The Lace Balcony (11 page)

Mungo tried to avoid any hint of servility, yet he was desperate to know what special plan might be afoot, and how it might involve him. ‘It's said Britain has plans to open up this whole district to future settlers. Logan sure knows how to get things done – one way or another.'

‘Aye. At some considerable loss of man power, it would seem. Judged by the rough tally by a clerk here, out of a population in excess of six hundred assigned men, there were sixty-three deaths last year.' He paused and added significantly, ‘From one cause or another. Flogging, fever, drowning, quite apart from those bolters in the bush who are presumed dead. Does sixty-three deaths sound an accurate figure, O'Connor?'

Mungo felt cornered. Aware any careless words might find their way back to Logan, he tried to sound non-committal. ‘I lost count of the funerals – Sir.'

‘Aye. Well your own attempts at bolting are now past history.' He went on, ‘I note you have quite a rounded education. The classics, Shakespeare, Goethe, Greek and Roman philosophers. Plus fencing, boxing, swimming. Aye, and a marked interest in botany and bushcraft, according to this letter I received from a family by the name of L'Estrange, on behalf of your mother. It would seem ye have support in high places, O'Connor. This gentleman, Kentigern L'Estrange, is known to you?'

Mungo was stunned. After years of silence a letter had got through to him at last.
But is this a trap to prove my real identity? I'll take a punt on the truth.

‘My mam was transported from the Isle of Mann, aged seventeen. Copped Life for aiding her brother, a fisherman, to smuggle brandy and tobacco across to England. The King's boats had given chase. Shot her brother dead. He was unarmed, aged twenty-two. Just trying to avoid export duties.'

Dr Gordon nodded. ‘Aye. That's a common enough activity in Scotland for fishing boats struggling to eke out a living from the sea. But I'm intrigued as to how you came by such a fine education.'

He's like a dog with a bone. What does he want? My whole damned life story?

Mungo chose his words with care. ‘My mother's assigned master, Kentigern L'Estrange, was unusually generous. I shared his son's lessons with the family tutor.'

‘Indeed. As a result you are the best educated prisoner at Moreton Bay – more erudite than many of the military. Pity to waste all that book learning in an iron gang. I have decided to return you to the
‘educated class' to work on a special project. I have Captain Logan's assurance I am free to choose one or two men to search for and catalogue some of the botanical and mineral specimens the Commandant discovered on his expeditions. Mrs Logan and others in this little community would be especially pleased for us to find rare specimens for their butterfly collections.'

Butterflies! Jesus, am I dreaming? Or dead and gone to heaven?

Mungo suspected he saw the trace of a twinkle in the Scotsman's eyes.

‘Our work will be divided between this office and field work in the bush – hence some danger from natives, who I understand are growing increasingly hostile to Logan's explorations.'

‘Two prisoners were speared to death at the wharf just before I copped solitary.'

‘So I heard. You have a choice, O'Connor. Accompany me on field work or remain here – in relative safety.'

‘I'll take my chances in the bush. I could do with a bit of fresh air.'

‘Fine. You will be answerable solely to me. Our work will be conducted –
without interference.
'

Dr Gordon looked over the top of his spectacles and said quietly. ‘
Mrs
Logan is distant kin to my mother's family. And I am well known to Governor Darling.'

Mungo's heart sank at the thought of Gordon's dual link to those in power, but perhaps the man's presence here and his strangely ambiguous status suggested that Darling's support of Logan was no longer unqualified. Mungo's spirits rose at the prospect of congenial work and bivouacs in the bush – the next best thing to freedom.

Dr Gordon eyed him shrewdly. ‘Unlike Logan's expeditions, my small team will have no military support. We may well encounter hostile natives. It is not yet common knowledge – there was a recent attempt on Logan's life.'

Another one. I reckon the first was an act of revenge by bolters who took up with a tribe of blacks. But I'd best keep my trap shut.

‘Are you equal to the task, O'Connor? No shame if you decline. But you are my first choice. I'd be seeking your advice about what to me is virgin territory.'

Mungo remembered Stimson's long ago warning of the choice that lay ahead of him, to do murder – or prove himself strong enough to resist it. Right now he didn't care.
Whatever the danger, I'll face it. But if I have to kill to avoid solitary – I'd do it.

‘You can count on me, Sir.' Mungo felt bold enough to ask, ‘Will I be working in irons in the bush?'

A smile flickered at the corner of the doctor's mouth. ‘I dinna think shackles on a man chasing butterflies would improve his rate of success, do you?'

Mungo's laugh was genuine for the first time in months.

Dr Gordon looked Mungo straight in the eye. ‘One further point. If we are attacked, it's a case of every man for himself. I would expect you to bolt.'

‘I'm a crack shot, Sir,' Mungo said quickly.

‘Aye. That's why
you
are my first choice. I'm a Quaker. I choose not to bear arms. You will carry a fowling piece – for hunting.' He snapped the file closed. ‘Fine. That's settled. Today being Sunday, I understand you are all obliged to attend church services. Present yourself here on Monday morning and I'll brief you on the plans for our bivouac in the bush. Good day to you, O'Connor.'

Mungo shuffled from the room, stunned by this undreamed of change of fortune. Last night he had been certifiably insane, he was sure of it. He felt reborn.

A botanist? A butterfly collector? Hell, I'd best study up on the subject quick smart. Before Gordon discovers that the sum total of my knowledge wouldn't cover a farthing. Felix should be here, not me. He was the one who shone at botany.

Out of sight of Dr Gordon's office and Logan's private quarters, Mungo gave a hoot of triumph as he leapt in the air, prevented from dancing the sailors' hornpipe only by his leg irons.

Yet Mungo knew he must be still half nuts, when he heard the gentle words of his fantasy woman echo in his mind. ‘Do whatever you must to survive. You are my man . . . I am waiting for you.'

The spirit of Venus had come to him last night, Felix was sure of it.

He gave a sigh of frustration as he screwed the cap on his telescope. It had long been his loved companion, providing an escape route into the night sky – the star gazing that renewed his soul and brought him as close to God as he dared travel. This nightly adventure was now out of reach for another twelve hours.

He was still astounded by last night's revelation. While searching for some as yet unnamed star, for a brief moment he had seen a girl's face imposed on the Milky Way. Eyes of an intense blue seemed to look into his very soul. An angel? A dream?

No. They're
her
eyes, I'll swear to God. That incredibly beautiful girl I saw at Hangman's Hill the day Will Eden was hanged. When I lifted her up onto the wall she was close enough to kiss – if only I had dared. She called out Will's name and he answered her. He must have loved her. But what does it all mean? Will's been dead for three years. I've never been able to forget her – I keep searching for her face in crowds. How could such beauty remain hidden in Sydney Town? And why did I see her face amongst the stars last night?

Drawn back into the daylight reality of the world, Felix's eye was caught by two figures in the rear garden, below his wrought-iron balcony. Barefoot boys raced each other between the lines of bed linen on the clothes lines, pursued by one of the assigned women, whose children seemed to be interchangeable.

The sight of the boys at play aroused an odd wave of nostalgia.
They're just like Mungo and I were – except Mutti forbade me to go barefoot or dirty my clothes. Mungo always led me into trouble. But without him my childhood would have been as dull as dishwater.

Stripping off his nightshirt, Felix poured water from the Italian majolica jug into the matching washbasin and hurriedly sluiced his face and body, all the while steeling himself to face the duties of the day – separate audiences with his parents.

Mutti was first on the list. Anxious that the opening words he had planned lacked the correct balance between filial duty and assertiveness, he tried another tack, saying the words out loud to his naked mirror image to test their impact.

‘I am sure you are aware, Mother, that ever since the trial and William Eden's execution, I have carried out Father's wishes to the letter in running the family business.'
No, no! I must remember to say ‘estates'. Any hint of trade is abhorrent to Mother. But how else can I broach the subject of Mungo's future?

Felix was grateful that his mother's role in upper class colonial society had little bearing on his own life. Since his father's stroke, no doubt brought on by his efforts to secure Mungo an early release, Felix had worked steadfastly from his father's office at home, fully engaged in holding the reins of the covert L'Estrange empire that fanned out from Great Rockingham Street to their rural properties on the Nepean and Castlereagh, from the far side of the Blue Mountains south to the Illawarra and the rich grazing lands beyond the limits of settlement, where vast unofficial L'Estrange holdings were manned by isolated convict shepherds.

Aware that his mother had the sharp eye of a sergeant major for any signs of irregularities in his dress, Felix ruefully checked his appearance from every angle in the mirror.
Naked I look younger than my twenty-one years. But despite Nathan Bloom's perfect tailoring, this tailcoat and trousers add decades to my age – I feel like Atlas carrying the weight of the world on my back.

Felix resolutely squared his shoulders, ready to enter the fray, then exited his room, locking the door, and secured the key in his vest pocket. His personal chambers were sacrosanct. No assigned servant was permitted to touch his papers, books or heavenly charts.

Albruna L'Estrange was waiting for him in her music room, tapping her fingernails on the mahogany side table as if mentally keeping time with the metronome she used when teaching the pianoforte to some assigned servant's child. This morning she was dressed in a plum-coloured silk gown, the lace at her throat pinned with the ornate brooch she reserved for special occasions. At its heart, outlined in gold, was the miniature coat of arms of her Prussian ancestors.

Felix made a formal bow. ‘Good morning, Mother. I trust I find you well this morning?'

‘Well enough. I was kept awake half the night by the sound of your father's coughing. You might care to check on his health after you've taken breakfast.'

Felix knew exactly what this implied. Mother had lain awake distantly hearing her husband's suffering but was too proud to cross the Bridge of Sighs to his bedside, bitterly aware that when ill her husband summoned the Manx herbalist whom she considered a witch and would not name. No matter the time of day or night, when summoned by his father, Jane Quayle hurried from her tiny cottage at the far end of the garden, armed with a basket of herbs to cosset and pacify her master.

Felix tried to show genuine sympathy. ‘Perhaps it would be wise to take a rest from your charity work, Mother. I shall reassure Father that I have all the accounts up to date. We are concerned that this two-year drought shows no sign of abatement. We have suffered a significant loss of cattle and sheep in our holdings far beyond the limits of settlement. But I assure you I stand ready to take over any additional duties you may require.'

‘Yes, yes, I know. You are an admirable son – in matters of family duty. But I wish to discuss your
social
duty. You must be seen to take your place in society, Felix. For far too long – since that terrible business in court and the innuendo in the newspapers – you have hidden yourself away.'

‘Believe me, Mother, I am quite content with my life as it is.'
Thank God she doesn't know the truth.

‘Be that as it may, I am
not
content. There is no need for the L'Estrange son and heir to shun society, like some recluse. It invites gossip. Even implies a taint of guilt. Family honour has been preserved, thank the Lord.'

‘Indeed, I do thank Him. But we also owe our thanks to the late William Eden and to Mungo Quayle for assuming the name Sean O'Connor to avoid any public link to our family's involvement in their disgrace, do we not?'

‘I need no reminder of that fact, Felix,' she responded sharply. ‘As you know, a sum of money is sent each quarter to Eden's widowed
mother in England. I also read the reports your father receives from that Scottish physician at Moreton Bay. Sean O'Connor seems to have spent more time in solitary confinement than a monk!'

She can't even bring herself to say Mungo's name!
Felix refrained from rushing to his defence, which would likely defeat his purpose. ‘But it seems he has settled down now, assigned to Dr Gordon. I would be more than pleased to sail to Moreton Bay as a volunteer to check on Mungo's welfare.'

‘Nonsense. Your place is here. Your father's health remains uncertain. I cannot manage his estate alone if . . . his health should decline.'

He noted her usual avoidance of any hint of the L'Estrange name being tainted by the social stigma of trade, but Felix was surprised by the slight tremor in her voice.
I wonder how much Mother loved him when she arrived here as his bride. Her miniature portrait at sixteen shows she was a real Nordic beauty. Her face is still handsome, but marred by bitterness. Her fault, or Father's? Who am I to judge? I've never been in love. If only Father would place that miniature on show – it would salvage something of Mother's pride.