Ghost Gum Valley (26 page)

She swivelled around at the guttural cry, ‘Stop that thief!' coming from a constable giving chase, a command that was foiled by a street urchin who blocked the path of the law and allowed the thief to escape before he evaded capture himself.

Drawn by curiosity to a milling crowd, Isabel found herself sandwiched at the core of a phalanx of men, unable to escape the rank smell of their unwashed bodies. She clutched her furled parasol as a defence weapon.

At the sight of ragged children clinging to lamp posts and trees like monkeys to gain a better view, she realised with a sense of horror where she was. Trapped. A witness at a public execution on Hangman's Hill.

The raised gallows seemed like a bizarre altar built to sacrifice criminals.

The raucous crowd parted to allow red-coated soldiers to frog-march the young prisoner up the steps of the gallows. The ritual procession was followed by a rough timber coffin which was placed in front of the him to remind him of his fate.

Isabel was overcome by a wave of nausea but was unable to avert her gaze from the condemned man. Eyes the colour of periwinkle blue stared from his haggard face. A priest said a few quiet words to him then made the sign of the cross over his bowed head.

A female voice called out something in Gaelic which caused the condemned youth to acknowledge her.

‘My thanks to ye, missus. Light a candle to Saint Patrick for me if ye will, to help me soul on its way.'

Isabel was stunned.
My God, he doesn't seem afraid. Almost relieved. Does he hold his life so cheaply?

Many voices in the crowd booed and catcalled the thick-set figure of the man in charge, dressed in shabby black frock coat, a battered top hat tilted drunkenly over matted flaxen hair that framed a face truly as ugly as sin.

So this is Alexander Green, the hangman, who Marmaduke called The Finisher and Jack Ketch. The most despised man in Sydney Town.

Unable to break free Isabel was forced to watch Green staggering, obviously drunk, as he bound the prisoner's arms, trussing him up like a chicken before forcing the white hood over the lad's head. After testing the noose The Finisher threw his arms wide with a flourish as if he were a magician – and pulled the lever.

Isabel muttered a prayer, her eyes fixed on the lad's body strangling on the rope, his legs and bare feet writhing in a macabre St Vitus dance. The spectators, incensed by Green's bungling of the execution, hurled abuse at him.

She pushed her way through the crowd, aware that an executed body must hang for a full two minutes before the witnessing surgeon legally pronounced it dead.

On reaching the edge of the crowd, Isabel looked back to see the corpse being pushed into his coffin. The lid was nailed down. The carnival atmosphere over, the spectators at last began to disperse.

Isabel froze at the sight of the lone figure of The Finisher. He was shuffling directly towards her, brushing dust from his top hat. Distracted, he looked over his shoulder at a man steadily pursuing him with measured steps.

She backed away in horror, mesmerised by the expression on the chalk white face now peering over Green's shoulder...his eyes rolled to the sky...showing nothing but the whites of his eyes...around his neck...
a piece of rope.

Oh my God! No matter where I go I can never escape them. Why do they come to me? I can no longer tell who is alive – or dead!

Afraid to look behind her Isabel dodged blindly through street after street, unaware of which direction she was taking.

A distant clock chimed the hour. Exhausted, she paused for breath, hesitating about crossing a road but suddenly relieved to recognise a familiar landmark on the opposite side.
Thank God! I'm near the Princess Alexandrina hotel
.

Stepping off the curb she found herself whirled into the heart of chaos. Men's voices shouted in warning, brakes screeched, horses reared up from two carriages and she was sailing through the air, feet flying out in front of her, a man's arm pinioned her waist so tightly she gasped for breath.

Dumped unceremoniously on the footpath Isabel turned to accuse the ruffian who was shaking her by the shoulders and found herself face to face with Marmaduke.

‘What the hell do you think you're up to, you stupid girl?' he yelled.

Isabel was shaken but assumed a haughty tone. ‘Do I need your permission to take a walk?'

Marmaduke was so enraged he didn't draw breath. ‘Yeah, you do! I told you to wait for me. You're like a damned jack-in-the-box.
No sooner do you take it into your head to do something and you're up and off. This town isn't some sleepy English hamlet. You were heading for The Rocks – it's not called the cesspool of the South Pacific for nothing. You could have been snaffled up by some slave trader or brothel-keeper, never to see the light of day again. If you can't use your own brains, have the decency to allow me to protect you!'

Realising she was at fault she stammered out an apology. ‘I'm sorry. A housemaid told me you hadn't come home all night so I—'

‘If you believe servants' gossip, more fool you. The truth is I went out
again
early this morning to attend to business involving you. Like it or not, you're my responsibility.' Only slightly mollified he offered her his arm. ‘For Heaven's sake behave yourself.'

He bundled Isabel into the carriage, jumped in beside her then gave Thomas the order to drive to Macquarie Street.

Isabel had learnt as a child that a man's rage can only be cooled by two things. Tears or silence. As witches were incapable of tears, she had no choice but to remain silent.

But her spirits began to lift when the carriage drew up in front of a familiar building. The sign read, ‘Madame Hortense, Mantua Maker and Dressmaker. Late of Paris.' Marmaduke had previously brought her here on a flying visit to be measured for her wedding gown.

Isabel scarcely had time to take note of it before Marmaduke whisked her down a narrow, cobblestone lane where a drunken man weaved along, singing a sea shanty.

‘Never cut through here without me. This is a shortcut to Edwin Bentleigh's legal chambers to discuss our personal contract. Nothing shocks him, except injustice meted out under the law.'

At the foot of the staircase Marmaduke paused to look down at her. ‘Edwin is my friend, better than I deserve. I won't be at all annoyed if you reveal to him your intense dislike of me. But Father has to believe we have a genuine marriage. From now on in public you are to look at me with utter adoration. As if you believe the sun rises and sets in me. Can you manage that?'

Isabel was equally cool. ‘Perfectly. I always wanted to be an actress.'

Marmaduke gave a cynical laugh. ‘Believe me your acting ability
will be severely put to the test at Bloodwood Hall. If you think I'm an ogre, just wait till you meet my father!'

He paused before knocking at the door beside Edwin's brass plaque.

‘Our future relationship depends on mutual trust. If you chose to sabotage my chances of gaining Mingaletta you could do so just like this.' He snapped his fingers.

‘Don't worry, our family motto is “Faithful Unto Death”. I'll be your faithful mercenary as long as you don't trick me.'

‘I'd be nuts to do that. I am indeed a very
bad
man, Isabel, but not even my worst enemies claim that I'm a madman.'

Isabel stiffened when he suddenly reached out and held her face in his hands, his mouth so close she thought he was going to kiss her.

‘What do you think you're doing?'

He gently touched her eye with one finger. ‘You have a tiny smudge under your eye.' He whipped out a white handkerchief and ordered her, ‘Keep still. Lick it.'

Marmaduke gently rubbed the spot then continued to hold her chin. ‘I thought it was a speck of dirt but it's a natural beauty spot. Charming.'

She was unnerved by his unblinking stare inches from her face. ‘What's wrong now?'

‘I was trying to decide if your eyes are blue or green.'

‘They turn green when I'm angry, so watch out!'

He almost smiled. ‘Come, we mustn't keep Edwin waiting.'

Isabel felt wary of all lawyers. While Marmaduke described last night's performance at the Theatre Royal, the barrister cast surreptitious glances in her direction as if she were a living specimen on a microscopic slide.

He's not what I expected of Marmaduke's best friend. They're chalk and cheese. He looks too shy to be a lawyer. No doubt he'll show his true devious colours soon enough.

Edwin handed each of them a copy of the contract and explained it could be finetuned like a piano if the future Mrs Gamble had any reservations.

Isabel read her copy with care. Marmaduke merely gave his a cursory glance.

Edwin opened the discussion. ‘I should make it quite clear, Miss de Rolland. Despite protracted negotiations between both sets of lawyers representing the two parties involved in the marriage contract you signed in England, there remain these clauses of a confidential nature that my client,' he gestured to Marmaduke, ‘wishes you both to sign. I trust you agree this is a wise move to avoid any possible future misunderstanding. Do you understand your fiancé's reasons for this?'

Isabel did not hesitate. ‘Perfectly. We don't trust each other.'

Marmaduke's mouth twitched. ‘Told you she was nothing if not forthright, mate.'

‘Forthright and most sensible.' Edwin turned to Isabel. ‘I see you are a lady who values the art of getting straight to the point, an admirable trait in dealing with an unusual contract of this nature.'

Isabel was quick to answer. ‘Nothing personal, Mr Bentleigh, but I have good reason to distrust the legal profession. I was promised a sum of money by Mr Garnet Gamble for my trousseau. It was never delivered.'

She turned to Marmaduke. ‘I lied to you. There never was a Paris trousseau lost on board the
Susan
.'

‘An understandable white lie,' he said quietly.

Edwin watched the exchange between them. ‘Miss de Rolland, there is something you should know in fairness to Mr Gamble Senior. Your family nominated a sum for that express purpose. Garnet Gamble doubled it. Here is proof that this transaction took place and was received by a Mr Silas de Rolland,' he said, handing her a file.

Isabel felt herself blushing as she read it. ‘My apologies. I was mistaken.'

Marmaduke covered her embarrassment by addressing Edwin. ‘There's no need for Father to learn of Silas de Rolland's
oversight.
A new trousseau is already in hand. Madame Hortense is most clever at adapting the latest Paris modes to suit our climate.'

Isabel felt her heart leap but was determined not to reveal her feelings.

Edwin gave her his full attention. ‘Do all the points in this contract meet with your approval? Should you desire a future judicial separation it will be granted, without question, a twelfth month
after
the deeds to Mingaletta have been signed over to your husband. The
nominated allowance would enable you to live independently in the degree of comfort appropriate to your place in Society. A quite generous allowance, do you not agree?'

Isabel nodded. ‘Except for one missing clause. The quarterly sum I am to be paid from the date of the wedding. No questions asked as to how I dispose of it.'

Marmaduke cut in. ‘Forgot to tell you, mate, I agreed. Tack it on by all means.'

Isabel was afraid this rider would cause the lawyer to advise Marmaduke against it, so she added quickly, ‘I am confident you will add this clause. I'm happy to sign it now.'

Edwin shook his head. ‘My advice to you is never sign any legal document before all clauses are in place. I will rectify that matter right this instant.'

Taking up his pen he wrote in a clear copperplate hand the final clause on both documents. Marmaduke signed without bothering to read it but Isabel checked the additional lines with care. The future welfare of Rose Alba and Aunt Elisabeth depended on its accuracy. She was conscious this was the last time she would sign her maiden name.

If only I could bury my past as easily as I can ditch the de Rolland name.

Isabel hoped the interview was over but Marmaduke went off on another tack.

‘Edwin has done me the honour of standing up for me as my best man. I thought I had everything in hand until it came to booking a priest. I realised we'd never enquired as to your religious persuasion. Are the de Rollands Anglicans, Catholics or something else? It makes no difference to yours truly. I'm an agnostic.'

Isabel answered coolly. ‘It doesn't matter. It isn't a real marriage. My de Rolland ancestors regularly changed their coats right down through the centuries. Catholics or Protestants depending on which faction was in power. It was safer to be Catholics in the reign of Bloody Mary and some of the Stuarts. Advisable to be Protestants during others, such as Henry VIII and Oliver Cromwell's Civil War. We have a hidden priest hole in our manor house that's been occupied in different eras. My guardian is an Anglican, but Cousin Martha
is a Catholic and her husband, my Cousin Silas, turned his coat to marry her.'