The Lace Balcony

by Johanna Nicholls

  That silenced them. Cockney George took control. ‘Yeah, come on you lot. Quit your magging and get back to your places before the Mistress catches ye.’

  That had the desired effect. They scattered in all directions.

  Vianna returned to the attic with the hot water bottle, feeling a wave of pride at the protective roles played by ‘the brothers L’Estrange’. But where was Felix right now? Whatever had occurred at Mookaboola, Molly’s tears and the clues behind her words gave Vianna the strong impression that Felix had been ‘consoled’ by Molly – but now had cold feet.

  Vianna knew it was too late for legal justice for Molly. The law was blind to the rights of children. But she believed she knew Felix better than he knew himself – a dreamer with his head in the stars, he was above all a stickler for preserving family honour. Now, through no fault of her own, Molly’s past trauma was public property. Vianna was convinced Felix would express sincere support in private, but if his relationship with Cook’s daughter were to become known, she suspected he would withdraw into his protective shell.

  That’s a problem only Felix can solve. Mine is finding Daisy. I feel sure Severin knows where she is. Time is running out. The Bussorah Merchant is my one chance of a free passage. Why is it I feel Daisy is close by me? Just out of sight . . .

  Feeling tired and confused, she slipped the hot water bottle under Molly’s feet, careful not to wake her. The attic was cold, the wind blowing through the open window. Securing the latch she caught sight of Toby in the garden picking flowers.

  The sight of Toby talking to his imaginary friend brought a lump to her throat.

  Lonely children often invent a playmate. Well, at least Toby’s no longer alone. Jane will take care of him. Mungo’s back – but who knows for how long? He’s welcome to find a good woman and breed a dozen children. I just don’t want to be around to see his happiness.

  • • •

  Mungo was chafing at the bit to put things right with Vianna. He was reminded that as a lad, knee-deep in trouble, he had skited to Felix he could worm his way out of any situation. But the truth was he could never conceal anything from his mother. She could always be counted on to give him a tongue-lashing and a dose of sound Manx common sense. Some things never change.

  Jane Quayle was in her skillion, a tiny opossum suckling on the teat of a baby’s bottle. As always, the water was playing on the stove ready to fill the teapot when Mungo walked through the door.

  ‘I reckon I owe you an explanation, Mam.’

  Mungo sat astride a chair and helped himself to a piece of her cake.

  She slapped his hand down with a wooden spoon. ‘Wash your hands. A fine example you are to that son of yours you abandoned.’

  ‘I didn’t desert him, Mam. I left him with you. Anyway, I admit Toby feels like my son. But we’ll never know. When he’s older, how do I explain to him that I’ve only got a half share in him? That his Uncle Felix might have done the deed, not me? Not that it matters, I like the kid.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. But you’ve surely changed your tune. Vianna read me the note you left me – saying you were gone forever. So what’s changed?’

  Mungo felt acutely embarrassed. ‘I was a bit quick off the mark. I thought I’d have to face the music at Moreton Bay. But that’s all fixed now. I’m home for good.’

  ‘So where does that leave Toby? When are you going to grow up and act responsibly? Don’t get me wrong, I’ve really taken to the kid. But all your life you’ve been dumping me with joeys, wombats, ’possums, goannas – even that mermaid upstairs.’

  ‘That mermaid is my future wife,’ he said quickly.

  ‘Does Vianna know that?’

  ‘Not quite. I’m still working on it.’

  Jane poured him a cup of tea and a noggin of whisky – and a smaller one for herself.

  Mungo said teasingly, ‘Hey, Mam. Methodists are supposed to be abstemious.’

  ‘We are. But there are some days when I feel more like a whisky than a Methodist.’ She handed him a letter. ‘She left this. I suspect she plans to fly the coop.’

  Mungo read it aloud, stunned by the message between the lines.

  ‘She’s saying goodbye to you, Mam. But she’s rejecting me because she can’t have kids. She believes that’s the only thing that will make me happy.’

  ‘Is she right? Think carefully before you answer.’

  Mungo did not hesitate. ‘I want her. Any way I can get her. Hell, if I have the urge to breed I’ll buy a stallion for Boadicea and raise horses.’

  Jane jerked her head in the direction of the front room where the sound of chalk scratching on slate indicated Toby was engrossed in his alphabet.

  ‘It might help Vianna to know you’ve got a kid already. Toby is yours, no mistake.’

  Mungo gave a short laugh. ‘God told you that, did He? Or was it your Manx fairies? How can you be so sure? His eyes are brown, mine are blue. His hair’s dark, mine’s yellow. He doesn’t look a scrap like me or Felix – or any of our parents.’

  ‘That’s only the cover of the book. Read what’s inside. It all adds up. This week he brought me home a magpie with a broken wing, a lizard with a missing leg, and a baby snake. I wasted no time in returning the snake to the bush. The other patients are in boxes in the skillion.’

  ‘That only proves he has a kind heart. Lots of boys do that kind of stuff.’

  ‘Right, but how many boys have the gift of second sight – who can see what you see? What my fey granny could see. Ghosts. As a kid you talked to them, just like Toby. This week he gave me a message from a seven-year-old boy who told him he had gone out on a fishing boat and “got lost”.’

  ‘What’s that prove?’

  ‘My hair stood on end. My youngest brother went out on Pa’s fishing boat during a storm and was washed overboard. They never recovered his body.’ She paused. ‘He was seven years old.’

  Mungo felt his heart begin to race. He waited.

  ‘You want more proof? I take it you’ve never given the kid a bath, have you?’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘Toby can’t be Felix’s son – he’s a Quayle. And here’s the proof.’

  Jane kicked off one of her slippers and waved her foot in triumph.

  ‘Toby has inherited one of my webbed toes.’

  Mungo threw back his head and his laughter poured out, joining his mother’s, like a deep river joining with a gurgling brook. The sound was so infectious that Toby peered around the door at them.

  ‘We’re celebrating good news, Toby,’ Jane said.

  Mungo drew the boy to his side. ‘How’d you like to have a new name? How does Toby Quayle sound to you? Mungo and Toby Quayle, father and son! Then no one can ever separate us!’

  Toby’s grin tilted his mouth like the painted face of a little clown.

  Mungo ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘That also means you’ve got a new grandma. What’s the Manx word for grandma, Mam?’

  ‘There are two, but the easiest to say is mwarree,’ said, Jane. ‘It has a nice ring to it. Are you happy to call me that, Toby?’ The boy’s grin stretched even further. ‘Good, that’s settled.’

  Mungo felt relieved that this discovery forever linked him to Toby, but he was sobered by the knowledge that he was far from solving his biggest problem. Vianna.

  As if in response, a chain of outrageous ideas flashed across his mind like sparks in the wake of a rocket.

  My God, I’ll need to tread carefully with this.

  He tried to sound as if he had given the matter mature, intelligent thought. ‘Do you think you could break one of your iron-clad rules – just this once?’

  She looked distinctly wary. ‘Let’s hear it first.’

  ‘Would you come with me to talk to Mrs Less? I need a big favour.’

  Jane Quayle didn’t say yes. But she didn’t say no either. He must act now.

  ‘I’ll explain later.’ Mungo paused in the doorway. ‘I’ve never said this before. Never wil
l again. But I know the price you paid – living under Albruna’s shadow so I could grow up knowing my father. That cost you the chance to marry. Good men don’t grow on trees, Mam. Sandy wants to do right by you. So I’m asking you – don’t reject him out of hand.’

  When she did not answer, he added, ‘Take your time, it will come to thee.’

  Mungo instructed Toby to gather a bunch of flowers, gave him a message and sent the boy racing off to the servants’ attic.

  • • •

  Vianna heard a child’s light footsteps hurrying up the servant’s back stairs followed by Cockney George calling out, ‘Hey, not so fast, lad. Molly’s resting!’

  Vianna opened the door to them. ‘It’s all right, George. She’s sound asleep. How kind of you to bring her flowers, Toby. I’ll put them in water for her.’

  George retreated downstairs but Toby stood his ground. ‘Flowers are for Molly. Message is for you.’ His chest puffed out like a pigeon as he frowned with the effort to deliver the message verbatim.

  ‘Mungo says Jane says you need to know something you don’t know.’

  Vianna smothered a smile. ‘Who could resist an invitation like that?’

  Molly’s eyes half-opened. She smiled her thanks then went back to sleep.

  Vianna took the hand Toby offered her and they hurried to Jane’s kitchen. The best china was laid out and the teapot ready to pour. On the surface it was a cosy domestic scene, yet Vianna shivered. That goose just walked over my grave again.

  Jane had just poured the tea and Mungo was watching her keenly when Vianna suddenly became aware of the rocking chair. The rag doll she had made long ago for Daisy wore that enigmatic smile she had sewn on its face. She knew she had packed it in her valise.

  ‘I see we have company,’ Vianna said with a nod at the doll.

  Jane looked surprised. ‘Toby, did you borrow that dolly without asking permission? You know what I told you about respecting other people’s things.’

  ‘It doesn’t, matter,’ Vianna said quickly.

  Toby looked nervous. ‘I didn’t take it.’

  Mungo said calmly, ‘Tell the truth, mate. You won’t get into trouble.’

  ‘But I didn’t take it,’ Toby said. ‘My friend did.’

  He filled his mouth with cake and pointed to his lips to show he couldn’t talk. Vianna gently tilted Toby’s chin. His eyes were as guileless as an angel’s.

  ‘It’s all right, Toby, I’m not cross with you. Just tell me the truth. Where did you meet your friend? Was it in Mrs Navarro’s house?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. Here.’

  The words dried in Vianna’s mouth. ‘What is your friend’s name?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘She just comes here to play with me sometimes.’

  She – a little girl. Vianna felt her knees buckle. Mungo started forward and Vianna met his eyes. They were of one mind.

  ‘Where does she live, Toby?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. But she sleeps here sometimes – in the stables.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘She said she has to go away soon.’

  Jane covered her mouth with her hands, staring at the boy. Vianna was afraid to say the words out loud. ‘Can you take me to her, Toby?’

  Toby accepted her outstretched hand and led her out into the street. Vianna knew the sun must be shining because she could feel it burning her skin through the muslin of her blouse. She felt the tight grasp of Toby’s small hand in hers, as he led her, tugging her whenever she faltered. She was only dimly aware of the passing carriages, the carts drawn by draught horses loaded with kegs of ale from the Albion brewery, their drivers whistling as they flicked their whips for show.

  Time seemed to have broken free of its moorings.

  Mungo caught up with them, leading Boadicea, unsaddled, by the reins. He offered Vianna his arm but she declined it. Somehow it seemed important that she keep her balance unaided.

  At last Toby halted, uncertain. He swung open the iron gate. Mungo tethered the horse to the railing and followed them down the narrow path.

  Names jumped out at her. Carved in stone or written on wood, some grand and illustrious names, some old and weathered; some spaces were nameless, lost and untended. The names of Anglicans, Catholics, Presbyterians, Jews and others, each in their own quarter.

  Toby halted, confused. ‘My friend isn’t here.’

  ‘It’s all right, Toby,’ Mungo assured him. ‘How about you go and keep Boadicea company?’

  It was then that Vianna saw it – the small plot where little white daisies struggled to grow amongst the weeds. Vianna traced the words on the wooden marker, as if she were writing them on a child’s slate. Daisy . . . born London 1824. Died Goulouga, December 1828.

  The second date burned like a flame in her mind. Two years before I went to Goulouga. Severin made me believe Daisy was there playing in the garden. He read me reports of her progress – for years after she died!

  She stood numb, powerless to move. Desperate to cry out in anguish, but there were no words. No tears. God forgive me, Daisy. I did it for you! But you never knew that – and you died alone!

  Mungo knelt to part the weeds that masked the words at the bottom.

  His voice rasped out the words. ‘Loved child of the Honourable Montague Severin! No wonder we couldn’t find any record of her.’

  Vianna found her voice, flat without emotion. ‘She was my family, not his. Severin controlled her even in death.’

  I’ll kill Severin for this! I’ve nothing left to lose.

  Her movements were suddenly wild, erratic, desperate to smash something, to feel the physical pain that would release the anguish inside her. Against her will, she was constrained, bound by the strong arms of the man who held her fast, repeating gentle words. Mungo’s embrace, Mungo’s voice.

  ‘Daisy knows you loved her, darling. She knows. That’s why she couldn’t leave you. What Toby said is true, darling. It’s time to let her go, Vianna.’

  Vianna looked up at him, accusingly. ‘How long have you known the truth?’

  ‘Only now for sure. But I should have guessed. There was an epidemic in ’28. Lots of children died. Toby’s like me. He can see what others can’t.’

  Toby picked a wildflower growing in the grass. He handed it to her. Vianna pulled out the weeds and placed the flower amongst the daisies on the soft dark earth.

  Forgive me, my little sister. I can’t cry. I can only hate.

  She became aware Toby was studying her with anxious eyes. She felt like an automaton, that some unseen hand pressed to make her speak. ‘You’re right, Toby. It’s time to let Daisy go home to her mother.’

  Drained of all emotion, Vianna obediently followed Mungo and allowed him to hoist her onto Boadicea’s back. She felt Toby’s arms tight around her waist as he rode pillion behind her. His warm little hands covered her ice-cold fingers.

  Mungo led them home in silence.

  It’s all over. The lies. The dreams. My false hopes for Daisy. My life here is over. There’s nothing left for me in this God-forsaken country.

  Chapter 50

  The final sounds of New Year’s Eve revelry had only just faded when the first cocks crowed in the nearby farms. Vianna was drying her hair on her Juliet balcony, her valise standing defiantly by her bedside in readiness for boarding the Bussorah Merchant.

  The new calendar for 1832 hung on the wall, a symbol of her new life. There was no need for her to stay a day longer. She had not chosen to take up Jean-Baptiste’s offer of a bed in his studio to hide from Severin. Instead she decided it would be safer to remain on board ship for the day or two before it sailed.

  She could not bear the thought of prolonged contact with Mungo and Felix.

  This chapter of my life is ended. Best to cut it off as cleanly as a surgeon’s knife amputates a limb that has no hope of healing.

  A girl’s piercing scream drew her to her feet. The door of the east wing of Rockingham Hall burst open and a swarm of bodie
s erupted into the garden. The cry was a magnet for the servants, who hung out of windows or watched excitedly from the sidelines.

  The eye of the storm was Molly. Scarlet with fury, Mrs Baker emerged in hot pursuit, brandishing a metal soup ladle at her daughter. Molly barely managed to dodge it, her arms raised to protect her head while defending herself verbally. ‘You don’t understand, Ma. Listen to me! Listen to me!’

  ‘You can’t pull the wool over my eyes, girl. I know perfectly well what you been up to. I’ll be packed back to The Factory ’cos of you.’

  A lusty swipe of Cook’s arm caused Molly to lose her balance and fall. With the weapon poised over her head like the Sword of Damocles, she crouched, panting. ‘I’m no liar, Ma. Whatever happens, you won’t lose your place here on my account. I’ll be the one to pack my bags, not you.’

  Cook let out a wail so plaintive that Vianna was alarmed. What on earth had gone wrong? Although she was trying to distance herself from everything that she would soon leave forever, she felt a strong stab of guilt about Molly’s distress.

  Hastily tying back her wet hair at the nape of her neck, Vianna hurried down into the garden, mindful of the danger of intervention and how volatile servants’ brawls could be. I must keep a cool head for Molly’s sake.

  Diplomacy had no chance. At sight of Vianna, Molly ran to her and threw herself into her arms, sobbing. Vianna tried to look sympathetically at Cook who, florid of face, was angrily shouting, her words studded with Gaelic phrases, making it difficult for Vianna to piece the story together.

  Cook had backed off a few paces to where two newly assigned women servants were either trying to pacify her – or extract the truth of the gossip.

  Gone was all trace of Molly’s Currency Lass confidence. ‘I wish I’d never been born! It’s all my fault. The Master and Mrs L’Estrange are shouting fit to wake the dead. Ma and I’ve been warned to face the music.’

  The L’Estranges seem to need little to ignite a fight, but why are Molly and her mother the cause?

  Vianna drew the girl down on a garden bench and tried to lighten her mood.