Vianna felt a wave of nausea, reminded that her sister’s expensive fees must be paid or Daisy would be given up for fostering or adoption. She tried to mask her fear. But Severin could not fail to see his words had hit home.
His manner was as soothing as if dealing with a fractious child. ‘Think of The Transit of Venus as a temporary measure to buy time for us. The gentleman of your choice will assume full responsibility for all our – your expenses. You will continue to live at Severin House. It will be my responsibility to ensure that both the gentleman’s pleasure and your own are in no way restricted . . .’
That means he’ll continue to prevent me falling with child.
‘Trust me, Vianna, this liaison will be as discrete as the gentleman desires. Conducted to the advantage of all – a watertight contract. Your new protector may choose to safeguard his marital status or his position in society. A temporary liaison.’
‘How long is temporary? Weeks? Months?’
‘No more than a year,’ he averted his eyes, ‘or two. Until such time as we have no further need of him. You will of course make yourself available for his pleasure day or night, as the whim takes him.’
Her words were out before she realised their full implication. ‘I shall take one lover and one only. I refuse to be used for sport or shared amongst his friends.’
She instantly recognised her mistake. Severin had not expected her to capitulate so quickly.
‘Of course, m’dear. You are a courtesan, not a prostitute.’
‘The distinction grows narrower by the hour,’ she said coldly.
Severin needed to regain his stance as an unwitting victim. ‘Vianna, you must understand, it will kill me to relinquish you to another man. I adore you. I never planned for it to come to this . . . the gods decreed otherwise . . .’
She longed to voice her thoughts out loud, to prove she was not a total fool.
I am being sold to the highest bidder so you can save face in colonial society. You are nothing but a pander in gentleman’s clothing, Severin.
Her courage failed her. ‘And you must understand, Severin, that I do not agree to play this role to save you – or myself. Only for Daisy’s protection. And I demand your promise that I am free to visit her.’
‘Granted,’ he said too quickly.
Vianna suspected the promise was far from the deed. ‘So. There’s nothing further to discuss. I must prepare myself. We must never disappoint the gentlemen’s expectations of the Sydney Town Venus you created for their pleasure.’
Severin’s eyes narrowed at her barely veiled barb. She gave him no time to respond, sweeping from the room, her head held high, her heart racing with sickening speed. Her invention about the patron’s revelation had revealed the truth.
Severin swore he’d never gamble himself. He’s lost everything we’ve worked for. How naïve of me to ever think I could control ‘the courtesan game’. I’m now a fully fledged whore – created by the man who claims he loves me. No time for tears. I’ll do whatever it takes to get Daisy back . . . she’s all that matters . . .
• • •
George Street was a very different thoroughfare on Sundays. The street was normally crowded with markets like an eastern bazaar. Today all stores were closed by law in respect of the Christian Sabbath, even those owned by the Hebrew merchants, who also closed their shutters on Saturday, their own Sabbath.
The traffic consisted mainly of the gentry’s carriages proceeding at a sedate pace in the direction of churches of different denominations. Cartloads overflowed with the families of the lower orders, no doubt bound for coves and beaches to picnic and paddle in the gentle harbour waters. The giant waves of the golden beaches that scalloped the Pacific coastline were too dangerous for swimming for any except natives.
Vianna gave Blewitt casual directions to drive her landau towards the Gothic Toll Gate at the mouth of the Parramatta Road, an unspoken ploy to see if she was indeed being followed by a man on horseback who seemed to have been discreetly tailing them since they had left Severin House. Dressed all in black, with a wide brimmed hat that shielded his face, he rode in and out of the traffic behind or in front of her, never looking directly at her. One of Severin’s gamblers? Or a man who’d identified her notoriety? She’d test if he was indeed following her.
‘Turn the carriage around and drive at speed. Head for Macquarie Street.’
The ruse seemed to have thrown him off her tail. Near the Hyde Park Barracks her eyes were drawn to a little procession, pairs of small girls, dressed in white like miniature brides. When one dropped her Bible and kissed it as she picked it up, Vianna recalled her stepmother’s same gesture, that her father called blind superstition, because she couldn’t even read.
I wonder if Stepmother’s belief is true. That God’s always watching what we do. He surely must be shocked by me! But how can I believe in a man who’s invisible?
On impulse she said, ‘Drive me to a church.’
Blewitt registered scornful surprise. ‘Which religion are you?’
‘I don’t have one. Any one will do. I presume God doesn’t play favourites.’
He drew the carriage to a halt in front of St James’s, a magnificent convict-built sandstone church built in the style of a Greek Revival temple.
‘Return for me in an hour, Blewitt,’ she ordered, but her confidence ebbed the moment the landau was out of sight.
Sunlight played on the multi-pane windows and the mellow Sydney sandstone. Haunting strains of organ music floated through the doors. Poised on the stone steps, Vianna felt nervous about entering such an imposing, formidable edifice. A house of God. But God was little more than a name Stepmother called out in her sleep.
I’m notorious. What if the priest recognises me and points me out as a sinner?
She imagined a nightmarish scene, the congregation crying out, ‘Shame on you! Hussy! Whore!’ Just as they had done at Bonnard’s exhibition.
She was on the point of fleeing the scene when she spotted the man in black, tying the reins of his horse to a hitching post then dodging between carriages to cross the square. He clearly had her in his sights. Church seemed as safe a place as any.
Drawing her shawl modestly around her shoulders, Vianna tilted her bonnet to conceal her face and hurried inside.
The congregation was on its feet, singing a hymn. Unfamiliar with church ritual, Vianna slipped into a back pew. Everyone held an open book in their hands, so she picked up a similar one that she hoped was a hymnal.
At least I can recognise the difference between right side up and upside down writing.
She studied the expressions of the sweet faces of the choirboys in the front row and mimicked the shape of their mouths as they sang.
I feel like a performing goldfish – but the organ music is wonderful.
One section of the gallery held rows of convicts guarded by red-coated soldiers. The clanking of prisoners’ shackles was an odd counterpoint to the music. She smiled at one old convict and was rewarded by his broad wink and toothless grin.
Thankfully no one else is looking in my direction. Oh no! I spoke too soon. There’s that awful Humphries, who turned our private supper into a wrestling match. Please God, don’t let him recognise me!
When the priest stepped up into the pulpit, Vianna was transfixed by the story of a young man, a teacher named Jesus, who had travelled a long way to a friend’s house, where his host had neglected to offer him customary eastern hospitality – water to wash the dust from his feet. A beautiful woman had washed his feet with her tears and dried them ‘with the hair of her head’.
Vianna’s eyes filled with tears at the revelation that the teacher’s friends had scorned this Fallen Woman but the young man forgave her past sins.
What followed was a blur to Vianna. Like an image burnt into her eyelids by the sun, she imagined the face of the Fallen Woman. Suddenly conscious that she was being observed, Vianna turned to the pew behind her.
Watching her intently
was the young man in the black cloak. I know his face. It’s that Currency Lad whose horse was spooked by a snake.
When the well-dressed congregation began to disperse and the prisoners were marched back under guard to the Barracks, Vianna hurried to a far corner of the church to avoid Humphries, where she pretended to study a marble memorial on the wall.
The church was empty when the young man approached her side. He gestured to the memorial. ‘You are distressed. Was Major Brisbane known to you?’
‘Is that who it’s for? No, I was just feeling sad about the Fallen Woman. Did her life have a happy ending?’
He considered the question gravely. ‘There are several schools of thought. Some say she was Mary Magdalene. There’s a legend she went to France and her son was the ancestor of a line of French kings. But I suspect the minister would endorse the traditional version – that she simply disappeared from history.’
‘I see. There are few happy endings in life.’
When her eyes filled with tears he handed her a white handkerchief.
‘Most kind.’ She noticed the letters in the corner. ‘Is this your name?’
‘My initials stand for Mungo Quayle. Forgive me, I would have asked the priest to introduce us. May I take the liberty myself? This is our second meeting.’
Vianna introduced herself as Madame Francis, a widow.
He bowed. She curtseyed. He suggested they sit a moment and listen to the organist James Pearson evidently rehearsing an unfamiliar hymn. When Vianna confessed that she was unable to read, but loved stories, Mungo Quayle told her tales about Sydney’s most colourful characters, including the wealthy emancipist Mrs Mary Reiby and the celebrated theatrical entrepreneur Barnett Levey. All the people in his stories lived adventurous, romantic lives – except for the explorer who died tragically, leaving a broken-hearted young wife.
‘My young husband died soon after we met – but I’ll never forget him. I knew the first minute I saw William – there was a man I could really trust.’
Mungo Quayle looked strangely discomforted. ‘Forgive me, I’ve made you sad,’ he said. ‘Allow me to tell you a true love story with a wonderful ending.’
Vianna listened intently, studying his profile. He wasn’t conventionally handsome but had high cheekbones, strong, well-balanced features and a generous mouth, and there was a smile in his eyes. Tall and broad-shouldered, his thick blond hair fell forward causing nervous tosses of the head like a young colt.
It’s odd. He looks nothing like poor little Will Eden, yet there’s something about him I can’t quite put my finger on. I feel drawn – to his eyes.
His clothing was of the finest quality, yet his well-shaped hands were chafed, the nails broken. His manners were well bred but something about them suggested he was not quite a gentleman.
Perhaps he’s an emancipist. So what? Samuel Terry and Garnet Gamble are emancipists and they’re the wealthiest men in the Colony. I’d rather have supper with Mungo Quayle than some of the lechers Severin’s lined up for me. The point is – is he rich?
‘When we first met, you were on your way to make your fortune.’ She added teasingly, ‘I trust you succeeded?’
‘I did indeed. But that is of little consequence. My father is one of the wealthiest landowners in the Colony.’
He’s clearly out to impress me. But I don’t recall any landholder or merchant prince named Quayle. Severin knows to the penny how much every man is worth.
‘Tell me, Mr Quayle, have you have ever visited Severin House?’
He showed no surprise. ‘I intend to become a member – to see you perform.’
‘I shall try to please you. This week I shall be presenting an exciting new entertainment never seen in the Colony. I am portraying six “living paintings” on the theme of The Transit of Venus.’
‘I know. It’s impossible to keep such a tantalising event secret in Sydney Town.’
‘Can I count on you to be in the audience, Sir?’
‘More than a witness, Madame. A contender.’
A bold declaration. I like his style. But it will count for naught unless his financial credentials pass muster with Severin.
She was aware the organist had ceased playing.
‘Then this is au revoir, not goodbye. I must leave. Rehearsals are so demanding,’ she said airily.
Vianna offered him her hand. The intense message in his eyes gave her a jolt of pleasure as he bent to kiss her hand.
She hurried down the church steps, unwilling to draw Blewitt’s attention to this meeting. She did not doubt Severin’s henchman reported her every move.
She was aware that Mungo Quayle was standing alone in the street, watching the landau depart. She was suddenly on guard.
Men are liars designed to deceive women. He’s a born story-teller with a silver tongue – and I know he wants me. If he passes Severin’s scrutiny, he’s in the running. But if Severin suspects he’s a fraud, Mungo Quayle will be dead in the water.
Severin, the greatest liar of them all, had trapped her. Yet honesty forced her to examine her own role.
Who is the bigger liar? I’ve been kidding myself I had the right to choose my protector. The truth is my fate depends solely on six men – and the size of their fortunes. Vianna Francis was a fool to call herself a courtesan. I’m Fanny Byron, a prostitute by any other name . . .
• • •
The elegant architectural lines of Severin House seemed transformed. She had always seen the mansion as if veiled by a dazzling film of stardust. Now she saw through its luxurious façade to what it was – a crooked gaming and whore house.
As the carriage halted, a street urchin ran to greet her. He whipped off his cap, bowed low and held out a grubby little paw to help her alight.
Charmed by his courtly bow, she was about to accept his hand when Blewitt brushed the lad aside with the curt command, ‘Piss off, kid!’
‘Wait! What’s your name, boy?’
He mumbled an answer.
‘. . . Toby? Hold out your hands, Toby.’
Vianna tipped her reticule upside down so that the few coins tumbled into the boy’s hands. He was wide-eyed at his windfall.
As she preceded Blewitt to the front entrance, he was quick to disapprove.
‘Word gets round, you’ll have an army of urchins running after your carriage.’
‘It’s only money, Blewitt.’ She heard the bitter irony in her voice. ‘Didn’t Severin tell you? The Sydney Town Venus is about to make all our fortunes.’
• • •
In the ante-room to her bedchamber Wanda unlaced Vianna’s gown and corset, ready for the waiting hot tub sprinkled with rose petals.
‘You have a sixth sense for when I’m due home, Wanda. Who sent the flowers?’
Wanda read the card. ‘ “These are to remind you I once came to the rescue of a damsel in distress and stand ready to rescue her again – at Severin House.” It’s signed Felix L’Estrange.’
‘So! The plot thickens. Severin confirmed to me that he is the sole son and heir of Kentigern L’Estrange, one of the Colony’s richest landholders.’
‘Shall I pen a note on your behalf to thank him for his flowers?’
‘Indeed.’ Vianna closed her eyes and sank deep into the water. ‘Thank heavens there’s now an attractive young man added to the ranks. Maybe two. Wanda, try and check Severin’s list. See if you can find the name Mungo Quayle. These two are probably rank outsiders, but who knows, sometimes it takes a dark horse to win the race.’
Chapter 18
As Mungo Quayle watched the landau turn the corner into Macquarie Street, a conflicting pattern of thoughts and feelings warred for space in his head. Elation, despair, jealousy and the conviction that he was capable of murder. Today was the third time in his life he had encountered Fanny Byron – and the second occasion on which he had been left watching her drive off in Severin’s flash landau. He swore the oath under his breath. ‘By God, there’s no chance I’ll let you slip throu
gh my fingers a third time, girl!’
I know your alias and Severin’s whole rotten plan for you to enter the world’s oldest profession. Over my dead body! But how the hell am I going to set you free?
He told himself he didn’t care about her past. She was his woman from that first day he set eyes on her – an anxious little lady’s maid, he a prisoner in chains – desperate to kiss her.
The memory of the lie he’d told her to secure that kiss had now come back to haunt him, proved by what she had confided to him in the church – her romantic, idealised memory of ‘her husband’. Will Eden – the only man in her life she had really trusted – and whom she truly had seen hanged.
If I told her the truth I’d hang myself as a liar. I’ll just have to cross that bridge when I come to it. First I’ve got to break Severin’s hold over her. Trouble is, I’ve only got seven days to do it and not a penny to my name!
Mungo was just about to untether Boadicea’s reins when he remembered what he had left behind in the church – the cloak he had borrowed from Felix without his permission. God damn my carelessness.
Retracing his steps, he was just in time to catch the verger, about to lock the doors. Mungo’s request to retrieve his cloak was met with a nod. The verger would return in a few minutes.
The empty church was silent except for Mungo’s footsteps on the flagstones as he retraced the pattern of his movements at Vianna’s side. Just when he believed the cloak stolen he discovered it hidden between two pews near the wall plaque. With a sense of relief he bent to retrieve it, but was suddenly overcome by an odd sensation, as if he had lost his bearings.
For a split second the ground seemed to shift beneath his feet. Was this one of Sydney’s occasional earth tremors? His vision became so distorted that the walls momentarily appeared to sway. Feeling dizzy, he rose to his feet and grasped a pew to steady himself.
It was at that moment he understood. He was no longer alone. Standing before the altar, his back to him, was an officer in uniform, his head bent in prayer. A thin shaft of sunlight stained the shoulders of the soldier’s red coat.
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