The Lace Balcony

by Johanna Nicholls

  I didn’t end up with the military career Mother wanted. Father was right, I’m best suited to being a landowner and studying the stars. I’ll do both at Mookaboola.

  As he crossed the Bridge of Sighs, Felix was irritated to remember Mungo chanting the rhyme handed down through generations of children. ‘Please to remember the Fifth of November, gunpowder, treason and plot. We know no reason why gunpowder treason should ever be forgot.’

  Absurd memories, tonight of all nights. Mungo is past history. My patience has won over his foolhardy theatrics. I am the right man for Vianna!

  He joined his parents, Sandy Gordon and Mungo, in drinking champagne in the saloon, where his father had begrudgingly allowed Bonnard’s portrait to be hung. A light early supper was planned before the advent of the fireworks display to which his father had granted all the servants leave to attend.

  Felix eyed Mungo disapprovingly. Although Mungo wore an almost identical suit to one in his own wardrobe, Mungo always gave the odd impression he had slept in his clothes. Already his linen and cravat had begun to wilt from the heat.

  Mungo looks as if he doesn’t give a damn. But perhaps it’s his poker face, masking his anxiety. I read the report he wrote for father about Mookaboola so he knows the score. Why can’t Mungo accept defeat like a gentleman?

  The conversation leap-frogged between politics, the departure of Darling’s entourage, the jubilation felt by local children and adults, who for days past had been running to the common near the creek, stacking pyramids of broken furniture, tree branches and pine boxes – ready to send the bonfire’s flames roaring sky high.

  Warmed by his private plans, Felix allowed the conversation to eddy around him without his participation. He tried to assume an urbane manner, confident that he now held all the cards that really mattered to Vianna. But what of his planned surprise?

  Should I do it before – or after – I take her to bed?

  ‘What say you on the matter, Felix?’ Kentigern’s booming voice demanded an answer, causing Felix to give a guilty start. He did not have the slightest idea what his father’s question involved, but he tried desperately to avoid embarrassment.

  ‘I have not yet studied the subject deeply enough to voice an opinion, Father,’ he said seriously, ‘but whatever Mungo’s verdict is, I can almost guarantee mine will be the complete antithesis.’

  When all three men burst out laughing in unison and even his mother’s mouth twitched to conceal a smile, Felix knew he had blundered badly.

  Oh God, as Mutti would say, I have ‘stepped into the grease bowl again’.

  She calmly came to his rescue. ‘The question is, Felix, are you showing the preference for your father’s L’Estrange red wines or his white?’

  Mungo interjected with a mock-serious face. ‘I’ll make it easy for you, mate. I’d put my money on the claret any day of the week.’

  Felix did not hesitate. ‘Wrong! Our white is immeasurably superior to the red.’

  To his great relief their easy laughter covered his previous gaff.

  The moment the servants left the room Kentigern grew serious.

  ‘You may not be aware, Sandy, the Governor is not the only one turning his back on the Colony. Mrs L’Estrange has decided to return to her native land – for an indefinite period. Felix and I must struggle along without her as best we may.’

  Is Father being sarcastic? Or do I detect a note of anger, even sadness?

  Felix glanced at Mungo and was met by his slightly raised eyebrow.

  ‘You have my portrait to keep you company, my dear,’ Albruna replied in a tone that Felix recognised barely masked the irony of her words.

  To his relief the tension was broken by the return of the servants bearing platters of food. He was surprised to note the subtle difference between the way Molly was dressed and the other female servants. Her uniform of starched white cap, collar, cuffs and apron was identical, but Molly’s black dress was immaculately moulded to her figure, giving the impression of some fairytale princess disguised as her servant.

  Vianna’s taught her well. Molly looks quite grown up. Perhaps I should employ her as Vianna’s paid companion at Mookaboola. That would counter Vianna’s loneliness in my absence.

  Felix cast surreptitious glances at his mother. Ever since the night of the revelation of Bonnard’s portrait, she had been subdued. At her request he had checked the sailing dates of vessels bound for Europe. The embarrassing question remained unasked. Did she plan to return to her family in Prussia, or God forbid, join Bonnard in Paris?

  Felix glanced between his parents. What did his father truly feel about the prospect of their final, legal separation? Would this clear the way for Jane Quayle’s open residence as his mistress?

  Felix drank his wine, growing angry at the prospect. He did not dislike Jane, but it was unthinkable that his mother’s role would be usurped, even if she chose never to return here. But was Rockingham Hall her true home? Or was it filled with so many years of unhappy memories that it would be a relief for her to abandon it forever? Felix could accept the idea of his mother living sedately in some fine house in Prussia, with a box at the opera and ballet, growing old gracefully, surrounded by her aristocratic cousins. But he was appalled by the idea of her gallivanting around Europe with Jean-Baptiste Bonnard!

  If Father publicly installs Jane as his resident mistress, that would elevate Mungo to a position of even greater strength. I shall not stand for it!

  He was struck by the ironic thought that he would be living with Vianna at Mookaboola. It was not only life in the Colony that was being shaken to the core – it was the very epicentre of his own family.

  Felix was so tightly wound up he was irritated by everything around him, including the arrival of silver salvers bearing fish caught in Sydney Harbour. Has Cook gone mad? Fresh fish is in flagrant disregard of Colonial society’s code. Only the lower classes eat fresh fish – it’s a symbol of the convict stain.

  Kentigern was now in full flight. ‘You’ve just proved my point, Mungo. The whole Colony is either suffering or enjoying an outbreak of egalitarian fever, fervour, or plague – dependent on which rung of the social ladder they’re standing.’

  ‘A ladder is designed for climbing, Sir,’ Mungo said, ‘not to confine those at the bottom of the heap to the status of their birth.’

  An electric current seemed to pass between the assigned servants.

  ‘The status of their birth, eh?’ Kentigern repeated the words that broke the uncomfortable silence. He looked from one son to the other, as if in silent acknowledgment that he felt personally responsible for Mungo’s position in life. His mood turned sanguine. ‘I suppose we must accept the radical winds of change. Out with Darling’s nepotism. In with the new broom of Sir Richard Bourke.’

  Felix noted the twinkle in the doctor’s eye. ‘Aye, and if we’re none too careful, we’ll soon all enjoy the same rights as British subjects – trial by jury for one!’

  Felix politely picked up the cue. ‘If newspaper editors like Wentworth, Wardell and Smith Hall have their way, emancipists will soon be eligible to sit on those juries. I personally see no argument against it, given it is confined to respectable emancipists like Samuel Terry, Simeon Lord and Dr William Bland.’

  Mungo was fired by the idea of more radical changes.

  ‘Look at our complex class system. Not just the ‘pure Merinos’ at the top of the heap, but all of us labelled for life. Transportees, free settlers, those of us born in the Colony, those with Full or Conditional Pardons and old lags freed by servitude. If the rumour mill is true, Bourke plans to introduce legislation to end transportation and grant assisted passages for free settlers – not a moment too soon, if you ask me!’

  The doctor drew his hostess into the conversation. ‘What do you think is the Colony’s greatest need for reform?’

  Albruna did not hesitate. ‘Equal rights for Catholics and Protestants and all religious persuasions to worship God as they see fit.’


  Mungo pushed the argument to the limit. ‘Right. And don’t gaol a man for profanity on the Sabbath. Or force convicts to attend church – even in chains.’

  Albruna turned her disapproval on her husband. ‘I abhor the pagan British custom of burning effigies on bonfires as they plan to do tonight with Darling’s.’

  Felix paled when he saw his father rise to the bait.

  Neither will budge an inch. We’re in for a long night.

  ‘When I was a kid I thanked God for bonfires,’ Mungo said cheerfully. ‘Each year I collected pennies for the Guy. I hid my loot under my bed. Never did trust banks. Still don’t.’

  Kentigern seized on the contentious topic of the rivalry between the Colony’s banks and the conversation veered off on another heated tangent.

  Felix was in despair. Will they never leave and light those damned bonfires, so I can join Vianna?

  Mungo was excused to take Toby to the bonfire. Albruna apologised for her own departure on the grounds of a headache, saying she would retire early. The moment Kentigern announced, ‘The servants are free to leave now,’ Felix was on his feet.

  Thank God, my hour of triumph has finally come.

  • • •

  Felix hurried to his room to collect his gift for Vianna. The brothers passed on the stairs. Mungo had changed into slop clothing and work boots, a neckerchief tied at the throat of his red shirt.

  Determined to conceal his intentions, Felix headed down the corridor, annoyed to find himself shadowed by Mungo. As they approached the open door of the smoking room, both were alerted by the patriarch’s mention of Jane Quayle.

  Mungo halted. Felix was appalled. ‘You can’t! That’s eavesdropping!’

  Mungo had no such scruples. ‘Why not? She’s my mother. And what concerns her may influence your mother’s plans.’

  Felix was forced to agree.

  Kentigern was testy. ‘Why ask me for my permission? The woman’s free to entertain whoever she damned well pleases.’

  ‘Aye, in theory,’ Sandy responded. ‘But she’s devoted to you. Loyal to the core.’

  ‘I can save you the trouble of being rejected. Jane Quayle has had other men eager to keep her. She turned ’em all down flat!’

  The doctor’s tone was quiet, almost professional but his Scottish burr was growing more pronounced, a sure sign of repressed emotion. ‘You mistake me, man. I am nae asking your permission to bed the woman. I plan to offer Jane my name. My years on earth may not be as long as I would like. But marriage to me would see her well provided for now – and when I’ve gone to God.’

  ‘I’ve already taken care of her future. She’s been with me for twenty-five years. Do you think me totally heartless? I granted Jane the freehold rights to her cottage and a modest income. She has no need to marry any man at her age!’

  ‘Her age?’ Sandy choked back a laugh. ‘Good Lord, Kentigern, the woman’s not past child-bearing. She’ll be a damned fine-looking woman in her eighties.’

  Kentigern’s voice rose as he tried another tack. ‘Jane’s as changeable as a weather cock. She’ll end up dumping you!’

  ‘I’ve been jilted before and survived. I’m a tougher old bird than I look.’

  ‘You don’t understand how this Colony works. No idea what you’re up against. Other physicians have bowed to society and taken women as their mistresses. Redfern, D’Arcy Wentworth and Balmain to name a few. That’s accepted practice. But marriage to a convict will cut you off from polite society.’

  ‘It’s high time a man thumbed his nose at society,’ Sandy said pleasantly.

  Felix avoided Mungo’s eyes, knowing both were reluctant to be out of earshot of the combatants’ final exchange.

  ‘Jane Quayle will never leave you for any man – unless you do the decent thing and set her free,’ Sandy said evenly.

  ‘Free? She’s been free for years, thanks to me. I recommended her Conditional Pardon and Governor Brisbane granted it.’

  ‘I’m not talking of legal freedom but chains of loyalty. In my observation women are usually more faithful creatures than men – to their detriment.’

  Kentigern sounded more weary than angry. ‘You’re a decent man and a fine physician. But stand warned. You’ll never succeed in taking Jane away from me.’

  ‘Let’s allow the woman to be the judge of that, shall we . . . ?’

  Mungo turned to Felix. ‘The plot thickens, eh, brother?’

  Felix nodded and turned away as Mungo headed for Jane’s cottage. Mungo has no idea just how thick. Tonight I’m playing by Mungo’s rules. Take what’s mine and – ask questions later.

  Through the window of Jane’s cottage, Felix saw Toby’s small face was pressed to the windowpane, like an inquisitive little bird, on the lookout for Mungo to take him to the bonfire.

  Could that boy have sprung from my loins? Or Mungo’s? We’ll never know.

  He felt a pang of guilt that he was not going to his mother to alert her to Dr Gordon’s interest in Jane. It might well influence her decision about returning home to Prussia.

  That must wait until tomorrow. For once I intend to place my own future happiness first and foremost – if only they’d hurry up and go to that damned bonfire.

  • • •

  Toby and Jane were ready when Mungo arrived at his mother’s cottage. ‘Not a moment too soon,’ Jane said, ‘the lad’s been hopping around like a plague of grasshoppers for hours past.’

  ‘Where’s the rest of the party? Toby’s invisible friend? And Vianna?’

  Mungo was buoyant, confident his ‘wedding night’ had sealed their future.

  ‘It would seem Toby’s friend is in bed with a cold. I notice it hasn’t dampened their appetite for my cake,’ she added wryly. ‘And your mermaid says to go ahead of her. She’ll join us down at the common later.’

  ‘That’s a bad idea, Mam. It isn’t safe with so many blokes on the prowl. There’ll be enough grog drunk tonight to float a man-o’-war.’

  ‘You’re right. I’ll wait here for her and join you later. Be off with you.’

  Toby gave her a hurried hug of farewell but received a lecture in return.

  ‘Remember what I told you, Toby. Don’t stand too close to the bonfire. Stick to Mungo’s side. Don’t talk to strangers. And don’t pick up fireworks that have fizzled. They can still explode and burn you badly.’

  ‘You worry too much, Mam. I’ll see him right,’ Mungo said, but he knew that look of old. She could sense trouble brewing like farmers predict bad weather.

  ‘What’s up, Mam?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. But you can’t keep bad news under wraps in this Colony.’

  Chapter 42

  From the world outside came the raucous sounds of laughter from children, the arguments of drunks spoiling for a fight. The horizon was awash with sunset colours, smoke and flames rising from bonfires scattered across the landscape, the sound of crackers firing, lone rockets arching across the sky to burst in a shower of falling stars.

  Inside the loft Vianna was playing a waiting game for Felix.

  She checked her appearance in the mirror. The elegant burgundy gown she had made herself set off the elaborate ropes of hair she had coiled like a crown on her head. Her pale face looked sad in repose – an expression no one was ever allowed to see.

  The edges between her two past identities had now been replaced by a third – the survivor who did not lie to herself. I alone am responsible for what I was.

  Her initial shock that she could never bear a child had changed to resignation. In its place was the first trace of a hard-won wisdom. She still held on to the hope of finding Daisy. If I lose that hope I’ve lost everything.

  Vianna had no memory of her mother except the sound of her voice, and the dandelion chains being placed around her neck. But Jane Quayle had stepped into her dead mother’s shoes.

  Jane’s tried to teach me about life but she doesn’t pull any punches. She warned me if I broke Mungo’s heart she’d throw me back in
the sea where I came from. She was right about me.

  Vianna looked around her little nest, the two rooms, the lacy cast-iron Juliet balcony that overlooked the serenity of the L’Estrange garden. But her freedom was now a beautiful illusion. Severin’s bloodhound, Blewitt, knows where I am.

  She circled the room, gently touching the things Jane Quayle had made for Mungo’s future bride. There was the vivid patchwork quilt; lace-edged pillow slips embroidered with M, and a space for the initial of his bride’s name; the strong, straw-coloured curtains of ‘Parramatta cloth’ woven by women prisoners in The Factory; the American circular mat of many colours, braided from old strips of dress materials; locally made pottery vases filled with exotic native blossoms and English flowers; mirrors, their age betrayed by the dark flecks in the corners.

  The little closet held clothing Vianna had made from material carefully cut around the watermarks of fabrics stored in the damp holds of convict vessels. She had adapted French ideas to create a few simple, elegant gowns which she hoped she could sell at the market.

  Wealthy men had once showered her with jewellery to tempt her to grant them her favours. Vianna’s throat constricted as she held the conch shell to her ear. The sound of the sea reminded her that Mungo’s first gift cost nothing – yet meant everything.

  She touched the scraps of paper pinned to the wall, Toby’s first alphabet letters and his drawings of bush animals, a kangaroo, goanna, wombat, opossum. His rainbow-coloured serpent was an ironical symbol to her – not only the cause of Eve’s downfall in Eden, but also the cause of her reunion with Mungo.