Ghost Gum Valley (13 page)

That little problem. Please God keep him believing I killed the babe.

Isabel made a rush for the door but Silas blocked her flight. His hands reached out and folded around her throat in a sign of
possession, forcing her to look into his eyes. She saw it, that flash of something akin to madness. Was it also inside her?

Unable to speak she felt that familiar surge of fear mixed with guilt and desire.

‘You see?' Silas said calmly. ‘You know it, too. I am the one man on earth who is strong enough to possess you, little witch. You will destroy any man who loves you – except me! I'm your kinsman. Double cousins, only a heartbeat away from being brother and sister. We share the same Plantagenet bloodline, the same ancestors on both sides. You shall become flesh of my flesh, as it was always meant to be.'

Silas's mood altered so suddenly Isabel was shocked at how easily his voice resumed a business-like tone. ‘Now off to bed with you. We must deliver you to the
Susan
by three of the clock tomorrow afternoon.'

From the doorway she managed to ask, as if nothing was wrong. ‘What of my Paris trousseau? I understand the Gamble lawyers agreed to pay—'

‘All is in hand. Your trunks are already on board ship. Everything's arranged with the ship's master. No need for us to suffer a farewell scene,
ma petite cousine
. My new manservant will drive with you to the dock. He was a prize-fighter trained in his youth by Daniel Mendoza, but my man Cooper lives by a different code. He has no scruples about being heavy-handed with women, so don't have any fancy ideas about missing the boat.'

‘I know my duty,' Isabel said coldly. ‘But what of Agnes: isn't she to sail with me?'

‘Only to see you on board for the sake of appearances.'

Isabel turned to gain what she hoped was her last ever sight of Silas. He stood before the fireplace, one foot on the fender, wineglass in hand. His smile was so conspiratorial it made her flesh creep.

‘No doubt Agnes will shed buckets of tears at the wharf as you sail away. But
you'll
be dry eyed. Witches never cry.'

He raised a hand to halt her. ‘One final question. Uncle Godfrey says you never changed your story. You did not identify your partner in crime. But you know you can trust
me,
Cousin.'

Isabel's mouth dried. She took her time, knowing that three lives
depended on her answer. ‘He was just a boy, a traveller passing through the village. I never knew his name.'

‘Thought as much,' he said idly. ‘Oh well, that's ancient history now.'

Isabel closed the door behind her and ascended the stairs, feeling dazed and curiously empty. In her bedroom she discovered Agnes asleep on the sofa alongside her bed. A small coin purse lay on Isabel's pillow. The accompanying note was reasonably legible so must have been dictated.

 

My dear little Lamb,

 

I know you'll be making a fine Marriage when you gets to Botany Bay. But it don't bear thinking about you sailing so far from Mother England without a penny to bless yourself. Your Guardian give me this money as a Reward for keeping you safe. But I ask you, what's an old servant like me need with money?

Try and be happy, my good girl. They say Marriages are made in Heaven. I pray you're going to a decent man who won't beat you like my rotter did me.

I hopes you'll forgive old Agnes for being cranky. I would have been glad to sail with you and look out for you. Mr Silas said there weren't no money to waste on my Passage.

 

Ever your Faithful Agnes

 

Beside her name was a neat cross where Agnes had made her mark.

Isabel lay awake, clutching the purse inside her nightgown, marvelling at how strange life was.
My family believe they are now rid of one unwanted de Rolland. They're mistaken.

For the first time in her life Isabel felt the bittersweet taste of triumph. She had outwitted her de Rolland kinsmen. In time her guardian's disgraced sister Elisabeth would be free to follow her to New South Wales.

And Cousin Silas will never know the truth about my ‘confession' of infanticide. Or that the de Rolland family has another heir, my little Rose Alba.

Chapter 8

Bloodwood Hall, New South Wales, March 1833

‘Shut your mouth, you stupid bird. You're lucky I didn't wring your neck years back.'

Seated on the front terrace in his Indian planter's chair, shaded by the network of purple wisteria that wound its way around the verandah columns, Garnet Gamble found a ready target for his fury in Amaru. The cockatoo responded with his own brand of anger. His sulphur-coloured crest fanned out to its full range as he strutted on his exercise bar.

‘Shame on you! Shame on you!' Amaru kept repeating in the aggressive squawk that Garnet knew from experience would take time to cool. Miranda had spent endless months teaching her ‘clever bird' to speak and he fancied he could hear the intonation of her voice in the bird's words. It irritated him intensely to realise that this accursed bird would be spouting Miranda's provoking words long after he was dead and buried.

He cast a steely glance at Elise, who was seated on a nearby sofa, her face shaded by a Leghorn hat adorned with too many flowers, her milk-white bosom flouting far more décolletage than any real lady would deign to reveal in daylight hours. He knew Elise was doing her best to imitate an English gentlewoman, working threads into a tapestry frame that she had laboured over for the past three years. Garnet suspected the floral design was decorated with more pinpricks of her blood than flowers.

We both know she'd never pass the test of behaving like a lady. Why doesn't she give up? Stick to what she was born to do – being paid to perform in my bed.

Garnet was glad to be distracted by the sound of a horse's hooves and the clang of the wrought-iron gates at the end of the avenue. Was this Marmaduke returning home with news of the bride's arrival?

He hooked his spectacles in place. Not that they were the slightest use except on those occasions he pretended to read documents requiring his signature. Spectacles proved a useful foil against those who suspected his illiteracy and tried to take advantage to cheat him of his fortune. He had recently dismissed his previous secretary.

No bastard's going to get one over me! But there's no one in the world I can trust.

When the horseman rode into his line of vision, Garnet felt a jolt of disappointment. The rider was not Marmaduke, just a scrawny messenger that Garnet's instinct told him was an old lag who had done it hard to complete his time. Prison left an invisible brand on a felon's face that no subsequent amount of freedom could entirely erase. Garnet saw that same mark in the face that looked out of his bedroom mirror.

He jerked his head in Elise's direction. ‘See what this bloke wants.'

Elise's fashionably pale face was instantly flushed with a pink dot on each cheek.

‘Surely that's a servant's role, Garnet dear.'

‘The only difference between you and my assigned servants is you get
paid
to do my bidding.'

He ignored her emotional sniffs. Elise tossed down her sewing, wrapped the shawl across her bosom to protect her from the sun and the horror of freckled flesh. She assumed a haughty duchess air as she descended the steps to ask the man his business.

‘Thank you, ma'am, but I've strict instructions to be handing over this letter into the hands of none but Mr Garnet Gamble himself.'

The Irishman doffed his hat to Elise but inclined his head at Garnet. ‘Would that gentleman be yourself, sir?'

‘Here, give it over.'

Garnet placed the large envelope on the footstool as if there was no urgency involved.

‘You've ridden your horse into quite a lather.'

‘Mr Bentleigh's instructions were to deliver this to you post haste, sir.'

‘A horse deserves better treatment. Take him to the stables and get the ostler to see to him. Go to the rear of the house and ask for
Cook. Tell her I said you're to be well fed before you hit the road again.'

The Irishman mumbled his thanks but hesitated about leaving.

‘What are you waiting for, man? Your master pays you, don't he?'

The courier took the horse's reins and skulked off with a hangdog expression.

‘These old lags must think a man's made of money,' Garnet snapped at Elise.

She was overcome by curiosity. ‘It must be urgent. It could be from Marmaduke. Aren't you going to open it?'

Garnet knew the answer to his question before he asked it. ‘Why don't
you
read it to me seeing as you're so dead keen?'

Elise quickly gathered up her sewing in an attempt to cover her humiliation about the illiteracy she believed was hers alone. ‘I must instruct Cook about tonight's menu in honour of the new magistrate. Mr Summerhayes is a real gentleman.'

The moment she was out of sight Garnet grabbed the envelope and tore open Bentleigh's familiar wax seal. The letter was written in a copperplate hand and Garnet could only recognise his name peppered across it.

Who in hell could he trust to read it? Perhaps he had packed his thieving secretary off to the magistrate too soon. Until a replacement arrived he was left high and dry. The only solution went against the grain.

The old bitch hates my guts but Marmaduke's the light of her life so no matter what Bentleigh's letter says she won't spread gossip about him.

Amaru began to squawk and he turned on the bird.

‘Shut up, Amaru! Oh, all right, come along with me.'

The bird perched on his shoulder and Garnet crossed the landscaped oriental garden at the rear of the house, only half aware of the beauty of the scene. On reaching the wings of the convicts' cabins he was conscious there were no assigned labourers in sight. The familiar rhythm of the lash sounded close at hand, followed by the grunts that reminded him of a dog in pain. Fordham the Flogger was performing his favourite exercise, stepping into the role of scourger to mete out
some felon's punishment rather than wait for the new circuit magistrate to pass judgment.

Time had hardened Garnet to this ritual. The prisoner tied to the crossbeam was young in years but old in terms of The System. His exposed back was bloody from fresh cuts of Fordham's lash that cross-hatched the raw scars of previous floggings – what the felons called the Red Shirt.

Garnet recognised the face that turned to fix him with a baleful stare. Paddy Whickett. No mistaking that red hair. The lad's skin was stretched taut across the cheekbones, the bloodshot eyes bulged, the teeth clenched against each flaying of the lash. Whickett had been assigned to him several years back but rebelled so often his sentence never grew shorter.

‘What's he done this time?' Garnet demanded of Fordham.

‘Insubordination, blasphemy on the Sabbath, stealing Government stores from the cooling house. You name it, he's done it.'

‘Right, well don't go overboard. Make sure he's fit to work tomorrow.'

Garnet recognised in Whickett's eyes the same fire of revenge he had felt himself as a young transportee. On impulse he halted Fordham.

‘He's already copped enough stripes for insubordination and blasphemy.' He turned to the prisoner. ‘Why did you steal Government stores? To barter?'

‘To
eat!
Ye don't know what it's like being forced to work on half rations.'

‘Don't I just,' Garnet said under his breath before he addressed the men. ‘Understand this, you lot. Government stores are supplied to feed you. Some of you were transported for stealing food. I'm not here to punish you twice for hunger. I'll pack you off to the magistrate and see you hanged if the crime warrants it, but no man goes hungry while I'm Master here.'

Garnet kept his face expressionless. To undercut his overseer's authority in front of convicts was an invitation to mutiny. But he ordered Fordham to cut the prisoner loose.

‘Your choice, Whickett. You can continue to work here or be returned to the convict barracks in Sydney and take your chances on being assigned to a new master or an iron-gang. Which is it?'

Paddy Whickett turned his head in the direction of the house and Garnet followed his gaze to the Irish girl standing alone with her fists clenched. Bridget.

So that's the attraction. I don't like the lad's chances. She's more woman than any one man could tame – except me.

Whickett eyed her as he gave his answer. ‘I'll be taking my chances with the Devil I know.'

Garnet turned to Fordham. ‘This dog's young enough to learn new tricks. Give him time for his stripes to heal. He's off the work lists as of now.'

As he passed his overseer Garnet lowered his voice. ‘Understand me. If you cut their rations again, Fordham, I'll have your balls for breakfast!'

He continued down the winding track to the whitewashed two-room stone cottage that held long memories. He had built it himself as a twenty-year-old, dreaming of how he would lay the foundations of his empire when Governor Macquarie granted him a pardon. The cottage aroused images of Miranda so strong that Garnet could not erase the pain of them, yet never wanted to relinquish a single one.

Garnet walked from his cottage to watch the spectacular sunset from the boundary of his Bloodwood grant. The adjacent estate had been granted to a British Army officer as a reward for his years of service in India. Colonel McAlpine looked straight past Garnet's cart whenever he passed him on the road to Sydney Town, leaving his daughter in the care of her Indian servant girl.

The ritual of sunset was Garnet's daily hope of gaining a glimpse of his new neighbour's daughter, a young lady of Quality. A few hundred yards beyond the slip rail boundary fence was McAlpine's Indian bungalow, Mingaletta.