He picked up the carving knife and was about to slash at the pie when Isabel swiftly stayed his hand.
‘No! This one must rest a day or two. There’s one in the pantry that’s ready to eat.’
He shook his head. ‘Can’t wait, I’m hungry now.’ He picked up her berry-stained hand and sucked gently at each finger in turn, murmuring satisfaction like a hungry child. ‘Are you game?’ he asked. ‘To borrow Lord Byron’s words, “You should have a softer pillow than my heart”.’
Isabel pulled her lips from his kiss long enough to say, ‘Byron also said, “All tragedies are finish’d by a death. All comedies are ended by a marriage.” So are you game?’
‘John Donne was right! “For God’s sake hold your tongue, and let me love!”’
Before Isabel had time to retaliate in their duel of poets, in one fell swoop Marmaduke hoisted her over his shoulder and ran with her down the length of the house, while Isabel, struggled, yelled to be released and thumped his back with her fists.
She felt mortified at the sight of two giggling housemaids running after them, not to come to her aid but for their own amusement. ‘Put me down immediately, Marmaduke,’ she hissed. ‘I did not consent to this!’
‘Too late,’ he yelled back. ‘I’m out of control. You’ve driven me nuts.’
From her upside down view of the world she saw the black-and-white checked tiles of the entrance hall and, when Marmaduke paused at the foot of the stairs, she raised her head to see a tableau of amazed faces watching them. Garnet, Elise, Rhys and every house servant under the roof.
Garnet bellowed out, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, Marmaduke?’
‘What does it look like, Garnet? I’m demanding my marital rights!’
Isabel called back to reassure him. ‘Don’t worry, Garnet. We’re just rehearsing a scene from The Taming of the Shrew.’
Marmaduke took the stairs two at a time, pausing only to deliver a heavy thump on Isabel’s backside.
‘’Owzat for realism, eh? Yell louder, Katherina, you’re not convincing enough!’
Isabel’s voice rose an octave. ‘Just you wait until we’re alone! I’ll give you realism. You Currency wife-beater!’
‘That doesn’t sound like a line from Shakespeare!’ Elise said petulantly.
Garnet was cheering the scene as enthusiastically as a member of a Colonial audience.
The final words Isabel heard bouncing off the walls of the vestibule were delivered by Garnet’s booming voice as he watched their progress from the foot of the stairs.
‘I never thought I’d live to see this day. Marmaduke should kiss my boots. Isabel Gamble has brought light and laughter back into my house!’
As Marmaduke ran with her past Miranda’s portrait he said politely, ‘Excuse us, Mother, I’ll explain later.’
Isabel gave an uncertain smile as she watched Miranda’s portrait diminish in size to a sliver at the far end of the gallery. If God is willing I’ll make Garnet’s words come true. I’ll do my damnedest to bring light and laughter back into this tragic house.
Marmaduke lowered Isabel to her feet with a theatrical flourish in front of the door to their chambers. His eyes, his face, the lines of his body and the inflections in his voice were subtly transformed. Another Marmaduke stood before her. She saw the uncertainty in his eyes as if this night would be different from all others. When Marmaduke entered the nursery that had become their private world, he would be an explorer in unfamiliar territory.
She broke the silence. ‘What’s wrong? Is it locked?’
‘I never carried you over the threshold as a bride. That’s bad luck, isn’t it?’
‘It’s not too late. I’m officially a bride for a year.’
‘So you are.’ Marmaduke swept her up in his arms and, humming The Wedding March, he kicked open the door and carried her to the bed.
Isabel shed the bodice of her dress but hesitated and remained in her petticoat.
Lying on her belly on the bed, she bit her lip, unable to restrain a giggle that sounded just like a nervous housemaids as Marmaduke struggled to remove a stubborn boot.
‘Shit! I can see why the Duchess of Marlborough wrote in her diary, “Last night my Lord returned from the wars and pleasured me twice with his boots on.” Sensible bloke, that Duke.’
Isabel watched him as he divested himself of his clothes with such deft grace it was almost as if the clothes were washed free from his body.
He’s so beautiful he’d put ancient Greek athletes to shame.
But she tried to sound worldly to cover her confusion. ‘I can see you’ve had plenty of practice. Lesson one in the libertine’s manual I expect? Always prepared for some irate husband to burst in, I imagine.’
Marmaduke looked almost wistful. ‘Must you always drag up my past follies? I’ve turned a new leaf. To prove I’m worthy to be the man you can trust to take care of you.’
Isabel felt the pulse on her temple jump at the joy of hearing those words, but she drew her knees up under her petticoat and cradled a pillow in her arms, needing to talk to forestall what was to come. She was now in the room alone with Adam, his body tanned lightly by the sun. No fig leaf. No bravado. Marmaduke stretched out across the foot of the bed and rested his head on the triangle of his bent arm. His body was relaxed but his hooded eyes watched her as if ready to spring.
Please God, don’t let me be clumsy. Let the room be dark. Let me seem beautiful in his eyes. How can I win his heart?
She searched desperately for a question. ‘What do Masons do, exactly? Do they really have secret handshakes, wear funny clothes and make you swear never to tell your wife?’
Startled, Marmaduke’s laugh was cut short by an intake of breath. ‘You know I’ve taken an oath. I can’t tell you everything, soldier. Do you really need to know about Freemasonry tonight? I had other plans.’
Isabel nodded quickly – anything to postpone the moment.
‘Right. Well, in a nutshell, for years I rebelled against Garnet’s pressure on me to follow in his footsteps. I made up my mind it was an absurd, antiquated tradition designed to suck up to royalty and men in high places. I see now how wrong I was. My initiation really meant something to me. I can see why great men of many nationalities, like Mozart, Sir Joseph Banks, George Washington, the French tragedian Talma and other great minds past and present were drawn to it. And no doubt your father, too. The craft embodies the highest egalitarian principles – tolerance of all religions that practise the brotherhood of man. Open to all decent men, Catholics, Protestants, Hebrews and Emancipists like Sam Terry, Francis Greenway, Dr Bland. There’s no stigma on them or on the sons of Emancipists. I’m proud to call fellow Masons my brothers. Just think, Isabel, it’s the Masons here in this penal colony who’ve set a new example for Britain and the rest of the world to emulate.’
Isabel heard the excitement in his voice and she gazed at him with love. Is this the same young man I considered rough and uncouth when first we met?‘Thank you. I understand now. You must think me a fool asking questions at a time like this. It’s laughable. Me! A fallen woman.’
Marmaduke moved with such swift, naked grace she was only belatedly aware he had tilted her face to meet his eyes. ‘Isabel! I forbid you to describe yourself as fallen. Unless one day you tell me that you have fallen in love.’ He took a deep breath and added quickly, ‘Almost as deeply as I love you.’
Isabel felt her heart was ready to burst. She opened her mouth to speak those very words but Marmaduke trapped her lips in a kiss that banished her confession. She found herself trembling violently in fear that her memories of the terrible acts she had obliterated from her mind would flood back while she was in Marmaduke’s arms.
‘Hush, my love, there’s nothing to fear.’
Marmaduke gently drew her clothes from her body, smiling in discovery as he caressed and kissed each part of her. He tossed the last delicate item of silk underclothing over his shoulder and said lightly, ‘No more fig leaves bet
ween us, Eve.’
The candles flickered in some undetected current of air. A sliver of silver light stretched across the carpet through a gap in the curtains.
When he slipped his finger through the wedding ring that hung on the chain around her neck his eyes were serious.
‘The day we went through our Quaker wedding ritual, despite the beautiful words I had no intention of honouring the promises I made.’
‘Neither did I,’ she agreed quickly, but knew that wasn’t quite true.
‘But now I want to say things my way.’ He placed her hand in his upturned palm and kissed her wedding ring. ‘Isabel Alizon, with this ring I thee wed. With my body I thee worship and with all my worldly goods I thee endow. And from this day forward, the past is dead – mine and thine. I shall forsake all other and keep myself only unto thee...’ He studied her intently. ‘On one condition. Tell me you want me.’
Isabel felt the words on her tongue but she could not force herself to say them.
‘Perhaps not yet, eh?’ Marmaduke gave a shrug of acceptance. ‘What is your pleasure, my love? Shall we blow out the candles and invite moonlight to watch over us?’ He stroked her hair. ‘You’re trembling. It’s warm tonight but you’re cold. Please tell me you’re not afraid of me.’
‘Not of you. For you. I can’t dismiss the power of that witch’s curse that I will destroy everyone I love.’
Marmaduke shook his head in adamant denial. ‘That is an evil lie. Your cousin abused you as a child. Tried to bind you to him body and soul. The past is dead. I promise you, my love, tonight we will create wondrous new memories you will never want to forget.’
The room was lit by ribbon threads of moonlight that filtered through the shadows of the trees, bringing the delicate perfume of eucalyptus blossoms into the room.
Moonbeams transformed the nursery into a magical fairy bower worthy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. She lay cradled in Marmaduke’s arms listening to the pattern of his breathing, careful not to wake him. She wanted to relive every moment of the hours of the journey that had, as promised led her to Paradise. She had followed him, growing in confidence and hunger as he fuelled her passion in a series of escalating peaks that left her almost satiated – yet crying out because she felt cheated and did not know why. This Marmaduke was lover, master, friend. Unwilling to deny him she had followed wherever his imagination beckoned. She was conscious of the way he watched her, murmuring sounds of encouragement, guiding her hands to explore his body, gauging the right time to increase the heat that burnt her or to allow her respite, exhausted in the circle of his arms. Time and time again he granted her a brief reprieve before he rolled her above him, below him, astride him, enticing her onwards to the next, even higher peak.
‘Now I know the truth. Paradise is a secret place right here in his nursery,’ she whispered under her breath, startled to find Marmaduke had been awake all the time.
‘There are many roads to Paradise. Give me time and I’ll take you along all of them.’
‘Tonight?’ she asked hopefully.
Marmaduke buried his mouth in her hair to smother his laughter. ‘How wonderful. My bride is cut from the same cloth as I am. We’re insatiable.’ He tenderly nuzzled her throat. ‘But this time will be different. Forgive me. You’ll understand why when it happens.’
Isabel felt her whole body tense. This time? What does he mean? He promised he would never hurt me, never do anything I did not want. Oh God, what’s going to happen?
Isabel soon realised that this time was indeed different. His kisses and caresses were even more urgent, demanding. Marmaduke did not pause to allow her to rest. He observed her, waiting for something. She began to fight him. Not from fear, but frustration. Enraged, she became the aggressor, digging her fingernails into his back, wrapping her limbs around him, demanding that he stop then instantly forbidding him to stop. Wild anger consumed her because despite her fatigue she never wanted to let him go.
Finally she cried out, ‘You bastard. You know I want you. Why are you doing this?’
He pinned her down, his kisses teasing yet urgent. ‘Yes! You can do it, my darling.’
Isabel gave a cry of rage. Then a cry that had no name. It came from her throat, a primordial sound like some trapped animal that had broken free from its prison. She felt her heart break inside her and the pain gushed out in wordless agony.
She was shocked by the power of it. Her face was wet with tears and she was sobbing violently, her body soaked with a flood of tears that washed over his chest and hair.
Marmaduke rocked her in his arms. ‘At last. Thank God,’ he said softly.
She gave in to the grief that poured out of her body. She felt as if a secret dam inside her had shattered the walls that had confined it. All the pain and rejection of her childhood, the night terrors, the fear of darkness, the whirlpool of her feelings for Silas, love, fear, hatred. Everything evil was being washed away forever – powerless to hurt her again.
Isabel felt a sudden surge of energy that reminded her of the rare moments in her childhood of shared laughter, a clear memory of running in the sunlight of a beautiful garden with a woman’s voice behind her, laughing as she chased her.
My mother! I can’t see her face but I know she was there. I can remember her voice!
She wriggled around within the safe circle of Marmaduke’s arms and looked down into the face of a friend. He was tired and his chin was covered with dark stubble but he was smiling like a cat satiated by a bowl of stolen cream.
‘I hope you’re satisfied now?’ Isabel asked after a final sniff. ‘I need a handkerchief.’
He stretched out a weary arm to take a crumpled ball of linen from the bedside table. ‘Use mine. You might as well. You steal everything, even my soap. Here, blow.’
Isabel obeyed. As embarrassed as a small child she tried to regain her dignity. ‘Do you make all your mistresses cry like that?’
Marmaduke raised an eyebrow. ‘No. I’ve never seen anything quite like your performance, soldier.’
‘But you did it deliberately. You wanted to make me cry.’
Marmaduke rolled her over and ran his finger gently along the curve of her nose.
‘To prove you can trust me. And to prove to you that your cousin Silas was a lying bastard. Witches never cry !’
Isabel gasped at the truth that had escaped her. She snuggled down into Marmaduke’s arms and kissed his neck.
‘Now that my tears have proved I’m not a witch, you’re in no danger I’ll destroy you.’
‘That’s a relief,’ he said lazily.
‘So now it’s my turn to teach you something you won’t find in the Kama Sutra.’ She knelt beside him and gently drew her leg across his thighs as if carefully testing the waters before diving into a creek.
‘Close your eyes. Lie back. And learn what it means to be made love to by a lover who wants you more than any woman you have ever known.’
Marmaduke closed his eyes and smiled. ‘I’m game if you are, sweetheart.’
Chapter 40
The early dawn light was wan and watery, coating the walls of Bloodwood Hall’s farm buildings like a weak solution of whitewash. Garnet strode in the direction of the stables, glad to be free of the household tension. Fear was running rampant throughout the whole Colony since the news of the murder of Rupert Grantham.
Four weeks after their killing spree the three faceless bolters who had cut him down when he was alone and unarmed continued to be hunted by a small army of mounted police.
Garnet was furious that despite his orders for calm the tension at Bloodwood Hall was at fever pitch. No one was immune.
Elise reached for her smelling salts at every sound of horses’ hooves on the gravelled carriageway and even refused to walk in the garden unattended. The servants were quick to escalate petty quarrels into warring factions. Even Bridget’s usual cocksure manner was replaced by wariness. The three Marys, Red, Black and Spotty, genuflected at the drop of a hat. The young manser
vant had become increasingly sloppy in his livery and Garnet suspected the lad rubbed his teeth with cinnamon in a vain attempt to disguise the moonshine whisky on his breath. Their anxiety was palpable.
Garnet considered the tide of fear was nothing short of cowardice.
Rhys Powell was preoccupied with a bout of unspoken depression that Garnet recognised as the national trait known as ‘the Welsh hour’. Queenie’s mind was, as always, locked into avenging the wrongs of the past rather than concern about today’s villains and bolters.
Not all at Bloodwood Hall had lost their heads. Garnet was satisfied that at least two others under his roof had kept their heads – only to lose their hearts.
Marmaduke and Isabel walked together in the garden as if they had been joined at the hip. It was clear to Garnet the nights were never long enough for them.
As he threw open the stable doors he gave a wry smile.
What a fool Marmaduke was to think he could hoodwink me. Does he think I’m so old I can’t remember what it is to be in love? God willing that girl will soon translate my son’s lust into an heir while I’m still spry enough to teach the little chap how to ride a horse and be a man. To grow up to be Wine Son from Vinegar, as old Mendoza used to say.
Garnet yelled out to the ostler sleeping in the hayloft above the stables. Davey wore his slop clothing day and night. He peered over the edge of the loft, his tousled head threaded with hay then stumbled down the ladder begging Garnet’s pardon.
‘I’d have been having your horse saddled and waiting for ye, sir, if I’d known ye had a mind to be riding out early this morning.’
Feverishly saddling Garnet’s choice of stallion, Davey asked, ‘Is it wise to be riding out alone, sir? To be sure it’s dangerous times we live in, what with the villains who murdered that fine Mr Grantham still being at large in the bush.’
Garnet was not sure if the lad’s expression was sly, disrespectful or genuinely concerned. How many of his assigned labourers would consider the murderers to be heroes and turn feral themselves?
‘No need to feel concern on my behalf, lad. I’m always armed to the hilt,’ Garnet said, patting his hip to underline his reference to firearms.
Ghost Gum Valley Page 41
