A Crooked Rib (27 page)

‘My dearest, beloved Fanny, you see that I am weeping. I can scarcely bear to bring you and Mata this dreadful intelligence. Te Kawana has changed his mind. He refuses now to take the boy.’

‘But
why
, Te Toa? Only three days ago he spoke of it as if it were about to happen.’

‘I do not know. But I know the mind of Te Kawana. If I persist now, he will become obdurate and he will never agree.’

‘That’s true. And it may even rouse his suspicions. I dare not tell Lucy this terrible news. Oh, Te Toa, what can we do?’

‘The boy is safe in my pa. He is under my protection and he is healthy.’

‘But we
must
see him. It’s been so long, and we haven’t seen him since he was eight days old.’

‘I know this and I am truly sorry for the pain it causes. But to gain Te Kawana’s consent, it is a necessary thing.’

‘I don’t understand why he’s changed his mind.’

‘Nor I, but be sure, I shall try again.’

‘In the meantime, I implore you to let us see him.’

He put his arm around me. ‘That is impossible. I beg you, listen to me, Fanny. I am more sorry for this than I can say, especially as he is the most fine lusty boy and all he lacks is his mother, but we must remain steadfast. I am a warrior. It is the first rule of battle that, to succeed, you do not rush at your enemy but wait patiently for your opportunity.’

‘Te Toa has tried again to persuade the Governor. He’s even suggested that, as the child has been named for him, he should bring the boy here to Moleskin Hall for him to see …’

‘Oh, Fanny, he continues to refuse?’

‘He won’t countenance it. And it’s very strange. In general, the Governor wishes to please the Northern chiefs and he has a high regard for Te Toa.’

‘Then what shall we do?’

‘What
can
we do? Wait and pray.’

‘Things are not working out as we hoped. Te Toa still hasn’t managed to sway the Governor and I dare not, for my life, mention it.’

‘Don’t think of saying a
word
to your husband. It would be disastrous.’

Lucy flung her arms around me. ‘And I have even more distressing news. We have very little time to lose if we want Sir George to change his mind. He heard this morning that he’s been recalled Home by the Colonial Office. We sail for England very soon.’

‘
No
!’

‘And, Fanny, he says he’s taking Makareta with us.’

‘Makareta! What is he thinking of? She’ll never be accepted in polite society at Home.’

‘You don’t know all of it. He intends to adopt her.’

‘
Adopt
Makareta? He can’t possibly.’

‘It’s his intention to do exactly that. He says she’ll help him with his Polynesian researches into lore and language.’

‘I suppose—’

‘Fanny, she’s been brought up at Mr Hadfield’s Mission. Her stepfather was an Englishman. Look at Sir George in her presence. I believe he’s in love with her.’

‘Can’t you speak to the Bishop?’

‘The Selwyns wouldn’t — couldn’t — believe such a thing as that he might have an … unfortunate … interest in her.’

‘Well then, Lady Martin?’

‘Even
she
would think it a figment of my fevered imagination. It’s only Maud who says she believes what I say.’ She looked at me beseechingly. ‘Fanny, I have never felt so alone — so bereft. I
beg
you, come Home with us.’

‘Oh, Te Toa, how is the boy?’

‘Strong and healthy. A magnificent infant. But I have news that will distress you very greatly. Te Kawana is resolute. He entirely refuses to change his mind.’

‘But
why
?’

‘I do not know. I cannot understand it.’

‘I’m in despair. What can we do?’

‘There is only one thing possible to do. The boy must remain with his wet nurse under my protection.’

I could not speak for some time.

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

‘This is a truly unhappy day. There is something
I
must tell
you
, Te Toa. I am leaving.’

‘Leaving Auckland?’

‘No, New Zealand. I am going Home.’

He drew me to him. ‘You cannot leave now.’

‘Sir George has been recalled to England. How can I remain here?’

‘You have very many friends in Auckland. It would be a simple matter to acquire a house and—’

‘Without the protection of my being under the Governor’s roof, it would be almost impossible for us to meet. What pretext would you have for visiting me? Where could we find privacy in Auckland? And it’s certain I can’t come and live with you at your pa.’

‘Mata Colville is most free-thinking. And she is your good friend.’

I laid my cheek against the smoky-purple moko of his shoulder. ‘Even she couldn’t conceal our situation for long.’ I paused. ‘And you couldn’t … you wouldn’t … come to England?’

‘How can I leave my people?’

‘Your wives …’

‘Not merely my wives and children. All my people. I am their chief; I cannot desert them.’ He pressed my body against his and I saw he, too, was weeping. ‘If it were myself only … you must believe me, Fanny … I have never in my life felt for anyone as I do for you, but how can I leave Aotearoa?’

‘We could live in my house in Lyme.’ But, as I spoke the words, I knew how futile they were.

‘I should like so much to see your house and its mulberry tree like Pihopa’s. If I had only myself to consider, if I could be like a bird and fly wherever I might, away from my own flock, I would go with you wherever you went. But I am not a bird. I am born to my rank and I cannot abandon it. If I were to desert my tribe, every member of it would be shamed. Forever.’

‘So,’ I said, through my own tears, ‘just like any Englishman, you must do your duty. Ah, Te Toa, I see you are as
proper
as I am.’

‘I fear you are right.’ His hand caressed my hair. ‘Will you cut for me a piece of this so that I may remember you always?’

I nodded. ‘And the boy? Lucy and I … We must see him for one last time.’

‘That cannot be. He is no longer at the pa. I have removed him to a safer place.’

‘But, Te Toa, you
promised
.’

‘And I will keep my word. I have taken him away for a short time only, to protect him. Pihopa has returned to Waimate and he is often now at my pa. Despite what you think, such a light-coloured infant among the dark ones might excite his interest.’

‘So we can’t even say goodbye to him?’

He shook his head.

I hesitated. ‘For the first time, I’m unable to say what I wish to you, Te Toa.’

‘There is no need. I know already what is in your heart. And mine.’

He leaned his forehead against my own. I felt the warmth of his breath across my face. ‘Tihe mauri ora,’ he said. ‘And as you cross the ocean, look up at Te Punga, your Southern Cross, the anchor of the waka of the Maori warrior, Tama-rereti, and remember me.’

And so I left Aotearoa. At every port on our voyage, I thought of how I might ease my burning misery, my desperate longing, simply by leaving our ship and waiting for another to bear me back to where I most yearned to be. Though I knew this was an entirely foolhardy dream, at night when visions of Te Toa haunted me, my desire to be back in Auckland was like a hunger that nothing could assuage. Lucy and I, mutely wretched, tearfully parted at Portsmouth with promises to meet soon, and I returned to Lyme.

For all of my adult life, I had held a vision of Lyme, its churchyard, its markets, its crooked streets, the Walk, the Rooms, the Cobb … And now, as the dogcart bore me into Church Street and I saw the two steps leading to my own front door with its black knocker shaped like a gloved hand, my heart began both to ache and, briefly, to lift. I could not bring myself to knock, but asked to be set down by the gate where, at once, I was confronted by the branching green span of my mulberry tree. I laid my hand on its gnarled trunk, then skirted the side of the house and, to the consternation of the servant, entered by the kitchen door. The smell of wax polish, the sight of the hearth with its fire, stirred a sense of familiarity in me. I was conscious of the roots of the mulberry spreading beneath the floor on which I stood, of the faint sound of the sea slapping the shore of Lyme Bay, the bark and bustle of my new servant, Jane, who resembled Martha in her stance and the set of her hands on her hips as she watched me invade her domain. At last, I had come home, but, with all my heart, I wished only to be back in New Zealand.

The pain of loss did not diminish. Every morning, when I woke, I could scarcely bear to find myself still alive, the fiery ache in my chest
seeming too much to endure for even one more day. Feeling myself no more than a phantom in my own house, I took to wandering in St Michael’s churchyard, tracing the names on the gravestone where my family lay, but the old grief for them seemed to have dissolved in the ferocity of my current anguish. I inhabited a town peopled with ghosts. Forgotten costermongers haunted the market, invisible bathers screamed as they were dunked beneath the waves, spectres played at cards in the Assembly Rooms. On the Cobb, long-dead traders loaded their wares on the backs of unseen pack-horses and, when I finally forced myself to walk to Cobb House, I barely recognised it.

Lucy had written that they were now in London at the house of Mrs Martin, Sir George’s Aunt Julia. In my letters, I did not dare to ask if Makareta was with them, nor to mention the boy left behind with Te Toa. Like me, Lucy must surely think of him daily, but I could not set down a word about him lest someone else have the intelligence of it. She had promised to visit me in Lyme, but then came a note saying that Sir George had been posted to the Cape Colony and they were to leave within the fortnight. To this, she had added a postscriptum:
And Makareta is, of course, to accompany us. I only would it were you, dearest Fanny.

In my waking hours, I dared not allow myself to think of Te Toa. But at night I dreamt of green bush, the starry fronds of the great tree ferns, the lesser white stars of the clematis, the scrubby kanuka, the spreading canopy of southern stars in a low black sky, their clarity making them appear within reach of a human hand, and of the long sandy beaches where, in these nightly reveries, I galloped with Te Toa. It was five years since I had seen him. Did he, too, still dream of me?

Over the past two years, Lucy’s letters from the Cape had become more and more infrequent, and it was possible to glean from them only that the climate did not suit her and that she was increasingly unhappy. Her sole activities appeared to be some occasional riding,
and the collection of rare bulbs and plants, though it was clear that her health did not permit her to engage often in either. Of Sir George she said little except that affairs at the Cape occupied him constantly and, as a result, his health was suffering and his old wound was troubling him.

Then, unexpectedly, I received a letter from Sir George’s aunt, Mrs Martin, informing me that Lucy had returned from the Cape suffering severe nervous prostration, and was staying with them in London.
But
, she wrote,
her progress is slow and we, and her physician, are alarmed at the weakness of her constitution. She speaks of you constantly, but is far too unwell to contemplate a journey to Lyme. I wonder, therefore, whether you would consider paying a visit to us here in London where you and dear Eliza might be reunited. I believe this could do much to lift her from her present low state.

Within days, I was in London at the elegant house in Eaton Terrace, where I was warmly greeted by Mrs Martin. ‘I cannot tell you how grateful we are that you’ve come. Eliza is worse and no physic seems to improve her health. Before you see her, we’ll take tea together and I’ll tell you what little I know of what has taken place at the Cape.’

We sat in the drawing room before a leaping fire.

‘Eliza travelled Home with Bishop Gray and his wife, who are currently on furlough here,’ said Mrs Martin. ‘She’s too ill to quit her room, but today, because you are coming, she has insisted on leaving her bed and is sitting in a chair for the first time. You’ll find her room overheated, but she’s so thin and feels the cold so greatly I’ve been obliged to order that fires be kept burning at all times. I won’t attempt to keep from you how worried I am.’

‘I only hope your confidence in my restorative abilities isn’t misplaced. Was she ill at the Cape?’

‘From what I understand, she had various
crises des nerfs
but nothing quite as serious as her present illness. In her letters she seemed unhappy, and I fear that my nephew behaved very thoughtlessly towards her. He was away for months at a time, and didn’t trouble himself to write to her and let her know of his progress about the country or even of his impending return.’

I thought of saying that he had done much the same in New Zealand but held my silence.

‘There’s no doubt George is a brilliant man and very much tested by his present office, but I fear he has displayed an indifference to his wife’s natural feelings that falls below the standards I find acceptable. I have written to tell him so.’

‘I see,’ I said. ‘And at present he remains at the Cape?’

‘He must. He has troubles on every front. He writes of tribal battles among the Zulus and of famine gripping the Xhosa people. And now, even though he has not enough troops to hold the precarious peace at the frontiers, he’s obliged to send soldiers from the Cape to swell the forces in India … But I must cease talking of his affairs and take you to Eliza. I should warn you that she looks … rather altered.’

Wrapped in rugs in a large armchair in front of a blazing fire, Lucy turned towards me as I entered and made to rise but could not find the strength. Despite Mrs Martin’s warning, I was shocked. She was emaciated; her hair hung limp, her eyes, their blackness emphasised by her pallor, lacked animation, and her speech was hesitant and wavering.

‘Oh, Fanny, how I’ve
longed
to see you. I can’t believe you’re here.’

‘She is indeed here,’ said Mrs Martin, ‘and very glad I am to meet her at last.’ She drew up a chair at a distance from the heat of the fire and motioned me to it. ‘And now, I’ll leave you together. If you should need me, Eliza, you have your bell.’

I looked at Lucy and saw she was weeping. ‘Come and kiss me, Fanny dearest.’

As I put my arms about her, I felt the angularity of her body and saw that her wrists were translucent and as narrow as a child’s.

‘Will you stay here for a time?’

‘Your kind aunt has asked me to remain for several weeks.’

‘You see that I’m not in the best of health.’

‘I do. What has happened?’

She sighed, lay back and closed her eyes. For several minutes she did not answer, then she whispered, ‘That I can’t say, not even to you.’

‘Why not tell me about Cape Town? Did you find congenial friends there?’

‘None so dear as those in Auckland. Very soon after we arrived, we met Bishop Gray and his lady, and we’ve become quite well acquainted with them.’

‘Is Mrs Gray agreeable company?’

Lucy’s eyes were open now. ‘I know one shouldn’t criticise the wife of a bishop, but, Fanny, she’s a most difficult woman. She’s the driving force behind her husband — everyone in Cape Town says as much. She keeps all the accounts and minutes for the diocese, and rides vast distances throughout the country with her husband.’

‘Clearly she has no children.’

‘That’s just it. She has four, and when the youngest, Florence, was still a baby, Mrs Gray set off on a five-month trek on horseback with the Bishop, leaving Louisa, the eldest, in charge of Florence and the other children
and
the church affairs. She’s quite a … domineering woman, nothing at all like dear Sarah Selwyn. But you’ll meet her for yourself. And the Bishop. Aunt Julia has invited them to tea the day after tomorrow. And since you are here, dearest Fanny, I shall make every effort to come downstairs and join you all.’

Mrs Gray, a small forceful woman in drab black silk, burst into Mrs Martin’s drawing room ahead of her husband, whose air of misery was heightened by his sombre black bishop’s apron, breeches and gaiters. As he uneasily paced the room, his wife settled herself on the edge of a chair and held court in the manner of one who was in no doubt that her presence served to elevate the moral tone of the company around her. I disliked her instantly and so, I suspected, did Mrs Martin.

‘We must thank you,’ said Mrs Martin, ‘for your kind attentions to dear Eliza on the voyage Home.’

‘As to that,’ said Mrs Gray, ‘since we were returning Home in any event, it caused us very little inconvenience.’

‘And your children? Have they all accompanied you?’

‘Good gracious, I should think not. I’ve left them in Cape Town in the charge of Louisa, our eldest.’

‘And how old is Louisa?’ asked Mrs Martin.

‘Why, let me think …’ Mrs Gray turned to her husband. ‘Is Louisa eighteen or nineteen, Robert?’

‘She’s just seventeen,’ put in Lucy.

‘Ah, yes, I suppose she must be. I don’t really care at all for children, Mrs Martin. It’s only the Bishop who misses them. He writes to them almost every day that we’re away, but he dotes most particularly on babies. He’s always kissing and dandling them.’ She smiled fondly at her husband. ‘The Bishop’s constitution isn’t strong and it worries me that he can never find the solitude he requires in Cape Town. We’re hoping that here, at Home, he may replenish his physical and mental strength.’

For the first time, the Bishop spoke. ‘Bishop’s Court, you see, is always overrun with visitors. There’s no chance of seclusion there. And we’ve been obliged to set up a native school which merely adds to our burdens.’ He turned to Lucy. ‘I am, of course, at one with the Governor’s Christian endeavours, but—’

‘It must be said,’ interrupted his wife, ‘that the blackies are a most trying race.’

I saw Lucy’s expression and said quickly, ‘It sounds a little like Bishop Selwyn’s Auckland Mission.’

‘I think not,’ said the Bishop. ‘We maintain an episcopal carriage, you know.’

‘And I understand you travel with your husband on his parish visitations to the most inaccessible and dangerous areas, Mrs Gray.’

Mrs Gray looked pleased. ‘That’s quite correct, Miss Thompson. And, if I may say so without appearing conceited, I’ve designed most of the churches built in these remote places.’

‘Even to the calculation of the number of bricks required for their construction,’ said her husband.

‘Goodness,’ said Mrs Martin, ‘you are a helpmeet indeed.’

‘I see assisting Robert as the principal duty of my life. Now, last year, we made a visitation to the Bishop’s most far-flung parishes. We had a cart to carry our possessions and the Bishop’s robes—’

‘And they rode more than two thousand miles over the most inhospitable terrain you can imagine,’ said Lucy. ‘At one point, the cart was submerged as they forded a river and all poor Mrs Gray’s
clothes were utterly ruined.’

‘I own I was exceedingly cross. One of them was a new silk gown I’d ordered just before we left, so I didn’t have the pleasure of wearing it even once.’

‘You must have great fortitude,’ said Mrs Martin.

‘Our strength comes from doing God’s work. On an average day on our visitation, the Bishop and I maintained a pace of between fifty and sixty miles’ hard riding.’

‘I’m quite astounded,’ said Mrs Martin. ‘Are you never ill?’

‘Only from headaches brought on by all the copying of the Bishop’s documents. For want of time during the day, I’m often reduced to doing them by candlelight at night.’

‘Well,’ said Mrs Martin, when the Grays had finally departed, ‘I’m sure Mrs Gray is a most admirable woman in her way, but she’s scarcely the most sympathetic of creatures. One feels for her children.’

‘Louisa and I have become close friends,’ said Lucy. ‘She’s not a bit like her mama. She’s very sweet-tempered but entirely put upon.’

‘Tell me something about South Africa, Lucy. I’ve heard it’s very beautiful. Did you visit much of the country?’

She shifted uneasily in her chair. Something about her demeanour perturbed me. ‘A little,’ she said, ‘but it’s even more difficult to traverse than New Zealand. The sea voyage around the Cape is quite terrible. It’s one of the most perilous stretches of water in the world, you know, so, as the Grays said, a lot of travel is by land — on horseback or in bullock carts.’

‘It sounds very similar to New Zealand.’

‘The terrain is far worse. The mountain passes are much higher and very narrow and tortuous. It was quite terrifying crossing them.’

‘And Cape Town?’

She wound a lock of her hair around her finger. ‘It’s much larger and more populous than Auckland. It lies in a bowl at the foot of a steep escarpment called Table Mountain because its peak has been quite worn away and the top of it is entirely flat.’ She shivered. ‘It has a very … ominous … appearance, and next to it is the most sinister place of all, Devil’s Peak. The natives say it’s inhabited by Satan.’