When a gangling, open-faced girl made an awkward bob at the door, introduced herself and delivered an envelope on a tray, Mungo registered surprise.
‘Thanks, Molly. Word travels fast. I wonder who knows I’m back home?’
‘If you open it, Mr Quayle, they might be waiting on an answer,’ she suggested helpfully.
‘If I can call you Molly, I reckon it’s only fair you call me Mungo, right?’
He tore open the envelope, aware of the irony of its speedy arrival compared to the three years he had been hungry for mail at Moreton Bay – none received until the final weeks of his sentence.
The note was from Nathan Bloom and Sons, his father’s tailors, to confirm the appointment Felix had made for him to be measured for his new wardrobe. Written in customary flowery trading style, it thanked Mungo for his valued custom.
‘Thank you, Molly. No reply needed.’ She bobbed a curtsey and he smiled in appreciation as he watched her light steps skipping down the stairs.
Molly’s the first female face I’ve seen close up in three years. I’d forgotten how nice and clean girls smell.
From force of habit, Mungo took the servants’ back stairs, passing an elderly servant who had been L’Estrange’s man as long as Mungo could remember.
This bloke must have done his time by now – unless he’s a Lifer. Hell, I’ve forgotten his name! And he doesn’t recognise me.
The old man looked startled then bowed his head. ‘Welcome home, Sir. You won’t remember me, Old Crawford, Sir.’
‘How could I ever forget you, Crawford? Rockingham Hall would have fallen apart years ago if you didn’t keep the wheels turning. And it’s Mungo!’
‘I hardly recognised you, lad. New Zealand has made a man of you.’
‘You could say that. But I’m the same Mungo I was as a kid. Remember that day the clothes lines were filled with L’Estrange’ bed sheets? And I used them for target practice – covered the lot of them with mud balls?’
‘Indeed. You were quite a handful. Mrs L’Estrange believed in “Spare the rod and spoil the child”. So I was the one ordered to give you a ten of the best with a razor strap. But you took it like a little man. Not a whimper out of you.’
Mungo flinched at an unwanted flash of memory – Moreton Bay.
The sound of the lash. The scourger taunting him, ‘I’ll have you blubbering before three hundred, O’Connor.’
‘Want to bet?’ Mungo said through clenched teeth. The next ‘stripe’ brought merciful blackness . . .
He was jolted back to the present by Old Crawford’s words. ‘I mustn’t keep you. Jane Quayle has been on tenterhooks for weeks.’
• • •
The path leading through the long rectangular garden was lusher and denser than Mungo remembered. Exotic trees and shrubs had been planted by Albruna L’Estrange as a young bride, passionate about landscaping her first home to reflect her husband’s love of native flora. These trees now towered along each boundary of the estate, lined by lower levels of native shrubs that Mungo knew bore incongruous Latin botanical names, replacing the names the blacks had used forever.
He recognised a species Sandy Gordon had admired at Moreton Bay and Mungo had identified as Xanthorrhoea Macronema, charming little grass trees whose single black trunks bore long reed-like leaves showering from the top. He knew the Aboriginal name for them was balga grass, their word for ‘black boy’ due to the plants’ resemblance to childlike black figures.
Their cream flower spikes would blossom throughout summer, along with the beds of English and German flowers that Mrs L’Estrange instructed be maintained to her high standards, despite the different climate and invasions of tropical bugs.
I’ll say one thing in her favour. No matter the odds against her, that woman never admits defeat. She might hate me, but she never gave up on me. And she’s determined to outlast her rival – but then so is my mam. God knows how it will end.
He noted that the trees that framed the scene with apparent wild abandon had been carefully shaped so as not to screen the view between the twin mansions and the cabins at the far end of the garden. Seeing the cottage, his heart lifted. The long road from Moreton Bay was at an end.
Mungo walked down the narrow walkway lying between his mother’s cottage and the stables, at what he had always thought of as ‘the poor man’s end’ of Rockingham Hall estate. No surprise to find the side door was open. Her tiny living room was filled with the smell of Manx cooking and there were baskets and tubs of herbs filling every conceivable space.
Jane Quayle was sitting in the rocking chair by the fireplace, its empty grate filled with pots of lavender and sage. The air smelled clean and sweet.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Mam.’ He wasn’t sure if the words sounded like a flippant reference to Moreton Bay – or his tardiness in calling on her.
‘Your father has been living for the day. It was only right you go to him first.’
‘Are you going to give me a hug, or aren’t you?’ he said gently, holding out his arms to her.
She half rose to greet him, but sank down in the chair as if unsure her legs would carry her.
‘Take thy time – it will come to thee.’ Mungo said the Manx proverb softly. The words were enough to send her stumbling into his arms, laughing and crying all at once. Then she stood back, prodding him to assure herself he was flesh and blood.
‘Don’t move!’ she ordered, then ran to the dresser to take a down a bottle of Glen Kella Manx whisky from the shelf. With trembling hands she unscrewed the cap.
‘Your father gave it to me the week you were saved from the gallows – to keep for your homecoming. Three years. Let’s hope it’s still drinkable.’
Together they raised their glasses in the traditional toast made by Manx fishermen, who often drowned while making a precarious living from the sea. ‘Life to man and death to fish’. Jane Quayle said the words in Manx Gaelic, Mungo in English, at the same time.
‘Shame on you, you’ve forgotten the mother tongue I taught you.’
‘It slipped my mind,’ Mungo said, ‘but I’ve not forgotten that grog is the reason I was born!’
Jane looked shocked. ‘Are you suggesting I was tipsy the night I conceived you!”
‘No, but just think. If you hadn’t helped your brother smuggle brandy across to England, you wouldn’t have been transported from your tiny Isle of Mann to the largest island in the world. And you’d never have been assigned to Father – and I’d never have been born. So you see, Mam, crime does pay! I am your reward for bad behaviour – smuggling brandy!’
‘Hush your mouth,’ Jane Quayle said, biting back her laughter. ‘It’s always a story full of lies you’re telling. Felix L’Estrange was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. I swear you were born with a lie on your tongue!’
‘I don’t exactly lie, Mam. I just dress up the truth to make it more interesting.’
The smell of smoke and the black cloud from the oven in the skillion attached to the house sent her racing outside, swearing under her breath. She returned crestfallen with a baking dish burnt around the top layer and was about to throw the contents into the garbage pail when Mango wrested the tray from her.
‘No, you don’t! I’ve been dreaming of your Manx lamb stew and dumplings for years. I’ll eat the lot of it, just you watch me.’ He sampled the heap she ladled out on his plate, hiding the fact the first spoonful burnt his mouth.
‘Ah, Manx magic!’ he said rapturously.
He felt her watching him with pleasure as he devoured the meal but he knew there were questions to come that she had been saving up for years.
‘Are you planning to stay out of trouble, Mungo?’
She was refilling their glasses to the brim. Alcohol scarcely touched her lips from one year to the next, but he knew that today there’d be no such restrictions.
‘I won’t go begging for trouble, that’s all I can say. What have you been up to? I’m hungry for news.’
‘
I’ve saved up a goodly sum of money for my funeral,’ she said with pride. ‘But I’d be pleased to pay for your wedding instead.’
‘Have a heart, Mam. I’ve been home less than a day and you’re marrying me off already!’
Jane Quayle was not a woman to be deflected from her objective. ‘It would steady you down to have a lass of your own. And a babe or two. You never seemed to take much interest in lasses before – you went away.’
‘Much you know,’ Mungo said with a wink. ‘I had every mother for miles around locking up their virgins at night. Thank heavens other girls were happy to spend time with me. Those nights I didn’t come home till dawn. You didn’t believe me when I said I was out drinking with the lads, did you?’
‘Shame on you,’ she said, but her eyes were laughing.
Mungo grew serious. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m beginning to come around to your way of thinking.”
His mother took the bait. ‘Who is she? She’s been waiting for you all this time, has she?’ she asked in awe.
‘Indeed she has,’ Mungo said, and wasn’t himself sure of the line between lies and imagination . . . his golden girl.
‘Remember what my ancestors on the Isle of Mann always said, “Never marry a woman unless you can see the smoke of her father’s chimney from your midden.”’
Mungo tried to keep a straight face. ‘And what’s that other pearl of wisdom you’re fond of? “Never marry an heiress unless her father has been hanged?” ’
‘You can scoff, lad, but proverbs are based on truth. A wealthy woman will be haughty, proud and difficult to handle – unless she has some shame in her own family to remind her that she has no call to consider herself superior to her husband.’
‘I see,’ Mungo said respectfully. ‘In that case I’ll place an advertisement in The Australian that reads: “Wanted. Wealthy Bride – Must have Hanged Father”.’
Jane Quayle was known for always having the last word. ‘Just promise me you’ll bring the lass home to meet me before you marry her.’
Mungo wondered how his mother would react if he told her the truth. Too late, Mam. I married her in my heart at Moreton Bay.
Another whisky found Mungo on the brink of confession. ‘Do you believe in love at first sight?’
‘I’ve been guilty of that, myself,’ she admitted with a sigh.
‘That’s different. You’re a woman. Do you reckon a bloke like me can meet a girl and know straight off she’s the only one he’ll ever want for the rest of his life?’
‘Sounds serious to me. Unlike you. How did you meet her?’
‘In prison. Two days before I was transported to Moreton Bay.’
‘A prisoner, was she? Well, who am I to judge her?’
‘No, she was just visiting the prison. A lady’s maid, just off the boat from London. Desperate for work. I sensed she was on the run from the law. You know, you can always smell that kind of trouble.’
‘Aye. We’ve all been there.’ She prompted him. ‘Pretty, I suppose?’
‘Tall, beautifully formed, with the face of an angel. And eyes like you wouldn’t believe.’
‘She had a name, this angel?’
‘Fanny Byron.’ Mungo allowed his glass to be refilled. ‘The problem is, Mam, I was a bit desperate myself at the time, knowing I was facing three years at Moreton Bay and this was the last girl I would set eyes on for years. The idea came to me like a bolt of lightning. To win her sympathy I told her a white lie. I borrowed Will Eden’s name. Told her I was due to be hanged the next day.’
Jane looked confused. ‘I must say you’ve got a strange way of courting a girl. How on earth was that going to win her?’
Mungo looked embarrassed. ‘I told her I’d never been kissed by any woman – except my mother.’
‘Huh! That was a wicked lie for a start.’
‘Yeah, but it worked. She kissed me.’
Jane Quayle rocked back in her chair. ‘Maybe there’s more to you than meets the eye.’
‘What’s more I talked her into giving me her scarf – only for one day, until the hanging. So you see, in a sense, she’s my common law wife. Fanny was true to her word, kept her promise to go to my hanging – except of course it was Will who was hanged, as scheduled. And what with our heads shaven, and me being as short and skinny then as Will was. If she’d been up close she might have twigged to the truth. But as luck had it she was at the back of the crowd. Anyway, Fanny accepted it was me on the scaffold. And believes I’m dead.’
‘I think I’d better have another drink to sober up,’ his mother said. ‘Poor Will Eden. You got sent to Moreton Bay, thank God, but he got hanged.’
‘Oh, it’s all right, Mam. Will wanted it that way. I was scared of dying and he was terrified of being sent to Moreton Bay, so we both got the sentence we wanted.’
‘Let me get this straight. This angel went to Will’s execution, thinking it was you – the man she kissed and agreed to marry after knowing you a few minutes!’
‘I just knew you’d understand, Mam!’
‘I understand one thing, boy, you’re a lying scoundrel. No woman should trust a word you say. You couldn’t lie straight in bed!’
‘But Mam, it didn’t hurt Will. He wanted to die anyway. After Will and I had a bit of a fight in the cell that last night, he acquisitioned my new boots that Felix had bought me – so he could make a dashing exit to meet his God. He went to the gallows at peace. That’s not unusual, Mam. Many condemned men feel the same. Death is better than transportation to Moreton Bay or Norfolk Island.’
‘And what of Fanny the angel? What happened to her?’
‘That’s the problem. I haven’t a clue. I only know it was Fanny who kept me alive in my head all those years – with the thought that she belonged to me. I was determined to survive, no matter what Patrick Logan did to me.’
Jane Quayle tried to break it to him gently. ‘So now you’re free by servitude, and you’ve come back to try and find her. But how do you know this Fanny is still free? Three years is a long time in a young girl’s life, lad.’
‘It is not a lie I tell, Mam. I saw something in Fanny’s eyes when I kissed her. Like she was giving me her heart. It might sound crazy, but I believe she’s here somewhere. Waiting for me.’ When his voice shook, he laughed to cover his embarrassment.
His mother gripped his hand to give him strength. ‘Mungo, lad. For once I believe you. For you it was love at first sight.’ She was always one to smell trouble. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
Mungo was morose. ‘What if she’s married? How the hell will I find her?’
‘Remember your Viking ancestors. Never say die!’
Mungo caught her air of confidence and relaxed. They both talked at once to cover the years they had spent apart. Mungo reminded himself he had a debt to pay. ‘I owe my freedom to a number of people – Father, Felix, even Mrs Less. But there was a Scottish doctor at Moreton Bay who was a true friend to me. He’s now back in Sydney Town. But fast ‘going down the slope’, as you would say. Maybe your herbal medicine could help ease him through his last months – maybe even prolong his life. I owe Sandy Gordon, Mam. He had me assigned to him – decent work that kept me sane.’
‘Then I am also in his debt. Take me to him.’
She leapt to her feet, a little unsteady but determined to organise her bag of herbal medicines and tinctures in readiness.
‘Thank you, Mam. As soon as I track him down, I’ll take you to him.’
Mungo put the stopper on the whisky bottle. He was only too ready to sleep downstairs on the floor by the fire, under a patchwork quilt on the old palliasse that was now too short for him, leaving his mother to sing her way up the stairs and fall asleep mid-verse.
Mungo hoped that his recurrent nightmares would pass him by tonight. Safe in Jane Quayle’s cabin, his childhood home of happy memories, for once the ghosts of Moreton Bay left him in peace.
Chapter 14
The journey to Regency Park aroused bittersweet mem
ories of Vianna’s visit with Daisy when Severin had brought them here three years earlier.
Severin’s profile seemed carved from stone. Seated beside her in the rocking carriage, he had remained resolutely silent since their last stop at the wayside inn The Black Stallion to spell the horses. There was no reading Severin’s thoughts, his eyes concealed by amber-tinted spectacles that he always wore in strong sunlight. Vianna hoped this visit to his friend and mentor, the retired Major James Dalby, would throw light on Severin’s erratic moods, the increasing evidence of his ‘dark side of the moon’.
Regency Park had been Severin’s world when first assigned there as one of the prisoners ranked in the Colony as privileged ‘gentlemen convicts’. Dalby had given Severin virtual freedom, asking nothing more laborious from him than the occasional writing of a document. Treated as a member of the family, Severin had been a guest at Dalby’s banquets, enjoying wide social contact with the Exclusives and gentry whose lifestyle, spread between their rural estates and Sydney townhouses, was sustained by the free labour of their assigned ‘government men’. When in Sydney Town Severin had enjoyed the use of Dalby’s townhouse and the fine carriage that had impressed Vianna the first day she met him.
Vianna had come to accept the Colony’s unwritten law that the Quality took care to segregate its own class – gentlemen convicts – from common thieves and vagabonds, no matter their crimes. She suspected Dalby knew Severin’s family from home.
The fine Georgian country house was just as she remembered it, its sandstone a warmer colour than its English counterparts, a sandy, pink-smudged stone that seemed bathed in sunlight. Surrounded by orchards and rose gardens it was an English oasis at the heart of an antipodean forest of eucalypts and acacias.
A woman was seated in a rocking chair on the terrace, her eyes fixed on the far horizon, an assigned servant standing stiffly by her side.
‘Look, isn’t that Mrs Dalby?’ Vianna exclaimed.
Severin’s response was curt. ‘Don’t expect her to acknowledge you.’
Vianna flinched. Am I now outside the pale of society – even amongst Severin’s friends? A high price to pay for being the notorious Sydney Venus.
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