The Lace Balcony

by Johanna Nicholls

Stimson sighed. ‘Remember, when the moment comes, “Those who live by the sword, die by the sword.”’

  Mungo gave a snort of amusement. ‘That nice old Bible-basher really got to you!’

  Stimson’s voice rose to a gravel-like screech. ‘You ruddy little know-all. I didn’t have to come here tonight, ye know. It was my choice. I thought ye needed cheering up. I can see I’ve wasted me ’uckin’ time.’

  Stimson could never pronounce some letters of the alphabet due to the peculiar gaps in his teeth but Mungo got the message. He couldn’t stop himself from grinning.

  ‘Ghosts are allowed to swear, are they?’

  ‘Why should I tell you? If ye don’t believe in God, how can ye believe in ghosts? But it proves ye do, because you’re talking to me. Most of the other half-mad bastards around here can’t even see me. That proves ye suspect God’s out there somewhere, right?’

  Mungo couldn’t think of an answer to that. ‘Thanks for the advice, Stimson. You’re welcome to come again for a bit of a chat. Anytime.’

  ‘Don’t do me any favours,’ Stimson snapped. ‘Just remember what I told ye. This is your chance to prove you’re a real man. You’re in luck. Most prisoners don’t survive long enough to get a second chance.’

  Mungo slapped at a big brute of a mosquito that had drawn blood. Pleased that he’d killed one of the tribe of insects that made Moreton Bay a misery at this time of year, he examined the size of it. ‘Got you!’

  When he looked back at Stimson the corner was empty. There was only a rat staring at him, its eyes glowing red in the darkness.

  That proves I’m now completely nuts. I talk to dead men.

  Yet Mungo felt an odd sense of peace. ‘Goodnight, my bride,’ Mungo said as he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, the first following a timeless chain of broken nights.

  Chapter 5

  Like some feral beast let loose overnight, the summer thunderstorm rattled the French doors onto the cast-iron veranda framing three sides of Severin House. Rain plastered the window panes with long slivers of eucalyptus leaves, forming sinister patterns like witches’ fingers.

  Seated in her bedchamber, designed by Severin in a style aimed to fulfil a man’s erotic fantasies, Vianna embroidered the final God’s-eye stitches on a silk dress for Daisy that she hoped would still fit the child.

  During a momentary lull in the storm she heard the distant sound of a fiddle playing ‘The Black Velvet Band.’ The haunting Irish melody transported her back to that night Severin had rescued her. Was it only two and a half years ago?

  She glanced uneasily around her transformed bedchamber, the giant four-poster bed, walls and windows draped with elaborate swags and festoons of shimmering blues, greens and gold.

  It’s like an underwater cavern for a mermaid. Romantic – but no longer mine.

  Severin had banished all traces of her personal treasures, such as Daisy’s first pair of shoes, to the boxroom behind the invisible door concealed by the wallpaper. Giant mirrors hung on each wall and above the bed.

  Severin had replaced the naïve watercolours Vianna had painted from memory of English landscapes. In their place were erotic paintings, including a group of voluptuous nymphs languidly posed in an Arcadian setting and a copy of Tintoretto’s portrait of Veronica Franco who Severin said was a famous sixteenth century Venetian courtesan. He had likened her beauty to that of a fallen angel, innocent until you noticed the hand subtly directing your eye to her low neckline where one blood-red nipple nestled above the lace edge of her gown.

  Does Severin need all this to arouse him? I simply must hold his interest – I am nothing without him.

  It seemed to Vianna that all traces of Fanny Byron had been erased by Severin’s game, one she had entered into without realising its full implications. She had become Severin’s creation – Madame Vianna Francis, the mysterious beauty now ‘in keeping’ to him, but who had been a London courtesan with the Prince Regent amongst her lovers. The fewer facts Sydney Town knew, the wilder the speculation. Severin himself had spread the word that the suicide of the Russian Count who blew out his brains over his gaming table was due to his unrequited love for Vianna. Truth was, the young count had gambled away his family fortune.

  Severin’s promise to make her a legend throughout the Colony was so rapidly accomplished that the line between truth and fantasy had become increasingly blurred. At first it was fun to play the ‘courtesan game’. Severin masterminded her education in a relentless schedule of lessons: singing, pianoforte, deportment and dance, a language teacher for the pronunciation of the French, Italian and German lyrics she sang at night – and, most importantly of all, the elimination of all trace of her lower-class London accent. He was generous about every facet of her education yet denied her the one she most wanted – literacy. His oft-repeated words were imprinted on her mind, ‘You have no head for book learning, Vianna. Trust me. We must trade on your beauty.’

  Her sewing completed, Vianna turned to the diary in which she had charted her progress at Severin House. In place of words, her sketches were visual keys, like milestones in the changing pattern of her life.

  Her thumbnail sketches of Daisy bore proof of earlier tearstains. For the first six months at Severin House an assigned nursery maid had cared for the child, freeing Vianna to perform, rehearse and study. Following the Colony’s outbreak of cholera, Severin had removed the child to an expensive rural boarding school, for the sake of her health and also to shield her from the unsavoury aspects of their luxurious lifestyle – members’ drunken fights and duels.

  Vianna ran her finger tenderly over the sketch of Daisy, the last time she had seen her wide-eyed face, peering from the carriage window.

  She did not doubt Severin’s generosity. He pays a fortune to give her a fine education amongst children of the Quality. But although he reads me the monthly reports of her progress, he blocks my every attempt to visit her, saying it’s in Daisy’s best interests – until we make our fortune.

  The diary contained samples of materials from the glamorous gowns that Severin ordered for her debut as a singer and a sketch of the miniature theatre where she performed six nights a week for Severin’s clientele. This showed Guido accompanying her on pianoforte, his coat tails flying, and caricatures of leering faces – gentlemen by name until drunk, when they were no better than any convict with grog in his belly.

  She was startled by the contrast between early and later sketches of Severin, by how her vision of him had altered, as if reflected in an old mirror so dimpled and pockmarked that the image was distorted – still handsome, yet just a touch sinister.

  She was proud of being a key attraction to the Exclusives, the powerful faction in colonial society whose privileged lifestyle was sustained by convict labour. Yet despite the fact the gamblers amongst them caused a small fortune to pass across the gaming tables each night, Vianna felt a growing sense of unease. Just where is the courtesan game leading?

  The rain, beating like a military tattoo on the window, gave her a shiver of dread. A goose just walked over my grave. Moments later a large black magpie crashed against the window, splintering the glass. Its bloody neck was half severed in the jagged hole, left hanging as if from a noose, screeching until it gave up the ghost – a horrible reminder of the death throes of her father and that young lad Will Eden.

  Vianna’s screams drew Severin from his chambers down the hall, hastily wrapped in a silken robe, unshaven, his hooded eyes swollen from lack of sleep.

  ‘What the hell’s the matter? Oh that – it’s only a bird.’

  ‘The death of a bird is a bad omen, Severin.’

  ‘Sheer superstition. Calm down. Blewitt will have the pane replaced.’ He placed his arm around her shoulders. ‘Wait here. I have a surprise for you.’

  Left alone, Vianna’s eyes were drawn back to the dead bird’s ghastly grimace. She felt sure it was a harbinger of death.

  She was suddenly aware of the figure in the doorway. Who on earth is this?
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br />   The girl differed markedly from the black girls she had seen on the streets of Sydney Town. Tall and slender, her honey-coloured complexion indicated she was a half-caste. Her eyes did not falter under Vianna’s stare, contrary to the avoidance of eye contact Vianna knew was an Aboriginal mark of good manners. Her hair curled in a halo around her head. The simple black dress was that of a servant, but there was nothing servile in her manner when she curtseyed and placed a dress box on the table. Her well-modulated voice held a trace of a Scottish burr in the way she rolled her R’s.

  ‘I’m your new lady’s maid, Madame. The Master calls me Black Bessie. He asks you to wear this costume downstairs for his approval. May I help you dress?’

  ‘Is Bessie your true name? Or did the missionaries call you that?’

  Vianna instantly regretted her careless words. This girl looks as civilised as I am and speaks perfect English.

  ‘My late mother named me Wanda, after her tribal country in the sand hills. To Papa I was Elizabeth. He was a Highlander, Dr Charles Stuart,’ she added with quiet pride, ‘He taught me to read, write and speak French. I kept all his account books.’

  Vianna was disconcerted. How humiliating. My black servant is well educated – and I’m illiterate. ‘Then how did you come to be my lady’s maid?’

  Her answer held no trace of self-pity. ‘The day of Papa’s funeral the lawyers ordered me to leave our house. His estate was claimed by his wife in London. Father’s friend Major Dalby knew that Master Severin needed a trusted servant for you. So here I am. I’m afraid I know nothing of the duties of a lady’s maid.

  ‘Don’t worry, I used to be – ’ Vianna hastily corrected herself, ‘I’ll teach you all you need to know. The most important thing is that you are loyal – to me.’

  Perhaps I can use this girl’s skills to help me trace Daisy. It would be nice to have a female friend. But I must tread carefully – her first loyalty may well be to Severin, given that he pays her wage.

  ‘May I call you, Wanda? It’s such a pretty name . . . fine, that’s settled. You must call me Vianna when we are alone.’

  To camouflage her inability to read, she added lightly, ‘I dearly love novels, but my eyes tire so easily. Perhaps you could read to me?’

  Wanda’s smile was radiant. ‘I managed to bring some of Papa’s books. I have all of Jane Austen’s works. Did you know they were originally published anonymously, under ‘A Lady’? Her readers only knew her identity after her death, age one-and-forty, so she didn’t live to see how famous and loved she is the world over.’

  Vianna clasped her hands together. ‘What a sad story – but wonderful too. Let’s begin tonight, right after my performance!’

  The contents of the dress box took Vianna by surprise. In contrast to the lavish, provocative evening gowns ordered by Severin for her stage performances, this dress was demure, in midnight blue taffeta with a chaste, high neckline and cuffs edged with fine Belgian lace, its shorter skirt suggesting a theatrical version of a convent schoolgirl’s uniform.

  Vianna changed into the gown and accompanying black silk stockings that revealed a daring few inches of ankle above exquisite laced boots with an elegant French heel. To complement the quasi-innocent mood of the costume, she instructed Wanda how to arrange her waist-length hair in an artless style with a girlish bow.

  ‘Good heavens, Wanda. I look like a twelve-year-old virgin!’ she exclaimed, rewarded by Wanda’s failure to conceal a smile.

  Checking her appearance from every angle in the mirrors, Vianna noticed how snugly the bodice fitted, its fastening concealed by a lace jabot, how the petticoats flounced as she moved. The whole ensemble seemed to reflect Severin’s private quest for fresh sexual stimulation.

  ‘But what’s this at the bottom of the box? It could only come from Paris!’

  Wanda read the label. ‘It did.’

  Vianna gasped at the sheer audacity of the almost invisible gauze concoction. She slipped into the two separate filmy legs of the undergarment attached to a ribbon Wanda tied around her waist. Both giggled at the transformation – a wicked surprise hidden beneath the modest gown.

  ‘This certainly wasn’t meant to be worn by a twelve-year-old virgin!’

  Vianna placed the child’s silk dress she had been finishing in a box. ‘Give this to Severin to deliver to my sister Daisy.’ She added carelessly, ‘you might take note of the address.’

  At the top of the stairs, she paused. ‘I trust you’ll be happy here, Wanda.’

  She found Severin in his grandly appointed office, poring over a pile of documents. Taking a deep breath as she did every night before going on stage, she slipped into the role the new gown demanded of her – the private fantasy role reserved for Severin, the naughty-schoolgirl game that amused him – and had led to his most ardent performances in bed.

  She used her gift of mimicry to impersonate the breathless, broken-English accent of her French teacher, and made Severin a pretty curtsey.

  ‘S’il vous plaît, Monsieur. I have fear I disturb you, n’est-ce-pas?’

  Severin barely glanced her way. ‘Usual problems with colonial tradesmen who don’t know their place.’

  His frown indicated a degree of irritation that worried her. Are we in real financial trouble? I’m never allowed to discuss money – or even handle it.

  Determined to hold his attention, she twisted on her heel like a restless child who enjoys watching her skirt swirl out around her. ‘I ’ope you are pleased with your gifts, Monsieur?’ She added in a mock whisper, ‘I am wearing them all.’

  Severin swivelled around in the revolving chair to face her. ‘I know,’ he said.

  ‘’Ow you know?’ she asked in surprise. ‘The one from Paris does not show.’

  ‘It does not need to. When a beautiful woman wears deliciously naughty French underwear it shows in the gleam in her eyes, in the way she moves. Every gentleman in the audience will sense your power to excite him.’

  Vianna was confused. ‘You want me to wear this gown on stage? But it is so demure. So innocent.’

  ‘Indeed. That is why it is so provocative. You will wear it when you sing the new song I have written for you. Tonight.’

  She abandoned the French accent in panic. ‘I can’t possibly learn a new song by tonight. And what about Guido? We need time to rehearse. I can’t do it!’

  ‘You can and you will. The melody is that sentimental Irish air you’ve sung many times. The new lyrics are mine. Quite simple. You’ll have every man in the audience eating out of your hand tonight.’

  Vianna hid her nervousness as she came up behind his chair and looped her arms around his shoulders like a child. ‘I would rather be with you . . .’

  She whispered the phrase used by French courtesans that Severin had taught her was the swiftest way to arouse a man. The words took instant effect.

  His voice was husky. ‘I wonder would you be so eager to do that, if you knew what the words really mean?’

  Dear God, what an earth did I say? Vianna lowered her eyes in mock innocence. ‘I have been very naughty. You should send me to bed, n’est-ce-pas?’

  She noticed the pulse jump on Severin’s temple, a clue to his arousal.

  ‘Come here!’ he demanded.

  Vianna sat on his lap and watched his expression change as he slipped his hand beneath her petticoats, tracing the outline of the wicked underwear.

  ‘How clever the French are,’ he said. ‘This flimsy piece of seduction would cause a saint to break every vow of obedience and chastity.’

  She discarded her accent and whispered throatily, ‘It is for your eyes only.’

  He turned to her with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘Make sure you remember that, Vianna. You may tempt, touch and tease my patrons. But we must hold out for a gentleman willing to pay whatever price we name.’ He added casually, ‘Naturally, the choice is yours.’

  Vianna flushed. Is this game becoming serious?

  With a coquettish toss
of her hair, she seated herself on the edge of his desk, swinging her black stockinged legs to full effect but choosing her words with care.

  ‘I am more than happy to sing for your guests, Severin. To sit at their tables and flirt with them. And from time to time, to please you, I have supper alone with one. But if I should allow him to take a small liberty – it is simply to draw him back to your gaming tables, yes?’

  His silence began to unnerve her. ‘You always tell me a courtesan is not a prostitute. That she’s free to choose her lovers. I chose you, Severin, only you.’

  His grey eyes observed her coolly. ‘You never know when I am serious, Vianna. Come here. Kiss me.’

  This time his kiss was gentle, romantic, and Vianna gave herself up to the pleasure of it, broken by his next words.

  ‘This gown reveals nothing, yet excites the imagination. It will please a certain ‘gentleman of the cloth’ who comes here in mufti to play faro. He is enchanted by your singing. He begs to have supper with you – alone. Perhaps the poor besotted fool wants to save your soul.’

  Severin withdrew a jewel case from a desk drawer. ‘As proof of his respect for your voice he has offered this gift,’ he said, entwining between his fingers an exquisite diamond necklace – a complete circle of diamond flowers each with a pearl at the heart of its petals.

  Vianna gasped in delight. ‘Is it genuine?’

  ‘Would I allow you to be insulted by accepting paste diamonds, Vianna?’

  She asked warily, ‘What does this “man of the cloth” expect in return?’

  ‘Whatever you care to give him.’

  There was a hint of danger behind the words that chilled her. She answered with care. ‘You set the boundaries, Severin. You know I keep to them.’

  Without answering he placed the jewel case in his wall safe. His back blocked any chance of her seeing the numbers he used to lock it.

  She reminded herself she had little right to complain. Severin checked on her solo suppers through the spy hole in the wallpaper – a device he had installed to rescue her from any abuse or attempted rape.