Ghost Gum Valley

by Johanna Nicholls

  The house appeared to be deserted but when Isabel saw Garnet stride out the front door to where Davey held the reins of a saddled horse, she hurried after him.

  ‘Where’s Marmaduke? What’s wrong, Garnet?

  ‘You must rest, m’dear. This is men’s business. All will be well.’

  Placing his boot in Davey’s cupped hands, Garnet hoisted himself into the saddle and rode off at a gallop.

  Isabel grabbed hold of Davey and demanded he tell her where the men had gone.

  ‘To the cricket ground, ma’am.’

  Oh God, that means Marmaduke’s going to fight a duel with Silas!

  When Isabel halted the mare at the edge of the oval there was no sign of the duellists or their seconds. From the sunburnt grass around the cricket pitch little eddies of dust were caught by the breeze. The miniature grandstand was empty. There would be no spectators at this match – except for Garnet. He was standing in the shade of a RedGum, his hands flexing at his sides.

  Cold with fear, Isabel rode up to him.

  ‘I’m not leaving,’ she said defensively. ‘Garnet! We must stop this!’

  ‘It’s already too late,’ he said quietly.

  Dear God I’ll promise you anything if you’ll just keep Marmaduke alive! Silas tried to destroy Rose Alba’s innocence as he did mine. But better he should go free than risk Marmaduke’s life. What price revenge if Marmaduke dies?

  Isabel screamed silently with frustration when she saw all five men ride up, tethering their horses at the far end of the oval in the shade of giant eucalypts.

  They sauntered on to the field almost as if they were preparing for a game of cricket. Marmaduke bent his head to listen to Edwin’s directions. He was dressed in a plain white shirt open at the throat and moleskin trousers and bare-headed, his hair tied back against the breeze. He looked serious and strained as if he had slept little that night.

  Isabel kept saying his name like a prayer, hoping God was listening.

  She forced herself to look at Silas. Flanked by Murray Robertson and Rhys Powell, he looked as nonchalant as if a duel were an everyday occurrence. He was dressed in an immaculate morning suit and casually draped his jacket across a bench, balancing his top hat beside them.

  Isabel saw his hand linger on the gold knob of the ebony cane, the source of his laudanum.

  The four men assembled around Edwin to discuss details of the duel and check the pistols to everyone’s satisfaction.

  Isabel wanted to charge her horse into the middle of the pitch and force them to put an end to the manly posturing that could end in tragedy just as had happened nine years earlier on this same ground. But she knew that any distraction could be dangerous to Marmaduke’s concentration.

  Refusing to obey Garnet by leaving, she dismounted and only agreed to conceal herself from sight in the bush.

  Seen from this distance Silas looked as handsome as her first childhood memory of him, ‘the brave soldier returned from the wars’. Now the wind ruffled his hair, the same colour as hers. Her de Rolland ‘double cousin’ appeared so youthful she found it difficult to accept that he was close in age to Garnet.

  The illusion of gallantry was shattered by Silas’s outburst of hostility.

  ‘For God’s sake, Bentleigh, what do you think you’re playing at? Do hurry along. I’ve better things to do than give you lessons...No no, that’s not how it’s done! Don’t you Colonials even know how to conduct a proper duel...? Never heard of the Code Duello?’

  Edwin’s reply was quiet but in no way intimidated. ‘If you’re such a stickler for the duelling code, de Rolland, why did you fail to appoint your own second?’

  ‘What?’ Silas gave a contemptuous laugh. ‘And allow another gentleman to witness this farce? A duel must only be fought between men of equal rank.’ He flicked his wrist in Marmaduke’s direction. ‘There’s no man more inferior than a convict’s spawn.’

  Isabel was outraged. She felt the babe kicking in her womb in empathy.

  I’m cursed in being your equal, Silas! If only I were a man I’d kill you.

  Her eyes hungrily followed Marmaduke’s every movement, the line of his head, his limbs, the gestures of his fine hands. This man was the centre of her world. He had taught her how to love and created within her body the gift of life. Sunlight highlighted the coil of long dark hair hanging down his back as he walked away from her. He was so virile, so wonderfully alive. Yet seconds from now he could be dead. His name was her prayer.

  Marmaduke and Silas stood back to back. She held her breath as they began the measured walk away from each other.

  Time was stretched to breaking point as Edwin counted the twenty paces...eighteen, nineteen...

  Then it happened. Silas whirled around, aimed his pistol at Marmaduke’s back – and fired. Marmaduke staggered. Voices shouted in outrage. Isabel tried to run to him, but Garnet, white in the face, held her back.

  ‘It’s not over, lass!’

  Edwin and Rhys ran to Marmaduke’s side as he rose unsteadily to his feet. His right arm had been hit. Blood stained his sleeve. He tried to steady his pistol with both hands.

  Garnet held Isabel against his chest but his eyes never left his son’s face and his voice was unnaturally calm.

  ‘Marmaduke has the right to return fire.’ He added under his breath, ‘Shoot him down like a dog, son!’

  Silas stood transfixed, his face contorted with an expression Isabel had never seen before – a look of sheer terror.

  It was then Isabel saw that Silas was staring at the thing that she had feared all her life. The Other.

  The figure stood behind Marmaduke’s right shoulder. All eyes were fixed on Marmaduke as he tried to remain upright and take aim at Silas. No one on the field seemed to be aware of the man in the black cloak as he walked steadily towards Silas. The Other slowly pulled his hood back to reveal his face.

  But Isabel saw it wasn’t a face at all. In its place was the white death mask of Klaus von Starbold.

  Isabel swayed against Garnet. ‘Can’t you see what I see? That other man in the black cloak?’

  Garnet looked confused. ‘What other man? You’re as pale as a ghost!’

  Isabel pointed at Silas. ‘Look, Garnet. Look at Silas’s face. He can see it too!’

  Sweat poured down Marmaduke’s forehead and stung his eyes, blurring his vision. His hands shook as he tried to grasp the pistol with both hands. Pain seared along his right arm and he felt oddly surprised to see blood running in rivulets between the fingers of his right hand.

  He had a vivid memory of his German father lying at the other end of the pitch – in the exact place where Silas de Rolland now stood rigid, staring at him.

  He’s afraid. Jesus, he looks like Isabel. What’s preventing me from returning his fire? My hands seem frozen – why the Hell can’t I fire this bloody pistol?

  Silas de Rolland gave a broken cry and staggered back a pace. His face took on an expression of indescribable horror. His eyes bulged as he stared in front of him, his hands raised as if warding off some unseen adversary. He grappled the air a few inches in front of his face then began clawing at his throat.

  Silas was choking, desperate to gasp out the words, ‘Who – are – you?’

  Thrust backwards as if by an unseen force, he lay writhing on the ground.

  All four men on the field moved towards him. Murray Robertson bent over him.

  Marmaduke staggered up to the prone body, bewildered.

  What the Hell do I do now?

  Silas’s eyes were wide open, his mouth twisted in a ghastly leer.

  ‘I thought I was immortal but he’s come for me. The Angel – of Death!

  Marmaduke watched in silence as his enemy died with his eyes wide open.

  Isabel leant against the trunk of a tree, watching the men circle around Silas de Rolland, arguing about what to do with his body. Garnet hesitated about joining them.

  ‘Go to Marmaduke. I’m all right, Garnet, but I need to be alone for a
few minutes.’

  Isabel’s first instinct had been to thank God for the death of the kinsman who had blighted her life. Instead she chanted a mantra of gratitude that her beloved Marmaduke, though torn and bleeding, was alive.

  Aware of the rapidly overlapping voices that fired questions at Edwin as they all stood around the corpse, Isabel was relieved when Garnet whipped off his cravat and tied it around Marmaduke’s arm to staunch the flow of blood.

  Isabel knew it was her role to go to her husband’s side to take care of him but she was suddenly so drained of energy she could not move. She knew she was in shock.

  It seemed each man present had the perfect solution about disposing of the body, but no two of them agreed as to what that was.

  Ever practical Murray Robertson was closest to Edwin’s line of thinking.

  ‘A duel has been fought. A man of Quality canna be made to disappear into thin air. De Rolland took a year’s lease on Penkivil Park, his house is full of Exclusives and he’s heir to a wee fortune in England. He needs to be given a proper funeral or else the Colonial newspapers will suggest there’s been foul play. Ye know how they love to dig their teeth into a juicy scandal.’

  Marmaduke’s voice was weary. ‘Maybe I’m biased because I’ve already killed one man here, but why hand the Colony a scandal on a plate? No one but us ever needs to know that this duel took place.’

  ‘Quite correct,’ said Edwin. ‘Silas de Rolland did not die as a direct result of a duel. Any autopsy would show there’s not a mark on him. And we are all witnesses to the fact that Marmaduke’s pistol never fired a shot.’

  There was a pause until Murray asked, ‘Exactly what did kill him? Heart failure? Laudanum? Fear?’

  Rhys said quickly, ‘Indeed, fear it was. I saw de Rolland’s face full on. I swear to you it was as if the man really was looking into the face of the Angel of Death.’

  Isabel was about to go to Rhys’s side to confirm her sighting of the apparition but Marmaduke, light-headed from shock, dismissed the idea.

  ‘I reckon we should dump his body miles away in the bush. Then spread some rumour around the village about how he disappeared.’

  Garnet Gamble had been silent. He looked coldly down at the body of his enemy from the house of de Rolland.

  ‘Get a crowbar. I’ve got the perfect place for him to spend eternity.’ He paused for dramatic effect. ‘Where’s the last place the traps would think to look for an English nobleman who’s disappeared?’

  Marmaduke looked at him in admiration. ‘Father, are you suggesting what I think you are?’

  ‘You’re damned right I am, son. All you need to do is gemmy off the top of the tomb in my mausoleum.’

  Isabel covered her mouth to stop herself laughing at the macabre idea. For a man who was half crazy, Garnet had come up with a better, more devious solution than the combination of three sane men and a barrister.

  Garnet was adamant. ‘No trap would think of looking for the bastard in my grave!’

  Isabel felt disoriented as she watched them. They were like senior schoolboys, exhilarated by the solution as they slung Silas de Rolland’s body over the back of Garnet Gamble’s horse and tried to make a suitably solemn procession, their hats over their hearts, as they wended their way downhill to the Gamble graveyard.

  Pale and exhausted, Marmaduke guided Isabel’s mare along the track, concerned that she might be suffering from a double dose of shock.

  ‘You all right, love? I’ll take you home right now if you’re not up to it.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said crisply. ‘I want to make sure Silas really is dead and buried.’

  In truth Isabel felt as if she was observing the scene from outside her own body. She kept looking at Silas’s limp hands swinging over the horse’s side and felt confused by the conflicting childhood memories of those hands. Stroking her hair tenderly. Holding her under the water of the lake until she lost consciousness. Touching her in the dark of night in her bed as a child. Determined to block the images from her mind she nodded approval when Marmaduke leant on his father’s shoulder for support.

  ‘This is a generous gesture, Garnet. I know what that mausoleum cost you and what it meant to you to have a grand funeral.’

  ‘Aye, lad, but I don’t intend to fall off the twig for years yet. I’ve got a grandson on the way and this time I don’t intend to fail. It will take me a few years to make a real man of him.’

  Marmaduke gave a hoot of laughter and sought support from his ally.

  ‘Hey, Isabel, are you just going to sit there and not defend your husband’s honour?’

  Isabel shook her head in irritation. ‘What honour? I’ve got bigger things on my mind right now.’

  Murray arrived with a crowbar and the men removed the body from the horse, carried it inside the mausoleum ready to open the sarcophagus.

  Isabel waited outside, feeling strangely restless as she listened to them urging each other how to hoist the top off the sarcophagus.

  Garnet was giving directions. ‘Come on you lads, pull together, that’s the style.’

  ‘Jesus, he’s as heavy as a dead weight,’ said a voice, followed by smothered, embarrassed laughter.

  ‘Shouldn’t we say a prayer or something?’ Rhys asked.

  Marmaduke said, ‘Feel free to say whatever makes you happy, but don’t ask me to say Amen.’

  Murray agreed, ‘Aye, but we’d best ask Isabel what faith her kinsman professed. I can do it if he was a Catholic.’

  Isabel was so eager to depart the scene she yelled back at them, ‘My cousin didn’t believe in God. He only believed in the power of the Devil – and himself!’

  This was followed by an uneasy silence. The men filed sheepishly out of the mausoleum, advising Rhys to offer up whatever prayer came to mind. And lock up after him.

  Marmaduke rejoined her. ‘I’d best get you home, sweetheart. Hey, what’s wrong?’

  Isabel pointed a trembling finger in the direction of the valley. ‘What on earth have you done to Mingaletta? I thought it was almost finished. I’d arranged with Queenie to give birth to the babe in our new home! Now you’ve ruined everything!’

  She was crying like a tired child throwing a tantrum, unwilling to stem the flow of her tears.

  Marmaduke was ready to promise her the world. ‘I’ll finish the house in plenty of time, I promise.’

  ‘No, you won’t! It’s coming right now!’

  Marmaduke looked blank. ‘It can’t be. It’s too early.’

  ‘Try telling that to the babe. It’s coming, ready or not!’

  ‘Right, I’ll get you home to Queenie.’

  ‘No! I’m not going to let Silas de Rolland manipulate my life from the grave. I’m going to give birth to my baby my way – at Mingaletta!’

  Before Marmaduke could prevent her, Isabel dug her heels into the mare’s flanks and rode off towards the ruins of Mingaletta.

  She looked back Marmaduke. He threw up his hands in frustration and winced at the pain in his injured arm.

  ‘You heard the lady. Send for Queenie and bring everything she tells you. We’ve got a babe to deliver!’

  The scene around the new skeletal timber frame of the Mingaletta homestead was chaotic. It looked to Marmaduke like some makeshift hospital on a battlefield with everyone giving each other orders. Only Queenie was calm and in control, directing Marmaduke, Garnet and Bridget to bring her whatever she needed. Garnet for once was subservient to Queenie’s orders. The cauldron was bubbling with boiling water over an open fire. Figures were running back and forth with buckets, drawing still more water from the well.

  Marmaduke hurried back to Isabel’s side. Inside the wine cellar a padded calico palliase had been spread out on the floor for her to lie on and the room was well lit by candles and hurricane lamps hanging from the rafters.

  ‘How are feeling, my love?’ he asked gently.

  ‘What a fool question is that?’ Isabel snapped, engulfed by the onslaught of another contraction.


  Queenie gave him a nod to reassure him this was perfectly normal behaviour at this late stage of labour. She signalled she would return in a moment then slipped outside.

  Marmaduke remained calm and soothing in the face of Isabel’s demands, smiling despite the savage bite of her fingernails in his flesh as she rode out each contraction. He was oddly comforted by the sight of Klaus von Starbold’s gold watch lying open on a makeshift table to register the frequency of Isabel’s contractions.

  The time between them grew shorter, the contractions more violent. Isabel screamed out words he didn’t realise she knew existed. Marmaduke cracked.

  He took her face between his hands and fervently assured her.

  ‘I swear by all that is holy, my darling, I will never put you through this hell again. I shall never ever lay a hand on you. We will live as brother and sister. I am a swine for making you go through this!’

  Isabel caught her breath. ‘Oh shut up, Marmaduke. Spare me the melodrama. This is my big scene – not yours!’ Her eyes widened. ‘Oh God, there’s another one coming!’

  She gave a deep moan and dug her fingernails into his back.

  Standing outside the cellar door, Garnet was deathly pale, shaken by the sound of Isabel’s cries and forced to remember the terrible images of Miranda’s deathbed and the child trapped in her womb. He felt a glimmer of relief when Queenie’s head appeared around the door.

  ‘Whisky, and plenty of it. Pronto!’

  Garnet raced for the box of liquor he had brought and delivered it to her.

  ‘Not for me,’ Queenie said tartly, ‘fill those two big bowls, one of cold water, one hot but not boiling. Towels, and set them up on that trestle table over there.’

  She was gone. Garnet followed her instructions, hearing Isabel’s deep, guttural cries of labour and Marmaduke’s reassuring voice. But there was no sound of a baby’s cry.

  Isabel’s moans suddenly ceased – followed by an ominous silence.

  Marmaduke came from the cellar ashen-faced, holding a bundle in his arms. He thrust it in Garnet’s arms.