A Crooked Rib (11 page)

Sarah Selwyn, paler and more drawn than ever, was overjoyed to be reunited with her child. Clasping Johnny to her, she showered him with kisses. ‘I’ve missed him so much,’ she said.

‘He’s been nothing but a pleasure,’ said Lucy, and I saw how near she was to tears.

The Governor ruffled the child’s hair affectionately. ‘Now, Johnny,’ he said, ‘you’re to be a good boy and to take the greatest care of your mama.’

Johnny leaned his face against his mother’s shoulder.

‘Here’s your little lamb,’ said Lucy. ‘You mustn’t leave him behind. Think how lonely he would be without you. And you must come back and see us very soon.’

As we waved them farewell, Lucy stood plucking at the fabric of her skirt, tears now coursing down her face.

The Governor put a gentle arm around her shoulders. ‘Come, Eliza,’ he said, ‘I’ve arranged for the horses to be saddled up, and you and I shall go for a ride together along the sands.’

And as he led her away, I thought of how, with his swinging compass, he had so deftly distracted Johnny from the pain of parting, and how it had taken the loss of the Selwyns’ little boy to turn him towards his wife again. They are in desperate want of a child, I thought.

Despite the kindness of the Spencers and my closeness to Lucy, I continued to long for Papa’s arrival. In these strange, inhospitable surroundings, so unlike Lyme, I dreamt of the day he would come to carry me back to our comfortable, familiar house and our garden with its towering mulberry tree. One morning, not long after our arrival at Strawberry Hill, I slipped away from Lucy, climbed the slope behind the cottage and stood craning for a sight of a ship bringing a letter from Papa, perhaps even carrying him aboard. Though in its form the great sweep of water below me resembled Lyme Bay, the southerly breeze was not a soft Dorset wind but carried a chill cold that cut against the sun. Here it was the north wind that brought the mild weather. No familiar smell of bladder-wrack and salt drifted up to me; I breathed in only dust and desolation. To find me, Papa would have to traverse the whole world. But, I told myself, has not Aunt
promised
he will come?

‘Fanny!’

I looked up to see Lucy scrambling up the hill towards me. ‘Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’ She flung herself down on the rough ground. ‘I loathe this place. I long to go home again.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘There’s no school—’

‘And no society but our own—’

‘And no Cockmoil Square and—’

‘Oh, Fanny, do you remember the Christmas market by the fountain?’

By now we were both in tears, but then I was seized with a sudden idea.

‘You know my papa is coming to take me home with him?’

‘I heard Mama say so.’

‘Well, why don’t we take you back with us? We three could live in our house in Lyme. Just think, we’d be together all the time …’

‘We could go to the Cobb—’

‘And the Rooms—’

Lucy flung her arms around me and hugged me. ‘Oh, yes, Fanny. Please,
please
. Take me home with you. Do you swear it?’

‘I swear it.’

‘But for the moment, until your papa comes, it would be better to keep it our secret. We mustn’t breathe a word of it to anyone.’

‘The
Captain Stirling
has arrived in King George’s Sound,’ said Uncle, ‘and she’s brought mail from Home.’

We sat waiting around the dining table, Aunt, now enormously stout, on a wide padded stool at its foot. From the large oilskin mailbag, Uncle pulled out the packages of envelopes and read aloud the names of the recipients. At last, he held one out to me. ‘For you, Fanny.’

‘From Papa!’ I cried, looking at the familiar script. I seized the paper-knife, slit the envelope and unfolded the letter inside.

So engrossed was I that it was some time before I sensed the change in the atmosphere about me. While the little boys chattered in their usual fashion, Aunt, holding a black-edged letter, dabbed at her eyes, and Uncle looked grave and solemn. I glanced at Lucy.

‘Mama has had sorrowful news,’ she whispered. ‘Her dear aunt has died.’

‘I am feeling very tired,’ said Aunt, ‘so I shall bid you all goodnight and take supper in my room.’

As soon as I could, I drew Lucy aside. ‘Papa will be here within a four or five month.’

She flung her arms about me. ‘Oh, Fanny! I’m so happy. I can stand any amount of misery here if I know I’m to return home to Lyme.’

My letter secure beneath my pillow, I fell into a deep sleep and woke feeling more contented than I had for many months.

‘Mama is asking for you, Fanny,’ said Gussie, next morning.

I knocked on Aunt’s door and tiptoed in. She lay on her bed, her feet elevated on an embroidered cushion.

‘Come and kiss me, Fanny, and sit here beside me. Now, dear child, although I wish it otherwise, I must speak with you on a sad and serious topic.’

‘If I have offended, Aunt, I’m sure I’m very sorry.’

‘You have not offended at all. You’re a good, obedient child.’

I was relieved at this. ‘My papa, in his letter, charges me to be so.’

She looked grave. ‘It is of your dear papa that I wish to speak.’ She hesitated. ‘You saw last night I … that is … Uncle … and I received a letter which bore most distressing tidings?’

I nodded. ‘I’m sorry that your aunt …’

‘Fanny, my dear, I must tell you the … the subject of this saddest of news. This letter is from the Admiralty. It informs us—’ She stopped for a moment. ‘It regrets to inform us … that your dearest, dearest papa has been lost in the Bay of Biscay.’ She placed her arm about my shoulders. ‘I’m so very, very sorry, Fanny.’

‘But, Aunt,’ I said, ‘that cannot be. Here is Papa’s letter. He says he is coming to Albany. He arrives within a four or five month.’

‘Fanny,’ she said gently, ‘show me your letter. What date does it bear?’

‘The twentieth of July. So he cannot …’

She held out the black-edged letter. ‘And here, you see, is the date on this letter. The eighth of August. Fanny, dearest girl, I am more sorry than I can express … Look, here is the Admiralty stamp. I’m afraid it is quite certain that your brave papa perished with all hands on the
Monarch
. She was holed on a rock and sank very quickly.’

I was quite unable to comprehend what Aunt was telling me. ‘But where is Papa now?’

‘Why … where … where he would most desire to be, where all sailors wish to lie. In the bosom of the ocean.’

I recalled how Papa and I, walking on the beach at Lyme, once saw a ghastly, bloated thing floating off the breakwater.

‘Is it a log, Papa?’ I asked.

And Papa had said gravely, ‘Somehow, my child, I think it is not.’ And then, as we drew closer and could see the skirt ballooning about the swollen legs, he said sharply, ‘Turn away, Fanny. At once.’

‘But Fanny dear,’ said Aunt, ‘you know Papa’s soul is with God, in Heaven.’

‘Then he has gone to join Mama and William and Baby Louisa,’ I cried. ‘And they have left me behind.’

I became an automaton. Unable to respond to any overtures of kindness, I ate as one in a stupor and did exactly as I was bidden. One
afternoon I was going through the motions of my daily tasks when Lucy came to find me. ‘Mama is at her time,’ she said.

I looked at her blankly and carried on with my sewing.

‘Come,’ she said. ‘Put that aside. You and I must to take the little boys for a walk and when we return it will all be over and our new brother or sister will be here.’

Summoned to Aunt’s room, I entered slowly, my head down, my shoulders bowed.

‘Sit here, Fanny,’ said Aunt, ‘and hold your new brother.’

I looked up in astonishment. ‘
I
?’

‘Gussie has told me that you favour the name William, and Uncle and I are agreed it is a fine choice. He is to be William Albany and, as you have named him, you must be the first to meet him.’

I sat by the bed and let Helen lower William into my arms. Gazing at his crescent fingernails and the slight curves of his tiny eyebrows, I put my finger against his hand and he seized it in his fist.

‘You see,’ said Aunt. ‘He loves you already.’

With Johnny’s departure, relations between Lucy and her husband again became strained. She withdrew to her room for long periods and showed no interest in my suggested expeditions or even in riding with me. I had hoped that when the Governor left for the south she might recover her spirits a little but, despite all my attempts to coax her from her low humour, she remained confined to her bed. I was on the point of seeking advice from Lady Martin when the Governor returned unexpectedly.

He limped into the drawing room where I was sitting alone with my needlework. ‘Ah, Miss Fanny. I thought perhaps Eliza was …’

I sought for an excuse. ‘She’s retired to bed early. She was feeling rather fatigued.’

‘Or she may be developing another
crise des nerfs
. May I join you for a moment?’

‘Certainly. Would you like me to ring for late supper?’

‘No, thank you. I’ve taken a little medication but, at the present moment, I have no stomach for any kind of nourishment.’

I saw that he looked exhausted, his face pallid and drained. He continued to stare at the fire for some time, then he said, almost inaudibly, ‘I have just returned from Wellington.’

I nodded.

‘The state of affairs there is most troubling.’

A silence.

‘I have no wish to alarm you by discussing such matters.’

‘I’m not easily alarmed,’ I said. ‘I should be interested to hear of the situation in the south.’

I saw his hand pressing hard against his upper thigh, a gesture Lucy had told me meant his old hip wound was troubling him.

‘May I ask, Miss Fanny,’ he said suddenly, ‘whether you’ve ever
suffered from nervous affliction?’

‘No, never.’

‘Mrs Selwyn, too, has such attacks. I believe the climate here may in some way contribute to their onset … And yet Lady Martin, for all her other infirmities, seems untroubled by them …’

‘You mentioned that there were difficulties in Wellington.’

The Governor sighed. ‘The Colonial Secretary has drawn up and sent me the most ridiculous constitution imaginable. The country is to be divided into two provinces, New Ulster in the north, New Munster in the south, each with its own lieutenant-governor, and I am to be Governor-in-Chief.’

‘Surely that would ease your burdens a little?’

‘No, it would merely increase them. Only those literate in English will be permitted to vote. And, since the Maoris greatly outnumber the settlers, here in the North about four and a half thousand settlers would be placed in jurisdiction over more than a hundred thousand disenfranchised natives. It is a recipe for war.’

‘But I understood the natives’ rights are enshrined in the Treaty.’

The Governor snorted. ‘I’ve received another letter from the Colonial Secretary in which he writes that I’m to uphold the Treaty of Waitangi — except at those times when I may be forced to ignore it!’

Even in the low lamplight, I could see that the tip of his nose had begun to redden, a sign, as I had observed before, of mounting anger.

‘And, to add to these burdens, there’s been another vile murder, this time at Whanganui. When Eliza hears of it, it may precipitate a further deterioration in her health.’

‘Need she hear of it?’

‘Within a few days it will be in all of the newspapers and spoken of everywhere. It was a particularly bloodthirsty attack on a woman and her children.’

‘But I thought the natives never attack the defenceless, that they scorn such cowardly acts?’

‘In general, you are correct. But this was not in any way a usual occurrence. And now the settlers are demanding more troops to protect them and we simply don’t have the numbers needed for such permanent garrisons. The entire south is in uproar over this latest outrage.’

‘What provoked such an attack?’

The Governor was quiet for a time, and seemed almost to have forgotten my presence. I reached forward and laid another log on the dying fire.

‘It arose from a misunderstanding,’ he said at last. ‘A soldier at the Whanganui garrison was cleaning his rifle, accidentally discharged it and wounded his Maori servant. The injury was minor and the servant shrugged it off as a trifle, but someone from his tribe carried word of it upriver and a party of his kinsmen set out for the settlement to exact revenge. Then, on their way into the township, they came across an out-settler, a Mr Gilfillan, and his eldest son, at work on their farm.’

‘They attacked them?’

‘Yes, wounding Gilfillan very severely in the neck with a tomahawk. But the Gilfillans managed to get the edge of the attackers and raced furiously to their homestead, rushed inside and barricaded the doors and windows.’

‘And?’

‘The doors began to give under the furious onslaughts of the natives. Mrs Gilfillan, who knew of the Maori code of honour, urged her husband and son to escape through a side door leading to the stable and ride into the town for help while she remained inside with her other five children. She was certain, poor woman, that the natives would not harm them, defenceless as they were.’

‘But …?’

‘She was grievously mistaken. Had it been a raiding party under the command of a chief, she would undoubtedly have been spared. The chiefs’ honour is of paramount importance to them. But this was a ragged group of disaffected Maoris, and by the time they had broken down the door I’m in no doubt their passions had increased to frenzy.’ He paused. ‘The poor woman and three of her children were hacked to pieces, and another child left for dead who, by the grace of God, has now recovered.’ He seemed almost at the point of tears. ‘One was only an infant.’ He covered his eyes with his hand; his voice was so low I could barely hear him. ‘After everything the Bishop has done to promote Christian virtues … It’s too horrible. There’s no doubt it was utu, a revenge killing. When the soldier
accidentally shot his servant, the bullet grazed the native’s face just below the cheekbone. On their arrival at the Gilfillans’ farm, the troops found that … a piece of Mrs Gilfillan’s cheek had been eaten … raw …’

I stared at him, appalled, and he seemed to recollect himself. ‘Miss Fanny, I apologise. I don’t know what I was thinking of to have spoken to you so. It’s quite unforgivable.’

I struggled to overcome my revulsion and speak.

‘There’s no need to seek my forgiveness, Governor. I’m naturally very shocked by what you’ve told me, but I’m in no way about to dissolve into the vapours because of it. What I most wish to know is whether it will be possible to find the perpetrators?’

‘They’ve already been apprehended. A group of Maoris, friendly to the government and horrified at the baseness of their fellows, gave chase to the murderers and seized them. Four of them have already been hanged.’

We were both silent. Then the Governor said, ‘We’re expecting reinforcements from Sydney and England. The 58th Regiment is to return here very soon.’

‘I’m sure that will heighten morale.’

‘Perhaps, if you would be kind enough … if you feel it possible … to tell a rather gentler version of this frightful story to Eliza, it might mitigate its effects on her.’

‘Of course. I’ll do so tomorrow. But for now, I’ll bid you goodnight, Governor. I feel sure you must be in need of rest.’

I was almost out of the room when he called me back. ‘Miss Fanny?’

‘Yes?’

‘I … Your company here is most welcome. I hope you’ll feel able to remain with us for a long time. You’re a very … soothing presence in the household.’