The Lace Balcony (22 page)

Blind to everything but the need to escape, she raced headlong down a sliver of a track through the bush, oblivious to the spiky bushes and ferns that tore at her dress. The path was soon swallowed up in darkness but she stumbled on through the undergrowth . . . to the cool, dark safety of a bed of moss, cut off from all human sounds except the rasp of her own breath. Exhausted, she lay gazing up at the pocket of blue sky filtered between the canopies of tropical fern trees.

There's nowhere to run to. I could walk for hundreds of miles and never see a soul. I feel trapped in a Grimm's fairytale.

She smothered a note of hysteria at the absurdity of the idea.
Eyes closed, she listened to the strange sounds around her, the subtle humming that was like an orchestration of alien bush sounds. Was the bush her friend or foe? She closed her mind to all but the moment, this tiny, isolated reprieve from Severin's world.

Reality returned all too soon. The sound of Severin's boots and cane slashed through the undergrowth.
What do I do now? He's beyond all reason.

Severin stood with legs splayed, staring down at her, a shining film of excitement in his eyes, his breath hanging in the air in a trail of fine white vapour. ‘Your face is covered in another man's blood. I find that quite
exciting
.'

When she attempted to rise he snapped the command, ‘
Stay!'
Then smiled benignly at her obedience. ‘Good dog.'

He gestured for her to raise her skirt to reveal her undergarments.

‘Why aren't you wearing that filmy concoction from Paris I bought you?'

She tried to hide her confusion. ‘What? It must be in my luggage somewhere. What on earth are you suggesting?'

‘You wore it to tempt James Dalby, don't deny it!'

‘That's not true! How could you suspect me – or Dalby?'

‘He came to your room last night – don't lie to me!'

Her mind was racing.
Do I deny it? Will he believe me? Is this just another crazy game? Should I defend myself – or go on the attack?

‘If he did, why didn't you stop him? You're supposed to be my protector.'

His eyes narrowed and she knew she had gone too far. He stood over her, the metal tip of his cane pressed hard against her windpipe.

‘Say the words, little whore. Tell me what you want. What only I can give you. What no other man can buy.'

He studied her eyes as she repeated the hated mantra he had taught her. ‘I'm a bad girl, Severin. Do anything you want to me – I'll never leave you.'

‘Say it with conviction!' he said.

She repeated it and he was finally satisfied.

‘Good. You know your place. Here's your reward.' With the air of a conjurer he withdrew from his pocket her filmy French knickers.

Vianna gasped, confused. ‘So it was
you
. Why?'

‘I borrowed them. When my money was exhausted I used 'em as a talisman in my final ‘desperate' wager, to tempt James to continue to play. It enabled me to win all his money – as planned.'

Vianna felt cold with shock. ‘Are you saying that this – talisman represented
me?
That if Dalby had won, he'd have won the right to bed me for the night?'

‘Of course, m'dear,' he said patiently. ‘That was the whole point of my request for our separate rooms.'

‘So if you had lost – I was dispensable.'

‘Trust me, Vianna, I
never
lose.'

He held out his hand. ‘Come. Time to return to Severin House.'

When they reached the carriage Blewitt was smoking a clay pipe, his cheek stained with blood.

Severin cast him a cursory glance. ‘Consider yourself lucky, Blewitt. I seldom miss my target.'

Blewitt nodded. ‘I know.'

As he helped her into the carriage, his words were tender. ‘You do know I love you, Vianna.'

Love.
The word was now more obscene than anything he had ever done to her.

En route to the next staging inn where she would wash Blewitt's blood from her face, Vianna recalled the Chinese proverb used to describe Severin by Ah Quong, a Chinese trader. He had offered to pay whatever price Severin named to release her if she agreed to return to China as his concubine.

Vianna replayed the phrase in her head, the perfect definition of the two faces of Severin, words she would love to see carved on his tombstone.

Street Angel – House Devil.

Mungo was determined to work hard and do a good job for his father – whatever that entailed. But at the same time he was desperate to direct his energies into his search for Fanny Byron. One last port of call was necessary – the terrace house on Foveaux Street.

Some things never change
. The third step of the rickety staircase still creaked when Mungo began to ascend the stairs that in years past he had taken two steps at a time on his frequent visits here.

Essie, the cook-cum-housemaid, stood watching him from the doorway to the kitchen. At her heels a runt of a boy eyed him with a calculating look as if to judge whether Mungo was likely to cause trouble. Essie might well have been a true sister of Maria's, close to her in age, but a pallid version of Maria's dark-eyed Corsican beauty. The ‘sisters of pleasure' came and went, but Essie had become part of the furniture.

Mungo paused on the stairs. ‘How are you, Essie? It's been a long time. Mungo Quayle, remember me?'

‘So it is! How you've changed! Good to see you, Mr Quayle. I can't complain. My rheumatism plays up the very devil in winter, it does. But I now have this young lad to run messages and call the traps if needed, so that's a saving of my poor feet.'

She appraised Mungo's well-tailored suit, a great advance on the slop clothing of his youth. ‘The lad's good at polishing shoes, if you fancy staying the night.'

‘Thanks. I'll keep that in mind,' Mungo said cautiously, aware he only had a few loose coins in his pocket. ‘Is Maria alone?'

‘Indeed she is, Sir. Waiting for you – since she got your message.'

Mungo passed a short, older man on the stairs, surprised to see that the tartan scarf around his neck barely covered the simple puritan-style jabot often worn by missionaries and clerics. The book in his hand looked suspiciously like a Bible.

‘Is Mrs Navarro free?' Mungo asked lightly to tease the man.

‘Free to make her choices, as the Lord allows us all,' the man said crisply and hurried out the front door.

In answer to his knock, Maria Navarro's voice was just as Mungo remembered, forever young and silky, retaining that delicious trace of an Italian-French accent that was wonderfully effective in bed. At the sight of her seated figure – the rustle of black silk, the curve of her throat above the full-bosomed cut of her gown – he was jolted back from the past.

Three years had etched faint lines on a face that had never been classically beautiful but was unusually seductive. Mungo tried to hide his reaction to the evidence of time that the soft candlelight failed to conceal.

He leaned back against the door and studied her, smiling. ‘You are just as I remember you, Maria. A woman no man could forget. Time has been kind to you.'

‘You have grown tall, so strong. I hardly know you, Mungo. You were a youth growing out of your clothes. Three years has made a man of you. A fine gentleman.'

‘An illusion, Maria. Nathan Bloom and Sons can take full credit for the clothing. As for the rest, Moreton Bay either kills a man or makes him strong. I have an iron gang to thank for the muscles.'

He accepted the seat to which she gestured. Unaccountably shy, he felt reduced to the sixteen-year-old lad he had been on his first visit. He needed to lighten the mood.

‘I passed a bloke on the stairs who looked suspiciously like a God-botherer. Trying to save your girls' souls, is he?'

‘He is a good man. A harmless diversion for the girls. He reads them an extract from the Bible each time he comes here. He is an ardent teetotaller. So he enjoys my special tea – unaware that I have Essie lace his cup with brandy.'

‘You're a wicked, lady,' Mungo said admiringly. ‘Don't ever change.'

He joined her in a glass of the red
vinu Corsu
from her native land, then turned the conversation towards the reason for his visit.

‘The last time we met I was fighting on all fronts: the law, the Exclusives and the banks. I remember the last night we spent here together. I left without leaving you – my thanks,' he said avoiding the word money. ‘So I've come to set things right.'

‘It is not necessary, Mungo. You were fighting for your life,'
Maria said with a wave of a delicate hand liberally adorned with old-fashioned gold rings. ‘I am sorry that your partner paid the ultimate price.' She made a hasty sign of the cross.

‘Poor bastard. I shall never forget that you were there at our trial. To know you were on my side – whatever the outcome. Your eyes, your smile gave me courage. One of the few sympathetic faces amongst the mob that was only there to enjoy our downfall – like Christians being thrown to the lions.'

‘You are a born survivor, Mungo. I had reason to remember you, too.' She touched the gold brooch at her throat. ‘It shall be buried with me.'

The words were said playfully, but he was suddenly conscious of the slight cough that punctuated their conversation.

‘You're unwell? Is there anything I can do?' he asked quickly, and from the smile in her eyes he knew she accepted that his offer was genuine.

‘A life of pleasure has been an easy life until now. No regrets. But it does not improve with time. No matter. As my countrymen say, ‘People should be mourned at their birth, not at their death.' She said the words lightly, then smiled. ‘But I thank you, Mungo. If I am ever in need, you will be the first man I ask.'

‘I shall be honoured. You taught me all that is worth knowing.'

He placed on the table the envelope containing his advance wages, virtually all the money he had. ‘This is simply a little present, no more.'

He was aware he was tiring her. One half of him wanted to make love to her, not from need but to show her the man he wanted to become, a lover giving rather than simply taking. The other half of him was unsure about how to tell her the truth. She provided the answer like a gift, with a wise smile that began in her sad dark eyes and touched her lips.

‘You would like to stay the night, but you cannot. You are in love, I think.'

Mungo tried not to look relieved to share the truth. ‘You always could read me like a book, Maria. It's crazy, I know. But I feel sort of married. To a girl I only met once – the day before Will Eden was hanged. But somehow she's in my blood. I can't be free until I find
her again – wherever she is. You understand, don't you? Otherwise I would want very much to stay –'

‘Mungo, Mungo, don't apologise. Falling in love at first sight is powerful magic. May you find her – and be loved in return.'

When Maria offered her hand, he held it but on impulse kissed her on both cheeks in the French way.

It was then he saw the sadness in her eyes that her sweet, professional smile could not belie.

I've told her the truth, but all I've done is hurt her. What a bastard I am.

‘This is not the way I wanted to say goodbye to
you
– of all women, Maria.'

Maria whispered softly in her native tongue the seductive proverb that he had first heard in bed with her, a phrase that needed no translation.
When the month of May arrives, women's hair grows and penises become strong . . .

Mungo was moved by her invitation. ‘I want it too, more than ever,' he said, the lie straight from his heart.

He gently scooped her up in his arms and carried her into the bedroom, asking nothing of her except his own pleasure in giving her back everything that he had learned, to make her feel young and beautiful again.

•  •  •

Before the cocks crowed in the farms around the Surry Hills, Mungo left her sleeping, a smile curving her lips. He had been afraid to fall asleep in case he woke her during one of his nightmares.

Disconcerted to find his boots were missing, he slipped barefoot down the stairs. The tiny messenger boy with the rickety legs was waiting to greet him, handing him his hat – and his boots, polished to a shine.

Mungo raised an eyebrow, realising the lad must have slipped into Maria's room during the night to retrieve them.

‘Thanks, lad, best shine they've ever had,' Mungo said, relieved to be able to give the lad the last coin in his pocket.

‘This might look like an ordinary King George penny – but it's special. It will bring you good luck.'

The boy's dark hooded eyes widened. ‘What about
your
good luck, Sir?'

‘Don't worry, lad, I make my own.'

He absently patted the boy's head and hurried out into the cool night air.

Maria's words lingered at the edge of his mind.
She's right. Falling in love at first sight sure is powerful magic. I'm going to find Fanny again – and by hook or by crook, I'll make her love me.

Mungo awoke in confusion from a nightmare like no other he'd suffered. One moment he was being flogged to death on the triangle at Moreton Bay. Next moment, a red-coated officer galloped onto the scene, his sabre flashing in the sunlight. With one magical stroke he slashed through Mungo's chains. A blast of trumpets heralded his announcement, ‘By order of His Excellency, Governor Darling, Felix L'Estrange and Mungo Quayle are free to marry Venus!'

Mungo sat bolt upright, disoriented to find himself in bed in the old schoolroom at Rockingham House. A tray on the bedside table held a hearty breakfast. Stacked on the floor was a neat pile of old newspapers topped by a note saying: ‘To help you fill in a few blanks', and signed ‘Your Half-a-Brother'.