Free The Lace Balcony by Johanna Nicholls Page A

black girls she had seen on the streets of Sydney Town. Tall and slender, her honey-coloured complexion indicated she was a half-caste. Her eyes did not falter under Vianna’s stare, contrary to the avoidance of eye contact Vianna knew was an Aboriginal mark of good manners. Her hair curled in a halo around her head. The simple black dress was that of a servant, but there was nothing servile in her manner when she curtseyed and placed a dress box on the table. Her well-modulated voice held a trace of a Scottish burr in the way she rolled her R’s.
    â€˜I’m your new lady’s maid, Madame. The Master calls me Black Bessie. He asks you to wear this costume downstairs for his approval. May I help you dress?’
    â€˜Is Bessie your true name? Or did the missionaries call you that?’
    Vianna instantly regretted her careless words. This girl looks as civilised as I am and speaks perfect English.
    â€˜My late mother named me Wanda, after her tribal country in the sand hills. To Papa I was Elizabeth. He was a Highlander, Dr Charles Stuart,’ she added with quiet pride, ‘He taught me to read, write and speak French. I kept all his account books.’
    Vianna was disconcerted . How humiliating. My black servant is well educated – and I’m illiterate. ‘Then how did you come to be my lady’s maid?’
    Her answer held no trace of self-pity. ‘The day of Papa’s funeral the lawyers ordered me to leave our house. His estate was claimed by his wife in London. Father’s friend Major Dalby knew that Master Severin needed a trusted servant for you. So here I am. I’m afraid I know nothing of the duties of a lady’s maid.
    â€˜Don’t worry, I used to be – ’ Vianna hastily corrected herself, ‘I’ll teach you all you need to know. The most important thing is that you are loyal – to me .’
    Perhaps I can use this girl’s skills to help me trace Daisy. It would be nice to have a female friend. But I must tread carefully – her first loyalty may well be to Severin, given that he pays her wage.
    â€˜May I call you, Wanda? It’s such a pretty name . . . fine, that’s settled. You must call me Vianna when we are alone.’
    To camouflage her inability to read, she added lightly, ‘I dearly love novels, but my eyes tire so easily. Perhaps you could read to me?’
    Wanda’s smile was radiant. ‘I managed to bring some of Papa’s books. I have all of Jane Austen’s works. Did you know they were originally published anonymously, under ‘A Lady’? Her readers only knew her identity after her death, age one-and-forty, so she didn’t live to see how famous and loved she is the world over.’
    Vianna clasped her hands together. ‘What a sad story – but wonderful too. Let’s begin tonight, right after my performance!’
    The contents of the dress box took Vianna by surprise. In contrast to the lavish, provocative evening gowns ordered by Severin for her stage performances, this dress was demure, in midnight blue taffeta with a chaste, high neckline and cuffs edged with fine Belgian lace, its shorter skirt suggesting a theatrical version of a convent schoolgirl’s uniform.
    Vianna changed into the gown and accompanying black silk stockings that revealed a daring few inches of ankle above exquisite laced boots with an elegant French heel. To complement the quasi-innocent mood of the costume, she instructed Wanda how to arrange her waist-length hair in an artless style with a girlish bow.
    â€˜Good heavens, Wanda. I look like a twelve-year-old virgin!’ she exclaimed, rewarded by Wanda’s failure to conceal a smile.
    Checking her appearance from every angle in the mirrors, Vianna noticed how snugly the bodice fitted, its fastening concealed by a lace jabot, how the petticoats flounced as she moved. The whole ensemble seemed to reflect Severin’s private