The Lace Balcony

by Johanna Nicholls

  Framed by the archway, Vianna and Jane Quayle stood waiting, shielded by parasols so flimsy they were but a token gesture to protect their English complexions from the midday sun. In Mungo’s eyes the two women he loved looked as light and ephemeral as two bright butterflies.

  He leapt down from the driver’s seat to assist them to take their places on the little benches each side of the cart. ‘Where to, ladies? Your wish is my command.’

  His mother took charge. ‘First stop at the cobbler’s store. Then Macquarie Street. Dr Gordon’s new surgery – I’m sure you know where to find him,’ she said sagely, having been party to the details of the abduction saga after the event.

  ‘I also have an appointment,’ Vianna added lightly. ‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing contagious.’

  Jane cut in to make her point. ‘Which means, Mungo, you can deliver your urgent parcel and return for us in an hour or so.’

  She glanced meaningfully at the material protruding from Mungo’s hastily wrapped parcel. ‘I trust no real policeman will be demoted due to your shenanigans.’

  ‘You can count on me to set things right, Mam.’

  ‘That would be a red letter day,’ she said, but there was a smile in her voice.

  Light of heart, Mungo began whistling one of the Robbie Burns songs he had learned from Sandy at Moreton Bay, but chose not to sing the lyrics, which he enjoyed but considered a bit risqué for a woman’s ears.

  In front of the cobbler’s store, Mungo apologised. ‘I’d go in myself, Mam, but this Welsh pony’s a bit shy of traffic. She might take it into her head to bolt.’

  Jane Quayle gave him a knowing look and climbed down from the wagon.

  ‘Drive around the block. My business won’t take more than a few minutes.’

  The moment she disappeared inside the store, Mungo flicked the reins and drove off. He made a rapid decision. ‘Tomorrow I’m honouring my promise to you, Vianna.’

  ‘Which promise is that? To make your fortune? Please don’t bother on my account,’ she said with ambiguous sweetness.

  Mungo was not to be deterred. Felix is pretending to be busy being father’s dutiful son. But those papers I found on his desk prove what he’s up to. All that expensive furniture he’s ordered from Lyons’s auction house is to set Vianna up in style on father’s Mookaboola estate. I’ve got to give her something Felix can’t.

  ‘I’m going to teach you to read. Tomorrow we start your lessons. We’ll work together for an hour each day. You can practice the alphabet on a slate. In no time you’ll be writing to Governor Darling telling him how to run the Colony.’

  Her smile was wistful. ‘You mean well, but you’re wasting your time, Mungo. I don’t have the kind of mind that can handle book learning. I was advised to stick to what I do best.’ She added quickly, ‘I mean, my singing.’

  ‘Only an eedjit would tell you that. You have a bright, perceptive mind, Vianna, you can learn anything you set your mind to. And I’m a great teacher – I never give up on anything or anyone. So it’s a pact, right?’

  She looked distressed. ‘It’s hopeless, Mungo. I was born dumb. I can’t even sort out individual letters of the alphabet – they all seem to race around in my head like a pack of wild horses. Yet children learn and Wanda reads and writes perfectly.’

  ‘That’s ’cos someone loved her enough to teach her. Now you’ve got me.’

  His glance strayed to her lips and he was damned sure his hunger to kiss her was written all over his face.

  ‘Come on, girl. Give it a go. I promise after each lesson I’ll read you a chapter of Mansfield Park. It’s a very romantic story. The heroine Fanny is a poor ten-year-old girl who becomes the ward of a wealthy uncle. She faces all kinds of problems before she gets her man. How’s that for an offer? You’d be nuts to refuse it.’

  I’ve only read the first few pages but that should be enough to hook her. I can’t imagine Jane Austen leaving any heroine high and dry on the shelf.

  The sound of Vianna’s childlike laughter warmed him. ‘Mungo Quayle, you know just how to seduce a woman. But with words only. No further, understand!’

  Mungo took his eyes off the road to shake her hand in a gentlemen’s agreement, but retained it so long she cried, ‘Look out!’ There was barely time enough to steer the pony out of the path of the bullock train bearing down on them.

  After collecting his mother he deposited them both in front of the Macquarie Street address that was hung with a half-dozen surgeons’ brass plates, then drove off to the Watch House. He returned the young constable’s uniforms, his apology for the delay sweetened by a bottle of whisky from his father’s cellar.

  Next port of call was Müller’s Printing Store. If you want a perfect replica you can trust an old lag transported for fraud. But Harry’s dead respectable now. I’ll have to talk fast to convince him I came by this legitimately.

  ‘Good day to you, Harry. I’ve got a special, urgent job for you. I need a copy of this invitation to the Governor’s Ball – but with a blank space so I can write in my granny’s name. She’s confined to a wheelchair. It would make her so happy to skite to her old cronies she’s on the Governor’s guest list.’

  Harry Müller looked warily at the gilt-edged card embossed with the Governor’s coat of arms. ‘It says here it’s Felix L’Estrange who’s been invited.’

  ‘Yeah. He’s the bloke I work with. Heart of gold. It was his idea – to please my granny. What do you reckon? Can you do it? Or is it beyond your expertise?’

  Harry bridled at the suggestion. ‘Nothing I can’t do. Ready by tomorrow.’

  ‘You’re a genius, mate. How much do I owe you?’

  ‘For an old lady in a wheelchair – nothing. You’re a grandson to be proud of.’

  Mungo tried to hide his embarrassment, and determined to pay him something.

  My granny, whoever she was, is probably rolling in her grave at my lie. But all’s fair in love and war – especially as I’m up against a rival half-brother for whom money’s no object.

  He parked the pony trap by the verge of the Government Domain. The magnificent open space was like an Antipodean Eden, designated by Governor Macquarie for public use for perpetuity. Just now it was bathed in heady sunshine and cooled by a westerly breeze coming straight off the harbour.

  Stretched out on the grass and watching the clouds scud overhead, Mungo was mindful of keeping one eye on the building on the other side of Macquarie Street where his women were consulting Dr Alexander Gordon.

  Despite Vianna’s airy reassurance, Mungo wasn’t convinced that her need for medical attention was trivial. It was also odd behaviour by his mother, given her conviction about the superior power of herbs, but Mungo knew better than to pry into delicate female territory.

  Some women would have to be in a shroud before they let a doctor see them as God made them. I won’t worry. Vianna and Mam look as frisky as a couple of fillies.

  The time alone gave Mungo the chance to examine his new double life – the balancing act between working for his father and his private detective work searching for Daisy. He re-read the letter of response Albruna L’Estrange had passed on to him from the Matron of Goulouga, which confirmed that Severin’s neglect of Daisy’s school fees had led to her placement in foster care to a publican. They had no name or address for him.

  Mungo felt a surge of anger. Trust Severin to welsh on keeping a little girl fed and clothed. And for two years the mongrel kept Vianna in the dark about her fate.

  Mungo examined his list, taken from the most recent census, 1828. There were 134 licensed inns and public houses in Sydney Town alone. No doubt there were twice as many unlicensed shanties. He crossed off the names of watering holes where he had already quizzed the publicans and staff about Daisy Byron. Many other names remained. Meanwhile Mrs Less was in contact with the Parramatta Female Factory and other refuges in case Daisy had ended up being abandoned on the streets.

  It’s time to convince Vianna that I’m dead serious
about bringing Daisy to live with us. Whether the kid is really her sister or her own child, who cares? Vianna loves her. That’s all that matters.

  As he watched puffballs of high-flying clouds pierce the blue expanse of sky, for the first time in his life Mungo faced the prospect of what it would mean to father a child. As a youthful client of Maria’s, he had learned how to decrease the odds of unwanted offspring. The irony was that he was now desperate to make Vianna pregnant. A babe would anchor her to him.

  But first I’ve got to get her into bed! I never imagined I’d volunteer to father a kid. But I’d give Vianna a dozen if she wanted them. Hell, I’d swim to New Zealand if it made that girl happy. A sudden thought occurred to him. Hey, having kids takes money!

  His imagination was ripe with ideas to make his fortune, mentally jumping from colony to colony with plans involving land, mining, trading, shares and bank loans. And a fool proof scheme he promised himself he would put to his father . . .

  • • •

  Vianna was anxious about her first ever visit to a physician. Dr Gordon’s receptionist was a tiny matron who scowled over the top of her spectacles, but her voice was gentle when she advised, ‘Your turn after Miss Quayle.’

  Vianna noticed the doctor’s oddly nervous greeting of Jane, ‘Always a pleasure to see you, Miss Quayle. Do be seated.’

  His door was left ajar. Jane’s words filtered through to her. It’s almost as if she wants me to hear.

  ‘I am in your debt Doctor . . . taking my son under your wing . . . saved his life. . . . the servants told me . . . many nights since his return . . . witnessed it myself . . . terrible nightmares . . . yelling like he’s in agony . . . being flogged . . . afraid of something . . . calls out Patrick Logan’s name . . . next morning remembers nothing . . . or so he says . . .’

  Mungo. Vianna’s heart sank. She could not distinguish the doctor’s replies but his counsel must have reassured Jane because she thanked him warmly before rejoining Vianna.

  Jane squeezed her hand. ‘He’s a good man. Speak freely. Nothing shocks him.’

  Vianna paused in the doorway but Jane’s nod encouraged her to proceed, so she pushed aside her anxiety about her visit to this man who was Mungo’s hero. Dr Gordon rose and politely gestured for her to take the seat opposite him. His quiet voice had undertones of a Scottish burr which sounded oddly familiar.

  ‘I understand you were referred to me by Miss Jane Quayle, an excellent lady of great common sense and an impressive knowledge of herbs.’

  Vianna was aware Jane had offered him herbal remedies, prompted by Mungo.

  ‘Yes, Doctor. Otherwise I would not have come. ‘I have never in my life been to a physician. Jane told me that anything I say to you will be treated in the strictest confidence – like talking to a priest in the confessional.’ She added nervously, ‘Whatever that means. I’ve no experience of that either.’

  The smile in his eyes was reassuring. ‘Aye, that’s so, Miss Francis – except I have no authority to give my patients absolution for any real or perceived confessions. I simply treat human bodies. That does not grant me the right to sit in judgment on their lives. I’ve made my own fair share of mistakes – though none, I hasten to add, that have adversely affected the lives of my patients. So rest assured, whatever is said in this room, remains in this room.’

  Vianna stammered her thanks.

  ‘I understand from your medical history that you are twenty-four years old, in apparent excellent health. And have never suffered any broken bones or diseases other than a mild attack of cow pox as a child – which no doubt accounts for your excellent, unscarred complexion. And that you have never been delivered of a child, or to your knowledge conceived one. Is that correct?’

  ‘Almost, Doctor. That is, I feel foolish in saying this – but I do not know if I have ever fallen with child.’ She placed on his desk the small green bottle and the note from Wanda. ‘I have been a woman in keeping. My work as an entertainer did not allow me to take time from work. My protector took care that I should not fall . . .’ She gestured helplessly to the bottle.

  He examined the label. ‘So he administered this to you regularly?’

  ‘Every month for the three years I was under his protection. I have had no trouble – or bleeding. I am ashamed to say I was ignorant of the process – other than that it would prevent me conceiving a babe.’

  ‘You did not want children?’

  ‘No, at least not with Severin. I did not love him – but I grew dependent on his protection. Now that he is gone from my life I must face up to my own stupidity.’

  ‘To need a man’s protection is not an act of stupidity, Miss Francis. The world we live in is designed by men for their own advantage. It is only a flaw if a woman continues to make the same mistake once she is given the chance to free herself.’

  Vianna felt as if his words were sinking deep inside her. He understands everything. And he does not treat me like a whore.

  ‘At what age did you experience your first menses – your monthly bleeding?’

  Vianna stammered the truth. ‘I have never bled. My stepmother put me into service to a courtesan when I was twelve. My mistress gave all her servants medication each month. None of us fell pregnant.’

  He nodded sagely. ‘Aye, thank you, lass, for being frank. It is a great help to me. Now, what is it ye wish to know? Is it safe to continue using this medication? Or are there other safer ways to avoid falling with child? Or do ye wish to be examined on the chance you are already with child?’

  Vianna faltered. ‘I want the answers to all those questions. I know nothing about medical things. Does this physic prevent a babe – or actually kill it in the womb? Why was I so stupid? I never asked what was happening inside my own body. I don’t want to remain ignorant for the rest of my life.’

  ‘Aye, spoken by an intelligent woman,’ he said firmly. ‘So let’s begin your education.’

  Vianna listened attentively as he outlined the properties in medications of this nature, and other methods used to suppress female fertility. He advised against their continued use if she wished to bear future children.

  ‘There are no statistics about those courtesans and prostitutes who fail to bear children. Whether their infertility is due to age, frequent use of preventative physic or medical abortions, is open to debate.’

  He added with a shake of the head, ‘Physicians, like clerics, are a mite quick to argue that their theories are correct and that every contrary one is wrong. I can only suggest the range of possibilities that science has not yet proven.’

  Vianna listened intently to his words, free of the usual euphemisms. His manner gave her the courage to ask questions without embarrassment.

  ‘Since I stopped taking this physic several months ago, I have had no signs of bleeding. Is it possible I’m already with child?’

  He gave her a penetrating glance. ‘I need to ask a few frank questions. I trust they will nae distress or embarrass ye.’

  Vianna felt her mouth suddenly dry. ‘Please continue. I want the truth.’

  ‘May I ask if ye find connection unsatisfactory for you or your partner? You would not be the first woman to fake enjoyment to please her lover.’

  My God where’s this leading? Vianna forced herself to meet his eyes.

  ‘I’ve been trained in the arts of a courtesan, Doctor – the art of convincing a man he is a superb lover. I convinced my protector – but my own pleasure was often counterfeit. Until in recent months I met a young man – with him there’s no need for pretence.’

  He studied her kindly. ‘Was connection ever very painful for you?’

  Images flooded her mind of her earliest memories in bed with a man, the clumsy attempts at intercourse, the excruciating pain, the lodger’s frustration, the failure he blamed on her . . . the advent of Severin in her life, his demands that she fulfil his needs with what proved frequent, painful intercourse. Finally the ‘toy’ Severin had instructed her to use each day when alone �
� a procedure he promised would increase his pleasure . . .

  Now, reassured by the doctor’s awareness of this device, it was a relief to withhold nothing. She described it as rather like riding a bicycle, uncomfortable but not painful.

  ‘Severin told me to increase the size of the insertions over a period of months. Until he was satisfied I gave him maximum pleasure.’ She added wryly, ‘My training was complete. But it did not come with a manual about the dangers of falling in love. I only discovered that with – this other young man.’

  ‘I take it this young man wishes to marry ye?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Aye, and ye might wish to have a child with him.’ Dr Gordon nodded sagely. ‘Thank you for your honesty. I will be equally honest. May I request the presence of my partner, Dr Golding, when I examine you?’

  Vianna nodded her consent. Please God let it all be over soon.

  The older surgeon had kindly sad dark eyes in a sharp-featured face. His words were clipped, a curious blend of a Scottish burr masking some European accent. During the examination Vianna kept her eyes closed, unable to decipher their exchange of words. She tried not to think of her body as a corpse.

  Later, dressed and seated alone opposite Dr Gordon, she watched him making notes. Finally he regarded her with an expression that made her uneasy.

  ‘I can assure you, Miss Francis, for better or worse, you are not with child.’

  ‘What is wrong doctor? Do I have some terrible disease?’ she asked lightly.

  ‘No. You are one of the healthiest young women I’ve ever seen. You have every chance of living beyond the desired three score years and ten.’

  She gave a nervous laugh. ‘But . . . ?’

  In answer he took down a volume from his shelves and turned to her, his tone like a sympathetic juryman reluctant to deliver an unwelcome verdict.

  ‘I am very sorry to be the one to tell you the problem, my dear. I asked Dr Golding to confirm that my diagnosis was correct. Nature rarely makes mistakes, but sometimes when she does, they are irreversible.’