The Lace Balcony

by Johanna Nicholls

  ‘But Severin, I much prefer Wanda’s company,’ she protested, only to be cut short by a dismissive wave of his hand.

  ‘A black lady’s maid is no protection from admiring mobs – or jewel thieves.’

  This was a sore point with Vianna. ‘Anyone would think Blewitt was protecting the Crown Jewels. The truth is you never allow me to wear them in public. The jewels from my admirers are kept locked in your safe.’

  ‘Blewitt will shadow you to protect your virtue, Vianna – such as it is.’

  Vianna felt heat flush her face and neck, at yet another biting reminder of her status as a ‘woman in keeping’.

  Severin’s confidence about the exhibition is just a mask. I suspect there’s far more riding on it than the sale of Bonnard’s paintings. But what? Severin plays his cards so close to his chest my head aches trying to work out his next move.

  As the carriage swung between the iron gates of Henrietta Villa Vianna gasped with admiration. The castellated mansion more than lived up to its legend, standing like a miniature castle carved from stone against the aquamarine skyline.

  ‘Imagine living in a place like this!’

  ‘It’s well past its prime. When Piper’s empire collapsed in the depression, wealthy emancipists snapped it up far below market value. Piper’s loss was Cooper and Levey’s gain.’

  ‘How sad,’ she said.

  Severin cast a cursory glance at it. ‘If you think this is impressive, you should see my family’s estate in Buckinghamshire. This looks like our gardener’s cottage in comparison.’

  The scowl that clouded his face reminded her that Severin’s Conditional Pardon was effective banishment for life. If he returned to England illegally he would be immediately transported again with his original sentence likely to be doubled.

  ‘I am not greedy, Severin. I’m quite content to admire other people’s mansions.’ She decided to risk all. ‘When you make your fortune, I would be perfectly happy living on a property in the country, with an orchard and garden – and a couple of dairy cows.’ The unspoken words were obvious – where we could give Daisy a happy childhood. But she knew that her eyes were silently pleading – because Severin averted his gaze.

  ‘All in good time, Vianna. Today I must launch our new era – and keep my promise to you.’

  Which promise is that? All men are born with broken promises on their tongues.

  • • •

  The L’Estrange family carriage had been polished to a shine and its plush interior smelled of beeswax and the aromatic perfume of acacias that Albruna L’Estrange favoured even above French perfumes.

  Felix glimpsed Henrietta Villa in the distance and felt a boyish flash of anticipation. No stranger to this house, he had wonderful memories of Captain Piper’s outrageous hospitality. He recalled his sense of awe as a boy on learning from his father that Piper had built this mansion for the astronomical sum of ten thousand pounds. He recalled the pomp and circumstance of attending the celebration of the laying of its foundation stone, with his father, Piper and their fellow Masons at the first public Masonic function in the Colony. He had stood to attention as proud as a little tin soldier by his father’s side, awed by the formality of the phrases . . . ‘By the Blessing of God in the Reign of George III during the Government of Lachlan Macquarie . . . laid by . . . the Worshipful Master of the Masonic Lodge of Social and Military Virtues.’ Felix had silently vowed to become a Mason to make his father proud of him.

  The date was impossible to forget, November second, 1816, his seventh birthday, and he had been pleased to have his father’s full attention – Mungo was not invited.

  ‘I wonder if Cooper has inherited the small brass cannons Captain Piper used to delight me and his brood by firing farewell salutes to his friends on ships sailing through the Heads. Remember?’

  A flash of pain registered in his mother’s eyes. ‘I was never there. Invited by his wife Mary Anne of course, but your Father and I mixed in different circles.’

  ‘Of course. Forgive me, Mother. I am sorry to remind you of past sadness.’

  ‘This is water under the bridge,’ she said firmly. ‘But I trust you know I did my best to give you a happy childhood – despite the War of the Roses around you.’

  ‘I am grateful for all you’ve done for me, Mutti.’

  ‘Good. Then perhaps you will repay me by being pleasant when I introduce you to the daughter of Sir George Quenton – one of our First Thirteen Families.’

  Felix flinched. Mother never misses a cue. I knew there’d be a price to pay for attending this damned exhibition. Will she never cease playing matchmaker?

  ‘I trust the girl can string two sentences together without giggling?’

  ‘It would help if you refrained from lecturing her on astronomy,’ she retorted.

  If I found a girl who shared my interest in the stars I’d marry her tomorrow.

  Felix was thankful for the diversion when they sighted the vice-regal carriage waiting in the shade of the Norfolk Pines.

  ‘Mrs Darling has arrived ahead of us. You know how I hate to be late,’ she snapped. Judging by the far-away look in the coachman’s eyes, Old Crawford’s mind was some thirteen thousand miles away in his native England. So Felix helped his mother to alight and steeled himself to face the social conventions he was expected to perform. No doubt the whole of Sydney society has been invited.

  Neither Felix nor his mother had previously encountered their host. He charmingly introduced himself simply as Severin, but they knew he was an emancipist entitled to the prefix of ‘Honourable’ – a title which helped regain his social acceptance. Tall and immaculately tailored, his dark leonine mane of hair was streaked with grey at the temples. He was nothing if not charming and his finely chiselled features bore the stamp of aristocracy.

  When Severin kissed the hand of Albruna L’Estrange and engaged her in conversation about his protégé, the young French artist Bonnard, Felix chose the moment to disappear discreetly into the crowd.

  Despite signs of decay since he had last been here, the magnificence of the grand ballroom with its domed roof and Italianate pillars stirred his memories of playing Blind Man’s Bluff with the Piper girls – and the touch of his first kiss. The house, even as it was now, stripped of furniture to accommodate the paintings and the swarm of the Quality eager to be seen as art lovers, provided an elegant showcase for the artist’s work – as well as sublime sweeping views of the harbour.

  Catching sight of Miss Quentin, flirting behind her fan, Felix seized the chance to lose himself in the crowd. To cover his shyness he thankfully accepted a flute of champagne from a tray borne by a turbaned Indian servant. A second glass made him distinctly relaxed.

  Entranced by a landscape labelled ‘Bivouac in the Illawarra’, he became conscious that Severin was standing beside him.

  ‘May I ask what you think of the artist’s work, Mr L’Estrange?’

  ‘His perception is extraordinary. My father has timber holdings in the Illawarra – so I’m familiar with the power and majesty of those forests. Unlike so many foreigners who view our eucalypts as if European trees were painted on their eyeballs, this artist has captured the soul of the Australian bush. This young Frog is the most gifted artist I’ve seen in years – even in Europe.’

  Severin’s eyes narrowed in pleasure. ‘An acute observation. May I introduce you to the artist himself, Monsieur Jean-Baptiste Bonnard.’

  Good God! I’ve just insulted him by calling him a Frog. I’m a social leper – I should never be allowed to step outside Rockingham Hall.

  Felix was horrified to find himself face to face with a handsome young man whose dark hair curled around his face in the Byronic mode.

  They exchanged bows and Felix was quick to apologise.

  ‘Forgive me, sir. I meant no disparagement of the French. I am guilty of the careless habit we colonials have – we give everyone nicknames.’

  Bonnard’s eyes were smiling. ‘I thank you from my heart. It is
rare for an artist to hear genuine comments of his work. I am at your service, Monsieur L’Estrange. A French name. You were born here? But perhaps have French blood?’

  ‘No. In Prussia, my mother’s homeland. But I’ve lived here most of my life – except for the Grand Tour of Europe, of course.’

  Severin had moved on, but Felix was surprised to be talking comfortably with a stranger. The champagne had taken the edge off his nerves.

  ‘Will you permit me to show you my favourite painting?’ Bonnard asked and, securing two more glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, steered Felix to a portrait of an incredibly beautiful young woman lying on a chaise longue wearing Grecian robes. Men clustered around it in admiration.

  Felix was stunned. My God that’s her! The girl at Will Eden’s hanging! What a miracle to find her here!

  ‘She is beauty beyond belief, n’est-ce-pas?’ the artist asked wistfully.

  Felix could do no more than stammer, ‘Who is she?’

  ‘I have named her portrait ‘The Sydney Venus’ – because she is like the brightest star in the heavens – but always beyond the reach of mortal man.’

  Felix felt stirred by emotion both for the girl and the artist with whom he now felt a common bond.

  ‘Would you allow me to purchase it? Whatever the price.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir, I am honoured, but it is not for sale. The painting and the girl, Vianna, they both belong to Monsieur Severin.’

  Felix felt as if he had been punched in the gut. That means she’s a lady in keeping. But I don’t care. She now has a name. Vianna. I must meet her.

  He found the courage to ask, ‘Is she here today?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur, she is about to be introduced before your eyes.’

  His gesture indicated Severin who was now elevated on the dais beside Her Excellency Mrs Darling. Following a charming speech, she formally declared the exhibition open and was then promptly enveloped by her vice-regal entourage.

  Severin then drew Jean-Baptiste Bonnard up onto the dais, lauding his work, his sensitive insight into his subjects, including the exotic Australian landscape.

  Felix blushed scarlet to hear Severin quote Felix’s own endorsement of the work – to which the guests responded with spontaneous applause.

  It was then that he saw her. Vianna – his Venus. Every woman in the room wore an extravagant, outsize hat. Except Vianna. She was bareheaded, her ethereal face framed by a thick cloud of golden hair falling to her waist like a cloth of gold. Dressed in a simple flowing gown similar to the one worn in her portrait, with a shawl draped around her ivory shoulders, she personified both innocence and other-worldliness.

  As if drawn by a magnet, Felix followed her as she weaved through the crowd towards the dais, where a painting on an easel now stood, concealed by a linen veil.

  Severin drew the girl up onto the dais beside him. Vianna smiled at the assembled guests and inclined her head in respectful acknowledgment of the artist, who seemed to Felix to grow increasingly alarmed when Severin made his announcement.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I am about to unveil for you the pinnacle of the artist’s work. This young lady who posed for the artist is already known to you as the “Sydney Venus”.’ He gestured to the portrait across the room. “I now invite you to admire the real Venus.’

  With a flourish he pulled the cover from the painting to reveal what seemed at first glance a duplicate portrait. The same ethereal face, the same pose – except for one difference. Above the Grecian folds of her gown, one breast was exposed, the nipple blood red against the ivory white of her flesh.

  The total silence was broken by Vianna’s heartfelt cry. ‘Jean-Baptiste! How could you do this to me? I never posed like this!’

  Jean-Baptise was distraught. ‘Forgive me! I swear I did not give my permission. This was never to be shown in public!’

  The room erupted with outraged cries of ‘Shame on you!’ and ‘You hussy!’ Figures fought to break through the crowd, either to exit – or to bid to buy the scandalous painting.

  Felix was shocked to discover his Venus was mortal. She blanched, then staggered back a step to be clasped in Severin’s strong embrace. Felix felt a surge of emotion as she broke free and tried to pass through the throng of men, who despite their vocal outrage, reached out to touch her, question her and delay her exit.

  For the first time in his life Felix experienced the blood lust of battle. He blindly pushed aside every man who blocked his path and fought his way to her side.

  The shock he saw registered in those blue eyes told him what he must do. He lifted her up in his arms, calling out, ‘Let me pass, you bastards! The lady needs air!’ He thrust his way to the exit and carried her out into the garden.

  Felix was light-headed from the glorious feeling of her arms clasped around his neck, her face buried in his shoulder as she sobbed like a child. Gone was all thought of the mother he had abandoned. He had only one searing thought in his brain. I must rescue her. Take her home – to Rockingham Hall.

  He had almost reached the safety of the family carriage when a giant of a man with a broken nose and pugnacious set to his jaw wrested Vianna from his arms – and punched Felix in the face, intent on pulverising him.

  ‘That’s quite enough, Blewitt. The gentleman meant well.’

  At the sharp command of the Honourable Montague Severin, the giant instantly froze in the stance of a boxer.

  Uncertain of his next move, Felix took a step towards the sobbing girl. ‘Please, allow me to escort you home, Miss Vianna.’

  Her eyes widened and she ceased crying, about to answer him.

  Severin intercepted her reply with a deceptively easy manner. ‘My thanks to you, Mr L’Estrange, for your gallantry. But this lady is my responsibility. She is safe in my hands. Your servant, Sir.’

  His words were accompanied by a brief bow then Severin swiftly escorted Vianna to his carriage and climbed in beside her, ordering Blewitt to drive off.

  A crack of the whip and the horses charged off at a gallop.

  Only then did Felix become conscious of the pain in his jaw. He stood breathing heavily, hatless and assaulted by the wind. Blood poured from his nose, staining his shirtfront. He barely noticed it. He was shocked by the girl’s public humiliation – the artist’s betrayal of her, but even more by his own initiative in rescuing her. His thoughts were scrambled, confused by champagne.

  Her shocked reaction seemed genuine. The Frog denied giving Severin the right to display it. But Severin is his patron. Which one of them is telling the truth?

  Felix’s eyes were drawn to the retreating carriage. Severin is a gentleman – yet despite his charm I don’t trust him . . . Oh God, here comes Mother on the warpath.

  Albruna L’Estrange’s back was ramrod straight. She glanced with horror at his appearance but brushed past him, rejecting his hand to assist her into the carriage.

  ‘We will never speak of this again, Felix. God willing word will not reach Mrs Darling of my son’s extraordinary, vulgar conduct.’

  Confused and angered by the injustice of her censure, Felix closed the door, gave Old Crawford the order to drive her home – and to return for him in an hour.

  ‘I shall see you at dinner, Mother.’ She stared at him in consternation but did not argue as the carriage drove off.

  Felix stood buffeted by the wind, unheeding of the haughty stares at his bloody appearance. He found himself smiling at what had occurred inside.

  I can’t believe I did that. I called Sydney’s Exclusives ‘bastards!’ and rescued a damsel in distress. For once Mungo Quayle would have been proud of me.

  When Felix re-entered Henrietta Villa, the ballroom was still swarming with gentlemen all jostling for position around the clerk recording the sale of paintings. A glance around the ballroom showed a rash of cards attached to the paintings, showing most had been sold.

  In search of Bonnard, Felix was directed to an ante-chamber, where he found him slumped in a chair, staring moros
ely into his wine. Despite the furore Felix felt a jolt of sympathy for the artist, who was now well on the way to being inebriated.

  ‘It seems you are now a cause celebre,’ Felix said warily.

  The artist’s eyes were haunted. ‘The whole Colony will believe Vianna is shameless – or that I betrayed her.’

  ‘I would welcome your version of the story.’

  ‘I did – and I did not,’ he said tragically. ‘Vianna will never believe the truth. I fell in love with her. What man could resist her? I knew I could never hope to possess her. Severin’s hold on her is too strong.’

  ‘I understand,’ Felix prompted, hoping to learn more about her.

  ‘I was enchanted by her the first time I heard her sing – at Severin House. I lose so much at his gaming table – I never hope to repay him. Severin, he agreed to wipe out my debt by holding this exhibition. On condition I paint – his mistress.’

  ‘Did she allow you to paint her – like that?’

  ‘One day while sitting for the first painting, she fell asleep on the chaise. The breeze blew her robe,’ he gestured delicately to his own chest. ‘I confess it. The artist in me was tempted. I did not wake her. I painted the beauty I saw – solely for my own pleasure. What harm could there be?’

  ‘You intended no one would ever see it but you?’

  ‘Exactly! But Severin discovered the second Venus. He demanded to possess it for himself – not for the exhibition. I believed him!’

  Felix considered the story carefully. ‘And I believe you.’

  ‘Thank you! But Vianna will never believe – I know her. To the world she is a courtesan. But to me she is an innocent – in search of true love!’

  Felix sought desperately for a solution. The champagne wasn’t helping.

  What would Mungo do? He’d probably steal the portrait.

  ‘I have an idea. To protect the lady’s honour, allow me to buy it – at whatever price you name.’

  Jean-Baptiste shook his head in confusion. ‘How does this protect her?’