The Lace Balcony (60 page)

And somewhere during the union of their bodies, all the tricks and artifice that had become second nature to her dissolved like mountain mist. It was as if Vianna Francis was watching her from a far-off distance . . . supplanted by naïve Fanny Byron who was hungrily, joyously, truly making love to a man for the very first time in her life. She abandoned all control, crying with pleasure, with pain, with loss and with discovery.
So this is what love was always meant to be. Why did I discover it too late?

All boundaries between their bodies vanished. She relinquished her right to protect herself from the one thing she feared above all . . . to lose herself in an act of love from which there was no return.

•  •  •

The cock crowed – but it was beaten in the contest with the kookaburras' laughter to announce the dawn of a new day. Mungo's voice was warm and teasing. Now sure of himself, he rubbed his nose, his lips and his unshaven chin into her neck and the warm valley between her breasts. He stroked her hair as if rewarding a child.

‘There, that wasn't so hard, girl. Admit it. You're sorry you kept me waiting so long, eh? Well, there's plenty more where that came from – and you're going to get more pleasure from what I have in mind now than you ever dreamed of.'

His tongue licked her lips then played inside her mouth. And now that they were sure of each other's bodies they fought each other for supremacy – to be the one to give their lover the most pleasure.

This time they made love long and hard, interrupted by smothered laughter, gagging each other's mouths to avoid their involuntary cries at climax – aware that Jane Quayle's bedroom was on the other side of the common upstairs wall.

Lying limp in his arms, Vianna was now confident enough to remind him. ‘Why are you still here, Mungo? You paid for one night only.'

‘I lied,' he said smugly. ‘As you knew I would.'

Vianna took his face between her hands and opened his weary eyelids with gentle fingers to gain his full attention, while he clung to the last moments of sheer pleasure as he rested inside her.

‘Yes, Mungo, but I also lied to you last night – and told you the truth. I doubt you are clever enough to know the difference.'

‘Which was a lie? When you told me I was the lustiest man God ever invented? Or that I could buy you for one night only? Or when you said, “I'll never marry you, Mungo,” then moments later offered me your body, wearing nothing but my neckscarf! You knew perfectly well what
that
would do to me!'

He took the end of the scarf in his teeth and bit into it with a look in his eyes that told her exactly what to expect next.

This time she could not hold back her words any more than she could control the passion that ricocheted between them, as they played like two children forbidden to light matches. She gave and took everything he wanted – but refused to say ‘I love you.'

This time he left her satiated. She fell asleep, startled awake by torrential rain on the iron roof, even more by the sight of Mungo disappearing down the ladder.

‘What's the matter? Where are you going?'

He called from the stables. ‘Some ruckus outside. Stay here, I'll handle it.'

The door slammed behind him. Rain drowned out the distant sound of early morning farmers' carts on their way to market. Rainwater plastered Vianna's hair to her face as she looked out the window into the street below. Nothing in sight except a single, stationary hansom cab at the far end of Little Rockingham Street.

She was distracted by the strange, lovely vision of a shower of exotic blossoms rising in the air like fireworks to fall down again, carried away in the gutters that gushed like rivulets.
Severin's flowers.

The sole figure in the street was a crazy man. Soaked to the skin and naked except for material knotted around his hips like an Otahitian, he knelt in front of the stables. Arms stretched up to the sky, he turned to all points of the compass, crying out at the top of his lungs. ‘Hey, wake up. You hear me? My bride loves me!'

His face was shining with happiness. Like a drunk craving drink, Mungo opened his mouth wide and drank the falling rain as if it were champagne.

Vianna covered her mouth, torn between horror and laughter.
Mungo's gone stark raving mad.

‘Say it, Vianna. Tell the world you love me!'

‘Mungo! Please come inside!' she begged.

Jane Quayle looked down from her upstairs window and rolled her eyes.

‘For God's sake, tell him! Before the traps cart him off to the lunatic asylum.'

Jane slammed her window shut.

Vianna began laughing, her tears mingling with the rain on her face.

‘God help me, Mungo Quayle. I love you – and only you.'

The vehicle was now approaching and as it passed Mungo, it slowed its pace. The old cab driver shook his head in wonderment at Mungo then caught sight of Vianna.

Vianna quickly covered her breasts with her hands and ducked so that only her chin rested on the windowsill. Too late!

The cabbie gave Mungo a cheery wave. ‘Aye. Yer not so crazy lad!'

One moment she was shaking her head and smiling like a mother at a wild child's antics. The next moment her smile froze on her lips. As the carriage drove off, a curtain was drawn back from the window. Just for one second she saw his eyes. And knew who he was.

Severin's bloodhound, Blewitt.

Felix ringed the date on his desk calendar with a dual sense of triumph. October 19, 1831 was a turning point in Colonial history – the departure of the Governor, Lieutenant General Ralph Darling. But the date was of far greater personal significance. It marked a watershed, the eve of his new clandestine life with Vianna at
Mookaboola
.

Tonight is the climax to twenty-four years of trying to live up to my parents' expectations of the perfect son.

He had good cause to feel jubilant. That morning, Vianna's note, delivered by Molly, his trusted go-between, asked him to come to her alone that evening. The timing was perfect. The whole L'Estrange household would be absent, celebrating Darling's departure, along with most of the Colony.

The whole town knew that William Charles Wentworth, whose
Australian
newspaper had long campaigned against Darling, had invited hundreds of friends to his Vaucluse estate to enjoy a huge bonfire, fireworks and a bullock roasted on a giant spit, along with twelve sheep. He had also set up marquees with piles of loaves and casks of
Coopers' Gin
and
Wrights' Strong Beer
for Sydney's lower orders.

An open invitation like that will draw thousands of riff-raff flocking to Vaucluse. No doubt Wentworth has one eye on his political career. But who cares? Tonight there'll be no one here to spy on me. I'll claim what is rightfully mine – the fulfilment of my contract.

His eyes were drawn to the loft where a light shone brightly like a star of Venus. He withdrew her letter from the pocket over his heart and re-read it. Written in her surprisingly meticulous, schoolgirlish handwriting, the words warmed him.

Dear Felix, It is important we discuss your plans for
Mookaboola
before I honour our contract. Please meet me tonight. I shall unlock the gate at the entrance to Little
Rockingham Street after supper. If you are unable to join me then, I shall walk down to the common to watch the bonfires. I
must
see you alone tonight. Your true friend, F.

‘Unable to join her?' I'd happily burn in hell if that's the price I must pay!

A shadow of guilt marred his happiness. His possession of Vianna was a wilful decision that would deeply hurt his mother.

He had an involuntary rush of his first ever memory . . . as a toddler somewhere in Prussia . . . running and stumbling in the snow, crying until his mother picked him up and comforted him . . . his surprise as he brushed the tears from
her
cheeks, sensing she was crying because she felt his pain . . .

Mutti has always been the linchpin holding my world together. Now that woman will be my Venus.

Dressed in his new black velvet evening tailcoat, he squared his shoulders at his image in the mirror, a gentleman ready to claim victory. Through the window, across the garden, he caught sight of Toby's face pressed against the window of Jane Quayle's cottage, waiting for Mungo to take him to the bonfire.

The boy's eager face reminded him of the Guy Fawkes Day bonfires of his childhood, shared with Mungo. Their excitement, building the bonfire and the ‘Guy', the life-sized rag effigy painted with a man's face that Jane stuffed with straw to throw on the bonfire at its height. How Mungo always ended up happily besmirched by dirt and soot, his face shining red from the fire, his hair singed from fireworks, darting about barefoot in his ragged pants. While Felix stood on the sidelines giving directions that Mungo ignored, inhibited by the need to keep his scarlet soldier's uniform immaculate on Mutti's orders.

I didn't end up with the military career Mother wanted. Father was right, I'm best suited to being a landowner and studying the stars. I'll do both at
Mookaboola.

As he crossed the Bridge of Sighs, Felix was irritated to remember Mungo chanting the rhyme handed down through generations of children. ‘Please to remember the Fifth of November, gunpowder, treason and plot. We know no reason why gunpowder treason should ever be forgot.'

Absurd memories, tonight of all nights. Mungo is past history. My patience has won over his foolhardy theatrics. I am the right man for Vianna!

He joined his parents, Sandy Gordon and Mungo, in drinking champagne in the saloon, where his father had begrudgingly allowed Bonnard's portrait to be hung. A light early supper was planned before the advent of the fireworks display to which his father had granted all the servants leave to attend.

Felix eyed Mungo disapprovingly. Although Mungo wore an almost identical suit to one in his own wardrobe, Mungo always gave the odd impression he had slept in his clothes. Already his linen and cravat had begun to wilt from the heat.

Mungo looks as if he doesn't give a damn. But perhaps it's his poker face, masking his anxiety. I read the report he wrote for father about
Mookaboola
so he knows the score. Why can't Mungo accept defeat like a gentleman?

The conversation leap-frogged between politics, the departure of Darling's entourage, the jubilation felt by local children and adults, who for days past had been running to the common near the creek, stacking pyramids of broken furniture, tree branches and pine boxes – ready to send the bonfire's flames roaring sky high.

Warmed by his private plans, Felix allowed the conversation to eddy around him without his participation. He tried to assume an urbane manner, confident that he now held all the cards that really mattered to Vianna. But what of his planned surprise?

Should I do it before – or after – I take her to bed?

‘What say you on the matter, Felix?' Kentigern's booming voice demanded an answer, causing Felix to give a guilty start. He did not have the slightest idea what his father's question involved, but he tried desperately to avoid embarrassment.

‘I have not yet studied the subject deeply enough to voice an opinion, Father,' he said seriously, ‘but whatever Mungo's verdict is, I can almost guarantee mine will be the complete antithesis.'

When all three men burst out laughing in unison and even his mother's mouth twitched to conceal a smile, Felix knew he had blundered badly.

Oh God, as Mutti would say, I have ‘stepped into the grease bowl again'.

She calmly came to his rescue. ‘The question is, Felix, are you showing the preference for your father's L'Estrange
red
wines or his
white
?'

Mungo interjected with a mock-serious face. ‘I'll make it easy for you, mate. I'd put my money on the claret any day of the week.'

Felix did not hesitate. ‘Wrong! Our white is immeasurably superior to the red.'

To his great relief their easy laughter covered his previous gaff.

The moment the servants left the room Kentigern grew serious.

‘You may not be aware, Sandy, the Governor is not the only one turning his back on the Colony. Mrs L'Estrange has decided to return to her native land – for an indefinite period. Felix and I must struggle along without her as best we may.'

Is Father being sarcastic? Or do I detect a note of anger, even sadness?

Felix glanced at Mungo and was met by his slightly raised eyebrow.

‘You have my portrait to keep you company, my dear,' Albruna replied in a tone that Felix recognised barely masked the irony of her words.

To his relief the tension was broken by the return of the servants bearing platters of food. He was surprised to note the subtle difference between the way Molly was dressed and the other female servants. Her uniform of starched white cap, collar, cuffs and apron was identical, but Molly's black dress was immaculately moulded to her figure, giving the impression of some fairytale princess disguised as her servant.

Vianna's taught her well. Molly looks quite grown up. Perhaps I should employ her as Vianna's paid companion at
Mookaboola.
That would counter Vianna's loneliness in my absence.

Felix cast surreptitious glances at his mother. Ever since the night of the revelation of Bonnard's portrait, she had been subdued. At her request he had checked the sailing dates of vessels bound for Europe. The embarrassing question remained unasked. Did she plan to return to her family in Prussia, or God forbid, join Bonnard in Paris?

Felix glanced between his parents. What did his father truly feel
about the prospect of their final, legal separation? Would this clear the way for Jane Quayle's open residence as his mistress?