Ghost Gum Valley

by Johanna Nicholls

  Isabel handed her the basket of little luxuries and apologised for her long absence.

  ‘You know how they keep me closeted, Aunt.’

  ‘The de Rollands fear history will repeat itself.’ At Isabel’s startled look, she added quickly, ‘I refer to my own wayward past. May I offer you tea, my dear?’

  ‘There isn’t time, Aunt. I came to say goodbye. I must leave for London tomorrow.’

  ‘I wish you a safe journey. How goes my brother?’ Elisabeth asked stiffly. ‘Not that I expect he’d acknowledge my existence after all these years. But rumours reach me even in this hamlet. I hear that he’s a hair’s breadth from debtors’ prison.’

  ‘Rest assured Uncle Godfrey is well and the family fortunes restored. I cannot stay long. I only came to tell you he has arranged for me to marry into the family of a wealthy Emancipist in New South Wales.’

  Elisabeth was shocked. ‘The Penal Colony!’

  ‘Yes. I don’t know how this will affect my financial situation.’ Isabel raised her hand. ‘But I swear by hook or by crook I’ll find some way to take care of you!’

  ‘I’ll survive. You can only do what is possible. To be born a woman is to be born powerless.’ She reached out and clasped Isabel’s hand. ‘But New South Wales is the other side of the world. Promise you’ll write to me!’

  ‘Do you think I could leave you behind? You must follow me later. Meanwhile...’

  Isabel handed her the money purse but despite her aunt’s surprise at the weight of it, she was once and always a gentlewoman so did not count the contents.

  ‘I shall send you my address and money for your passage as soon as I’m able. But, of course, the colonial family must never know about my past.’

  Elisabeth’s tone was wistful. ‘No doubt your marriage is for the best. There was no future for you here. But I can’t imagine what it must be like to leave England forever!’

  Isabel summoned up her courage to ask the question she trusted no one else to answer. ‘You know that since childhood I have sometimes caught glimpses of the Other. Those beings who seem to talk to me in my head – and then dissolve like smoke in front of my eyes. Well, now everything’s changed. I saw a real flesh and blood man leap to his death from the parapet. But he wasn’t real. It was a ghost.’

  Elisabeth’s hands flew to her mouth. ‘Oh God, my brother Henri!’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry to shock you, Aunt. Cousin Silas has seen him, too. Silas believes his mother and mine, two sisters, came from a line of witches. I’ve just discovered a document stating Mother was accused of witchcraft and murder. Is that true?’

  ‘A scurrilous lie. Alizon and her sister used herbs to heal illness. I never saw signs of any attraction to the black arts – except from Henri – and Silas.’ She hastily turned the subject to her beloved lost garden. ‘I suppose the roses were beautiful this year?’

  ‘Old Fletcher is bent double with ague but he tends your knot garden with great care. Especially your white roses.’ Isabel hesitated. ‘How is our own Rose Alba?’

  ‘Growing more beautiful each year. Come, see for yourself.’

  Isabel rose on the edge of panic. ‘No! I must return. Or I’ll be missed.’

  There is only so much pain I can bear. I feel that I’m leaving my heart behind.

  Aunt Elisabeth took her firmly by the hand and drew her to the room in which she slept. The little girl lay asleep in her cot, her heart-shaped face framed by a circle of blonde curls, her eyelashes like tiny fans on her pale cheeks.

  Isabel caught her breath. ‘She reminds me of what that ancient Pope Gregory said when he saw blonde Anglo-Saxon children in a slave market. “Not Angles, but Angels.”’

  ‘An angel, indeed, sweet of nature. But it’s au revoir, not goodbye,’ Aunt Elisabeth said firmly to banish her own tears. ‘Now hurry back.’

  Dry-eyed Isabel kissed her Aunt’s tear-stained cheek and heavy of heart hurriedly retraced her steps through the fields.

  Isabel found Agnes busily packing her freshly laundered clothing and airing Martha’s grey travelling ensemble to remove the smell of the lavender that kept moths at bay.

  ‘Where have you been, lamb? I’ve been looking all over for you. The coach for London passes early in the morning. I’m to accompany you to the Master’s townhouse and stay with you until your ship sails. That’s something, eh?’

  ‘I regret if I have made life difficult for you, Agnes. Please don’t worry that I’ll run away. I must say goodbye to Cousin Martha, despite the ban on my visits.’

  Too late. The drawbridge to the sickroom was already raised. Isabel reached the door of Martha’s room only to be blocked by the emerging figure of Cousin Silas. He gently assured Isabel she could see Martha on her return from London and Paris.

  Isabel was tired of all the deceitful family games. ‘When did you plan to tell me that Paris is now in New South Wales, Cousin? And that the marriage contract is already signed.’

  Silas spun around, his face the mask of a stranger. Would his eyes take on that strange expression that had frightened her as a child? She felt so anxious she almost forgot to breathe. But when Silas spoke she was surprised by the tenderness in his voice.

  ‘Do you honestly believe I was party to this plan? Have you forgotten how I forgave you for your disgrace? Ma petite cousine, don’t you know that I love you as no other man will ever love you?’

  ‘You must not speak to me like this. It isn’t right,’ she stammered.

  His expression was more sad than angry. ‘How strange to hear you take the high moral ground – after the heinous crime you committed. My silence made me your partner in crime. Must I lie to protect you again?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You can tell me the truth, Isabel. An infant’s corpse has been found buried in the woods. Was it the bastard of some drudge who gave birth there? Or was it your bastard?’

  Isabel’s mouth dried fear. Would this unexpected discovery cause Silas to probe deeper into her self-confessed crime of infanticide?

  Which lie is the safest? How can I protect Rose Alba’s fate from the family’s control?

  Despite her fear of the powerful aura that surrounded Silas, she met his eyes.

  ‘Mine. What’s more I’d do it again.’

  Silas gave a sigh of resignation. ‘May God forgive you, Isabel.’

  ‘God might. But I shall never forgive him, whoever he was.’

  ‘You depart at dawn for London,’ he said. ‘Uncle Godfrey insists I remain at Martha’s bedside. So this is the last time we’ll be alone.’

  Silas moved towards her. Isabel felt drawn to him as surely as if a magnet linked her soul to his. With a great effort of will she made a swift curtsey then backed towards the door.

  ‘Don’t worry, Cousin,’ she stammered. ‘Family honour has been preserved – in public. In a few weeks you’ll be free of me forever.’

  ‘No, Isabel. We will never be free of each other. That is your destiny.’

  CHAPTER 6

  Sydney Town, Penal Colony of New South Wales, February 1833

  ‘Will Shakespeare was right. Parting is such sweet sorrow – when you are the lover I must leave, my sweet lady.’

  Marmaduke said the words gently. Naked and damp with sweat he looked down at her as she lay like a full-blown rose, her plump body creamy pale in the moonlight that filtered through the milky screen of the roof of the glasshouse. When she stirred and looked up at him with that soft dreamy expression of fulfilment, he felt rewarded for his patience during the weeks of their liaison. He had awakened her to her true nature.

  ‘You are a special man, my dear. I shall never forget you. But as this is our last time, can’t you stay a little longer?’ She almost said his name but Marmaduke’s warning look reminded her it was taboo.

  ‘I know. No names. You’re quite right. I agreed to your rules for the sake of discretion. And you did warn me we would share great pleasure with no love involved.’

  ‘You are worthy o
f great love, sweet lady. But it is not in my nature to love any woman. And you know I can’t stay until dawn. I must protect your good name.’

  Marmaduke avoided her eyes, knowing this was a half truth. It was his ironclad rule never to be discovered in a lover’s bed at breakfast. A condition designed to create for each lady a memorably erotic experience – a romantic illusion that would be shattered by his early morning raspy voice, unshaven jaw and the headache that made him uncivilised until after two cups of coffee. This agreement for him to depart from a lover’s bed under cover of darkness was established at the beginning of each liaison. Marmaduke knew he was valued for his discretion – it had opened a surprising number of bedchamber doors for him.

  ‘Please stay, my dear,’ she pleaded. ‘You know I have always loved my husband but I was a great disappointment to him. I believed I was cold by nature until you showed me who I really am. Each night you have always been the giver. This last time please allow me to be the lover who gives more. I want you to remember the woman you set free.’

  Marmaduke hesitated. This latest ‘sweet lady’, whose name he never used but knew to be Mrs Cagney, was not like any other woman he had bedded. Modest and faithful during her marriage to the husband who had rejected her, she had been in despair when Marmaduke first met her. She had long ago lost her husband’s love but Marmaduke had introduced her to the world of the senses. Now she was a very different woman. Her pale blue eyes expressed the passion of a young girl in the delicately lined face of a thirty-five-year-old woman.

  Marmaduke had only intended to kiss her lips in farewell but he discovered he had taught her too well. Her hands caressed him with gentle urgency, stroking his face, his chest, his thighs, drawing him to her with the courtesans’ tricks that he had shown her. Her mouth covered his body with passionate, demanding kisses, gently biting him. She grew in confidence as he responded to her seduction, murmuring his pleasure to encourage and excite her. He knew it was now too late to make his planned exit. He must allow her to use his body, departing in the knowledge that she now possessed all the love arts she needed to win back her husband.

  Marmaduke stroked the long Nordic blonde hair with its delicate grey streaks, kissed her neck and guided her tentative hands in the ultimate caresses she needed to make him break his last taboo.

  ‘Please,’ she whispered, ‘you have driven me crazy with delight but you’ve never once lost control. How do I know if I can succeed without you, unless—’

  ‘Hush, sweet lady. You must remember the thing you want most – a babe with your husband. There must be no doubt of that. Every child deserves to know its true father. And you know I’ve vowed never to risk fathering children.’

  She clasped her hands around his waist, dug her fingernails into his back and, in a rising peak of passion, entwined her legs around him to hold him captive.

  ‘Let me love you completely. I shall never see you again. The shield you use to keep a woman safe, I beg you, use it again!’

  Marmaduke tried to calm her with kisses. ‘Safe, sweet lady, but not infallible! Nothing is. Forgive me, I can’t risk it.’

  Marmaduke held her in his arms while wrestling with his personal code of ethics. When they first came together he did so knowing she had been publicly and privately humiliated by her philandering husband Sean Cagney. Marmaduke had decided she deserved every bedroom art he could teach her. But now it was no longer a simple question of keeping to their original arrangement to explore everything, teach her everything.

  Marmaduke knew that all Sydney Town gossiped about her rival. This lusty young former convict had Sean Cagney so infatuated she drove around in his carriage flashily dressed, determined to replace his wife.

  Marmaduke realised that for once he had lost control of the game. He did not have the heart to deny this sweet lady’s desperate need to prove her powers of seduction.

  God willing my luck holds and the damned shield will protect us both.

  He held her face between his hands, kissed her with a well-judged measure of ‘uncontrolled’ passion and cried out in fervour.

  ‘My God, you’re so beautiful. I can’t resist you!’

  The lady’s joyous cry of triumph was his reward.

  Marmaduke awoke at dawn feeling distinctly uneasy but unable to pinpoint the reason. It was not until he heard the mocking sound of a kookaburra’s laughter and his eyes focused on the shadow play of sunlight on the rows of exotic plants around him that he remembered where he was – lying on the floor of the glasshouse on Sean Cagney’s estate. Cagney’s naked wife lay asleep with her head on his shoulder. The fine age lines of her face were erased except for her sleepy smile. Her body was as supple and relaxed as a cat. He felt a flash of satisfaction followed by anger at himself for breaking his arch rule – never stay till dawn.

  Marmaduke gave a wry smile at the sight of the fall of false hair that had parted company with her own and lay across the bedroll like an exhausted lap dog.

  ‘Wake up, my sweet lady.’

  He kissed her cheek like an absent-minded friend, helped her to dress and secured the bedroll out of sight.

  Mrs Cagney reached out to stroke his cheek. ‘I’ll never forget you.’

  ‘Nor I you! But you must return to the house right now! Take some flowers with you in case you are spotted in the garden. My reputation is of no consequence. Yours is precious. Remember your husband is returning from Van Diemen’s Land next week!’

  She sighed with resignation. ‘Yes, but with his young mistress. He intends to pack me off on the next ship to England and instal her in my place.’

  Marmaduke hid his growing agitation. ‘For your own sake, please leave me now.’

  As he watched her saunter dreamily back to the house with a bunch of flowers in her arms, he hastily dressed, slung his coat over his shoulder and headed for the tradesmen’s gate. He congratulated himself on his narrow escape too soon and was confronted by the sight of a carriage approaching along the carriageway towards the villa. Marmaduke knew his luck had run out when he identified the carriage by the coachman’s livery.

  It’s Sean Cagney! Just for once, God, I’m asking you to save my skin, not for my sake but to protect that sweet lady.

  He had seconds to decide. Flee or face the consequences? Salvation came in the form of an abandoned garden hoe. He ditched his coat jacket, rubbed soil on his face and shirtsleeves and began diligently hoeing the rose garden.

  When Cagney ordered the carriage to draw level with him, Marmaduke wore the hang-dog expression common to many assigned men. The older man’s gravelly voice sounded as if he had just smoked a box of Cuban cigars. His thick crop of greying red hair and heavy Irish jaw suggested he could be a jovial singing drunk one minute and a fighting drunk the next. Right now he had the look of a husband who had been rogering his mistress and has come home half satiated, half guilty.

  Sean Cagney addressed Marmaduke in the arch tone of master to servant. ‘This rose garden is a damned disgrace.’

  Marmaduke quickly ran through his options. I haven’t a hope in hell of fooling an Irishman with a fake Irish accent. I’d better try a Geordie one.

  He mumbled a reply so thickly accented it was undecipherable. But Sean Cagney cut across his words.

  ‘Hang on! Haven’t I been seeing you before? Who are you? No Government man sports a ridiculous head of hair like yours!’

  Marmaduke answered with real pride. ‘I’m a free man. Earnt me ticket-of-leave, I did. Hired to landscape your garden!’ For a moment Marmaduke wasn’t sure if the cuckold had bought his story.

  Cagney seemed to waver. ‘Well, if this is being the best example of your work, you ain’t worth your salt. Get back to work!’

  Before Marmaduke had time to mask his relief at his reprieve, Cagney ordered his coachman to proceed to the villa.

  Marmaduke whistled, light of heart, as he jogged along the new road being built by the convict labour of an iron-gang shackled together. He sent up a vote of thanks to Aphrodite, go
ddess of love and other related matters, that Cagney had not noticed his flash new landau when driving past it. Thomas had stationed it in a spot discreetly screened by the bush. As Marmaduke approached it the driver was slumped asleep on his box seat but woke up startled and apologetic.

  ‘Shall I return you to the Princess Alexandrina, Marmaduke?’

  ‘A short drive around the harbour foreshores, Thomas. I’m in need of fresh air.’

  On arriving at the curve of a bay where a sliver of golden sand was sucked by the incoming tide, Marmaduke felt drawn to the water.

  ‘Drop me down here, Thomas. Order yourself a decent breakfast at the new inn down the road. Come back for me in, say, an hour,’ he said, handing him money to cover the meal.

  Marmaduke removed his brandy flask and one of the books he kept on board then strode down to the water’s edge.

  Relieved to find this serene little cove deserted, Marmaduke sank down on the grassy verge that sloped down to the beach. Despite its pristine beauty his mood suddenly plummeted and he gazed disconsolately at the tranquil scene. Not a soul in sight. The only signs of life were seagulls. Close at hand, two fat specimens squawked in a high-pitched argument as they struggled to gain a share of their prize – a fish, flapping in its death throes.

  These raucous birds seemed to symbolise what his life had become – a string of clandestine, meaningless liaisons. Women he called ‘sweet lady’ but never by name. Each one brought him intense but transitory sensual gratification. He did not include Cagney’s wife on this list but his other fleeting affairs had left him in a place somewhere between irony and emptiness. He performed so well that these ladies of Quality would do anything to please him in bed; however none would ever risk her place in Society by publicly acknowledging one of the ‘untouchables’ – the son of an Emancipist.