The Lace Balcony

by Johanna Nicholls

  ‘Who won?’ Jane said complacently, already packing a basket with her herbs.

  ‘It’s hard to tell. Felix’s face was the colours of the rainbow when he took his mother to church. Mungo looked like a pirate with an eye patch when he rode off in the opposite direction.’

  ‘Not to a church, I’ll be bound. To the nearest sly shanty, more like,’ Jane said resignedly. ‘So who’s in residence this morning?’

  ‘None but the Master and Old Crawford. All the servants are attending church – or so they say. I’m helping Ma cook the Sunday roast.’

  ‘You’d best be off with you. Thanks for the sad tidings,’ she added ruefully.

  Molly skipped down the path, clearly energised by the dramatic fight.

  Vianna thanked Jane for breakfast and reached for her carpetbag.

  ‘Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face, lass. Your job is to find your sister. Stay put until you do. Decide later which man you want in your life. We Manx have a saying, “Take your time. It will come to thee.”’

  ‘You’re so wise, Jane.’

  ‘Heaven knows I’ve had time enough to learn after all my mistakes. Now, the house is an empty nest Sunday mornings. Come and see how the Other Half lives!’

  Vianna’s curiosity outweighed her shame.

  • • •

  The entertaining areas of the east wing opened on to each other through a series of heavy oak folding doors. Following on Jane’s heels, Vianna entered a breathtaking new world, a genuine blueprint for quality, compared to the theatrical imitation of Severin House.

  Jane gave her a brief guided tour, explaining that this was Albruna L’Estrange’s half of the twin mansions. Vianna was free to wander at will downstairs but the mistress’s private quarters upstairs were strictly forbidden. Meanwhile Jane had arranged to attend to Kentigern’s medicinal needs in the Master’s wing and would soon leave her to it.

  I have a fair idea what that entails. I suppose Jane brought me here to stop me bolting in her absence. Or was it to show me the luxury Felix lives in – to tempt me to choose him? Whatever the reason, this house is so full of art and treasures it’s like a feast – I could almost eat it!

  Jane guided her to a glass cabinet. ‘These rare porcelain pieces were Albruna’s dowry. Mr L’Estrange told me their history.’ She pointed to an exquisite porcelain flower on a stem of pure gold. ‘Madame de Pompadour had a conservatory full of different porcelain flowers like this, each sprayed with the scent of the real flower! Crazy if you ask me, but kings and nobles can afford to be eccentric.’

  She pointed out another piece. ‘This came from the private porcelain factory built by some King called Augustus the Strong. He prized porcelain so much he had his Japanese Palace built entirely of the stuff, even porcelain tiles on the roof and lining the walls – to house his collection.’

  ‘Augustus the Strong sounds like a great soldier.’

  Jane lowered her voice, though there was none to overhear. ‘The Master told me he earned the name from his prowess in the boudoir, not the battlefield.’

  Vianna smothered a laugh.

  Jane caught her admiring a Bustelli figurine of Harlequin. ‘Who does he remind you of?’

  ‘It’s the spitting image of Mungo!’

  Vianna felt she was walking through a luxurious maze.

  ‘Imagine what it’s like to be surrounded by all this beauty every day of your life,’ Vianna said in awe.

  ‘Felix has from birth,’ Jane said enigmatically.

  When Jane went to the other wing to visit the Master, Vianna returned her attention to the paintings, intrigued by the portrait of a young man with a leonine shock of blond hair, whom Jane had identified as Kentigern Estrange, painted at the time of his wedding by an unnamed convict artist. Vianna was struck by the significance of the lone portrait – there was no corresponding wedding portrait of his bride.

  The portrait’s striking resemblance to Mungo and, to a lesser degree, Felix was uncanny. It’s like looking into Mungo’s eyes. The same ironic humour – as if to hide the sadness at the heart of him.

  Aware she was trespassing, she kept her eye on the grandfather clock, feeling as nervous as if she were exploring holy ground.

  It is all so grand, and yet something is missing, something that is in Jane’s cottage but absent here . . . a feeling of warmth – of love.

  Double doors opened onto a music room where Vianna was drawn to a magnificent rosewood pianoforte she recognised from a London catalogue from John Broadwood and Sons. She had begged Severin to order it for Guido to accompany her. She knew it covered six and a half octaves and had cost at least seventy-five guineas.

  Reverently seated on the piano stool, she studied the music sheet. She had not played for many weeks but Guido had taught her well and, after a halting start, she lost herself in playing the haunting melody with growing confidence.

  ‘You surprise me, young lady. It seems you learned to read music before you learned to read books.’

  Startled, Vianna sprang up and curtseyed to the man she recognised from his portrait as Kentigern L’Estrange. In the slight slurring of his words, she heard the trace of the illness she had heard about.

  ‘Forgive me, Sir, I meant no harm. I haven’t played for so long –’

  He gave a dismissive wave of the hand. ‘Jane brought you here on my orders. The house is empty, an opportune occasion to speak with the Quayles’s house guest.’ He cocked a quizzical eyebrow, ‘Alias, Fanny Byron.’

  This is no man to be toyed with. Charm will get me nowhere. I’d best play this scene as Felix would say, ‘with a straight bat’. And show no fear.

  ‘Fanny Byron is no alias, Sir. That is the legal name my father gave me at birth. I have resumed the use of it while a temporary guest of the Quayles – to avoid embarrassment to the L’Estrange family. But as you are well aware, Sir, I am better known as the notorious Sydney Town Venus, Madame Vianna Francis.’

  With one eyebrow raised he gave a grudging nod of acknowledgment, his stare challenging, but not without a touch of admiration.

  ‘As I suspected – nobody’s fool and a woman with spirit.’ He gestured her to take the seat opposite him. ‘I can see why my son Felix and young Quayle are at loggerheads, both laying claim to be your protector. What say you?’

  ‘Their conflict is no wish of mine, Sir. The sooner I am free to leave here, the better for all concerned.’

  ‘What of the contract on which you made your mark – or someone did on your behalf? Is that all that holds you here? Or is it a more complex matter of the heart?’

  ‘Love is a luxury no courtesan can afford, Sir.’

  ‘Don’t play games with me, girl. It does not amuse me to have two young men under my roof besotted with the same woman in keeping. In fairness to them, following your so-called abduction, I ordered that you were to be granted time to make your choice. Don’t push me too far. You are rapidly running out of time. Make your decision – a mistress to Felix, or a wife to Mungo.’

  Vianna made him wait. Don’t push me too far. I’ve been bullied by an expert.

  ‘And if I do not choose either fate?’

  ‘Then I shall be forced to take Severin to court on charges of fraud.’ He added casually, ‘in which case you would be called to give evidence as his partner in crime.’

  Surely this is a bluff. But you never can tell with the Quality. The newspapers are full of lawsuits for defamation and fraud. Everyone is suing everyone else in this crazy colony – even Governor Darling.

  Kentigern added with a shrug, ‘It need not come to that. I have a proposition.’

  Oh my God, what’s coming next? Does he also have designs on my body?

  ‘I shall pay your passage to England, British Canada, the Cape Colony or where you will. Set you up in a new life. You have my word as a gentleman, you will receive a quarterly remittance to enable you to live in comfort.’ He added as an afterthought, ‘Whatever future profession you choose to follow is entirely y
our decision.’

  For a moment she was tempted, but acceptance meant abandoning Daisy.

  ‘Most generous, Sir,’ Vianna said coolly but her hands were shaking at his implied insult about the world’s oldest profession. ‘But I cannot accept your offer. To do so would only increase your own long-standing problem.’

  He looked startled. ‘I beg your pardon!’

  ‘If I accepted your offer, your son and Jane Quayle’s son would never forgive you. You are the one and only person who can heal the lifelong rift between them.’

  ‘My God, you are an impertinent wench! How dare you speak thus to me!’

  ‘I dare to tell you the truth, Sir.’

  Jane Quayle was standing in the doorway, a wide-eyed witness to the scene.

  Vianna was determined to have the final word. ‘For what it’s worth, I give you my word as a friend of both your son and of Mungo Quayle. One way or another I shall quit this place within a few weeks, Sir.’

  Vianna gave a deep curtsey and left the room, her eyes smarting with unshed tears. As she hurried towards the doors to the garden, their words drifted back to her.

  ‘What on earth did you say to her, Kentigern? I brought her here at your request. To meet her – not to insult her!’

  ‘Forgive me, Jane. I needed to test her. The woman is everything that’s said about her – but so much more. I suspect I have discovered the perfect mistress for one of my sons. The problem is – which son?’

  Chapter 33

  Over the breakfast table Mungo scanned the Colony’s newest newspaper, The Sydney Herald. He skipped the front page packed with columns of advertisements, shipping lists, land and horse sales, and went straight to the colonial and world news.

  Digesting events in Europe that had occurred some fourteen weeks earlier, he shook his head in disbelief. ‘Seems half of Europe’s got its back to the wall.’

  Felix made no response beyond, ‘Hardly surprising, England, Prussia and the Frogs being what they are.’

  Mungo was instantly on guard. Something’s up. Felix is unusually chipper for this time of day. He’s usually picking out Prussian items of interest to Mrs Less.

  Felix was now humming a lively snatch of martial music that Mungo failed to identify but knew belonged in some opera. Felix was dressed to kill. ‘I’m off to beard the manager of the Bank of New South Wales in his lair. Father’s old bête noir. Trust I can talk him around to the L’Estrange advantage.’

  He drained his coffee and rose from the table. ‘Where are you headed? North, south, east or westward ho?’

  ‘No instructions as yet.’

  Felix was gone, leaving Mungo distinctly uneasy. He’s too cocky by half. What does he know that I don’t? Must keep my ear to the ground for servants’ gossip. Molly’s a good source.

  Mungo made his way to the office where, judging by the stacks of files and the scarlet legal seals on the documents, his father was enjoying a fresh surge of energy, resuming his hold on the reins of his rural estates and his shares in shipping and wine companies and in John Macarthur’s celebrated Australian Agricultural Company.

  The patriarch struck straight to the heart of the problem, his speech almost restored to its former confidence. ‘Your last report – all that fancy fine print you stumbled on!’

  ‘A problem, Sir?’

  ‘Not yours – theirs! Damned good insight. The bank was about to trick me. You’re learning fast, lad. Even Mrs L’Estrange can’t fault you.’

  Mungo fiddled with the hat he held in his hands, pleased by the unexpected praise. He idly wondered how his father addressed his wife on the rare occasions they were alone – but their time alone was probably confined to the latest rounds in their marital battle.

  ‘What’s on today’s agenda for me, Father? Boadicea’s rearing to go.’

  Kentigern looked up from studying a document through a magnifying glass, his expression curiously guarded.

  ‘You realise I cannot take sides between you and Felix. The less I know about your private affairs the better. But I can’t avoid hearing servants’ gossip.’

  Mungo gave a sigh of resignation. ‘What are they saying about me now?’

  ‘You staged a public fight over that woman Venus, whoever she is.’

  ‘Are you telling me, or asking me, Sir? You taught me never to bandy a woman’s name.’

  ‘It hardly comes under the heading of mere gossip, if you’ve got the wench stashed right under my roof.’

  ‘Under my roof, Sir. The lady in question is under Jane Quayle’s protection so I’m not risking your family name – only mine.’

  Kentigern looked discomforted. ‘Point taken. Can’t say as I blame you. From what I’ve seen of her, standing like Juliet on your balcony, she’s a rare beauty.’

  ‘I won’t argue with that, Sir.’

  ‘My problem is Felix. I put my name to that damned contract before I knew the lie of the land. No more blood spilled between brothers, d’you hear?’

  Mungo noted the sad acknowledgment of their sibling rivalry.

  ‘If the lady chooses Felix of her own free will, I promise you I’ll take her decision on the chin. But until she decides, I’ll go down fighting Felix or any other bloke. It’s an open secret she has a past. I’m determined to be the last man in her life.’

  ‘Choice seems clear cut. Mistress to a wealthy man or marriage to a poor one.’

  ‘That’s it in a nutshell. I’m not complaining. I’m grateful to you for employing me until I get back on my feet. But I aim to make my own fortune my way. Just as you did yourself as a young man when you arrived in the Colony.’

  ‘Aye. But I had a distinct advantage. An old family name opens doors in colonial society – it gained me my first land grant from Governor Macquarie. But those days are long gone. The end of an era.’

  He waved in irritation at a newspaper on his desk. ‘This incoming Governor, Sir Richard Bourke, is said to have proved himself a liberal as Governor of the Cape Colony. Those radicals Wentworth and Wardell claim he intends to change the system. Phase out transportation and attract free settlers. In which case they’ll back him in The Australian. But you can’t expect the Exclusives to take those changes lying down. There’ll be blood on the streets, mark my words.’

  ‘Where do you stand, Sir?’ Mungo asked, aware his question was impertinent.

  ‘Same place I’ve always stood. Walking a tightrope between idealism and the conservation of my hard-earned fortune.’

  ‘Right. So where do I stand on the tightrope today?’

  ‘Bring me a full report on my estates on the northern shore. On my desk tomorrow.’

  ‘Consider it done, Sir.’ Hey, perfect timing to check out Mookaboola.

  Mungo was halted momentarily by his father’s seemingly casual parting words, ‘There’s no need for you to run it by Felix first.’

  He passed his mother as she entered the office, her usual basketful of herbal tinctures over her arm. At sight of the Cockney manservant George lurking at the end of the corridor, Mungo politely inclined his head to his mother.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Quayle. Mr L’Estrange is waiting for you to change his bandages.’ Make some gossip out of that if you can, George.

  • • •

  Boadicea was always ready to charge off on an adventure away from the noisy confines of the town. Today Mungo felt the eager, nervous energy in her muscles as they crossed the harbour by wherry.

  Silent Jack the Waterman grunted as he rowed past the house on Milson’s Point of his rival waterman, the legendary Jamaican, Billy Blue, whom Macquarie had admiringly named ‘The Little Commodore’. Ahead of them was the private wharf on the northern shore that met the track to Hunters-hill.

  This was Boadicea’s first ever harbour crossing, but with Mungo’s reassurance she behaved like the champion she was born to be.

  ‘I reckon the country’s going to the dogs,’ Silent Jack said sagely. Mungo decided he was probably younger than his weather-beaten hide sugges
ted. Lugubrious and articulate, he cheerfully aired his views on the changing status of the Colony and the ‘wars of libel’ being raged between Governor Darling and the editors of all the newspapers, except the government’s mouthpiece, The Gazette.

  Although born free, Jack had inherited his Irish accent second-hand from his parents, proud that they were old lags who had done well.

  ‘Came free yourself, did ye?’ He eyed the cut of Mungo’s jib, asking the standard question out of casual interest, not to prove one man better than another.

  ‘No, mate, I’m Currency. I’m here to check out my master’s estates.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be a L’Estrange, would ye now?’

  Mungo was startled. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘For weeks past I’ve been ferrying across pine crates addressed to that name.’

  ‘That figures. L’Estrange is my master.’

  Silent Jack’s mouth turned down at the corners in an odd grin of approval.

  ‘Well, you’d best stay in his good books, lad. He’s clearly a man who doesn’t hold back from spending a penny or two.’

  Mungo knew that was his cue to tip him well. But as he had little cash on hand, he added to the standard fare a small flask of whisky from his saddle bag, as an added incentive for Jack to collect him promptly at five that afternoon.

  ‘No doubt you’d prefer Irish whisky?’ Mungo asked.

  ‘I’m ecumenical when it comes to whisky, lad. I’ll even drink the health of the English King if there’s whisky on offer.’

  Jack called back across the water his promise to return at five. The sun glinted on the flask, proving that Jack was already putting the whisky to good use.

  A thick carpet of feathery-fingered gum leaves covered the track through dense bushland, deciduous native eucalypts, pines, palms and giant ferns, not a tree in sight naked of leaves except those ring-barked ready for felling.

  To Mungo this land was paradise on earth. He drank in the heady eucalyptus aroma, snapping off a switch of slender, red-tipped gum leaves, flaying it alternately across each shoulder to keep occasional insects at bay.