Ghost Gum Valley (37 page)

Last night I panicked. My frightening sense of
déjà vu,
the storm, my dream. I felt swamped by the hate and grief inside everyone – the legacy of the tragic acts that happened here. Last night the house felt on the brink of imploding.

‘And yet today the sun is shining.' Isabel tried to reassure herself that at least by contract's end, she'd have money to build a new life for the only people who mattered to her. Then she would be free of all of this.

Yet why was she haunted by the expression in Marmaduke's eyes?
I keep seeing the sad child inside him but that's a weakness I must guard against.

Dressed in yesterday's day dress until her trunks arrived, Isabel lingered in the picture gallery before going downstairs to the breakfast room. She admired a stormy seascape she recognised was a copy showing Sir Walter Raleigh's fireships attacking Spanish Armada galleons. The others were portraits. Isabel was struck by the odd disparity of their features.

Marmaduke's ancestors obviously didn't marry
their
cousins for generations. They look quite unrelated and not an ounce of humour between them.

Two superior full-length portraits appeared to be the work of the same artist. The man was unmistakeably an earlier edition of Garnet Gamble – here the shock of white hair was dark brown. He was handsome and wore with pride his Masonic regalia, which included a beautifully detailed painted apron combining the traditional Masonic symbols of the three pillars, compass, an anchor and a stylised eye she presumed represented the eye of God – or was it an Egyptian symbol? It moved her to think that her young father Walter had also taken great pride in being a Freemason.

The other half of the diptych was a portrait of a woman dressed in
a scarlet sari that was so arresting it drew Isabel to a halt. Who else could this be but Miranda McAlpine?

Despite her flawless Anglo-Saxon beauty she projected an exotic Indian quality. The colours of her sari drawn from the artist's palette were intense, the pale skin tones and dark eyes were luminous. Her jewellery was breathtakingly real. Isabel was fascinated by the necklace studded with large gems of contrasting colours that formed an intricate collar around her neck.

Despite her eastern costume Miranda was not a woman who could be overpowered by the beauty of her apparel. Her classical features were beyond mere perfection – they were
alive.
The expression in her eyes, the curve of her mouth showed confidence in her power to enchant – even from beyond the grave. Yet despite the sensuality of her face and body, she was clearly every inch a lady.

Isabel spoke the thought aloud. ‘Marmaduke was right about you!'

‘Really? What did Marmaduke say?'

Isabel spun around to see him propped against the wall, casually dressed in riding clothes that today made him look far more Currency than Sterling.

‘You said your mother captured the heart of everyone who saw her. Or words to that effect. I can certainly see why. If she wore sackcloth and ashes she'd start a new fashion. Her beauty must have made other women green with envy.'

‘
Emerald
green. Mother wasn't a woman who attracted female friends. She didn't need them. Queenie was her sole lifelong confidante.'

Marmaduke was studying her with that maddening half smile as if his painful confession last night had never occurred.

‘Who is the artist? He's clearly a professional. But he didn't sign it.'

‘That's quite a story. Augustus Earle was one of a family of famous American and English artists. During his world travels he became the rage here and in Van Diemen's Land. Painted wonderful landscapes and portraits, including Governor Brisbane and Darling, Captain John Piper, Mrs Blaxland – the Quality were eager to be immortalised. So naturally Garnet commissioned him to paint him in his
Masonic regalia. He even commissioned Earle to paint the designs on his actual Mason's apron to outshine Sam Terry's. I remember meeting Earle when Mother sat for her portrait in his studio. A charming man and a great storyteller, but known to live a dissolute life. Mother's portrait took so long Garnet turned up at the studio in Sydney in a jealous rage. Refused to pay him a penny. Earle was booked to sail for India. He had Mother's portrait delivered to her, unsigned, as a gift. I understand he later joined Charles Darwin's voyages on HMS
Beagle
as official artist but by then he was broken in health and was replaced by Conrad Martens. Garnet wrongly claims he had Earle kicked out of the Colony for trying to seduce Mother.'

‘Your father seems a law unto himself.'

Marmaduke shrugged. ‘Few would argue with that.'

‘It was a shock to see Garnet's dark hair. He's rather young to have white hair.'

Marmaduke looked cynical. ‘Garnet claims it turned white with grief.'

‘Well, they say Queen Marie Antoinette's hair turned white overnight in prison.'

Marmaduke quickly changed the subject. ‘Do you fancy Mother's jewellery? Or is it too exotic for your Anglo-Saxon sensibilities?'

‘You forget I'm of half Plantagenet, half Celtic descent. But yes, her jewels are magnificent. I imagine there's a story behind them, too?'

‘Yeah. The necklace is a traditional
navratan
from the Mogul period last century. The name means “nine stones”. These precious and semi-precious gems represent nine deities in the Hindu pantheon. The nine gems are said to capture in microcosm the power of the heavenly bodies. To act as a storehouse of endless energy and power that enhances the life of the wearer. Maybe it worked for the Maharajah's favourite. It didn't save Mother's life.'

‘Perhaps it was the key to her extraordinary powers of attraction. What are the gems?'

He identified the nine gems, the emerald, diamond, pearl, ruby, topaz, coral, sapphire, cat's eye and zircon, plus the white sapphire teardrops skirting it and the graduated pearls.

‘Altogether worth a king's ransom.'

‘You sound as if you could write a book on the subject.'

Marmaduke shrugged off her praise. ‘Picked up stuff from Queenie – her mother was a Hindu. And Josiah Mendoza taught me a bit about gems.'

‘I presume that magnificent emerald is your mother's betrothal ring.'

Marmaduke seemed restless to move on. ‘By rights Mother's jewellery should come to my bride. But maybe Father's mistress has commandeered it.'

Isabel glanced up at Miranda's portrait.
He can hardly bear to say Elise's name. But I'd be honoured to wear your necklace, Miranda. I could do with with some power from the heavenly bodies myself.

When she asked about the ancestral portraits Marmaduke's hand wiped the smile off his face to hide his amusement.

‘Father was literally born a bastard. Never knew his father's identity. He bought those portraits in a job lot from Abraham Polack's auction house to give himself an instant family pedigree.'

Isabel felt a rush of pity.
Garnet's so desperate to enter upper-class English Society he even invented his family tree. No wonder he wanted a de Rolland bride to give him validity.

They found themselves alone in the breakfast room. Marmaduke was in teasing mood. ‘You peck at your food like a sparrow. Must you always be constrained by etiquette?'

‘You should talk! You never cover your mouth when you yawn. You eat with your elbows on the table and fiddle with the salt and pepper as if you're playing chess.'

Marmaduke said lightly, ‘What a perfect little mother you are.'

She felt herself grow pale. ‘That was unforgiveable!'

He strode to her side. ‘I swear I didn't mean—'

‘Oh, yes you did!' she said, throwing down her table napkin, determined to flee the room.

‘Don't tell me the honeymoon is over already!' Elise said sweetly.

She stood in the doorway wearing a fancy gown cut so low no lady would wear it before sundown. Her hair was fussily tied up in ringlets and anchored by little ostrich feathers. If her complexion had been one shade whiter she could have passed as a ghost.

Isabel knew there was no way to deny the scene Elise had just witnessed.

‘A lover's quarrel – all my fault,' Isabel said as she rested her head against Marmaduke's shoulder. ‘I'm so sorry, darling.'

Marmaduke was equal to the ploy. ‘No, no.
My
fault. I didn't allow you a moment's sleep last night.' His voice was huskily intimate as he kissed the crown of her head. Isabel was pleased to see red dots of anger on Elise's cheeks.

‘I must tear your bride away from you for a short while, Marmaduke, to discuss my plans for your welcome home banquet.'

‘Five minutes, no more. I have plans for a bivouac in Ghost Gum Valley.'

He strode from the room without a backwards glance.

Elise appeared flustered as she showed Isabel the guest list written in Rhys Powell's hand, which Isabel realised Elise had memorised. Clearly Garnet was not the only one who was illiterate.

Elise tried to act the confident hostess. ‘It's far too short notice to invite Mrs Elizabeth Macarthur, or any of the Top Thirteen. So we're confined to those close at hand. Magistrate Summerhayes, of course, and the local manager of the Bank of New South Wales – his bank would fold if Garnet withdrew his stocks and shares. Dr Llewellyn is not exactly top drawer but he's been in practice here so long he's part of the furniture. The Wesleyan pastor and his spinster daughter. Rhys Powell and Edwin Bentleigh if he isn't defending some felon or other.'

‘A gentle, clever man.'
Thank Heavens I'll know one friendly face.

‘I don't suppose there's anyone you'd care to ask? You've been here so little time.'

Isabel said quickly, ‘Murray Robertson, a shipmate on the
Susan.
And Queenie.'

Elise dropped all pretensions of a refined accent. ‘You can't be serious! Queenie is
coloured.
An Indian servant!'

Isabel was not about to yield an inch. ‘I understood Queenie was Miranda Gamble's most faithful friend. And Marmaduke would want her to be there, don't you think?'

It was a rhetorical question and Isabel glided from the room, leaving Elise open-mouthed.

Marmaduke swung open the picket gate of Queenie's whitewashed stone cabin and Isabel entered the small cottage garden that might have been found in any English village – except that, instead of the traditional thatch, this cottage was roofed by sheets of bark pinned down by horizontal poles cut from eucalyptus saplings. The squat stone chimney that ran up one side wall was cheerfully billowing smoke.

‘Don't be put off by Queenie's manner. She's nothing if not forthright. Some people find her honesty offensive.'

‘So that's where you get it from,' Isabel said. ‘I thought all you Currency Lads were tarred with the same brush.'

The minute the woman opened the door Isabel knew she was in for a grilling.

Today, in place of the sari, Queenie wore a modest dark print house dress and starched Mother Hubbard pinafore. Marmaduke wrapped her in his arms and gently rocked her.

‘Nanny, I want you to meet Isabel, my bride, the future mistress of Mingaletta. But I'll build you your own little house. We all know how fiercely independent you are.'

Queenie hugged Marmaduke warmly, then promptly banished him.

‘I've things to say to your bride that would burn your ears. Women's business. Be off with you. Come back in an hour when I've finished with her. I've made your favourite Summer Pudding.' She gave an affectionate tug at the hair that hung down his back in a horse's tail. ‘Your hair's longer than a girl's. I don't know what the world's coming to. Now be off with you.'

Isabel obediently took the seat offered her and looked around the two rooms as Queenie busied herself making tea in the skillion outside the back door. The cabin was furnished in an odd combination of bush carpentry – raw timber showed notches where branches had been lopped off – and clearly loved objects from England and India made of sandalwood, silver, brass, multi-coloured glass. Eastern embroideries glittered with semi-precious stones.

One wall held a surprising arrangement of pictures of Hindu deities and Buddhas that formed a pictorial bodyguard around a stylised painting of a very Anglo-Saxon-looking blond and blue-eyed Jesus with a group of dark children at his knee, listening intently to his stories.

Queenie placed tea and cakes on the table and gestured Isabel to begin eating, though she took nothing herself. From her rocking chair she fixed her eyes so intently on her that Isabel decided to return the stare. The woman's hair was a surprisingly glossy black, although streaked with what seemed like white stripes twisted in the shape of a tortoise shell on the nape of her neck. Her dark eyes held age-old secrets. Turquoise teardrops hung from her ears but she wore no rings on hands that were as slender and eloquent as those of a young Indian dancer.