Isabel was intrigued by the inscription on the flyleaf:
To his precious daughter, Miranda. Legend has it many of these poems, compiled in the 8th century, are the work of the poet-king Amaru of Kashmir. Translated from Sanskrit by her father in honour of his grandson Marmaduke.
It was dated the year of Marmaduke’s birth.
Each poem was a little gem, meticulously translated into English on a page facing the original Sanskrit script. Asterisks offered alternative phrases in the footnotes, proving the translator’s determination to do justice to the archaic language.
The Colonel must have had a romantic soul and a deep love of India to teach himself Sanskrit. No wonder Marmaduke treasured his grandfather’s gift.
She continued reading in awe the distilled essence of the many facets of love – romantic, erotic, passionate, tender, heart-rending, teasing, even bitter and cynical. Poets dead for centuries had left this legacy of exotic imagery that resonated in her heart and fired her imagination with Marmaduke’s face, voice, his naked body.
Struck by a poem that gave voice to her own thoughts, she read the lines aloud, her emotions a mirror of the young bride who had shied away from her beloved’s kisses, his touch, unable to meet his eyes. Yet in his absence she aches with regret for those precious lost moments. Isabel trembled in recognition.
This poet is speaking for me! Marmaduke has aroused me, made me blossom with the sweet love arts of the bedchamber. Please God it is not too late!
She cradled in her arms the pillow that gave up the lingering perfume of sandalwood as strongly as if Marmaduke had just that moment left the room and would soon return to her. He was all that stood between her and her fear. What if Cousin Silas should reappear before Marmaduke’s return? She tried to control a rising sense of panic at the rush of forbidden memories of Silas.
Turning a page she was startled to find fresh solace in the poet’s words.
Yes! I must never again allow that evil man to cast his malignant shadow across my life – or Marmaduke’s.
She reverently kissed the cover of the manuscript. ‘Thank you, Your Majesty King Amaru! Your words speak across the centuries from your soul to mine!’
Overcome by weariness she closed the book and placed it by her bedside.
‘The true test of my courage – or cowardice – comes when I blow out these candles.’
Prolonging the light she blew out the candles one by one. In the darkness that was now only filtered by cracks of moonlight, she snuggled under the blanket, clutching the sandalwood pillow to shield her through the night ahead.
Chapter 37
Isabel knew she was trapped in the nightmare and with a great effort of will she could force herself to wake up. Invisible, distorted voices filled her with fear. A woman’s cries. The broken, guttural sounds of a man’s voice – his words strung together, unintelligible. The darkness in the dream world merged with the darkness of the room. Isabel felt her mind was pinioned between two night terrors, unwilling to break free from one fear only to be trapped by the other, greater fear. Reality.
Were these sounds distant or present in this very room, filtered but close by?
With trembling hands she fumbled with the box of waxed matches. Striking one on her third attempt she lit a candle to form a tiny, flickering ball of light.
The room was empty but the sounds that had penetrated her dream were true – even if they came from the Other. She repeated the words like a mantra.
‘I’m not dreaming. I’m not walking in my sleep. This is real. I’m real. Somewhere in this house a woman is crying out for help. Do I lie here and protect myself by my silence and leave her in pain? Is this what Queenie meant when she said, what you think you hear?
Isabel tried to swallow the fear that formed a hard lump choking her throat. ‘I’m a coward at heart but not that much of a coward. If she’s a ghost then she sounds even more terrified than I am.’
Trembling violently Isabel placed the soft kid slippers on her feet, wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. Candle in hand, she unlocked the bedroom door and padded along the corridor of the picture gallery, unsure if she was being drawn in the right direction.
Just before she reached the portrait of Miranda, she heard the muffled cries again. Closer. They seemed to be coming from behind the oak panelling of the wall.
She remembered the wainscotted half-timber wall lining the picture gallery of the de Rolland ancestral house. Garnet built replicas of so many things, maybe he built a priest’s hole as well.
Holding the candlestick close to the wall she traced her fingers along each panel, searching for a hidden spring. Chilled by her fear and on the point of conceding defeat, she heard a faint click and a panel slid beneath her fingers. Through the filtered darkness she saw a narrow staircase leading up to a closed door. Beneath it was a thin sliver of light.
The ugly cacophony of sound was unmistakeable. Two voices. Elise’s shrill cries. Garnet’s rasping voice. The sound of a whip.
That bastard is taking pleasure beating her.
Elise’s voice. ‘Garnet! Please. No! I can’t take this any more.’
His voice grated in answer. ‘You can and you will. It’s the only thing you’re good for. I haven’t had enough! Learn to like it!’
Isabel felt the sweat running down her body, soaking her nightgown. Blindly she removed her slippers and ascended the stairs. Kneeling on the top step she looked through the keyhole.
Fragments of ghastly images flashed past the tiny eye of light. Flesh. Traces of blood. The knotted leather thongs of a whip cut across her line of vision. Sick to her stomach, Isabel’s mouth was dry and her lips parched as she was overcome by a second wave of shock.
For a moment she caught the barest glimpse of the hand that held the whip. It was not possible – it’s not Garnet! The hand was soft, white. A woman’s hand.
The hand withdrew from sight. Then Isabel saw the whip fly through space to find its target. Garnet’s back, scored with long-healed scars and the welt of a fresh wound. His guttural cries were forced between clenched teeth.
When the lash ceased and the room fell silent, he commanded Elise: ‘Don’t stop. Not enough pain!’
Isabel gasped at the terrible words that seemed ripped from his throat.
‘Miranda! God in Heaven, will you – never – forgive– me?’
Isabel felt so sick she panicked at the thought that she was on the verge of fainting. They must not find me here.
Driven by the need to flee she tried not to stumble down the stairs. Willing herself to conserve her remaining energy she slid the panel shut behind her. The candle was now almost melted into a pool of wax.
For a moment she held up the flickering light and looked up at Miranda’s portrait, the face of beauty smiling mysteriously in the darkness. ‘Are you satisfied now?’
As if in answer, a strange gust of wind blew out the candle.
Isabel fled in the darkness down the length of the corridor to the only safe refuge she knew. Marmaduke’s nursery. And bolted the door behind her.
Sleep was impossible even given her state of exhaustion. She lay under the covers, unable to block out the brutal sounds and images she had just witnessed.
How long had this pact of self-torture been going on? Since Miranda’s death? Or since Marmaduke’s aborted wedding day when Elise was enthroned as Garnet’s mistress and Garnet realised he had lost his son? What did time matter? This terrible pact had become a savage ritual of dependency. But Isabel was at a loss to understand how any woman could continue for years to be Garnet’s accomplice. Was Elise so hungry for Garnet’s money there was no end to her degradation? Or did she feel some twisted element of responsibility for his guilt – and her own?
Although Isabel felt contempt for the way Elise had publicly humiliated Marmaduke at the altar, she was confronted by contrary thoughts that demanded exploration. Could a woman who had been transported along with the dregs of humanity be so desperate to gain a wealthy pr
otector and the hope of respectability that she would not only sell her body for a man’s pleasure, but her services as his personal scourger?
Isabel half dreaded, half welcomed the approach of that preliminary invitation to the day, the fragile pink reflection on the horizon Marmaduke called ‘the picaninny dawn’.
Now that she knew one of the darkest secrets trapped in this benighted house, what must she do? If she had proved that Elise was the victim of Garnet’s brutality, Isabel would not have hesitated to expose him to Marmaduke. She could not suffer in silence the abomination that most of the world accepted as the natural order of things – men who beat women.
But now, knowing the reverse was true, that the punishment was Garnet’s unquenchable need to assuage his guilt, she was at a loss to know how to confront it.
Damn Marmaduke. He’s left me here to handle this alone but I can’t believe he’s so callous he’d allow any woman, even Elise, to be flogged without his intervention. He must know the truth about their arrangement. So there’s no point in my waiting for his return – whenever he can tear himself away from the Theatre Royal and his mistress.
Isabel resolutely pushed from her mind a stab of envy at the thought of the lush beauty of Josepha St John. Determined to put her plan into action at day break she blew out the last candle.
The water for her bath was tepid but she lathered her body with Marmaduke’s sandalwood soap and washed her hair. She glanced outside to check the weather, which seemed to be so quixotic in this part of the world it could span all four seasons in as many days. Deciding that the day promised to be hot, she dressed carefully in her prettiest sprigged muslin morning dress and hesitated before adding the miniature house pendant to complete her toilette. She thoughtfully fingered the gold wedding band that hung in tandem with the gold house on the delicate chain – Marmaduke’s ring left with her for safekeeping.
Well, it’s an odd order for an ally but I gave my word so I’ll wear it until his return.
A quick glance in the three-faceted Gothic mirror drew a grimace of distaste. There were mauve crescent shadows under her eyes, evidence of a sleepless night. She pinched her cheeks and bit her lips to give them instant colour. She had no desire to copy Elise’s unnatural arsenic-induced pallor.
Hurrying down the picture gallery she gave a quick salute to Miranda’s portrait in passing, uneasy at the reminder of the inexplicable draft that had blown out her candle at this point last night. However, this morning Miranda looked serene.
‘I’m glad one of us slept last night!’
Isabel took her accustomed seat in the breakfast room, surprised to find Elise busy loading her plate with an English breakfast of sausages, scrambled and poached eggs, baked tomatoes, black pudding and French toast from the sideboard. Breakfast was the one meal of the day that Garnet insisted they serve themselves, free from the inevitable servants’ gossip.
How strange life is. No doubt Garnet observed this tradition when he was a servant at de Rolland Park.
Isabel had expected to find Elise looking haggard and sleepless after her duties in the priest’s hole. Not so. She gave Isabel a short but cheerful morning greeting and tucked into her food as if famished.
‘What plans have you for today, Isabel? Would you show me how to do that embroidery stitch that’s said to be in favour with gentlewomen at Home? I’m bored with Empress Josephine’s garden and cross-stitches. I’d like to make a cushion cover for Garnet’s birthday. His initials framed by a Greek Olympic coronet. Will you show me how to do it?’
Isabel was bewildered by the normal tone of the request. Had last night been a dream? ‘Of course I will, but first I must play a game of chess with Garnet.’
Isabel moved her Knight with the necessary degree of hesitation needed to convince Garnet she was learning but was still well out of his league as a chess player.
‘Good girl, good move,’ he said encouragingly.
It astonished her that today he had not cancelled their game. Despite the heat of the day he wore a winter-weight jacket and the line of the back appeared to be padded. The only clue to any pain or discomfort was his tendency to shift in his seat and his increased reliance on the inevitable jugs of lime juice. He had long since dropped the pretence that it was free of a heavy quota of gin.
His jubilant ‘Check mate!’ on the side of Napoleon, was caused by the move that Isabel had designed to end their game earlier than usual.
‘Garnet, may I speak with you in private about a matter that concerns me?’
‘Of course. Let us go to our trysting place,’ he said with a chuckle, in reference to the summerhouse that was also free from servants’ eavesdropping. Amaru seemed to be sulking from lack of attention and hardly spoke as he marched up and down on Garnet’s shoulder.
As they passed the aviary Garnet took her arm. His breathing seemed slightly more laboured than usual, which was hardly surprising given last night’s punishment.
‘My dear, it touches me to see your interest in Miranda’s beloved budgerigars. Pretty little creatures but few around here show ’em much interest, perhaps because they’re native to this land. Arrant snobbery if you ask me.’
Isabel nodded in agreement while concentrating on sorting out phrases in her head as they took their seats in the summerhouse.
‘What’s troubling you, m’dear? Nothing I can’t fix, I’m sure.’
Isabel inhaled deeply to begin. ‘How I wish that were true, Garnet. No, please allow me to continue. It isn’t easy for me to say this but it must be said. You have shown me all the concern and affection a true father shows his daughter. And this has now become a burden. I feel guilty. I have been less than honest with you. I have a confession to make.’
Garnet interrupted firmly. ‘Nonsense. You owe me nothing but to continue as you have begun. To grace this family with your beauty and kindness – and to put up with my son’s temperamental moods and love him anyway. There’s good stuff inside that lad, somewhere. It only needed a good woman to bring it out. Let’s have no more talk of confessions. You have brought honour to my house and the Gamble name.’
Isabel reached out and took hold of his hand. ‘The truth is, Garnet, I am not exactly sure what my family led you to believe.’
‘You are a true de Rolland by birth?’ he asked quickly. ‘Then that’s all that matters.’
‘I am a legitimate de Rolland but my guardian did not disclose to your lawyers details of my life – my childhood. If he had done so no one would have blamed you for seeking a bride from some other aristocratic family in need of your assistance.’
‘Then I would have been a fool to have lost you. I’ve been called many unflattering names in my day but no one has ever called Garnet Gamble a fool.’ He held up his hand in a gesture of command. ‘Enough. I know what I see. No revelations of any past little indiscretions are necessary.’
Past little indiscretions are one thing. If only he knew the web of lies I have woven. My false confession of infanticide to protect Rose Alba from discovery. How much dare I tell him?
‘Garnet, I must speak plainly if I am to remain under your roof – as I so dearly wish to do. I believe you and I have more in common than you realise. I know what it is like to carry a burden of guilt so heavy that you feel you can never be free of it – no matter how hard you try to set things right.’
Garnet leant forwards intently and gripped her hand. ‘Go on.’
‘I want you to know you are not alone. If there is any way I can help lighten – any painful memories you carry—’ She took a deep breath, knowing the fine line she was treading. ‘Please remember that Marmaduke’s wife is your friend. My first duty is to my husband, but I see no division in my loyalty to the Gambles, father and son.’
Garnet turned away as if searching for something that was out of sight. When she saw him blink she realised she had struck a deep chord. He was fighting for control.
The sound of the dinner gong gave her an excuse to jump to her feet. ‘Are you as hungry as
I am? I do hope so. Cook showed me how to make a special pudding that I understand is a favourite with you. Spotted Dick. Please tell me what you think of it.’
Isabel took his arm and shepherded him towards the house, chattering about the roses, the aviary of budgerigars, Amaru’s vocabulary, the wallaby that crossed their path. Anything and everything she could seize on to lighten Garnet’s mood.
I don’t know whether I’ve just betrayed Marmaduke or brought him three steps closer to Mingaletta. Only time will tell.
Chapter 38
Random images of Isabel flashed before Marmaduke’s eyes as he lingered over breakfast in the Gamble suite at the Princess Alexandrina Hotel. Bittersweet memories of Isabel in a wild variety of moods since his first encounter with ‘the boy’ with the black eye in the Watch House. Her fighting spirit at the Sign of the Lame Dog, her wistful wedding vow, her sleepwalking revelation, her fists beating him when she discovered Elise’s role in his life, her eyes staring at him underwater, knowing she was drowning, the way she kissed him when he saved her, as if she was offering him her soul...
Marmaduke felt hot at the thought of her. He was more than ready to return home to her; his work in Sydney Town was near completion. The architect’s blueprint for his new Indian bungalow was being drawn up and Marmaduke decided he would begin to oversee the building of it whether or not Garnet signed over the deeds to Mingaletta. Possession was indeed nine-tenths of the law. He was reminded of the parallel with the way Garnet had squatted on Crown land and succeeded in building up his rural holdings piece by piece.
In the weeks following the attack on Mendoza’s store, Josiah’s injuries had healed and his business continued to flourish once his mind was at rest that the tiara had been established as legally belonging to Isabel. The law declined to state the source of the false claim but Marmaduke had little doubt. He felt an involuntary stab of rage at the thought of Silas de Rolland. When that man arrived in the Colony it would be for one reason only. Isabel.
Ghost Gum Valley Page 39