The Lace Balcony (38 page)

It was then Vianna saw the face at a window in the other mansion. A blonde lady, impassive as marble, as she watched Jane enter the other house. Then she drew the curtain closed.

So that's the answer! One is the mistress of the Master's house. Jane is the mistress of his heart. That means Felix and Mungo are half-brothers – and rivals over me! My God, what a story this would make if only Jane Austen was alive to write it!

‘There was a crooked man who walked a crooked mile. He found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile . . .' The old nursery rhyme was spinning in his head when Mungo awoke from a night of violent, distorted memories of Moreton Bay.

Why has that weird old nursery rhyme been dredged up from my childhood? Mam would claim it's some kind of warning. I've never been guilty of walking the straight and narrow path. Maybe it's a nudge by the fag end of my conscience . . . hey! That promise I made to that cop!

There was no standard police uniform in the Colony, only a collection of similar dark blue jackets and caps. The local traps were notoriously underpaid and open to bribes just to make ends meet, so Mungo had borrowed two old jackets and caps ‘to wear to a fancy dress ball' in exchange for the equivalent to a corporal's weekly pay. But Mungo had failed to return the uniforms next morning as agreed.

Bugger my conscience, I'll return them this morning with a bottle of grog.

Hastily dressed in moleskin work clothes, he gave his new riding boots a few licks of the boot rag. Their burnished shine recalled those other new boots, how Will had commandeered them to wear to his execution.

Despite the heat of the morning, Mungo was suddenly chilled by a draft of cold air. The French doors to the balcony were open and the sounds of the wind in the trees and children's voices drifted up from the garden. Suddenly all was unnaturally quiet. It was as if an invisible door had been slammed shut, cutting off all sound, the birdsong, everything. Red-tipped fingers of eucalypts now beat silently against the balcony. Although the children playing in the garden continued to yell at each other, their open mouths made no sound. All was deathly quiet.

Mungo was rooted to the spot. He did not need to turn around to know who had invaded his space. He resumed polishing his boots
but his eyes slewed towards the dark corner of the schoolroom where a curtain concealed a tall cupboard.

‘I know you're there, Will.'

No answer. But he felt a sensation like someone was blowing cold air down the back of his neck. Mungo tried again.

‘Look, I'm sorry things turned haywire on our get-rich scheme, mate. We'd have made our fortune twice over by now if we hadn't got nicked. The times were against us. You know how the arse fell out of the Colony's share market. Even Captain Piper was forced to sell off his estates at rock-bottom prices. We were gambling on worthless shares. What can you do?'

No answer, so Mungo continued to polish his boots.
God willing it
is
Will – and not one of the others.

The image of Patrick Logan at St James's Church made him fight down a sense of panic. But he had no reason to fear Will, so he pressed on.

‘Hey, why am I telling
you
this, Will? You must know everything now – past, present and future. Is this some kind of warning? Why are you hanging around Rockingham Hall? Don't mind me, I always liked your company, even when we fought. But don't go scaring the kiddies. They don't know you like I do. Kids wet their knickers at the sight of a ghostie. Like I did when I was a kid.'

Greeted by silence, Mungo felt a prize fool for talking to a ghost who wasn't there, but he gave an involuntary yell when a crash behind him made him spin around, his palms sweating.

In the centre of the room was a storage box lying too far from the bookcase to have fallen in a direct line from the top shelf. Dust rose up from the lid, filtered by a stream of sunlight from the garden. The top shelf held a row of identical boxes except for one vacant space like a missing tooth. They were so tightly packed it was impossible that one had spontaneously broken free from its moorings.

‘Trying to tell me something, Will? What's in the box? Gold ingots or uncut diamonds? I could use a bit of spare cash. Having a woman in keeping costs a man.'

The contents were disappointing. ‘Call yourself my mate, do you? You go to the trouble of scaring the shit out of me, all for a heap of Felix's broken old toys.'

Mungo examined a wooden dog made from ringed pieces strung together by a cord that made the dog walk and wag its tail. This had been Felix's favourite toy until the day he and Felix had had a tug of war with it and the dog was crippled, never to walk again. His father had bought Felix an exact replica, but Felix had loved the broken dog so much he took it to bed for weeks after.

The box also held a schoolroom slate, long since rubbed clean of writing.

Beneath these objects lay an old diary, labelled ‘Felix L'Estrange'. Intrigued, Mungo read the entry dated February 1, 1817, a memorable date, being the first week he had been invited to share Felix's lessons with the L'Estranges' resident tutor. The entry recorded seven-year-old Felix's private conversation with God in copperplate writing and his original brand of phonetic spelling.

Please Lord, Forgive my Sins. I hate the Convict's boy Father says I must all ways study with. The boy gets Gold Stahs for his Compozishuns. But I beat him at Latin. And German because of Mutti's ekstra Lesuns. Why does Father like Jane's boy so much? It's not fair. Father laughs at the Whoppers the boy tells. But I get punishted for telling a lie.

‘The Convict's boy. That's me all right, lying my way in and out of trouble.'

Mungo risked a glance at the shadowy corner. Sticking out from under the curtain was a pair of burnished boots.
My damned boots. Will's still wearing them.

‘Come on, Will. There's some point to this trick of yours, is there?'

The next sound made the hair stand up on the back of his neck, that unmistakable sound that set his teeth on edge in childhood – chalk scratching on a blackboard.
The black slate – now there's writing on it!
His mouth dried as he read the words aloud.

‘Love comes to each man at a time and place not of his choosing. For some love comes too early, for some too late.'

Mungo sat back on his heels, shivering with cold – or was it fear?

‘I don't know if the words are yours – but I'm damned sure it's your writing.'

Mungo smiled at the empty room. ‘I get your message. Vianna, right? You saw her just before you were hanged. For me it was love at first sight – but Moreton Bay kept us apart. So love came too late for you, too early for me. Now the time is right. Thanks for the nudge, Will.'

The temperature of the room was suddenly warm again. The curtain no longer covered those long-lost boots. The birdsong was once more alive. Feathery eucalypt leaves brushed the window. The world was restored to its rightful time and space.

Mungo packed up Felix's memorabilia and replaced the box on the top shelf – except for the slate, which he put aside for later use. Grabbing his cabbage tree hat he bolted across the Bridge of Sighs, carrying the parcel for the young constable.

Breakfast was the only L'Estrange meal that made Mungo feel comfortable, the family's one informal meal of the day, set up on the sideboard for whoever was present so that they could help themselves without assistance from servants.

Already seated, and dressed immaculately, Felix glanced up from the blood sausage, eggs and bacon neatly proportioned on his plate and gave Mungo a curt nod. Mungo returned it with a grunt, poured himself a cup of tea, slathered cold toast with marmalade and gulped down his breakfast.

Felix laid aside the three-months-old London newspaper that had just arrived on a convict transport. He eyed Mungo coldly.

‘May I ask if you intend to strike a blow for the L'Estrange enterprises today, Mungo? I regret the need to monitor your progress but no doubt Father would be pleased to see you attempting to live up to his expectations for your reformed character.'

The sarcasm was laid on with a trowel but Mungo decided to let it pass.

‘A reasonable question. To put both your minds at rest, I have written a full report about my plans for this week. It's on your desk, as we speak.'

‘Am much obliged,' Felix said coolly, unable to fault him.

You won't catch me out on that score. I'll earn every penny of my wages.

‘I plan to drive the wagon along the Parramatta Road to report on L'Estrange properties at Petersham, Taverner's Hill, The Five Islands
and Penrith. Is there anything specific you wish me to look into?' Mungo asked.

‘Just the usual. Bolting convicts, cattle duffing and the like. I'm pressed for time this week. Been invited to visit the Governor's Observatory at Parramatta, a rare privilege. Sir John Jamieson invited me to stay at Regentville. I understand he's not currently in favour with the Governor, but it would be most convenient for me.'

‘Reckon you'll be away long?' Mungo asked casually.

‘No, I must return to attend a
soiree
here at Government House – some cause of Mrs Darling's that my mother is unable to attend.'

Felix's frown suggested he was aware of servants' gossip. Mungo was also intrigued to know the reason for her mysterious twice-weekly appointments.

If the woman wasn't a paragon of virtue, I'd suspect she was having an affair. And who could blame her? Everyone else in this house is enjoying a romp on the quiet – or like me, trying to make it happen.

Mungo pushed curiosity aside and gave a genuine response. ‘I reckon your mother deserves a medal for her good works for fallen women and street urchins.'

Felix's quick glance appeared to suspect sarcasm so Mungo added quickly, ‘and I'm grateful for the chance to work for your family.'

He rose from the table and put his Cabbage Tree hat on the back of his head. ‘Freedom tastes good, mate. You should try it some time.'

•  •  •

Felix was left seething with anger.
Damn Mungo's hide
.
He always delivers an exit line that allows me no time to respond. As a kid he accused me of being tied to Mother's apron strings. But when I install Vianna at Mookaboola, that will wipe that smug look off his face.

The moment his father's documents were signed, sealed and ready to be delivered by hand, Felix called for George Stodge, the young Cockney servant he had under surveillance.

‘These need urgent delivery directly into the hands of those named on the envelopes . . . you're unable to read? Quite. Well, the large envelope is to be delivered to Sam Lyons's auction house. The other to Doctor Alexander Gordon. His shingle may not yet be in place but he's Dr Adam Golding's new partner at his Macquarie Street surgery.
Just down from the Hyde Park Barracks,' Felix added, aware that the youth had been assigned to the Barracks on his arrival and that his good behaviour had led to his reassignment as their house servant. He was still on trial. ‘You know where that is.'

‘Ain't likely to forget, Sir, sleeping in hammocks packed cheek to jowl with fifty felons.' The tone was cocksure, but the lad's eyes were as cold as ice.

It was an uncomfortable reminder to Felix of the known practice that older prisoners preyed on young boys. He tried to make amends.

‘You've done well since you've been assigned to us. You work has not gone unnoticed. There's something else you can do for me.'

‘Sir?' Cockney George looked wary.

‘The servants are forbidden to touch my telescope and my books. Yet several times I have detected signs they have been tampered with.'

‘It ain't me, Sir, I ain't touched nothing.'

‘No guilt implied. But if you should get wind of whoever has disobeyed my orders, I shall handle the matter discreetly. I assure you no one will be returned to the authorities. I simply want it known my telescope is
sacrosanct
.' He added quickly, ‘Not to be handled by anyone except myself.'

‘Right you are, Sir.'

Felix prided himself that he had handled that rather well. If Cockney George was the culprit he stood warned. If not, no doubt the word would spread amongst the servants. Felix felt equally sure the Cockney would never ‘dob' on a fellow convict, unlike others of his class.

The lad might be a seasoned thief but he has his principles. I've left money lying around to tempt the culprit but all remains untouched – except for the cap off my telescope and Rümker's reports. Odd to say the least. The only person I've ever known who showed interest in astronomy was William Eden.

•  •  •

Jane Quayle had appointed herself as Vianna's watchdog with Kentigern L'Estrange's approval, guarding the girl's privacy in the loft. Felix felt irritated that he had first to gain a servant's permission before speaking with his contracted mistress.

He was surprised to find Jane in her cottage, dressed midweek in her Sunday best, complete with bonnet and gloves, ready to depart.

‘You'll find her on her balcony. I am to accompany her to an appointment. We leave here in ten minutes,' Jane said politely but with a look that clearly implied:
Master's son or not, there'll be no funny business on my watch.

Felix felt uneasy that the two women seemed to share an implicit understanding. Despite her personal history as his father's mistress, Jane was as inflexible as his own mother on certain moral issues.

Women of all classes are such a strange breed I doubt I will ever understand how their minds work. But I suspect it's easier for a gentleman to make a financial arrangement with a woman he wants to make his mistress than to choose a wife he must live with for the rest of his life.