Isabel grabbed the magnifying glass and read the words in the margin, ‘See Notes’ and an arrow pointed to the reverse side. With care she turned the document over.
‘It says Henri accused my mother of killing her sister – by witchcraft.’
Agnes evaded her eyes, a sure sign she knew the story. Isabel was stunned. The date of the Not Proven entry was followed by the date of her parents’ wedding. She realised Godfrey de Rolland must have relented and given his consent in time to legitimise her birth. She was born on 8 November 1815 – five months after their marriage.
‘Agnes! That’s the mystery no one would tell me. Mother was accused of witchcraft! Cousin Silas said she was descended from one of the Lancastrian witches burned at the stake. Silas is right! I am cursed!’
Isabel felt the library walls spinning rapidly around her. Sick with panic and, overcome by nausea, she felt herself falling into a black whirlpool. Agnes ran to her side.
‘I’m not a bastard, Agnes,’ she mumbled, dazed, ‘but I am a witch.’
‘Hush, no more talk of witches. Your mother was a pretty young thing. All she did was give her sister herbal physic when she was ill. Alizon would nay hurt a fly.’
Isabel realised she owed her guardian a threefold debt of gratitude – allowing her to be born legitimate, making her his ward and then standing by her in her own disgrace.
I can’t change my ancestors or my own shameful past. But I shall do my utmost to prove to Uncle I’m worthy to bear the de Rolland name.
At the sound of an approaching carriage Isabel hurried with Agnes to the window, where a new phaeton charged down the snow-covered carriageway. Isabel recognised the man’s elegant cape and high-crowned hat.
‘How on earth can Cousin Silas afford new carriages and fashionable clothes when we’re on the brink of bankruptcy? Only months ago the servants said Uncle Godfrey was so deeply in debt he was about to be carted off to live under The Rules!’
Isabel was horrified by the paradox of the special debtor’s prison. It was reserved for gentlemen who lived under guard in a degree of comfort, their food, clothing and rent supplied by friends, but they were unable to leave The Rules until their debts were paid. Had Cousin Silas finally reversed his losses at the gaming table?
‘That’s the way of the world, lamb. We servants ain’t been paid in two years but fine folk always find money for luxuries.’
When the clock struck three Isabel hastily checked her appearance and flew down the corridor. Outside her guardian’s doors she turned to Agnes for reassurance.
‘Uncle hasn’t summoned me here since the day they found me in the woods. What have I done wrong? Have I been walking in my sleep again?’
‘No, lamb. You sleep like a babe. Go in with a smile. All will be well.’
This grand room was an oasis of calm. Light streamed through the windows, forming a misty prism that held wisps of cigar smoke.
She made a quick curtsey to Uncle Godfrey, who was seated at his desk, his quill scratching across a letter. He acknowledged her presence with a faint smile.
‘One moment, m’dear. This must be delivered to London today.’
Isabel studied the portraits of five generations of de Rollands that lined the walls. Despite the costumes of different eras, their features appeared to be cut from the same genetic pattern. The male faces were aquiline in youth, chiselled like white marble, becoming veined in middle age. Each face was stamped with the distinctive de Rolland mouth, the lips full and sensual, suggesting they were more venal than passionate, if Isabel could believe the legends about them. Generations of intermarriage gave them such a strong resemblance Isabel thought they could be mistaken for brothers and sisters who were dressed in period costumes for a fancy dress ball.
Isabel felt like the cuckoo in the de Rolland nest. Although she bore a marked resemblance to them in her golden brown hair and green, hooded eyes, her face was heart-shaped and she was forever marked as ‘an outsider’ because of her nose. She ran her finger down the bridge in the faint hope that, like ‘water dripping on stone’, she could alter its shape over time. The nose she had inherited from Alizon was far from aristocratic, so tip-tilted not even the French translation retroussé could comfort her. Feeling a sudden wave of guilt as she sat under the noses of her ancestors, she mentally challenged them.
Many of you weren’t shining examples of morality. Our fortune was built by privateers, rebels and slave traders. You didn’t come by this mansion by growing potatoes and grazing sheep. Don’t dare look down your aristocratic noses at me!
The silence was broken only by the scratching of her uncle’s quill until Isabel could bear the suspense no longer and cleared her throat.
‘You wished to see me, Uncle Godfrey?’
‘What? Oh yes, indeed, Isabel. Quite some time since we talked about your progress. I take it there’s been no recent recurrence of – your illness?’
‘Thank you, no. The only walking I do these days is when I am wide awake in tandem with Agnes.’
‘Quite.’ He looked embarrassed. ‘And I take it you have diligently continued your studies alone since your last governess departed?’
Departed? Mademoiselle’s dismissal was one of the economic measures you took so that Cousin Silas could keep up appearances.
‘Indeed yes, Uncle, I practise my French, Italian and Latin each day. And the pianoforte. But my German is growing rusty. Agnes told me that the wife of the Prussian clockmaker in the village heard I was learning German and invited me take tea with her. May I have your permission to accept and practise my German conversation? She is by all accounts a most respectable lady.’
Uncle Godfrey looked discomforted. ‘No doubt she is. But you have not been seen in the village for the past three years. We don’t want to risk arousing fresh speculation as to the reason a girl your age has not yet come out in Society.’
Will it never end? I might as well have served time in Prison!
‘May I at least attend church services, Uncle?’ she asked with studied sweetness. ‘I don’t care which religion, your Church of England, Cousin Martha’s Catholic Mass or Agnes’s Methodist Chapel – anywhere I can sing and ask God’s forgiveness.’ At his startled expression, she added quickly, ‘In private, of course. No confession to a priest!’
Uncle Godfrey rang the bell rope then, when a footman appeared, handed the letter to him. He silently withdrew.
‘I am not unmindful of how confined your life has been, Isabel. I do not want to revive memories painful to you. But I want you to know that I have never blamed you for the actions you committed during the periods our physician diagnosed as amnesia. You are not responsible for the sleepwalking illness God visited on you – nor its tragic consequences. But I face difficult decisions that affect every member of this family. Do you understand me, child?’
Isabel felt her face draining of colour and her tongue cleave to the roof of her mouth. He means he’s in danger of living under The Rules.
‘Uncle, I have studied hard in the hope I could take up some employment and no longer be a burden to you, to repay your great kindness to me.’
‘Burden? Repay me? You are not to think of it!’ He looked distressed. ‘I am not a man given to displays of emotion, Isabel, but from the moment you first entered this bleak old house as a child you brought the sunlight indoors. You were so alive. So eager to learn. Yes, yes, headstrong at times, but quick to apologise and loyal to a fault. Loyalty is not a quality readily found amongst our de Rolland clan. I fancy you inherited that trait from Alizon.’
Isabel felt her chest tighten with emotion to hear this belated compliment to her mother but she knew it was impossible for her to cry. Cousin Silas had told her as a child that witches can never cry.
At that moment her eyes were drawn to the looking glass and the reflection of the handsome face of the man she had adored as a child. Cousin Silas. The image smiled at her. How long had Silas been standing there?
Isabel felt torn by contradic
tory emotions as Silas advanced into the room, dressed in a fashionable plum-coloured waisted frockcoat over buff trousers and a richly brocaded waistcoat of oriental design. His shining golden-brown hair curled around his face in a poetic Byronic mode, the heart-shaped chin held high by the immaculately starched, pointed folds of his collar and the snow-white stock tied with great artifice. His face was a male version of hers.
He sauntered across the room and used his height to full advantage, looking down at her with that oddly amused expression that always unsettled her.
Something is very wrong in this room. I can feel invisible currents between them. They know my fate. I’m in the dark.
Silas bowed to them. ‘Is this the welcome I receive after weeks in France?’
‘No doubt you found ample distractions to amuse you?’ Uncle Godfrey said crisply.
‘None to compare with artless English beauty,’ Silas said.
As Isabel curtseyed to him he ran his eye over every detail of her shabby appearance.
How I detest being born a woman! Always at the mercy of men. Why wasn’t I born a man? To fight duels, go to war. I’d pay them back in kind. Take no prisoners!
Isabel found her voice and said sweetly, ‘I trust you attended the Comédie-Française? Did you see the work of the new dramatist Victor Hugo they’re calling the leader of the French Romantic movement? Marie Tudor or Lucrèce Borgia?’
Silas was amused by her eagerness. ‘Shall give you my critique later. Enough to say that Hugo’s work shows melodramatic brilliance and erudition but his characters tend to perform like puppets against their historical backgrounds. Talma was brilliant in his day but I’ve yet to see another French actor equal Edmund Kean. The actress who played Lucrèce Borgia was charming, but her voice failed to move me half as much as yours when reading Juliet, ma petite cousine.’
Isabel blushed when she realised Uncle Godfrey was observing them sharply.
‘Enough of your Froggy court manners, Silas. May I remind you you’re back on English soil? A country founded on roast beef, common sense and plain speaking.’
Silas’s voice held a hint of mockery. ‘I await the disclosure of your plain speaking with interest, Uncle. I trust that I will be given a voice in the decision?’
‘My plans are governed by a necessity not of my making. As well you know.’
Isabel saw her cousin’s full mouth tighten to a hard line. The sudden flash of his eyes made her shiver as he warned softly, ‘Be careful, Uncle.’
Uncle Godfrey frowned over the top of his pince-nez. ‘If you wish to remain, let it be on the understanding the one person entitled to voice an opinion is my ward!’
Isabel was so nervous her words came out in a rush. ‘When I know what the subject is, Uncle, I shall be pleased to do so.’
‘Marriage, m’dear. You are seventeen. High time to decide your future.’
Oh Lord, here it comes. How can I tell him it makes me sick to think of a man climbing into my bed? But I must stay calm.
‘I have no wish to marry, Uncle, now or ever. Please don’t make me do what is...repugnant to me.’
The old man held up a hand to halt her. ‘My dear child, I am not an ogre. This is almost 1833, not the Dark Ages. But the preservation of family honour is at stake here – yours and mine. I do not enjoy raking up the past. But face facts, we must. It is common knowledge our ancestral estate is under dire threat of being lost to future de Rolland generations. We three are the last of our bloodline. There are no wealthy family members to come to our rescue.’
Silas broke across his uncle’s words with barely restrained anger. ‘May I remind you, Uncle, I married a wealthy de Rolland cousin. It’s not my fault Martha’s senile father remarried and produced sons who’ve replaced her as his heirs!’
‘Leave your wife out of this! An invalid has enough to contend with!’
Isabel was overcome by guilt that she had failed to defend Martha.
Silas stood with folded arms as if prepared for combat.
Uncle Godfrey turned to Isabel. ‘The question being asked around the county is why we keep you sheltered without any evidence of suitors on the horizon?’ He added tentatively, ‘One solution would be a respectable marriage to a wealthy older gentleman who would take care of you.’
Isabel fought down her panic. ‘I am most mindful of the fine education you have given me. I beg you to allow me to take up a position as a governess in another county. That would bring an end to unwanted gossip. And I would most willingly turn my wages over to you as a small gesture of my gratitude.’
‘No, m’dear. I will not countenance the idea of a de Rolland being trapped in a downward spiral of genteel poverty as a governess. I ask you to consider the advantages of marriage to a kindly older man who would dote on you.’
Silas seized on the idea. ‘In a few short years you would be a widow, young enough to marry again and bear children. You could return to me – to us.’
Godfrey lost his temper. ‘Silas! I will not allow Isabel to be cajoled against her wishes, no matter what fate is to befall me!’
Isabel’s voice rose. ‘Uncle, I could not stand by and see you live under The Rules!’
Silas’s sudden loss of control caused Isabel’s stomach to knot in fear, reminding her of that terrible moment as a child she had seen him transformed into the face of a stranger. His silky voice was more dangerous than if he had shouted in rage.
‘We would not be faced with this threat, Uncle, if you’d allowed me to marry Isabel years ago. I’d have living heirs by now, instead of a wife who’s a permanent invalid!’
Uncle Godfrey’s face turned ruddy. ‘You know perfectly well the reasons why I had to refuse. Consanguinity. Your blood is too close!’
Double cousins can legally marry. What other reason? Why am I always left in the dark? I have a right to know.‘Uncle, the future is all that matters. I would appreciate knowing your plans.’
‘Quite so,’ her guardian said wearily. ‘You have seen so little of the world. I thought perhaps you’d welcome a journey to London to visit art galleries, attend plays. You fancy all that theatrical stuff, I take it?’
Isabel almost laughed with relief. ‘Yes! It’s long been my dream to see the great Edmund Kean. Lord Byron was said to have been so terrified by Kean’s convincing rages on stage that he suffered a fit of apoplexy. They say Kean’s Richard III holds audiences enthralled.’
‘Not surprising, really. Richard was a Plantagenet after all. We are none of us exactly famous for our cool tempers,’ he added, casting a meaningful glance at Silas before returning his gaze to Isabel. ‘I shall arrange for you to attend a play in our box at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane, His Majesty’s own company of players.’
Isabel wanted to fly across the room and hug him but decided on a more demure response. ‘Thank you indeed, Uncle!’
He scratched the long de Rolland nose, a sure sign he was nervous.
‘Actually I wasn’t merely thinking of London, m’dear. I thought perhaps a sea voyage might be beneficial for your health, as you have been confined so long indoors.’
‘A sea voyage? To France? Oh Uncle, that would be wonderful!’
He appeared flustered, ‘Very well, a visit to Paris. But I had in mind a slightly longer voyage to further your education.’ He rose to signal her release.
Isabel felt confused by her guardian’s sudden dismissal before she had time to ask questions. Was the subject of marriage to be delayed until her return from London and Paris? Would she have a right to veto the choice of suitors?
Closing the doors behind her, she checked the corridor to make sure she was alone before she peered through the keyhole, straining to piece together their broken phrases. Uncle Godfrey sounded defeated.
‘I refuse to force the girl...she’ll do the right thing by the family in the end.’
Isabel caught Silas’s rising inflection. ‘You’re old...don’t know what love is!’
‘No? But I know what love is not! You think
I don’t know where your tastes really lie? Poor Martha. I’ve just had to pay off a tenant farmer to prevent gossip about your interest in his daughter.’
‘More fool you, Uncle. I simply gave the lass a half sovereign for watering my horse...this wretched village breeds gossip faster than it breeds bastards...can’t wait to return to London...’
Isabel felt a sudden chill at Silas’s careless words. Unable to decipher their conversation as they moved out of range, she felt confused by the half-truths and innuendo of their meeting. Only one thing was clear. At last she was going to have some say in her future. She suddenly felt light of heart, drunk on hope.
I’m going to see Edmund Kean and sail across the English Channel to buy myself a Paris bonnet!
Unable to contain her happiness she gave herself up to the arms of an imaginary partner, waltzing in a dizzying spiral pattern down the corridor.
Men are only good for one thing. To lead us in the waltz!
Chapter 3
Bloodwood Hall, New South Wales, December 1832
In no man’s language could this be called a ‘homecoming’.
The giant wrought-iron gates appeared through the early morning mist as Marmaduke rode towards Bloodwood Hall. The grandiose entrance with its central carriage gates and side pedestrian gates was designed in the style favoured by Napoleon Bonaparte. Instead of the N at the heart of the iron olive wreath was the double G, a reminder that Garnet Gamble had created himself a mercantile prince of New South Wales.
Beyond these gates the avenue that stretched for a quarter-mile to the house was guarded on either side by a row of eucalypts that had doubled in height since the night Marmaduke had galloped down this carriageway blinded by rage, vowing never to return. The sight of these Bloodwood trees and their heady eucalyptus smell triggered a memory of himself as a small boy, standing at his mother’s knee on the front terrace.
Her beautiful face was lit by the glow of battle. ‘I told you, Garnet, I do not want English elms!’
Ghost Gum Valley Page 3