Ghost Gum Valley

by Johanna Nicholls

  When Marmaduke closed her door a half hour later, he descended the stairs to find Edwin attired in full evening dress, his hair neatly groomed, looking bemused.

  ‘What on earth did you do to Mother? I heard her laughing!’

  ‘I simply delivered all the gossip I learnt last week dining with Rupert Grantham – stories so libellous even The Australian doesn’t dare print them. I also told your mother you’re taking me to my first Masonic dinner, so of course no females. Don’t look so shocked, Edwin – it was my lie, not yours. Now, let’s hit the road. We can’t keep a legend like Josepha St John waiting!’

  The semi-circular driveway of the Georgian villa was crowded with carriages delivering formally attired members of the Quality. Inside the ornate assembly room Marmaduke shepherded Edwin to a pair of chairs ideally placed to offer a fine view of the performance.

  Marmaduke listened intently to Edwin’s account of the true story of The Convict They Couldn’t Hang, who on the day of his execution stood on the scaffold and was hanged. But the rope broke. They tried again. When it broke for the third time it was considered an act of God. The condemned man was set free.

  ‘Good luck to him,’ Marmaduke said absently. He had spotted Mrs Cagney walking towards him. Her husband had paused to speak to one of the guests. Uncertain of the correct Colonial etiquette for greeting a former ‘sweet lady’, he gave a discreet nod of the head. She stared right through him as if he were invisible.

  ‘You know Sean Cagney’s wife, do you?’ Edwin asked in surprise.

  ‘A case of mistaken identity.’ Marmaduke felt stung but shrugged off the memory of her parting words. ‘I’ll never forget you, my dear.’

  Cagney didn’t send her back to England so I must have done the right thing by her.

  The babble of voices grew hushed when the grey-bearded host delivered a introduction to ‘the artiste Terpsichore blessed with the operatic voice of the century’.

  Marmaduke said from the corner of his mouth, ‘I suspect he means Apollo. Not the goddess of dance. But who knows? Maybe Madame plans to sing an aria en pointe.’

  Josepha St John entered the room on the arm of her short, handsome young Italian accompanist, Federico. Marmaduke sprang to his feet to initiate applause that was enthusiastically taken up by the audience. As he intended his move caught the singer’s eye.

  Marmaduke doubted if all the legends were true but, now he had time to study her without the barrier of footlights, he was convinced there was nothing overstated about Josepha St John’s allure. She was the total embodiment of his kind of woman. Dark-haired, full-bosomed, a lush beauty Goya might have chosen to paint – preferably bare-breasted.

  Her speaking voice with its Irish hint of an American accent smouldered with promise. In contrast her singing voice revealed clues to the countries she had travelled on her road to fame. Although Marmaduke had not fully mastered Italian, French or German he had an acute ear for accents and pinpointed traces of an Italian accent when she sang Heinrich Heine’s romantic lyrics, but a Prussian edge to her Italian arias and a charming French accent when she sang in English. These tiny imperfections charmed him rather than diminished her performance.

  The gestures of her pale ring-laden hands were as delicate as the fluttering wings of a dove and there were sighs from the audience when during one passionate love song she laid her hand on her breast. Her eyes were pools of dark magic. Under the soft light of oil lamps her complexion glowed with health. The illusion she projected was of a beauty time could not confine to any age.

  To Marmaduke she was a fascinating rogue of a woman, a lover worth possessing – for however long the demands her world-travelled career allowed.

  At the completion of three encores Josepha St John threw her arms wide to offer a theatrical embrace to her audience. This simultaneously afforded gentlemen a view of her deep décolletage and gave the ladies a chance to admire the magnificent, glittering spider-web necklace said to be worth a king’s ransom.

  Bowing her head in a deep curtsey to acknowledge the ardent applause, Josepha St John departed the room on the arm of her pianist, pausing in the archway to give a sad little wave as if forced to take leave of a lover.

  I feel I know you already, lady. Any audience that pays full tribute to your gifts will always be closer to your heart than any man you choose to take to your bed.

  Marmaduke exchanged an urgent word with Edwin. ‘I must seize my chance to meet the lady, mate. Come on, come with me.’

  Edwin begged off on the excuse of tomorrow’s interview with a client in the cells.

  ‘For you the law always comes first, eh? Well, in that case Thomas will drive you home and return for me later.’

  Edwin replied dryly, ‘I’d say the best of British luck. But something tells me you don’t need it. I fancy when Madame sang that final lieder her gaze kept returning to you.’

  After Marmaduke escorted Edwin to his carriage he returned to the villa, determined not to seek a formal introduction and risk her refusal. His height and an assumed air of authority allowed him to bypass the Quality who crammed the corridor.

  He bowed as he handed his card to her dresser. ‘Madame is expecting me,’ he lied.

  Josepha St John was seated before a large mirror, ready to hold court in an elegant room that served as her dressing-room. The door was ajar. Without waiting to be admitted Marmaduke entered with outstretched arms as if throwing himself on the diva’s mercy.

  ‘I beg your forgiveness, Madame St John, I was not strong enough to wait for our host to introduce us.’ He bowed low and in kissing her hand could not fail to notice the fabled diamond, set in a Florentine gold ring. It was indeed very beautiful and very large. Only an expert would recognise it was a fake.

  ‘I am your servant, Madame. Marmaduke Gamble.’

  ‘Ah, so you are the Gamble gentleman,’ she said with a curve of her lips. He followed her glance to the flowers he had sent her. The language of flowers had no exact way to convey his coded message, I will die if you don’t take me to your bed. But Marmaduke saw by the look in those dark eyes she had interpreted it correctly.

  Marmaduke’s praise was genuine. ‘You held me spellbound tonight and, indeed, every performance I have seen since your arrival in the Colony. I’ve no gift for words, Madame, but your fame failed to do justice to the magical reality of your presence in the flesh.’

  Josepha St John inclined her head in the manner of a queen accepting a courtier’s tribute. ‘For one who claims no gift for words, young man, you use your tongue with surprising eloquence.’

  Marmaduke fancied he caught a slight inflection on the word ‘tongue’. He pretended innocence. ‘I confess I’m disappointed by one thing. If you’ll give me leave to say it?’

  ‘Granted,’ she said coolly but he saw the wary glint in her eyes.

  ‘Your fabled diamond ring is unequal to the truth and beauty of your performance, Madame.’

  Her eyes flashed a warning. He bent on one knee and held her hand with a playful smile he hoped would sustain the delicate balance between flirtation and sincerity. ‘Your secret dies with me. But I beg you not to harden your heart. You have the power to sentence me to the grave. Unless you promise this first meeting will not be our last – and next time we shall be alone.’

  Josepha tilted her head to reveal the beautiful line of her neck. The laugh she had no doubt mastered for the stage was nonetheless enchanting. ‘You are either very bold or else a young man who can happily predict the future. Perhaps we shall meet again, Mr Gamble, who knows?’

  Marmaduke interpreted the promise in her eyes as she turned away to be feted by a trio of gentlemen, including the bearded banker who was their host. Marmaduke backed from the room smiling, holding her eyes as he made his exit.

  Moments later in the corridor the dresser discreetly handed him a card. ‘My lady says you may call on her tomorrow morning at eleven at this address.’

  So mine host doesn’t yet have the lady ‘in keeping’. But I mu
st move with care. He instantly recognised a rival for her favours. His advantage is he’s president of the Colony’s wealthiest bank. I have two advantages.

  He felt sure Josepha trusted him to keep her secret that her legendary diamonds were paste. His other advantage he had learnt from a story about Giacomo Casanova – that one of the secrets of success in getting a woman into bed was to make her laugh. And Marmaduke had already made her laugh.

  He had no sooner pocketed the lady’s card when he was caught off guard. He found himself being hurled bodily through a doorway by an unseen force that left him sprawled on the floor. His wild-eyed aggressor slammed the door, placed his foot on Marmaduke’s chest and held a knife blade at his throat.

  ‘G’d evening, Mr Cagney. There seems to be some mistake,’ Marmaduke said politely.

  ‘I know what you did to my wife!’

  ‘Whatever your good lady has said, you must accept her word over mine but—’

  ‘Don’t lie! I caught you skulking in my garden!’

  Marmaduke smothered a nervous laugh. The man was so enraged that one false move and the knife could pierce his windpipe. ‘What exactly do you mean, sir?’

  ‘My wife is with child!’

  ‘I see.’ Marmaduke said carefully. He was genuinely pleased but felt that any congratulations might incriminate him. There were no rules of etiquette for a scene like this.

  Sean Cagney was shaking with rage. ‘I should kill you!’

  ‘If you kill me, the best you can hope for is a one-way ticket to Norfolk Island. That would be a tragic mistake for you and Mrs Cagney because then you’d never be free to watch your wife’s forthcoming child grow up to be the spitting image of you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I didn’t father the babe. I admit that during your absence in Van Diemen’s Land on your own private business – I did spend time with your wife. She was distraught at the thought of losing you to your mistress. I did my best to comfort her, took tea with her and admired the rare plants in your summerhouse. Mrs Cagney kept telling me how much she loved you and only you.’

  Marmaduke caught the uncertainty in Cagney’s eyes. ‘After your wife gives birth the whole world will know the babe was fathered by you a full nine months after your return from Van Diemen’s Land. If I’m lying, by all means challenge me to a duel then.’

  ‘Fight a duel with you? That satisfaction is reserved for gentlemen. Not the spawn of an Emancipist.’

  Marmaduke quietly weighed the insult. ‘Yes, it’s true I am no gentleman. But equally correct to say you are the true father of your wife’s babe. I wish you well, sir.’

  Cagney strode from the room leaving Marmaduke lying on the floor.

  How ironical to think I might have been murdered for the one unselfish act of adultery I have ever committed. God willing the Cagney babe does not come early. And that it does resemble Cagney.

  As Marmaduke climbed into his carriage he checked the time on his gold pocket watch. Only a few hours of sleep remained before his first assignation with Josepha St John. He knew the lady had no performance scheduled for tomorrow night. Monday was her traditional day of rest. But Marmaduke promised himself she would have little rest with him in her bed.

  How wonderful to find a woman who knows the rules of the game.

  Chapter 10

  Isabel realised she had been duped by her kinsman the moment she saw the Susan lying at anchor in the Thames. There was nothing wrong with the 572-ton ship itself. A massive, strongly built teak vessel that for the past twenty-one years had been an active Indian country trader, she lived up to Calcutta’s fine ship-building reputation that rivalled Britain’s East Indiamen ships. The Susan also had a reputable master and surgeon.

  Isabel’s shock lay in the discovery that she was one of only two passengers on board. An even greater shock was the nature of the Susan’s cargo. The ship was making her first voyage to New South Wales as a convict transport with three hundred male prisoners!

  For the first week of the voyage Isabel had clung to her cabin, overcome by the knowledge that yet again her life had been manipulated and she had been left in the dark about the details. Gradually, out of curiosity she had become absorbed by the dramatic sights and sounds of a convict transport. She was delighted to discover her sole fellow passenger was Murray Robertson, a gentle Scottish lad a year or two older, who was also a book lover and no more experienced in the ways of the world than she was. He, too, had been booked on the Susan because the fare was cheaper than regular passenger ships.

  The voyage via the Madeira route had not been without drama. Eight convicts had died before the surgeon was also struck down with fever and was replaced by at the next port.

  Today promised to be the final day in a seventeen-week voyage that she was assured had been speedy under the circumstances.

  Isabel felt a sense of pride that she had mastered her fear of the ocean and had not been prey to the seasickness that had dogged many of the prisoners on board. Despite her sense of trepidation about facing an unknown bridegroom at journey’s end, she was excited by the prospect of her first sighting of the great headlands at the entrance to Port Jackson.

  The copies of ancient maps she had studied in de Rolland Park’s library had shown the imagined shapes of the mysterious, giant continent represented in fragments on the charts of Spanish, Portuguese and Dutch navigators over the centuries and variously called The Great South Land, New Holland, and Terra Australis Incognita. None of these explorers had laid claim to it until that Yorkshireman, Captain James Cook, had mapped the entire eastern coast fewer than fifty years earlier. In 1788 Governor Arthur Phillip arrived with the First Fleet filled with convicts and raised the flag to claim the land for the British Crown. Isabel had no illusions about the chief attraction it held for the British.

  Nothing more than a useful dumping ground for our convicts after poor old George III lost our American colonies. Now it’s my life sentence.

  Through the porthole she glimpsed the rain lashing at the starboard side in wild, turbulent sheets as the mighty waves of the Pacific Ocean rocked the Susan like a defenceless baby’s cradle.

  Wrapped in an oilskin as a shield against the tempest, she paused before going up on deck to look back at Cousin Martha’s gift of the grey travelling ensemble swaying wildly on a clothes hanger ready to wear when she disembarked. Her Paris trousseau was safely locked in the hold to be explored on arrival. She would wear Martha’s gown ashore as a loving link with her and to give herself courage when making her entrance in the Colony.

  Isabel could almost taste the bitter irony of the idea of being welcomed but the sense of despair must be much worse for the two hundred and ninety surviving prisoners who had been transported for crimes ranging from from picking pockets to trade union demonstrations. But there were no murderers on board – they evaded transportation by being hanged.

  My name is officially listed as Came Free in the records but no doubt in God’s eyes I’m no better than the convicts on board.

  Braving the deck she found Murray Robertson waiting for her. Their friendship had begun after he had discovered her memorising Rosalind’s role in As You Like It. Their mutual admiration for Shakespeare and Sir Walter Scott had forged a bond.

  The Scottish lad clung to the ship’s railing, leaning against the wind. He wore a caped greatcoat and one of the colourful caps he had sported throughout the voyage. He gave Isabel a wide grin of welcome and pointed to the sole visible sign of civilisation, the white lighthouse on South Head, casting its reassuring beam across the water.

  ‘So this is New South Wales. Seems a good place for a Penal Colony,’ she said wryly.

  ‘Aye, miss. It was not my idea to be sent here, either.’

  The fifth son in a large family of Highlanders, Murray had been packed off to ‘the Colonies’ armed with a pocket watch from his father and a letter of introduction to a distant member of his clan, a wealthy landholder Murray described as a ‘squatter’. To Isabel the term sou
nded dubious, almost illegal.

  ‘I’ll be out in the bush to gain what they call ‘Colonial experience’. I imagine I’ll be riding around the estate to check that all the farm labourers aren’t slacking on the job. Problem is I dinna have much experience in riding a horse.’

  ‘Your kin are lucky to have a hard-working, loyal lad like yourself to help them.’

  Murray blinked at the compliment. ‘And what about yourself, Miss Isabel? Forgive my curiosity about your fiancé, but are his letters kindly?’

  ‘He never wrote any. Neither did I. Our marriage was arranged.’

  ‘Aye,’ he said carefully. ‘Do ye have any plans? Apart from the wedding, of course.’

  ‘I don’t suppose one could find a theatre in a Penal Colony?’ she asked hopefully.

  ‘I read that in the early years the convicts and the military produced plays for a convict theatre. But the last governor – Darling – vetoed theatrical licences to prevent the convict class socialising with free settlers.’

  ‘What a Philistine!’ Isabel cried into the face of the wind. ‘No theatres? No Shakespeare? Just my bad luck. For the first time in my life I’ll have enough money to go to the theatre and the governor banned it to protect people like me!’

  ‘Dinna distress yourself, lassie. They tell me the new governor’s an Irishman with liberal ideas – he even fights for the equality of Catholics and Protestants. It’s said he’s related to the great Edmund Burke.’

  Isabel was wary. ‘Didn’t Edmund Burke make speeches in Parliament defending America’s fight for Independence? And wasn’t he in sympathy with the French Revolution?’

  ‘Aye, he’s a champion of human rights. But he dinna approve the excesses of the French Revolution, guillotining the aristocrats.’

  Isabel touched her own neck, wondering how the French felt about Plantagenets. And what was the attitude of those born free in the Colony, like her future husband?