Ghost Gum Valley (48 page)

Living in Garnet Gamble's world I feel like a pawn in a human chess game where there are no known rules. And yet I remember the Italian proverb: ‘Life is like a game of chess. At the end of the game the Pawn and the King go back in the same box.'

Seated opposite him in the Indian planter's chair on the terrace, Isabel glanced up from the chessboard, aware of the intense way he studied her. She knew she was also under scrutiny from Bridget each time the girl brought Garnet fresh jugs of cold water from the well. Isabel suspected these jugs, if not the well, were laced with gin.

Through the open French windows Isabel could feel Elise's eyes boring into her back, her sighs audible as she stabbed her needle into her eternally unfinished tapestry. This was a scene in Empress Josephine's garden at
Malmaison,
celebrated for the exotic flora and fauna French scientific teams brought back from their explorations in the Southern Hemisphere as tribute to Napoleon, including species from this mysterious continent known on maps for centuries as
Terra Australis Incognito.

Isabel felt a flash of pity for Elise.
She's so desperate to appear a lady she apes the Quality and worships all things French. Who
can blame her? No doubt the French were designing elegant fashions when we Britons were painting our bodies blue with woad.

As Isabel mentally toyed with the next chess piece she must move to ensure Garnet's ultimate check mate, she was reminded of the relevance of the exquisitely carved and painted chess pieces. Each day they played chess Isabel chose the white side, miniature replicas of the Duke of Wellington and his army, victors of the 1815 Battle of Waterloo. She chose white being aware that despite his British heritage, Garnet preferred to use his chess strategy on the side of Napoleon, his Empress Josephine and the gallant French officers in their glorious uniforms. Garnet always led the Little Emperor to victory. Isabel suspected this was Garnet's symbolic triumph over what he saw as the British system that had transported him.

No doubt Garnet admires Boney's genius for appropriating whatever he wanted – crowning himself Emperor and spreading his family dynasty across the map of Europe. Given half a chance Garnet would control the entire eastern half of Australia from Cape York to Van Diemen's Land – if he doesn't already!

Garnet's discreet cough prompted her. It was time to make her move. She felt unnerved by the sensuous way he was rolling the Duchess of Wellington between his thumb and finger while eyeing Isabel as if intent on penetrating her most intimate secrets.

Hastily she pushed her knight into the vacant square she knew would lead to her downfall and gave a mock sigh of defeat when Garnet declared, ‘Check mate, m'dear!'

‘You are most patient, Garnet. I fear you must find me a boring opponent.'

‘Utter nonsense. No one else around here has the wit to learn from their mistakes. I'll turn you into my little chess mistress before the year is out!'

Not if I can help it.

Downing his final tumbler of ‘lime' juice he proffered his arm.

‘Come, bride, let's take tea in the garden. We can talk in private.'

The columns and roof of the summerhouse were entwined with flowering vines that blended two sensuous perfumes. While Garnet gave exacting orders to Bridget for afternoon tea, Isabel chatted to the young Irish ticket-of-leave gardener whose given name had long
been lost in the dozens of ‘Paddys' – as Garnet called all his Irish Government men.

‘I must compliment you on your rose garden, Paddy.' Isabel lowered her voice. ‘Do you by chance have my favourite rose in cultivation, the white Rose Alba?'

Paddy grew confidential. ‘I do not. But sure it's a strange thing. Your good husband asked me that same question. Himself wants Rose Alba cuttings to be planting at Mingaletta when it comes to him. I advised him to try Thomas Shepherd's Darling Nursery in Sydney – he's the man who sends us our fruit and grapevine cuttings.' Paddy looked stricken. ‘By the saints, I trust I've not spoilt the young master's surprise for ye, ma'am?'

Isabel smiled her assurance that she would pretend surprise when the Rose Albas arrived.

At the sight of Bridget and Black Mary heading towards the summer house bearing enough paraphernalia for a tea ceremony, Isabel crossed to Garnet's side. After young Black Mary scuttled back to the kitchen, Bridget lingered to pour their tea. Garnet, on his best behaviour to impress Isabel, politely asked Bridget if she minded him calling her ‘Irish'?

Isabel noted that the quick flash of anger in the servant's eyes did not fade after she assumed a coquettish smile. ‘Sure that's what I'm proud to be, being a daughter of Dublin. Not that I'm likely to see home again or me old Granny before she goes to God. But I'll not be minding for ye to call me Irish, sir, whenever ye have the
need for me to
serve ye.
'

Isabel looked away, stunned by the girl's implied intimacy. Yet she also sensed Bridget's sad memories of home were genuine.

Bridget thinks I'm the enemy – British nobility. If only she knew the truth. We were both in a sense forced ‘to leave our country for our country's good'.

Garnet did not take offence at Bridget's words. ‘You never can tell how the cards will fall in this Colony, Irish. Take me. Transported on a Hell-ship to the farthest corner of the British Empire, but I built an empire of my own!'

‘Indeed ye have, sir.' As she departed Bridget cast him a final look. Isabel had seen that same expression on the faces of other assigned
servants under Garnet's dominance – cold resignation that was a hair's breadth away from pure hatred.

Isabel was struck by the disparity between Garnet's attitude to assigned females and Marmaduke's remembered words: ‘I wouldn't dream of taking an assigned woman to bed. Those poor wretches must do as ordered, not as they please. I do have
some
standards.' How wrongly she had interpreted Marmaduke. She now knew these careless words meant he did not hold convicted women in contempt as his social inferiors. He had refused to exploit their vulnerability, their desperate desire to latch on to any man to be their protector.

The Gamble father and son were both womanisers but poles apart in their code of practice. Garnet, despite his claims of undying love for Miranda and his installation of Elise as resident mistress, behaved like a medieval lord claiming his right to deflower virgins.

I must admit the
Droit de seigneur
was abused by my own ancestors.

Isabel masked her amusement as Garnet made great inroads on the pastries. He ate with the same gusto with which she imagined the Tudor King Henry VIII tackled each meal.

He caught her eye. ‘What do you think of the Colony now you've had time to evaluate us?'

Isabel was pleased that he had asked her but would he be offended by her answer? ‘It's a whole new world, Garnet. I adore the wildness of the landscape and I'm adjusting to the seasons. But the thing that really excites me is the revolution!'

Garnet looked startled so she pressed on.

‘I like the way the English class system here is being turned upside down, not only by the lower orders but by Governor Bourke,
The
Australian
and Marmaduke's friend Rupert Grantham. They have really gone out on a limb to champion the Emancipist cause against the Exclusives, demanding for all the same rights enjoyed by British citizens – trial by jury,
Habeas Corpus
, plus a Legislative Council to pass the Colony's new laws, instead of automatic British laws.'

Oh God, have I gone too far? Garnet is both an Emancipist and powerful landowner. So which side of the battle is he on? The opposite camp to Marmaduke, no doubt!

‘What it is to have a woman who's not afraid to take a stand. Just like my Miranda!'

Isabel stiffened when Garnet suddenly grabbed hold of her and ignored her instinctive attempt to withdraw her hand. She gasped in recognition at the emerald he slipped on her finger – a ring so magnificent it almost overpowered her gold wedding band.

‘Yes,' said Garnet, ‘this is the Indian emerald in Miranda's portrait. Always intended to be the betrothal ring for Marmaduke's bride. At last it's found its rightful home.'

‘I don't know what to say,' Isabel said, trying to mask her feelings.

That's a bald-faced lie. I know exactly what I'd like to say to his face! How insensitive can a man be? Does he think I don't know that Marmaduke gave this ring to the bride who jilted him? Elise has been wearing it for years! It is tainted with unhappiness.

‘Just wear it in good health, dear girl. One day you may care to pass it on to the bride of your first-born son.'

Oh dear, I can see what's coming now. Garnet's dynasty speech!

He folded his arms across his chest in patriarchal mode. ‘We are family so I have the right to ask. Marmaduke is kind to you? He's attentive to...all your needs?'

Isabel felt herself stammering in anger but was determined to fight fire with fire. ‘If I take your meaning correctly, Garnet, you are either enquiring if I am already
enceinte
or if my husband is the virile man his father is. The answer to both questions is a private matter. But I can tell you that if every female, bond or free, had a husband as romantic and passionate as Marmaduke, there wouldn't be an unhappy woman in this Colony!' She rose to feet and added haughtily, ‘Now if you'll excuse me!'

Garnet threw back his head and crowed in delight. ‘My God, there's no intimidating you, girl! You are a woman after my own heart.'

He jumped to his feet and blocked Isabel's exit to the archway. ‘Forgive an older man his impatience. I simply want to be sure that when you bring my grandchildren into the world they will be conceived in love. Every child deserves that. Few gain it.'

Suddenly weary, he looked into the middle distance. ‘Marmaduke was born of a great love. I adored Miranda to distraction but for
years I refused to give her another child at the risk of losing her in childbirth. Fate decided otherwise.'

Isabel felt her heart constrict as her thoughts tumbled in confusion.
Garnet really
did
love Miranda. Is that the true reason he slept with assigned women – to spare her the risks of childbirth? Did he suspect her second child's paternity? But at least Marmaduke was conceived in love. So was I. But I failed to give Rose Alba that same precious gift. What does the future hold for her? Marmaduke vows he'll never father a child and he expects me to lie about this to Garnet to help him claim Mingaletta. I'm paid good money to be my husband's ally. So why can't I lie to Garnet? He's a bad man and yet, oh God, he looks so terribly sad.

Isabel placed a tentative hand on his sleeve. ‘Forgive my hasty words, Garnet. I assure you I am willing to bear Marmaduke all the children he desires.'

Garnet gave a nod of resignation. ‘Yes, that's what I thought you'd say. You are nothing if not honest.' He looked suddenly old and weary as he stepped aside and gestured to Isabel to lead him from the summerhouse.

The tranquility of the afternoon was shattered by the ugly sound of a man's groans piercing a confused meld of noises – horses' hooves, the rattling of iron chains and harsh commands from voices of authority.

Emerging from the dense bush lying to the west of the estate was a band of mounted troopers dragging a prisoner in chains towards the square behind the house. Already a silent stream of convicts had emerged like reluctant shadows from their quarters. At the centre of the square Fordham the Flogger stood in readiness, tapping the coiled whip against his thigh. He was the only man present who had a smile on his face.

Flanked by the troopers' horses the young prisoner stumbled along, his bare feet shackled, his head cowed as he was prodded by the butt of a trooper's musket to keep pace with his captors. This trooper looked more absent-minded than vicious.

Isabel suspected this young prisoner was the bolter who had absconded from Bloodwood Hall and who newspapers claimed had been ‘in the bush' for weeks, suspected of bailing up lone travellers on horseback.

The trooper remained in the saddle as he confronted Fordham.

‘By rights we should dump him at the Watch House, but Magistrate Summerhayes is away on the Circuit – no knowing when he'll be back. Can't spare a man to guard this bolter until then. Y'know what these bloody Irish are like – so sharp they manage to escape through keyholes. So this one's yours for the keeping, if you want him.'

‘My cat is waiting to purr,' Fordham grinned and one trooper barked a laugh of response. The others glanced away, too weary to care.

The cat! Fordham means his cat-o'-nine-tails! He's going to flog the lad!