The Lace Balcony (14 page)

‘What's so bloody funny?' Mungo demanded.

‘We both got what we wanted. I wanted to die rather than be sent here.
You
wanted to live.'

‘You call this living?'

‘I know it's been tough, but your days at Moreton Bay are numbered, cock.'

‘Yeah, Stimson warned me about a murder. My own, is it?'

‘That's up to you. I came to apologise for stealing your boots.' Will gestured to the leather boots that were so highly polished they shone through the darkness.

‘I'd have given them to you if you'd asked. You didn't have to fight me.'

‘Try and understand. I wanted to look decent when I made my final speech from the gallows. Knowing that sweet girl would be there to say goodbye to me.'

‘Yeah, she kept her promise. How could I forget?' Mungo said flatly. ‘Why are you here?'

‘I came to warn you. You have a choice. No lies, no cheating.'

‘Look who's talking. It was our dodgy scheme that got me here. Conning the Gentry into buying shares in a goldmine on a South Sea island none of us had ever seen.'

Will looked philosophical. ‘It wasn't our fault a volcano blew its top and the island sank without trace. But that's history now. Don't blow your last chance to get out of here alive. You could get a year chopped off your sentence – and be home by Christmas – unless . . .'

‘Unless what?'

‘Remember what the Bible says, ‘ “Revenge is
mine
sayeth the Lord!”'

‘Jesus, you sound like you copped a dose of religion at last.'

‘I'll ignore that. Goodbye for now, cock.'

‘Hell, you can't say stuff like that and just cut and run!'

Mungo called out but his words had no effect. Will Eden was fading fast. Mungo's lost boots were the first to dissolve, then the rest of Will's outline shimmered and evaporated like smoke.

Mungo had an ironic final thought before he rolled over into a deep sleep.

You always were a tricky bastard, Will Eden. But I reckon it takes one to know one . . .'

Today was a red-letter day and Vianna was eager to reach their destination. The first stage of the route to Eliza Point was familiar, as she had regularly passed this way for her portrait sittings in Jean-Baptiste Bonnard's studio.

When her new carriage suddenly veered off onto the private road that Captain John Piper had built in 1826, she knew she would soon see Henrietta Villa, the celebrated mansion that was a landmark for vessels entering Port Jackson, being the first house sighted inside Sydney Heads. European visitors to the Colony claimed that the view from Eliza Point was one of the finest the world had to offer.

Vianna knew that Piper's lavish hospitality in this mansion had entered into legend, and as its creator he was still known as ‘The Prince of Australia', despite his fall from grace. The collapse of his fortune and loss of his appointment as Controller of Customs had reduced him to rural life on his last remaining estate, Alloway Bank, outside Bathurst on the far side of the Blue Mountains.

Vianna was startled by a lurch of the carriage to avoid the trunk of a giant eucalypt that must have crashed during the recent storm. Blewitt's stream of foul language from up front caused Severin to raise an amused eyebrow. Vianna tried to disguise her intense distrust of the brute who Severin had assigned as her bodyguard.

‘It appears that your man Blewitt is none too pleased to do double duty as my coachman, Severin,' she said tartly.

‘Don't worry, it's his choice. Either obey my orders or face the murder charges he escaped in London – thanks to me,' Severin said languidly. ‘From today onwards you will never be free to appear in public without him.'

‘But Severin, I much prefer Wanda's company,' she protested, only to be cut short by a dismissive wave of his hand.

‘A black lady's maid is no protection from admiring mobs – or jewel thieves.'

This was a sore point with Vianna. ‘Anyone would think Blewitt was protecting the Crown Jewels. The truth is you never allow me to wear them in public. The jewels from my admirers are kept locked in your safe.'

‘Blewitt will shadow you to protect your virtue, Vianna – such as it is.'

Vianna felt heat flush her face and neck, at yet another biting reminder of her status as a ‘woman in keeping'.

Severin's confidence about the exhibition is just a mask. I suspect there's far more riding on it than the sale of Bonnard's paintings. But what? Severin plays his cards so close to his chest my head aches trying to work out his next move.

As the carriage swung between the iron gates of Henrietta Villa Vianna gasped with admiration. The castellated mansion more than lived up to its legend, standing like a miniature castle carved from stone against the aquamarine skyline.

‘Imagine living in a place like this!'

‘It's well past its prime. When Piper's empire collapsed in the depression, wealthy emancipists snapped it up far below market value. Piper's loss was Cooper and Levey's gain.'

‘How sad,' she said.

Severin cast a cursory glance at it. ‘If you think this is impressive, you should see my family's estate in Buckinghamshire. This looks like our gardener's cottage in comparison.'

The scowl that clouded his face reminded her that Severin's Conditional Pardon was effective banishment for life. If he returned to England illegally he would be immediately transported again with his original sentence likely to be doubled.

‘I am not greedy, Severin. I'm quite content to admire other people's mansions.' She decided to risk all. ‘When you make your fortune, I would be perfectly happy living on a property in the country, with an orchard and garden – and a couple of dairy cows.' The unspoken words were obvious –
where we could give Daisy a happy childhood.
But she knew that her eyes were silently pleading – because Severin averted his gaze.

‘All in good time, Vianna. Today I must launch our new era – and keep my promise to you.'

Which promise is that? All men are born with broken promises on their tongues.

•  •  •

The L'Estrange family carriage had been polished to a shine and its plush interior smelled of beeswax and the aromatic perfume of acacias that Albruna L'Estrange favoured even above French perfumes.

Felix glimpsed Henrietta Villa in the distance and felt a boyish flash of anticipation. No stranger to this house, he had wonderful memories of Captain Piper's outrageous hospitality. He recalled his sense of awe as a boy on learning from his father that Piper had built this mansion for the astronomical sum of ten thousand pounds. He recalled the pomp and circumstance of attending the celebration of the laying of its foundation stone, with his father, Piper and their fellow Masons at the first public Masonic function in the Colony. He had stood to attention as proud as a little tin soldier by his father's side, awed by the formality of the phrases . . . ‘By the Blessing of God in the Reign of George III during the Government of Lachlan Macquarie . . . laid by . . . the Worshipful Master of the Masonic Lodge of Social and Military Virtues.' Felix had silently vowed to become a Mason to make his father proud of him.

The date was impossible to forget, November second, 1816, his seventh birthday, and he had been pleased to have his father's full attention – Mungo was not invited.

‘I wonder if Cooper has inherited the small brass cannons Captain Piper used to delight me and his brood by firing farewell salutes to his friends on ships sailing through the Heads. Remember?'

A flash of pain registered in his mother's eyes. ‘I was never there. Invited by his wife Mary Anne of course, but your Father and I mixed in different circles.'

‘Of course. Forgive me, Mother. I am sorry to remind you of past sadness.'

‘This is water under the bridge,' she said firmly. ‘But I trust you know I did my best to give you a happy childhood – despite the War of the Roses around you.'

‘I am grateful for all you've done for me, Mutti.'

‘Good. Then perhaps you will repay me by being pleasant when I introduce you to the daughter of Sir George Quenton – one of our First Thirteen Families.'

Felix flinched.
Mother never misses a cue. I knew there'd be a price to pay for attending this damned exhibition. Will she never cease playing matchmaker?

‘I trust the girl can string two sentences together without giggling?'

‘It would help if you refrained from lecturing her on astronomy,' she retorted.

If I found a girl who shared my interest in the stars I'd marry her tomorrow.

Felix was thankful for the diversion when they sighted the vice-regal carriage waiting in the shade of the Norfolk Pines.

‘Mrs Darling has arrived ahead of us. You know how I hate to be late,' she snapped. Judging by the far-away look in the coachman's eyes, Old Crawford's mind was some thirteen thousand miles away in his native England. So Felix helped his mother to alight and steeled himself to face the social conventions he was expected to perform.
No doubt the whole of Sydney society has been invited.

Neither Felix nor his mother had previously encountered their host. He charmingly introduced himself simply as Severin, but they knew he was an emancipist entitled to the prefix of ‘Honourable' – a title which helped regain his social acceptance. Tall and immaculately tailored, his dark leonine mane of hair was streaked with grey at the temples. He was nothing if not charming and his finely chiselled features bore the stamp of aristocracy.

When Severin kissed the hand of Albruna L'Estrange and engaged her in conversation about his protégé, the young French artist Bonnard, Felix chose the moment to disappear discreetly into the crowd.

Despite signs of decay since he had last been here, the magnificence of the grand ballroom with its domed roof and Italianate pillars stirred his memories of playing Blind Man's Bluff with the Piper girls – and the touch of his first kiss. The house, even as it was now, stripped of furniture to accommodate the paintings and the swarm of the Quality eager to be seen as art lovers, provided an elegant showcase for the artist's work – as well as sublime sweeping views of the harbour.

Catching sight of Miss Quentin, flirting behind her fan, Felix seized the chance to lose himself in the crowd. To cover his shyness he thankfully accepted a flute of champagne from a tray borne by a
turbaned Indian servant. A second glass made him distinctly relaxed.

Entranced by a landscape labelled ‘Bivouac in the Illawarra', he became conscious that Severin was standing beside him.

‘May I ask what you think of the artist's work, Mr L'Estrange?'

‘His perception is extraordinary. My father has timber holdings in the Illawarra – so I'm familiar with the power and majesty of those forests. Unlike so many foreigners who view our eucalypts as if European trees were painted on their eyeballs, this artist has captured the soul of the Australian bush. This young Frog is the most gifted artist I've seen in years – even in Europe.'

Severin's eyes narrowed in pleasure. ‘An acute observation. May I introduce you to the artist himself, Monsieur Jean-Baptiste Bonnard.'

Good God! I've just insulted him by calling him a Frog. I'm a social leper – I should never be allowed to step outside Rockingham Hall.

Felix was horrified to find himself face to face with a handsome young man whose dark hair curled around his face in the Byronic mode.

They exchanged bows and Felix was quick to apologise.

‘Forgive me, sir. I meant no disparagement of the French. I am guilty of the careless habit we colonials have – we give everyone nicknames.'

Bonnard's eyes were smiling. ‘I thank you from my heart. It is rare for an artist to hear genuine comments of his work. I am at your service, Monsieur L'Estrange. A French name. You were born here? But perhaps have French blood?'

‘No. In Prussia, my mother's homeland. But I've lived here most of my life – except for the Grand Tour of Europe, of course.'

Severin had moved on, but Felix was surprised to be talking comfortably with a stranger. The champagne had taken the edge off his nerves.

‘Will you permit me to show you my favourite painting?' Bonnard asked and, securing two more glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, steered Felix to a portrait of an incredibly beautiful young woman lying on a chaise longue wearing Grecian robes. Men clustered around it in admiration.

Felix was stunned.
My God that's her! The girl at Will Eden's hanging! What a miracle to find her here!

‘She is beauty beyond belief, n'est-ce-pas?' the artist asked wistfully.

Felix could do no more than stammer, ‘Who is she?'

‘I have named her portrait ‘The Sydney Venus' – because she is like the brightest star in the heavens – but always beyond the reach of mortal man.'

Felix felt stirred by emotion both for the girl and the artist with whom he now felt a common bond.

‘Would you allow me to purchase it? Whatever the price.'

‘Thank you, Sir, I am honoured, but it is not for sale. The painting and the girl, Vianna, they both belong to Monsieur Severin.'

Felix felt as if he had been punched in the gut.
That means she's a lady in keeping. But I don't care. She now has a name. Vianna. I
must
meet her.

He found the courage to ask, ‘Is she here today?'

‘Yes, Monsieur, she is about to be introduced before your eyes.'

His gesture indicated Severin who was now elevated on the dais beside Her Excellency Mrs Darling. Following a charming speech, she formally declared the exhibition open and was then promptly enveloped by her vice-regal entourage.

Severin then drew Jean-Baptiste Bonnard up onto the dais, lauding his work, his sensitive insight into his subjects, including the exotic Australian landscape.