Ghost Gum Valley

by Johanna Nicholls

  Elise burst into a noisy flood of tears and fumbled for her napkin to blot her face. Isabel quickly offered her own handkerchief, a flimsy square of lawn that would serve no purpose beyond token empathy.

  Marmaduke failed to be moved by the flood. He noticed Garnet’s face was impassive.

  ‘You are unwell, Elise?’ Marmaduke asked politely but more to impress Isabel that he was not a callous brute.

  ‘I should think I am,’ Elise said. ‘And I am hardly done by. Garnet knows why!’

  Elise turned to Garnet, her tragic dark eyes shedding rivulets of tears down her chalk-white face. She looked suddenly tired as if she had aged overnight and Marmaduke felt irritated by a twinge of pity despite everything he remembered he had once loved and now despised.

  Fluttering her pale, be-ringed hands in a helpless gesture, Elise was desperately seeking support from whoever would rally to her aid. Intuitively turning to a female ally, she gestured imploringly to Isabel. ‘During all these long years I have been Garnet’s faithful companion, he promised me he would take me in marriage on one condition. Well, if Garnet is loath to announce the news today, it seems I must. I am at last with child!’

  Marmaduke decided to count to ten before he ventured a comment. If what Isabel told me is true, Rhys Powell may have done the deed. Does Garnet suspect he’s a cuckold?

  Everyone appeared too stunned to respond so Marmaduke at last broke the silence. ‘So Garnet, I take it congratulations are in order. I am to have a young brother or sister. That is a surprise.’

  Garnet’s face was a mask of indifference. ‘Congratulate Elise. More to the point, you should congratulate Rhys Powell. None of my doing. I’ve been fully occupied elsewhere,’ he said with insulting emphasis, openly glancing in Bridget’s direction.

  ‘That’s a dastardly lie and you know it,’ wailed Elise. She knocked over her wineglass as she stumbled to Garnet’s side, grasped the lapels of his coat and shook him.

  ‘You can’t do this to me. After all I’ve done for you, all I’ve suffered at your hands, forced to fulfil your needs in that ghastly attic. Tell them the truth, I beg you. I am having your child, Garnet. I am! I am!’

  While she shook him, Garnet’s hands hung limply by his sides as though incapable of touching her. Finally his lack of resistance forced her to stop.

  ‘If only that was the truth,’ Garnet said quietly. He shook himself free of her and walked from the room.

  In Marmaduke’s eyes his father seemed suddenly transformed into a tired but dignified older man. One look at Isabel and he knew they were of the same mind.

  Thank God for my girl. She keeps a cool head in a crisis. Perhaps that is the quality that helped her survive her own childhood trauma.

  He drew Isabel aside and placed a hand gently on her shoulder.

  ‘Take Elise to her room. Stay with her until I come to you. I must go to Garnet and get this sorted out. I don’t want to be guilty of shoving a woman who’s with child out into the snow, so to speak. Especially as the babe she’s carrying might be my brother.’

  He watched Isabel shepherd the weeping Elise towards the stairs, gently assuring her all would end well but that she must think of the babe and not to overtax her strength.

  Marmaduke felt saddened by this evidence of Isabel’s motherly instincts. God willing little Rose Alba would in time arrive safely and fulfil the one need that Marmaduke would never be able to satisfy.

  Distracted by the sound of a horse approaching at a gallop he went outside to greet the courier. The letter from Edwin was urgent. Two men had been charged with Rupert Grantham’s murder. The date had been set for the trial. He must act at once.

  He dismissed the servants and, left alone, fortified himself with a glass of wine before confronting his father on the delicate subject of the paternity of Elise’s babe.

  Marmaduke’s thorough search of the house proved that Garnet was not in his usual bolthole, his library or anywhere else. Marmaduke questioned all the servants who had been on duty all evening. None had seen or heard Garnet exit the house. That left no place to try except one. The priest’s hole.

  He took a candlestick, touched the secret panel and sprang up the stairs. The priest’s hole was empty. But Marmaduke fancied he could feel the residue of pain that was trapped in this tiny dark space. A hole indeed. Not used as in past centuries in England to escape from religious persecution, this priest’s hole served for Garnet’s vain attempts to escape from his guilt by suffering self-inflicted physical torment.

  Marmaduke closed his mind to a brief flash of pity and closed off the priest’s hole.

  Hurrying down the picture gallery he paused by his mother’s portrait.

  ‘Where the hell is he? He’s crazy enough to top himself.’

  Marmaduke blinked. Was it an illusion caused by the flickering candlelight or had the dark eyes in the portrait for one split second glanced upwards? Marmaduke had the sudden thought of the one place he had not thought to look. The parapet walkway.

  He backtracked to the seldom-used spiral staircase that led to the roof.

  The night air was chilly when he stepped out onto the castellated parapet that ran between the gothic gables of the roof. The sky was filled with that extraordinary map of the Southern Hemisphere’s stars that always convinced him that Creation was no mere accident. He stopped short when he saw the figure standing at the far end of the parapet so close to the edge that Marmaduke was uneasy.

  The breeze was blowing Garnet’s mane of white hair and the eyes that turned to him held a wild, bewildered sadness that made Marmaduke remember Edmund Kean’s portrayal of King Lear.

  ‘Mind if I join you, Garnet?’ he asked and took a few tentative steps towards him, watching him intently for any sudden movement and prepared to hurl himself across the space between them.

  Garnet looked surprised. ‘Leave me alone. What are you doing here? You should be in bed with your bride.’

  Marmaduke tried to sound casual. He had despised this man for most of his adult life, but he had no wish to see him leap to his death. Not even Mingaletta was worth that price. He decided not to raise the question of Elise’s revelation in case that was what had disturbed the balance of Garnet’s mind. He had no idea what on earth to say until the words came out of his mouth in a desperate, inspired improvisation.

  ‘I wanted to have a private word with you away from the women. Man to man. I came to ask your help, Garnet.’

  ‘Did you indeed? That’s a turn up for the books,’ Garnet said, but despite the sarcastic edge to his voice, Marmaduke saw that his back straightened and he seemed to be trying to resume his mantle of authority.

  Marmaduke took another step closer and leant an arm casually on the edge of the parapet.

  ‘I didn’t want to discuss it with Isabel without first asking your advice. You know how emotional young girls tend to be about bolters and all that stuff.’

  ‘Indeed. What’s wrong?’ Garnet seemed suddenly alert and cooperative.

  ‘Nothing really. A courier just delivered an urgent message from Edwin. Advising me that some cargo from England that I’ve been expecting has just arrived in port. And that the date has been set for the trial of James Leech and Will Barrenwood, the two young bolters accused of murdering my friend Rupert.’

  ‘So they’ve caught ’em at last. Let’s hope the jury makes short work of the trial and the villains swing for Green the Finisher.’

  ‘My feelings exactly, Garnet. But the problem is I’ve been asked to go to Sydney Town to serve on the jury.’

  ‘Why’s that a problem? Do your duty and hang the bastards!’

  ‘Naturally I want to honour Rupert’s memory by serving on that jury. It’s the last thing I can do for him, but it means leaving Isabel behind. It would put my mind at rest if I knew that Isabel was safe in your hands.’

  ‘Do you think I’m too old and infirm to protect the girl in your absence? What kind of a Miss Molly do you take me for?’

  Marmaduke l
aughed and casually placed his arm around Garnet’s shoulder. He began to steer him towards the spiral staircase. ‘I knew I could count on you, Garnet. Isabel could not be in safer hands than yours. I can leave her in your care with a clear conscience.’

  ‘Of course you can, m’boy. We’ll play chess together and Isabel can play the pianoforte for me. I’ll keep the girl happy and free from worry, you can be sure of that.’

  Garnet seemed unconcerned about Elise’s revelation. Marmaduke wondered if it was another of her phantom pregnancies or if it was a deliberate ploy to force Garnet’s hand.

  Marmaduke gestured for his father to precede him down the staircase and with a sense of relief bolted the door securely behind him in case Garnet was tempted to return to the roof alone. He would order Bridget and the servants that the door must be kept locked.

  He must warn Isabel to play the game and give Garnet the illusion he was protecting her.

  Chapter 42

  Garnet and Marmaduke were like two raging bulls with their horns locked in a duel to the death. It had all begun at the breakfast table with the question of firearms. Isabel had hoped that, as this was the morning of Marmaduke’s departure for Sydney Town to sit on the jury of the Grantham murder trial, for once father and son could part company in a state of peace.

  ‘Don’t tell me how to run Bloodwood Hall. I’ve been managing this estate since you cut your milk teeth, boyo!’ Garnet roared. Clearly he found Marmaduke’s opinion an affront to his manhood.

  Marmaduke kept his anger under control although the edge in his voice was sharp enough to cut glass. ‘I’m simply confirming what every landholder in the county knows. You need men to guard this place night and day. Men who carry arms.’

  ‘Are you blind? I’ve had that in place for months past.’

  ‘Yeah, assigned men. But who knows where their sympathies would lie if bushrangers front up here to avenge Fordham the Flogger’s brutal treatment of your Government men? You, their assigned master, are legally and morally responsible, but for years you’ve appeared to tolerate Fordham’s methods.’

  ‘I’m a far better Master than any landowner around here, damn you! I’ve stopped Fordham cutting their rations. And Paddy Whickett was the last man flogged here. I leave it up to Magistrate Summerhayes to pass sentence.’

  ‘Yeah, but all this has come years too late to whiten your reputation.’

  Isabel leapt into the fray. ‘Please stop, both of you. We can’t change the past, but we can all pull together to change the future. Please don’t part in anger. If something happened to either of you – you’d never forgive yourself.’

  ‘Isabel’s right,’ Marmaduke said coolly. He offered his hand to his father, who shook it for the sake of appearances.

  Isabel managed a final word alone with Marmaduke. ‘I’m anxious about you travelling alone, armed or not, but I know you have no choice. Rupert was your friend and being on that jury is the last thing you can do to honour the memory of a great crusader. His murderers must not be allowed to go free.’

  ‘That’s if these two bolters did the deed. That’s not proven yet. I suspect it’s going to be a volatile trial. Anyone can walk off the street and enter the courtroom. James Leech had escaped from an irongang just before Rupert’s murder and the other one had bolted from his assigned master, so no doubt the court will be packed with these blokes’ sympathisers. I might find my fellow jurymen biased in their favour or ready to hang them because they are bolters.’

  ‘There could be no better man than you to sit on that jury. Rupert Grantham will be counting on you to fight to see that British justice is seen to be done!’

  Marmaduke gave a short laugh and called across to Garnet, who was observing them. ‘What did I tell you, Garnet? Forget about all that de Rolland blue-blooded crap. This is one gutsy Currency Lass!’

  Isabel remained on the terrace watching Marmaduke’s retreating figure gallop through the avenue of Bloodwood eucalypts to the iron gates, where he turned and gave her a mock military salute in final farewell.

  My God, what have I done? What if I’ve sent him to his death?

  Banishing that fear, she smiled wistfully at the memory of his parting words. ‘Being a gutsy Currency Lass must be Marmaduke’s idea of a high compliment. I’d better try to live up to it.’

  The track was bordered by bush wildflowers; Isabel rode astride her mare in the direction of the Gamble graveyard the following afternoon. The tiny, sunny faces of these native flowers were a world away in nature and geography from the English bluebells and daffodils she had gathered as a child from the fields beyond the de Rolland country manor.

  Isabel’s destination was her weekly visit to Miranda’s grave, a duty of care she had taken on in the knowledge that the ribbon-tied bouquets of flowers she took from the garden to honour Miranda’s memory were a tribute that also pleased Marmaduke, Garnet and Queenie.

  Honouring her promise to Marmaduke, she carried a lady’s muff pistol in the purse attached to her belt. But today it was difficult to be afraid. The sun was shining so brightly her shady straw hat was little protection. Heat penetrated the layers of fine cotton that already clung to her skin. She was reminded of the ever-so-correct English maxim: ‘Only men sweat, ladies perspire.’

  Isabel grinned. ‘Whoever said that had never lived in Australia. When it runs down your back and chest and soaks you to the skin, it’s sweat not perspiration!’

  Miranda’s grave was in an isolated spot on the edge of Mingaletta some distance beyond the white picket fence that bordered the graveyard so Isabel dismounted, tied her mare’s reins to the trunk of a sapling and walked on foot to the grave.

  She removed last week’s wilted flowers from the stone urn and filled it from the water bottle she had brought. She addressed a few words to Miranda’s soul as she always did. This time she was quite firm.

  ‘It is not for me to judge you, Miranda. My own past is far from spotless. But the man who loved you most is suffering terribly. If you have the power to haunt his house, as Queenie and the servants say you do, I ask your soul to show some compassion to Garnet.’

  Isabel pulled out the weeds that had grown since her last visit and arranged the fresh flowers in the stone urn.

  Ever since that extraordinary act of love with Marmaduke when she had cried for the first time in her life, Isabel had lost her fear of many things. She now felt it was quite possible that God might be listening to her, so she decided to pray as an act of faith.

  ‘Please God, let Miranda’s soul rest in peace. And bring peace to the living souls in the house. Comfort Garnet so that he will no longer feel the need to punish himself. Thy will be done, Lord, not mine. And bring Marmaduke safely home to me.’

  On her return to where her mare was tethered she passed the public right of way that cut across the Gamble estate, granting access to any villagers who wanted to tend the graves of the pioneers buried in Garnet’s family graveyard.

  At the far end of this lane where it joined the road to the village, Isabel noticed a stationary carriage. Even at that distance the elegant lines proclaimed it was a fashionable carriage; it was drawn by a pair of greys. The livery-clad driver had alighted to stretch his legs and smoke a pipe. Who in that backwater village owned a carriage as fine as this?

  The graveyard was empty except for its staggered rows of tombstones but Isabel’s throat constricted with fear at the sight of a gentleman’s top hat resting on a raised marble tombstone. A hat tied with a black chiffon streamer of mourning. Beside it lay a gold and ebony walking stick.

  Her heart raced with sickening speed. From behind the wall of Garnet’s mausoleum emerged the tall figure of a gentleman of rank dressed in mourning regalia, a black armband on the sleeve of his tailcoat.

  The sun shone on his light brown hair and his smiling face but Isabel gave a shudder of dread.

  ‘What are you doing here, Silas?’ she demanded.

  ‘Waiting for you, ma petite cousine. I was told in the village it i
s your custom to visit here each Friday. What else would I be doing in this God-forsaken hole?’ His laugh was light and careless. ‘I promised I would come to rescue you. Did you doubt it?’

  Rescue me. Isabel took a step backwards, relieved that her horse was tethered only a few feet away ready for her to take flight. The mare gave a whinny as if to reassure her of its presence.

  ‘You have no right to come here, Silas. This is private property,’ she stammered.

  ‘Not so, cousin. Even local rustics have right of way to honour their dead. Why are you so surprised to see me? The letter I placed in your cabin trunk made it clear—’

  ‘I chose not to open it. I have no wish to see you again. Ever.’

  There was an expression of hurt on Silas’s face that might have convinced a stranger.

  ‘But Isabel, I have travelled thirteen thousand miles on an appallingly uncomfortable vessel to honour my promise to you. And bring you Uncle Godfrey’s sad news.’

  ‘Uncle Godfrey? Tell me, what’s wrong. Now!’

  ‘Not so hasty, cousin. What became of the fine de Rolland manners you were taught? Tut, tut. Don’t tell me that Emancipist’s son has reduced you to the level of a Colonial wench in less than a year?’

  Isabel clenched her damp palms, determined not to play by the rules of his game.

  Silas is toying with me, confident that his charm is his birthright. What people said is true. He does look like a taller male version of me – enough to be mistaken for my brother. I must avoid looking directly at his eyes. Marmaduke, why aren’t you here when I need you?

  Despite her panic she managed to answer coolly. ‘I see you are in full mourning. For Martha? Not for Uncle Godfrey? He was well when I left London. Be so good as to deliver his message – then leave.’

  Silas flipped the tails of his tailcoat and seated himself beside his hat on the tombstone as casually as if he were an invited guest at a tea party. His eyes were laughing, their power momentarily softened. Silas looked able to live outside of time. He never seemed to have aged beyond his early thirties, except for the fine pencil-thin lines on either side of his mouth.