Josiah looked a bleak. ‘He stood in the shadows. But I remember his walking stick. The gold knob was a wyvern with ruby eyes. I am a jeweller. I notice these things.’
‘Jesus!’ Marmaduke said softly under his breath, but at that moment the surgeon arrived so he took the situation in hand and arranged to pay for a sober woman to cook and care for the old man as long as needed.
Back in the carriage Marmaduke directed Thomas to halt at the hotel where he secured the velvet box in Garnet’s safe overnight before taking it to the bank vault next day. When they resumed their journey both men were preoccupied until Marmaduke finally spoke.
‘Sorry, mate, I intended to take you to see a melodrama, not end up being in one.’
Edwin agreed. ‘The plot certainly thickens. But I suspect you know more than you care to admit. I saw your start of recognition when Mendoza described the cane.’
Marmaduke looked serious. ‘A cane of that description belongs to a jealous Frenchman determined to be Josepha St John’s protector. He sounded a bit dodgy but I hoped I was wrong for Josepha’s sake. But why would a wealthy Frog who already has Josepha in keeping in a villa hire a thug to beat up Mendoza?’
‘If he knows you’re Mendoza’s silent partner, perhaps he’s jealous of your intimate friendship with the actress?’ Edwin offered tentatively.
Marmaduke looked startled. ‘My business in Sydney was almost finished. But now I must try to warn Josepha discreetly about the Frog. My God, Edwin, life gets complicated when a bloke’s married!’
Chapter 36
Seated together in the ‘ladies’ drawing room, Elise was working away on her dog-eared tapestry as Isabel read her way through the latest newspapers, torn between hunger for news of Home and Europe and her growing fascination with Colonial events.
The Colony’s many newspapers ranged from the reliable, informative, pompous, partisan or libellous to muckraking. But she soon discovered even the most polarised Colonial editors were agreed on one point. The convict bolters ‘in the bush’ who had become bushrangers now threatened the foundation of law and order.
Isabel felt an angry rush of blood to her face reading the English newspaper that had just arrived on a mail vessel at Port Jackson.
‘This is an outrage!’ she cried out so forcefully that Elise jumped in her seat with fright.
Breathless with rage Isabel burst into Garnet’s office waving the newspaper like a baton, suddenly aware she had interrupted his business with Rhys Powell.
Garnet looked concerned. ‘Isabel m’dear, what on earth’s wrong?’
‘It’s here in black and white. Those five brave men were sentenced to be transported for seven years, just for taking an oath! Those union lads from Dorset. The Tolpuddle Martyrs!’
‘Ah, them,’ Garnet said knowingly.
Isabel sank thankfully into the chair Rhys offered her.
If I can’t shed a tear for those heroic Tolpuddle Martyrs, I’ll never be able to cry, but Garnet acts as if they are of no importance.
‘Yes, them! No doubt you haven’t had time to read it,’ she added tactfully, remembering Garnet habit of mislaying his glasses when presented with the written word.
‘Five of the six. They’re heroes. Agricultural labourers found guilty of administering unlawful oaths, violating an Act that was only intended to prevent sedition. But what they did wasn’t seditious, Garnet. They just swore to stick together and establish a farm labourers’ union. And unions are legal in England now, aren’t they?’
‘Indeed, since 1824,’ Rhys Powell said quickly, earning Garnet’s glare of disapproval. Clearly Garnet saw unionists as rabble-rousers.
Isabel again remembered Agnes’s advice to her as a child when she lost her temper: ‘Honey attracts more flies than vinegar!’ She fixed her gaze on Garnet and tried to appear on the verge of tears.
‘Garnet, I appeal to your sense of justice. These labourers were only attempting to raise their wages above starvation level, from seven shillings a week to ten. Some landowners agreed. But their own masters retaliated by cutting their wages to six shillings. Six! To feed a whole family. It’s a travesty of justice! I’m ashamed to call myself British!’
Garnet said quietly. ‘I’ve been known to think the same, from time to time.’
‘You have so much influence in the Colony, people will listen to you!’ Isabel said, handing the newspaper for Rhys to read.
‘It’s true, Mr Gamble. It lists their names. The sixth man, their leader, George Loveless, was too ill to be transported. He isn’t just a simple ploughman; he’s also a respected Wesleyan preacher. His written court statement is quite moving, sir. May I?’
‘Read it, read it!’ Garnet snapped.
Rhys cleared his throat and delivered Loveless the martyr’s words in a Welsh-accented voice rich with feeling. ‘We were uniting to preserve ourselves, our wives and our children from utter degradation and starvation. We have injured no man’s reputation, character, person or property...’
The room was silent. Isabel became aware that Elise was standing immobile in the doorway, no doubt drawn by curiosity to the reason for Isabel’s dramatic exit.
Isabel hoped her final plea would hit home. ‘Garnet, I’ve often heard you say that wrongs can be righted. Pardons can be granted.’
But her heart sank at the sight of Garnet’s flushed face.
Garnet doesn’t want to be seen to be siding with union men who are fighting for increased wages. But is it more than that? His eyes have taken on a strangely remote, glassy quality. Elise seems nervous, as if she’s afraid Garnet will have one of his manic episodes.
Isabel longed to see Marmaduke swagger through the door, no matter which of his complex moods he was in – kindly, teasing, angry, melancholic – just so long as he was here.
She saw the warning glance Rhys exchanged with Elise in silent confirmation that all was not well with his master. He turned politely to Garnet.
‘May I draft for your approval a respectful letter to Governor Bourke? His Excellency is said to be related to the great parliamentary crusader Edmund Burke and he’s also proving himself to be a champion of British justice, whatever opinion the Exclusives hold. May I suggest that a letter applauding his initiatives and enquiring about the welfare of the Tolpuddle Martyrs would not go amiss and bring you merit in his eyes, sir?’
Isabel felt a growing sense of unease when Garnet looked distracted.
‘A letter to Bourke. Whatever for? Oh well, invite him to my banquet by all means. He won’t come but he might send his son-in-law Deas Thompson.’
His secretary bowed. ‘As you wish, sir.’
Garnet seemed suddenly mindful of Isabel’s presence. ‘Forgive me, dear girl, if I don’t keep you company at dinner tonight. I’m not feeling quite myself.’
Giving Isabel a small dazed smile he left the room arm in arm with Elise.
Rhys Powell seemed intent on shuffling papers to cover his embarrassment.
‘You know Mr Gamble’s state of health better than I do, Rhys. Should we write to Marmaduke and advise him to return home at the first instant, do you think?’
‘It is not for me to say, Mrs Gamble,’ he said, bowing formally as he departed.
Isabel was left to contemplate the empty room. Her eye fell on a set of duelling pistols in the glass cabinet.
Is this the pistol Marmaduke used to kill Klaus von Starbold? Men are so difficult to understand. They value the appearance of honour above everything that’s important.
She gently patted the nose of the sad-eyed lion whose head was a trophy on the wall.
‘Leo, I think you have more true human emotion than anyone else in this house.’
Changing into her outdoor shoes in the nursery she decided to go for a walk, feeling in need of fresh air to clarify her thoughts.
In the picture gallery she paused in front of Miranda’s portrait to study the woman whose expression subtly altered depending on the time of day, the quality of the light – and perhap
s Isabel’s own mood. For some odd reason this end of the gallery always seemed colder than the other end. Today it was completely silent, so Isabel was in no danger of providing servants with gossip about ‘Marmaduke’s strange bride’ if she spoke out loud.
‘The more I learn about you, the less I know you, Miranda Gamble. I wish I could confront you face to face. You are like a chameleon, your character changes colour when seen through different eyes. To Garnet, you are an obsession – a lost love that haunts him because of his guilt. To Queenie, you’re the excuse to fuel her hatred of Garnet to avenge your death.’
Isabel stepped sideways to study the hauntingly beautiful face from the opposite angle, aware of the illusion that Miranda’s eyes followed her movements. Was her expression today teasing, amused or did it even hold a glint of malice?
‘To Marmaduke, you’re an adored but remote mother, filtered through his youthful need, loss, guilt and now his growing confusion about your true nature. No doubt you loved Marmaduke but did you really love anyone without manipulating them?’
Just then a shadow passed across the face of the sun and Miranda’s face darkened. But the eyes remained unnaturally bright – almost alive.
She won’t rest until Marmaduke lays claim to Mingaletta. But there’s something else. Isabel felt her heartbeat accelerate uncomfortably as a vivid thought came to her.
‘My God! She doesn’t want me here!’
As always, when faced with her fear of the creatures from the other side, Isabel fought to overcome her terror with bravado.
‘Well, I have news for you, Miranda Gamble. You are no longer the mistress of Bloodwood Hall. I am! You may still have the power to manipulate everyone else who loved you. But you can’t control me. I’ll live my life my way! I’m alive!’
But Isabel was still shivering from that unnatural pocket of cold as she hurried down the cantilevered staircase and out into the heavily perfumed sunlight of the garden.
Queenie’s little cabin seemed to bask in the sun, a small oasis of normality that welcomed Isabel.
Today the old nanny was in full European garb, a floral print morning dress covered by her Mother Hubbard apron. Her dark hair with its white tiger stripes was coiled on top of her head. Her one concession to her Indian heritage, the silver earrings shaped like lozenges, swung in rhythm with her movements. She was so busy straining blueberries, strawberries and raspberries into measuring bowls on the kitchen table that she did not even look up at Isabel’s entrance. But her words were kindly.
‘We didn’t get off on the right foot but you know you’re always welcome. Don’t stand on ceremony, girl, sit yourself down and I’ll make tea for us.’
‘May I help you?’ Isabel asked.
‘I’m not so decrepit I can’t boil a kettle,’ she said tartly, then gave Isabel a reluctant smile. ‘But you can take the teacups from the dresser and set them on the table.’
I want her to help me understand Marmaduke. I suspect she was more a real mother to him than Miranda was.
The tea and Queenie’s exquisite lemon cake were an antidote to Isabel’s ever-present hunger. Her genuine enthusiasm for the nanny’s cooking brought a smile of satisfaction to Queenie’s eyes.
‘What’s that I’m making? Good Heavens, girl, and you call yourself English? Never heard of English Summer Pudding? It is the essence of summer – courtesy of our glasshouse. I made it for Marmaduke from the time he was old enough to walk down here on his own. With Summer Pudding you’ll find your way to Marmaduke’s heart, if you’re brave enough to try it.’
The glittering black eyes warned Isabel that no living soul could fool her.
Isabel decided truth was the only way to go with Queenie. ‘I have much to learn about life in general. And Marmaduke is a complex man whose moods change like a weathercock. I don’t really know who he is. He’s always doing things to please me, so I would like to surprise him by learning the secret of this pudding.’
Satisfied with Isabel’s answer Queenie wrapped a pinafore over her dress. She impressed on Isabel she must use three kinds of berries in season, slices of stale bread and sugar. That it was a cold dish best made a day or two in advance so that the flavour of the simmered berries when crushed together seeped through the layers of white bread that lined the bottom and sides of the baking dish and then formed the covering lid of bread.
‘Top the bowl with a plate and weigh that down with something heavy. I use my heaviest iron. Keep the pudding in a cool place under a net safe from blowflies for a day or two. Now you make one!’
Isabel impulsively kissed the wrinkled brown cheek. ‘You don’t know what it means to me to be able to do something special for Marmaduke.’
Queenie’s quicksilver mood became serious. ‘I am beginning to think you really care for my boy after all.’
‘I do, but don’t tell him that. He’s vain enough as it is.’ Oh damn my careless tongue. Now I’ve insulted her boy she’ll never forgive me.
To her surprise Queenie chuckled like a fellow conspirator. ‘You’re learning fast, girl. Marmaduke plays many roles to protect his true feelings. Maybe one day he’ll discover that it takes courage to love – and pay the price. There’s always a price to pay. Will you be the one to teach him, I wonder?’
Isabel didn’t know how to give an honest response.
‘Will you dine with me tonight, Queenie? I would really like that. Garnet seems strangely unwell and taking to his bed so we may well be alone.’
‘Garnet out of sight? That’s an invitation hard to resist,’ Queenie said, ‘but tonight’s the full moon and the anniversary of Miranda’s death. If Marmaduke didn’t warn you then I must. Sleep here tonight, child. I could make up a bed for myself by the fire.’
‘Thank you but there’s no need. I’ve witnessed Garnet’s wild fits of temper before and survived. I intend to go to bed with one of Marmaduke’s old books. A volume of eighth-century Indian poetry, Amarushakata, I think. Do you know of it?’
‘How could I ever forget? Miranda quoted from it as if it were her bible.’ Queenie held Isabel’s arm with such intensity her fingernails dug into her flesh. ‘Promise me you’ll go straight to bed and lock the nursery door. Remember, no matter what you hear or think you hear tonight, don’t unlock your door until morning.’
Isabel gave an involuntary shiver but tried to lighten the mood. ‘Dear Queenie. I’m eighteen now. A married woman. Why does everyone treat me like a child?’
‘Because you are. Pure of heart. I fear for you. Old houses have memories. That house has a soul in torment. Don’t be tempted to explore the dark side – only the strong can survive. Stand warned!’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll lock my door just to put your mind at rest.’
As Isabel hurried back down the path towards the house she was unable to shake herself free of Queenie’s ominous words: what you hear or think you hear. The dark side – was she referring to the Other? Or Garnet?
It was her duty to remain by Garnet’s side in Marmaduke’s absence but she could not dismiss the growing sensation that invisible walls encompassed Bloodwood Hall and were closing around her, isolating her from the real world. Tomorrow she must ride out in the bush to regain a sense of freedom.
In sight of the stables she decided to check on the mare that Marmaduke had assigned for her special use. A bay stallion stood with its reins looped to the hitching post, nervously pawing the cobblestones. The horse used by Rhys Powell.
Isabel found her own mare in her stall. Her saddle hung on the wall. Everything was in place ready for tomorrow’s ride. Slipping inside the stall she stroked the velvety nose and whispered sweet words as much for the mare’s benefit as her own. Instinctively she drew back into the shadows at the unexpected entrance of Rhys with Elise. Isabel realised it was too late to announce her presence.
Rhys gripped hold of Elise’s shoulders and Elise did not struggle to break free.
I’m trapped here as an eavesdropper. I don’t want to see this.
&nbs
p; Rhys’s whisper was urgent. ‘You can’t allow him to do this to you. You must leave him.’
Elise’s voice had a bitter edge. ‘How can I? I am well paid for my services.’
‘Don’t talk like that. You’re not a whore! You don’t need him any more. I’ll take care of you. Come away with me, Elise. Now. Tonight!’
‘It’s impossible. You can barely support yourself.’
‘Money! Is that all you care about? You love me, I know you do, say it!’
He kissed her awkwardly but ardently, until she broke free.
‘Poor boy, you’re so naive. You don’t understand.’ Her voice sounded weary, old.
‘You’re wrong – I understand you only too well. If you refuse to leave Garnet to begin a new life with me as my wife, then you are his whore!’
Elise slapped his face with such force that Rhys rocked back on his heels. Isabel saw the red imprint on his cheek as he pushed past Elise, mounted the horse and rode away.
Isabel watched the woman return to the house. She remained in the stables until her heartbeat returned to a steady rhythm and she felt it was safe to emerge. Her head ached with the problem of the night ahead.
I could almost feel sorry for Garnet. All his wealth has failed to protect him from disloyalty. What on earth do I do? If I remain silent I am party to their betrayal. Yet I am Marmaduke’s paid ally. I must wait for his return.
Isabel went to the kitchen to inform Bridget she planned to retire early and would take a simple cold meal on a tray in her room. She feigned surprise when Bridget informed her that Rhys Powell had ridden off to the village on business.
‘Oh really? That means no one will be present at dinner tonight. Please feel free to share all the food with the servants – or what you will. I won’t be needing anything more tonight, Bridget.’
Alone in the nursery the light from three candlesticks gave her a much-needed feeling of calm and companionship. She drew the curtains, locked the door to the corridor and sat cross-legged on the bed, eating cold mutton sandwiches, drinking cider, and absorbed in the reading of a well-thumbed manuscript yellowed with age. The cover of the collection of hand-written poems was entitled One Hundred Poems of Amaru and Other Poets.
Ghost Gum Valley Page 38