Ghost Gum Valley (74 page)

Isabel entered the empty dining room alone, feeling deeply in need of Marmaduke's company but resigned to the fact that was impossible.

Although Isabel longed to begin a joyous new era in her new home, now that her days were numbered at Bloodwood Hall she felt strangely sad that Garnet had failed to have his long-awaited banquet. Every detail had been planned. The light from the candelabras caused the crystal and silver to glisten. Under Bridget's direction the servants had lifted their game. Even the scruffy manservant's livery looked spruce. The dinner originally planned for this evening would have been perfect. Instead a pall of gloom hung over the whole house.

During the past few days all the dinner guests who had accepted Garnet's invitation, even Magistrate Summerhayes, had sent their regrets on the grounds of a ‘previous' engagement that Isabel knew was the first of a series of musical soirées at Penkivil Park. Silas de Rolland had successfully attracted all the residents in the locality who were eager to be seen on the fringe of the Quality. Garnet's banquet was no match for three days of concerts by the legendary Josepha St John, who was to sing in English, Italian, French and German and on an undisclosed date would perform a biblical dance for the first time in Australia. Curiosity was aroused to a pitch of fever that had infected even the priests and clergymen of every denomination in the locality.

As Isabel took her seat alone at the table her emotions were in conflict. Relieved that the cancellation of the banquet meant that the possibility of one of Garnet's manic ‘peaks' would now pass unnoticed by the neighbouring landowners, she was also infuriated that Silas had deliberately sabotaged his banquet.

That predatory woman has had one ‘final' appearance after another. She was supposed to be sailing to Argentina. But as Silas has her ‘in keeping' I suppose she has no choice but to perform for his guests.

Garnet had handled the obvious social rebuff with quiet dignity, more wounded by Marmaduke's rejection than he cared to admit.
Tonight he had sent Isabel his own apologies via Bridget, that he was ‘not quite himself'.

Rhys Powell was secluded in darkness in his chambers attempting to combat a severe migraine attack. Queenie had returned to her cabin at Isabel's request to sew a party dress and dollies' clothes in readiness for the imminent arrival of Rose Alba, who was to be introduced as Isabel's half-sister.

Isabel had assured Queenie she would be fine sleeping alone in Marmaduke's absence but she had an ulterior motive in declining the offer. Isabel recognised the signs. She had no doubt Garnet was building towards another peak of anguish. Although Queenie expressed sympathy for the madness of poor old King George, the popular late father of the reigning monarch, she was scathing about Garnet's mental imbalance.

Garnet is family. I must be close at hand if he needs me.

That morning Isabel had followed Garnet covertly as he strode around the estate delivering random orders to assigned men in the stables, cool room and forge that left a trail of confusion in his wake. Only Murray Robertson had been equal to the situation, responding patiently to Garnet's inarticulate raving with calm assurances.

‘Aye, I will carry out your instructions to the letter, Mr Gamble.'

Thank you, God, for sending Murray to us in place of Fordham the Flogger. Murray's already won the grudging respect of even the toughest felons.

Isabel had asked Murray to dine with her but he had excused himself on the grounds of Marmaduke's absence.

‘A young bride canna be too careful. Government servants thrive on gossip. A wee smile between old friends would be seen as proof of dalliance. Aye, and spread like wildfire by sundown.'

Isabel had to admit the truth of that. When Rhys Powell entered the dining room and apologised for his belated appearance Isabel saw immediately that his migraine had come in tandem with his latest ‘Welsh Hour'.

‘I'm pleased you could join me, Rhys. Pray don't overtax yourself. You've been closeted for hours with Garnet ever since the messenger brought that urgent correspondence from Edwin Bentleigh's legal chambers.' She pushed her curiosity as far as she dared. ‘I trust all is well?'

Rhys's dark eyes were shadowed from sleepless nights.

‘Forgive me. Mr Gamble gave me strict instructions you are to be shielded from all unpleasantness in your delicate condition.'

Why does everyone handle me with kid gloves? I'm with child not in my dotage.

‘I appreciate your loyalty to your employer but
not
knowing is worse than facing the truth no matter how unsavoury.' Isabel lost all patience. ‘For pity's sake, Rhys, give me a clue!'

‘The empire is crumbling,' he said.'

‘Nonsense, you can't believe everything you read in Colonial newspapers. Just because we lost the American Colonies doesn't mean the British Empire is falling apart!'

He replied in a whisper. ‘Not Britain's Empire, ma'am. Mr Gamble's empire.'

‘I see,' Isabel aid evenly, aware they were both under the servants' scrutiny albeit via the fisheye lens of Elise's mirror.

She continued to eat in silence, covertly watching Bridget.

Marmaduke says everything in the Colony has its price. I know Bridget's been paid for past services, but it's not my imagination that she is now casting wistful glances at Rhys. Poor Rhys was so wounded in love by Elise he's probably blind to any admiration.

When Rhys later pleaded ill health and asked to be excused, Isabel was left alone.

‘Bridget, please take Mr Powell something to ease his migraine.' She added, as if an afterthought, ‘I'll go up to my room now, but don't hesitate to call me if any problem should arise. I plan to read Miss Austen's last novel, so I may well be awake all night.'

Bridget gave a knowing nod.

If nothing else I may have helped Bridget's case in being granted her ticket. She's a better prospect as a wife than Elise would be for any man. Oh dear, if only I could control my own life as cleverly as Miss Austen does her characters?

Isabel was jolted awake by agitated tapping on her door, shocked to find she had nodded off to sleep over her book, leaving the candle alight.

The floorboards were cold under her feet as she raced to open the door.

Bridget stood wide-eyed, gripping a candlestick in trembling hands. Her nightgown was covered by an old Irish plaid shawl, her long red hair hung in a plait over her shoulder. Normally pale, her complexion was chalk white, throwing into relief the freckles that bridged her nose. She looked as vulnerable as a child.

‘Ye had best come right away, ma'am. The master has taken an odd turn, he has. I have not been seeing him act as strange as this before.'

‘Garnet's in the priest's hole? You took him there?'

‘Only to calm him down. I had no choice – he banged on my door fit to be waking the dead – but when we got to the priest's hole, he was telling me he wanted to be left alone tonight. He closed the door on me. I swear by all the saints it was
two
voices I heard inside it. It made my flesh creep. That other voice is
herself
I am telling ye. His dead wife. He called her Miranda!'

There was no doubting Bridget's distress or her conviction that she spoke the truth.

Isabel grabbed hold of her own shawl, a candlestick and a fresh candle. It might well be a long night.

Padding barefoot down the carpeted gallery shoulder to shoulder they both froze at the foot of the narrow stairs that led up to the priest's hole.

Bridget touched her arm. ‘You hear them? It's not me that's also being demented, is it?'

Isabel felt the hair stand up on the back of her neck. The words from the priest's hole were indistinct but there were indeed two voices.

‘Thank you, Bridget, I'll take care of my father-in-law now, but Rhys Powell is ill so I need you to go for help. Murray Robertson is a man to be trusted. Tell him to ride to Mingaletta immediately and not to return without my husband, you hear?'

Bridget nodded and shielding her candle flame walked swiftly towards the servants' stairs. Left alone, Isabel took deep breaths in an attempt to control her fear before ascending the stairs to face Garnet and whatever manifestation of the Other was waiting for her.

She cautioned herself. ‘Take a hold of yourself. Your fear is nothing compared to the fear inside poor Garnet. He's afraid of dying and
afraid of living. Right now Garnet needs Marmaduke even more than he needs God.' She rolled her eyes. ‘No disrespect intended, Lord, but you know what I mean – the poor man is lost. Grant Garnet peace
on Earth
– don't wait until he's dead and buried.'

On the point of ascending the stairs Isabel was distracted by the sound of raised voices carried on the night air; they seemed to come from the direction of the assigned men's cabins. She was reminded that the full moon was said to be a time of imbalance for those who were mentally disturbed, drunk or angry.

That covers almost everyone at Bloodwood Hall! If there's a convict riot brewing I'll just have to leave Murray to handle it. My first duty is to my family.

Isabel hurried up the stairs. She had only seen the priest hole through the keyhole so she had no idea of what to expect apart from blood-splattered images in her imagination.

When she entered the shadowy room her candle revealed the bleak, whitewashed walls had cobwebbed corners. There were no windows but a small aperture in the sloping roof revealed a square of starry sky. A thin shaft of moonlight fell like a spotlight on a stage waiting for an actor to deliver his soliloquy. She glanced quickly about her. No sign of a whip or ropes. It did not look like her feared image of a torture chamber. Then she saw him.

Garnet sat on a chair in the darkest corner, the whites of his eyes glistening as he stared unseeingly into space. There was clearly no one else in the room – except for Amaru. The cockatoo flew across the room and began muttering, his sulphur crest fanned out in extreme agitation.

The reason became chillingly clear. The light from her candle outlined the metal object in Garnet's hand. A duelling pistol.

Isabel's hand instinctively splayed across her belly to calm the babe kicking in her womb.

Don't be afraid, little one, I'll take care of you.

Afraid to make a move that might startle Garnet, she gave him time to adjust to her presence then carefully lowered the candle to the floor and knelt at his feet. There was a long silence before he spoke.

‘Why are you here, girl? I wanted to spare you being involved in my problem.'

‘I am your family, Garnet. My place is with you. I cannot bear to see you so unhappy. There is no need for this,' she said with a slight gesture towards the pistol.

‘No need?' He waved the pistol and gave such a painful laugh that Amaru began squawking in agitation, dancing on Garnet's shoulder. The bird seemed so afraid he had lost his power of speech.

As if suddenly reminded of the weapon, Garnet rested it on his thigh under his hand. His eyes were now focused on Isabel, his voice bleak – but calm. Once he began he did not falter. At times Isabel wanted to deny his words but he was so lucid she decided to hold her tongue and hear him to the end. It was impossible not to be reminded of
King Lear.

Poor Garnet is haunted by guilt and the fear of madness. I don't know how but somehow I'm going to give his life a happy ending.

‘The truth will out, Isabel, any day now. I not only destroyed my Miranda's last chance of happiness. Now I'm going to ruin Marmaduke's life and yours. It's all over. Everything I did to build my empire, every sharp trick, was to try to win Miranda's love and the boy I wanted to respect me as much as I loved him. I failed all of you.'

Isabel was struck by the pale blue eyes of youth trapped inside an older man's face.

‘I had no gift for love. I only have one gift – attracting money. I became the second richest man in the whole of New South Wales.'

Amaru picked up on the note of pride in his voice. ‘That's the way to do! That's the way to do it!'

Garnet absently stroked the cockatoo's back. ‘But now my Midas touch has deserted me. I mortgaged my rural estates, my George Street properties and shanties. Edwin Bentleigh has just discovered my bank betrayed me. Sold off my mortgages on the cheap.' His voice rose in outrage. ‘Damn their greedy hides. To think I used to be a board member of that blasted bank! They could have done the decent thing, warned me they were going to foreclose on me!'

Isabel was thinking rapidly.
The Sydney Herald said Silas is on the board of that same bank! No doubt he holds sway – the scion of a noble English family. My God, is there no end to Silas's infamy?

She watched his fingers tighten around the pistol.