Ghost Gum Valley

by Johanna Nicholls

  The courier took the horse’s reins and skulked off with a hangdog expression.

  ‘These old lags must think a man’s made of money,’ Garnet snapped at Elise.

  She was overcome by curiosity. ‘It must be urgent. It could be from Marmaduke. Aren’t you going to open it?’

  Garnet knew the answer to his question before he asked it. ‘Why don’t you read it to me seeing as you’re so dead keen?’

  Elise quickly gathered up her sewing in an attempt to cover her humiliation about the illiteracy she believed was hers alone. ‘I must instruct Cook about tonight’s menu in honour of the new magistrate. Mr Summerhayes is a real gentleman.’

  The moment she was out of sight Garnet grabbed the envelope and tore open Bentleigh’s familiar wax seal. The letter was written in a copperplate hand and Garnet could only recognise his name peppered across it.

  Who in hell could he trust to read it? Perhaps he had packed his thieving secretary off to the magistrate too soon. Until a replacement arrived he was left high and dry. The only solution went against the grain.

  The old bitch hates my guts but Marmaduke’s the light of her life so no matter what Bentleigh’s letter says she won’t spread gossip about him.

  Amaru began to squawk and he turned on the bird.

  ‘Shut up, Amaru! Oh, all right, come along with me.’

  The bird perched on his shoulder and Garnet crossed the landscaped oriental garden at the rear of the house, only half aware of the beauty of the scene. On reaching the wings of the convicts’ cabins he was conscious there were no assigned labourers in sight. The familiar rhythm of the lash sounded close at hand, followed by the grunts that reminded him of a dog in pain. Fordham the Flogger was performing his favourite exercise, stepping into the role of scourger to mete out some felon’s punishment rather than wait for the new circuit magistrate to pass judgment.

  Time had hardened Garnet to this ritual. The prisoner tied to the crossbeam was young in years but old in terms of The System. His exposed back was bloody from fresh cuts of Fordham’s lash that cross-hatched the raw scars of previous floggings – what the felons called the Red Shirt.

  Garnet recognised the face that turned to fix him with a baleful stare. Paddy Whickett. No mistaking that red hair. The lad’s skin was stretched taut across the cheekbones, the bloodshot eyes bulged, the teeth clenched against each flaying of the lash. Whickett had been assigned to him several years back but rebelled so often his sentence never grew shorter.

  ‘What’s he done this time?’ Garnet demanded of Fordham.

  ‘Insubordination, blasphemy on the Sabbath, stealing Government stores from the cooling house. You name it, he’s done it.’

  ‘Right, well don’t go overboard. Make sure he’s fit to work tomorrow.’

  Garnet recognised in Whickett’s eyes the same fire of revenge he had felt himself as a young transportee. On impulse he halted Fordham.

  ‘He’s already copped enough stripes for insubordination and blasphemy.’ He turned to the prisoner. ‘Why did you steal Government stores? To barter?’

  ‘To eat! Ye don’t know what it’s like being forced to work on half rations.’

  ‘Don’t I just,’ Garnet said under his breath before he addressed the men. ‘Understand this, you lot. Government stores are supplied to feed you. Some of you were transported for stealing food. I’m not here to punish you twice for hunger. I’ll pack you off to the magistrate and see you hanged if the crime warrants it, but no man goes hungry while I’m Master here.’

  Garnet kept his face expressionless. To undercut his overseer’s authority in front of convicts was an invitation to mutiny. But he ordered Fordham to cut the prisoner loose.

  ‘Your choice, Whickett. You can continue to work here or be returned to the convict barracks in Sydney and take your chances on being assigned to a new master or an iron-gang. Which is it?’

  Paddy Whickett turned his head in the direction of the house and Garnet followed his gaze to the Irish girl standing alone with her fists clenched. Bridget.

  So that’s the attraction. I don’t like the lad’s chances. She’s more woman than any one man could tame – except me.

  Whickett eyed her as he gave his answer. ‘I’ll be taking my chances with the Devil I know.’

  Garnet turned to Fordham. ‘This dog’s young enough to learn new tricks. Give him time for his stripes to heal. He’s off the work lists as of now.’

  As he passed his overseer Garnet lowered his voice. ‘Understand me. If you cut their rations again, Fordham, I’ll have your balls for breakfast!’

  He continued down the winding track to the whitewashed two-room stone cottage that held long memories. He had built it himself as a twenty-year-old, dreaming of how he would lay the foundations of his empire when Governor Macquarie granted him a pardon. The cottage aroused images of Miranda so strong that Garnet could not erase the pain of them, yet never wanted to relinquish a single one.

  Garnet walked from his cottage to watch the spectacular sunset from the boundary of his Bloodwood grant. The adjacent estate had been granted to a British Army officer as a reward for his years of service in India. Colonel McAlpine looked straight past Garnet’s cart whenever he passed him on the road to Sydney Town, leaving his daughter in the care of her Indian servant girl.

  The ritual of sunset was Garnet’s daily hope of gaining a glimpse of his new neighbour’s daughter, a young lady of Quality. A few hundred yards beyond the slip rail boundary fence was McAlpine’s Indian bungalow, Mingaletta.

  Since her father’s departure the girl had also made it her habit to watch the sunset. Today for the first time she acknowledged Garnet with a wave and beckoned him.

  He hesitated then leapt over the fence and hurried down the hill, his heart thumping in his chest. She wore a filmy white dress. Her hair and eyes were dark, a vivid contrast to her flawless English complexion.

  He made her an awkward bow. ‘George Gamble at your service, miss. But I answer to Garnet.’

  Miranda curtsied but her eyes teased him with laughter. ‘I know who you are. Garnet Gamble, our only neighbour. It’s so lonely here. You and I are the only two young people within miles.’

  ‘We’re the only two people within miles, miss,’ he stammered.

  ‘Father’s very strict. We haven’t been properly introduced. But we are neighbours. So would you care to dine with us?’

  ‘Aye, miss. But perhaps another time when your father returns?’

  ‘You’ll be quite safe. Queenie will chaperone us.’

  Miranda teasingly gestured to the Indian servant, who wore an orange sari and was eyeing Garnet with barely concealed distrust.

  Right at that moment Garnet knew Miranda was the girl who would haunt him all the days of his life. Her beauty was breathtaking and her voice soft and musical, a cross between her father’s Scottish heritage and the lilting Hindi cadences of her childhood.

  Queenie served them but left them alone at Miranda’s request and the girl slipped into using the name Garnet as easily as if she had known him for years.

  ‘The Governor’s ball at Parramatta was so boring. The young officers looked as if they’ve been stamped out of the same mould. Much more fun to talk to the shy young man who is always watching me.’

  ‘Forgive me, miss,’ Garnet stammered.

  She tilted her head to one side to consider him. ‘You don’t look too dangerous for a transportee. Father forbade me to talk to you. But we are neighbours.’

  Were Miranda’s eyes innocent or flirtatious or both? Whatever, she was a creature of impulse. ‘I want to hear all about your adventures in the Colony. And how did you come by the name Garnet?’

  ‘I was transported on a charge of stealing a lady’s garnet ring. I know every convict says they were innocent, but I was.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Garnet,’ she whispered. ‘I’m a thief myself. But I only steal men’s hearts.’

  Garnet was jolted back to the present. Miranda had indeed stolen h
is heart. He had lain with her for three glorious nights. On the Colonel’s return Miranda was forbidden to speak to him, until she discovered she was with child. The Colonel had finally given in to her tears and tantrums and gave his consent to their marriage.

  At Garnet’s knock the cabin door flew open to reveal Queenie. The dark-skinned old woman who had been Miranda’s faithful servant was now his implacable enemy. She had grown up in India sharing Miranda’s lessons with a governess. It riled Garnet to know that this cranky servant was fully literate whereas he could barely sign his name.

  Queenie scowled. ‘Who gave you permission to come here?’

  ‘You live in this cottage due to my generosity!’

  ‘I won’t be here much longer now Marmaduke’s coming home to Mingaletta.’

  Garnet forced himself to batten down his temper. ‘I need your help. Not on my account but because of your affection for the lad. I want you to read a letter from his lawyer. Can you bury your hatred of me long enough to do that, woman?’

  Queenie begrudgingly gestured for him to enter. Inside the cabin that now seemed too small to hold him, he handed her the letter but remained standing. She had not given him permission to be seated. How ridiculous this is. I can strike terror into the hearts of half the men and women in the Colony – except this old witch.

  She placed the letter on the table and stared at him with narrowed eyes. ‘So you’re up to your old tricks again, manipulating people’s lives.’

  ‘It’s for the best.’

  ‘Judges say that when they sentence prisoners to transportation. It’s for the good of Society!’

  ‘Damn you, Queenie, I didn’t come here to be lectured on The System. What does the letter say?’

  ‘Edwin Bentleigh acknowledges the deeds you hold to Mingaletta, which you agreed to sign over to Marmaduke when he marries his fiancée.’ She raised her voice in anger. ‘No one told me about this. Who is she?’

  ‘Go on, for pity’s sake, Queenie!’

  ‘This letter states that it is Marmaduke’s final offer.’

  Garnet grew suspicious at the sight of Queenie’s faint smile. ‘Out with it!’

  ‘Marmaduke, confirms he relinquishes all future claims on your properties and fortune. On condition you sign over Mingaletta, release him from this unwanted engagement and abstain from any future involvement in his affairs.’

  ‘Insolent puppy! He hasn’t given way a damned inch!’

  ‘Hold your horses. There’s more,’ she added with a gleam in her eye. ‘He insists on paying Miss de Rolland’s expenses in the Colony and her fare to England on the grounds that “this proposed marriage is no fault of hers.” Furthermore as your neighbour at Mingaletta, he undertakes full responsibility for any future medical expenses you may require to enable you to remain in residence at Bloodwood Hall.’

  Garnet exploded with rage. ‘Lock me up, a prisoner in my own house? I’ll be damned if he will.’

  ‘No! Face the facts! It’s his promise to keep you out of a lunatic asylum.’

  Garnet changed tack to blot out the spectre of madness. ‘The fool’s cutting off his nose to spite me. I haven’t worked my guts out to leave my fortune to a string of grasping charities. Marmaduke is my sole hope to forge a Gamble dynasty.’

  ‘You should have thought of that when you prevented him marrying his first love.’

  ‘He was wet behind the ears. I saved him from certain disaster – you know that.’

  ‘Yes, but ruined both your lives in the process. Your son hates you. You failed to make him in your image. He isn’t greedy like you. You’ve picked the eyes out of the whole country. All Marmaduke wants is Mingaletta, to honour his promise to Miranda. I was there when she made him swear on the Bible, remember?’

  Garnet was forced to relive the moment of her death. He said the words softly in defeat. ‘Do you think I can ever forget my shame?’

  ‘That’s the punishment you deserve. Miranda comes to me every full moon. She’ll hate you ’til your dying day!’

  As Garnet strode from the cottage Queenie’s derisive cackle rang in his ears.

  The old bitch’s hatred of me is the one thing that keeps her alive. But no one could ever hate me as much as I hate myself.

  Garnet hurried up the marble staircase, overcome by the need to see Miranda’s face before he lost all sense of time and place.

  He felt compelled to visit her before it took hold of him again: the malevolent thing growing inside him, the return of the mania that unleashed the furies that spun him out of control. He could feel it building in intensity – the rush of fear that no other human being had ever been able to arouse in him. The fear of himself.

  In the portrait gallery he halted, breathless, in front of his quarry – the portrait of Miranda. Impossibly seductive, timeless, she smiled down on him, eternally sure of her elusive power over him.

  ‘You know the truth. If I could love any other woman, I would. But you won’t let go of me.’ He heard his voice cry out, ‘All the others are just bodies I use to escape you!’

  He froze at the sound of the soft female cry behind him. Would her ghost at last make itself visible to him? No. His impotent rage boiled over at the realisation it was only Elise.

  ‘You’re not well, Garnet. Please don’t fight it – come to bed and I will comfort you.’

  ‘I give the orders. Unlock the door, damn you.’

  ‘Please, Garnet, don’t put me through this again.’

  He propelled her down the passage to the door of the secret room that remained locked, lying in readiness for nights such as this. Elise took the key from its hiding place behind the panel and unlocked the door. Before them the narrow stairs ascended into darkness.

  Chapter 9

  At the stroke of six Marmaduke’s carriage turned into the open road that led to Woolloomooloo Hill. The cool southerly breeze off the harbour was welcomed by the whole of Sydney Town at the end of a humid day.

  Marmaduke felt a pleasant sense of anticipation. Thanks to Edwin’s invitation, the evening promised to bring him one step closer to his goal – an assignation with the legendary opera singer whom he had admired since he first sighted her on the day of his return to the Colony. After each of her performances at Barnett Levey’s Theatre Royal he had sent her a bouquet conveying his coded message via the language of flowers. Each was delivered with his calling card, the same words handwritten on the back: ‘With great respect and admiration. I look forward to our first meeting. Marmaduke Gamble.’ He hoped to arouse the diva’s curiosity about his identity because although his flowers kept arriving, he had never tried to contact her.

  Aware of his interest in Josepha St John, Edwin had invited him to the kind of social event from which Marmaduke was ordinarily excluded. A select assembly of some fifty members of the Quality was to attend a private performance at the impressive Woolloomooloo Hill mansion of a wealthy banker, said to be so besotted by Madame St John he had sent a special ship for her return from a season in Van Diemen’s Land. Tonight the Top Thirteen families would be introduced to the diva whose fame and notoriety made her the most talked-about woman in Sydney Town.

  Everyone knew that Josepha St John’s career spanned two decades across the Americas, Europe and India. Her fabled collection of jewels were the tributes of princes, potentates and presidents. The Sydney Herald claimed her legendary diamond ring was the gift of an Indian Maharajah so desperate to win her love that her departure caused him to take a lethal dose of poison. Marmaduke wondered if the young man’s suicide was another in the cult inspired by Goethe’s tragic hero in The Sorrows of Young Werther. The novel had crossed cultural boundaries across the globe and was said to have triggered the suicide of a number of young men suffering from acute romantic melancholia.

  Tonight Marmaduke had dressed with particular care, choosing a dark blue velvet waisted jacket over an understated waistcoat, tight buff-coloured breeches, silk stockings and silver buckled evening shoes. He had spent an excessive amount
of time, swearing in the process, as he tried to create the intended waterfall of linen folds at his neck. His long hair was tied back with a black ribbon in the romantic style of a pre-Revolutionary French courtier.

  He had hesitated about whether or not to wear his spectacular ruby ring, only too aware that any attempt to upstage an actress is an unforgiveable sin and he should take care not to outshine her jewels. But he also wanted to establish himself as a man of wealth and mystery and the ruby was his signature piece.

  Thomas halted the carriage in front of Edwin’s charming cottage on the foreshores of Woolloomooloo Bay. The house was surrounded by an English cottage garden studded with orange and peach trees, alive with a boisterous choir of birds. Tempering the Anglo-Celtic quality of the garden were flowering native shrubs and lush cabbage tree palms, the species that had begun the Colony’s craze for woven cabbage-tree hats.

  Marmaduke rapped the doorknocker, hoping that tonight Edwin’s bedridden mother would not throw one of the predictable fits of hypochondria that prevented her son from attending social functions if she sensed the danger of his meeting eligible young women. Marmaduke was well aware that his mate’s devotion might prevent him seeking marriage until the end of his mother’s mortal term.

  I’d love to see Edwin happily bedded, if not wedded – an unlikely prospect given Mrs B’s antecedents were famed for their longevity.

  Edwin’s weary welcome and philosophical air of disappointment came as no surprise to Marmaduke.

  ‘You don’t have to tell me, mate. Your esteemed mother has taken a turn for the worst. But I’m selfish enough to want you to get me to the starting post tonight not just for the pleasure of your company but for the advancement of my own plans.’

  ‘I suppose the prospect of an imminent marriage makes your final fling as a bachelor all the more urgent. Not that I’m ever likely to enjoy either experience.’ Edwin added dolefully, ‘Mother is convinced she will not survive through the night.’

  ‘Mate, I’d put money on the fact she will let you off the chain tonight.’ Marmaduke took the stairs two at a time and halted on the landing to add, ‘What are you waiting for, Edwin? Change into something a bit more flash than a lawyer’s garb.’