The Lace Balcony

by Johanna Nicholls

  ‘The best for you, Severin. I won’t lose her, now that I’ve found her. Just tell me which little girl? I promise you on my life I won’t approach her.’

  Vianna tried to choke back her tears. She knew her lie was transparent but she had not waited so long only to give up without a fight.

  ‘I promise you, Vianna, we will return for her when my fortune is made.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me! That servant told me these children are often fostered out.’

  ‘I won’t allow that to happen. I give you my word!’

  ‘Your word as a gentleman? What’s that worth?’

  His eyes blazed. ‘Control yourself. You are making a scene. It was a mistake to come here. We shall leave at once!’

  Vianna’s arm was twisted behind her back as Severin forced her to their carriage. His face was a mask, refusing to respond to her pleas, threats or tears.

  Oblivious to the world around her as their carriage hurtled down the road to Sydney Town, Vianna stared into space, her long treasured dream now a lost cause. Severin not only controls my life – he controls the fate of the only person I truly love.

  She dared to challenge him. ‘What did you mean by Daisy’s special lessons?’

  ‘If you choose to play Truth and Consequences be it on your own head. Did you not notice how clumsy some of those children were? And how vigilant those two uniformed women were, observing them at play?

  Vianna was on guard. ‘I only had eyes for the children.’

  ‘All were there for a good reason. Each has a problem in need of special attention – deaf, blind, a club foot, palsied hand, whatever. Their teachers are trained to prepare them for as normal a life as possible – as you and I could never hope to do.’

  ‘I don’t believe you! Daisy was perfect in every way.’

  ‘Until that epidemic that made me send her here. You wanted the whole truth. Now you have it. That school is run for the children of the Quality that society prefers to hide from sight. It costs me a fortune to keep her there – year after year.’

  ‘Is that really why Severin House is . . . ?’ The words dried in her mouth.

  ‘What choice do I have? Disinherited by my family. The law forbids me to return home. I am not unequipped for any profession. Forced to live like some shady Robin Hood, relieving wealthy colonial gamblers of their money. And to watch you entertain them in the way that nature equipped you to do so very well . . . we both hate the roles we are forced to play, but needs must.’

  Severin kept his eyes trained on Vianna’s face as he drew back the lace mitten and gently kissed the warm flesh of her hand where the blood had dried.

  ‘So you see, my little Venus? I am not quite such a villain as you think me.’

  • • •

  Vianna felt her heart pumping with fear. Mocking voices chanted the final words of ‘Oranges and Lemons’.

  Two lines of gentleman gamblers faced each other, their arms linked in an archway over the narrow path ahead of her – each face, each lascivious grin known to her. There was no escape. She had no choice but to run the gauntlet as they chanted ‘Here comes the chopper to chop off your head.’

  At the end of the line, a young man stood with arms outstretched to her.

  In desperation she tried to reach him – but her feet were leaden, shackled by chains. Running in slow motion, she recognised the young man’s face.

  If I can only reach him I will be safe.

  But it was too late. The gamblers cried in triumph, ‘. . . last man’s head – off!’ Vianna sank beneath a sea of leering faces – the weight of their bodies smothering her as they tore off her clothes . . .

  She was screaming when Wanda’s gentle hands shook her awake.

  ‘It’s all right, Vianna. It was only a bad dream.’

  Vianna clung to her, crying into the girl’s warm brown shoulder, relieved that she had escaped the nightmare. Yet she felt hollow, overcome by a sense of loss that she had failed to reach the young man – and safety.

  I met you too late, Will Eden.

  Chapter 12

  Felix barely glanced at the bloodstained horizon that promised another scorching January day. He crossed the Bridge of Sighs in the direction of the guest bedchamber that his father had originally assigned as the schoolroom for the half-brothers in his wing of Rockingham Hall.

  Unable to sleep since the early hours of the morning, Felix had heard the family carriage’s belated return from Port Jackson under cover of darkness.

  He had dressed with special care in a perfectly tailored frockcoat and trousers that he hoped was conservative enough for an event so unusual it was outside the known rules of etiquette. Felix had no wish to appear to be flaunting the L’Estrange wealth at any given time – but especially not this morning.

  Through the sun-lit windows of the bridge between the twin houses he saw the thin stream of smoke spiralling up from the chimney of Jane Quayle’s whitewashed cottage. No doubt Jane’s been up half the night – as I was. Although for once my roaming amongst the stars was little comfort. I doubt if Mother slept at all.

  He recalled her recent words of reassurance. ‘I am your watchdog, Felix. I have stayed to do my duty and I shall remain on guard against any attempts by your Father to diminish your birth right in favour of the Quayles.’

  He sighed with resignation at this latest escalation in the parental war of words that had dominated his life since childhood. The wound that time never healed, the blight on the L’Estrange house that shadowed all their lives.

  Squaring his shoulders he muttered under his breath, ‘That’s ancient history. I must perform my duty to please Father – pay a debt beyond measure.’

  Outside the door to the guest chamber, he withdrew from his waistcoat pocket the gold watch his father had given him on his twenty-first birthday.

  Half of eight – surely a reasonable time to wake him. I can’t help but feel a jot nervous. The last time I saw Mungo he was in the condemned cell due to be hanged alongside poor Will Eden. I wonder what three years at Moreton Bay has done to change him. Will I even recognise him?

  Felix was startled from his reverie by his awareness of the figure at his side, that mousy little servant girl with a pinched face was cradling a bottle of wine emblazoned with the new L’Estrange label. Dammit, I’ve forgotten her name again.

  ‘Good heavens, what are you doing here? What’s your name?’

  ‘Molly Baker, Sir. Cook’s daughter, but I’m Currency,’ she answered, in that casual, confident manner of the generations born here.

  ‘A Currency Lass, eh? Aren’t you too young to be in service?’

  ‘Not me. I’m near fourteen. I’ve finished school but I study things on my own and help Ma out when needed.’

  ‘So what are you doing with this wine from our cellar?’

  She pointed at the door. ‘The Master gave it to me – to bring up to him.’

  ‘Thank you, I’ll deliver it myself.’ As she turned to scurry down the servants’ stairs he added, ‘One further thing, Molly. You’d best be aware that no one is allowed to handle the books and telescope in my bedchamber.’

  ‘I know. The servants warned me it’s a hanging offence to touch your stuff.’

  Felix felt disconcerted, unsure if her words had been sarcastic or simply the childlike repetition of young Cockney George’s cheeky humour. He felt irritated to think his astronomy had made him a figure of fun in the eyes of the servants.

  He was about to knock when he heard the voice from within.

  ‘Come in. It isn’t locked – I’ve had enough locks to last me a lifetime.’

  The disembodied voice was rough at the edges and more mature, but unmistakably Mungo’s.

  At the sight of the man before him, Felix covered his confusion by a stream of words he strung together in a rush. ‘Welcome back, Mungo. Trust you slept well after your long journey. I see you haven’t read my note. I left several suits of my clothes in the closet for you. I had no idea of your size. But I
hope they’ll serve long enough to introduce you to Father’s tailor, a Hebrew emancipist. Thanks to Father’s patronage he enjoys a clientele amongst the Quality.’

  He ran out of words, aware that Mungo was eyeing him up and down with that infuriating half-smile that he had mastered in childhood.

  ‘You’ve grown,’ Mungo said.

  ‘So have you,’ Felix said lamely. They stood staring at each other, weighing up the changes three years had made.

  Felix was startled to find little trace of the puny youth he had last seen in the condemned cell. Mungo now stood tall and broad-shouldered, tanned by long exposure to tropical sun, barefoot, legs planted wide. Wearing one of Felix’s fine Irish linen nightshirts, he made an incongruous figure with his wild head of hair falling to his shoulders, gold fuzz on arms surprisingly free of the tattoos boasted by most prisoners. His face had altered, no doubt hardened by work on a chain gang and experiences Felix could not even begin to imagine. He was a tougher version of himself – but more than that. It caused Felix a pang of jealousy to realise that Mungo was now even closer to how Kentigern L’Estrange had looked in his youth.

  As always, Mungo took charge. ‘Thanks for the second-hand clothes, mate. And the wine. How about we celebrate my homecoming, eh?’

  Felix watched him pour two glasses of wine to the brim, his hands chipped and roughened like those of a farm labourer.

  Mungo raised his glass in the traditional colonial toast, ‘Here’s to the Land we Live in, Lads!’

  Felix echoed the toast but drank sparingly, watching Mungo drain his glass to the dregs before he spoke. ‘I trust you will be comfortable here. I had it refurbished for you but the bookshelves are of course a legacy of our shared school years.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks to our tutors I still have Greek philosophers, Shakespeare and Goethe coming out of my ears. Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful Father gave us the same education. It paid off at Moreton Bay – put me in the ‘educated class’ of felons.’ Satisfied by Felix’s discomfort, he continued. ‘So what has Mrs Less planned for me? There’s a price to pay for my freedom – and I’m ready to pay it.’

  Felix flinched at the jarring note of the nickname Mungo had given his mother as a child, but allowed it to pass. Please God, allow Mutti to remember what Mungo has suffered – and handle him with tact. Or history will repeat itself – and Father’s heart will be broken again.

  ‘You realise, Mungo, your assignment is purely a formality. For all intents and purposes Sean O’Connor has disappeared off the face of the earth – forever.’

  ‘So I’ve got my own identity back, have I? Where exactly have I been?’

  ‘As far as the servants are concerned you’ve been in Kororaeka – successfully trading with American, British and French whalers based around the North Island.’

  ‘New Zealand, eh? Listen, I’ve a great plan that could make us a fortune –’

  Felix was quick to cut him short. ‘We must go downstairs. Mother wants an audience with you – to discuss your future. Of course I am available to be present.’

  ‘Can’t face Mrs Less on your own, eh?’

  Felix ignored the taunt. ‘Please hurry.’

  ‘Hang on. I need to see my own mother first.’

  ‘This won’t take long – Father’s instructions.’

  ‘Still the perfect son, eh?’

  ‘I’ll leave you to get dressed,’ Felix said stiffly.

  • • •

  They paused before the door of her personal sitting room from which came halting notes on the pianoforte, followed by the accomplished repetition of the piece.

  Mungo recognised the German folk song. ‘That’s ‘The Moon is Risen’, right? She made you play all seven verses of it.’

  ‘Mother now teaches pianoforte as a reward to our servants’ children for their progress in reading and writing. The servants are most grateful.’

  He knocked and they entered when Albruna L’Estrange inclined her head to grant them permission. She spoke gently to the small boy, ‘Go straight to the kitchen, lad. Ask Cook to give you a slice of cake. You’ve done well.’

  When she turned to examine Mungo, Felix did not miss the flicker of surprise she quickly suppressed. Poor Mutti. She has seen the same thing I saw – Mungo’s so changed he now bears an extraordinary resemblance to Father as a young man.

  ‘There is no need for you to remain, Felix.’

  Mungo made an obligatory bow and Felix smiled uneasily, determined to lighten the mood. ‘I would prefer to remain, Mother. It is not every day I have the pleasure of welcoming my half-brother home.’

  Albruna looked up sharply at his gentle, unexpected rebuke as Felix drew out a chair for Mungo and stood stiffly behind him.

  ‘Be seated, Felix. The pair of you look as though you are posing for a portrait.’ She turned directly to Mungo. ‘So! What have you to say for yourself?’

  ‘I would be an ingrate if I didn’t first thank you – and Father – for saving my life and for your years of effort to free me.’

  ‘Your thanks are best placed with my husband. Your assignment to me was his idea.’

  Felix stammered in reassurance. ‘A mere formality, Mungo. Your early release was a reward for the evidence you gave at the inquest into Logan’s murder.’

  Mungo stiffened, a reaction that Felix saw did not escape his mother.

  ‘Not purely a formality, Felix,’ she said. ‘Sean O’Connor has served his time. We will never refer to him again. But I expect the Prodigal Son to mend his ways and serve this family with loyalty.’

  Felix flinched. Prodigal Son and servant – must you rub salt in the wound?

  Mungo’s voice had a distinct edge. ‘There’s a wise Manx saying – Don’t tell me what I was, but tell me what I am.’

  Felix hurriedly intercepted Mungo’s baiting reference to Jane Quayle. ‘Mungo will be invaluable in another capacity, Mother. I have organised a place for him in a new arm of the family’s estate management – at Father’s express wish. As you know, I am able to communicate with Father better than anyone else – since his illness.’

  ‘So I am to understand.’ Clearly thwarted, his mother retained her dignity. ‘In that case, young Quayle, you are on trial. You may now both take your leave.’

  Mother chooses to forget Mungo was born in this house. I know that’s a painful memory for her, but she’s acting as if he is a serf.

  The moment Felix closed the door behind them they exchanged a rueful glance at the sound of the ominously heavy chords of the ‘Dead March in Saul’.

  ‘Well, I’ve survived the first round, thanks to you.’ Mungo added lightly, ‘I’d have made a rotten servant – too much of the Currency Lad in me. I welcome the chance of working in a new field.’ He added reluctantly, ‘I owe you.’

  ‘It’s no more than you deserve. Now I must take you to Father’s chambers. I must warn you not to tire him. He eagerly awaits you, but prepare yourself. We have hopes of his eventual recovery in time. But he is not the same man since his heart seizure. You will need to do most of the talking – with myself as interpreter.’

  Mungo frowned. ‘That bad, ugh? I didn’t know. Never received a single letter from you.’

  ‘I assure you we wrote regularly,’ Felix said defensively.

  He had no sooner knocked on the door than the expected sound of a barely intelligible, excited male voice barked in response.

  Felix studied the moment of their reunion, anxious about its effect on his father’s health. Mungo stood in the doorway, frozen by the reality of their father’s debilitated appearance. He quickly camouflaged his reaction. Striding across the room he flung himself into his father’s open arms.

  Laughing and crying unashamedly they talked over each other, gripping hold of each other like two sailors lost at sea who had each found a life raft in the other.

  ‘You old bastard!’ Mungo cried, his voice gruff with emotion. ‘If you’d upped and died on me while I was at Moreton Bay – I’d have killed you!
’

  The absurd threat was so heartfelt that Kentigern roared with laughter and with both hands, the strong one and the crippled claw, he stroked Mungo’s hair and face as if moulding him lovingly from clay.

  Felix realized with a pang of envy that his presence was obsolete. The deep mutual love between this father and son needed no interpreter. Moved by the scene but at the same time hollow, Felix backed from the room and quietly closed the door behind him.

  The sound of Mungo’s earthy laughter and his father’s raucous, gravel-voiced attempts to join in followed Felix as he hurried downstairs to the family office.

  Here at least I can be sure of being Father’s right-hand man.

  Chapter 13

  Mungo returned to his former schoolroom and hurriedly shed Felix’s formal suit in favour of the casual clothing his half-brother had also provided. He brushed his hair, washed his face and hands once again with the forgotten luxury of soap, then knotted a neckerchief at the open neck of the fine linen shirt. He was far more at home in these moleskin trousers and riding boots, yet suddenly felt like a boy again, unsure about facing his own mother’s punishment after a boyish prank.

  Mungo felt emotionally exhausted after his reunion with his father, whom he had left sleeping peacefully. He had been shocked that at Moreton Bay the memories of his father’s loved, patrician’s features, distorted by paralysis, now resembled two sides of a gargoyle, one half smiling in his sleep, the other a grimace that he hoped time would gradually restore to normal.

  The old schoolroom, transformed into a comfortable bedchamber, was a wry reminder that although he had studied here for years, last night was the first time he had ever slept at Rockingham Hall. I had to become a convicted criminal before Mrs Less granted me that privilege.