The Lace Balcony (18 page)

‘I could
love
her. Who better? I'm the only family Daisy has.'

‘Do you want to brand her with the shame that her sister is a courtesan?'

‘Daisy doesn't need to know that!'

‘Use your head, Vianna. The Colony thrives on scurrilous rumours. How long could you hope to conceal your reputation as the infamous Sydney Town Venus?'

‘We could leave the Colony – begin a new life.' Even as she said the words Vianna knew the answer. Severin's Conditional Pardon was effective banishment for life. He could never return to Britain.
Even if I stole enough money to escape, how could I give her a decent life? I can't even read or write. All I know is how to sing risqué songs and please Severin – on my back.

She gazed sadly at the diminishing figures of the little girls, now running and stumbling towards the border between the garden and dense native bush. The sigh that escaped her acknowledged her defeat.

Severin pressed his advantage. ‘I refused to bring you here, knowing you'd attempt to claim her. The life we lead makes that impossible.'

He gestured to where the little girls had formed two lines, their arms linked above their heads in an archway, chanting the words of an old song.

She was chilled by the irony that this macabre children's game was not only a parody of death by execution, but an echo of her own father's death.

‘Oranges and Lemons say the bells of St Clement's. You owe me five farthings, say the bells of St Martin's . . .'

Vianna softly joined in the song, as if to draw closer to whichever child was her sister. ‘When will you pay me? Say the bells of Old Bailey . . .'

She raised her voice a note higher in defiance. ‘When I grow rich, say the bells of Shoreditch.' Then broke off to hiss at Severin, ‘I've made
you
a rich man!'

He said the next line pointedly, ‘When will that be? Say the bells of Stepney.'

As the children reached the final lines, Vianna stopped singing, aware the game was about to offer her the chance to see their faces at close range.

‘I'm sure I don't know, says the great bell at Bow,' sang the children. ‘Here comes a candle to light you to bed. Here comes a chopper to chop off your head!'

This was the cue for a delicate, wide-eyed little girl, her flaxen hair flying in the wind, to try to run the length of the archway while the others chanted, ‘Chip chop, chip chop the last man's head – off!' The archway of arms came down to entrap the little one as her captors laughed with glee.

Vianna's heart was in her mouth.
Is this a sign from God this child is Daisy?

Severin gestured to the squealing children. ‘You see how happy they are? If you really love Daisy, you will leave her here – until our fortunes change.'

Vianna's hand shook as she pointed to the children running in pursuit of a new game. ‘Do you mean to say you
know
Daisy is one of these children?'

He did not deny it. She grabbed him by the lapels. ‘For heaven's sake tell me. They all look the same to me! Any one of them could be Daisy!'

Severin gave a nod of assent. For once his voice was gentle.

‘She
is
amongst these children. I can say no more than that. Only the Matron knows which one she is.'

‘Why can't I?'

He caught Vianna's clenched fists. ‘Listen to me. Daisy is taught to read and write, as well as music, art and dancing – just like a child born to the Quality. We have not abandoned her. She's aware she has an ‘uncle' who pays for her education – her
special lessons
. When she is old enough to understand a little of the ways of the world, you will meet her. This is the best life we can offer her. For now.'

‘The best for
you
, Severin. I won't lose her, now that I've found her. Just tell me which little girl? I promise you on my life I won't approach her.'

Vianna tried to choke back her tears. She knew her lie was transparent but she had not waited so long only to give up without a fight.

‘I promise you, Vianna, we will return for her when my fortune is made.'

‘Don't lie to me! That servant told me these children are often fostered out.'

‘I won't allow that to happen. I give you my word!'

‘Your word as a gentleman? What's
that
worth?'

His eyes blazed. ‘Control yourself. You are making a scene. It was a mistake to come here. We shall leave at once!'

Vianna's arm was twisted behind her back as Severin forced her to their carriage. His face was a mask, refusing to respond to her pleas, threats or tears.

Oblivious to the world around her as their carriage hurtled down the road to Sydney Town, Vianna stared into space, her long treasured dream now a lost cause.
Severin not only controls my life – he controls the fate of the only person I truly love.

She dared to challenge him. ‘What did you mean by Daisy's special lessons?'

‘If you choose to play Truth and Consequences be it on your own head. Did you not notice how clumsy some of those children were?
And how vigilant those two uniformed women were, observing them at play?

Vianna was on guard. ‘I only had eyes for the children.'

‘All were there for a good reason. Each has a problem in need of special attention – deaf, blind, a club foot, palsied hand, whatever. Their teachers are trained to prepare them for as normal a life as possible – as you and I could never hope to do.'

‘I don't believe you! Daisy was perfect in every way.'

‘Until that epidemic that made me send her here. You wanted the whole truth. Now you have it. That school is run for the children of the Quality that society prefers to hide from sight. It costs me a fortune to keep her there – year after year.'

‘Is that really why Severin House is . . . ?' The words dried in her mouth.

‘What choice do I have? Disinherited by my family. The law forbids me to return home. I am not unequipped for any profession. Forced to live like some shady Robin Hood, relieving wealthy colonial gamblers of their money. And to watch you entertain them in the way that nature equipped you to do so
very
well . . . we both hate the roles we are forced to play, but needs must.'

Severin kept his eyes trained on Vianna's face as he drew back the lace mitten and gently kissed the warm flesh of her hand where the blood had dried.

‘So you see, my little Venus? I am not
quite
such a villain as you think me.'

•  •  •

Vianna felt her heart pumping with fear. Mocking voices chanted the final words of ‘Oranges and Lemons'.

Two lines of gentleman gamblers faced each other, their arms linked in an archway over the narrow path ahead of her – each face, each lascivious grin known to her. There was no escape. She had no choice but to run the gauntlet as they chanted ‘Here comes the chopper to chop off your head.'

At the end of the line, a young man stood with arms outstretched to her.

In desperation she tried to reach him – but her feet were leaden, shackled by chains. Running in slow motion, she recognised the young man's face.

If I can only reach him I will be safe.

But it was too late. The gamblers cried in triumph, ‘. . . last man's head –
off!
' Vianna sank beneath a sea of leering faces – the weight of their bodies smothering her as they tore off her clothes . . .

She was screaming when Wanda's gentle hands shook her awake.

‘It's all right, Vianna. It was only a bad dream.'

Vianna clung to her, crying into the girl's warm brown shoulder, relieved that she had escaped the nightmare. Yet she felt hollow, overcome by a sense of loss that she had failed to reach the young man – and safety.

I met you too late, Will Eden.

Felix barely glanced at the bloodstained horizon that promised another scorching January day. He crossed the Bridge of Sighs in the direction of the guest bedchamber that his father had originally assigned as the schoolroom for the half-brothers in his wing of Rockingham Hall.

Unable to sleep since the early hours of the morning, Felix had heard the family carriage's belated return from Port Jackson under cover of darkness.

He had dressed with special care in a perfectly tailored frockcoat and trousers that he hoped was conservative enough for an event so unusual it was outside the known rules of etiquette. Felix had no wish to appear to be flaunting the L'Estrange wealth at any given time – but especially not this morning.

Through the sun-lit windows of the bridge between the twin houses he saw the thin stream of smoke spiralling up from the chimney of Jane Quayle's whitewashed cottage.
No doubt Jane's been up half the night – as I was. Although for once my roaming amongst the stars was little comfort. I doubt if Mother slept at all.

He recalled her recent words of reassurance. ‘I am your watchdog, Felix. I have stayed to do my duty and I shall remain on guard against any attempts by your Father to diminish your birth right in favour of the Quayles.'

He sighed with resignation at this latest escalation in the parental war of words that had dominated his life since childhood. The wound that time never healed, the blight on the L'Estrange house that shadowed all their lives.

Squaring his shoulders he muttered under his breath, ‘That's ancient history. I must perform
my
duty to please Father – pay a debt beyond measure.'

Outside the door to the guest chamber, he withdrew from his waistcoat pocket the gold watch his father had given him on his twenty-first birthday.

Half of eight – surely a reasonable time to wake him. I can't help but feel a jot nervous. The last time I saw Mungo he was in the condemned cell due to be hanged alongside poor Will Eden. I wonder what three years at Moreton Bay has done to change him. Will I even recognise him?

Felix was startled from his reverie by his awareness of the figure at his side, that mousy little servant girl with a pinched face was cradling a bottle of wine emblazoned with the new L'Estrange label.
Dammit, I've forgotten her name again.

‘Good heavens, what are you doing here? What's your name?'

‘Molly Baker, Sir. Cook's daughter, but I'm Currency,' she answered, in that casual, confident manner of the generations born here.

‘A Currency Lass, eh? Aren't you too young to be in service?'

‘Not me. I'm near fourteen. I've finished school but I study things on my own and help Ma out when needed.'

‘So what are you doing with this wine from our cellar?'

She pointed at the door. ‘The Master gave it to me – to bring up to
him
.'

‘Thank you, I'll deliver it myself.' As she turned to scurry down the servants' stairs he added, ‘One further thing, Molly. You'd best be aware that
no one
is allowed to handle the books and telescope in my bedchamber.'

‘I know. The servants warned me it's a hanging offence to touch
your
stuff.'

Felix felt disconcerted, unsure if her words had been sarcastic or simply the childlike repetition of young Cockney George's cheeky humour. He felt irritated to think his astronomy had made him a figure of fun in the eyes of the servants.

He was about to knock when he heard the voice from within.

‘Come in. It isn't locked – I've had enough locks to last me a lifetime.'

The disembodied voice was rough at the edges and more mature, but unmistakably Mungo's.

At the sight of the man before him, Felix covered his confusion by a stream of words he strung together in a rush. ‘Welcome back, Mungo. Trust you slept well after your long journey. I see you haven't
read my note. I left several suits of my clothes in the closet for you. I had no idea of your size. But I hope they'll serve long enough to introduce you to Father's tailor, a Hebrew emancipist. Thanks to Father's patronage he enjoys a clientele amongst the Quality.'

He ran out of words, aware that Mungo was eyeing him up and down with that infuriating half-smile that he had mastered in childhood.

‘You've grown,' Mungo said.

‘So have you,' Felix said lamely. They stood staring at each other, weighing up the changes three years had made.

Felix was startled to find little trace of the puny youth he had last seen in the condemned cell. Mungo now stood tall and broad-shouldered, tanned by long exposure to tropical sun, barefoot, legs planted wide. Wearing one of Felix's fine Irish linen nightshirts, he made an incongruous figure with his wild head of hair falling to his shoulders, gold fuzz on arms surprisingly free of the tattoos boasted by most prisoners. His face had altered, no doubt hardened by work on a chain gang and experiences Felix could not even begin to imagine. He was a tougher version of himself – but more than that. It caused Felix a pang of jealousy to realise that Mungo was now even closer to how Kentigern L'Estrange had looked in his youth.

As always, Mungo took charge. ‘Thanks for the second-hand clothes, mate. And the wine. How about we celebrate my homecoming, eh?'

Felix watched him pour two glasses of wine to the brim, his hands chipped and roughened like those of a farm labourer.

Mungo raised his glass in the traditional colonial toast, ‘Here's to the Land we Live in, Lads!'

Felix echoed the toast but drank sparingly, watching Mungo drain his glass to the dregs before he spoke. ‘I trust you will be comfortable here. I had it refurbished for you but the bookshelves are of course a legacy of our shared school years.'

‘Yeah, thanks to our tutors I still have Greek philosophers, Shakespeare and Goethe coming out of my ears. Don't get me wrong. I'm grateful Father gave us the same education. It paid off at Moreton Bay – put me in the ‘educated class' of felons.' Satisfied by Felix's discomfort, he continued. ‘So what has Mrs Less planned for me? There's a price to pay for my freedom – and I'm ready to pay it.'