The Lace Balcony (26 page)

As Mungo Quayle watched the landau turn the corner into Macquarie Street, a conflicting pattern of thoughts and feelings warred for space in his head. Elation, despair, jealousy and the conviction that he was capable of murder. Today was the third time in his life he had encountered Fanny Byron – and the second occasion on which he had been left watching her drive off in Severin's flash landau. He swore the oath under his breath. ‘By God, there's no chance I'll let you slip through my fingers a third time, girl!'

I know your alias and Severin's whole rotten plan for you to enter the world's oldest profession. Over my dead body! But how the hell am I going to set you free?

He told himself he didn't care about her past. She was his woman from that first day he set eyes on her – an anxious little lady's maid, he a prisoner in chains – desperate to kiss her.

The memory of the lie he'd told her to secure that kiss had now come back to haunt him, proved by what she had confided to him in the church – her romantic, idealised memory of ‘her husband'. Will Eden – the only man in her life she had
really trusted
– and whom she truly had seen hanged.

If I told her the truth I'd hang myself as a liar. I'll just have to cross that bridge when I come to it. First I've got to break Severin's hold over her. Trouble is, I've only got seven days to do it and not a penny to my name!

Mungo was just about to untether Boadicea's reins when he remembered what he had left behind in the church – the cloak he had borrowed from Felix without his permission.
God damn my carelessness.

Retracing his steps, he was just in time to catch the verger, about to lock the doors. Mungo's request to retrieve his cloak was met with a nod. The verger would return in a few minutes.

The empty church was silent except for Mungo's footsteps on the flagstones as he retraced the pattern of his movements at Vianna's
side. Just when he believed the cloak stolen he discovered it hidden between two pews near the wall plaque. With a sense of relief he bent to retrieve it, but was suddenly overcome by an odd sensation, as if he had lost his bearings.

For a split second the ground seemed to shift beneath his feet. Was this one of Sydney's occasional earth tremors? His vision became so distorted that the walls momentarily appeared to sway. Feeling dizzy, he rose to his feet and grasped a pew to steady himself.

It was at that moment he understood. He was no longer alone. Standing before the altar, his back to him, was an officer in uniform, his head bent in prayer. A thin shaft of sunlight stained the shoulders of the soldier's red coat.

Mungo froze, unwilling to disturb him. Then the soldier turned his head and looked directly across at him. Mungo felt his blood run cold. Unable to turn away, he looked into the man's face – and saw sheer terror in his eyes.

The soldier held up his hands as if to ward off something unspeakable.

Those eyes. I can never forget them.

Then the church was empty again.

Mungo stumbled down the aisle clutching the cloak, suddenly aware of the presence of the verger in the doorway.

‘Find what you were looking for, Sir?'

Mungo pointed to the altar, his mouth so dry he could scarcely form the words. ‘Captain Patrick Logan. Did he – was it here that he . . . ?'

‘Indeed, yes. Captain Logan's funeral was one of the largest ever conducted here. Half Sydney Town turned out to pay their respects to his widow. Fine man. A great tragedy. A friend of yours, was he, Sir?'

‘Not exactly. But you could say Logan left his mark on all who knew him.'

Mungo offered his thanks to the verger for his trouble. On his way out he checked the pockets of Felix's cloak then withdrew the silver coins he found, placing them in the poor box as a donation on behalf of Felix.

He had one final question for the verger. ‘Can you tell me where Captain Logan is buried?'

•  •  •

The Devonshire Street Burial Ground was marked in sections for mourners who wished to tend the graves of dead Anglicans, Catholics, Presbyterians and those in the corner reserved for the Jews. The cemetery was empty except for a ragged old lag lying spreadeagled behind a tombstone, tenderly cradling a bottle reeking of cheap shanty grog. At first glance the old man looked like a corpse waiting to be buried, but when he began to sing a sea shanty, Mungo decided there was still a fair bit of life in him.

Logan's vault was situated alongside that of Major John Ovens, also of the 57th Regiment of Die Hards, who had died in 1825.

Two celebrated explorers lying side by side for eternity.

The inscription on Ovens's tomb recorded his career in detail, including his wish to be buried here in the grave of his great friend, Deputy Judge-Advocate, Ellis Bent.

In marked contrast, Logan's brick vault was only identified by the temporary words, ‘Captain Patrick Logan. Died Moreton Bay October 17, 1830'.

Mungo read the words aloud. ‘Well, Logan. Just wanted to make sure they buried the right man.'

Mungo didn't fool himself. He knew the bitter irony of his words was nothing but a thin camouflage for the ghastly images that kept forcing themselves before his eyes at unpredictable moments night and day.

Would he never be free from those images, until he himself turned to dust?

Mungo's voice rasped out the words. ‘Your fellow officers, the Die Hards, reckon it was native blacks that done you in. Most official reports agree. But I suspect you and I know better, don't we, Logan . . . ?'

‘Heaven knows why Mrs Less invited
me
tonight,' Mungo said, as he sat, in the manner of childhood, squirming on the kitchen stool while his mother trimmed the ragged edges of his hair. Since his return from Moreton Bay it had grown in Currency Lad style, long enough to spill over the high stiff collar of the tailcoat that the L'Estrange tailors, Nathan Bloom and Sons, had rushed to complete in time for tonight's celebration.

‘Hold still,' Jane Quayle ordered, ‘I'm nearly done. You can't let your father down by fronting up with a bushy head like a scarecrow.'

‘I feel more like a ship being launched – under fire from Mrs Less's broadsides. I can handle eating breakfast each morning with Felix in the big house, but this formal dinner with the whole family, plus some bigwig guest of honour, isn't my idea of a good time.'

‘You might be pleasantly surprised,' she said enigmatically.

‘You know something I don't?'

‘I keep my ear close to the ground.' She snapped the scissors shut and began brushing his jacket free of stray hairs. ‘Don't be letting the wine rule your tongue and spurting that Jack's-as-good-as-his-master stuff. That pipedream won't happen in our lifetime, lad. I'm still listed on the convict musters as a servant assigned to Kentigern L'Estrange. A Lifer. Not that I'm complaining. I'm blessed to hold the deeds to this cottage, thanks to your father. But living under his roof is your chance to learn how to behave like a gentleman.'

‘Who says I want to be a gentleman?'

‘
I do
. You're as good a man as Felix any day of the week.'

Mungo knew he had touched the raw wound that never healed.

‘I won't let you down, Mam – not this time.'

‘If you do, I'll hear it quick smart on the servants' grapevine. Now be off with you. I have to mix some fresh chamomile and bergamot to make an infusion for the Master to drink tonight to help him sleep.'

Mungo shrugged acceptance of one of the euphemisms that she had used since his childhood, to let him know she would not return
home until morning. She had been summoned to the Master's bedside. As a boy it had meant nothing. Now he found it oddly embarrassing.

‘Thanks, Mam, for shearing my wool.' He shook back the stray locks from his eyes. ‘I'll see you tomorrow.'

He hesitated at the door. ‘That girl I told you about. I can't say much right now. It's complicated. But I've found her. I'm going to get her back. Trouble is I've only got seven days to do it. And damned Felix is my rival. Wish me luck, right?'

Jane blinked rapidly but answered confidently, ‘I don't doubt you'll do it, son. Remember, God created the whole world in seven days.'

•  •  •

Feeling like an alien, wearing the first fine clothes not originally tailored for Felix, Mungo hurried down the garden path towards his social baptism of fire.

As a child he had worn a track daily to the schoolroom upstairs, but had only once entered the formal rooms of the mansion, some twenty years ago, when playing hide-and-seek with Felix during the family's absence. Tonight it was difficult not to be impressed when Old Crawford threw open the doors to the dining room and Mungo followed in the wake of Albruna L'Estrange entering on Felix's arm.

Jesus. Could Government House be any grander?

The long mahogany table was polished like a mirror, reflecting the light of the candelabras. The silver cutlery and crystal glasses at each place setting were engraved with the ancient L'Estrange family crest. He recognised that this fabled Austrian dinner service was part of Albruna L'Estrange's treasured dowry. He remembered Jane's acerbic warning that ‘any servant who breaks a plate will be transported to Norfolk Island.'

At the heart of the table an epergne held an exotic floral arrangement, flanked by a pair of silver branch candlesticks. Wine coolers were placed at each end of the table, flanked by water carafes. Tureens and platters held soup, fish, vegetables, melted butter, oyster sauce, tongue, chicken, asparagus – and that was only the first course! Young Molly had briefed him on what to expect. Second course: boiled turkey, beef curry and rice, patés, ragout of breast of veal, crab
fricassee
and cutlets á la maintenon. Third course: puffs, tartlets, white
mushrooms, Italian cheese, blancmange and the evocatively named Tipsy cake – layers of sponge cakes spread with jam, saturated with sherry and brandy, with custard poured over the whole pyramid.

This sure beats the hell out of my Diamond Python camp cooking.

The carver's chair at the head of the table was empty, awaiting the Master's arrival. Mungo felt nervous, reminding himself to address his father in public as Sir.

Nothing must go wrong tonight. It marked Kentigern L'Estrange's first defiant appearance downstairs, following months marooned in his bedchamber under strict instructions of his elderly physician, who insisted on regular blooding treatments.

The assigned servants in livery appeared strangely unfamiliar to Mungo, their faces shadowed by the flickering lights from candelabras and the oil cups in the chandeliers. Mungo was aware he was under intense scrutiny – their expressions ranged from female admiration amongst the maids, to Old Crawford's nod of approval and the cynical humour in Cockney George's eyes, sending Mungo the clear message, ‘Ye can't fool me, cock. You're no better than us.'

One servant stood to the left of the hostess, one to the left of the host's empty chair, one behind the chair of each guest. Mrs Less appeared composed but her eyes betrayed her anxiety in her quiet asides to Old Crawford to check that everything was perfect. Mungo was aware of her dogged attempts to train her convict servants despite the fact that throughout the Colony assigned servants fell far short of the quality of English servants who were born to service and knew their place.

She had long ago accepted that her husband granted Old Crawford special licence as an old family retainer who had been assigned to him as a young man on his arrival in the Colony. Old Crawford's increasing state of confusion meant that from day to day he switched his role from valet to butler to coachman.

Mungo noticed that tonight Albruna L'Estrange was subtly transformed. The royal purple of her gown enhanced the blue of her eyes. Buried in the lace framing the deep V of her bodice was a miniature replica of the L'Estrange coat of arms. Her blonde hair, barely touched by grey, seemed to be dressed in a softer style than usual.

Mungo felt a twinge of disloyalty for his admiration of his mother's
arch-enemy.
If she was other than Father's wife, I'd say she was a right handsome woman.

Only the ticking of the clock broke the silence. Mungo studied the gilt-framed portraits of the newly crowned King William IV and his German consort, Queen Adelaide, much admired by Mrs Less, and a fine landscape by Augustus Earle. The mirror reflected the back of Felix's head, curled in the romantic style of Lord Byron.

Seated in the high-backed chair opposite him, Felix's military posture and appearance were correct to the last detail, his head held erect by the high collar of his evening jacket, his neck linen tied to perfection.

He looks like a prince – me, like an imposter. But I must admit he's making an effort to put me at ease. No easy matter with the servants' ears and eyes fixed on us.

Mungo was surprised that the first course was served before the arrival of his father and the unknown guest.

Felix leaned discreetly towards Mungo. ‘Father's guest of honour has been unavoidably delayed at Government House. And as you know, Father is somewhat self-conscious about the limitations of his left hand, so he's dining upstairs before he joins us. He's to be much admired for his determination to resume his life, don't you agree?'

‘Absolutely. I only wish that old leech, Johnson, would stop bleeding him. That's what killed Lord Byron, not his wounds fighting for the Greeks' liberation.'

Albruna picked up on their conversation. ‘Then you'll be pleased to know Mr L'Estrange has dismissed his
respected
physician – against my advice. I'm afraid he's become caught up in so-called modern ideas of healing I find quite alarming.'