A Crooked Rib (28 page)

‘There are many such legends, even here in England.’

‘Ah, but if you were to see it for yourself, Fanny, you would understand how menacing it is. Whenever I glanced up at it, I couldn’t help but shudder. It’s as if an evil cloud hangs about it. Makareta is terrified of it. She refuses to look at it.’

‘Is Makareta still in Cape Town?’ I asked cautiously.

‘Yes.’

‘But surely she didn’t stay with Mrs Martin or the Governor’s family in Bodiam when you were here at Home?’

‘No, not even Sir George would have dared suggest that. He sent her to Mr Grant of the Church Missionary Society, saying she was an example of how well the church was succeeding in its conversion of the New Zealand natives.’

‘And she agreed to go?’

‘She didn’t want to go at all, but what choice did she have? And Mr Grant and his colleagues took her about in London and Cambridge where she was made much of. Sir George saw her from time to time but always in the company of others. Then, when it was time to leave for South Africa, he announced that she would accompany us to help him with his Polynesian researches and to serve as an exemplar to the natives there.’

‘I see.’

‘But things in Cape Town are very different from New Zealand. In South Africa, Makareta is treated with great scorn; she’s regarded as a “blackie” and, therefore, a servant.’

‘By the Boers?’

‘There are very few Boers in Cape Town. No, it’s the English settlers who hold such views — led, as you heard, by Bishop and Mrs Gray.’

‘Eliza has just received a letter,’ said Mrs Martin, ‘and its contents seem to have severely depressed her spirits again. Might you speak to her?’

I went at once to Lucy’s room. She was lying back in bed, silently weeping.

‘What is it?’ I said. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Oh, Fanny, you know I’ve been low-spirited, but since you’ve come, things have seemed so much more hopeful that I really believed … And now …

‘Now, what?’

‘I’ve had a letter from Gussie.’

I felt sudden dread. ‘Is she ill? Are the children?’

‘No, but it’s about the children that she’s written.’

‘And what does she say?’

‘Fanny, you remember my husband refused to adopt the boy?’

‘How could I forget it?’

‘Ever since, I’ve longed … Fanny, I need … I
must
have a child. If my husband and I had children, I’m certain our dissentions would be resolved. That lies at the heart of all our difficulties.’

‘Perhaps you’re right …’

‘I’m
certain
it’s so. Did you know that when I arrived here, Gussie and Egerton-Warburton were also at Home, visiting his ailing mama?’

‘Yes, I met them very briefly when they paid a short visit to Lyme. I was delighted to see them again.’

‘They were due to sail for Australia shortly after my arrival, and they came to see me two days before they left. It was twenty years since I’d seen them. Then Gussie came alone the next day for a final farewell … I’m almost thirty-seven now, Fanny, and the physician in Cape Town says it’s an impossibility for me to bear more children. But Gussie has nine.
Nine
. She has no need of
nine
children. So, when she was here, I asked her if my husband and I might take one or two of them and bring them up as our own. I assure you, Fanny, we’d give them every advantage Sir George’s station affords. I begged her, as my dearest sister, to spare us two, and she agreed, though reluctantly, to discuss it with her husband. “I will love them as my own, with all my heart,” I said. And she said she was in no doubt of it and that she would write to me once she and Egerton-Warburton had had time to think about my proposal. And now, she has sent me this letter …’ She began to weep again. ‘It says that … that … she and her husband have spoken at length of it but — and they regret it most profoundly — they love all their children so dearly, they can’t bring themselves to part with a single one. So, you see, all my hopes are utterly dashed.’
She paused. ‘It’s a punishment, Fanny, for my wrong-doing.’

‘It’s no sort of punishment at all. It’s entirely natural that the Egerton-Warburtons should find it an impossibility to relinquish any of their children, even to you.’

The following morning, as I sat with Lucy, she asked suddenly, ‘Do you remember the tohungas in New Zealand?’

I nodded.

‘Fanny,’ she said quietly, ‘if I were to tell you what is ailing me, will you give me your solemn promise never to breathe a word of what I’ve said to a living soul?’

‘You have my word.’

‘And will you also promise that you won’t … sneer at me?’

‘Surely you know I’ve never in my life seen fit to sneer at anyone, least of all you.’

Tears flowed across her cheeks. ‘I wish so much to speak of it and yet …’

‘You
must
confide in me.’

‘Fanny, I’m ill — dying, I think, because … because I’ve been bewitched.’

‘
Bewitched
. But when? By whom?’

‘By Makareta.’

She was crying in earnest now and I put my arms about her. ‘Listen to me, Lucy. This is madness.’

‘I’m not mad. It’s true. Makareta has placed a spell on me. In her tribe she was a prophetess and—’

‘Who told you this?
She
did, I have no doubt.’

‘Yes …’

‘She didn’t even live with her tribe. You know that. She lived with a Maori mother and an English stepfather near the house of Mr Hadfield, the missionary. Do you think
he
would have permitted her to practise witchcraft and spells?’

‘She says she’s of the blood of Te Rau-paraha and—’

‘Her entire tribe is of the blood of Te Rau-paraha. That doesn’t make her a sorceress. Don’t you remember Maud Colville saying such prophecies are merely superstitions believed by the credulous?’

‘But the Maori tohungas
could
make the gods speak. You know what I saw in New Plymouth when my husband was so ill.’

‘That’s quite different from Makareta’s threats. The tohunga came to heal Sir George, not to destroy him. And, if Makareta is such a powerful sorceress, why hasn’t she bewitched the settlers of Cape Town and caused them to admire and accept her? She’s unhappy and she wishes to inflict her own misery on you. Isn’t that so?’

‘It may be. She hates Cape Town.’

‘She’s angry at her lowered status and seeks to blame you for her troubles. And you must not allow her to succeed in this. She has no power over you except for what you, yourself, permit her to exercise.’

‘You don’t believe I’m bewitched?’

I took hold of her shoulders and stared full into her face. ‘I
know
you are in no way bewitched. You must stop this at once. No one can conjure spirits. Think of what Aunt would have said to such nonsense.’

‘But what of that fortune-teller in Rio? She caused you to faint.’

‘Lucy, I was a ten-year-old girl, grieving and confused.’ I searched for an adequate lie. ‘I was overcome by the oppressive heat. No more than that.’

Lucy clung to my hands. ‘Do you swear to me you don’t believe I’m under a spell?’

‘On my life, I do not. And, tomorrow, you must leave this room and come downstairs again to the drawing room for an hour or two to profit from the company of your aunt. It’s not good for you to stay brooding up here alone.’

‘Fanny, I promise I will. I can’t tell you how much … safer I feel. But there’s one more thing I must confide to you. It’s difficult to tell you this, but I must. I’m guilty, too. I … I’m jealous. Of Makareta. I’m often quite consumed by hatred of her.’

‘That’s hardly a sin.’

‘But I detest her, Fanny.’

‘Perhaps with good reason.’

‘I
do
have good reason. In private, she usurps my place in the household. It’s she my husband consults on everything. It’s as if they exist only for each other and I’m of no account. And she’s cruel and venomous to me. She exalts in her position.’

‘However much she may have commanded his private heart, you
are his wife; your position is unassailable. And surely Bishop and Mrs Gray, from what I’ve seen of them, would never approve of such a liaison.’ And as I said this, a vision of Te Toa rose before me. Why should not the Governor, too, be enchanted as I had been — as I remained?

‘You know, on several occasions, I’ve discovered them … embracing. Once, I found them with her head against his shoulder as he stroked her hair. And when I confronted them, she looked at me with such an expression of mingled defiance and triumph, I could scarcely bear it.’

‘And what had Sir George to say for himself?’

‘He told me that I had been a neglectful mother and now I was a neglectful wife. That it was my own doing that he’d been forced to seek comfort where he might find it.’

‘He said this in front of Makareta?’

‘Yes. And I felt so torn between pain and fury I wanted with all my heart to destroy them both. I even thought … of killing myself.’

‘But you haven’t killed yourself. To think of a deed is not the same as committing it. And Sir George has behaved shamefully. If his aunt were to know of it—’

‘She mustn’t. Think of the distress it would cause her.’

‘Has no one in Cape Town observed his conduct?’

‘Only Dr Bickersteth. He came out from Oxford to the Cape and, one day, he called at Government House to speak with my husband. Sir George was not at home, so I offered him tea and he said he felt unable to take tea in a house where
certain goings-on
were condoned by the mistress of it, no matter that that house be the highest in the land.’

‘He blamed
you
for the Governor’s wrong-doing?’

‘It seemed so.’

‘A pity this doctor did not see fit to speak directly to Sir George. Is he a physician?’

‘No, a clergyman.’

Lucy became strong enough to walk occasionally in Hyde Park. As the days passed, I increasingly longed to speak to her of the boy, of
Te Toa, of New Zealand, but could not find a way to approach such a delicate topic. Then, quite by chance, she herself provided me with my opportunity. Mrs Martin was out for the day and Lucy and I were seated in the garden. ‘It’s so very peaceful here in England,’ she said. ‘I’ve become used to living in countries where there are continual wars and skirmishes. And, of course, there are no native races here, unless one counts the English themselves.’

‘That’s true.’

‘Since I’ve been Home, I’ve often thought of how, wherever we go in the service of the Empire, the people hate us.’

‘The Maoris didn’t hate us.’

‘Not all of them. But they didn’t love us either.’

I was silent. Then I said, ‘Do you remember Lady Martin’s little hospital?’

Lucy nodded. ‘Oh, Fanny,’ she cried, suddenly. ‘Do you ever think of him — the boy?’

‘Always. And you?’

‘Not a single day passes without some thought of … what might have been.’

We sat silently and I became aware we were both quietly weeping.

As Lucy continued to improve in health I grew more confident of her eventual recovery. Mrs Martin had spoken of making a visit soon to their country house in Herefordshire and we were both looking forward to the possibility. Then came a setback.

‘I’ve received a letter from my husband. Will you read it, Fanny? You’ll see he begs me to go back to him. He says he can’t live without me, that he is sunk in bleakest despair …’

‘What …?’

‘He means it. I’m certain of that. He says he’s cast aside Makareta, that he’ll send her back to New Zealand, if only I’ll agree to return.’

‘And if you do return, and she doesn’t leave, how long will it be before she once again reduces you to misery? Are you certain he doesn’t simply require you as a chaperone? He can scarcely keep her in Government House without you there.’

‘But he says he’s sunk so low that, if I don’t come, he’ll take his
own life. You see, he loves me after all.’

‘That’s not love, Lucy. It’s blackmail.’

‘You’re wrong. You misjudge him. Ah, Fanny, do you remember I spoke to you once about the Xhosa, an entire South African tribe that was dying of hunger? That’s how I’ve felt, ever since Makareta — before Makareta even — but after she came it was worse. When she told me I was cursed, I felt like those poor famished people, only it was not my body but my spirit that was starving and withering to extinction. And now … now that I see my husband loves me after all, I must go to him.’

‘No, you must
not
. You must wait for his next letter.’

We had not long to wait. Sir George’s second letter arrived within a week.

‘He’s even more desperate for my return, Fanny. Look at what he says — that everything in Government House reminds him of me and emphasises his loss and desolation. You can’t believe how long I’ve waited to hear him say such things.’

‘Lucy, if Sir George is truly sincere in what he says, I’m glad for you, but I find it strange that he’s conceived these sentiments for you only in your absence. When you were with him, he treated you with cold indifference. I saw it myself in New Zealand.’

‘He says he can’t set himself to the task of governing; his thoughts are all of wretchedness and extinction. He prays several times a day for my return.’

‘And has he asked you anywhere in either of his letters about your own health?’

‘Why, no, but that’s because he’s so cast down.’

‘It was ever in his nature to be selfish. Even his aunt says so. Do you think the leopard can so easily change its spots?’

At first, Lucy’s letters after her return to Cape Town were full of the pleasures of her reunion with Sir George. Louisa Gray, she wrote, had been delighted to see her again, large numbers of people had welcomed her back, and she had even found some new rare plant specimens. Of Makareta, she made no mention.

Then, in the next year, came a letter:

Her letters became more infrequent, and then came a short note to say only that Sir George had been recalled from South Africa and they were about to leave for Home. She asked if, after her arrival, she might spend a little time with me in Lyme. I wrote immediately, care of Mrs Martin, telling her she must come whenever she wished.