowledged son of Dr D’Arcy Wentworth and a convict lass transported on the Neptune. WC sees himself as the champion of the rights of Emancipists. Way too radical for my taste.’
Marmaduke rose to the bait. ‘You’ve certainly changed your tune since you stepped ashore from the Fortune, Garnet. The Australian is the first independent newspaper in the Colony, a desperately needed advocate for many things including trial by jury.’ He sent a dangerously quiet challenge to his father. ‘Would you dare argue with that, Garnet?’
Garnet quickly turned the conversation back to John Macarthur’s mental decline.
‘Poor old chap. You’ll hear his enemies ridicule him as “John Bodice the Bligh Killer”. But mark my words, Isabel, history will remember him as the man who put the Australian Agricultural Company and Australian merino wool on the world stage!’
Elise ventured a sly comment. ‘Samuel Terry’s certainly earned his title of “The Botany Bay Rothschild”. Terry’s not only a leading...’ She stumbled over the word philanthropist but quickly amended it. ‘...donor to every Sydney charity. He and his wife Rosetta live most modestly but he’s enormously generous to everyone he loves.’
That conniving woman’s going to push me too far one day. Does she think I don’t know what she’s up to? Garnet was determined to put her back in her box. ‘Terry’s wife Rosetta deserves their success. That woman’s worked at his side in business for their entire marriage. I wouldn’t fault his good wife’s loyalty to him.’
Elise’s dead-white face flushed with revenge. ‘People say Terry’s the largest landholder in the Colony after Wentworth. They say he has ninety thousand rural acres under his control but that can’t be right, can it, Garnet? That’s more than the size of some English counties.’
Garnet was nettled by the injustice of his rival’s greater wealth.
‘It sticks in my craw. If you take the 1828 census at face value Terry only declared some twenty-seven thousand acres, but add the eight thousand held by his superintendent at Bathurst plus other estates held in his children’s names and God only knows what the true tally is by now. What’s more Terry was granted thousands of choice acres by three successive governors. Why not me?’
‘You’ve not done too badly, Garnet,’ Marmaduke said, languidly twirling the stem of his wineglass.
‘Apart from a small initial grant from Macquarie I’ve clawed my way up the entrepreneurial ladder by my own efforts!’ He glared around the table to defy any argument.
Isabel’s words were a balm to his pride. ‘Your extraordinary success is all the more to your credit, Garnet. No doubt it springs from your qualities of leadership and determination. You are beholden to no man.’
Garnet laughed out loud. ‘You hear that? For all her youth and beauty our bride has sound British common sense.’ He struck his wineglass with his spoon and the wine steward came in haste.
‘So much for your damned mirror!’ he said pointedly to Elise.
When a fresh bottle of Hunter Valley claret was brought for his approval, Garnet examined the label but exchanged a silent coded message with Queenie.
Is the love play between the newlyweds genuine?
Garnet looked across at Marmaduke lounging in his chair, more handsome than any errant son had a right to be. He gritted his teeth at the sight of his son’s absurdly luxuriant mane of hair, tied back with a ribbon like some eighteenth-century cavalier – to annoy him.
Garnet continued to direct the flow of conversation, all the while watching how Marmaduke, believing himself unobserved, fixed Isabel with that intense, Byronic expression whenever she gave encouragement to Rhys Powell’s shy comments.
Why is Marmaduke so jealous? Rhys Powell wouldn’t know what to do with a woman in bed. And he’s as poor as a church mouse. No catch for any woman.
Garnet noted Elise’s flash of envy in her ambiguous compliment about Isabel’s gown. And the way the bride expertly deflected it.
‘My dear husband has an acute eye for fashion. I suppose it’s all those years he spent in Paris and London.’
Garnet was of two minds, admiration for Isabel’s pretty compliment and his irritation towards his son.
What kind of red-blooded man designs ladies’ gowns?
But Isabel’s dulcet tones reminded him of Miranda – the same high-born accent he had longed to hear grace his house once more.
Leaning towards him, Isabel asked confidentially, ‘Garnet, is it true that you’ve invited musicians and entertainers to perform at your birthday celebration?’
‘My dearest girl, I have a number of surprises up my sleeve that I’ve designed primarily to please you, my guest of honour.’
Unwilling to be sidelined, Elise chipped in to the conversation. ‘In the atrium there’s a faux wall that folds back to reveal a charming little stage. Sadly neglected in recent years.’
Garnet was quick to respond in a teasing tone. ‘But which will now return to life, eh Marmaduke? I understand you’ve become quite a lover of Thespians. If you put as much time into being a gentleman as you do hanging about Barnett Levey’s theatre I’d be a happy man.’
He realised he had created an uncomfortable silence. Isabel was blushing.
Marmaduke gave a tight smile. ‘My love of theatre I share with my bride, Garnet.’
Garnet switched his attention to Isabel. ‘I built my own little theatre for the amusement of my beloved wife. Miranda was passionate about amateur theatricals – a traditional pastime of the military, garrisoned in India and elsewhere in the Empire.’
He patted her hand. ‘I understand you play beautifully. It may please you to know I’ve just secured the finest pianoforte in the Colony at Sam Lyons’s auction house for you.’
Flushed with wine, Elise suggested brightly they should all plan to show off their talents as singers, musicians, declaimers of poetry, even as dancers.
Marmaduke gestured to Queenie to draw her into the conversation.
‘I will always remember, Queenie, how you and Mother performed your wonderfully exotic Indian dances? As a child you allowed me to beat my toy drum to accompany you. Would you please dance for us again one day, Queenie? I swear none of you have ever seen a dancer perform with such grace as this lady.’
Queenie smiled but dismissed the idea with an elegant wave of the hand. ‘Too old.’
‘Ageless,’ Marmaduke said gallantly as he caught her hand and held it to his lips.
Elise clapped her hands together. ‘Isabel must play the new pianoforte. And Rhys has a fine Welsh tenor voice. That leaves you, Marmaduke. How do you plan to entertain us?’
‘I’ll applaud you all with pleasure but count me out, thank you,’ Marmaduke said quietly. ‘I never perform in public. I was cured of that as a boy at a fancy dress ball.’
Garnet eyed him keenly. So, he’s never got over his humiliation being invited as a guest to a fancy dress ball where that dragon of a hostess made him serve her guests because he was an Emancipist’s son. Even after all these years Garnet felt a wave of anger at the boy’s suffering. He felt a helpless sens
e of guilt.
Isabel knew the story and stretched out her hand to Marmaduke. ‘My darling, how I wish I’d met you as a boy and asked you to dance with me.’
Marmaduke’s mouth twisted in amusement. ‘My sweeting, you forget I’m seven years your senior. You’d have been tucked up asleep in your nursery.’
Marmaduke turned to Garnet. ‘Which is my cue to ask you all to excuse us. Isabel is an intrepid traveller but the bivouac was most demanding. We narrowly escaped an accident.’
‘Marmaduke is modest. He saved my life,’ said Isabel. ‘I didn’t want to upset you.’
Everyone around the table was ready to hear the full details.
‘Oh, do tell all,’ Elise demanded.
Marmaduke was firm. ‘Some other time. I bid you all good night.’
He cupped Isabel’s elbow and steered her to the door. Queenie silently inclined her head to Garnet and Rhys Powell but ignored Elise and took her own leave.
Garnet smouldered with irritation at their abrupt departure. He gave Elise a dismissive wave and ordered his secretary to join him for cigars and brandy in the smoking room. For the first time that evening Rhys Powell was no longer on guard, freed from the strain of circumnavigating his way around conversations fraught with ambiguity. The young Welshman was clearly sensitive to the minefields but lacked the confidence to deal with them. Garnet almost felt sorry for him.
‘Here, try this Napoleon brandy. It will put hair on your chest, old chap.’
Rhys Powell gave a sigh of satisfaction. ‘A fine dinner, sir. I look forward to implementing your plans for your birthday celebration. It promises to be a memorable occasion for you and your son. A most egalitarian young man, if I may say so, sir.’
‘Huh! Egalitarian is a polite way to put it,’ said Garnet. ‘He’s one of the new breed of pig-headed Currency Lads who think they can break down class barriers that have stood the test of time for centuries in Great Britain.’
‘Perhaps the world is changing, sir,’ Rhys Powell observed. ‘But then perhaps I see the British class system differently, given I am a Welshman.’
Ghost Gum Valley Page 32
