Ghost Gum Valley (28 page)

‘Hey, Jos, I invited
you
to the wedding but you said you needed to work right up to the beginning of your Sabbath.' At Mendoza's nod he added, ‘Did you also find time to alter my ruby ring to fit a lady's hand?'

When Mendoza offered it for inspection, Marmaduke expressed his pleasure at the delicate setting. He was about to take his leave when his partner handed him a small box.

‘My own betrothal gift for your bride.' Mendoza said impatiently, ‘Open it, open it!' The old man's mouth was hidden by his beard, but his eyes were smiling.

Marmaduke did not have the heart to destroy Mendoza's illusion that it was a love match. The box held a gold pendant in the shape of a miniature house with a ruby door.

‘Jesus, Jos. You've surpassed yourself. This is exquisite workmanship.'

Mendoza shrugged with pleasure. ‘My people have a saying along the lines that a man's true home is his
wife
. So may you be blessed in your new “home”.'

Marmaduke reached across the counter and gripped Mendoza's shoulders. ‘I don't know what to say, Jos, except Isabel will love it!'

‘Be off with you. I must work to keep our doors open or we'll both end up in bankruptcy court.'

Marmaduke departed, grateful that fate had led him to be
Mendoza's partner. Their store was closed from sundown Friday and all Saturday to enable the old man to celebrate his Shabbat and was also closed on Sundays along with the rest of Sydney. He felt guilty that Mendoza worked long hours the rest of the week to ensure the success of their business.

Back in the carriage Marmaduke gave Thomas the order to return to the hotel. On the carriage seat was the box with the wedding gown made by Madame Hortense's seamstresses.

Aware these apprentices earned a mere pittance, Marmaduke had paid them generously to work around the clock to finish it on time. He had designed the gown to do double duty as a ballgown, white being the accepted colour worn by a bride during her first year of marriage.

Marmaduke's instructions to Madame Hortense had been blunt. ‘Give her the illusion of a bosom, right? I've seen broom handles with more curves than God gave the poor girl.'

It gave him satisfaction to know that today he would sabotage his father's plans.

Did the bastard really believe I'd consent to be married in the same chapel where I was publicly jilted?

The memory of that earlier disastrous wedding day triggered unwanted images.

Standing before the altar...nervous perspiration was running down the inside of Marmaduke's winged collar. His darling girl was habitually late. Edwin had hurried back to the house to check. What was taking her so long?

The convict organist had played his repertoire four times over. The faces in the congregation were mostly assigned men. Queenie wore her best purple sari but her face was unsmiling.

Any moment he would see his sweet bride enter, her bridesmaid holding the train of his mother's wedding gown. If only Mother had lived to witness his happiness.

His heart raced at the sight of Edwin's strained expression as he hurried towards him...

Marmaduke repeated Edwin's words out loud. ‘The bride has had a change of heart!'

At Thomas's shocked expression Marmaduke recovered himself
quickly. ‘A change of plans, mate. Drive us to Edwin's place, post-haste, eh?'

The front door of the Bentleigh home opened and Marmaduke stepped back in surprise at the sight of this latest housekeeper in the procession of drunken assigned servants that the invalid Mrs B had packed back to The Female Factory at Parramatta. This candidate was dressed sedately in black with starched white collar and cuffs, her hair drawn back in a chignon.

‘Maeve! You look wonderful. How long has this been going on?'

Mindful of her new role Maeve made a demure bob but her accent was as Irish as ever.

‘Since that rat of a publican tossed me into the street. Edwin said I was meant for better things. I could work for his mother if I could survive the changes in the
weather
.' She rolled her eyes to the ceiling in the direction of Mrs Bentleigh's bedchamber.

‘You're just what the doctor ordered. Edwin's lucky to have you here.'

Maeve led him into the study. ‘He'll be glad of the excuse to escape for the day.'

‘You
are
still free to attend my wedding? I wanted to ask if you would help Isabel dress and calm her nerves? You and Edwin are my witnesses. In fact you're the whole congregation. No church, so not even any church mice.'

Maeve cast him a wicked glance. ‘Would I be missing the chance to see some lovely young girl putting a ball and chain on ye, Mr Gamble? The Pope himself wouldn't stop me!'

She was gone with a swish of petticoats. Despite Edwin's undoubtedly honourable intentions, Marmaduke would lay money on Maeve's ability to break the barrier of his best man's shyness.

Edwin greeted him relaxed and smiling. ‘How's the bridegroom bearing up? I've cleared the decks of all legal commitments. I'm at your service all day.'

Marmaduke tried to sound nonchalant. ‘Just another day in the week to me, mate. But I couldn't have a better best man. Here are the rings. Maybe this time we'll get to use 'em. I must say you're a sly dog having Maeve under your roof.'

Edwin stammered. ‘I assure you it's all above board, Marmaduke!'

‘Yeah, mate, that's what I was afraid you'd say.'

When Maeve re-entered the room she was dressed in her Sunday best.

‘When exactly will you be wanting me to attend Miss de Rolland?'

‘Would now be too soon?' Marmaduke asked quickly, ‘I could drive you to the hotel to check that the wedding gown fits. Just make sure
this
bride turns up on time.'

Edwin's eyes followed her as she climbed into the landau.

Marmaduke laid a hand on his shoulder and said quietly, ‘You're home and hosed, mate. She thinks the world of you.'

Edwin gritted his teeth. ‘Another crass word and I'll flatten you, wedding day or not!'

‘Righto! I get the message, mate. Just don't forget to collect James Backhouse. Thanks to your reference he's agreed to witness our marriage.' Marmaduke felt uneasy. ‘He's a great bloke. I hated being a bit dodgy with a Quaker, mate, but – well, y'know that letter of permission from Isabel's Uncle Godfrey? I sort of – wrote it myself.'

‘Forged it, you mean,' Edwin said with a sigh. ‘Why should that surprise me?'

‘Well, I must say I was rather surprised to know you were a Quaker, mate. You've been keeping that dark.'

‘You never asked me,' Edwin said enigmatically.

Marmaduke looked up at the sky. ‘Don't forget to bring a couple of umbrellas. The sky looks dirty. I'll meet you there well before three. First, I've got an appointment at the Theatre Royal I simply can't break.'

Chapter 19

For Isabel her mock-wedding day dawned with an overcast sky but her spirits lifted in anticipation of the arrival of the boxes marked with Madame Hortense's label.

Isabel gasped at the wedding gown. It was love at first sight.

If I wasn't a witch I'd be crying tears of joy. But at least I can enjoy a thing of beauty.

With a racing heart she shed her morning dress, reverently slipped into the magnificent ivory silk wedding gown and gazed at her image in the mirror, dry-eyed with admiration.

Unable to lace up the back unaided, she clenched the two sections together with one hand. The beauty of the gown transformed her. She knew that it was based on an illustration of a Paris creation that Marmaduke had re-designed to suit the Colony's climate. In wonderment she touched the daring curve of her breasts above the padded bodice.

‘My goodness, for the first time in my life I look like a real woman!'

Everything fitted to perfection, though the white satin slippers were a size too small. She checked the shoemaker's name on the box, relieved that the address was close to the hotel. Hurriedly changing back into her morning dress she hugged the wedding shoes in her arms as she headed for Blunt the Shoemaker's store in George Street.

Outside the shoemaker's window she hesitated to look across the road at the grandiose edifice of the Royal Hotel which she knew held in its heart the one-thousand-seat theatre that was the culmination of Barnett Levey's dream, the Theatre Royal. When she spotted the billboard announcing tonight's performance was
The Merchant of Venice,
she longed to be free to attend it but knew her duty to play the loving bride at her own wedding made that impossible. She felt the magnetic pull of the theatre and decided that as soon as she had exchanged her shoes she could at least try to have a peek at the empty auditorium. She felt a delicious sense of freedom as she hurried inside the shoemaker's store.

I'm not married yet. I'm still my own woman until three o'clock.

*

It was noon when Marmaduke alighted from his carriage. The five-storey façade of the Royal Hotel complex combined Greek architectural elements with the promise of theatrical grandeur.

Standing at the rear of the empty theatre Marmaduke almost felt as if he was inside a living, breathing creature; he was delighted by the smell of greasepaint that had already seeped into the theatre's pores during its first months of legitimate theatrical life. Greasepaint sent his pulses racing with a feeling of anticipation, excitement, a promise of magic with a dash of danger at its heart.

Making his way down the aisle of the empty auditorium he marvelled at the size and splendour of the architecture and embellishments. Built on a scale that rivalled many an English theatre, it was an extraordinary tribute to Barnett Levey.

Since his return to Sydney, Marmaduke had joined the small band of the man's allies, buying shares in Barnett's company, which now rented the theatre because crippling financial problems had forced him to sell the building he had built. Marmaduke openly championed the entrepreneur, telling anyone prepared to listen, ‘Barnett Levey staked his business empire, creativity and passion on bringing Shakespeare, melodrama, opera, ballet to every class of society in the Colony. One day this whole continent will acknowledge him as the true Father of the Australian Theatre.'

Now as Marmaduke looked up at the tiers of galleries his eyes rested on the box he had taken for the season and where tonight he would attend a Benefit Performance for an elderly actor whose memory was now so governed by alcohol he tended to break into Polonius's speech to his son in
Hamlet
, regardless of the play in which he had been cast.

The moment Marmaduke spotted the lone figure standing rigid in the wings, he knew that despite her legendary reputation Josepha St John was terrified. Tonight she must step aside from the security of her American Nightingale legend to face her baptism as a dramatic actress. It was no small challenge to play the leading female role of Portia in
The Merchant of Venice.

There was no one else in sight so Marmaduke sprang up onto the stage with the agility of a born horseman leaping into the saddle. He
crossed to the wings and drew Josepha by the hand to centre stage. She clasped a shawl around her shoulders like a shield but he saw she had not forgotten to wear the diamond necklace that was part of her legend – the fake diamonds glittered against her ivory flesh. Her lush hourglass figure was his idea of womanhood but today she seemed drained of confidence. Recognising the depth of fear in her dark eyes, he smiled to reassure her and kissed her hand.

‘I came early in the hope of catching you before your rehearsal – I have Barnett's permission of course. You have never looked more beautiful, Josepha. All Sydney Town will be at your feet tonight and every newspaper will sing your praises.'

‘What if the booy me? You know how volatile these Colonials are. They can turn on you like vipers. Look at how my countrymen treated poor darling Edmund Kean in America. And
he
was the world's greatest tragedian at the height of his powers. I'm just a novice attempting Shakespeare.' Her voice broke with a sob. ‘Marmaduke, I can't go on. I can't face them!'

Marmaduke dismissed her words with a flourish. ‘First night nerves, nothing more. I'd be worried if you didn't have them.
You
are already adored in this town – you can't put a foot wrong.'

‘As an opera singer, yes. But Shakespeare!' She turned as if to flee.

Marmaduke held her face between his hands and spoke soothingly as if to a child. ‘Don't let that word terrify you. Shakespeare was an actor himself. He understood actors, body and soul. If you had been born in his Elizabethan era he would have written the role of Portia especially for you – if women had been allowed to play female roles then.'

Conscious that actors had begun to filter to the rear of the stage and were chatting in small groups, Marmaduke placed his arm around Josepha's shoulders and drew her down-stage, determined to restore her confidence without being overheard.