Fanny took a frank look at the tall figure, somewhere in his thirties, superbly tailored in grey with a rakishly tilted top hat and a diamond horseshoe pinned in the stock at his throat. Like a thoroughbred, his features bore the unmistakable stamp of generations of aristocratic breeding – the eyes amused but watchful, the manner effortlessly charming, the touch of grey at his temples attractive rather than aging.
Should I admit my purse was stolen? No. That makes me look too vulnerable.
‘Well, I am rather hungry,’ she admitted, then blushed at her lack of manners.
‘Splendid. But first allow me to introduce myself. The Honourable Montague Severin at your service. Severin to my friends.’
In response to his bow, Fanny curtseyed. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Severin.’
‘Severin will suffice.’ He added politely, ‘May I know the name of my charming dinner companion?’
Fanny hesitated. She had revealed her name to the late Will Eden, but decided she needed a fresh identity to launch her new life and put the law off her tracks. A name sprang unbidden to her lips, that of an exquisite courtesan-actress who had died young of consumption. Fanny borrowed the surname from the kindly priest.
‘Vianna Francis,’ she said.
‘An unusual name for an unusual beauty. I take it you are a singer by profession?’
‘Not me. I was femme de chambre – to a courtesan.’ Damn my big mouth, I didn’t have to reveal that.
‘I see,’ he said carefully, with one eyebrow slightly raised.
‘Don’t misunderstand me, Severin,’ she said quickly. ‘I learned all the tricks of the trade for dressing my lady’s hair, tending her fashionable wardrobe, soothing her moods, banishing her headaches, travelling with her and delivering notes to gentlemen who fought duels to gain her favours. But that’s all I did!’
‘A most loyal companion, I never doubted it. But with a voice of your quality you need never be in service again.’ He rolled the name around his tongue. ‘Vianna Francis. Yes, a name, a face and a voice that I could make famous in the Colony in all the best circles. You remind me of a Botticelli maiden, yet with the voice of an angel. Shall we discuss your future over dinner?’
Who’s Botticelli? An opera singer? And is this Severin really an emancipist and an Honourable? I wonder why he got transported. Whatever, he clearly mixes with the Quality. I’ll bet he didn’t find that flash carriage at a fire sale.
‘No harm in just talking,’ she added carefully, ‘as long as you understand I must return home early to my sister.’
Severin did not hesitate. ‘Would your sister care to chaperone us?’
‘Daisy will be asleep by now. She’s only two.’
Severin smiled understandingly. ‘In that case we will enjoy a tête a tête.’
Well, that could mean anything. She gave him a cautious smile of assent.
Severin offered his arm. ‘Am staying at my friend Major Dalby’s townhouse at Jack the Miller’s Point, but first we shall drive past the grand mansion I have just leased as a gentlemen’s club – Severin House. Shall build a private theatre for concert singers to entertain my guests. My future and yours – should the idea interest you . . .’
Vianna Francis held her head high as they crossed to his waiting carriage.
Severin’s nothing if not charming, but aren’t they all till they get what they want? Imagine me being paid to sing for the Quality. But even if push comes to shove, I’ll have dinner tonight – and stash away a couple of bread rolls in my reticule, so Daisy won’t go hungry tomorrow.
Chapter 4
Mungo Quayle prided himself on his being a survivor come hell or high water. And at Moreton Bay Penal Settlement, he was soon confronted by the reality of both. The Brisbane River periodically flooded the penal settlement – and living in hell was a full-time occupation.
It had taken him no more than the first week of his four-year sentence to understand that he had entered a new time zone divorced from the world he had known.
Under his alias of Sean O’Connor, Mungo realised his every waking hour was governed by Moreton Bay Time, an endless procession of bleak, cruel, hungry days and nights chained together as irrevocably as the iron shackles binding his ankles. Time was rigidly marked by the sound of the triangle which demarcated every aspect of their day. Rising at dawn, they were assigned to back-breaking work until breakfast and the sketchy cleansing of their bodies. Relentless slogging work in the tropical sun followed until midday meal break. After working until sundown, they were locked up in darkness until sun up.
Only Sundays, with its forced attendance at religious services, brought any respite, except for those occasions when prisoners were called to witness the regular pattern of floggings ordered by Commandant Logan in his self-appointed dual role as Magistrate. Even misdemeanours such as insubordination or the inability to work could earn them twenty-five to three hundred cuts of ‘the cat’ despite the legal maximum of fifty set by the Governor. Bolters who escaped into the bush had little choice – die of starvation, throw in their lot with some Aboriginal tribe or return to face a merciless flogging.
Mungo soon recognised that his five hundred-odd fellow prisoners were governed by three sets of laws. The first, British law, was the birth right (theoretically) of all British citizens. The second was British law as practised in New South Wales – open to interpretation and abuse according to the ‘special conditions’ of a penal colony. The third was Logan’s Law – enforced at Moreton Bay by a tyrant. The Commandant had been given a firm set of rigid but humane guidelines limiting his powers of punishment, but in practice, the remote prison being five hundred miles north of Sydney Town, the Governor’s residence and convict authorities, Logan’s Law entailed the systematic flouting of British law and was a byword for extreme cruelty.
Yet Mungo’s first impression of Moreton Bay, and the one he clung to in his darkest hours, was a vision of sheer majestic tropical beauty.
It’s so damned breathtaking it’s enough to make an atheist fall on his knees and believe in God the Creator.
The lush profusion of giant eucalypts, palms, acacias, and rare specimens just waiting to be named by botanists, the hot golds, oranges, reds and purples of tropical flowering shrubs, all seemed to beckon him as seductively as any woman. Mungo could almost hear the voice of the bush whispering . . . Come to me, I’m here, waiting for you.
Since his arrival, Mungo had received more than one ‘red shirt’; in his case these were punishments for insubordination, daring to answer back to his overseer. These floggings of two hundred or more lashes were Logan’s so-called deterrents, each cut of the cat delivered with relish by the scourger. Mungo had survived them without crying out in pain, though his lips were bloody with the effort.
Today was a merciful period of respite for Mungo’s back, which was beginning to heal. Logan was away on one of his self-appointed explorations, exploring dense bushland, climbing impregnable cliff faces, charting and naming rivers and mountains. These daring journeys were said to be both Logan’s bid for glory and avoidance of official correspondence with Governor Darling.
Aware only that he had been ordered to the muster for inspection, Mungo followed behind a stumbling, ironed procession of prisoners on the orders of an officer who despite the heat and his faded red coatee seemed unusually spruced up.
Mungo turned to Stimson, the prisoner next in line. ‘If we have to wash our hands and faces it must be some damned bigwig. Too much to hope there’s a woman with them. I haven’t seen a female face close up since I came here.’
‘Neither you will. Best live on your memories, lad.’
Mungo was distracted by the surprising sight of the coterie of smart new military uniforms worn by the officers surrounding a central figure who had power written on every inch of his pink, round face.
‘Mother of God,’ gasped the emaciated old Irishman at Mungo’s side, ‘it’s being none but Himself – Governor Darling!’
Mungo gave it seriou
s consideration. ‘Right decent of him to sail five hundred miles to pat us on the back for our hard work. If I had pen and paper on me I’d present him with a petition. Replace bloody Logan with a bloke who’s more a man than a tyrant – if they can find one.’
‘Hush, lad,’ the Irishman advised, ‘do ye want to be visiting the cat again?’
Mungo had intended the words for his ears only, but he realised his voice must have carried on the wind, by the reaction from a slack-jawed officer. Within seconds Mungo felt the musket prodded into his back and he was being frog-marched away from the gathering.
Knowing his fate, Mungo decided to have the last word.
‘Have a heart, officer. I ain’t met the Governor yet!’
The response was a whack on the back of the head that sent him flying, followed by a kick in the buttocks as he tried to stumble to his feet. Mungo felt a cold, creeping sensation as he saw what lay ahead of him.
Floggings had failed to break him. Ahead of him was his baptism of fire. Solitary.
• • •
Mungo tried to concentrate. His lips were cracked, his mouth lined with ulcers, the dry biscuit bread seeded with weevils. Was this his first or second dose of solitary confinement? Moreton Bay Time had swallowed him up, having been in solitary for God only knew how long – was it weeks, months, a year? Was it 1828 or even twenty-nine?
Using the same words he did as Sean O’Connor to his fellow prisoners in the iron gang, Mungo Quayle repeated his mantra, alone in the dank darkness of the underground cell, his voice bouncing between the walls: ‘Moreton Bay under Logan. No place for heroes. No place for cowards. No place for the living. Only the dead can hope to survive here.’
Would Father Francis Xavier answer him? Or were his words simply a desperate attempt to create the illusion of a man’s presence?
The echo of his voice died. He waited out of courtesy for a reply but none was forthcoming.
‘No arguments, tonight, eh, Father? No promise of God’s mercy? I see. Given up on me, have you?’ The reason for the silence jolted him. Father Francis Xavier was now no more than a name on a gravestone, badly chiselled by one of the faithful, a prisoner who had later succumbed to fever but lay in an unmarked mass grave for his trouble carving the stones of others.
‘So what about you, girl? Playing shy of me, are ye?’ For as long as he’d been sentenced at Moreton Bay, many months past two years, he had been able to summon her up, to comfort him during those rare nights when no other man was close enough to hear his lovemaking. He hid her name in his heart. She was as real to him as moonlight, but when he forced her to come to him, it was always a private fantasy. Mungo clung to a vestige of pride. Let other men pull themselves crazy and cry out to God the name of a long lost woman – or the substitute man or boy who gave them relief. Mungo only made love to her when he was alone.
He was determined to show his woman respect. He had taken her many times, gently, hungrily, desperately as the need for her seized him. But always when alone. So their coupling was rare, a secret moment. A woman, no more than a girl, his equal in passion, giving him back as much as he needed to give her. No money exchanged. No names. No promises. Was she real or a composite of all the women he had taken to bed? No! She’s different. There’s no other woman like her. He clung to the memory of her . . .
At the foot of the gallows, he watched Will being prodded at the end of a musket up the steps to take his place in the queue of the condemned. Mungo saw her face across the heads of the crowd, her wild mass of golden hair teased by the wind, her arms raised to draw Will’s attention to her – as Felix L’Estrange lifted her up onto a wall to enable her sweet, clear voice to cry out in anguish and anger.
‘I’m here, William! I kept my promise!’
And Mungo had thanked the God he didn’t much believe in for giving Will that last precious moment on earth. Because the moment that Will caught sight of her he called back to her.
‘As God is my witness, wherever you go, I, William Eden will watch over thee . . .’
• • •
Whatever else he had done wrong in life, Mungo was glad that Will’s last sight on earth was a lovely girl who kept her promise to be with him to the very last.
Now each night alone in solitary, just within reach of Mungo’s imagination, that golden girl’s words, even the colour of her gown, changed to fit his mood. He was desperate to retain every detail of her face that had begun to fade like a memory from childhood – except for the intense blue of her eyes.
Mungo thanked God that her body never failed to stir him . . . the girl who lay with him all night then disappeared in the mist of dawn, leaving him with her whispered promise, ‘I will come to you – just so long as you remember me . . .’
Tonight Mungo had special need of her. He tried to make her come to him, wearing a filmy wedding gown, a floating mass of tulle, the smell of orange blossoms in her hair. And suddenly there she was. His heartbeat raced in anticipation of what was to come. She hovered above him, beckoning him, a bride unafraid of her wedding night, his equal in passion, gentleness and need.
His bride came closer, running her hand gently along the curve of her breast, smiling with that sweet gesture that never failed to arouse him.
‘I’ll never forget you. I am waiting for you, Mungo Quayle.’
‘Hush, darling. It isn’t safe to use my real name here. I’m Sean, Sean O’Connor. Don’t give me away. No knowing what that mongrel Logan would do if he found out who I am – who my father is. I promise you when I’ve done my time here, I’ll come back to you. I’ll marry you properly. Sign my true name on the register. Mungo Quayle. Hell! I mustn’t even think that name. I might say it aloud in my sleep – or yell it out next time I cop two hundred lashes of the cat . . .’
She turned her head away, tears in her eyes. He was desperate to detain her.
‘Forgive me. I mustn’t waste our precious time alone. Come to me sweetheart, come here and touch me . . . I’ll close my eyes . . . please lay your hands on me . . . and let me love you . . .’
Mungo closed his eyes and waited, his thighs rigid, his pelvis arching, aching from the need of her. Then that other sound came to him. The scratching sound made by rats. Mungo crawled back into the corner, his eyes wide, angry that he had lost her.
He peered into the darkness, barely able to make out the dim grey outline in the corner – the source of that insistent, soft scratching sound.
It was then he saw him. Stimson. A prisoner who he had seen copping three hundred stripes, yelling in agony at each cut of the lash. After that, Mungo had stolen a rusty metal file for him and Stimson had sawn through the chain linked to his leg irons, until the blood flowed from his ankle. Mungo had watched him running in crazy zigzag patterns into the bush, drunk on freedom and howling like a dingo.
Stimson. There was no mistake. Mungo recognised him by the curious pattern of his missing teeth and the way one eye was always fixed on the heavens no matter which way the other was directed.
Tonight Stimson was smiling as if he had discovered the secret of freedom and would be willing to share it – at a price.
‘Bugger you, Stimson, I had company. She’s a real lady, she only comes to me when I’m alone.’
Stimson nodded sagely and whistled through the gaps in his teeth.
Mungo was curious. ‘What are you doing here? You were gone so long in the bush the chaplain said a prayer for your soul. I thought you were dead.’
Stimson continued to smile. ‘I am,’ he said.
Mungo heard the bark of a dog but realised it was his own laughter caught in his throat. ‘Christ, that’s all I need. A bloody ghost for company.’
‘You could do worse.’
‘How?’
‘You could be a ghost yourself. Ever asked yourself if maybe you were dead?
‘Do ghosts eat, piss and defecate?’
Stimson looked patient. ‘No need, mate.’
‘That proves I’m still alive. Half crazy wh
en I’m cooped up in solitary, I’ll give you that. But not dead yet, not by a long shot.’
‘I came to give you a bit of advice,’ Stimson said gently.
‘What’s that worth? Did you get it straight from the right hand of God – St Patrick, St Peter, one of your mob?’
‘If you shut your mouth, I’ll tell you. I came to warn ye, you’re going to be involved in a man’s murder.’
‘Yeah? What kind of a ghost are you? Don’t tell me you’re on the side of the angels.’
‘Right now I’m on your side. You put salt on my wounds after I’d been flogged. I was howling like a wet-nosed dog. You trickled water into my mouth. Bathed me with a rag until my fever broke. Then stole that file to saw off me irons.’
‘I must have been crazy.’
‘Kind. Dead men don’t forget things like that.’
‘Yeah, so who’s this bloke I’m going to top? I’ve got the perfect candidate. But I just promised my woman I’d marry her. She’s waiting for me. You can’t break a promise to a woman or a kid. Your God wouldn’t like that, would he?’
‘Don’t twist me words, Mungo. Mr L’Estrange don’t like liars.’
‘Hey, where’d you get that name from? I’m Sean. Sean O’Connor!’
‘You talk in your sleep. Yer secret’s safe with me. Ye can keep your promise to your girl. That’s why I’m warning ye. You’ll be tempted to take your revenge. Do murder. The choice is yours.’
‘Why the hell are you warning me?’
‘To see what kind of a man ye are. You’re being watched.’
Stimson rolled his eyes and pointed to the ceiling. Mungo took his words literally.
‘You mean the officer in charge?’
‘More powerful than him!’
‘You mean Logan?’
Stimson looked impatient. ‘Nah! Much more powerful.’
‘No man’s more powerful than bloody Logan.’
‘That’s because you’ve been here too long.’
‘We’ve all been here too long.’
The Lace Balcony Page 5