The Lace Balcony (54 page)

‘Hang on! A hundred guineas? That's not my advertisement. And this is
The Sydney Herald.'

‘It says here to contact “A Gentleman” care of the Editor. Felix perhaps?'

Mungo sprang to her side and hurriedly pulled from his pocket a cutting torn from a newspaper. ‘Here's mine in
The Australian.
Similar wording, except it offers a handsome reward and says to contact M.Q. care of the Editor.'

Vianna examined it quietly. ‘That was very generous of you, Mungo. Even though it was foolhardy to list your true initials. Severin isn't stupid. You'd be easy to trace. How many surnames in Sydney Town begin with Q? Please be careful, Mungo.'

‘Don't worry about Severin. I've handled far worse mongrels at Moreton Bay.' He turned, wanting to make amends. ‘Your reading's made great progress. I'm proud of you. You won't need me much longer.'

He wanted to hear her deny it but her final response was no comfort.

‘I don't want to need any one man. But I'm grateful for all you have done for me, Mungo . . . I'll never forget you.'

Jesus. Same last words she said to Will Eden on the gallows.

•  •  •

Mungo lit a pipe and sat under a tree, his eyes trained on the darkness of the loft. He felt shamed by his harsh words.
Who the hell gave me the right to take the high moral ground? Me – the man who's afraid to remember he killed Patrick Logan.

He raged with frustration that despite his plans to trace Daisy and win Vianna's approval through placing his advertisement, Felix had topped him with a reward so enticing few could resist it.
One hundred guineas is more than a year's pay for many public servants. What a windfall for an informer willing to trade the kid for hard cash.

Mungo looked up at Felix's balcony. The blinds were drawn. No telescope in sight. He looked around the empty garden and said the words under his breath. ‘Care to give me a few clues, Will . . . ? Where the hell are you when I need you?

The aura of silence that now hung over the twin mansions disturbed Vianna even more than the previous tension, rivalry and the eruption of violence she had caused in the lives of all at Rockingham Hall.

To avoid choosing one half-brother over the other, Vianna had steeled herself to confront Mungo and Felix on separate occasions with the verdict she had previously delivered to Kentigern L'Estrange about them.

‘I am fond of you both – but you're both badly flawed. Your best qualities would combine to make the perfect man.'

Mungo and Felix had been equally shocked by her warning: ‘Don't even think of sharing my favours. Polygamy holds no advantages to a woman – no matter how lucrative the contract.'

The illusion of peace between the two rivals came at a heavy price. Mungo no longer appeared nightly as her tutor. And Felix had fallen victim of the influenza epidemic sweeping the Colony.

A knock on her door sent Vianna scurrying down the ladder, crestfallen to find it was Molly, in her role as go-between, bearing notes and flowers from Felix.

‘Wait, Molly, in case I have an answer.'

Vianna read the note in silence, pleased that she no longer relied on Molly to read to her. Felix apologised that he had been unable to follow up the first response he had received to his ‘Missing Person' advertisement. Felix's letter continued:

He wrote to me care of the Editor and signed himself simply J.D. Esquire, Charlotte Place. I want to assure you that the moment I am on my feet again, I shall call on the gentleman to learn exactly what knowledge he has of your sister.

‘Please take my sketch of Felix to him,' she told Molly, ‘and wish him a speedy recovery.'

Alone Vianna studied the note, torn between pleasure and frustration. James Dalby had told her he would find a way to contact her, so JD Esquire was most likely his response and the fashionable Charlotte Place, the likely address of his new townhouse.

Felix's reference to the L'Estrange family dinner reminded her of the irony of her ambiguous status, living at the ‘poor end' of the Rockingham Hall estate.

Jane and I have much in common. One the mistress of the father, the other of his son – both of us welcome in their beds but unacceptable as guests in their house.

Vianna was suddenly conscious that the prime rule Severin had taught her, how to fleece wealthy men of their money, no longer applied. Genuine emotions were now involved. She had no desire to hurt either of these warring half-brothers.

She felt unreasonably annoyed that since their last angry encounter, Mungo had not returned to supervise her lessons. He left her brief reports of the public houses and shanties he visited in search of Daisy. There were no personal comments except a single postscript, ‘Keep up your studies. You're doing well.'

That's evidently as close as Mungo can bring himself to make an apology. If he's waiting for me to apologise he'll wait till Doomsday.

She tried to harden her heart against him but her conscience made her uneasy. Mungo was so near and yet so far. Each day he called at Jane's cottage and she overheard snippets of their conversation.

Now, as she peered through the chintz curtains of the window overlooking Little Rockingham Street, her heart beat wildly at the sight of Mungo leading Boadicea from the stables.

Today he was dressed informally and she could not help admiring the strong, virile lines of his body. His pale moleskin trousers were moulded to his long legs, riding boots polished to a shine, his broad shoulders covered by a blue-striped shirt, collarless and open to the waist under a sheepskin vest, across which was slung the gold watch chain he wore with pride. His broad-brimmed felt hat worn at a rakish angle, he doffed with a smile to an elderly Chinese woman who was weighed down like a human set of scales, a wooden halter across her shoulders, rocking from side to side under the weight of two baskets of produce as she followed her pigtailed husband to market.

Standing impatiently outside Jane Quayle's cottage, Mungo put his fingers in his mouth and gave a shrill whistle. Jane stepped out into the street. Behind her, polished and shining in brand new boots and the smart, homemade suit that Vianna had helped Jane to sew, Toby stood cap in hand, hopping on each leg, eager to be off.

Jane wagged a finger at Mungo. ‘Didn't your mother teach you better manners? A whistle is designed to bring a sheepdog to heel – not a woman!'

‘Sorry, Mam. I'm in a hurry. I promised to take Toby on a jaunt to check a few places along the Parramatta Road for Father – and for any word of Daisy.'

Mungo's saying that for
my
information. Why can't he say it face to face?

Jane looked guarded. ‘By places, I take it you mean public houses and shanties. They're hardly fit for a child to visit. I suggest you leave Toby at home with me. Vianna has offered to teach him his alphabet.'

‘Has she indeed?' Mungo cast a wary glance up at Vianna's window.

Their eyes met. Time seemed to come to a standstill. Vianna's heart was racing. Despite her firm resolve to be nonchalant, she leaned out the window where the wind caught her hair and swirled it around her head. She threw Toby a kiss.

‘That's an open invitation, Toby,' she called down, ‘to you and your friend. I'd be glad of your company to study and read stories together, whenever Mungo can spare you. But I know how much he values your help.'

Toby's puny chest puffed up with pride and Jane nodded approval, but Mungo was anxious to depart. ‘Thanks. Tomorrow, maybe. I need Toby with me today.'

Mungo climbed up into the saddle and swung the boy up behind him to ride pillion, ensuring the lad's short arms were tightly clasped around his waist.

‘We'll be back before supper, Mam.'

‘Don't feed him any rubbish, mind. He's a growing lad.'

‘Don't worry. I won't get him drunk, either.'

Mungo rode off at a brisk trot. Toby's high, thin voice floated back in a cheerful farewell as they disappeared around the corner.

Vianna was left feeling restless, eager to take her life in both hands.

Fate has decided for me.
She hurriedly changed into the one dress that would pass muster as a lady's afternoon gown, carefully draped her shawl around her shoulders and tugged at her bodice to show the curve of her bosom to best advantage.

Faced with the decision between the remaining pair of elegant heeled shoes from her Severin House era and the stout walking boots Mungo had bought her, common sense fought with her entrenched vanity. For once common sense prevailed. To borrow the pony trap once more from the livery stables without Mungo's permission would be tantamount to waving a red flag at a Colonial bull. She decided to walk.

On impulse she placed a sulphur-crested cockatoo's feather in her bonnet, donned the lace gloves she had carefully darned, then ventured forth into the world, her parasol a brave symbol of elegant flirtatiousness rather than protection from freckles. Armed with only a few ha'pennies in her reticule, she sighed in resignation.

What do the French say? ‘The more things change the less they change.' I'm still a lady in keeping who never carries money. Only this time my protector is Mungo – whose fortune is nothing but a pipedream.'

Jane Quayle's ironic Manx proverb also came back to her. ‘Never marry for money, but never fall in love where there is none.'

The sunny winter sky held no threat of rain in the occasional cotton wool wisps of cloud, so Vianna set off with an air of confidence to walk to Charlotte Place. She had decided to forego Molly's company, knowing the girl's loyalty to both brothers meant that if questioned, she'd feel obliged to report on Vianna's activities.

From now on, my business is strictly
my
business. Felix and Mungo are each welcome to run their own race. I'll do things
my
way.

•  •  •

The distance to Charlotte Place was further than it looked on the printed map that Mungo had given her to familiarise herself with the town's public buildings and landmarks. What had seemed no more than a few inches of cross streets on a map, travelled effortlessly by carriage, proved a different matter on foot.

The distance was not beyond her capacity but the new boots had not yet been ‘broken in'. The blister on her heel would be worse by the return journey.

To think I was tempted to wear my French heeled shoes so that James Dalby would not see how vulnerable I am – without the means to dress á la mode, as I did when I was a fly caught in Severin's web.

Seated beside a horse's trough to rest her feet, she forced herself to be honest. ‘I can't go through life blaming Severin for my own weakness. I was too afraid to make my own way in the world. I'm four years older now. Sadder but wiser . . . well, some of the time.'

Overlooking the green island of lawn at the heart of Charlotte Place was a row of identical three-storey mansions. Dalby's exact address was unknown, so she crossed to the oldest surviving church in the Colony. St Phillip's was flanked at one end by a tall castellated round clock tower, the Military Windmill adjacent to the other.

The verger was a pleasant old chap who was eager to take her on a private tour of the church but Vianna managed to convey the urgency of her quest.

He pointed to the town house at the end of a row. ‘Major Dalby's a fine gentleman, most generous to the less fortunate.'

Realising this was a subtle cue for alms, Vianna thanked him, embarrassed that she only had two ha'pennies to put in the poor box, but the verger put her at ease. ‘Visit us any time, Miss. See you in church, eh?'

Her blistered feet suddenly took wings as she crossed the road.

She was stunned by the sight of the housemaid who answered the doorknock.

‘Wanda! I thought I'd lost you forever. How long have you been here?'

Vianna stepped inside, hugging her like a sister, surprised when Wanda stiffened and looked anxiously over her shoulder into the street.

‘What's wrong, Wanda? This is Major Dalby's house, isn't it?”

‘It isn't safe for you. Please go now, I can't explain.'

Wanda was in the act of pushing her out the door when Vianna felt a sudden rush of fear at the sound of the man's voice behind her.

‘Vianna, m'dear, what a delightful surprise. Just in time to take tea with me.'

She whirled around. Too late to escape. Severin stood smiling down at her, his arms open wide as if in welcome but effectively blocking her exit. As dashing as ever, he wore a caped greatcoat and stovepipe hat, his ornate stickpin and rings glinting in the sunlight. Yet his expression chilled her. She had forgotten how that particular smile of his filled her with dread.

Hooking her hand firmly through the crook of his arm he shepherded her back inside the house, handing Wanda his coat, hat, gloves and cane.

‘On second thoughts no need for tea, Wanda, this calls for your master's best champagne. Bring it up to my chambers. Vianna and I have much to discuss.'

Severin's arm tightened around Vianna's waist as he steered her upstairs to a suite of elegant rooms on the first floor. The windows were swagged with dark crimson damask. Through the archway off the sitting room was a bedchamber where richly patterned silk curtained off a giant four-poster bed.

Vianna seated herself in the chair he offered and tried to assume an air of confidence to hide the sickening ‘first night nerves' she had felt before every performance on stage. Wanda brought a tray bearing French champagne, two chilled crystal goblets, a silver bowl of berries and bon-bons, rose petals floating in a finger bowl.

Severin was totally at ease. ‘Thank you, Wanda, that will be all.'

Vianna noticed the girl's uneasy glance as she paused in the doorway.