Ghost Gum Valley (41 page)

She stared at him. ‘You know, I
almost
believe you.'

‘Will you grant me your promise you won't wreck his life? Give those two a chance to find each other. Before you honour your promise to Miranda?'

Queenie nodded slowly. ‘I agree to wait until we prove whether that girl is true blue.'

The old shrew said ‘until
we
prove'. I've got her on side!

Garnet hurled himself out of his chair and grasped both her hands so tightly he made her flinch. ‘I have your word on that? Do you solemnly swear it on Miranda's memory?'

‘I swear it.' She rose and broke free of him, crossing to the door with the veil of her purple sari fluttering behind her. Pausing in the doorway she cocked her head to one side like some strange breed of wizened Indian owl.

‘I have never been sure, Garnet Gamble, if you are mad or bad. Or both. But make no mistake. If you betray Marmaduke again I'll do what I've wanted to do to you for years. Swing for your murder!'

Chapter 28

Isabel awoke in alarm, her heart beating rapidly at the sudden realisation she was alone in an unknown place, wrapped in a blanket. Where was Marmaduke?

A cave! Daylight streamed through the entrance, transforming last night's place of sinister shadows. The campfire was now reduced to a thin spiral of smoke rising from the embers.

Last night was a jumble of memories. She remembered the wine that warmed her body had sent her to sleep filled with uneasy dreams. Had wine also freed her tongue?

Or was I sleepwalking again? Where the hell is Marmaduke?

Isabel sat up in her blanket roll and combed her fingers through her hair to clear her line of vision. She brushed one long coil away from her eyes. The other side was nothing but a tangle of short ends.

‘Where's my hair gone? What's that monster done to me?'

She shed Marmaduke's outsized shirt and vest but had no idea where Murray's clothing was stored. She was desperate to see her reflection. No mirror. So she pounced on metal pots and pans in the hope of gaining some rough reflection. All they offered were distorted grimaces like gargoyles in medieval churches.

‘My God, I wish I was dead!'

Death! She was suddenly halted by the memory of what had happened yesterday. The accident at the billabong. Marmaduke had saved her life. She was overcome by a rapid series of images. And finally that extraordinary moment after she had cheated death, when she had crossed the boundary of reality...lying in Marmaduke's arms, lost to all but the blind instinct to be part of his body. A dream like no other.

Distracted by the alarming sounds of gunfire she ran to the mouth of the cave to hear the sharp retort of firearms being exchanged in rapid fire.

‘Bushrangers! And Marmaduke's all alone!'

She pulled on her boots and ran outside, blinking in the strong sunlight at the solitary figure in the landscape. Marmaduke stood with arms outstretched firing at his fleeing target. The thunder of galloping hooves retreated in the distance – the bolters' horses were nowhere in sight.

Isabel slithered down the incline and ran to his side, determined to hide her fear.

‘Are you all right? I heard the attack. And their horses. How many were there?'

‘Rough count. Twenty or more,' he said, laconically examining his pistol.

‘Twenty! They might have killed you! Did you manage to shoot any down?'

‘Why? They've as much right to this land as I have.'

It was then she saw that odd twitch at the corner of his mouth and felt confused.

‘I must say you're mighty generous about the rights of bushrangers.'

‘No bushrangers, love. Those horses were Mother's brumbies. I wasn't aiming at them. Just a bit of target practice to keep my hand in. It's quite a few years since I killed a man. Never know when I might come face to face with another villain.'

He glanced at her with an oddly embarrassed expression. ‘Are you all right? Yesterday's swimming lesson was more than I'd bargained for. But all the more reason to learn to swim, right?' He avoided her eyes. ‘I'm sorry if I let you down. It won't happen again.'

‘I suppose it's a good idea to learn to swim.'

Looking strangely relieved by her reaction he resumed firing at a metal target tied to the trunk of a gum tree.

Isabel was startled by an unfamiliar emotion.

The sun was shining on the long fall of chestnut hair that hung down Marmaduke's back. The sleeves of his striped bush shirt were rolled back over arms that looked muscular enough to fell a forest. His pale moleskin trousers were moulded to his thighs like a second skin. His tall, broad-shouldered frame made him look strong enough to run Mingaletta single-handed.

Today there was no remaining trace of his initial persona as a counterfeit English gentleman. The young man standing before her was the pure embodiment of a Currency Lad.

Isabel felt her heartbeat quicken at the memory of that wild night in the Surry Hills when he had carried her on his shoulders in their race against Maggie the whore.

She blushed at the thought of the warmth of his hair pressed against the tops of her stockings, all modesty lost in the thrill of the chase. That was the most exciting night of her life – except for that moment yesterday on the banks of the billabong. But was
that
real?

Aware of her scrutiny Marmaduke looked her over with a teasing glint in his eye.

‘Madam, you're standing with the sun shining straight through you. Your nightgown leaves nothing to the imagination. Any other bloke would take that as an open invitation.'

Isabel clenched her legs together in embarrassment. ‘Any
bloke
would have to be desperate. Look what you've done to my hair!'

‘Women!' He sighed in mock exasperation. ‘I save your life and you complain about my hair-cutting skills.'

Her fear revived the memory of being trapped under water with Marmaduke swimming towards her, his knife clamped between his teeth.

‘Thank you for my life. But it's easy for you to be so cavalier. You're blessed with beautiful hair.'

Marmaduke staggered back a step in exaggerated amazement. ‘This
is
a Red Letter Day. That's the first compliment you've ever paid me. I feel as strong as Samson.'

He packed his pistols away and Isabel saw the odd, wary expression in his eyes as he swaggered towards her.
What exactly did I do last night?

‘I wouldn't be quick to ape Samson if I were you. Look what Delilah did to him. Cut off his hair so he lost all his strength and power!'

Marmaduke's tone was light. ‘Is that a threat, soldier? Can I expect to wake up one morning to find you've shorn me in my sleep?'

‘Easy for you to laugh. I don't dare show my face in public.'

Marmaduke studied her. ‘It's not quite as bad as you imagine.'

‘Oh, that's wonderful comfort! I'm expected to meet the Quality at Governor Bourke's Balls looking like a scarecrow.'

She jerked her head away from his hand as he tried to stroke her hair.

‘Don't panic,' he said gently. He piled her hair on top of her head then stood at arms' length to deliver his verdict.

‘Yeah. Quite fetching. Curl the short bits. I'll buy you some ostrich feathers. And the ladies of Sydney Town will think it's the latest London fashion. Before the week's out they'll all be cutting off one side of their hair in imitation of you.'

He unhooked his jacket from a tree branch and bundled her into it.

‘Yesterday I taught you to swim. Today it's time for Colonial Survival Lesson Number Two. I'll teach you to shoot a pistol – straight and accurate. When the occasion demands you can cut a man down with a bullet. As you do so well with words!'

Isabel suddenly felt as if she was enfolded in the embrace of a very warm grizzly bear. Marmaduke's head was close to hers, his arms around her, guiding her hands. He gave patient directions how to grip the pistol, steady her aim and fire.

As the sun rose in the cloudless sky Isabel's confidence grew. When she managed to hit the metal target twenty yards away and send it hurtling into the bush, she crowed in triumph.

‘I really did it!'

‘Why are you surprised? You're a quick study. A born survivor. And I'm the man to teach you
anything,
girl – with your permission. Just name it!'

The look in his eyes made her uncomfortably suspicious there was a serious invitation lurking below the surface.

‘Fishing!' she said quickly. ‘I don't want to eat those beautiful kangaroos and wallabies unless we're desperate to survive. But you said tribal Aborigines have clever ways to trap fish. And I
am
hungry.'

‘Right. Get dressed in your boy's gear and I'll show you how to tickle fish. And if we're lucky we'll catch a special big one the blacks taught me how to trap and cook when I was a little squirt. I've never tasted anything so good. You'll think you're in seventh heaven.'

Marmaduke gave her a light slap on the rump to send her on her way but for once she accepted the casual liberty and marched off feeling pleased with herself.

I've mastered my fear of water. I could wing a bushranger within twenty paces. And my hair's going to set a new fashion in the Colony. Maybe being stuck with Marmaduke for a whole year won't be so bad after all.

Dressed in her breeches Isabel rode with Marmaduke through the bush to another extraordinary cave screened by the white trunks of the eucalypts that gave the name to Ghost Gum Valley.

Marmaduke pointed to the black hands that covered the cave wall.

‘Tribal elders brought me to this place when I was a kid. Those aren't paintings, y'know. They're real Aboriginal handprints.'

Isabel felt she was in the presence of something so lost in time that it was both a holy place and a prehistoric work of art. At the foot of a cliff beneath an overhanging ledge was a long expanse of natural rock face fringed by ferns. Like a canvas the size of the Bayeux Tapestry, this Aboriginal wall painting recorded a people who had vanished from sight. The entire expanse was covered by a pattern of black handprints, each one outlined in white like reverse cameos. At first glance it seemed a random pattern, but when Isabel held up her own hand in comparison she saw that these prints were of individual hands of different sizes. Presuming that each palm faced the wall, each print was of a left hand. On closer examination she saw that one hand had the top joint of the middle finger missing. Another hand consisted of six splayed fingers. At the heart of this sea of palm prints were two curved shapes like thick sticks.

‘Hunting boomerangs,' Marmaduke explained. ‘I don't know what powder they used to withstand centuries of wind and rain, but I do remember the old man known as a Clever Man, who brought me here. He mimed how it was done, blowing white powder through a thin reed pipe to outline each hand. Maybe these hands record a whole tribe. Or were added to over generations. Who knows?'

Isabel felt deeply awed. ‘It reminds me of the way my ancestors recorded their names in a family tree so we will never forget we spring
from royal Plantagenet blood. This Aboriginal art is beautiful – but how sad.'

‘Sad? Why so?'

‘Because these people can't hunt on their land any more. Garnet won't allow it. And you don't even know their tribal names. I don't understand you, Marmaduke. You studied three or four European languages – even Latin, a dead language. You have books on ancient Greeks and Romans, the Celts, Saxons and Vikings. Everyone who invaded Britain before the Norman Conquest. So why don't you Currency Lads care about the people living in your own country – before we British turned it into a penal colony?'

Marmaduke shrugged but looked uncomfortable. ‘That's quite a mouthful, soldier. You've already made it perfectly clear that I'm uncouth, arrogant, vain, lazy and no gentleman. Now you reckon I'm a Philistine who doesn't give a damn about Aboriginal beliefs. Just for the record is there anything about me you
do
approve of?

Oh God, why am I so afraid to tell him the truth? He's handsome and clever and so brave he saved my life at the risk of his own.

‘Well, you
are
kind to old ladies and horses. And you have beautiful hands. I don't trust any man alive...but...but I do trust
your hands
.'

She felt herself blushing at the clumsy admission that slipped out before she had time to edit it. Marmaduke suddenly looked as vulnerable as a boy.

He examined his hands as if seeing them for the first time. ‘Trust my hands, do you? I guess that's one step along the road to a libertine's redemption.'

At his whistled command her horse trotted over to them and Marmaduke caught Isabel's foot in his cupped hands and hoisted her into the saddle.