The Lace Balcony

by Johanna Nicholls

  ‘We meet again, Mungo Quayle. I trust that jockey hasn’t left a scar?’

  Mungo was caught off-guard. ‘How on earth did you know that?’

  ‘Boadicea should have won – and that brute of a jockey disqualified.’

  There was a dimple at the corner of her mouth and he felt an almost overpowering desire to kiss it.

  ‘Severin lost money on Boadicea,’ she explained. ‘He hates to lose.’

  ‘So do I.’

  She pretended interest in an emerald ring. ‘Tell me, Mr Quayle, is this a gift I should accept from an admirer?’

  ‘I doubt the gentleman is worthy of you.’ What do I do if she expects me to buy it? I barely have money to buy her tea and scones.

  ‘And you are, Mr Quayle?’

  ‘I am what I am,’ he said. ‘Look, I must talk to you somewhere we’re free of that ape Blewitt.’

  ‘Perhaps. I have been invited to make a private tour of Macquarie Lighthouse.’ She cocked her head teasingly. ‘Do you think all that cannon fire is to welcome the French, Russians or Yankees? Or to warn them off from invading us?’

  Mungo had no inclination to enter into global politics. At sight of Blewitt emerging from Lyons’s office he asked in desperation, ‘Who cares? Name the time and place, I beg you, Vianna.’

  Her response was sotto voce. ‘Shall I see you at Severin House this evening?’

  ‘That’s my intention.’ For once Mungo was unwilling to tell an outright lie.

  At the approach of her bodyguard, Vianna turned her back on Mungo and linked her arm through Wanda’s, and Mungo lost sight of them except for Blewitt’s towering figure shepherding them through the crowd.

  He felt alternate waves of frustration and anger. Now I know where I stand. She’s more interested in enticing me to gamble – than in meeting me alone. But the chase isn’t over yet, lady, not by a long shot.

  • • •

  Mungo galloped Boadicea through the bush as if the westerly wind was their enemy. Charging along the South Head Road that led to Macquarie Lighthouse, he passed the exact place he had first encountered Vianna Francis.

  Life with Severin has made her calculating and brittle. Out to take men for everything she can get. But I know Fanny’s soft heart is alive inside her. I won’t give up on my girl. I’ll set her free if it kills me.

  He had timed his arrival well – not a carriage in sight. He led Boadicea to a grassy spot in the shade, free to graze.

  It was easy to see why the impressive convict-hewn sandstone lighthouse had gained its architect Francis Greenway a pardon. At eighty-five feet high, it was the tallest structure Mungo had ever seen. He managed to talk his way inside, convincing the young assistant lighthouse-keeper that he had arranged to meet Madame Francis here and that he was a friend of the Honourable Montague Severin – a title that obviously carried weight with the lad.

  In the hope of avoiding Blewitt, Mungo decided to wait for Vianna at the top of the lighthouse. Halfway up the stairs that spiralled around the inner wall, he felt a curious sensation of nausea. At the top, the three hundred and sixty-degree view revealed the stunning beauty of Port Jackson’s harbour, guarded by the North and South Heads. The expanse of untamed land surrounding the water stretched north, south and to the far western horizon. To the east lay the vast, relentless blue of the Pacific Ocean.

  He stepped out onto the encircling balcony that projected out several feet from the top of the lighthouse and was protected by a wire mesh railing. God willing the salt air would restore his equilibrium.

  His mouth dried as he looked down. Vianna’s carriage drew up – from this height it was the size of a child’s miniature toy. Overwhelmed by panic, his breath came in short, painful gasps. His forehead broke out in sweat. Eyes closed, the world spun around him. Eyes open, he felt a sickening sensation, as if impelled towards the edge, drawn like a bird to take flight. The impulse to hurtle his body into space was terrifyingly real. He pasted his back to the wall, edging his way inch by inch towards the door.

  How bloody unlucky can a man be? Just when I have the chance to be alone with her – I’m hit by an attack of vertigo!

  Just when he was tempted to take a flying leap over the side and end his anguish, he heard Vianna’s laughter far below as she began to ascend the stairs.

  She’s coming up here to me – alone! Jesus, don’t let me disgrace myself. What woman wants a milksop for a lover? I’m supposed to protect her.

  Mungo crawled on his hands and knees to the door, managed to stand, and fell through it at the very moment Vianna’s smiling face emerged at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Running into you is becoming quite a habit, Mungo Quayle.’

  He forced a smile. ‘Good habits are impossible to break.’

  ‘Now you have me alone, would you care to explain yourself? Let’s go outside and watch the ships.’

  A heavy gust of wind rattled the iron door. Mungo was convinced he could feel the lighthouse swaying beneath his feet.

  ‘No! I can’t! The view’s perfect from here. Look, Vianna, I didn’t come here to flirt with you. My intentions are dead serious. My problem is that right now – I am – less than myself. I’m no coward . . . but, oh God!’

  Vianna gently mopped his forehead with her handkerchief. Mungo was reminded of the same gesture Fanny had made to him when he was ‘Will’.

  There were no seats. She gently prised his hands from the wall, drew him down to the floor and seated herself like a child beside him, her silk skirts and petticoats bunched around her.

  ‘Mungo Quayle, you are no less a man for admitting to a fear of heights. I feel sure if I were in danger you wouldn’t hesitate to come to my aid.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he mumbled in embarrassment.

  ‘Who needs to see the Russian fleet or whatever it is? I’d much rather listen to one of your wonderful stories. I don’t care if it’s true, just make me believe it’s true. A children’s story is fine. They always have happy endings.’

  The expression in her eyes helped him find his voice and weave the magic of the story he had first heard as a five year old, after his first fist fight, when he had knocked Felix flat. Jane had yelled at Mungo like a fishwife, clipped him across the ear, then carried Felix inside her cottage, bathed his skinned knee and bandaged fresh herbs around the wound, then told the wounded boy a story, aware Mungo was hovering in the doorway eavesdropping. Mungo drew his mother’s story directly from memory but decided against identifying the storyteller as his mother and Felix as the other boy.

  ‘If it is a lie I tell, it was a lie told to me. That’s the way all Manx stories begin. It happened many years ago in the village of Braddon on the Isle of Mann, where many tales are told about sailors who fell in love with mermaids – and drowned. Well, this particular night two brothers were fishing in their boat off the coast of the island called The Calf of Man. One fisherman had a wife and too many children to feed. The other was sad because he and his wife were childless. They were big, strong men but that night they took a nip or two of brandy to keep out the cold. They had failed to catch a single fish. But, just as they were about to set sail for home in an empty boat, what do you think they saw on the shore?’

  ‘Pirate’s treasure?’ Vianna asked hopefully.

  ‘Even stranger than that,’ Mungo said. ‘They found the bodies of two small children washed up on the shore. They had long flowing green-gold hair, faces the colour of milk chocolate – and beautiful violet eyes. But in place of sturdy little legs their bodies ended in tails covered with shiny green, violet and golden scales – just like a fish.’

  ‘Two little merchildren?’ Vianna asked, holding her breath.

  ‘Exactly. But I was only five and thought I knew everything. “But mermaids aren’t real!” I said.

  ‘The story-teller was annoyed. “Who’s telling this story, you or me?” she demanded. I apologised and she continued her tale. Sad to say one of the merchildren was dead. But the other opened her eyes and spoke
to the fishermen in a strange tongue. It was never Manx, nor English, Scots or Irish Gaelic, but the sound was like beautiful music you hear when you are drowning – so they tell me.

  ‘Anyway the childless fisherman wrapped the merchild in his jersey and carried her home on his back, swearing his brother to secrecy – or the villagers would claim their story was due to the brandy.’

  ‘Did the merchild live?’ Vianna asked.

  ‘Indeed she did. She was greatly loved by the fisherman and his wife – who rejoiced to have a child of their own at last. They taught her to speak Manx and she lived happily with them for years, hidden from the villagers. By night, sleeping in a tub of water, by day swimming in the stream behind their farm and sometimes going out in the fishing boat. But the day finally came when the merchild told them she must return to the sea where she belonged. The fisherman and his wife were very sad. But it is wrong to keep a child against her will, so the fisherman took her out on his boat for the last time – and gave her back to the sea.’

  Mungo paused, watching Vianna’s eyes brimming with tears.

  ‘But,’ he added quickly, ‘the merchild promised to send them a gift. When spring came around the fisherman’s wife gave birth to a babe. A fine baby girl with flowing golden hair and violet eyes, she looked just like the merchild – except for one thing. She didn’t have scales on her lower body – she had legs in place of a tail.’

  Vianna leaned forward, totally under his spell. ‘How could they know it was the merchild’s gift?’

  Mungo paused for effect. ‘On both the babe’s feet two small toes were webbed together with skin – just like the beginning of a fish’s tail.’

  Vianna gasped. ‘How extraordinary. But did it really happen?’

  Mungo nodded sagely. ‘I myself saw the proof that this babe really was half human, half merchild. The story-teller slipped off her slippers and showed me her bare feet. The two smallest toes on each foot were webbed together.’

  Vianna was in awe. ‘Do you mean the story-teller was the merchild’s gift?’

  Mungo nodded. ‘If it is a lie I tell, it was a lie told to me . . .’

  Vianna touched his arm as reverently as if he was a holy relic.

  ‘Mungo Quayle, that is the most beautiful story I ever heard in my life.’

  Mungo’s confidence grew. ‘What’s more I will take you to meet that Manx woman – she has a fund of stories.’

  Noticing the chain hanging from his fob pocket she asked him the time. ‘My goodness, I lost all sense of the hour. I must leave at once.’

  Mungo grabbed hold of her. ‘You can’t. I haven’t yet made you my offer!’

  ‘Come to Severin House tonight. And I will choose you to dine with me!’

  At the top of the stairs she remembered his vertigo. ‘We’ll go down together. Don’t look down over the railing. Just keep looking into my eyes.’

  Mungo held tight to her hand. There’s a positive side to vertigo after all.

  • • •

  That night, when Mungo arrived at Severin House and tied Boadicea’s reins to the railing, it was lit from inside by the mellow light of candles and chandeliers, and was alive with music and laughter. The street was tightly packed with fine carriages, their coachmen huddled in the drivers’ seats to smoke their pipes or else engage in men’s ribald talk, taking nips of rum to keep out the night air during the long wait for their owners’ return.

  In Felix’s absence Mungo had borrowed one of his half-brother’s dark blue evening jackets and breeches and dressed with care. The gods were with him tonight. His father had just given him his next month’s pay in advance to purchase riding boots and other work essentials. Naturally Mungo decided the sum would be better spent on faro – even if he lost, it would gain him access to Severin House and be the man Vianna chose to dine alone with her.

  Mungo tried not to appear impressed with the glittering elegance of the place when Severin welcomed him, albeit with narrowed eyes. ‘Mungo Quayle? Ah yes, your letter. The name is unfamiliar. Yet I feel we’ve met. Never forget a man’s face.’ He added pointedly, ‘Given he’s a gentleman.’

  ‘We have met before. Introduced by a venomous snake,’ Mungo said lightly. ‘But no doubt you are also well acquainted with my old friend, Sir Miles.’

  Severin nodded, clearly only half convinced, but he ushered Mungo inside to be escorted to one of the gaming tables.

  During the first hour Mungo played carefully, slowly increasing his winnings. Then Lady Luck favoured him and he became more adventurous, moving from table to table to play other games of chance, aware he was drawing attention to his dramatic winning streak.

  Suddenly he felt a heavy hand pinning down his shoulder.

  Blewitt’s whisper rasped a warning. ‘You’d best come with me, Quayle.’

  Hopeful that this invitation involved Vianna, Mungo rose to his feet, ready to collect his winning chips.

  ‘Leave them right there,’ Blewitt ordered. ‘We don’t welcome your kind here.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, what do you mean by my kind?’

  ‘Card sharps. And liars – your guarantor Sir Miles is in debtor’s prison!’

  Blewitt twisted his arm behind his back at an angle that made argument impossible. He forced Mungo along the corridor to the rear of the house, flung open the door of the tradesmen’s entrance and booted him in the gut with such force it sent Mungo sprawling across the flagstones.

  ‘Set foot in this place again – and I’ll cut off your manhood!’

  The door slammed and Mungo was left to count his losses. No money, no dignity and, worst of all, no private meeting with Vianna. He was outraged at the injustice. Dammit all, for once I wasn’t even cheating!

  Boadicea bore the brunt of Mungo’s tirade against himself and the world, swearing in flash underworld language that released some of his anger.

  At home in the stables he now owned, Mungo unsaddled the horse, rubbed her down and apologised.

  ‘Sorry you copped the flack, Boadicea. A man can only take so much. But the battle isn’t over till the last shot is fired. I’m dead broke now, but I’ve still got an ace up my sleeve. The Honourable Pander Severin hasn’t seen the last of me.’

  His challenging words had a fine ring to them. The only trouble was he had no idea yet how to activate his intentions.

  Closing the door of the stables he passed his mother’s cottage. Taking care not to wake her, he made his way towards the schoolroom. The garden gave to the night air a heady meld of perfumes, both native and alien, that excited the senses. Halfway down the path his eye was caught by the sole light burning in Felix’s bedchamber. The telescope seemed to follow his movements.

  No doubt Felix is hiding amongst the stars where he feels safe. I know my half-brother backwards. He plays by the rules. I make my own.

  It was then that Mungo caught a slight movement. Felix moved from the shadows of his room and stood on his balcony in a dressing robe, looking down at him with a maddening expression of superiority.

  Mungo felt a sudden sense of unease. Felix was not alone. Standing in the shadows was another man. Mungo could not see his face – until he stepped forward into the moonlight. He placed one hand on Felix’s shoulder – but Felix showed no reaction. The man looked down at Mungo, unsmiling. His face was clean-shaven, his hair cropped short. A white scarf was knotted around his neck – Fanny’s scarf.

  Whose side are you on, Will Eden?

  Chapter 23

  Jane Quayle sat by her master’s bedside. Her brown hair, loosened from its usual coil at the nape of her neck, streamed down her back in damp rivulets. Although her body was fully covered, Felix was startled by the signs that betrayed recent intimacy.

  Her servant’s dress was unfastened to the depth of her breasts, her throat marked by the tiny red traces of lovemaking – love bites. She was barefoot and her eyes held an expression of dreamy gentleness that Felix had only seen once before on a woman’s face, after a rare whole night he had spent
with Mrs Navarro.

  Felix’s involuntary glance at Jane’s naked feet, reminded him of the story she had told him as a child about the merchild’s gift.

  As if conscious of that shared memory, Jane tucked her feet under her skirts.

  Felix felt uneasy, like an intruder in his own house, finding Jane Quayle at his father’s bedside. It was one thing knowing this servant had been his father’s mistress for some twenty-five years. It was quite another to walk into a room and be forced to witness what was never publicly acknowledged.

  ‘Forgive me, Father. I regret disturbing you at this early hour. But I have a matter of some urgency I need to discuss with you – alone.’

  Kentigern nodded his consent and gave his servant a half-smile that needed no interpretation. Jane gathered up her shoes and her basket of herbs, making a formal bob to her master for Felix’s benefit. Before leaving the room, she turned to Felix.

  ‘To set your mind at rest, Sir, Dr Gordon has approved my use of herbs to aid your father’s convalescence. A most open-minded man – for a physician.’

  Her manner was neither familiar nor servile. Felix was forced to admire the way the woman handled herself, with simple, natural dignity.

  ‘Out with it, boy,’ his father barked, but did not seem to be displeased, as if all was well with his world.

  It is sad to think that after all the years my parents have lived in a troubled marriage, a convict servant is the one woman who can bring Father comfort in the night. Poor Mother – there’s no one to comfort her.

  Felix reminded himself he was here to face his own problem head on. ‘Father, you must be aware that Mother is pressuring me to take a suitable bride – one of our own class, of course.’

  Kentigern eyed him with hawk-like intensity. ‘So?’

  ‘I am not averse to the idea of eventual marriage. But I am only twenty-three. The fact is, Father, I have met a young woman who has enchanted me. I adore her.’

  ‘Ah-huh! Good for you!’

  ‘The girl is an angel, beautiful beyond belief – and gentle of heart. But Mother would never accept – a Fallen Woman.’