‘It is my duty to stand by my kin, Sean. I must see that Patrick Logan’s funeral is conducted with full military honours in Sydney Town. And that Governor Darling officially acknowledges his achievements,’ he added, ‘as an explorer.’
Mungo made no response.
Sandy continued, ‘That’s the only hope my cousin has to receive a widow’s pension to help raise her bairns. The damned British government’s policy is to deny pensions to officers who have had the bad luck to die during Colonial service. The only hope Letitia has is if Governor Darling recommends to Lord Bathurst in London the granting of a pension.’
They looked across at the small windblown figure of Robert Abraham Logan, as formal as a seven-year-old soldier, as he helped his mother on board. Mrs Logan’s face was covered by a widow’s veil as she carried the toddler who bore her name, held tightly against her breast as if the child was a shield. When she stumbled on the gangplank, the boy instantly steadied her.
‘Young Robert has all the bearings of a soldier. He adored his father.’
Mungo was unable to withhold his words. ‘Let’s hope his memories of him remain unsullied.’
Sandy Gordon looked Mungo directly in the eye. ‘After Logan’s state funeral I must see my kin safely on board a ship home to Ireland. I’ll nae return to Moreton Bay. My work here is done.’
Mungo felt hollow. ‘Working for you is the one good thing that happened to me here, Sir.’
‘Aye, that’s also true for me. It is time you called me Sandy in public.’ The doctor’s handshake was warm and surprisingly strong for an invalid.
Mungo grasped the hand that had been his lifeline. ‘I’m honoured, Sandy.’
The doctor was unable to conceal a smile. ‘Aye, so am I – Mungo Quayle!’
Mungo’s jaw dropped. ‘Jesus. When did you find out?’
‘I put two and two together. Clues in L’Estrange’s correspondence. And I finally tracked down this letter.’ He handed him an envelope from his pocket. ‘It seems it was delivered to another O’Connor who was gone in the head poor fellow. Sorry I had to read this one – on orders, ye ken.’
Mungo wanted to question him further but his friend was already hurrying to board the Isabella. He did not break his stride but called back over his shoulder.
‘Who knows, perhaps we’ll meet again in Sydney Town, lad.’
Mungo stood watching the Isabella sail away until it shrank to a pinprick on the horizon. I’ve just lost the only friend I’ve ever had at Moreton Bay . . . if I don’t count the ghosts . . . and my golden girl . . .
He read the letter:
Dear Sean O’Connor,
This is my tenth letter to Moreton Bay kindly written by the hand of young Master L’Estrange. I mark off each day on the calendar with a prayer for your safe return.
You will be pleased to know I rescued an injured baby ’possum. He is brave, full of cheek and has survived against all odds. Naturally I named him Mungo.
I order you not to lose heart and to draw strength from your Viking ancestors.
God be with thee. Your father lives for the day of Mungo’s return.
Signed,
Jane Quayle (her mark)
The letter achieved what floggings and solitary confinement had failed to do to Sean O’Connor. He cried.
Chapter 11
Vianna’s encore of her risqué French song, delivered with disarming innocence, was greeted by a wild burst of applause from Severin’s gentlemen gamblers. She gave an elegant gesture of acknowledgment to Guido her accompanist, who bowed to the audience in synchronisation with her deep curtsey.
She ran her eye over the men below her, all well-heeled, and well fuelled with champagne and vintage port from Severin’s cellar. As usual, under cover of the noisy response, she and Guido wore fixed smiles as they spoke through their teeth without noticeably moving their lips.
‘Is that ghastly politician here tonight?’
‘Drunk as a skunk. Must you dine with him?’
‘Only over Severin’s dead body.’
Guido smothered his high-pitched giggle.
Vianna left the stage blowing gentle kisses to the audience, then picked up her skirts and headed straight for the staircase leading to her private chambers.
Severin intercepted her. ‘I have arranged for you to have a private supper with Humphreys, m’dear. He needs your expert touch to smooth his ruffled feathers. He’s lost a fortune at faro this week.’
Vianna decoded his words – she knew only too well what her expert touch involved. ‘You must find some other way to pacify him. Why not arrange for him to win for once?’
‘But Vianna, that would be highly unethical,’ Severin said with mock indignation.
‘I have a sick headache. I shall take supper alone with Wanda.’
They both knew it was a lie, but she kissed his cheek and hurried upstairs.
In her sitting room she hurriedly shed her theatrical gown onto the floor, wrapped her naked body in a silk negligee and sat cross-legged on the bed, sharing a cold chicken supper with Wanda as eager as two schoolgirls at a midnight feast.
‘Is the carriage organised? How clever of you to worm out of the new coachman the location of Daisy’s school. Are you sure he didn’t suspect the ruse?’
‘Sam’s a Currency Lad from the country. He simply thought I was interested because of its Aboriginal name. Goulouga is several hours drive by coach so we must leave at dawn.’
‘Wonderful. Don’t let me sleep in!’
Wanda added a touch wistfully. ‘I wish I knew what Goulouga means. Father taught me Latin and French, but mother died before I learned her native tongue. My father really loved her. He never took up with another woman.’
Vianna touched the girl’s shoulder in sympathy. ‘He must have loved you too, Wanda, to educate you as he would a son. I am so blessed to have you to read to me.’
‘Shall I read you another chapter of Pride and Prejudice?’
‘Oh, yes. Do you think Lizzie will ever accept Mr D’Arcy?’
‘I’ve read it before, Vianna. But I don’t want to spoil the ending for you.’
‘You couldn’t spoil it. But just one chapter. I must get as much sleep as I can. I want to look my best tomorrow. I wonder if Daisy will recognise me.’ She added anxiously, ‘Sam does know that Severin and Blewitt mustn’t get wind of our plan?’
‘I put money in Sam’s pocket,’ Wanda said sagely.
‘Bless you, Wanda.’ Vianna impulsively kissed the girl’s cheek and slipped under the sheets, soon a captive of the novel being read to her.
. . . If only real life was like that. I’ve been paid to kiss many men . . . but no man ever kissed me . . . like Will Eden did . . . I can hardly remember what he looked like. But I’ll remember his kiss on my deathbed . . .
• • •
It was dark as pitch when Vianna awoke in fright, trapped in the vestige of a nightmare that caused her heart to lurch sickeningly. A witch-like crone had taunted her, ‘You’ll end up working for your protector as an ageing madam, guiding young prostitutes in the tricks of your trade. How else can you support yourself? You’re fit for nothing. Some Venus! You’ll be on the streets of The Rocks, selling your body to strangers – for the price of a grog . . . Don’t say I didn’t warn you!’
Covered in sweat, Vianna broke free from the nightmare when Wanda’s voice recalled her to reality. ‘Sam’s waiting, Vianna. We must hurry.’
Wanda laced her into the modest dark dress Vianna had borrowed from her, then studied her reflection in the mirrors.
She ripped a lush bouquet of flowers from the bonnet, leaving a serviceable black straw shape that would protect her from the sun. Black lace mittens, a lace parasol and a plain black shawl completed the ensemble.
‘Tell me the truth, Wanda. How do I look?’
‘Sad. Like a real widow, Vianna.’
‘Perfect! Let’s not waste a minute. Join me in the carriage – but first collect the box with Daisy’s d
ress from Severin’s office. Now I can deliver it to her myself.’
Shoes in hand Vianna navigated the back stairs in stockinged feet so as not to wake the house. When she nervously licked her lips she fancied there was a strange taste in her mouth. So that’s what liberation tastes like!
The carriage was waiting at the rear of the stables, screened from the house, the horses primed and ready to depart. Sam sat with his tricorn hat tilted on the back of his head, brushing his liveried jacket. She gave him a conspiratorial wink.
‘Don’t worry. You’ll be covered with red dust before we reach the toll gates.’
Without waiting to be assisted she lifted her skirts and climbed inside the carriage. ‘Be ready to depart the minute Wanda joins us.’
Blinds were down at all the windows. Dammit. What’s keeping her?
She checked her reticule, dismayed by the realisation that from force of habit she had not thought to bring any money. Why wasn’t I brave enough to steal some from Severin’s wall safe? Too late to try. Whenever I’ve stumbled on the combination he’s changed it.
Vianna was irritated by her own cowardice. Then her heart lurched at the sound of heavy boots on cobblestones. The carriage door was flung open to reveal Severin, dressed in a style fit to dine with Governor Darling. Without a word he seated himself opposite her and tapped the gilded head of his cane against the roof, his signal to depart.
‘No doubt you’re delighted to have my company on your long journey, Vianna,’ he said with the barest note of mockery.
‘But I only intended –’ Vianna stopped herself in time from involving Wanda.
‘I gave your maid the day off. My servants are paid to be loyal to me, Vianna. In any case I’m best equipped to protect you in the event we’re bailed up by bushrangers en route to Goulouga,’ he said, patting the pistol beneath his great coat.
‘I intended to tell you, Severin.’
‘Liar,’ he said with a tolerant smile. ‘No matter. I intended to escort you there one day.’ His eye wandered over her. ‘I applaud your genteel disguise. No rouge. No perfume. A puritanical bonnet and gown. Good God, Vianna, if I didn’t know you intimately I’d say you could pass muster as a respectable widow.’
Vianna flashed her most charming smile. ‘I am a woman who has learned to play many roles. I am what you made me, Severin – all things to all men.’
His eyes turned icy. ‘Careful, Vianna. What happens at journey’s end depends solely on me.’
Vianna decided it wise to withdraw into silent observation of the scenery as the coach rocked along a lonely convict-built road pockmarked with potholes. She was unaware of the degree of her anxiety until she noticed traces of blood seeping through the palms of her mittens, caused by her fingernails.
To distract herself she broke the silence. ‘No sign of habitation, no landmarks for miles. No wonder so many travellers lose their way in this country.’
In answer Severin silently gestured to the horizon. Vianna’s eyes stang with unshed tears. I have waited so long for this moment. The sole building in the landscape was a sandstone Georgian country house set back from the road. Like a theatrical backdrop, a densely forested mountain rose at such close proximity it cast a deep shadow across the lawns.
The house had the fine architectural lines that Governor Macquarie’s celebrated architect Francis Greenway might have designed. To pay homage to the climate a vine-shaded terrace surrounded it, with Indian plantation shutters on the French doors. Yet despite its traditional charm the house conveyed an aura of sadness, a kind of genteel poverty – beautiful, gracious but fallen on hard times. Why? This was an expensive school for children of the Quality. Vianna felt a sudden rush of confusion. Her heart beat rapidly from joy mixed with trepidation.
Severin’s instructions were firm. ‘You will ask no questions, do exactly as I say. You must conduct yourself as a widow interested in their work – with no connection to this place. To virtuous women, a courtesan carries the kiss of death.’
Vianna followed him with clenched fists, biting back the words she wanted to hurl at him. If you don’t reveal that I’m a courtesan, I won’t reveal you are a rogue who cheats every gambler who crosses his threshold.
When a ruddy-faced assigned servant named Mary advised Severin that the Matron would see him, Vianna rose to follow him but he gestured to her to retain her seat.
Left alone, she was startled by the distant voices of young children singing. Turning quickly to the source of the music she sent her teacup flying across the flagstones. Embarrassed by her clumsiness, she knelt to retrieve the shards, surprised that the china was a cheap copy of a Chinese import.
The convict servant’s brusque manner softened. ‘Don’t you worry none. We only use this stuff for Sundays and when the priest turns up. Rest of the time the kiddies eat off tin plates and mugs.’
Vianna assumed a polite smile of interest. ‘How many little girls live here?’
‘Changes by the week. But I reckon thirty to forty. Some get sent to new homes. Them’s the lucky ones. Less mouths for us to feed.’
Vianna felt chilled. ‘You mean they are all orphans?’
‘That’s a polite way of putting it, if ye gets me meaning,’ the girl said.
A voice calling her name sent Mary clumping back inside the house, openly grumbling to herself. ‘All right, keep your shirt on.’
The sound of children’s voices coming from the far side of the house drew Vianna into the garden to take up a position shielded by the hedge.
Eight little girls of about five years old were playing Blind Man’s Bluff, trying to avoid giving their position away to the blindfolded girl who staggered about with outstretched arms. Each child was dressed in varying shades of heavy brown calico, their garments faded with washing or bleached by the sun. But all wore a clean white pinafore, boots and stockings, their hair either cut short or plaited. She frantically searched their faces as they dodged the blindfolded child.
If only they would keep still long enough for me to see their faces. So many have Anglo-Saxon features and hair streaked blonde by the sun, they could almost come from the same family. ‘Oh, God help me, I can’t tell one from the other.’
She jumped in fright when a heavy hand gripped her shoulder and spun her around. Severin pinned her arms to her sides.
‘I instructed you to remain where I left you. There is a good reason.’
She expected his anger but was disconcerted to find him observing the children with an uncharacteristically serious expression.
‘Why, Severin? I’ve waited years to see her. Talk to her. Hold her. Just once!’
‘No. It is for her own protection. You cannot give her what she needs.’
‘I could love her. Who better? I’m the only family Daisy has.’
‘Do you want to brand her with the shame that her sister is a courtesan?’
‘Daisy doesn’t need to know that!’
‘Use your head, Vianna. The Colony thrives on scurrilous rumours. How long could you hope to conceal your reputation as the infamous Sydney Town Venus?’
‘We could leave the Colony – begin a new life.’ Even as she said the words Vianna knew the answer. Severin’s Conditional Pardon was effective banishment for life. He could never return to Britain. Even if I stole enough money to escape, how could I give her a decent life? I can’t even read or write. All I know is how to sing risqué songs and please Severin – on my back.
She gazed sadly at the diminishing figures of the little girls, now running and stumbling towards the border between the garden and dense native bush. The sigh that escaped her acknowledged her defeat.
Severin pressed his advantage. ‘I refused to bring you here, knowing you’d attempt to claim her. The life we lead makes that impossible.’
He gestured to where the little girls had formed two lines, their arms linked above their heads in an archway, chanting the words of an old song.
She was chilled by the irony that this macabre children’
s game was not only a parody of death by execution, but an echo of her own father’s death.
‘Oranges and Lemons say the bells of St Clement’s. You owe me five farthings, say the bells of St Martin’s . . .’
Vianna softly joined in the song, as if to draw closer to whichever child was her sister. ‘When will you pay me? Say the bells of Old Bailey . . .’
She raised her voice a note higher in defiance. ‘When I grow rich, say the bells of Shoreditch.’ Then broke off to hiss at Severin, ‘I’ve made you a rich man!’
He said the next line pointedly, ‘When will that be? Say the bells of Stepney.’
As the children reached the final lines, Vianna stopped singing, aware the game was about to offer her the chance to see their faces at close range.
‘I’m sure I don’t know, says the great bell at Bow,’ sang the children. ‘Here comes a candle to light you to bed. Here comes a chopper to chop off your head!’
This was the cue for a delicate, wide-eyed little girl, her flaxen hair flying in the wind, to try to run the length of the archway while the others chanted, ‘Chip chop, chip chop the last man’s head – off!’ The archway of arms came down to entrap the little one as her captors laughed with glee.
Vianna’s heart was in her mouth. Is this a sign from God this child is Daisy?
Severin gestured to the squealing children. ‘You see how happy they are? If you really love Daisy, you will leave her here – until our fortunes change.’
Vianna’s hand shook as she pointed to the children running in pursuit of a new game. ‘Do you mean to say you know Daisy is one of these children?’
He did not deny it. She grabbed him by the lapels. ‘For heaven’s sake tell me. They all look the same to me! Any one of them could be Daisy!’
Severin gave a nod of assent. For once his voice was gentle.
‘She is amongst these children. I can say no more than that. Only the Matron knows which one she is.’
‘Why can’t I?’
He caught Vianna’s clenched fists. ‘Listen to me. Daisy is taught to read and write, as well as music, art and dancing – just like a child born to the Quality. We have not abandoned her. She’s aware she has an ‘uncle’ who pays for her education – her special lessons. When she is old enough to understand a little of the ways of the world, you will meet her. This is the best life we can offer her. For now.’
The Lace Balcony Page 13
