The Lace Balcony (67 page)

I knew there'd be a hidden agenda. Even the nicest men want something.

‘I see. You want to exhibit the Sydney Town Venus that shocked the Colony.'

He looked embarrassed. ‘Bah! Colonial philistines. Europeans are not shocked by such beauty.' He fervently crossed his heart. ‘Madame, I swear by the Holy Virgin it will never be seen in public – unless you grant me the permission.'

‘Granted, Jean-Baptiste. I no longer have a reputation worth guarding. Name the portrait what you will. But please call
me
Vianna. We are still friends, yes?'

He leaned across and kissed her hand, taking advantage of the rocking motion of the carriage to slip into the seat beside her.

‘Thank you from my heart, Vianna. This portrait will bring me bon chance. But this is not my only reason. I wish to offer you your passage to England.'

‘Jean-Baptiste, I must be honest with you –'

‘As always, that is why I love you. But my offer is without the strings attached. There will be no pressure from me, you understand me?'

I don't doubt he means that right at this moment. But three months at sea with a passionate young Frenchman? I wouldn't bet on it.

‘You are a true gentleman. But I could never allow you to pay my passage.'

‘No, no. You will not be in my debt. I planned to travel in company with – my patron. She now chooses to delay her journey – unwise for us to travel openly together. Her fine suite on the
Bussorah Merchant
is already paid for – it sails directly to Cork in two weeks then to London. You see? This gives you the perfect chance to begin a new life – far from Severin. The lady wished to travel
incognito
– so it is booked under the name of Mrs Brown. No one will even know you left the Colony . . . it is a good plan, yes?'

‘I am overwhelmed, Jean-Baptiste. It would be the perfect exit for me – and I thank you from my heart. But I am unable to leave – no, no, not because of a man. I have no romantic ties now. Because of a lost child, my sister. I simply cannot leave the Colony without finding out what has happened to her.'

‘If you find her, you will sail with me on the
Bussorah Merchant?
'

Vianna grasped at the heaven sent offer. ‘If I should find Daisy, yes, we will gladly return to England with you.'

He kissed her hand passionately. ‘May God grant that you find her.'

God willing, I will.

‘Vianna, you are not safe from Severin. Before our ship sails, I offer you my protection. My bedchamber is yours – I shall sleep in my studio,' he added quickly. ‘You will be safe there with me.'

Vianna impulsively reached out and kissed his cheek. ‘You are a darling. I shall think about your offer, I promise.'

On her return to Little Rockingham Street, Vianna waved goodbye, holding the ticket that offered her a passport to a new life – a windfall she could not ignore.

This is a sign that fate is about to open the doors to a new life. That my search for Daisy will end happily. Severin will be past history.

She felt an instant stab at the thought that the pain of leaving
Mungo would be easier to bear thirteen thousand miles away from him.

In time he will forget me, marry a girl who can bear his children. But I shall never forget
him
– or dear naïve Felix
.

The few tangible possessions Vianna needed to begin her new life could be carried in one carpetbag. Her memories were not so easily confined. Determined to act as if her happy future was already written in stone, she packed a bag in readiness with the items of clothing she had sewn herself. And lastly, the lovely rag doll she had made for Daisy.

Almost reverently she touched the school slate that Mungo had used to give her the gift of literacy. On impulse she seized a piece of chalk and wrote on it:

Dear Toby. If you listen to my magic conch shell, you will hear the voice of the mermaid across the seas. Remember, she will always love you – as I do. Vianna.

The words reminded her that the closet was now empty except for one remaining article. She had been unable to discard the torn mermaid's tail. It was a strange symbol of her two lives – the last link in the chain with Severin House, carried with her into this life in the funny little stables' loft.

Her throat constricted at the sight of the bed. Here for the first time in her life she had discovered with Mungo how two people could magically transform the physical act of connection into an act of love that was all things – passionate, romantic, stormy, and as radiant as sunlight. Yet a love that carried at its heart its own tragic and inevitable end.

Mungo's note proved he had turned his back on her forever. She must bury her memories like a time capsule sealed in the foundation stone, not of a new house, but a new life.

She packed, unpacked and repacked one book:
Mansfield Park,
the book that Mungo had used to teach her to read. She had imagined herself in the shoes of Jane Austen's heroine Fanny, a girl who was her complete antithesis, well-bred, modest, innocent, virginal, who lost but ultimately regained her one true love.

Thank heavens for romantic novels. They make the pain of real life bearable.

The mirror reflected the gown Vianna had taken days to sew, the black Indian silk with deep lace collar and cuffs and pintucked bodice. Like the other gowns she had made, its front-fastened placket gave her a sense of freedom. No matter how her future fortunes might rise, she would never again allow a lady's maid to dress her.

With deft hands she coiled up her hair in a series of knots, her hair so abundant the style needed no padding, before she anchored it in place with a fan-shaped comb. Her mirror image achieved its intention, a woman close to twenty-six, elegant yet self-contained, no longer buffeted by the whims of fate or the romantic dreams of youth – a woman intent on forging her own destiny.

Whatever the world thinks of me, I can't bear for Jane to think badly of me.

On impulse she wrote the difficult letter, addressed to Jane, a delicate balance between gratitude and truth. She summoned up her courage to add the painful words she could not bring herself to say aloud to Jane.

Mungo is now free to marry a woman who will give him the children that fate has denied me to give to any man.

She left the letter unsigned as neither of her previous names seemed to belong to her. She had outgrown both the naïve, romantic Fanny Byron and the shallow, self-centred, pleasure-seeking Vianna Francis. Discarded them both in the way that a snake sheds its skin each year to emerge anew.

If –
when
I find Daisy, I'll travel as Mrs Brown. This is a colony of aliases. Mrs Brown will foil anyone who tries to trace us – including Severin. But I won't leave without her.

Her packing completed, she watched from the Juliet balcony the large pale full moon that had remained to dominate the sky by day – said to herald an approaching eclipse of the sun.

She drank in the heady floral perfumes rising from the garden. Her eyes traced the lines of the dual mansions linked by the bridge that for a quarter of a century had harboured so many family secrets – an illicit ménage à trois between master, wife and mistress, the warring of two rival half-brothers – all revolving around the lynchpin of the man who was neither villain nor hero, Kentigern L'Estrange.

Vianna comforted herself with the belief that once time and distance made her a distant memory, these rivals would at last discover true brotherly affection, confident in their rightful share of their father's love.

She was startled then by the sound of someone climbing the ladder. Molly's distraught face peered from the shadows of a hooded cloak. ‘Vianna, I must speak with you – in private.'

‘What's wrong, Molly? I thought you'd be at
Mookaboola
with Felix, but he returned yesterday.'

‘Yes. Ahead of me – to save my reputation. Too late!'

Molly burst into tears. She looked in horror at Vianna's carpetbag.

‘You're not going away? You can't! Please don't leave me.'

‘Hush, Molly. There's nothing so bad that we can't face it together.'

Vianna guided her to a chair, mouthing one empty platitude after another in an attempt to calm her.

If only she knew what a mess I've made of my own life. What on earth has Felix done to her? I threw her in at the deep end at
Mookaboola.
Whatever's gone wrong is all my fault.

Molly looked at her with tragic eyes. ‘Please, will you come to court with me today? I can't face him alone.'

To court! Oh my God, what's happened now?

‘Of course I will, Molly. What are friends for?'

Mungo felt drained of all feelings – as if his blood, and his emotions along with it, had been taken by a vampire. He held the horse's reins, but it was Boadicea who was leading him at a fast gallop home.

Having just emerged from the extraordinary experience of hypnosis, he knew he should be experiencing a strong sense of liberation – but reality was difficult to grasp. He was no longer trapped in a nightmare, but felt buffeted by waves of confused thoughts, confronted by what Sandy had always believed to be the truth.

I murdered Logan in my heart. The man was already dead. But that does not wipe my conscience clean – I'm guilty by intention if not technically by deed. But at least the truth has left me free to rebuild my life.

His first instinct had been to ride deep into the bush, far from all human contact and responsibility. That was swiftly followed by a second instinct. Panic.

I must put my world to rights. Vianna. Mam. Toby. I was crazy – abandoning them without explanation. Please God it's not too late to redeem myself in their eyes.

It was raining as they approached the iron gates of the Devonshire Street cemetery. Boadicea gave a snort of warning. Mungo saw the cause. A man was leaning against the fence, arms folded across his chest as if resigned to waiting till kingdom come.

Despite the rain, the sun was shining on Will Eden. The crown of his close-cropped sandy hair and the gloss of his polished boots shone so brightly it seemed strange to Mungo the man was invisible to others.

He sprang down from the saddle and followed Will's beckoning figure along the path that led him once more to Patrick Logan's grave.
If only the bastard
would
rest in peace.

Logan's grave looked very different to his previous visit. Due to Sandy's efforts it was now covered by a stone slab engraved with Logan's name, regiment, place and date of birth and death, and the
names of his widow and children. A single urn contained bush flowers wilted in the heat and wet with rain.

Shoulder to shoulder with Will, like two soldiers standing at ease, Mungo held his hat in hand, feeling uncomfortable, but drained of the anger and feelings of revenge that had long consumed him. There was no one else in sight except the distant figure of the gravedigger bent double over a new grave covered with fresh flowers.

‘Why are we here, Will? You never knew Logan. His regiment's in India. There's only Sandy and me left to remember him – each for our own reasons.'

Will was philosophical. ‘Logan's one of the last of the Die Hards left in the Colony. A lonely grave, a fate shared by soldiers down through the centuries.'

‘Yeah, but at least Logan's resting place bears his name. That's more than they gave
you.
I'm sorry, Will. I reckon you know Father tried to claim your body for a proper burial – but the authorities refused permission.'

‘That's the fate of all us hanged men – an anonymous hole under prison flagstones – or else dissected for so-called science. Don't let it bother you, mate. It's surprising how little that stuff matters – when you've moved on.'

‘So why
are
you here?

‘I thought you could use some company. Now you've come to square things with Patrick Logan. And lay your false guilt to rest.'

Mungo was stunned at the implication. ‘Jesus, Will! You knew all along I never murdered him! Why the hell didn't you tell me? I might have confessed and gone to the gallows for a murder some other bloke did!'

‘I'm your mate, Mungo. Not your conscience. You had to work things out for yourself. And consider this. After all the trouble I caused you with the failure of our grand plan to make our fortune, would you have believed
anything
I said?'

Mungo began to laugh – a true laugh, no reservations. ‘No, I guess you're right. But I'm no hypocrite. I'm not going to stand here and sing Logan's praises. All right! I reckon I've got to say
something.
I've never been a bloke for praying. Got any ideas?'

‘Say what's in your heart. What's that Manx proverb Jane Quayle is fond of?'

‘Take your time – it will come to thee?' Mungo asked.

‘Aye, that's the one.'

Mungo took his time. The words finally came to him. He spoke directly to Logan – unseen this time but perhaps watching him.

‘If there
is
a God, I reckon I should thank Him for proving it wasn't me who actually murdered you. The more I know about you, Logan, the less I understand what made you tick. When I was your prisoner I hated your guts. But now I've seen you through Sandy's eyes, I know there were
some
good sides to you.'

‘Go on, you're doing all right,' Will prompted.

‘Is Logan behind me?'

Will hesitated. ‘Take it from me – he'll be listening.'

Mungo forced from his mind the image of Logan's corpse – replaced it with the memory of Logan alive, standing on his veranda that day in his scarlet uniform, beside his wife and two young children. He remembered the small boy wearing a military redcoat, smiling up at his father when he bent to ruffle his son's hair.