Almost reverently she touched the school slate that Mungo had used to give her the gift of literacy. On impulse she seized a piece of chalk and wrote on it:
Dear Toby. If you listen to my magic conch shell, you will hear the voice of the mermaid across the seas. Remember, she will always love you – as I do. Vianna.
The words reminded her that the closet was now empty except for one remaining article. She had been unable to discard the torn mermaid’s tail. It was a strange symbol of her two lives – the last link in the chain with Severin House, carried with her into this life in the funny little stables’ loft.
Her throat constricted at the sight of the bed. Here for the first time in her life she had discovered with Mungo how two people could magically transform the physical act of connection into an act of love that was all things – passionate, romantic, stormy, and as radiant as sunlight. Yet a love that carried at its heart its own tragic and inevitable end.
Mungo’s note proved he had turned his back on her forever. She must bury her memories like a time capsule sealed in the foundation stone, not of a new house, but a new life.
She packed, unpacked and repacked one book: Mansfield Park, the book that Mungo had used to teach her to read. She had imagined herself in the shoes of Jane Austen’s heroine Fanny, a girl who was her complete antithesis, well-bred, modest, innocent, virginal, who lost but ultimately regained her one true love.
Thank heavens for romantic novels. They make the pain of real life bearable.
The mirror reflected the gown Vianna had taken days to sew, the black Indian silk with deep lace collar and cuffs and pintucked bodice. Like the other gowns she had made, its front-fastened placket gave her a sense of freedom. No matter how her future fortunes might rise, she would never again allow a lady’s maid to dress her.
With deft hands she coiled up her hair in a series of knots, her hair so abundant the style needed no padding, before she anchored it in place with a fan-shaped comb. Her mirror image achieved its intention, a woman close to twenty-six, elegant yet self-contained, no longer buffeted by the whims of fate or the romantic dreams of youth – a woman intent on forging her own destiny.
Whatever the world thinks of me, I can’t bear for Jane to think badly of me.
On impulse she wrote the difficult letter, addressed to Jane, a delicate balance between gratitude and truth. She summoned up her courage to add the painful words she could not bring herself to say aloud to Jane.
Mungo is now free to marry a woman who will give him the children that fate has denied me to give to any man.
She left the letter unsigned as neither of her previous names seemed to belong to her. She had outgrown both the naïve, romantic Fanny Byron and the shallow, self-centred, pleasure-seeking Vianna Francis. Discarded them both in the way that a snake sheds its skin each year to emerge anew.
If – when I find Daisy, I’ll travel as Mrs Brown. This is a colony of aliases. Mrs Brown will foil anyone who tries to trace us – including Severin. But I won’t leave without her.
Her packing completed, she watched from the Juliet balcony the large pale full moon that had remained to dominate the sky by day – said to herald an approaching eclipse of the sun.
She drank in the heady floral perfumes rising from the garden. Her eyes traced the lines of the dual mansions linked by the bridge that for a quarter of a century had harboured so many family secrets – an illicit ménage à trois between master, wife and mistress, the warring of two rival half-brothers – all revolving around the lynchpin of the man who was neither villain nor hero, Kentigern L’Estrange.
Vianna comforted herself with the belief that once time and distance made her a distant memory, these rivals would at last discover true brotherly affection, confident in their rightful share of their father’s love.
She was startled then by the sound of someone climbing the ladder. Molly’s distraught face peered from the shadows of a hooded cloak. ‘Vianna, I must speak with you – in private.’
‘What’s wrong, Molly? I thought you’d be at Mookaboola with Felix, but he returned yesterday.’
‘Yes. Ahead of me – to save my reputation. Too late!’
Molly burst into tears. She looked in horror at Vianna’s carpetbag.
‘You’re not going away? You can’t! Please don’t leave me.’
‘Hush, Molly. There’s nothing so bad that we can’t face it together.’
Vianna guided her to a chair, mouthing one empty platitude after another in an attempt to calm her.
If only she knew what a mess I’ve made of my own life. What on earth has Felix done to her? I threw her in at the deep end at Mookaboola. Whatever’s gone wrong is all my fault.
Molly looked at her with tragic eyes. ‘Please, will you come to court with me today? I can’t face him alone.’
To court! Oh my God, what’s happened now?
‘Of course I will, Molly. What are friends for?’
Chapter 47
Mungo felt drained of all feelings – as if his blood, and his emotions along with it, had been taken by a vampire. He held the horse’s reins, but it was Boadicea who was leading him at a fast gallop home.
Having just emerged from the extraordinary experience of hypnosis, he knew he should be experiencing a strong sense of liberation – but reality was difficult to grasp. He was no longer trapped in a nightmare, but felt buffeted by waves of confused thoughts, confronted by what Sandy had always believed to be the truth.
I murdered Logan in my heart. The man was already dead. But that does not wipe my conscience clean – I’m guilty by intention if not technically by deed. But at least the truth has left me free to rebuild my life.
His first instinct had been to ride deep into the bush, far from all human contact and responsibility. That was swiftly followed by a second instinct. Panic.
I must put my world to rights. Vianna. Mam. Toby. I was crazy – abandoning them without explanation. Please God it’s not too late to redeem myself in their eyes.
It was raining as they approached the iron gates of the Devonshire Street cemetery. Boadicea gave a snort of warning. Mungo saw the cause. A man was leaning against the fence, arms folded across his chest as if resigned to waiting till kingdom come.
Despite the rain, the sun was shining on Will Eden. The crown of his close-cropped sandy hair and the gloss of his polished boots shone so brightly it seemed strange to Mungo the man was invisible to others.
He sprang down from the saddle and followed Will’s beckoning figure along the path that led him once more to Patrick Logan’s grave. If only the bastard would rest in peace.
Logan’s grave looked very different to his previous visit. Due to Sandy’s efforts it was now covered by a stone slab engraved with Logan’s name, regiment, place and date of birth and death, and the names of his widow and children. A single urn contained bush flowers wilted in the heat and wet with rain.
Shoulder to shoulder with Will, like two soldiers standing at ease, Mungo held his hat in hand, feeling uncomfortable, but drained of the anger and feelings of revenge that had long consumed him. There was no one else in sight except the distant figure of the gravedigger bent double over a new grave covered with fresh flowers.
‘Why are we here, Will? You never knew Logan. His regiment’s in India. There’s only Sandy and me left to remember him – each for our own reasons.’
Will was philosophical. ‘Logan’s one of the last of the Die Hards left in the Colony. A lonely grave, a fate shared by soldiers down through the centuries.’
‘Yeah, but at least Logan’s resting place bears his name. That’s more than they gave you. I’m sorry, Will. I reckon you know Father tried to claim your body for a proper burial – but the authorities refused permission.’
‘That’s the fate of all us hanged men – an anonymous hole under prison flagstones – or else dissected for so-called science. Don’t let it bother you, mate. It’s surprising how little that stuff matters – when you’ve moved on.’
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‘So why are you here?
‘I thought you could use some company. Now you’ve come to square things with Patrick Logan. And lay your false guilt to rest.’
Mungo was stunned at the implication. ‘Jesus, Will! You knew all along I never murdered him! Why the hell didn’t you tell me? I might have confessed and gone to the gallows for a murder some other bloke did!’
‘I’m your mate, Mungo. Not your conscience. You had to work things out for yourself. And consider this. After all the trouble I caused you with the failure of our grand plan to make our fortune, would you have believed anything I said?’
Mungo began to laugh – a true laugh, no reservations. ‘No, I guess you’re right. But I’m no hypocrite. I’m not going to stand here and sing Logan’s praises. All right! I reckon I’ve got to say something. I’ve never been a bloke for praying. Got any ideas?’
‘Say what’s in your heart. What’s that Manx proverb Jane Quayle is fond of?’
‘Take your time – it will come to thee?’ Mungo asked.
‘Aye, that’s the one.’
Mungo took his time. The words finally came to him. He spoke directly to Logan – unseen this time but perhaps watching him.
‘If there is a God, I reckon I should thank Him for proving it wasn’t me who actually murdered you. The more I know about you, Logan, the less I understand what made you tick. When I was your prisoner I hated your guts. But now I’ve seen you through Sandy’s eyes, I know there were some good sides to you.’
‘Go on, you’re doing all right,’ Will prompted.
‘Is Logan behind me?’
Will hesitated. ‘Take it from me – he’ll be listening.’
Mungo forced from his mind the image of Logan’s corpse – replaced it with the memory of Logan alive, standing on his veranda that day in his scarlet uniform, beside his wife and two young children. He remembered the small boy wearing a military redcoat, smiling up at his father when he bent to ruffle his son’s hair.
‘I saw Moreton Bay through the other end of the telescope to you, Logan. I still reckon you ruled by your own law – bloody short on mercy. But I’m beginning to understand the system that turns some men in power into tyrants. I reckon Sandy was right. That you were a brave soldier in battle. And probably never unjust in your own eyes – if you believed a man was innocent, you fought for his release. Your courageous explorations brought honour to your family – and your name deserves to be remembered for that – if nothing else. Sandy reckons you were scrupulous with money and never self-seeking – unlike plenty of others in the Colony who make a career out of lining their own pockets.’
He turned to Will. ‘That’s enough, isn’t it? I’m really scraping the bottom of the barrel.’
Will gently prompted him. ‘Why not pay your own debt to the man.’
Mungo took a deep breath and said the words in a rush. ‘I give you my word that no matter how long it takes, I’ll pressure those bastards in authority. I won’t rest until the country you served with honour in battle grants your family the pension they deserve.’
Mungo gritted his teeth. ‘Satisfied now, Will?’
Will gave a silent nod of approval.
Mungo gave it his final shot. ‘Look, Logan, if you choose to continue to haunt me, I can’t bloody well stop you. But from now on I won’t take it as a sign of revenge. For your sake, Patrick Logan – and mine – I hope you’ll now rest in peace.’
Mungo felt Will’s hand resting lightly on his shoulder as they retraced their steps to where Boadicea stood waiting for them.
• • •
Recharged with fresh vitality, Mungo returned Boadicea to the stables, unsaddled her and saw to her needs. He called to Vianna and without waiting for a response hurtled up the ladder disappointed that she wasn’t there. Disconcerted to note the packed valise by the door and the envelope addressed to Jane Quayle, he hurried downstairs.
Toby was seated at Jane’s table, tucking into one of two steaming bowls of porridge, the other one placed in front of an empty chair.
‘That bowl for me is it, mate?’ Mungo asked, attempting a light-hearted tone as he tried to judge from Toby’s expression how much the kid had been told of Mungo’s departure without a word of farewell.
I feel like a mongrel. I couldn’t blame the kid if he was pissed off with me. I let him down badly.
Toby looked at him with sad, dark eyes. ‘The other bowl is for my friend.’
‘Seems like your friend is always hungry.’
Toby shrugged. ‘You can have half of mine, if you like. I’ll fetch you another spoon. You don’t want to take to the road hungry.’
That’s what Mam always says. Mungo was embarrassed by his generosity.
‘Don’t worry, mate. I’ve had my breakfast already. And I’m not going anywhere without you.’
Jane entered. One look at her and Mungo knew he was in deep trouble.
‘Nice of you to pay us a call,’ she said sharply. ‘To what do we owe this unexpected honour?’
‘I’m sorry for the confusion, Mam. But don’t worry, I’ve got good news. It’s all ended well. I’m free of the past. Sandy helped me sort out my life – and get to the bottom of those recurring nightmares. I’ll give you the full details later – for your ears only. But first I’ve got to talk to Vianna. She’s not leaving is she? I’ve got to put things right with her.’
‘You most certainly have!’ Jane’s face was tight with disapproval but she kept her voice low, mindful of Toby’s presence. She gently shooed the boy out the door to fetch a bunch of carrots from the gardener’s kitchen garden. Then let fly at Mungo.
‘I warned that mermaid not to break your heart. But the truth is I should have warned her against you! Anyway you’ll have to wait to apologise. She left with young Molly not a half-hour since. I don’t know where they’ve gone, but Molly was in a proper state I can tell you – something involving Felix.’
Mungo felt the age-old flash of anger. ‘What’s Felix done to her? If he’s pressuring her as a way to get to Vianna, he’ll have me to answer to.’
‘Hold your horses till you know the score.’ She handed him a letter. ‘This was given to me by Cockney George this morning. From Mrs L’Estrange no less,’ she added, failing to camouflage her curiosity, ‘It looks pretty formal.’
Mungo broke the L’Estrange red wax seal on the envelope and read the note in silence. He cast an anxious glance at the clock above the fireplace. ‘Sorry, Mam. This is important. I have to go – but make sure you hold Vianna captive until I return. That’s if you’re counting on having future grandchildren.’
At her startled expression he dropped a hasty kiss on the crown of her head and charged through the garden, cutting straight through the house and out the front entrance into Great Rockingham Street.
A summons from Mrs Less is next thing to a Royal Command. I wish I knew what the hell is going on. And what Felix is up to with my girls.
The family carriage was waiting, the restless bay mares pawing the ground. Albruna looked anxious. ‘Hurry up and get in. I thought you were not coming. I trust you are revealing to no one the contents of my letter?’
Mungo assured he had not and took the seat opposite her.
She was clearly distracted. ‘I am glad of your company, Mungo. Today you are the one person I can trust. You must tell no one what you witness today.’
‘You can count on it.’ He decided to push his luck. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To the Supreme Courthouse.’ Albruna L’Estrange looked out the window to avoid further discussion.
Chapter 48
Wearing the old tricorn hat and livery that he had worn when first assigned to Kentigern L’Estrange in his youth, Old Crawford galloped the horses to a screeching halt in front of the Supreme Court House in King Street – an arrival so rocky that Mrs L’Estrange was almost catapulted into Mungo’s lap.
‘Oh dear,’ she said mildly, ‘it will be a blessing when Old Crawford remembers he’s su
pposed to be our butler.’
Mungo smiled. Funny, I never realised how human she can be.
The sight of the Georgian convict-built brick courthouse aroused sharp memories of his last visit here – his own trial four years earlier.
Albruna L’Estrange took his arm as they made their way inside. Always elegantly dressed, she wore a gown of sober grey as befitted the occasion, and the ostrich feather in her bonnet, kid gloves and brooch of the family coat-of-arms proclaimed her as a woman of Quality in contrast with the crowd already thronging the footpath. Today’s proceedings had not attracted the wide cross-section of classes that murder trials always did, but it had drawn a volatile crowd of rabble-rousers. The air crackled with expectation.
‘Good of you to alert me to this trial, Mrs L’Estrange,’ Mungo added under his breath, ‘whatever it is.’ God willing it will somehow throw light on Daisy’s fate.’
Albruna acknowledged Mungo’s thanks with a nod. She appeared unusually tense so Mungo tried to put her at ease.
‘I’ll find you a seat as far from the raucous elements as possible. In theory it’s democratic to open the doors to all-comers, but in reality it’s an open invitation for ruffians and drunkards to walk in off the streets and heckle the judge if they don’t agree with the verdict.’
‘I am not unmindful of this, Mungo. I often attend trials involving destitute women and children. You have shown admirable restraint in not asking why we are here. There are two reasons. One a possible link to your friend’s lost child. But I do not wish to raise her false hopes. This is proving like the needle in the haystack. But we will not give up, no?’
So what’s the other reason? Why the mystery?
He shepherded her to a seat close to a window that offered relief from both the heat and the rank odour of unwashed bodies jostling to gain a better view. He noted that the ratio of females to men was higher than the usual one to five. In contrast to the ruffian male element, the women, although shabbily dressed, were quiet and attentive, suggesting the case had particular significance to them.
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