He rode the stallion at walking pace past the aviary; the large domed bird house was covered with fine wire netting to contain the swirling kaleidoscopic patterns of brilliantly coloured budgerigars, the tiny descendants of those long ago captured in the bush for Miranda’s pleasure.
He pictured Miranda in his mind, seated at the heart of the aviary on a wrought-iron garden bench, dressed in a filmy white Empire gown, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders, her outstretched arms holding lines of the tiny creatures that she had tamed to come to her in the way she attracted everyone to her. The bird she loved most, an emerald green and turquoise one more adventurous than his companions, attached its tiny claws to the crown of her head, gently rubbing his minute beak in her hair and repeatedly chirping the words she had patiently taught him when she had separated him from his brothers.
‘Love me, love me not,’ Garnet echoed softly, reminded of the ironic contrast between a romantic female like Miranda who was enchanted by these clever birds and the practical attitude of Aborigines who lived off the land. He remembered how Miranda had taken a tribal elder to admire her aviary and to her horror the old man had cheerfully confided, ‘Budgerigar plenty good tucker, missus.’
Now as these tiny caged beauties played and flirted together inside the aviary, flying from miniature swings to the branches of potted shrubs, they were a living reminder of the first year of his marriage when Miranda was radiant, blossoming with child. The whole Colony had then seemed to him like a trunk full of freshly minted golden sovereigns.
Everything seemed possible. Now I’m growing older and my time is running out.
The screeching laughter of kookaburras high in the treetops heralded daybreak as Garnet rode unhurriedly along a bush track, screened from sight of the estate’s farm buildings and the fading voices of the Government men Fordham was assigning to their labour.
Riding past the graveyard Garnet averted his eyes from the corner where a slab of stone pinned down the last remains of Klaus von Starbold. He knew the inscription by heart as he had ordered the stonemason to write it for two reasons. To give the whole locality the illusion that the lavish public funeral paid full tribute to his son’s tutor, who was well liked in the village. Secondly, he chose the words written in stone specifically to conceal from posterity the fact the scoundrel met a violent death at Marmaduke’s hands. The words were weathered but the memory was as sharp as hell.
KLAUS VON STARBOLD. BORN HESSE – DARMSTADT.
1788 – 1825
REMEMBERED WITH RESPECT BY GARNET GAMBLE AND FAMILY.
A WELCOME STRANGER FAR FROM HIS NATIVE LAND.
A welcome stranger. Garnet remembered how that phrase had nearly choked him and caused young Marmaduke to charge through the house in uncontrollable rage. It had taken all Miranda’s powers of persuasion to calm her son and convince him this lie was necessary to shield her reputation, part of her desperate attempt to prevent Marmaduke being convicted on the grounds of ‘wilful murder’ in the guise of a duel.
The fact that Garnet had been forced to bury von Starbold’s body in the Gamble family cemetery was the reason Garnet had insisted that Miranda be buried on her own land.
No way on earth I’d let her lie in the same graveyard as that Hessian scoundrel.
Now overlooking the mouth of the Ghost Gum Valley beyond Mingaletta, Garnet paused to take stock of the land that he had been loath to visit for years.
Through the dense frieze of eucalypts of many species, tall thin stragglers soared to the sky between the trunks of giants that had taken scores of years to expand their girth. At their feet, a thick undergrowth of ferns and shrubs had sprung up, freed from the controlled fire-farming methods he knew had been practised by tribal blacks who had hunted here for untold centuries, before the British came and claimed the whole country as a gaol.
For criminals like me. Now I’m buying it back from the Crown block by block. But the time has come to let go of Mingaletta – Marmaduke’s rightful inheritance.
Garnet heard their voices before he saw them. The quicksilver ripples of Isabel’s laughter sounded in response to the dark, rich voice of his son.
He wanted to join them, to be accepted on the fringe of that warm circle that surrounded all young lovers in a private cocoon of their own making. But even more Garnet wanted the truth. Knowledge was power. What exactly were these two hiding from him?
Looping his horse’s reins to the limb of a gum tree, he took care to remain out of sight as he manoeuvred himself closer to hear their conversation.
Isabel and Marmaduke stood with their backs to him, their heads bent over the blueprint of the house that covered the circular stump of a tree, serving as a drawing board. Before them lay a cleared section marked out with pegs to define the dimensions of future rooms.
Marmaduke’s voice was confident. The sun was shining on the coil of hair that cascaded down his back. His sleeves were rolled up, the arms tanned and muscular. His head was close to Isabel’s honey-brown hair as he pointed out details in the plans.
‘It isn’t grand, I admit. But it’s as close as I could get to the drawing of the Indian Colonial bungalow that the Colonel built here for Mother. The verandahs are covered except for this central section. It’s larger than the original homestead. See? Here’s the plan for the additional rooms.’
Like a boy he sprang inside the pegged spaces to demonstrate the layout and beckoned her to join him.
‘Here’s the library to hold all our books. Here’s the music room and this is your own little sitting room to do your sewing.’ He pointed to the open area beyond the house. ‘That’s where I’ll build the stables and a cabin for however many assigned men the authorities allow me. Only a few to begin with and I’ll be working like a dog myself. But I’ll build a successful life for us – just you watch me, soldier.’
Garnet felt moved by the natural way Isabel slid her arm around her husband’s waist in a gesture of possession. The sweet expression on her face, the soft, rounded lines of her body belonged to a girl who had begun to blossom in the hands of her lover.
‘No counterfeit love this time,’ Garnet said the words under his breath and fervently hoped it was the truth.
Isabel’s voice was teasing. ‘Marmaduke, it’s perfect. But haven’t you forgotten something? One day, maybe a little nursery?’
Marmaduke stiffened. Quickly recovering his composure he took hold of her upturned face between his hands. ‘My darling girl, we have each other. That’s enough for you, isn’t it? I never lied to you. The Gamble line must die out with me.’
‘But we’re both healthy. You could well take after your mother.’ Her eyes were pleading. ‘Just one babe? I’m willing to take the chance all will be well.’
‘But I’m not!’ Marmaduke drew her into his arms and kissed her hard as if by the sheer force of his physical passion he could put an end to the forbidden question. Recognising the sad resignation in her eyes, he appeared to capitulate.
‘You deserve to be a mother and I’m the man to give you what you want. I intended to surprise you but I can see you need to know what the future holds. I’ve already sent a letter inviting your Aunt Elisabeth to join us in the Colony. And to bring out the babe who is your family responsibility. They could live here with us at Mingaletta.’
‘Rose Alba! What have you done?’ Isabel pulled away in distress but Marmaduke turned her to face him.
‘What’s wrong? I thought this is what you’d want. They must be close to your heart, I know you send your aunt the allowance I give you.’
‘Of course they’re dear to me, but how ever will I explain the truth to Garnet?’
‘Simple. Call the child your little sister or cousin. What the hell does it matter? I’ll adopt Rose Alba. Give her the Gamble name if you’ll allow me.’ He gave a wry laugh. ‘I haven’t a clue how to be a good father. My parents fought over me like I was their personal War of the Roses. But I can learn, can’t I? Rose Alba is part of you, darling, so I’ll love her a
s I would my own child.’
Murmuring soft reassuring words, Marmaduke drew her down to lie in his arms in the shade of a tree. Garnet watched how quickly his son’s kisses aroused the girl. His hand caressed her naked foot and moved gently up under the folds of her skirt. Isabel’s hungry cry of surrender forced Garnet to acknowledge it was time to leave them in their own private world. Marmaduke’s pistol belt lay abandoned on the grass, his normal sense of caution lost in the moment. Garnet withdrew a short distance away, averting his eyes from the lovers as he kept guard, hearing Isabel’s cries of ecstasy.
When he finally rode away he was in no hurry to return home. His eavesdropping had delivered more truth than he had bargained on hearing. His thoughts were tangled threads of pleasure and pain. He replayed in his mind the words Marmaduke had said lightly, for once without any deliberate desire to hurt him. Words spoken from his son’s heart were all the more painful...to be a good father...my parents fought over me...their own personal War of the Roses...the child is part of you...so I’ll love her...as I would my own child...
Suddenly profoundly weary, Garnet admonished himself. ‘You fool. You wanted the truth and you bloody well got it served up in spades. Marmaduke won’t risk the possibility of passing on my malady to future generations to avoid a replica of me. Who could blame him?’
Garnet dug his heels into his horse’s flank to break into a gallop. He had no intention of returning home without a thorough exploration of the past hour’s revelations.
Isabel’s shocked response to her aunt’s future arrival triggered Garnet’s memories of the pale, romantic young Elisabeth de Rolland, the unwitting cause of his transportation. The babe was unlikely to have been born to Elisabeth, who was his own vintage. Rose Alba: a pretty name for whoever she was. A white rose of York. He considered what the advent of a toddler at Bloodwood Hall would mean.
I built it in the hope Miranda and I would fill the rooms with little tykes. This child is welcome to my name. Rose Alba Gamble. It has a good ring to it.
He thought about the significance of Isabel’s likely sufferings as the impoverished ward of Godfrey de Rolland’s whose family motto should have been ‘Honour For Sale to Highest Bidder’.
It’s London to a brick that Rose Alba was born on the wrong side of the blanket. No wonder the de Rollands were keen to trade Isabel. But I played the winning hand. Isabel has made a man of my son. The only problem is Marmaduke. He’s not shy of servicing her, just Hell-bent on avoiding progeny.
Night was fast falling when Garnet approached the rear of Bloodwood Hall from the opposite direction to the one he had taken to ride out. For the past hour he had felt a discomfiting sense he was being observed. Yet each time he checked the lay of the land nothing was visible except a mob of grazing wallabies or some red-bellied black snake slithering through the yellowed native grass.
It wasn’t until Garnet arrived at the aviary that he understood the unnatural silence. Budgerigars were never less than excited. The metal door of the aviary was wide open.
Garnet gave a bellow of rage. ‘I’ll have the balls of the bloody fool who forgot to close it! I’ve bred Miranda’s birds for years. Now all of them are lost in the bush.’
He leapt down from the saddle, slammed the door on its hinges in a vain attempt to release his frustration. Then struck by the thought the fault might have been Isabel’s carelessness, he swung open the door and stepped inside.
The truth turned him ice-cold. The entire floor of the aviary was covered with the tiny corpses of budgerigars – blue, gold, green, speckled white, all lying with their tiny beaks wide open, their eyes glassy in death.
Breathing heavily he looked around him. Found the cause lying in the corner. An empty bottle printed with a single word. Laudanum. He knew by the smell of it the seed bowls were covered with the same deathly liquid.
Garnet knew this was the handiwork of a sick, vengeful mind. These tiny helpless creatures had paid the price in a cowardly act of terrorism aimed directly at him and those he loved. Marmaduke and Isabel.
The shadow of death had returned to blight Bloodwood Hall again, but this time Garnet knew the game was lethal. Personal. No one in his Gamble empire would ever be safe again.
Garnet hurried to the stables. He confronted Davey quietly.
‘You want to gain your ticket-of-leave? Earn wages like a free man?’
The boy blanched and nodded.
‘Then fetch a shovel and hessian bags. Remove every dead bird and feather from the aviary. Bury ’em so deep the Devil couldn’t find them. Spread the word they escaped. I don’t want my womenfolk to panic on the heels of that Grantham business. Hear me?’
The boy nodded mutely.
‘If no one finds out the truth I’ll get Magistrate Summerhayes to grant your ticket. But if the panic spreads I’ll see you’re chained in the stocks for the magpies to peck your eyes out!’
The boy sucked in his breath. ‘Be Jasus!’
Garnet did not wait to see his order carried out but returned to the house. The aviary would be cleared and, by the time the lovers returned from Mingaletta, the birds would be buried for eternity.
Chapter 41
Each day the rider collected the post from Bloodwood village the tally grew of handwritten or formally printed cards from those on Garnet’s invitation list, stating their regrets that they must decline his invitation to the banquet at Bloodwood Hall. Some used the euphemism ‘due to unavoidable circumstances’, the loophole that fooled no one. Most of them feared that they might be the next target of the still unidentified trio of assassins. It was widely believed that Aboriginal trackers working for the mounted police had given descriptions of the wanted men’s height, weight and gait from the evidence of their footprints.
None doubted all three were bolters in the bush. Since Grantham’s murder there had been a pattern of robberies fanning out across the far side of the marshland south of George’s River, cowardly attacks by two or three young men. Their leader always threatened death.
Marmaduke raised the subject during dinner. ‘The police expect to announce the names of Rupert’s murderers at any moment. No doubt the fear through the Colony has affected your plans, Garnet. Rhys tells me the guest list has shrunk to a few local bravehearts, Magistrate Summerhayes, the local quack and maybe one member of the Quality – the gentleman who has leased Penkivil Park while the colonel’s stationed in India.’
‘What would Rhys Powell know?’ Elise snapped and everyone looked at her in surprise.
‘Everything, I should hope, given he’s Father’s right hand.’ Marmaduke said dismissively then turned to Garnet. ‘Isabel’s friends and mine seem to be made of sterner stuff. Edwin has promised to be here and Isabel’s shipmate, the Scotsman, Murray...?’
‘Robertson,’ Isabel supplied quickly. ‘He’ll be here. Once a Highlander gives you his word you can count on him for life.’
Garnet was uncharacteristically silent so Marmaduke pressed his advantage. Mingaletta was everything. The date of the handover must not be postponed.
‘Well, we’ll celebrate your birthday on the right day, no matter what. But I presume you’ve cut your cloth accordingly and cancelled the musicians and entertainers?’
Garnet beckoned the young manservant in livery to refill his glass.
‘The entertainers were prepared to risk the journey, more guts than most of the Quality, but I wasn’t prepared to risk their lives. Naturally I paid ’em and Madame St John their full fee in lieu.’
Startled, Marmaduke and Isabel reacted in unison. ‘Madame St John?’
‘Yes, the Yankee Nightingale. No doubt you know of her?’
Marmaduke and Isabel stumbled over themselves to assure Garnet his choice had been perfect but it was a wise decision to cancel all entertainment for the sake of the performers’ safety.
Garnet appeared to grow increasingly edgy. ‘Where is Rhys Powell? Overnight in the village again? Been gone for two days, hasn’t he? What the Hell’s he up to?’
‘Who cares?’ Elise said petulantly. ‘If you ask me, he’s disloyal – a turncoat.’
Marmaduke exchanged a swift glance with Isabel. Surely Elise had heard village gossip. The usually abstemious Wesleyan had been on such a belligerent drunken bender for two days that the local police constable had been forced to put him in the lock-up. No formal charges had been laid due to Garnet’s friendship with Magistrate Summerhayes.
“You’ve certainly changed your tune, Elise. Only last week you were singing your teacher’s praises.’
Elise chose to ignore Marmaduke and turned her full attention on Garnet, leaning forwards so that her large bosom rested revealingly in a sea of coffee-coloured lace.
Marmaduke was amused by the lack of subtlety in her performance. Elise’s eyes were on the brink of tears and her pouted lips quivered.
‘Garnet, dear, it hurts me to have to say this when you have been so kind to your Welsh secretary, but you should know in all honesty I can no longer bear to be seen in his company. If you were not blinded by his servility and fawning manner you’d have sent the man packing months past. There’s much truth in that saying, “Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief”. If you’d been able to read the fine print in your contracts no doubt you’d have discovered the truth.’
Marmaduke felt strangely resentful of her barbed reference to Garnet’s illiteracy.
‘Ah, so you can read contracts now, can you, Elise? What wonderful progress,’ Marmaduke said smoothly.
Elise looked distressed to be caught out in her lie. ‘Rhys told me,’ she snapped.
Garnet eyed her keenly. ‘Strong words of condemnation, Elise. I’ve fired many secretaries, managers and overseers but never without just cause. Do you have proof of Powell’s betrayal? Or would you like to tell us the true reason you are so upset with him?’
Garnet’s words were delivered quietly but Marmaduke knew his father well enough to realise there was a hidden agenda.
Ghost Gum Valley Page 42
