A Crooked Rib (26 page)

I rode the ten or so miles to Maud’s farm, grateful for the chance to leave the heavy atmosphere of Moleskin Hall. For some time, Lucy had lain in a state of severe melancholy. Earlier, driven by a sense of increasing urgency, I had gone to her room. ‘I
must
speak to you, Lucy. Without delay.’

But she had turned her face from me. ‘Go away,’ she whispered. ‘Leave me. No one can help me now. Not even you.’

Maud’s cottage was set on the top of an incline, with a small orchard to one side, a garden before it and fields adjacent and below. Two of these, I noticed, had been ploughed in readiness for crops. Behind the house, I glimpsed the shimmer of the sea where the land ran down to the shore. Had I been about less desperate business, I should have stopped and looked about me to take in my first sight of the agreeable aspect of Maud’s new home.

At the sound of my approach, she came out to greet me, wearing a strange combination of what seemed to be a labourer’s overall and a felt hat.

‘Fanny! I’m delighted to see you, of course, but whatever has occasioned this visit? You look quite exhausted.’

Her friendly concern overwhelmed me. I dismounted and broke into weeping.

‘Quickly, we must get you inside,’ she said. ‘I’ll call Tamati to see to your mount.’

A young Maori appeared from an outbuilding and led Tsarina away.

The cottage had already been set to rights. Even in my wretched state, I noticed the pleasing effect of the large collection of books, the fine
furniture and silverware. Maud set me on a chaise and brought me a glass. ‘Drink this brandy. It will help to restore your equilibrium.’

She waited till I had finished it. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘tell me what has brought you here?’

‘Oh, Maud,’ I said, through tears. ‘A calamity. Lucy refuses to speak about it and you are the only soul I could think of to turn to for help.’

Maud crossed to the sideboard, opened a box of Turkish cigarettes and lit one. She regarded me keenly. ‘Then you must speak to me entirely frankly.’

Maud continued drawing on her cigarette. She blew out a smoke ring. Then she said, ‘You have not been wholly open with me, Fanny. You have not yet told me the name of the father.’

‘I give you my word, I cannot,’ I said. ‘Believe me, Maud, I beg you, it would cause such scandal if it became known.’

‘No one would ever hear of it from me, I assure you, but I understand your hesitation, so we will let it rest. There is one part of the Good Book with which I have always concurred.
Dust thou art and unto dust thou shalt return
. And while we’re not yet dust, it behoves us to grasp life and, provided it hurts no other, to live as our own consciences may dictate.’

‘I fear this would hurt many others.’

‘That is generally the case. And, in truth, I have not been entirely frank with
you
, either. When I spoke to you of my own ill-starred marriage, I omitted to tell you that, for many years after my husband’s timely death, I carried on a liaison with an already married man, the father of a family, and a figure well known in British public life. Indeed, he is a confidant of two of my brothers.’

‘They condoned such a thing!’

‘They had no knowledge of it. But had they been aware of it, no, they would have been horrified. He was, he
is
, the passionate love of my life.’

I looked at Maud, still in her workman’s garb and felt hat, and struggled to see in her any marks of the ardent lover. ‘And … his wife?’

‘Is an invalid. She has suffered for most of their married life from a series of
crises des nerfs
that no medical man has ever been able to cure. Like your sister, she married when she was only sixteen and believed she was in love.’

‘And he?’

‘Fell in love with her youth and beauty, quite overlooking her lack of serious education or interest in the world outside the domestic sphere.’

‘But, if you love him, why did you leave him?’

‘Because I knew that, sooner or later, gossip about our situation would leak out and ruin his career. My own reputation is of no consequence to me and I am, to a considerable degree, protected by the wealth and power of my family, but he … he would be utterly disgraced. So I decided to end our liaison and remove myself entirely from the temptation for either of us to see each other again. I have come here to New Zealand and begun a new life.’

Even in the midst of my own concerns, I was moved by her words.

‘So you see, Fanny, as I know for myself, one cannot make a dispassionate decision about the person with whom one falls in love. But I tell you, I would rather have known my own dearest love — and been forced to relinquish him — than to have settled for one of those arid unions, formed for security, money or family alliance.’ She lit another cigarette. ‘Now to the situation you have laid before me. Let me tell you that I see no benefit in charity if it is not practised first at home.’

‘You mean you will … help us?’

‘My dear, of course. How could you doubt me? But we must make very careful plans to allay suspicion from any quarter. And in that I include the Governor, the servant Johnson — and the native girl, Makareta.’

It was now many days since I had last seen Te Toa. Despite the muggy heat, I had managed to excuse myself for a short time almost every day to ride to the Domain in hopes of finding the familiar black stallion in its appointed place. But there was no trace of it there, nor at any other spot it might possibly have been tethered, and though I
continued to expect him every day, Te Toa did not come.

I found myself watching out for him as I toiled up Queen Street, feeling faint in the continuing summer heat. Once, I caught sight of him in conversation with two Englishmen outside the dry goods store. I lingered further down the street, gazing into the haberdasher’s window, until I they exchanged farewells and I saw Te Toa enter the shop. As casually as I could, I slipped into the dark cool interior only to find, as he turned about, that it was not Te Toa at all but another, unknown, chief.

Te Toa has forgotten me, I told myself sadly. He no longer wishes for my society.

‘Miss Colville!’ said the Governor. ‘Such a pleasant surprise.’

‘I was obliged to come into Auckland town for supplies, so I have taken the liberty of calling on you uninvited.’ She laid down several bundles. ‘Now, Governor, I have here some anthropological journals I feel may be of interest to you.’

He took them up. ‘Why yes, they are. How very kind of you.’

‘And for your ladies’ — she smiled at Lucy who was sitting with me on the veranda seat — ‘a selection of apparel ideally suited to this apparently interminable heat wave.’ And she drew from another bundle several loose-fitting, layered silken garments. ‘So much cooler and healthier, I consider.’

Sir George looked without enthusiasm at this offering. ‘Er, perhaps …’

‘I realise, of course, that to the inexperienced eye such clothing may be considered a little outlandish, but to an informed anthropological historian such as yourself, Governor, its adoption in extremes of weather can, I am sure, be recommended, rather in the manner of the wearing of fur in inclemently cold temperatures.’

‘Ah, yes. I am sure you are right.’

‘And if you will permit me, and your ladies are in accord, we might repair now to some private room where I shall instruct them in the correct manner in which such clothing should be worn.’

‘I am aware,’ whispered Maud, ‘that your situation cannot be easily concealed for much longer. You must both insist on adopting these clothes for the next few days to combat the heat, and I will speak now to the Governor and beg him to allow you to pay me an extended visit.’

‘You think he will agree?’

‘I have reason to believe he will.’

Leaving Lucy resting in Maud’s cottage, I went alone down to the coastline and saw, beached there, a Maori canoe and, walking along the sands, a familiar figure. Though I had yearned for so long to see him, I turned away as he approached.

‘Why, Fanny, what is it?’

‘I don’t understand why you left me for so long. I heard no word from you. Your horse was not—’

‘Fanny, my dearest, dearest Fanny, I am more sorry than I can express.’

I looked at him. ‘Is it that … you have no wish to see me again?’

‘How can you say such a thing? All this time, I have been longing for you.’

‘Then why didn’t you come?’

‘Because I could not leave my pa. Some women of the tribe trespassed where they should not go and, to appease the gods, my tohunga placed me under tapu.’

‘But, surely—?’

He shook his head. ‘Even for you, Fanny, I cannot break sacred law. But I came here as soon as the tapu was lifted.’

‘How did you know I was here?’

‘When I saw that you were not at Moleskin Hall, I thought most carefully where you would be most likely to go. And why you and Mata Kawana might have gone so quickly and quietly from Auckland.’

I leaned against him. ‘I fear if we’re absent too long from Auckland the Governor will suspect something.’

‘Te Kawana will guess nothing. On the contrary, he will be very happy at your absence. Tell Mata nothing of it but, as both Mata Colville and I know well, Te Kawana is, at this moment, most preoccupied by the girl from Mr Hadfield’s Mission. Very soon, he will leave to go south and you may be sure he will take her with him.’

And, finally, came the day of birth. The pains rolled in waves, like the sea and, amid the mounting screams, Maud set calmly and competently about what needed to be done.

‘This is women’s work,’ she said. ‘And why, whatever men may say, we are certainly not the weaker sex.’

While Maud set about delivering the child, I clutched Lucy’s hand in mine and prayed for strength. For what seemed an eternity, she and I breathed together in deep, panting gasps. As the screams filled the room and soared around my head, I understood how powerless I was to intervene, to stop the agony. And then, another shriek and, beneath it, a thin wailing cry, and the child was born. A fine, beautiful boy.

As we gazed at him, I saw his tiny chest rise and fall.

Tihe mauri ora.

The breath of life.

‘You must return to Moleskin Hall as soon as possible,’ said Maud. ‘I had a message yesterday from Gas, asking if he might call on me the day after tomorrow. To stay here now would be far too dangerous for you.’

‘But the boy …?’

‘We need an ally in this,’ she said. ‘We can no longer manage things alone. So, yesterday, after I received the Bishop’s communiqué, I took the liberty of speaking in closest confidence to Te Toa.’

‘Te Toa!’

‘I could see no other option. He’s agreed to take the boy tonight to his pa and to find him a wet nurse. He promises to tell no one and I believe him to be entirely trustworthy.’

‘But …?’

‘Despite the fact that the Governor is still in the south, Te Toa tells me he returns very soon. You must understand the absolute necessity of returning home immediately, of being at Moleskin Hall when he arrives in Auckland. Te Toa has assured me he will guard the baby. And he suggests the boy be named Hori Kerei.’

‘Surely not! In Maori, that is … George Grey.’

‘What will flatter the Governor more than a child named for him?’

‘Lucy we
must
go. We have no option. If anyone discovers our secret we will both be utterly ruined.’

‘The situation is not nearly as desperate as you believe,’ said Maud. ‘When I spoke to Te Toa, he agreed to ask the Governor to adopt the boy.’

‘
Adopt
him? The Governor? That would be quite wonderful. But how will Te Toa persuade my husband to accept him?’

‘He’ll say that the infant is the fruit of a liaison between his kinswoman and a Pakeha soldier.’

‘But the baby’s so fair …’

‘Look at the offspring of such relationships between Maori and Pakeha. Some are dark, looking entirely like natives. Some are fair. Some have the components of both races. There’s nothing to fear on that score.’

‘When will Te Toa take him?’

‘Tonight.’

‘
No
! So soon? How can we bear it?’

‘You must both be strong. For the child’s sake, it’s better so.’

‘We must try to appear delighted by the Governor’s return,’ I said.

Lucy shrugged. ‘I will do what I can, but you know it will be only play-acting and a sham.’

‘But think of what is at stake, I
beg
you. We should in no way antagonise him at this juncture.’

‘Fanny, the most wonderful, wonderful news. Maud has sent a note. Te Toa has seen Sir George who’s agreed to take the boy.’

‘I thank God! May I see the note?’

‘I burnt it immediately after I read it. But she wrote that she was present and that Te Toa was very distant, almost as if he didn’t want the Governor to adopt him but felt it would be only to the infant’s advantage. A very clever ploy, I think, because my husband was at once interested in him.’

‘I’m overjoyed. But we must remain calm. Even a little indifferent. We can’t afford to have anyone guess his identity.’

‘I’ll prepare his nursery and you must help me. You must be his godmother, of course, and what do you think of asking the Bishop and the Martins to be his other godparents?’

‘I think it’s all one could desire for him.’

‘Oh, Fanny, you can’t believe what this means to me. At last … after all these years … to have another child.’