Ghost Gum Valley (8 page)

‘Indeed, Uncle, I admit that George Gamble's stipulation of a healthy young de Rolland bride of immaculate virtue and breeding would hardly fit Isabel at the best of times. But now, with the possibility of a babe's corpse linked to her name...?'

Isabel bit hard on her hand to prevent herself from crying out in fright. She felt as if her whole world had come to an end, without time to pray for redemption or reach out to farewell the few people she loved. She had totally lost control of her life.

‘The final documents have yet to be signed, sealed and delivered. I don't trust those damned Colonial lawyers – they talk mighty big, but despite their fake British accents and Bond Street tailors, God only knows how many of them were spawned from convict stock. It sticks in my craw to think George Gamble—'

‘Who cares how that convicted thief made his fortune? All is not lost, Uncle, if we leave for London immediately and sign the final contract confirming Isabel's date of departure. Then on our return we announce her engagement to an Australian gentleman – if there is such an animal. And have Isabel packed off to London to stay in our townhouse until her ship sails.'

Uncle Godfrey sighed. ‘What choice is there? Half the debts have been paid but you've been spending the money as if you'd won shares in a gold mine. We simply can't return Gamble's money, even if we wanted to. We have to deliver the goods!'

Isabel closed her eyes, imagining the winning smile on Silas's face as he replied, ‘Dear Uncle, as a child you taught me that those of us with royal Plantagenet blood must live like princes. Now we shall once again. That convict rogue's money has changed everything.'

‘Wretched fellow. If only salvation had come from any hands but
his.
What's the world coming to? God allows a convict to triumph yet sends a de Rolland to a god-forsaken place like New South Wales!'

Isabel suddenly opened her eyes.
They mean me!

‘Calm yourself, Uncle. Tomorrow, when you've signed the final contract, we need never mention his name again.'

Isabel's confusion grew when the silence was broken by her uncle's anxious voice.

‘I'm not looking forward to breaking the news to the sacrificial lamb. I promised her a say in the decision. The child will do her duty by the family, of course, but women's tears are the very devil.'

‘No chance of that, Uncle. She's never been known to cry.' Silas added lightly, ‘One of the proven signs of a witch, they say.'

‘Medieval poppycock, Silas—' The sound of their voices was cut off by the closing of a door. Isabel sank to her knees, shivering violently. It was only when she saw the red spot of blood on her hand that she realised a thorn had pierced her finger. The bare stem of a
Rose Alba
bush.

The full horror of the situation washed over her. She saw a series of disordered, fragmented pictures in her mind – the lake, the woods, the old Romani woman's gentle hands stroking her body, a child's grave, a globe in the schoolroom with her finger pointing at the tiny pink island of England, then the globe spinning on its axis so the whole world became blurred.

I've been sold in marriage. Why did they let me believe I had a choice? That I was going to London and Paris. The truth is I'll be buried in that penal colony in the South Seas. And who is this ‘wretched fellow'? Why didn't anyone warn me?

The answer came to her with such a jolt she felt sick in the stomach.

Killing two birds with one stone! The family fortunes are restored and they rid themselves of the greatest threat to family honour – me! My God, it isn't just the dregs of British society who are transported. Now it's
my
turn! And marriage is a life sentence!

Isabel's head throbbed with confusion and frustration. She knew she would have no chance to speak to Uncle Godfrey before his departure. Farewells were something he always avoided. She took up her customary spying position in the basement.

Through the bars of the window just above ground level that gave her a glimpse of the carriageway, Isabel caught a glimpse of her guardian's buckled shoes, white stockings and breeches as he was assisted by a footman into his carriage. The sound of a whip cracking
was followed by the crunch of wheels on gravel. She stifled a cry of despair. The only people who knew about her fate were gone – unless Cousin Martha was privy to the plan?

Isabel picked up her skirts and ran for the stairs, determined to evade Agnes and go to Cousin Martha's bedside, where the surgeon was again in attendance.

Please God, don't let him bleed Martha again. She grows weaker after his every visit. I don't care how many medical degrees he claims. The man's little better than a vampire.'

Breathless when she reached Martha's bedchamber, she gave a perfunctory knock and entered. Feeling her gorge rise, she tried not to gag at the sight before her. The elderly physician, be-wigged and dressed in sober black like a cleric or an undertaker, gave her a dismissive wave, his hand stained with blood.

Martha's weak voice made a heart-rending plea, ‘No! Please, doctor, bid her remain. Young Isabel's presence is the best medicine I could have.'

Irritated to have his orders counteracted but unable to refuse his patient, the doctor waved Isabel towards the far corner of the room.

She sank down on the sofa, her legs trembling so violently she was forced to disguise it in the manner of a schoolgirl, hugging her knees to her chest. She forced a smile in an attempt to give both herself and Martha false confidence as she took in the ghastly scene.

Isabel was shocked by the sight of Martha's deterioration. On the bedside table was a glass jar which Isabel recognised with a shiver of dread held a supply of leeches. Martha was scarcely thirty years old yet her whole frame seemed to have shrunk to the dimensions of a child's body since Isabel last saw her. Was it only two weeks ago?

Dressed in a white nightgown so plain it looked like a shroud, Martha gave Isabel a smile free of any trace of fear. Her pale oval face seemed pinched from within, the sweating flesh stretched taut across the cheekbones. Her gentle grey eyes shone with unnatural brightness from the dark hollows of the eye sockets.

One thin arm stretched across the counterpane as if in a feeble attempt to reach Isabel's hand to comfort her. The other arm, with its sleeve rolled up to her bony shoulder, hung over the bleeding bowl held by the physician.

Isabel tried to prevent her false smile from fading, sickened by the smell and sight of the fluid that dripped continuously from Martha's open vein as if eager to satisfy the doctor's quota of bright red blood. Already it filled half the bowl. Isabel hated herself for her involuntary recall of the lurid images in
Vampyre,
the novella written by Lord Byron's young physician John Polidori. The story's mysterious vampire, Lord Ruthven, had so haunted her imagination that Isabel felt he was right here in the room to claim Martha.

Isabel wanted to scream out the words, ‘Stop, you butcher! Look how fragile she is. Do you want every last drop before you're satisfied?'

She dug her fingers into her arms in the hope self-inflicted pain would prevent her from fainting.
God knows if I passed out, the old leech would start draining my blood too.

Just at the point she was ready to charge at him the physician ended the ordeal and bandaged Martha's arm.

Once his task was completed he cast a severe look at Isabel. ‘You've strict instructions not to tire my patient. You may stay two minutes, no more.' He turned to Martha. ‘I shall return tomorrow to check your progress. Continue with the laudanum doses I prescribed. Is your husband at home? The Master?'

When Martha looked uncertain, Isabel jumped to her feet. ‘They are both expected to return very soon.'

‘Meanwhile I shall deliver my instructions to the housekeeper. They are to be followed to the letter.'

The moment the door closed behind him Martha patted the counterpane and Isabel flew to her side to stroke the hair back from her forehead and kiss her cheek.

‘Forgive me, Martha. I wanted to come sooner but Cousin Silas gave instructions you were not to be disturbed.'

‘Dear man. He's overly protective. Doesn't he realise that you bring a breath of spring into my sickroom every time you visit me?'

Isabel was shocked to see that the claw-like hand that gripped hers wore a wedding ring that was now two sizes too large for her. Isabel felt her throat constrict at this visible proof that Martha was wasting away within her own body.

‘Tell me, are the tulips in bloom yet?'

Isabel was startled to realise her cousin had been confined so long in this sick room that she had lost all sense of the changing seasons.

Isabel carefully chose her words to describe imaginary flowers as if they were now in bloom. ‘We have such a wild profusion of colours that Netherlands are jealous we'll steal their title as the tulip capital of Europe!'

Martha gave a little laugh, eager to catch her mood. ‘How young and vibrant you look, sweetheart. Tell me, what have you been reading? Love stories? Novels? Sir Walter Scott or that clever Miss Austen's work?'

‘I'll read
Sense and Sensibility
to you tomorrow when you've had a good night's sleep.'

‘Lovely. But first I want to know everything about your world.'

My world? We've both been locked in our own private prisons. Mine is to be exchanged for a marital prison in the Antipodes. But I must raise her spirits, not upset her.

‘Uncle Godfrey is sending me to have my first taste of London society. Imagine! Plays at Drury Lane and Covent Garden. And I'll practise my French conversation in Paris.'

‘London, Paris. How wonderful. I'm even kept in the dark about happy news!'

Isabel was stung by the plaintive note in her voice, the first time Martha had sounded like a fretful invalid. Isabel made an instant decision.

‘But I'm not going anywhere, dear Martha, until you are fully recovered.'

Martha shook her head with a weary smile. ‘No, no. You must write me about the plays. And dance and flirt with those charming young French officers – their uniforms are so elegant it's a shame to send them into battle. And please describe the latest Paris modes.'

‘Better still I'll buy you a beautiful shawl and your favourite French perfume.'

Martha squeezed her hand and whispered like a schoolgirl, ‘Don't forget the
demi-monde.
I hear their courtesans are the most exquisite creatures in the world. Even the ladies of Louis-Phillipe's court follow the fashions they set.' She sighed happily. ‘You see? I will see Paris through your fresh young eyes!'

Isabel forced herself to say firmly, ‘Just until
you
are well enough to visit Paris with your husband.'

Martha's face creased in a funny little smile. ‘All in good time, m'dear.' Her breath caught and she was overtaken by a wracking cough.

Disturbed Isabel said quickly, ‘I fear I am tiring you.'

‘No!' Martha regained control with great effort. ‘Stay! Tomorrow they might pull up the drawbridge against your visits.' She paused. ‘Promise me you'll make sure Silas doesn't suffer from melancholia. I know how much he enjoys your company.'

Isabel nodded, unable to meet the pale eyes until she found the courage to say the words. ‘Martha, I want you to know how much I love you. But I have a confession to make. Remember that first time we met when you came here as Silas's bride? There was a ball held in your honour. I was only a child so I watched you from the bottom of the stairs. You were the most beautiful bride and when you danced with Silas and looked up into his eyes, I was struck by the thought. ‘
So this is what love is!
But I confess I also felt a little jealous. Martha, you are always so gentle with me. I don't deserve you. Can you forgive me? Do you understand? You were everything
I
wanted to be!'

Martha gently stroked Isabel's cheek. ‘Now the tables are turned, my dove.
You
are everything
I
want to be.'

She's telling me she's going to die.
Isabel felt her heart was breaking. She wanted to cry but knew the tears were forever trapped inside her.

‘You wouldn't want to be me, Martha. If only you knew how evil I am.'

Martha reached up and held her face with a hand so strong that Isabel felt the sharp outline of her bones. ‘Evil? Nonsense. I can see inside your very soul. I wish with all my heart that Silas and I had been blessed to have you as our daughter.'

Daughter.
Isabel buried her face in the warmth of Martha's neck. The bed linen's odour was a rank mixture of laudanum and sweat but Isabel never wanted to pull free from that refuge.

It was Martha who broke the spell. ‘Do something for me, little dove. You'll find a small velvet drawstring purse in that drawer over there. Bring it to me.'