The Lace Balcony

by Johanna Nicholls

  Yet when the man gripped her shoulder in a sign of possession, Mungo saw her eyes register a flash of something that belied her coquettish smile. Malevolence, contempt – or fear? He felt an involuntary stab of jealousy, the desire to protect her.

  Dazzled momentarily by shafts of sunlight that filtered through the giant Port Jackson Fig trees lining the road, her face was lit by slivers of gold that intensified every detail. The landau was now less than a carriage-length away.

  He caught his breath. It’s Fanny! In a few seconds she’ll pass by. I’ll lose her!

  ‘Steady, Boadicea!’ It all happened so quickly Mungo was distracted by the need to calm his horse, now pawing the ground, refusing to advance. Unable to withdraw his eyes from Fanny’s face, Mungo’s mouth dried. Was it his imagination or did she cast him a wicked, sidelong glance? Does she recognise me too?

  Feeling like a fool sprung naked in public, Mungo struggled to calm Boadicea to prevent her bolting. The flash gentleman signalled his coachman to halt the carriage. He was enjoying Mungo’s discomfort, yet addressed him in a charming, languid manner.

  ‘I say, young man. I take it you – or your nag, are in need of assistance?’

  Mungo felt heat invade his face and his collar seemed to tighten like a noose.

  Nag? Boadicea’s better bred than you are, mate!

  Frustrated by the perspiration running down his face, Mungo fumbled in the act of doffing his hat. The wind sent it spiralling down the road in an eddy of dust.

  Desperate to confirm her name, Mungo chafed at polite society’s unwritten law – he must not offer her his name unless the gentleman chose to introduce them. He was struck by an awful thought. She’s dressed in white. Perhaps she’s his bride.

  Forcing himself to be polite, he lied about his horse’s temperament. ‘Kind of you to enquire, Sir. Can’t understand it. Boadicea’s never acted up like this. Calm as a summer’s day, she is – except when she’s in season and some stallion is desperate to mount her . . . oh, God. Excuse me, Ma’am. I only meant –’

  ‘By Jove! Remember yourself, fellow!’ The gentleman’s tolerant laugh implied that no better could be expected from his obvious social inferior.

  The lady waved a gloved hand to reassure her companion. ‘No, no, Severin. It’s a perfect description of his horse’s admirable character.’ She looked directly at Mungo. ‘You must be new to the Colony, young man – unaware of the cause of Boadicea’s warning?’

  With a flick of her wrist she gestured to the road behind her. Lying directly across Mungo’s path was a large snake. No mistaking the markings. Studded with petal-shaped scales in alternating bands of yellow and grey, it was coiled up, but Mungo reckoned its length was close to six feet. Its flat, heart-shaped head was flattened cobra style, hissing and ready to attack in its defence.

  Severin’s tone was condescending. ‘Stand warned, young man. That python’s harmless enough. But snakes kill off a few ignorant New Chums every season.’ He lit a cigarillo and tossed the match carelessly onto the road.

  Mungo stammered, barely able to restrain his anger. ‘I’m obliged to you for the warning, Sir. But I’m a Currency Lad, a native of this land. That’s not a python, it’s an Eastern Tiger Snake. Its venom is lethal. They’re prolific breeders. They can also be green, brown, reddish or near black. I’ve been catching snakes since I was a kid. Never been bitten yet. I aim to survive ’em long enough to make my fortune!’

  Mungo instantly regretted the nervous, crass statement that betrayed his youth, but was pleased to have boasted he was a Currency Lad – a status he wore with pride, despite its being derogatory in the eyes of the British ‘Sterling’.

  I sound like an idiot. I know I’ve changed a helluva lot. But so has she – and I remembered her.

  Determined to regain his confidence, Mungo dismounted. Holding fast to Boadicea’s reins he broke the rules and bowed to the lady. ‘Your servant, ma’am.’

  She tilted her head as if weighing his ambition against his youth. ‘A home-grown Currency Lad, determined to make your mark in the world – an admirable quality. May your fortune come to you swiftly, young man. I leave you to continue your journey towards that happy fate. And bid you a good day.’

  Severin promptly took that as his cue to prod the coachman’s back with his cane. The landau charged off at full speed.

  Finding himself the target of the tunnel of dust created by their retreating carriage, Mungo checked that the Tiger Snake had indeed slithered into the bush.

  He thanked Boadicea for her timely warning but kept his eyes on the carriage. In his final glimpse of Fanny, she was briefly outlined against the sharp blue sky before the landau disappeared from sight.

  Mungo cursed himself for being seven times a fool. Did I respond to her polite farewell? Or just stand here like a mute? For the life of me I can’t recall.

  Dizzy and half-blinded by the encounter, he tried valiantly to piece together the whole scene and to interpret the message in her eyes.

  He felt belittled in Fanny’s presence, stung by Severin’s insult – his failure to introduce himself to Mungo. Questions raced around his head. Does she belong to that arrogant bastard – or is he just her escort? Did her gloves conceal a wedding band? How will I ever find her again? Did she deliberately say Severin’s name – as a clue to help me find her?

  Whatever the case, Fanny’s star had certainly risen. No traces remained of the naïve lady’s maid in cast-off clothing. She was now dressed in a gown and jewels that were clearly expensive, although bordering on the theatrical in style. She had the same purity of face and tumbling blonde hair as one of Botticelli’s models, yet her manner now betrayed world-weary confidence.

  And there was something else Mungo struggled to admit. She’s as pale as moonlight – like a creature who lives by night. I doubt the colour of her cheeks is natural.

  As he rode Boadicea home, he tried to restore his confidence. Our next encounter is inevitable. Severin’s a gentleman – if only in the eyes of Society. I reckon women would consider him handsome. Dressed á la mode, yet the diamond pin in his cravat, those flashy rings, are not so much a show of wealth as a display of what? Good luck! A gambling man – I’d put money on it.

  Find Severin – and I find Fanny!

  ‘What do you reckon, Boadicea?’

  Boadicea twitched her mane, a clear signal she had regained her calm and was eager to do her master’s bidding. Mungo nodded agreement.

  ‘I reckon he’s one of those so-called gentleman convicts – never done a day’s labour in this life. His eyes are as cold as Antarctica. I swear to God, if that flash bastard hurts a hair of Fanny’s head, his days are numbered!’

  Mungo rode Boadicea at a gallop to make up lost time. The idea of asking Felix for help was galling. But he’s the one man I know I can ask.

  • • •

  On his return to Little Rockingham Street Mungo saw to Boadicea’s needs, then hurried down the walkway into the garden, leapt over the drystone wall and gave a cheery nod to Cook and Molly as he passed the kitchen. He took the servants’ back stairs two at a time, crossed the Bridge of Sighs then entered the bedchamber.

  At the sight of Felix’s immaculate figure, Mungo was suddenly conscious his own hair was windblown, his shirt stuck to his skin, his riding boots coated in dust.

  Felix raised his head from the tome he was reading, looked Mungo over and enquired mildly, ‘I take it the house is on fire?’

  Mungo decided he must play his cards close to his chest. ‘I’ve just met the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. You can’t hide beauty like hers in this Colony.’

  He described her in minute detail, waiting for Felix’s response until his patience ran out. ‘Well? Have you seen her or not?’

  ‘I can’t be sure. But your description resembles the portrait of a young woman I saw at an exhibition. Do you know her name?’

  ‘No,’ Mungo lied. ‘But she called the flash gent with her Severin.’

  Felix
half rose from his chair, suddenly pale. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’

  ‘So you do know him?’

  ‘We met briefly. He runs a gaming house. He has this lady in keeping.’

  Mungo felt a jolt of relief. At least she’s not Severin’s wife. He rushed to her defence. ‘So are half the women in the Colony. They’re labelled whores just because they’re living with a man who’s not their husband.’

  Felix added hastily, ‘Of course. I don’t mean to condemn all Fallen Women. ‘But I regret to say, Mungo. This woman is now notorious.’

  ‘Why? What’s she done?’

  ‘I leave it to your imagination. Vianna Francis is the “Sydney Town Venus.”’

  Mungo stared at his half-brother until Felix averted his eyes.

  ‘I don’t care what she’s done. I’m going to find her – set her free.’

  ‘How can you hope to interfere? His pursuits might be somewhat shady, but he’s a born gentleman with friends in high places.’

  Mungo turned in the doorway. ‘So what? You’re also a gentleman with powerful connections. But you’d rather talk than act. Well, it doesn’t require a gentleman to kill a gentleman. Logan’s murderer proved that.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Mungo. You’ve just been released from Moreton Bay. Don’t throw your life away on some pretty . . .’ Felix stopped short.

  ‘Whore? Is that the word you’re searching for?’

  ‘Severin’s known to be a villain but the law doesn’t touch him. God help me, Mungo. If anything happened to you, Father would never forgive me. If you don’t care about his feelings, I do!’

  Mungo suspected his half-brother knew more than he admitted. What kind of a game is Felix playing? He’s just as devious as I am.

  ‘What if this Vianna Francis turns out to be the same girl who attended Will’s execution? Doesn’t our family owe it to Will’s memory to make sure she’s safe from Severin? I saw the fear in her eyes, Felix!’

  Felix gasped. ‘Severin! I suspected as much.’

  Mungo realised he had stumbled on the truth. ‘So, you knew who she was all the time. You want her for yourself!’

  Felix struggled to retain his dignity. ‘I’ll play the game my way, as a gentleman. Do whatever you damn well please. But don’t expect me to save your hide next time you break the law.’

  Mungo lost his temper. ‘The trouble with you, Felix, is you’ve got your head stuck up your telescope. That girl needs to be rescued – fast! But you always play by the rules. Real life isn’t a gentleman’s game of cricket.’

  ‘To me it is!

  ‘Right. So let’s play by your rules. Have you got some money on you?’

  ‘You need money already? I’ll write you a cheque until Father –’

  ‘No, you fool, I want a penny to call the toss.’

  Felix handed him one and Mungo flipped it in the air. ‘Heads or tails?’

  ‘Heads,’ Felix called as the coin fell.

  ‘Tails,’ Mungo said quickly and tossed the coin back to him. ‘I won the toss so I’ll go in to bat first. May the best man win – or the worst brother!’

  Mungo offered his hand. ‘I’m not leaving, Felix, till we shake on the deal.’

  Their eyes locked over their handshake – a declaration of war.

  Mungo fired his parting shot. ‘Enjoy your star-gazing. You’re safe looking for Venus in the Milky Way.’

  His confidence wavered the moment he closed the door.

  Fanny knows she saw Will hanged. So I can hardly pass myself off as Lazarus, resurrected from the dead. Somehow I’ve got to find a way to make Vianna Francis fall in love – with Mungo Quayle.

  Chapter 17

  Sunday mornings at Severin House were usually as quiet as a convent during Lent. Severin generally left strict instructions that he was not to be woken before midday, managing a few hours of sleep after Blewitt had escorted the last patrons to their carriages either with a cheque for their winnings or, more often, far lighter in pocket than on their arrival.

  This Sunday was different. Vianna had an ominous sense that Severin was in a deeper financial bind than he cared to admit. For days past he had impressed on her the importance of her role in attracting fresh patronage to his planned theatrical productions, the details of which he kept strictly under wraps.

  When Guido failed to join her at breakfast to discuss Severin’s instructions for their rehearsals, Vianna searched the house for him, distinctly uneasy. She came across Severin’s henchman in the vestibule, taking delivery of a bouquet of flowers.

  ‘For Madame, of course. Will you read the card or shall I?’ he asked sarcastically, as both were unable to read.

  ‘Later, Blewitt. Where on earth is Guido? His bed hasn’t been slept in.’

  ‘It ain’t for me to say.’ Blewitt hinted darkly, ‘But you’ll find the painting Severin ordered in the ballroom.’

  On the edge of panic, Vianna picked up her skirts and hurried downstairs.

  What painting? And what’s he hiding about Guido?

  She knew that Severin kept Jean-Baptiste’s more respectable portrait of her, ‘Venus Observed’, under lock and key in his office, but what about the other portrait, the one that had created the furore?

  Jean-Baptiste assured me that it had been bought by an unknown gentleman and returned to his care, never to be seen by anyone – out of respect for me. The act of a true gentleman – if there is such a thing.

  The ballroom was immaculate, its sofas, chaises and wine tables artfully arranged to face the stage in readiness for tomorrow night’s performance. Even Severin’s gentlemen did not risk breaking the Colony’s strict laws about the Sabbath.

  Vianna was shocked to discover that not only was Guido missing – so was the pianoforte. Centre stage was a classical chaise longue and positioned behind it, concealed under a cloth, was a rectangular painting so large it filled most of the space inside the proscenium arch.

  Exasperated, Vianna threw her hands in the air. ‘What the hell is he up to?’

  ‘He’s had a stroke of pure genius, m’dear.’

  She whirled around to face Severin, his tall frame swathed in a saffron-coloured oriental dressing robe, his jawline displaying the line of grey stubble that he left unshaven on Sundays. She demanded to know where Guido was.

  ‘Gone. I sacked him.’

  Vianna stamped her feet in a fit of temper. ‘How could you? Guido and I work so well together. How on earth can I perform tomorrow night without him?’

  ‘Spare me the prima donna tactics, Vianna. You won’t need a musician. All your performances next week will be silent.’ He steered her firmly across the stage.

  ‘Come, let me satisfy your curiosity. Voila!’

  When he whipped away the cloth covering the painting, Vianna was even more confused. There was no painting. Nothing but a giant gilt frame.

  ‘Stop playing games, Severin. What does this mean? How am I to perform?’

  He directed her to sit beside him on the sofa and raised her hand to his lips.

  ‘Trust me, m’dear. This week you will make our fortune. You remember what I told you about Lord Horatio Nelson’s mistress? How the notorious Lady Emma Hamilton enthralled society with her artistic performances of ‘Attitudes’ – poses in the style of classical paintings?’

  ‘Lady Hamilton was a skilled actress. I have no such delusions.’

  ‘You will be perfect. I have created for you a program entitled The Transit of Venus. Each night you will create a single “living work of art”. Tomorrow night is the first of six. You will simply lie here on this chaise longue, wearing the Greek robe of your portrait, the living replica of Bonnard’s “Venus Observed” – enclosed by this gilt frame. I have planned theatrical lighting that will complete the perfect illusion.’

  ‘You must be crazy, Severin!’

  ‘On the contrary, there’s method in my madness. Bonnard’s original painting will stand on an easel at one side of the stage. You see? It will be an exquisite, sil
ent illustration of life imitating art.’

  Vianna’s voice rose in outrage. ‘That robe is diaphanous! I might as well be naked. It’s one thing for men to stare at my portrait. I flatly refuse to lie there and have a room full of men leering at my body.’

  ‘Not men, Vianna, gentlemen. Art lovers who will appreciate the classical reference to Venus, the goddess of love and beauty.’ Severin added casually, ‘Each evening, a gentleman will bid for the privilege of sharing a champagne supper alone with Venus – in her bedchamber.’

  Private suppers on six consecutive nights. What is Severin leading up to?

  He continued smoothly, all the while gauging her reaction.

  ‘Saturday’s “living portrait” will be your final performance in public. One gentleman will be chosen from the final six candidates. After that your performances will be in private . . .’ Severin completed the unfinished sentence with a flourish of the hand, as if granting her heart’s desire.

  Vianna waited in silence until the impact of his words sank in. ‘You promised me the choice would always be mine.’

  ‘And so it shall,’ he said quickly, ‘given that that particular gentleman has the means to afford the full privilege.’

  Vianna was forced to confront reality. So it has finally come to this. Why now? She tried to buy time to avoid inflaming his anger, by gambling on a rumour.

  ‘I think you owe me the truth, Severin. Recently, during a private supper with one of your patrons, the gentleman told me you are in desperate straits. A professional gambler had infiltrated the club and “broken the bank”. Is that true?’

  Severin looked strangely haunted. ‘Would I ask this of you otherwise?’

  ‘I see.’ She waited. ‘Exactly how deeply are you in debt?’

  ‘The lease on Severin House is six months overdue. I am on the brink of being arrested and taken to debtors’ prison. I don’t care what happens to me, but God alone knows what will happen to you – and Daisy.’