The Lace Balcony

by Johanna Nicholls

  Mungo froze, unwilling to disturb him. Then the soldier turned his head and looked directly across at him. Mungo felt his blood run cold. Unable to turn away, he looked into the man’s face – and saw sheer terror in his eyes.

  The soldier held up his hands as if to ward off something unspeakable.

  Those eyes. I can never forget them.

  Then the church was empty again.

  Mungo stumbled down the aisle clutching the cloak, suddenly aware of the presence of the verger in the doorway.

  ‘Find what you were looking for, Sir?’

  Mungo pointed to the altar, his mouth so dry he could scarcely form the words. ‘Captain Patrick Logan. Did he – was it here that he . . . ?’

  ‘Indeed, yes. Captain Logan’s funeral was one of the largest ever conducted here. Half Sydney Town turned out to pay their respects to his widow. Fine man. A great tragedy. A friend of yours, was he, Sir?’

  ‘Not exactly. But you could say Logan left his mark on all who knew him.’

  Mungo offered his thanks to the verger for his trouble. On his way out he checked the pockets of Felix’s cloak then withdrew the silver coins he found, placing them in the poor box as a donation on behalf of Felix.

  He had one final question for the verger. ‘Can you tell me where Captain Logan is buried?’

  • • •

  The Devonshire Street Burial Ground was marked in sections for mourners who wished to tend the graves of dead Anglicans, Catholics, Presbyterians and those in the corner reserved for the Jews. The cemetery was empty except for a ragged old lag lying spreadeagled behind a tombstone, tenderly cradling a bottle reeking of cheap shanty grog. At first glance the old man looked like a corpse waiting to be buried, but when he began to sing a sea shanty, Mungo decided there was still a fair bit of life in him.

  Logan’s vault was situated alongside that of Major John Ovens, also of the 57th Regiment of Die Hards, who had died in 1825.

  Two celebrated explorers lying side by side for eternity.

  The inscription on Ovens’s tomb recorded his career in detail, including his wish to be buried here in the grave of his great friend, Deputy Judge-Advocate, Ellis Bent.

  In marked contrast, Logan’s brick vault was only identified by the temporary words, ‘Captain Patrick Logan. Died Moreton Bay October 17, 1830’.

  Mungo read the words aloud. ‘Well, Logan. Just wanted to make sure they buried the right man.’

  Mungo didn’t fool himself. He knew the bitter irony of his words was nothing but a thin camouflage for the ghastly images that kept forcing themselves before his eyes at unpredictable moments night and day.

  Would he never be free from those images, until he himself turned to dust?

  Mungo’s voice rasped out the words. ‘Your fellow officers, the Die Hards, reckon it was native blacks that done you in. Most official reports agree. But I suspect you and I know better, don’t we, Logan . . . ?’

  Chapter 19

  ‘Heaven knows why Mrs Less invited me tonight,’ Mungo said, as he sat, in the manner of childhood, squirming on the kitchen stool while his mother trimmed the ragged edges of his hair. Since his return from Moreton Bay it had grown in Currency Lad style, long enough to spill over the high stiff collar of the tailcoat that the L’Estrange tailors, Nathan Bloom and Sons, had rushed to complete in time for tonight’s celebration.

  ‘Hold still,’ Jane Quayle ordered, ‘I’m nearly done. You can’t let your father down by fronting up with a bushy head like a scarecrow.’

  ‘I feel more like a ship being launched – under fire from Mrs Less’s broadsides. I can handle eating breakfast each morning with Felix in the big house, but this formal dinner with the whole family, plus some bigwig guest of honour, isn’t my idea of a good time.’

  ‘You might be pleasantly surprised,’ she said enigmatically.

  ‘You know something I don’t?’

  ‘I keep my ear close to the ground.’ She snapped the scissors shut and began brushing his jacket free of stray hairs. ‘Don’t be letting the wine rule your tongue and spurting that Jack’s-as-good-as-his-master stuff. That pipedream won’t happen in our lifetime, lad. I’m still listed on the convict musters as a servant assigned to Kentigern L’Estrange. A Lifer. Not that I’m complaining. I’m blessed to hold the deeds to this cottage, thanks to your father. But living under his roof is your chance to learn how to behave like a gentleman.’

  ‘Who says I want to be a gentleman?’

  ‘I do. You’re as good a man as Felix any day of the week.’

  Mungo knew he had touched the raw wound that never healed.

  ‘I won’t let you down, Mam – not this time.’

  ‘If you do, I’ll hear it quick smart on the servants’ grapevine. Now be off with you. I have to mix some fresh chamomile and bergamot to make an infusion for the Master to drink tonight to help him sleep.’

  Mungo shrugged acceptance of one of the euphemisms that she had used since his childhood, to let him know she would not return home until morning. She had been summoned to the Master’s bedside. As a boy it had meant nothing. Now he found it oddly embarrassing.

  ‘Thanks, Mam, for shearing my wool.’ He shook back the stray locks from his eyes. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  He hesitated at the door. ‘That girl I told you about. I can’t say much right now. It’s complicated. But I’ve found her. I’m going to get her back. Trouble is I’ve only got seven days to do it. And damned Felix is my rival. Wish me luck, right?’

  Jane blinked rapidly but answered confidently, ‘I don’t doubt you’ll do it, son. Remember, God created the whole world in seven days.’

  • • •

  Feeling like an alien, wearing the first fine clothes not originally tailored for Felix, Mungo hurried down the garden path towards his social baptism of fire.

  As a child he had worn a track daily to the schoolroom upstairs, but had only once entered the formal rooms of the mansion, some twenty years ago, when playing hide-and-seek with Felix during the family’s absence. Tonight it was difficult not to be impressed when Old Crawford threw open the doors to the dining room and Mungo followed in the wake of Albruna L’Estrange entering on Felix’s arm.

  Jesus. Could Government House be any grander?

  The long mahogany table was polished like a mirror, reflecting the light of the candelabras. The silver cutlery and crystal glasses at each place setting were engraved with the ancient L’Estrange family crest. He recognised that this fabled Austrian dinner service was part of Albruna L’Estrange’s treasured dowry. He remembered Jane’s acerbic warning that ‘any servant who breaks a plate will be transported to Norfolk Island.’

  At the heart of the table an epergne held an exotic floral arrangement, flanked by a pair of silver branch candlesticks. Wine coolers were placed at each end of the table, flanked by water carafes. Tureens and platters held soup, fish, vegetables, melted butter, oyster sauce, tongue, chicken, asparagus – and that was only the first course! Young Molly had briefed him on what to expect. Second course: boiled turkey, beef curry and rice, patés, ragout of breast of veal, crab fricassee and cutlets á la maintenon. Third course: puffs, tartlets, white mushrooms, Italian cheese, blancmange and the evocatively named Tipsy cake – layers of sponge cakes spread with jam, saturated with sherry and brandy, with custard poured over the whole pyramid.

  This sure beats the hell out of my Diamond Python camp cooking.

  The carver’s chair at the head of the table was empty, awaiting the Master’s arrival. Mungo felt nervous, reminding himself to address his father in public as Sir.

  Nothing must go wrong tonight. It marked Kentigern L’Estrange’s first defiant appearance downstairs, following months marooned in his bedchamber under strict instructions of his elderly physician, who insisted on regular blooding treatments.

  The assigned servants in livery appeared strangely unfamiliar to Mungo, their faces shadowed by the flickering lights from candelabras and the oil cups in the chan
deliers. Mungo was aware he was under intense scrutiny – their expressions ranged from female admiration amongst the maids, to Old Crawford’s nod of approval and the cynical humour in Cockney George’s eyes, sending Mungo the clear message, ‘Ye can’t fool me, cock. You’re no better than us.’

  One servant stood to the left of the hostess, one to the left of the host’s empty chair, one behind the chair of each guest. Mrs Less appeared composed but her eyes betrayed her anxiety in her quiet asides to Old Crawford to check that everything was perfect. Mungo was aware of her dogged attempts to train her convict servants despite the fact that throughout the Colony assigned servants fell far short of the quality of English servants who were born to service and knew their place.

  She had long ago accepted that her husband granted Old Crawford special licence as an old family retainer who had been assigned to him as a young man on his arrival in the Colony. Old Crawford’s increasing state of confusion meant that from day to day he switched his role from valet to butler to coachman.

  Mungo noticed that tonight Albruna L’Estrange was subtly transformed. The royal purple of her gown enhanced the blue of her eyes. Buried in the lace framing the deep V of her bodice was a miniature replica of the L’Estrange coat of arms. Her blonde hair, barely touched by grey, seemed to be dressed in a softer style than usual.

  Mungo felt a twinge of disloyalty for his admiration of his mother’s arch-enemy. If she was other than Father’s wife, I’d say she was a right handsome woman.

  Only the ticking of the clock broke the silence. Mungo studied the gilt-framed portraits of the newly crowned King William IV and his German consort, Queen Adelaide, much admired by Mrs Less, and a fine landscape by Augustus Earle. The mirror reflected the back of Felix’s head, curled in the romantic style of Lord Byron.

  Seated in the high-backed chair opposite him, Felix’s military posture and appearance were correct to the last detail, his head held erect by the high collar of his evening jacket, his neck linen tied to perfection.

  He looks like a prince – me, like an imposter. But I must admit he’s making an effort to put me at ease. No easy matter with the servants’ ears and eyes fixed on us.

  Mungo was surprised that the first course was served before the arrival of his father and the unknown guest.

  Felix leaned discreetly towards Mungo. ‘Father’s guest of honour has been unavoidably delayed at Government House. And as you know, Father is somewhat self-conscious about the limitations of his left hand, so he’s dining upstairs before he joins us. He’s to be much admired for his determination to resume his life, don’t you agree?’

  ‘Absolutely. I only wish that old leech, Johnson, would stop bleeding him. That’s what killed Lord Byron, not his wounds fighting for the Greeks’ liberation.’

  Albruna picked up on their conversation. ‘Then you’ll be pleased to know Mr L’Estrange has dismissed his respected physician – against my advice. I’m afraid he’s become caught up in so-called modern ideas of healing I find quite alarming.’

  For once that can’t be a barb at Mam. Her herbal remedies have been practised since the year dot.

  Mungo was relieved to have his wineglass filled by Cockney George. He noticed how well drilled the servants were under the watchful eye of their mistress. The only one to falter was timid little Molly, serving at table for the first time.

  Wide-eyed and cautious, she silently filled Mungo’s water glass.

  He gave her a discreet wink and said for her ears alone, ‘You’re a quick learner, Molly. Go straight to the top of the class.’

  She rewarded him with a smile that reminded Mungo she was only months short of marriageable age. Thirteen’s too young for sport, but I reckon Cockney George would have his way with her, given half a chance. I must keep an eye on him.

  Albruna quietly addressed Old Crawford, ‘Please see if my husband needs assistance.’

  As if in response the doors were flung open and Kentigern L’Estrange stood in the doorway, his tall once powerful frame as erect as his walking stick would allow. His eyes gleamed and his slightly crooked smile was triumphant.

  ‘Apologies! Kept you waiting.’ The words were surprisingly clear and Mungo almost cheered. He and Felix sprang to their feet in unison but when Felix solicitously moved to assist his father to his chair, he was waved aside. No help needed.

  Mungo felt a surge of pride. ‘What a wonderful surprise. You look great, Sir.’

  The murmurs of agreement were accepted by the Master of the house as his due and he further illustrated his confidence by allowing his wineglass to be filled. He rose to his feet and with his strong right hand raised his glass.

  ‘To the Land we Live in, Lads – Australia!’

  Mungo was deeply moved that his father must have rehearsed to make the familiar words as articulate as possible. They all echoed the toast, then at a wave of the Master’s hand the servants offered a procession of platters of food more sumptuous than Mungo had ever imagined existed.

  Now that all four at the table were relaxed, Mungo studied them, sensing that the balance of power in the family, shaken since the paralysis that had rocked their world and challenged his father’s leadership, had made a significant shift back to his father’s control.

  The patriarch’s eyes watched them on high alert, amused to be party to their conversation but clearly aware of his limitations. He avoided eating clumsily in their presence but helped himself occasionally to the grapes in the chilled bowl placed within easy reach of his right hand.

  When Felix rose to his feet, Mungo realised he had been primed to speak on their father’s behalf. ‘Father loves to be mysterious. So I am unable to identify the guest of honour who shall join us later, but who is unavoidably detained by the nature of his work.’

  Kentigern’s raised eyebrow prompted Felix to continue. ‘This evening’s dinner is due to Father’s wish that we join together to welcome Mungo’s safe return – from New Zealand.’

  That’s for the servants’ benefit, but I bet they aren’t fooled for a minute.

  ‘Mungo, I regret you were not able to attend my twenty-first birthday dinner.’

  ‘I was unavoidably detained by the nature of my own work,’ Mungo said quickly and was rewarded when his father’s laughter broke the tension.

  Felix managed a smile. ‘It is good to see that time has not diminished your sense of humour, Mungo. But to continue, Father regrets we were unable to celebrate your own majority.’ He hesitated. ‘I understand this is a small reminder that you were never far from our thoughts.’

  Kentigern beckoned Old Crawford to approach and to Mungo’s surprise he was offered a silver tray which held a small box wrapped with silver ribbon.

  ‘Open!’ his father commanded. Startled by the unexpected gift, Mungo tore it open to reveal a gold watch and chain, identical to the one Felix had received.

  Mungo felt his throat constrict as he silently read the inscription inside the watch: To my beloved son Mungo, in whom I am well pleased.’ Engraved at the heart of it was ‘The Three Legs of Mann’, the ancient emblem of Jane Quayle’s native land.

  Mungo was unable to express the feelings that welled up inside him – the years of being the ‘other son’ who was never acknowledged, the rivalry between Felix and himself, fuelled by the bitter enmity between his father’s wife and his convict lover.

  The message was plain. Father’s telling me what he is unable to tell the world. Felix and I are equal in his eyes.

  ‘I’m overwhelmed, Sir! Thank you both,’ he added, confronted by the expression of pain in the eyes of Mrs Less.

  But at least Felix’s mother is by Father’s side tonight – my own mother is only good enough to be summoned to his bed.

  Felix cleared his throat before resuming his instructions. ‘Father has made an important decision. As you know, we recently acquired the public livery stables in Little Rockingham Street. From now on our carriages and horses will be stabled there. This means our present stables and th
e groom’s quarters are no longer required.’

  Felix withdrew from his breast pocket an envelope and handed it to Mungo.

  ‘These are the deeds to our former stables. Father has signed over this small building to you, Mungo, for the use of Boadicea or whatever purpose you choose. Father regrets there was no time to advise you of his decision, Mother.’

  Mungo sensed Felix was embarrassed by his father’s action. Mrs L’Estrange was clearly caught off-guard by the patent lie, but quickly recovered her composure.

  ‘We will ensure that the stables and loft are made habitable for your living quarters,’ she said.

  ‘Goddamit! No!’ There was no mistaking Kentigern’s anger as his hammered fist sent his wineglass flying.

  Felix flushed but responded quickly, ‘That was not Father’s intention, Mungo. You are welcome to reside here as long as you wish. Father wants you to accept these deeds – as a small gesture of our thanks for your service to the L’Estrange family.’

  A neat way of saying Sean O’Connor saved the family name from disgrace.

  Unable to find adequate words to express his gratitude, Mungo crossed to his father’s side. They locked each other in a silent embrace that needed no words.

  At last he turned and bowed to his hostess. ‘I thank you also, Mrs L’Estrange. You know what this means to me – and my mother.’

  My God, if looks could kill, I’d be six feet under.

  His duty done, Felix abandoned etiquette and Mungo followed suit. They drank their wine with as much haste as if they had crossed a desert without water.

  Mungo forced himself to pay Felix his due. ‘Nice speech. The Perfect Son welcoming home the Prodigal Son – the roles we were both born to play.’

  Felix’s aside surprised him. ‘Ever wanted to trade places with me?’

  ‘Yeah. At Moreton Bay!’

  Mungo was pleased to see his father holding up his end of the conversation, but his own mind ricocheted between pleasure and anxiety. He touched the gold watch to remind himself that nothing was impossible.

  I’m now a man of property, eligible to sit on a jury and vote.