The Lace Balcony (23 page)

The dates of these colonial and British newspapers covered his lost years.

Felix was an arrogant little stuffed shirt as a kid. But maybe he's coming good. He's sensed what it was like to be hungry for news of the outside world
 . . .
Jesus, the whole colony seems to be busy defaming each other.

Felix had drawn rings around items of likely interest. Logan's murder was still fresh on his mind so Mungo shied away from lurid murder trials but his eye was drawn to the name James Pearson, whom he knew was chief organist at St James's Church. Pearson had seen an Aboriginal woman being pinned down by eight men taking turns to rape her. He raced off and brought two constables to the scene where James Wright and James Hunter were caught in the act and arrested. There had been depositions from Pearson and the constables, but Felix had added a handwritten note: ‘The trial never came to court!'

How bloody hypocritical! Those bastards got off scot free because blacks aren't eligible to take the oath in court – because they don't believe in the White Man's God.

Later he was intrigued by the account of Captain Fremantle taking formal possession of the whole western third of the Australian
Continent. At the new Swan River Colony forty-acre land grants were being offered in exchange for three pounds of settlers' capital in the form of livestock, farming implements or cash.

This sounds like a subtle hint from Felix for me to head west. Whatever, it's a golden opportunity to make my fortune without help from L'Estrange money.

He was wryly amused by the copy of a hand-written letter Felix had attached, written at the Swan River Colony to his mother by Mrs Elizabeth Shaw, an English gentlewoman.

. . . we are living like gypsies. You would smile to see ladies, children and working people, without shoes or stockings, carrying wood to make fires. His Excellency Governor Stirling received the gents on their arrival, barefoot and in his dressing gown, walking in his garden – for so they call it, but there was not a green leaf in it. When the Governor and Mrs Stirling paid a visit to a newly arrived lady settler she apologised for her appearance. The jovial Governor told her she need not be surprised, if when calling on them, she should see Mrs Stirling standing at the washtub. Dear Mrs L'Estrange, life here is a complete burlesque!

Mungo grinned.
You'll soon get the hang of things here, lady.

In Van Diemen's Land Governor Arthur's Black Line was manned by five thousand men crossing the island to round up the Aborigines. Seven weeks later they'd only netted one old man and a boy.
And they claim the blacks aren't as bright as us!

Half the word had been fighting the other half – then swapping sides. France had captured Algeria, another revolution in Paris, Mysore was added to Britain's possessions in India. The new American President Andrew Jackson had even attacked the Second Bank of the U.S. in his speech to Congress.

The Royals had been busy. The Coronation of William IV came as no surprise.
One of the rare times at Moreton Bay we had a few hours off to celebrate.

The Pope had sanctioned the marriage of Maria II of Portugal to her uncle so he could become Regent. A year later the child queen
was deposed and her ‘husband' made king.
Women cop it rough no matter who they are.

Louis Phillipe had been made Citizen King of France. And a German lad, Kaspar Hauser, ‘The Child of Europe' had appeared out of nowhere and claimed to be heir to a German Royal house.

He ridiculed a ludicrous fashion note.
Stiff collars are now part of a gentleman's dress? You won't catch me wearing one.

Mungo's head was reeling with his attempt to digest three years of world events at one sitting. He turned to Felix's list of new books: Disraeli's
Vivian Grey,
James Fenimore Cooper's
The Last of the Mohicans
and Heinrich Heine's
Buch der Lieder. I know enough German to translate his love poems and sweep my golden girl off her feet.

At the thought of Fanny he sprang out of bed. The day ahead was his. But where to begin his search for her?

•  •  •

Riding along the lonely winding road that led to the South Head the sun was hot on his back. It was the perfect day to take his first ride with his father's wonderful homecoming gift, a black mare of thoroughbred descent, Boadicea.

The sun was shining as bright and gaudy as a rare, freshly minted British penny, the sky cloudless, the breeze sweet with the tang of eucalyptus carried across the harbour of Port Jackson on his left, the stronger winds from the Pacific Ocean on his right. Ahead of him stood Greenway's grand lighthouse, named in honour of Lachlan Macquarie, the far-sighted Governor responsible for Sydney Town's fine Georgian public buildings and churches.

This road had been hewn from rocks by shackled iron gangs through bushland, land that felt so mysterious that Mungo, unable to deny the existence of ghosts after Moreton Bay, fancied he caught sight of one in the shadows. Was it the shade of some government man who had died in chains? Or a live black hunter stalking bush tucker?

The shadow triggered a rapid series of images of the first time he had escaped in chains . . . the relentless tropical sun burning his flesh . . . lying exhausted, his tongue swollen from thirst . . . the faces of black men with spears, peering down at him, puzzled and angered
by the iron shackles on his feet . . . one dark face with a thin bone pierced through his nostrils held sweet water to his lips . . . with the light behind his head, he seemed no longer a man, but a black angel of mercy . . .

The memory dissolved.
Logan's men believe he was murdered by blacks. I reckon it was bolters, desperate enough to kill him and risk being hanged for it.

Mungo forced from his mind those other images he refused to remember.

Riding along with Boadicea, he seized the blessing of the day. Total freedom. No manmade structures in sight now. No sound except the shrieks of sulphur-crested cockatoos and rainbow lorikeets swooping and spiralling through the bush.

One moment he rode through heaven on earth – the next his world was shaken on its axis.

The flash black landau gave no warning of its approach. It suddenly materialised like a phantom carriage from some dark legend of his childhood. Mungo felt Boadicea's muscles tense, the reins jerked from his grasp as if by some invisible sleight of hand. The mare was unnerved, as if spooked by a ghost. The rhythm of her gait broken, she gave a shrill whinny of warning.

The scene was back-lit by sunlight that outlined the occupants of the open landau. A fashionable man in a rakishly tilted top hat. A woman in white, her golden hair streaming around her head like the rays of the sun. Every nuance of her beauty was now so close at hand that Mungo caught the play of her changing expressions as the landau's horses cut the distance between them.

He felt a curious stab of pain and remorse, akin to what Manx women called ‘a small bone in the heart'.
It can't be for my sins – I have no remorse. And these are strangers – or are they? Why is my heart beating like the very devil?

So strong was the feeling, Mungo felt as if this moment had been lying in wait for him – in tandem with the pleasure and pain he felt at first sight of her. Her half-smile, the sidelong glance she gave the gentleman beside her, the teasing wave of her hand as she dismissed some question – a lady very sure of her power over men.

Yet when the man gripped her shoulder in a sign of possession,
Mungo saw her eyes register a flash of something that belied her coquettish smile. Malevolence, contempt – or fear? He felt an involuntary stab of jealousy, the desire to protect her.

Dazzled momentarily by shafts of sunlight that filtered through the giant Port Jackson Fig trees lining the road, her face was lit by slivers of gold that intensified every detail. The landau was now less than a carriage-length away.

He caught his breath.
It's Fanny! In a few seconds she'll pass by. I'll lose her!

‘Steady, Boadicea!' It all happened so quickly Mungo was distracted by the need to calm his horse, now pawing the ground, refusing to advance. Unable to withdraw his eyes from Fanny's face, Mungo's mouth dried. Was it his imagination or did she cast him a wicked, sidelong glance?
Does she recognise me too?

Feeling like a fool sprung naked in public, Mungo struggled to calm Boadicea to prevent her bolting. The flash gentleman signalled his coachman to halt the carriage. He was enjoying Mungo's discomfort, yet addressed him in a charming, languid manner.

‘I say, young man. I take it you – or your nag, are in need of assistance?'

Mungo felt heat invade his face and his collar seemed to tighten like a noose.

Nag? Boadicea's better bred than you are, mate!

Frustrated by the perspiration running down his face, Mungo fumbled in the act of doffing his hat. The wind sent it spiralling down the road in an eddy of dust.

Desperate to confirm her name, Mungo chafed at polite society's unwritten law – he must not offer her his name unless the gentleman chose to introduce them. He was struck by an awful thought.
She's dressed in white. Perhaps she's his bride.

Forcing himself to be polite, he lied about his horse's temperament. ‘Kind of you to enquire, Sir. Can't understand it. Boadicea's never acted up like this. Calm as a summer's day, she is – except when she's in season and some stallion is desperate to mount her . . . oh, God. Excuse me, Ma'am. I only meant –'

‘By Jove! Remember yourself, fellow!' The gentleman's tolerant laugh implied that no better could be expected from his obvious social inferior.

The lady waved a gloved hand to reassure her companion. ‘No, no, Severin. It's a perfect description of his horse's admirable character.' She looked directly at Mungo. ‘You must be new to the Colony, young man – unaware of the cause of Boadicea's warning?'

With a flick of her wrist she gestured to the road behind her. Lying directly across Mungo's path was a large snake. No mistaking the markings. Studded with petal-shaped scales in alternating bands of yellow and grey, it was coiled up, but Mungo reckoned its length was close to six feet. Its flat, heart-shaped head was flattened cobra style, hissing and ready to attack in its defence.

Severin's tone was condescending. ‘Stand warned, young man. That python's harmless enough. But snakes kill off a few ignorant New Chums every season.' He lit a cigarillo and tossed the match carelessly onto the road.

Mungo stammered, barely able to restrain his anger. ‘I'm obliged to you for the warning, Sir. But I'm a Currency Lad, a native of this land. That's not a python, it's an Eastern Tiger Snake. Its venom is lethal. They're prolific breeders. They can also be green, brown, reddish or near black. I've been catching snakes since I was a kid. Never been bitten yet. I aim to survive 'em long enough to make my fortune!'

Mungo instantly regretted the nervous, crass statement that betrayed his youth, but was pleased to have boasted he was a Currency Lad – a status he wore with pride, despite its being derogatory in the eyes of the British ‘Sterling'.

I sound like an idiot. I know I've changed a helluva lot. But so has she – and I remembered
her.

Determined to regain his confidence, Mungo dismounted. Holding fast to Boadicea's reins he broke the rules and bowed to the lady. ‘Your servant, ma'am.'

She tilted her head as if weighing his ambition against his youth. ‘A home-grown Currency Lad, determined to make your mark in the world – an admirable quality. May your fortune come to you swiftly, young man. I leave you to continue your journey towards that happy fate. And bid you a good day.'

Severin promptly took that as his cue to prod the coachman's back with his cane. The landau charged off at full speed.

Finding himself the target of the tunnel of dust created by their retreating carriage, Mungo checked that the Tiger Snake had indeed slithered into the bush.

He thanked Boadicea for her timely warning but kept his eyes on the carriage. In his final glimpse of Fanny, she was briefly outlined against the sharp blue sky before the landau disappeared from sight.

Mungo cursed himself for being seven times a fool.
Did I respond to her polite farewell? Or just stand here like a mute? For the life of me I can't recall.

Dizzy and half-blinded by the encounter, he tried valiantly to piece together the whole scene and to interpret the message in her eyes.

He felt belittled in Fanny's presence, stung by Severin's insult – his failure to introduce himself to Mungo. Questions raced around his head.
Does she belong to that arrogant bastard – or is he just her escort? Did her gloves conceal a wedding band? How will I ever find her again? Did she deliberately say Severin's name – as a clue to help me find her?

Whatever the case, Fanny's star had certainly risen. No traces remained of the naïve lady's maid in cast-off clothing. She was now dressed in a gown and jewels that were clearly expensive, although bordering on the theatrical in style. She had the same purity of face and tumbling blonde hair as one of Botticelli's models, yet her manner now betrayed world-weary confidence.

And there was something else Mungo struggled to admit.
She's as pale as moonlight – like a creature who lives by night. I doubt the colour of her cheeks is natural.

As he rode Boadicea home, he tried to restore his confidence.
Our next encounter is inevitable. Severin's a gentleman – if only in the eyes of Society. I reckon women would consider him handsome. Dressed
á la mode
, yet the diamond pin in his cravat, those flashy rings, are not so much a show of wealth as a display of what? Good luck! A gambling man – I'd put money on it.