The Lace Balcony (51 page)

She looked around the loft with fresh eyes. The rooms that had originally felt like a prison when Mungo abducted her had gradually been transformed in her eyes into a little oasis of calm, safety and book learning.

I feel like a tortoise that's forced to carry its house on its back. But now I'm fast outgrowing my shell.

She looked at the stranger in the mirror. The edges between her two identities had begun to blur and she was surprised to discover a third emerging. Gone was the glamorous, shallow vanity of the notorious Sydney Venus. Gone forever was Fanny, the lady's maid with a feather in her hat, a courtesan's hand-me-down dress and the naïve conviction she could build a new life for Daisy.

So who am I?
Staring back at her was a girl with sad eyes, dressed in simple clothes that she had made herself. A woman who could never bear children, who would never be able to marry for love. It was then she saw a glimmer of something in the stranger's eyes that surprised her.

I am a
survivor.
No matter what price I have to pay, I'll find a way to survive.

She trembled, confronted by a frightening sense of freedom that she wasn't yet ready to grasp. She grabbed hold of a scrap of paper and copied down a name and address she had found in the newspaper by her side.

The sound of voices in the garden distracted her. From the balcony she saw Felix, his formal morning suit a strange contrast with the gardener in slop clothing whom he was directing to cut flowers,
vetoing some blooms, approving others. Beside them stood Molly, holding a shallow rose basket fast filling with flowers.

Suddenly Molly and the gardener were scrambling about on their hands and knees on the lawn, with Felix pointing and giving directions.

What on earth are they up to? Has Felix gone mad, or have they?

She called his name. Felix gave an involuntary glance at his mother's half of the mansion. The curtains were drawn, so he gave Vianna a discreet wave. On impulse she beckoned him and his face broke into a radiant smile. He grabbed the flowers, left the pair weeding and hurried up the ladder to the loft to join her.

‘Thank you, Felix. These flowers are perfect. But won't your mother notice the best ones are disappearing?'

She covered his discomfort by asking him to sit down while she made tea for him and put the flowers in the last available container, a watering can.

‘I must say, Felix, I am intrigued. Have you been collecting herbs for Jane?'

‘No, they are for you,' he stammered. ‘Molly told me about your sketch of your sister, wearing dandelion chains – and how dandelions were linked to your first memory of your mother. So I decided to plant a field of them at
Mookaboola
to surprise you. I couldn't wait for seeds to grow.'

‘What a sensitive thought, Felix.'
But I don't want to get locked into the idea of
Mookaboola
– not yet anyway.

‘May I see your diary?' he asked. ‘I hear your work is very good.'

Oh no, I can't show him my sketches of Mungo and Severin, nor even his father.

‘It's very personal, Felix.' She added hurriedly, ‘But I would be pleased to sketch you, if you would allow me?'

‘I would be honoured. How would you like me to pose? I understand everyone has a best profile? Which is mine do you think? Sorry, I shouldn't instruct the artist what to do – very bad form.'

‘Just be yourself, Felix.'

He looked embarrassed. ‘That's just the problem, Vianna. I'm not quite sure who that is. I seem to be fast changing from the person I was reared to be – I sometimes hardly recognise myself. I confess
I've discovered a side to me that is –
not
a good man. At least Mother would not think so.'

‘Perhaps you and Mungo are beginning to rub off on each other. Making you both a little more human.'

‘I'm nothing like Mungo,' he said firmly. ‘I keep my promises. Do you mind if I talk while you draw? I have much to tell you about
Mookaboola.
I've never had a place of my own before – well, it's Father's actually, but I've had it painted and papered and furnished to my own taste. I hope it will be to
your
taste.'

Vianna was eager to divert his attention. ‘I've been meaning to ask you, Felix. Jean-Baptiste Bonnard told me all about the anonymous gentleman who bought the portrait of me that caused the furore – and entrusted it to the artist so it would never fall into Severin's hands. Do you know who was responsible for that act of chivalry? I wish to thank him.'

‘He wished to remain anonymous.' Felix looked pleased but guilty.

‘I see,' she said. ‘You're not a very good liar, Felix.'

On impulse she leaned across and kissed his cheek then quickly regained her seat when he interpreted that as an invitation.

‘No! Please hold your pose. I want to finish this today.'

‘May I see it?'

‘Not yet. I need more time – in many ways, Felix.'

‘I understand,' he sighed. ‘Forgive me for pressuring you.'

She gently suggested she had sewing to do for Jane – a polite lie.

As he began to submerge down the ladder she asked casually, ‘If you should see Molly would you ask her to spare me some time from her school studies?'

Felix agreed. She heard the depth of his sigh as he descended the ladder.

•  •  •

Molly did not come directly to her and did not arrive alone. Dressed as if she was fast outgrowing her clothes but giving little thought to her appearance, Molly hurried down the path beckoning a small boy to follow her. Cap in hand, the child lagged behind her, clearly awed by the exotic garden.

Brilliantly coloured parrots swept above his head from branch to branch. Squawking in triumph, they sucked honey from the yellow
floral globes of late blooming Banksias, leaving the boy open-mouthed and enchanted by birds that took no more notice of him than if he were some odd specimen in the animal kingdom.

Half amused, half irritated by the boy's dawdling, Molly seemed pressed for time. Her face was flushed and strands of brown hair escaped from beneath her white cap. She tugged the boy behind her and disappeared from Vianna's sight.

A knock sounded on Jane Quayle's door. Intrigued by the pint-sized visitor, Vianna slid down the ladder to watch them enter Jane's cottage. The door was open and Jane invited them in.

‘This lad came to the front door of the house, bold as you please,' Molly told Jane. ‘Says he's a messenger boy and has a letter from a Mrs Navarro to deliver to Mr Mungo Quayle. I told him he was out on the Master's business, but the lad won't budge an inch – or hand over the letter. Planted himself on the doorstep, he did. So I brought him to you.'

‘Thanks, Molly, I'll take care of it,' Jane told the girl. ‘You can go back and help your mother.'

In passing Vianna, Molly whispered, ‘I'll see you later.' Then hurried down the garden path.

Who's Mrs Navarro and what is she to Mungo?
While eavesdropping in the walkway outside Jane's door, Vianna strained to hear her crisp but kindly words.

‘Well, lad, Mr Mungo Quayle is expected back later in the day. I'm his Mam. Can I deliver the letter myself?'

The boy shook his head, his eyes grave. ‘Mrs Navarro says
I
must do it. To his face. Or she won't give me no farthing.'

‘I see. Well, we can't have you out of pocket. You'd best sit down by the fire and have a glass of milk, still warm from the cow. And I'd be valuing your opinion of my chocolate cake – that is, if messenger lads are allowed to eat on the job?'

The boy eyed the cake, fighting temptation. He looked at the empty chair beside him. ‘My friend is hungry. I'll share half of mine, Missus.'

‘No need, lad. I'll cut another piece for your friend,' Jane said firmly.

Vianna glimpsed the boy slurping down the milk, followed by his murmurs of appreciation as he devoured the cake.
Poor little mite.
He's hungry, but proud and wily enough to invent an imaginary friend.

Jane had a smile in her voice. ‘Still considering your verdict, are you, lad? Well, sometimes it takes a second slice to be sure if it's a good cake or no. So here, help yourself to another piece – and another for your friend.'

That did the trick. The boy volunteered his life in between mouthfuls. ‘I sleep in Mrs Navarro's back shed . . . I eat in Elsie's kitchen . . . I run messages for people. Some gimme a farthing.'

Vianna, in need of diversion, knocked on Jane's door and pretended to withdraw due to good manners. ‘Sorry, Jane, I didn't realise you had company.'

‘Come in and join us. Your poor eyes need a rest, judging by the sound of that chalk scratching on your slate all morning. High time for a cup of tea and cake.'

Jane introduced them. ‘This young man has a good business head on his shoulders. He's waiting to deliver an important message to Mr Mungo Quayle,' Jane said with respect. And his name is . . . ?'

‘Toby, missus.'

‘Hello Toby.'

‘I know you, lady,' he said. You've got a flash carriage. White horses. You gave me all your money outa your purse.'

Jane was startled, Vianna embarrassed about this link with her former life.

‘Of course. I remember you. But the carriage and horses were sold long ago. I'm living here, for a while. Do you go to school, Toby?

‘Not me. No money. And no time, Miss. I have a kip of an afternoon. I stay awake at night – like a soldier on duty,' he said as if well-schooled in the phrase.

‘Why is that, Toby?' Vianna asked gently.

‘We've got a new girl working at night. If a gentleman beats her I run to the Watch House and fetch the constable.'

Vianna and Jane exchanged a glance. ‘I'm sure you're a great help, Toby.' She added casually, ‘Do you know Mr Quayle well?'

‘I know his horse. Mr Quayle let me ride her last week.'

Last week? So Mungo's visiting a brothel already?

Jane threw Vianna a sidelong glance of caution. ‘I've a fine pot of mutton stew on the stove, Toby, and freshly baked soda bread. Just
the thing for a growing lad. Sit yourself down while you're waiting for Mr Quayle's return, eh?'

While Toby hungrily tucked into the meal, Vianna followed Jane into the skillion to conduct a whispered conversation.

‘Are you thinking, what I'm thinking, Jane?'

‘Aye, the poor mite is a foot soldier in the world's oldest profession.'

‘Can't we help him in some way?'

‘Not unless the madam of the house tosses him out. Boys like Toby are useful child slaves, running at their beck and call. They often get booted into the street when it costs too much to feed them. Poor little devils.'

Vianna went back into the cottage and watched Toby use the bread to mop up the gravy of Jane's stew. ‘I hope we'll meet again, Toby. When you deliver your message to Mungo Quayle, would you please tell him I couldn't wait. I'll talk to him later.'

•  •  •

Vianna drove the pony cart with more confidence than expertise. Seated beside her, Molly tilted the parasol over Vianna until the strong breeze off the harbour threatened to turn it inside out, so she folded it. She was conscious Molly had her under scrutiny.

‘All the servants are curious. Which is your alias? Fanny or Vianna?'

Oh dear. I guess it had to happen sooner or later.

‘Vianna is my stage name. But actresses attract gossip. So out of respect for the L'Estrange family, I'm known here as Fanny – my name as a child.'

Molly thought that over. ‘Makes sense. Don't worry, you can trust me.'

I hope that's true, Molly.

Molly eyed her handling of the cart but finally asked tactfully, ‘Ever driven a cart before, Fanny?

‘Only once, in the bush. but if I can learn to read and write, what's a pony cart between friends?'

‘Where are we going today, Fanny?'

‘First, to ask for an appointment. It's a secret, Molly.'

She drew the pony cart to a halt in front of the imposing façade of Entally House and handed the reins to Molly.

‘If I'm in luck they'll see me now. If not I'll be back in a few minutes. Do I look respectable?' she asked, adjusting her bonnet and gloves.

‘You look beautiful, as always,' Molly said wistfully.

Vianna rang the bell and handed the letter to the butler, giving him her name.

‘Is Madam expecting you, Miss Byron?'

‘No, but she'll want to see me when she reads this letter,' Vianna said firmly.

Ushered inside, she took a seat in the hall. The clock face seemed to move incredibly slowly but at last she was shown into what looked like an office.

At the far end seated behind a desk was a plump, middle-aged matron in a modest silk dress and lace cap. She peered at Vianna over the spectacles on the edge of her nose, then reread the letter that Vianna had carefully copied out several times until it was free of ink stains.

‘So you wish to work for me in some capacity do you, lass?' she asked in a voice that Fanny recognised retained strong traces of her Lancashire origins.

This is my chance to sell myself before I get turfed out.

‘I do indeed, Mrs Reiby. I can sew and make ladies' clothes. And I can adapt French fashions to suit the Colony's climate. I used to be a lady's maid. My reading and writing get better by the hour. And I've bought some sketches of gowns, if you'd care to see them.'

Mary Reiby glanced at them. ‘I have many business interests, but I import fashions – I don't employ dressmakers. What made you come to me?'

Vianna felt desperate. ‘A gentleman friend told me that you turned your life around when you were a young girl, and worked hard to win everyone's respect. And well, I don't have your business head, but I badly want to learn – to be like you.'