Courage was needed to frame the question she had never dared ask him.
‘That physic you give me each month. Is it harmful if I was with child?’
‘Courtesans don’t suckle babes, Vianna. It’s bad for business. What on earth brought on this sudden maternal urge? Surely you don’t want to be with child?’
‘Not now. But perhaps one day, when Daisy returns to us as you promised, we would have made enough money to . . . ?’
His look of cynical amusement made her intended word ‘marry’ stick to the roof of her mouth. She ended lamely, ‘Anyway, that green stuff tastes vile.’
‘Be thankful I don’t use one of the less attractive methods to prevent conception. The ancient Egyptians inserted a paste of camel dung into a woman’s vagina. It worked admirably, I understand.’
Her shudder of horror drew a teasing smile in response.
‘You have the face of an angel, Vianna, the body of a courtesan and the naïve charm of a schoolgirl. Unfortunately you also have the mind of a village shopkeeper who weighs each purchase before paltry coins change hands.’ He sighed. ‘There remains much I must teach you before you realise your full potential. Only then can we break free from this unworthy life we are forced to live.’ He caught her hand and kissed it. ‘Vianna, you do know I adore you.’
Her head ached but she decided attack was the best method of gaining ground.
‘I work hard at my lessons. Why won’t you allow me to learn to read and write? Even my black maid can do that.’
His smile was tolerant. ‘Who needs a temptress to chant the alphabet? Would it improve your performance on stage – or in bed? I keep telling you, your brain wasn’t made for book learning. It matters not. You have other God-given gifts.’
‘My singing voice?’ she asked, hopeful of his praise. ‘Perhaps one day I could sing at Barnett Levey’s Theatre Royal?’
‘Nonsense. Your role is to attract new patrons to my gaming tables. Membership is exclusive. I check every gentleman’s background. No one in trade, no matter how wealthy. They are drawn to this house of supreme elegance and discretion – of which you are the adornment par excellence. Wealthy men are the key to our fortune.’
‘Then why can’t I handle money of my own?’
‘Does a goddess carry money? Or the Queen of England?
He threw up his hands, weary of the subject. ‘Come, it’s time to rehearse.’
• • •
Sad-eyed Guido, his hair slicked with pomade, a flower in his buttonhole, was waiting for them in the ballroom, seated at the pianoforte on the miniature stage framed by a proscenium arch. Regency sofas and wine tables were arranged facing the stage, ready for gentlemen who wanted diversion from their games of chance.
Guido studied the sheet music of the new song as if his life depended on the quality of his playing. Severin was a difficult taskmaster who had hired him as Vianna’s accompanist for six nights a week. A ticket-of-leave lad and native of London, he claimed his father was an Italian music master.
Vianna reminded herself she must keep Guido’s admiration in check or Severin in a fit of jealousy would return him to the convict authorities. Guido would lose his ticket and she would lose a musician she could twist around her little finger.
Severin repeated the lyrics of the song, the tale of a romantic schoolgirl who had fallen under the spell of an older man.
A quick study, Vianna was soon word perfect. The new lyrics fitted the original Irish air as smoothly as a glove. She glanced at Severin’s expressionless face each time she sang the refrain. The words seemed innocent enough:
Allow me to pour your wine, Sir,
Allow me to kiss your hand.
I’ll obey your every desire, Sir.
Your wish is my command.
At the end of the song she waited nervously for Severin’s response.
‘Take care not to drown the lady’s words, Guido. The music must caress her voice, not force her to rise above it. Our patrons come to see Madame Vianna Francis, Guido, not to hear you.’
Guido was humble. ‘Understood, Sir.’
Severin turned to Vianna. ‘Very touching, my dear. You play the innocent to perfection. But it needs a touch of something more at the climax of the song.’
‘I could sing it with a French accent. Change Sir to Monsieur,’ she suggested.
He stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Hmm, good idea. Try it again. But this time, when you reach the final refrain, kneel down and stretch your arms in supplication, like this,’ he illustrated. ‘Remember this girl is offering herself to her lover. The art lies in making each man believe your words are meant for him alone!’
Vianna repeated the song, putting real emotion into the final words, ‘I’ll obey your every desire, Monsieur. Your wish ees my command.’
The moment she flung her arms wide as if to welcome her lover, she gasped in horror. The front of her bodice sprang open, forcing the deep valley of her breasts to blossom forth.
‘Oh my God!’ Blushing in confusion she covered her bosom with both hands.
Severin called out, ‘Perfect! An inspired climax. Retain that move and cover yourself as if it is an accident at each performance.’ He turned to Guido. ‘Leave us. Be on time tonight. No quaffing the vino until after the show, you hear!’
‘’Scusi, Signor,’ Guido hastily gathered up his music and departed to his hole in the basement.
Vianna turned away to rearrange her bodice, biting back her anger. ‘That was no accident. You designed this gown. You knew exactly what would happen!’
‘Of course. I’m no fool. A glimpse of your breasts and your modest reaction is an irresistible combination. You will disarm and excite every man in the room.’
Severin stopped her protests by covering her mouth in a long, lingering kiss. At last, satisfied he had calmed her, he turned her towards the door.
‘Go upstairs. You have earned your reward.’
Vianna expected him to follow her to bed. Instead Wanda was sent to help her change her gown in readiness for this afternoon’s sitting for the French artist painting her portrait.
Severin was waiting downstairs in the hall. Wordlessly, he used a silk scarf to blindfold her, and led her down the garden path to the entrance gates.
‘Voila! Your reward,’ he said and whipped off the blindfold.
Vianna was awed by the sight of the elegant black carriage drawn by a perfectly matched pair of greys. The reins were held by Severin’s giant henchman Blewitt, the former bare-knuckle prize-fighter who she distrusted but Severin relied on to bounce troublemakers from Severin House.
Today Blewitt was in full livery, a tricorn above his usual sour expression.
‘Your postilion will be added later, if you are a very good girl,’ Severin said.
‘You mean this carriage and pair are mine? Oh Severin, you are a darling. I feel like Cinderella going to the ball.’
She threw her arms around his neck, a gesture he withdrew until he followed her inside the carriage. ‘Now show me how grateful you are.’
Vianna knew what that meant. She slid onto his lap, kissing and caressing him. Whatever she had to give was his. But she was not driven by the lusty hunger that she pretended to share. While satisfying his needs, she was making plans.
Now I have my own carriage, I’m free to discover where he’s placed Daisy. Then nothing will prevent me holding her in my arms. Severin need never know.
At last, Severin’s pleasure was satisfied. ‘I have things to check before tonight’s performance. Off to your sitting with you. But keep that Frog in line. Remember, one word from me can make or break Jean-Baptiste Bonnard.’
Vianna sank into the luxurious plush upholstery as the carriage rocked towards the artist’s studio and towards a chink of freedom beyond Severin’s supervision.
Jean-Baptiste’s background was as cloudy as it was romantic. Some claimed he had been a prisoner-of-war captured by the British during the Napoleonic wars. Others said he had fled Par
is for the South Seas after a dancer broke his heart. Whatever the truth, Severin had recognised the quality of his portraits of exotic Otahitian women. Never slow to set a new fashion, he had become Bonnard’s patron, arranging his first public exhibition and commissioning him to paint Vianna.
The Frenchman’s studio was situated overlooking Elizabeth Ville, the bay next to Woolloomooloo Bay. As her carriage skirted an idyllic little beach where a creek flowed into the harbour, the tranquil bay studded with giant Port Jackson Fig trees, Vianna eyed the scene with some trepidation, reminded of the story about this place.
She had been told that following the arrival of the First Fleet of convict ships in 1788 the Colony had been close to starvation. Some prisoners assigned to cut rushes here had been in conflict with native blacks. She shivered at the thought that this place, now known as The Rushcutters’ Bay, was the scene of a convict massacre.
I wish I could learn the truth behind the colonial legends. Severin has no interest in this country – except to fleece fools of their money.
At Jean Baptiste’s studio she found him pacing the floor. He made a deep bow as if in the presence of royalty and as usual was unable to conceal his admiration. A quick learner, he was well past splicing his English with French words.
She declined his offer of wine, but was eager to chat with him. ‘Only two weeks until your exhibition, Jean-Baptiste. Are you as excited as I am?’
His eyes were ringed by equally dark shadows, his youthful olive complexion marked by signs of fatigue. ‘I have failed to do you the full justice, Madame.’ His accent was even more romantic to Vianna’s ears when he was sad.
‘Nonsense. I’m sure both my portraits are wonderful. And my name is Vianna,’ she corrected. ‘Come now, we are friends, are we not?’
‘It is not permitted, Madame,’ he said with an air of defeat.
‘Severin? Oh take no notice of that. I can handle him.’ She rattled on enthusiastically about her new carriage as she changed her costume behind the Chinese screen. ‘Please may I see my portrait, Jean-Baptiste? I have been very good and patient, haven’t I? It must be near completion by now?’
The artist gave a flattering groan of appreciation when she emerged from the screen wearing the exquisitely draped silken Grecian robe that left one shoulder bare. As was usual before each sitting she had arranged her hair, half piled on her head, half flowing over one shoulder to her waist. She promptly resumed her pose as Venus, reclining on the chaise longue. Out of respect for Jean-Baptiste she tried to remain silent, but she was troubled by his sad expression.
‘You are unusually quiet today. Have I unwittingly offended you?’
‘Never, Madame, this is impossible.’
‘So what is wrong? You’re about to become rich and famous.’
‘This must be our final sitting. Monsieur Severin demands I finish today. He accuses me of taking too long – because I wish not to make the farewell to you.’
‘That is nonsense, Jean-Baptiste. If you need more time to do credit to your work, I will make Severin see reason,’ she said with more confidence than she felt, reminded of the bruises on her body that Severin’s jealousy had caused in the past.
‘Forgive me. My patron – he speaks the truth. I would keep you here with me forever on the – what is the word? Not a lie, an excuse?
‘A pretext?’
‘Yes, yes, the pretext of painting you in different moods and costumes. I must confess it. I can conceal it no more, beautiful lady. I would lay down my life for you!’
Vianna was startled when the young artist seized both her hands and knelt beside the chaise longue, his head very close to hers. She was not afraid of him – but for him. Severin might arrive unannounced as he had done in the past.
‘Jean-Baptiste, you are very dear to me. But you have always known that I am a woman in keeping. But I am true to Severin. I do not take other lovers.’
‘I know you are chaste. That is why I worship you.’ He flung back the dark locks from his eyes and passionately kissed her lips.
What a fool I am. I didn’t see this coming. I thought it was just a charming French flirtation – nothing serious.
Vianna gently extracted herself from the kiss. ‘We must remember what is important. Severin has arranged the first exhibition of your wonderful work. This launch will make you famous throughout the Colony. Mrs Darling herself has agreed to open it. Her vice-regal seal of approval is a real coup. The Exclusives will attend in droves. All your paintings will be sold before you can say Jean-Baptiste Bonnard!’
The Frenchman shook his head, his eyes peering tragically through the tangled curls on his forehead. ‘I confess I have betrayed you.’
‘I don’t believe you. You have always been a true gentleman.’
‘If only this was true. Severin has forbidden me to show you your portraits. And I must never speak with you again after today.’
‘We shall see about that,’ Vianna said crisply. ‘I promise you we shall meet again. I shall attend your exhibition and sing your praises to everyone.’
Her words brought him to the brink of tears. She hastily withdrew her hand.
Severin! I could recognise his footsteps if he was marching in an army.
Severin stood glowering in the doorway. Vianna ran to his side.
‘Ah, darling, how kind of you to take time to collect me. We haven’t quite finished the sitting, but I feel sure Monsieur Bonnard will have no objection if you observe him at work.’ She prompted the artist, ‘That’s right, is it not?’
Jean-Baptiste looked as if his neck had just been saved from the guillotine. He made a deep bow. ‘I am honoured by your interest, Monsieur.’
The remainder of the sitting was conducted in total silence, but the signs were unmistakable. Her protector was seething with rage.
• • •
The sun was setting when Vianna awoke with a start on the chaise longue, not the first time she had fallen asleep at the end of a sitting. From an adjacent room Severin’s voice dominated the artist’s protests. She quickly exchanged Venus’s robe for her own clothes. When his anger showed no signs of abatement, Vianna crossed to the easel, where her portrait now faced the wall. Damn you, Severin. What right do you have to refuse me permission to see my own portrait?
She risked a glimpse of the painting. The beauty of the work stunned her. So this is how Jean-Baptiste sees Venus. I feel awed that his portraits of me will be admired by all Sydney Town.
She moved away just moments before Severin re-entered the room and took hold of her arm in an overt sign of possession.
‘Remember, Bonnard. Your paintings are to be exhibited as I see fit. A patron holds all the cards. Fame or failure rests entirely in my hands.’
In the doorway Vianna imperceptibly turned her head, just long enough to give Jean-Baptiste a broad wink – on Severin’s ‘blind’ side. The artist’s eyes smiled in acknowledgement.
On the return journey to Severin House, Vianna made it her business to charm Severin and deflect his jealousy. ‘You are pleased with my portrait, darling?’
‘It will do. It is not for sale. I shall hang it in Severin House.’ He eyed her coolly. ‘Remember the night we met? You failed to hide your desperation, your fear you would end up selling your body on the streets. You were ready to do anything. Take any man as your protector.’
Vianna felt all joy drain from her. ‘How chivalrous of you to remind me.’
‘You were ripe for the plucking. I took you to bed. You failed to please me but I recognised your potential. The device I installed for you increased my pleasure and yours. Remember?’
Vianna blanched at the memory of the device she had been forced to practise with daily for months – a gradual progression which had finally ended the pain she experienced in connection. And succeeded in giving Severin maximum pleasure.
‘Your patience was admirable,’ she said shortly. ‘I seem to remember I was the one who had to use the device.’
‘It was ne
cessary – to transform you into a courtesan equal to the greatest beauties of the age. You are what I made you, Vianna.’
His fingers curled around her throat. Vianna knew she must betray no sign of her fear or pain. Silence was her only weapon.
‘I have used that young fool Bonnard to complete the transformation. Two weeks from now ‘The Sydney Town Venus’ will be a byword in the Colony.’
He released his grip on her neck, but his voice was soft with danger.
‘Take great care, Vianna. I am not a man to tolerate betrayal. I left behind in England a name that bears witness to this fact. A woman’s name – written on a tombstone.’
Despite the return of Severin’s charming smile, Vianna’s hands were suddenly ice cold. So now I know. There is only one way out.
Chapter 6
Dawn failed to deliver Mungo fresh water and a crust of bread. Instead the door to his solitary hole rattled and a rough voice broke through the grey half-light. It was the first human voice he had heard in weeks that hadn’t been drawn straight from his own mind. Mungo recognised that it belonged to the old lag Ricketts, one of the rare guards who had retained a human streak, unlike some former convicts whose previous years under the lash had made them as cruel as the masters who had brutalised them.
Mungo’s return to reality, such as it was, forced him to resume his accustomed mask to disguise his true feelings – the one freedom that remained within his control. As always after a period in solitary confinement, when time had been lost, his voice sounded rusty with misuse. Yet that didn’t make sense. Hadn’t he been talking to Stimson well into the night? Or had that all taken place in his mind?
‘Ain’t seen you in a month a Sundays, Ricketts. What kept you?’
‘Move your body quick smart, lad. You’ve had time aplenty to repent your sins. Holiday’s over. It’s back to work with ye – by special orders of Captain Logan.’
‘How kind. I thought The Great Man had forgotten me.’ Mungo rolled over and staggered to his feet, surprised to be singled out for special attention from the Commandant himself. ‘Tell me, Ricketts, why do I get sent to Coventry when the other poor bastards continue to cop the lash, forced to work before they’ve had a chance to heal?
The Lace Balcony Page 7