Ghost Gum Valley (16 page)

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 sounded 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?

‘Are the rumours true? Are there factions here who hold the same Republican ideas that caused the French Revolution and the Reign of Terror?'

‘I fancy the Colonists are more in line with the American way of doing business. First pressure the British to change the laws. If that fails fight for independence as a last resort.'

Isabel gasped. ‘Good Heavens, Murray, you sound in sympathy with the rebel Yankees. Would you have fought on their side against our Redcoats?'

Murray gave a rueful smile. ‘I am a Highlander. We have quite a history of fighting the English for our rights.'

At the thought of her own impossible pursuit of independence Isabel sent a silent blasphemous message up to God.

You made a big mistake trapping me inside this body. I should have been born a man!

The sliver of land lying between sky and ocean grew in height as they approached the headlands guarding the mouth of the harbour. The storm clouds suddenly vanished to reveal the intense blue of the sky. Isabel returned to her cabin, intent on preparing to face whatever lay on the far side of The Heads.

Isabel struggled to free herself from the drenched cotton dress that clung to her skin. She replaced it with her last remaining petticoat and bodice. She had left London on a cold March day that was nominally spring but the Colony's reversed seasons meant that this was mid-winter and she only had one decent gown. Would the worsted wool make her perspire?

She stared at her image in the sole fragment of mirror to survive the storms of the voyage. The cracked triangle reflected a pinched
white face that she had sheltered from the sun for seventeen weeks. Her taut features were dominated by blue-green eyes ringed with shadows and the tip-tilted nose she would never learn to live with. She remembered Cousin Martha's prediction, ‘You will blossom into a beauty, Isabel, when you least expect it.'

Meanwhile, here I am, trapped inside this tall, bony frame better suited to house a boy. To think that as a child I was foolish enough to dream of love and marriage.

What was it Uncle Godfrey had once said? ‘No de Rolland can ever expect to experience in tandem the opposing states of love and marriage.'

Isabel instinctively ran her hand down her flat chest, remembering that extraordinary moment when a man's hands had first touched her skin and fingered the tiny buds of her breasts. In her mind she heard his soft, urgent whisper, ‘You were made for me, Isabel. No other man will ever love you as I do.'

Isabel blocked the voice from her head. She decided to lift her spirits by examining the contents of the large metal trunk that until today had been kept in the hold for the entire voyage so that her Paris trousseau would remain pristine for her arrival. Neatly painted on the lid were the words,
Miss I. de Rolland. London to N.S.W. 1833
.

Unlocking the lid of the trunk for the first time she sat immobilised by the contents.

So this is what I can expect from George Gamble. Like all men's promises – worthless.

Not a single article was new. All had been worn by her for years past and she had outgrown most of them. She had confined herself to wearing two old dresses on the voyage to save herself for this!

Rummaging down to the false bottom of the trunk she rescued her treasures. The Bible and
The Complete Works of William Shakespeare
each bore the handwritten name Walter de Rolland on a bookplate in the flyleaf. These volumes were her last tangible link with her father and England. She held to her breast the memory book in which she had carefully pasted every review of Edmund Kean's performances, even the cuttings from the trial brought against him by the husband of his lover Charlotte Cox.
Poor Edmund.

Opening the cover she discovered an envelope addressed ‘To My
Beloved Cousin Isabel' and gave an involuntary shudder at the sight of Silas's strangely distorted, spider-web handwriting. As she had been cheated of her promised Paris trousseau, she felt certain it would not contain money. So why had Silas taken such pains to hide this letter? She struggled silently about whether or not to open it.

He wants to continue playing his secret game. If I open this I'll go on being his frightened little mouse. No Silas! I don't want to feel any more pain.

With trembling hands she finally found the strength to replace the envelope in the trunk and quickly covered it with the pile of worn clothing before locking the padlock.

Placing the key in the carpetbag that now contained her three treasured books and a few items of underclothing, she hurriedly dressed in the travelling ensemble.

Examining her face in the mirror again she pinched her cheeks to give them colour, tidied her hair and tied her bonnet strings firmly under her chin. She knew her miniature portrait had flattered her. Her fiancé was likely to be disappointed.

What manner of man was he? At worst she pictured Marmaduke Gamble as an uncouth Colonial peasant who would keep her barefoot and pregnant in some hut in the wilderness. When common sense prevailed she decided she might expect a tolerable degree of comfort as the wife of a landed Emancipist's son.

But his conversation will probably be limited to wool and cattle prices.

It irritated her that Gamble Senior had refused to supply a miniature portrait of his son. What on earth was wrong with him? The lawyers dismissed him in a few words as ‘Native-born'. What did this mean? Could he in fact speak English? Or was some Aboriginal language his mother tongue? Isabel felt sick at the thought of the unknown alien male who awaited her. A body she must suffer in bed for the rest of her life!

I have no rights. No money. No escape.

When she saw the shadow of fear in her eyes she gave her reflection a false smile.
What am I worried about? The current generation of de Rollands may be scoundrels but my ancestral tree will be impressive to a family with the convict stain. No doubt they expect me to make this Marmaduke Gamble fit to dine at the Governor's table. But how
on earth can I turn a Colonial sow's ear into a silk purse
?
I'm a de Rolland. Not a miracle worker!

Grabbing her carpetbag she raced up on deck. The impact of the sheer beauty and size of the harbour took her breath away. But before she had time to absorb the details she was stunned by the sight of a man who seemed to be walking on water!

He was positioned close to the shore, poised motionless on a sliver of boat that looked like the shell of a floating tree trunk. He had a lean, dark-skinned body with long, straight limbs and a handsome head that showed a flash of white teeth. One arm was raised above his head holding a spear until, in a lightning flash, the spear hurtled into the water to find its target in a large fish.

It was only then that Isabel realised the youth was entirely naked except for a skimpy fold of cloth the size of a handkerchief that hung between his thighs. She hastily covered her face but was tempted to peer through her fingers. This was the first naked male body she had ever seen. She was shocked by the beauty of it.

Isabel seized the moment when she saw the approaching figure of an elderly seaman with whom she had occasionally exchanged words. She approached him with what she hoped was a show of confidence befitting a lady of her class.

‘Sir, there is a worthless old trunk in my cabin. It is of no value to me or anyone else. Would you be kind enough to throw it overboard in the harbour at the first available opportunity? I thank you for your trouble.'