Ghost Gum Valley

by Johanna Nicholls

  Garnet threw back his head and crowed in delight. ‘My God, there’s no intimidating you, girl! You are a woman after my own heart.’

  He jumped to his feet and blocked Isabel’s exit to the archway. ‘Forgive an older man his impatience. I simply want to be sure that when you bring my grandchildren into the world they will be conceived in love. Every child deserves that. Few gain it.’

  Suddenly weary, he looked into the middle distance. ‘Marmaduke was born of a great love. I adored Miranda to distraction but for years I refused to give her another child at the risk of losing her in childbirth. Fate decided otherwise.’

  Isabel felt her heart constrict as her thoughts tumbled in confusion. Garnet really did love Miranda. Is that the true reason he slept with assigned women – to spare her the risks of childbirth? Did he suspect her second child’s paternity? But at least Marmaduke was conceived in love. So was I. But I failed to give Rose Alba that same precious gift. What does the future hold for her? Marmaduke vows he’ll never father a child and he expects me to lie about this to Garnet to help him claim Mingaletta. I’m paid good money to be my husband’s ally. So why can’t I lie to Garnet? He’s a bad man and yet, oh God, he looks so terribly sad.

  Isabel placed a tentative hand on his sleeve. ‘Forgive my hasty words, Garnet. I assure you I am willing to bear Marmaduke all the children he desires.’

  Garnet gave a nod of resignation. ‘Yes, that’s what I thought you’d say. You are nothing if not honest.’ He looked suddenly old and weary as he stepped aside and gestured to Isabel to lead him from the summerhouse.

  The tranquility of the afternoon was shattered by the ugly sound of a man’s groans piercing a confused meld of noises – horses’ hooves, the rattling of iron chains and harsh commands from voices of authority.

  Emerging from the dense bush lying to the west of the estate was a band of mounted troopers dragging a prisoner in chains towards the square behind the house. Already a silent stream of convicts had emerged like reluctant shadows from their quarters. At the centre of the square Fordham the Flogger stood in readiness, tapping the coiled whip against his thigh. He was the only man present who had a smile on his face.

  Flanked by the troopers’ horses the young prisoner stumbled along, his bare feet shackled, his head cowed as he was prodded by the butt of a trooper’s musket to keep pace with his captors. This trooper looked more absent-minded than vicious.

  Isabel suspected this young prisoner was the bolter who had absconded from Bloodwood Hall and who newspapers claimed had been ‘in the bush’ for weeks, suspected of bailing up lone travellers on horseback.

  The trooper remained in the saddle as he confronted Fordham.

  ‘By rights we should dump him at the Watch House, but Magistrate Summerhayes is away on the Circuit – no knowing when he’ll be back. Can’t spare a man to guard this bolter until then. Y’know what these bloody Irish are like – so sharp they manage to escape through keyholes. So this one’s yours for the keeping, if you want him.’

  ‘My cat is waiting to purr,’ Fordham grinned and one trooper barked a laugh of response. The others glanced away, too weary to care.

  The cat! Fordham means his cat-o’-nine-tails! He’s going to flog the lad!

  Isabel wore a house dress covered with a pinafore because she had been washing her hair. But there wasn’t time to change. She ran back inside the house in search of Garnet and passed Bridget on the stairs.

  ‘Where’s Mr Gamble? Is he up yet?’

  Bridget gave her usual surly reply. ‘How do I know? I’m not my master’s keeper.’

  The thought was automatic. So Garnet’s back in Elise’s bed. I need to keep my finger on the pulse of this crazy household, but right now I’ve more important work.

  ‘Find your master immediately. Tell him the bolter who threatened to assassinate him has been brought back in chains to be flogged.’

  ‘Paddy Whickett?’ Bridget turned deathly pale beneath the freckles that bridged her cheeks. Isabel wondered if it was from fear or concern for the bolter.

  Isabel hurried outside, combing her fingers through her hair. She gave no thought to her appearance. One image was uppermost in her mind.

  The Cat! Garnet forbade that scoundrel Fordham to use it. Marmaduke said it’s illegal without a magistrate’s sanction but Fordham will stop at nothing.

  The sun was already blazing hot. The square between the rows of assigned men’s cabins trapped the air like a baker’s oven. Fordham ordered the men to stand witness to their fellow convict’s punishment.

  The sound of the troopers’ horses was fading in the distance. Isabel hurried to the rear of the assembled men, wincing in sunlight so strong she was unable to focus properly on the face of the young prisoner who was being roped to the flogging post by two assigned men. His shirt was ripped open to bare his back. Isabel’s gorge rose at the sight of the raw wounds that were the legacy of Fordham’s previous flogging.

  This lad was transported from Ireland’s poorest county. He’d have died of hunger if he’d stayed at home. Now he’ll die anyway if he’s flogged before his wounds have healed.

  Fordham strutted around like a ringmaster in a bear-pit, addressing the circle of slouching figures. Some were clearly unwilling to be spectators; some were patently relieved to be officially free from their assigned work for an hour.

  Fordham prodded the prisoner’s bare back with the leather-braided handle of his whip. ‘Get the message, Whickett? There ain’t no road over the Blue Mountains to China. That’s a fool myth only an Irish eejit from Tyrone would swallow.’

  Fordham taunted his prisoner for the amusement of the spectators.

  ‘Still believe in leprechauns and banshees, do ye, eejit?’

  Raucous catcalls came from a few cowards but the Irish element remained silent.

  Paddy Whickett turned his head to stare at the overseer in contempt. Isabel was shocked by the startling strength she saw in the lad’s eyes. Bright blue – the sole colour in his haggard face. The rest of him was dull grey from head to foot – complexion, dusty red-blonde hair, ragged slop clothing. Bare feet bloodied at the ankles by his iron shackles.

  ‘Your failed escape is gunna cost you heavy, Whickett. I’m adding fifty stripes to what I first thought was a fair thing. But if you start bleating for your mam, like you did last time, I’ll be generous and add another score.’

  In answer the lad twisted his head and spat full in Fordham’s face.

  Isabel gasped. My God, he’s forced Fordham to lose face. He’s ready to die!

  The overseer wiped his cheek with the back of his hand.

  ‘Stand back all ye miserable bastards, unless you want to be splattered with Irish flesh. I carved out this bloke’s shoulderblade last time. Watch me make it a double!’

  Isabel looked around her, praying for a sign of Garnet’s approach.

  Fordham planted his feet wide ready for action and bent his beefy arm back to unleash the Cat.

  Isabel felt sick to see his arm was tattooed with two hearts pierced with an arrow.

  What a mockery of love!

  Isabel found her voice. It sounded high-pitched and cracked with anxiety but it carried across the open space with startling clarity.

  ‘Stop at once! You’ve no right to go against your master’s orders.’

  Fordham turned open-mouthed. ‘Who said that? Show yourself and I’ll have ye locked in the stocks.’

  Isabel called back without thinking. ‘Lay one hand on me and your master will send you packing, Fordham!’ She took a few steps towards him, her knees trembling.

  ‘When did they drag you off the boat?’ Fordham demanded.

  Isabel was chilled by the way the assigned men stared at her body. She knew she must look as unkempt as a slatternly housemaid – and fair game. She brazened it out.

  ‘I’ll have you know I’m the new mistress of Bloodwood Hall!’

  Fordham hooted. ‘Well, howdy-do. And I’m King William’s love child!’


  Isabel looked around at the leering faces, the missing teeth, the vacant eyes lit by an unexpected show of amusement as they edged towards her, ready for sport.

  Garnet’s voice sounded from the rear of the crowd.

  ‘You’re a bastard, all right, Fordham. Never doubted that, but this time you’re a stupid bastard. This lady is indeed the bride of my son, Marmaduke Gamble.’

  The laughter died on every man’s lips and the smile froze on Fordham’s face.

  Garnet Gamble stood in the midst of them, tall, unshaven and robed in a linen sheet like a Roman senator – magnificent in his contempt. Right at that moment Isabel could have thrown her arms around his neck and kissed him but remembered her role just in time.

  Garnet took control. ‘There’ll be no flogging today. Put this bloke in the stocks overnight. Go back to your duties, the pack of you.’ He turned to Isabel and said quietly, ‘You may return to the house. I’ll deal with this.’

  Thankful that Paddy Whickett had been reprieved even if only in the short term, she picked up her skirts and hurried back to the house.

  Bridget stood motionless in the doorway of the kitchen, her face as white as milk.

  ‘Your friend is all right for now,’ Isabel said quietly. ‘The Cat is back in the bag.’

  Bridget swiftly crossed herself. She turned away then on second thoughts turned back, barely willing to concede a point. ‘I saw what ye done. I didn’t know the likes of you had it in ye.’

  ‘Neither did I!’ Isabel’s knees suddenly buckled under her and on the point of fainting she grabbed hold of the back of a chair to break her fall.

  Bridget’s arms caught her, thrust her into the chair and the next moment Isabel felt the girl’s hands sponging the back of her neck with a cold, wet compress. Like an obedient child Isabel took the glass offered to her and thirstily drank down the contents. Her throat was so parched with fear that the glass was empty all too soon. One of Garnet’s ‘lime’ jugs.

  ‘This is good. Is it gin?’

  ‘Sure and it’s being Mother’s Ruin. But I’m thinking you’ve earned it, trouncing that rotten swine Fordham.’

  Isabel was surprised to see Bridget’s hands were trembling as she filled a second glass to the brim with gin and lime juice. On the point of downing the contents herself Bridget hesitated, expecting Isabel’s disapproval.

  Isabel saw that glance. She’s got a heart in there somewhere after all.

  Isabel clinked her glass against the one in Bridget’s hand.

  ‘Here’s to your freedom, Irish. One and all of you!’

  For the first time ever, Bridget looked her straight in the eye without guile or malice.

  ‘I’ll not mind drinking to that with ye – madam.’

  They drank together in silence, gradually emptying the jug until the raucous sound of kookaburras’ cackling laughter brought an odd tremulous smile to Bridget’s lips. But it was the bird’s laughter that broke her. She cursed the tears that poured down her cheeks.

  ‘That damned eejit, Paddy Whickett. He wanted me for his woman. To get churched. I turned him down. So wild and angry he was, he disobeyed Fordham’s orders. Copped fifty stripes for his trouble. So he bolted. Sure it is he’s ruined his last chance of freedom. I didn’t want it to end this way, just because I chose to go me own way of it.’

  Suddenly conscious that she had betrayed herself Bridget resumed her cold manner.

  ‘All right for some. I’ve got work to be doing.’

  Isabel returned to the nursery, deep in thought.

  Bridget turned her back on her man. Chose Garnet’s protection. She won’t fare better than Elise. But who am I to talk? I can’t even tempt my own husband to love me.

  Isabel turned side on to look at her reflection in the long cheval mirror.

  If only Marmaduke knew what’s inside me.

  Chapter 34

  ‘Stop the carriage in front of the Theatre Royal, thanks, Thomas. I have urgent business with Barnett Levey.’

  Thomas’s wise sidelong glance reminded Marmaduke that subterfuge was a waste of time with such an old lag, a past master of the game. But it was half the truth. Marmaduke welcomed a lively chat with the theatrical entrepreneur whose life was nothing if not colourful. He was often simultaneously involved in public disputes with his business partners and his actors. Barnett Levey’s wildly imaginative ventures had included a tontine to raise shares in his hotel and theatre which fizzled out. The string of libel claims he initiated meant his name was seldom out of the court lists or the newspapers.

  Marmaduke’s hidden agenda in visiting the Theatre Royal was the imminent encounter with his mistress, whose name was writ large on the billboard.

  Josepha St John. At the thought of the scene he must soon play out with the tempestuous diva, Marmaduke felt acutely confined by his damnably tight winged collar in Sydney’s humidity.

  He found Barnett Levey in a high state of anxiety, charging around his office in search of elusive documentation to prove his contention that yet another of his actors had broken his contract by demanding a higher salary than his fellow players.

  The office was filled with cigar smoke. A tailored frockcoat was flung carelessly across a chair exposing its London label. Barnett Levey’s shirtsleeves and vest were lightly speckled with paint from inspecting a backdrop a scenic artist was painting.

  A swarthy, handsome man, Barnett’s slim build was more than compensated by the kind of spring-heeled vitality Marmaduke associated with pugilists. His dark eyes seemed fired by a glorious vision that was always just out of reach. Marmaduke was reminded of the extraordinary power of Edmund Kean’s eyes.

  Barnett has the soul of an actor trapped in the body of an entrepreneur with more vision than business acumen. God willing he’ll be spared Kean’s self-destructive bent.

  Marmaduke clapped him on the shoulders. ‘Good to see you, mate. You’re keeping Sydney Town in a state of high excitement as always.’

  His hand was wrung with enthusiasm. ‘What a welcome sight you are. Where have you been? Are yes! Took yourself a wife. Happily wedded I trust?’

  The words were delivered with genuine concern. Barnett was one of only two men Marmaduke had entrusted with the details of Garnet’s machinations.

  ‘Marriage is not exactly how I’d planned to live my life. But I’ve discovered Isabel is a lady of surprising qualities. I must admit she never bores me.’

  ‘Admirable! Every man should be married. May you be blessed with a house full of little Gambles.’ He gave a wry shrug of the shoulders. ‘Mine keep arriving with great regularity, but what can you do when you love your wife, eh? I must work longer and longer hours and trust that the Almighty will continue to provide for us.’

  Uneasy about the paternal bent to the conversation, Marmaduke returned it to the theatre. Although his affair with the diva had been conducted with discretion, he knew Barnett was no fool.

  ‘I notice Sydney’s warring newspapers are in agreement for once – raving about Madame St John’s every appearance. I take it your star is drawing packed houses?’

  ‘Excellent. She gives you full credit, Marmaduke, for the success of Portia’s “quality of mercy” scene. But on some nights when her name is not the drawcard...’

  Barnett’s hands rocked in a gesture of instability. Marmaduke knew that anxiety was endemic in theatre managers. House Full signs could be followed by a half-empty theatre.

  Marmaduke was determined to raise his spirits. ‘I hear your sets and costumes are greatly admired and that Governor Bourke’s patronage is proving a magnet for the Quality.’

  ‘May His Excellency be blessed with good health! Bourke is a cultured Irishman of liberal views. I would never have gained my theatrical licence without his endorsement.’

  It was still mid-morning but Barnett poured wine for them to drink a toast to his forthcoming Richard III. His troubled mood returned. ‘You’re one of the few who appreciate the problems I face in this peculiar Colony, having ac
cess to only a small core of actors with professional experience. The rest I must mould from former convicts or at best genteel amateurs – all with delusions of grandeur they rival Mrs Siddons or the Great Kean.’

  ‘You’ve built our first professional theatre company – you’re making history, mate.’

  Barnett’s eyes shone with gratitude. ‘You really think so? Three nights weekly I present Sydney Town with scenes from the genius of Shakespeare – his Shylock, Hamlet, Romeo, Julius Caesar as well as crowd-pleasing pieces like Black-eyed Susan. A few of my actors would not disgrace the boards of Drury Lane. Others murder their lines or turn up shickered. You’ve seen how unpredictable Colonial audiences are. Last week they were so excited by Othello that after the scene where he throttled Desdemona they stamped their feet until he agreed to murder her all over again!’

  Marmaduke shared his groans of laughter. ‘Poor actress, killed twice in one night.’

  ‘Save your pity for me! The cheeky wench has hauled me into court, claiming I should double her fee for two performances on the same night!’ Barnett’s eyes filled with despair. ‘I give Sydney Town culture but it’s pearls before swine. Last week in the midst of King Lear’s mad scene they started yelling for the entr’acte – a girl in tights dancing the sailor’s hornpipe! What can I do? I give the theatre my life’s blood! But I am surrounded by Philistines!’

  Marmaduke didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘Courage, my friend. May I suggest my friend Edwin Bentleigh is the right man to sort out your problems with the law?’ He went on to enquire about Josepha St John. He must find the right time to talk to the diva, not risk upsetting her before a performance.