The Lace Balcony

by Johanna Nicholls

  ‘Daisy is my stepsister – near two years old. I discovered shortly before my ship sailed that my stepmother had died of phthisis – that’s consumption, isn’t it? Anyway I am the child’s only kin. Sir, I can see how busy you are. Could I please talk with Father Francis Xavier? He is familiar with my circumstances and the full details of my experience in service.’

  ‘I regret to inform you that Father Francis Xavier is no longer with us.’

  ‘He’s dead? But he was in full health not two days past.’

  ‘I trust he remains so. He was immediately transferred to the Moreton Bay Penal Colony. The authorities considered their need for him there was greater than mine here.’

  ‘Can you help me, Sir? I am seeking a position as a femme de chambre.’ Noting his look of suspicion she added quickly, ‘A lady’s maid. I also have wide experience as a cook, a maid of all work – in town and country houses. I can make good quality butter and cheese and –’

  The chaplain shook his head with an air of finality. ‘My duties extend almost around the clock, working entirely on my own resources. I am responsible for saving the souls of hundreds of men – to prepare them to meet their Maker. I am unable to assist with employment matters – for single women with children.’

  Fanny felt her face flush with heat at the clear inference. ‘How do I get to Moreton Bay? I am sure I can count on the good Father’s help.’

  The Chaplain sighed. ‘You have much to learn, Miss. Moreton Bay is a penal settlement hundreds of miles north of Sydney Town, to be reached by coastal convict transport. The Commandant, Captain Patrick Logan, is in charge of some five or six hundred male prisoners – of the most brutal kind. You and your babe have no place there.’

  ‘God help us,’ Fanny muttered under her breath.

  He had the grace to look discomforted. ‘You’ll find the Sydney Benevolent Asylum at the far end of George Street. Mention my name to the matron and she might well be able to find a place for your – stepsister.’ He ushered her to the door. ‘I shall pray for you, Miss Byron.’

  Fanny gave him the barest nod of acknowledgment and made her exit with what dignity she could salvage. That chaplain cares more about dead men’s souls than the fate of living children. He doubted every word that came out of my mouth – the truth as well as my lies!

  Hurrying back in the direction of The Rocks, the seedy end of town fronting the wharves, she stopped abruptly at the sign hanging over the store where she had bought the ostrich feather. On impulse she slipped inside and bought the little shoes for Daisy. I might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.

  This glib thought was an uneasy reminder of her promise to William Eden. Tomorrow she had agreed to watch him die on the gallows. She consoled herself that this was no more than a hasty promise made to a stranger in the heat of the moment.

  Fanny struggled with her decision – and won. No point in my going. I’d be lost in the crowd. The lad won’t even know whether I kept my promise – or not.

  Until she heard the words as clearly as if her dead stepmother had whispered them in her ear.

  ‘No, lass, he won’t. But God will know.’

  Chapter 2

  Rockingham Hall, November 1827

  Felix L’Estrange watched the sunrise from the cast-iron balcony of his bedchamber overlooking the deep tropical garden at the rear of the family mansion. The gaudy colours that stained the expanse of blue sky suggested a painting by some drunken convict artist – the morning sky of far less interest to him than his nightly travels in the star-filled heavens into which he escaped each night via his most treasured possession, his telescope.

  Daylight brought unwanted reality – the bleak cloud that had shadowed the whole L’Estrange family in the days since the ordeal of the Supreme Court trial for the offence of Major Fraud – at which the military jury delivered the shock verdict of death sentences for William Eden and his young partner in crime, who had assumed the alias, ‘Sean O’Connor’.

  That false name was an extraordinary act of chivalry. If they had linked us to the charge of fraud, our family name would have been dragged through the mud.

  Felix, guilty by association if not by law, had offered to be a character witness for the defence – an offer both prisoners had declined. The case, concerning a fraudulent company in which the young entrepreneurs had sold shares in an unseen South Pacific Island that was later discovered to have been destroyed by a volcano, was not entirely unknown to him. Felix fervently hoped God would forgive his silence in court. Or was it in fact cowardice?

  Meanwhile I must help Father do everything in his power to gain them both a stay of execution. How ironic that I’m fighting to save the life of the boy who was my hated rival in childhood. I wished him dead many times. If he dies tomorrow I will remain legally a free man – but never again be free from guilt.

  Mindful of the punctuality his mother considered a prime virtue, Felix withdrew from his vest pocket the gold watch his father had recently given him for his eighteenth birthday. It felt as if time was racing headlong towards the hour of the men’s public execution – four and twenty hours from now.

  He checked his appearance in the mirror, aware that his tall, blond Anglo-Saxon looks bore a strong resemblance to his father in youth, but as always he felt like a pallid replica. His dark frockcoat and trousers made up one of several new suits just delivered by Nathan Bloom, the Hebrew emancipist tailor who had established his reputation in upper class circles, thanks to Kentigern L’Estrange’s patronage. His father would expect him to look his best at Government House this morning when they delivered their urgent petition to the new Governor, Lieutenant-General Ralph Darling. Their previous memorials had been delivered to his predecessor, Governor Thomas Brisbane, until the very day of his departure from the Colony.

  Felix knew what his father refused to accept, that the hiatus of sixteen days between governors in residence might well prove fatal, given there was no one in office willing to take action over the fate of two prisoners already proven guilty.

  The new Governor, Darling, an unknown quantity, was their last hope.

  Felix spoke the words aloud to his reflection in the mirror – a prayer rather than a promise to ‘Sean O’Connor’.

  ‘When I was a child I sometimes hated you and wished you dead. But I’ll do everything possible to save your life.’

  As if in response, his memory flashed back to their contrasting images as seven year olds, reflected in this same mirror – he, the Master’s son, the other boy the son of the family’s assigned servant.

  Mungo peered over his shoulder, his cheeky, lopsided grin breaking into a mocking whistle of admiration at Felix’s appearance. The perfectly tailored suit was his father’s suit in miniature, the Hessian boots polished to military precision, his fair hair flattened with pomade.

  Mungo was clearly amused by the immaculate contrast with his own worn slop clothing, bare feet and shaggy, tow-coloured hair.

  Mungo pulled a mock-serious face. ‘Look at us! We make a pretty flash pair, eh, Felix?’

  The light-hearted memory died. The black cloud of guilt returned. Mungo, the wild, laughing, urchin who could always be relied upon to lead him into trouble, was now eighteen and, under the alias of Sean O’Connor, was facing his public execution with the same cavalier manner he had always shown in the face of danger.

  And as always, I am the one who is sick with fear.

  The sound of the breakfast bell recalled Felix to the task at hand. There was no evading what was to come. His father’s word was law.

  He crossed the covered walkway that linked the first-floor levels of the twin mansions. His father had long ago ordered his convict carpenters to build it to connect the two buildings like a bridge across a canal in Venice. In the eyes of the outside world, the two mansions, exact replicas of each other, comprised a united front as Rockingham Hall. In truth one was the residence of his father, the other of his mother. It had always been thus, from Felix’s earliest memories
.

  As a youth, studying alongside him, Mungo had christened the walkway that linked the two houses ‘The Bridge of Sighs’, in mocking tribute to Lord Byron’s poetic fantasy about the sighs of condemned prisoners who crossed the famous bridge en route to their execution.

  How strange that Mungo grew up to be a condemned man himself. Thanks to a merciful God our fate was hidden from us as children. Yet I always sensed our lives were entwined like two strands of a woman’s braid – the third strand remaining a mystery.

  Felix had always accepted that as Kentigern L’Estrange’s sole heir he was born to play three discomforting roles as the family go-between. Although he disliked public appearances, he put his shyness aside and dutifully played the role of ambassador, liaising between his father and prominent colonists. At home he was called on to mediate in the tensions between his mother and their flock of assigned servants. He had finally become resigned to acting as the conduit of communications between his warring parents. From childhood Felix had tried to understand their rigid marital arrangement – and failed. He knew something of their history.

  They must have loved each other once. Father could not have married Mother for her money – her blue-blood Prussian ancestry was her only dowry.

  As the fourth son of the ancient and honourable English L’Estrange family, Kentigern had no prospects of inheriting land and, spurning the idea of a career in the army or church, had come to New South Wales to seek his fortune. Given a substantial land grant by Governor Macquarie, his success as a landholder enabled him to bring his beautiful Prussian cousin, Albruna, to the Colony as his bride.

  Mother looks so young and trusting in her bridal portrait. And Father built this house for her. But they have been at war for as long as I can remember. If my parents are a prime example of married life – I’m in no hurry to embark on it.

  Downstairs in the breakfast room Felix found himself seated alone at the round table that as a child he had imagined seating King Arthur’s knights. From across the corridor the halting sounds of a pianoforte indicated that his mother was giving a music lesson to one of the children of her assigned servants.

  As usual the silver salvers on the sideboard held an array of breakfast dishes large enough to feed the 57th Regiment. Felix lifted each lid to breathe in the tantalising aroma of baked sausages, poached and scrambled eggs, rashers of bacon, tomato rings and blood pudding, but before he had time to serve himself his father entered the room under full sail.

  His large, dominating figure, as always like a ball of energy straining at the seams, strode across the room, garbed in funereal black. His patrician features and close-cut white hair reminded Felix of a Roman senator. His usual suppressed rage remained beneath the surface of an expression Felix recognised today was a mask to hide his anguish.

  Rising from his chair to greet him, Felix felt a twinge of jealousy and was immediately ashamed of such a base reaction.

  ‘Good morning, Father. I am of course entirely at your service today. How best may I help you?’

  Kentigern handed him a document, dismissively waved aside the idea of breakfast, and instead poured himself a cup of coffee and broke apart a bread roll.

  ‘Read that. It’s enough to make a saint take up arms.’

  At first confused by the contents, Felix soon broke out in a cold sweat at the graphic details of the report before him, aware that his father, his face grey with tension, was watching his every reaction with hawk-like intensity.

  Felix recognised that in his hands was a copy of a diary smuggled out of Moreton Bay, no doubt after considerable L’Estrange money had exchanged hands. A tally kept by a clerk at Moreton Bay, copied from an official journal, neatly recorded the dates and sentences of prisoners flogged by order of Captain Patrick Logan in his dual role as Moreton Bay’s Commandant and Magistrate. Within the space of eight months, Logan had sentenced 197 prisoners to be flogged even for minor misdemeanours. Their sentences ranged from seventy-two who had received twenty-five lashes, up to the highest. Seventeen had received one hundred, ten had two hundred and one three hundred lashes – despite the maximum fifty lashes said to be ordered by the Governor and Sydney authorities. The informant advised that his list did not take into account those sentenced to the treadmill without trial, bolters who escaped into the bush or the high death rate from flogging, malnutrition and disease.

  Felix was stunned by the sum total of floggings – 11,100 lashes in only eight months. He searched for words of consolation and found none. ‘This makes appalling reading, Father – if it is the truth.’

  ‘It is! God damn Patrick Logan’s hide.’

  ‘But why are you so involved in Moreton Bay, Father? So little time remains to gain a stay of execution for Mungo and Will.’

  His father gave a deep sigh. ‘I can never forget that these two lads showed our family extreme loyalty at their trial – to their own detriment. I still hope to save Will Eden’s life with a desperate last minute reprieve.’ He paused as if the words were difficult to voice. ‘A courier from Government House just delivered notification that Mungo’s death sentence has been commuted to a term of imprisonment.’

  ‘Thank God! Congratulations, Father. That’s wonderful news.’

  ‘Is it? Or have I condemned the lad to a fate as lethal? You’ve read that report. You tell me. Mungo is to serve four years in the hell of Moreton Bay – under Logan! The lad may not live long enough to serve out his sentence! I may well have condemned him to a long, torturous death.’

  He buried his head in his hands. ‘God help me, what have I done to these lads? Should I have taken the stand myself? Lied on oath and assumed responsibility for the failure of their grand scheme? Mungo only assumed his Sean O’Connor alias to avoid any public link to my family name – and the disgrace of our being involved in trade.’

  Felix rose and moved to his father’s side, wanting to touch him but feeling awkward because it was not their custom.

  ‘None of that business was your doing, Father. Their failure branded Will and Mungo as criminals. Success would have made them heroes.’

  ‘They’re sacrificial lambs to appease the damned Exclusives faction – who are happy enough to invest in an emancipist’s dream, but outraged when it collapses. No man deserves to die for an unlucky business decision. Yet the law labels it Major Fraud! And what with William Eden being a second offender – God help him. I failed him!’

  ‘No, Father. You did everything possible, hired the best barristers in the Colony – even if they did fail to gain a stay of execution. All is not yet lost. His Excellency Governor Darling is a new broom. He may well prove himself with a show of clemency – and bring Logan’s brutal methods into line.’

  ‘You really think so, do you?’

  It was the first time in his life that Felix had heard his father in need of vindication. To see this powerful man shaken, questioning his own judgment, moved Felix to the point where his throat constricted and his words rasped.

  ‘God is on the side of justice, Father. When I visited Will in his cell yesterday it was clear he had made his peace with God. He’s ready to die. As for ‘Sean O’Connor’ – well, you know Mungo. When I took him a new pair of boots and a book, he acted cavalier. Said he wasn’t dead yet and asked why I hadn’t brought him some grog. If any man can survive four years at Moreton Bay, Father, it’s Mungo!’

  ‘Right. Get cracking, son. Order Old Crawford to get the carriage ready. I’ve made copies of my memorial to the Governor. We’ll deliver them to The Gazette and to Wentworth and Wardell at The Australian, as well as to Government House.’

  ‘Is that wise, Father? Those newspaper editors are highly radical – hotheads,’ Felix said nervously, immediately regretting the implied challenge to his father’s judgment.

  ‘What bloody harm can it do?’ Kentigern roared. ‘The law has scheduled to string up Will Eden on the gallows tomorrow morning. How much worse can it be?’

  ‘You’re right of course, Father,’ Felix said,
pleased to see his father’s energy recharged, even if he was required to be the target for his rage.

  ‘Meanwhile, make sure you handle these other letters promptly on my behalf – with your customary diplomacy, understand?’

  ‘I’ll do my best, Father.’

  Kentigern paused in the doorway. ‘Hadn’t noticed how tall you’ve grown. Near enough to my size. There’s a second set of mourning clothes – in the event we fail to gain Eden’s reprieve. God willing we won’t need to wear them, but if we do, tell Jane Quayle to dig it out of my closet for you.’

  He was out the door before Felix had time to clarify his orders.

  The breakfast dishes were now lukewarm and Felix had lost his appetite, so he settled for a cup of tea and a round of cold toast with marmalade. His eye was drawn back to the two envelopes, written on in his father’s large, firm hand, each stamped with a red seal. The first was formally addressed to his mother, Mrs K L’Estrange, the second to Jane, the family servant, whom he knew to be only a markswoman – so it would fall to him to read it aloud to her.

  Felix felt distinctly discomforted by all that lay ahead. His likely attendance at the execution of a man well known to him – the first hanging he would witness, yet another confrontation with his mother and, most awkward of all, the need to read a letter that would no doubt increase poor Jane Quayle’s suffering.

  Why does Father always leave me to handle the most emotional situations? Problems that are none of my making.

  • • •

  From behind the double doors of Albruna L’Estrange’s music room came the sound that Felix identified as Der Mond ist Aufgegangen, (The Moon is Risen), a traditional German folk song, hesitantly played by a child’s hands.

  He sighed, remembering the countless times he had played it as boy until he had reached his mother’s standard of perfection.

  In response to his knock his mother ordered him to enter. He slipped his head around the door and, as he expected, her back was turned to him as she bent over the small boy who sat elevated by two cushions on a stool to enable him to reach the keys of the pianoforte.