Ghost Gum Valley (54 page)

‘Thank you but there's no need. I've witnessed Garnet's wild fits
of temper before and survived. I intend to go to bed with one of Marmaduke's old books. A volume of eighth-century Indian poetry,
Amarushakata
, I think. Do you know of it?'

‘How could I ever forget? Miranda quoted from it as if it were her bible.' Queenie held Isabel's arm with such intensity her fingernails dug into her flesh. ‘Promise me you'll go straight to bed and lock the nursery door. Remember, no matter what you hear or
think
you hear tonight, don't unlock your door until morning.'

Isabel gave an involuntary shiver but tried to lighten the mood. ‘Dear Queenie. I'm eighteen now. A married woman. Why does everyone treat me like a child?'

‘Because you
are.
Pure of heart. I fear for you. Old houses have memories. That house has a soul in torment. Don't be tempted to explore the dark side – only the strong can survive. Stand warned!'

‘Don't worry. I'll lock my door just to put your mind at rest.'

As Isabel hurried back down the path towards the house she was unable to shake herself free of Queenie's ominous words:
what you hear or think you hear.
The dark side – was she referring to the Other? Or Garnet?

It was her duty to remain by Garnet's side in Marmaduke's absence but she could not dismiss the growing sensation that invisible walls encompassed Bloodwood Hall and were closing around her, isolating her from the real world. Tomorrow she must ride out in the bush to regain a sense of freedom.

In sight of the stables she decided to check on the mare that Marmaduke had assigned for her special use. A bay stallion stood with its reins looped to the hitching post, nervously pawing the cobblestones. The horse used by Rhys Powell.

Isabel found her own mare in her stall. Her saddle hung on the wall. Everything was in place ready for tomorrow's ride. Slipping inside the stall she stroked the velvety nose and whispered sweet words as much for the mare's benefit as her own. Instinctively she drew back into the shadows at the unexpected entrance of Rhys with Elise. Isabel realised it was too late to announce her presence.

Rhys gripped hold of Elise's shoulders and Elise did not struggle to break free.

I'm trapped here as an eavesdropper. I don't want to see this.

Rhys's whisper was urgent. ‘You can't allow him to do this to you. You must leave him.'

Elise's voice had a bitter edge. ‘How can I? I am well paid for my services.'

‘Don't talk like that. You're not a whore! You don't need him any more. I'll take care of you. Come away with me, Elise. Now. Tonight!'

‘It's impossible. You can barely support yourself.'

‘Money! Is that all you care about? You love me, I know you do,
say
it!'

He kissed her awkwardly but ardently, until she broke free.

‘Poor boy, you're so naive. You don't understand.' Her voice sounded weary, old.

‘You're wrong – I understand you only too well. If you refuse to leave Garnet to begin a new life with me as my wife, then you
are
his whore!'

Elise slapped his face with such force that Rhys rocked back on his heels. Isabel saw the red imprint on his cheek as he pushed past Elise, mounted the horse and rode away.

Isabel watched the woman return to the house. She remained in the stables until her heartbeat returned to a steady rhythm and she felt it was safe to emerge. Her head ached with the problem of the night ahead.

I could almost feel sorry for Garnet. All his wealth has failed to protect him from disloyalty. What on earth do I do? If I remain silent I am party to their betrayal. Yet I am Marmaduke's paid ally. I must wait for his return.

Isabel went to the kitchen to inform Bridget she planned to retire early and would take a simple cold meal on a tray in her room. She feigned surprise when Bridget informed her that Rhys Powell had ridden off to the village on business.

‘Oh really? That means no one will be present at dinner tonight. Please feel free to share all the food with the servants – or what you will. I won't be needing anything more tonight, Bridget.'

Alone in the nursery the light from three candlesticks gave her a much-needed feeling of calm and companionship. She drew the curtains, locked the door to the corridor and sat cross-legged on the bed, eating cold mutton sandwiches, drinking cider, and absorbed
in the reading of a well-thumbed manuscript yellowed with age. The cover of the collection of hand-written poems was entitled
One Hundred Poems of Amaru and Other Poets.

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 protector 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.